Repeating curse from a mime

The Barren Country District Attorney called me the other day and told me that John Gass was released from prison this week. He served about two years of his five year sentence. You may not know who this is or why his prison release is an important matter in my life.

It's not an important matter, but I'd say it is a remarkable matter.

Rather than conjure old demons by writing about the topic, I thought I'd share a blog I wrote back in the day. It's a powerful read I think.

"Fleeting curse from a mime

Maybe I'll make this a series. We'll call it Insights into the Family Life of One, Mike Sickels: A Modest Hero's Tale. Pretty.

We'll start this blog off with a link to today's paper. Go ahead and read.

http://www.glasgowdailytimes.com/local/local_story_009134003.html

Today, I received news of my mother's murder. Yes, I can now call it that. With such a label, I no longer need worry about the nature of her death; never shall I question if another's hand was involved; so have I been given resolution. Not suicide; no. The pictures scattered around the floor were an indication of no such act. Though I do not know the details of the crime, I can be sure that my mother's death was, indeed, facilitated by John Miller Gass. Closure.

Sarcasm.

"Court documents stated that Gass committed reckless homicide by shooting Sickels up with drugs and leaving her passed out on her floor."

Now, this statement sure doesn't implicate my mom's part in the crime. For a moment, I thought the article might abandon the issue of her drug abuse all together. Not so, of course, as we read on. I don't guess I will address how baffled I am at the intrusion the article poses to the personal life of my mom, self and family. For the moment, I will leave that sickly homegrown little newspaper be.

How am I? Fine. Do I feel closure? No. Do I think John Gass killed my mother? No. Does it bother me that he is going to jail? Absolutely not. Is that wrong? Probably.

Here's the story. A pathetic goddamn junkie met another pathetic goddamn junkie who sold the drug o' the day. Latter junkie comes to visit with a fresh supply. Former junkie is practically immobile, so latter junkie aids in administering the day's special. Former junkie, in her less-than-optimal condition, overdoses. Former junkie dies. Latter junkie panics like a fucking paranoid junkie and flees the scene.

As for the "inconsistent puncture wounds", my mom was an intravenous drug user. Of course she had other punctures. John Gass is as worthless a human being as exists. I believe the world will be a much better place without his infection, but my mom was bound to die of similar circumstances regardless of his nurse-like aid. I am not proud of it; she was not proud of it. But to actually name a killer other than herself is silly. Whether it was a conscious effort or not, my mom killed herself a little over a year ago. Truth be told, she'd been dying for much longer.

Do I vindicate Mr. Gass of the matter? I wish I was so strong a person. I knew what I know today the day my mother died. But just as my knowledge has remained static, so have my convictions. Had it not been for him, my mother would have found another provider for her tragic habit. I can say this without a flinch, yet in my gut I still want the bastard to spend the rest of his days with a big fucking dick in his ass. Or mouth. Check that: and/or mouth.

He saw my mom for what she was, and like a good innovative capitalist, he took advantage of every opportunity. He has used her up into that last goddamn moment. He might have known that the evidence against him was weak, but he has charges stacked so goddamn high that the drug using world should prostrate itself in awe. I may not be clear here. I am suggesting that had he not bargained, his time in prison may be longer. While I have little evidence of this, I feel a bit conspiratorial tonight. Indulge me for a moment. I deserve it. This being the case, how much does a guilty plea mean if it is simply another tool for him to weasel out of what he deserves? Very. Fucking. Little.

That is, if I am to define closure by some wacky scheme of vengeance. I am not The Punisher. I don't understand why everyone assumes that this outcome is supposed to put me in a state of relief. It is not as if I have obsessed over her death. Of course she walks my thoughts from time to time, but she is alive there. She is my mom, not a corpse. I fixate over much too trivial of matters to weigh myself with such black moments.

I will not smile at the imprisonment of John Gass, but neither will I protest. Should I believe him innocent, perhaps it is in some strange way my responsibility to come to his defense. Were I entirely robotic, perhaps that would be possible. Unfortunately for him, I am human. He is the darkest of my life; my mother's addiction without her glow. He has caused me pain. He has caused my family pain. Whether that be as her usher in death or her anvil in life, I hope, for his sake, that each orifice in his body is made of Spandex. If I were to defend him, it would be only to make his stay with Boggs an extended one. Drop the homicide, and take the years. I wouldn't cry.

But I do not dwell. This is a fleeting curse from a mime. I miss my mom sometimes. Such thoughts as those above do no justice to those things worth missing. Justice. I suppose I seek it after all."

-January 9th, 2007

The situation is a bit different now, but the sentiment is the same. I'm a bit irked at not being forewarned of the decision. After all, my sister likes a good vendetta, and I'd hate for her or my brother to confront him in Glasgow unannounced. But in the end, I live in Missouri, and this world is long past and far away.

-Mike

The Postmodern Critique

The process of writing about myself, about my life, whether that be merely reflective or intensely critical, does not exist in a vacuum. I have noticed that blogging rearranges my social landscape. It is not just a reading of my life....it is a new interpretive lens through which I see myself.

It is a strange thing to assemble a set of statements about oneself. By which, everyone who knows me or is interested in knowing me, now has a new body of information to figure me out. What I write about myself and my outlook on the world might mesh with what you know of me, but I'd guess that often, I surprise you. Perhaps, in the sense of literary character, that surprise is what makes the read interesting. Of course, your read is still not the same as everyone else because you may find me to be a pretentious douche, or you might hold me in high regard. Either way, the process I go through to write a blog and put it out there for the world to see is not directed at my interpretation of your interpretation of me. It is an attempt to condense myself down to a few, consistent tellings of who I am, what I think, and what I am going through. It may also be an attempt to shift the perspective of what most people think I am, including myself (my interpretation of the generalized other, Mr. Mead).

But those consequences are even less isolated. They reach the public, and the public reacts to them, creating anger, annoyance, intrigue, boredom, whatever. And then you treat me different when we know eachother in the real world. Because now written-Mike becomes the Mike you know, and maybe we forget what is special about a conversation I have with you, rather than a crowd that includes you.

And there is the effect that blogging has on the way I percieve the world. When I try to construct an image of myself, what happens when I put that face forward to the world, rather than the cracked and wrinkled Mike of old. Am I socializing myself to be what my own blog tells me to be. Maybe I also set my self up with the blog, construct my own consciousness for future social interaction where I am in line with what I write.

Tonight I felt embarrassed at how arrogant and presumptuous I had been in my previous blog, when I went to a party and things weren't as chipper as I thought they might be, and there were moments when homesickness burned deep down to the small of my back -- around so many people that I don't know and, at least in a situation where they are all drunk or high, don't really care to know or even believe I can -- that I wondered if this damn blog was to blame.

Of course, as the night drug on, and I missed my friends and family back home more and more and I withdrew into the comfortable spaces of my own thoughts while everyone around me got adult and intoxicated and I didn't really know anybody, instead of forcing myself back on stage, I started thinking about writing this blog.

-Mike

Bloggity Bloggity Bloggity

Two things:

1. I was thinking about archiving my old blogs on here (set with their original date). They don't really represent my Missouri experience...but ya know, the blog is a double entendre. I am, and always have been, in misery.

2. Heidi (Poop City, for short) has been in the process of making me a banner for the site....for like a month. She wants to be good at freelance graphic design work, but since I'm her friend, she can't figure out a deadline. She needs a little....encouragement.

HEIDI, MAKE MY BANNER!

-Mike

Doing Discontent

There's something uncanny about my life right now. I'm not one to claim some fundamental change in my person, but I don't feel like me.

Or maybe for the first time I am like me.

I mentioned how social I've been in a previous blog. I've gone out of my way to introduce myself, to spark conversations....hell, I've involved myself with other new students who might not be making the transition (as if this were my turf, and my responsibility to bring them into the fold).

I walked into the lab for my TA yesterday and started talking to my students. I don't like talking to new people, and I usually don't feel like I have a lot of common ground with the average person (or the average college student). But I conversed, with fluidity and without effort. I cracked jokes, I learned names, and by the time the class got going, I started teaching like I've never taught. Like I never thought myself capable.

At Western, I began convincing myself that teaching wasn't for me; that the classroom setting and a room of strangers would never play to my strengths. I could dialogue with students after class, I could tutor just fine...but an authority in front of dilettante masses? An "educator"? No, that just would not do.

But when I walked into this class, I took a few figurative steps backwards from WKU. I forgot those disheartening experiences that need not be repeated. I have no control of grades or exams. I have no formal responsibility to teach anyone. I lead a discussion. To be honest, I don't really given a shit how it goes. I spent about 20 minutes of prep, and then I just winged it. I settled down and did my thing.

Winged it? Me? Before a class? But I am anal and prepared.

Or am I spontaneous and open?

It worked.

When I step into what sociologists call the backstage (supposedly the place where we let our hair down and make little effort to impress), I am delighted by conversations that divert like a newborn stream. My humor comes in bursts of random silliness, and I like that about me. Impulse is what's good about my writing, it's what's good about my friendships, and so it's probably what's good about me. Of course, it's based in a thoughtful, reflective mindset and a social setting that structures that spontaneity.

Er....sorry.

That's sort of how this whole Columbia experience has gone so far. I've always drawn this clear distinction between my self around my familiars and my self around strangers. As a sociologist, I know that both are just a matter of performance. I am not bound to any one course of action, to be standoffish with John Doe and warm with my friends. But I do have a routine, different tendencies triggered by my surroundings. They're not static; they change as I change.

I change as the world around me changes, but I also change as I make change.

So I am making change and making friends and making myself part of my new home.

And I've not felt homesick. "Oh, how relieving for you," my old companions will say. But I maintain an eternal veil of pessimism that goes from relieving to disappointed. From the beginning, this place has made me disappointed that I'm not disappointed (starting when I visited campus in April, expecting to hate it, only to find it offered exactly what I needed).

The thing is, what I had at home was good. Really good. Many people dream about the kind of community and relationships we've brought to life with Mikey's House. I gain a positive view of myself because I know how I am seen by my friends. Because not only are they important to me, but I am essential to them. And because I never let myself be happy; because I always want something else for myself, I left that thing in Kentucky and expected to hate myself for leaving.

And I have time to hate myself for sure, but I don't think I will. Because I've brought it with me this time. At UK, I left Mikey's House across the state, where I could visit and renew my dependence. But since I'm now too far away to refresh those bonds, I've taken them with me and implemented them elsewhere.

I miss everyone dearly, and I certainly could weep about home. The friendships I've sparked here are still shallow, still professional. That's the problem with grad school. If you make friends in your department, the context for those relationships is your work. It's quite hard to move from sociologist friend to friend in the sociology department. I struggled with that at UK, but I had Mikey's to fill my demand for unquestioned intimacy. But I'm starting off in a good place here, a better place, and a more mature state of mind.

I prepared myself to quit if I'm miserable. But I am afraid that I will never be homesick and that I will grow to love this place and the people I meet here, and worst case scenario, that I will be homesick if I return to Kentucky. That's a scary thought.

Not realistic though. I'm just not sure how to deal with being content. I have to throw out questions that bring me tension....even if it's a half-hearted attempt.

I love everyone back home, and I wish you were here with me. When I think about each of you, I want to be with you and share my life with you. I am fortunate in my many loves. Undeservedly so -- I think I should have more.

-Mike

*sigh*

I'm not sure I could stay motivated to write consistently if i knew no one would ever read my words. I'm fine just believing people read what I write, even if I never know.

But a public forum is dangerous when you want to be honest or experiment with style.

I just wish I could be enough of an audience for myself.

-Mike

8/26: Optimism <---*----------> Pessimism

Matt moves here tonight with his dog, Sophie. If it was Gordon, I would call him my security blanket (because it would make him uncomfortable). I'm not entirely certain about Matt as of yet. I want him to find some balance away from home as well. We're both easy-going guys, and I wouldn't have invited him to move up here if I didn't think we could live together. When the possibility came up, I pursued it and convinced him to at least take it seriously. My potential sanity was at stake. With some degree of familiarity, I could ease up on the need to build friendships while I'm here, enjoy classes, and let the rest fall into place.

Of course, no one believed Matt would actually come....and I suppose until he shows up at the doorstep (despite the phone calls back and forth), there is the slightest fraction of a chance that his move is fabricated. I lovingly joke that Matt's presence is only certain if he gives you a 100% guarantee. If it's 50/50, it's unlikely. If it's a 98%, it's unlikey. 100%. He gave me a 100% when he signed the lease and paid the rent, so I believe him. I think everyone else just requires proof

I kid.

So anyway, having Matt here makes things easy on me. But now I'm not so sure it matters. Today was probably the most social day of my adult life. I've gotten to know several faculty members and graduate students. I was invited to two, count them, two different get-togethers on Saturday; one person I've know for about a week and another I just met in class. The poor saps...they think I'm cool with my pop culture research, my youthful semi-alternative style and my beard. It will be sad when they figure out how dull I really am. Ya know....in the traditional, party-animal sense. To bad for them I'm a friendship vampire once you expose the jugular.

One of these grad students is the spouse of a well known musician. At least well known to me (I won't say who...I don't know her well enough to banter her personal life around the internet). I happened to already be aware of this fact from another grad student. When she sat next to me and introduced herself, I recognized the name and said:

"Are you the one married to the musician?"

"Yep."

"I'm a fan."

Hah, yeah. What a ham, I am. I probably came off a bit starstruck, and I immediately felt bad for drawing attention to her husband rather than asking about her. I mean, he's out of town working on the new album.

I'll likely meet him at some point. I probably would be a little starstruck. To be fair, she's probably cooler than him.

Another grad student in the department gave me her number. We live on the same two-block street. She said a lot of the department grad students live in this neighborhood, like some kind of sociological enclave. She seemed eager to make friends, and we shared stories of moving here from the South, not knowing a soul in the phonebook (I didn't tell her about Matt). It was almost....normal for me to talk to someone I've never met.

So after all that, I am continually revising what I know about myself. It seems in close quarters, I am perceived quite differently than I might have been at other points in my life (my start in the UK department for example). I've been a little more intrepid; I've been a lot more vocal in public....and the result of such minor shifts in my attitude and action have been dramatic. At least compared to who I thought I was.

So now, I'll have Matt here as well. And I almost worry that he'll keep me from venturing out, that I'll stay where I'm comfortable once that is an option. I must not.

Good things could come from this: new friends, new peers....and who knows, my previous blog(s), with all its desperation and learned helplessness, might be null and void.

-Mike

Believing Goffman

One good thing about doing something multiple times....you get better at it.

I had orientation in the sociology department today, and rather than my normal awkward self, I actually exuded some confidence. That's not to say I wasn't still awkward, but I talked to people, I made a few jokes, and I think I'm going to like a lot of my fellow grad students.

It reminded me of how terrible my start at UK was, and I know this is a better match for me....academically, socially, and with my own maturity.

I managed myself alright the first day. Time to kick some ass.

-Mike

This blog is about a squirrel.

I fumed over my misfortune as I wondered around campus. I sat on a brick wall that lines a major corridor between campus buildings. I people-watched, as I am oft to do (and can justify with my profession rather than a creepy personality). Guitars strummed in my ears to the tempo of all those pedestrian feet. The Softest Voice by Animal Collective seemed to guide their steps, slow and then faster; purposeful but meandering, as if on clouds, to harps.

Not ten feet away, a plain brown squirrel bounded up from the lawn behind the wall and stared me down. It watched me with cool black eyes. I was close enough to see the gradient in its mahogany fur and each separate spring-like claw, spread eagle, intrigued but not yet trusting. We stared at one another for three minutes. I nearly spoke. I slid my hand it's direction, knuckles scraping the porous surface of the wall. It did not move.

I looked around, stunned at the scene. No one was watching, everyone gliding through the music. I offered a hand to this most skittish of creatures. Campus squirrels are usually a tamer variety than city squirrels, but they are not friendly.

Cautious still, but with eyes as curious as my own, it stepped forward, one foot at a time until it stood a foot from my hand.

"It's okay." In my softest voice.

It leapt back ten feet in one backward stride, and I sucked my hand back to my lap. It stood still, beaming at me, checking the overreaction. Tentative, I slid my hand out again. And step by considerate step, it closed in.

The tip of its nose touched the longest of my fingers for one loud second. I averted my eyes. Nobody else could see the feat. It watched me watching it watching me.

"Thanks." In my softest voice.

and it scurried away.

-Mike

What Mike Does (or will do): Career Goals?

Today, I went to new student orientation for graduate students at Mizzou. This setting was strangely familiar. We had a continental breakfast, with all the students milling around the lobby of the academic building looking a bit nervous. I rested, coolly, against a pillar and watched the whole fracas. We had an orientation presentation with various speakers talking about resources available to grad students and a raffle (no, I did not win). Finally, there was a grad student fair, I wandered around a bit, and I left. Deja vu....

Oh yeah, I did this exactly three years ago at UK.

When it comes to grad school, I am an old hat now. I've been there and done that. I have a different perspective. I didn't feel nervous. I didn't really benefit from the event either. I should have slept in. Of course, I understood that every grad school administrator (university and departmental) assures you they will be available to help every step of the way, but once the semester starts, they are cogs in the bureaucracy that is modern education. They'll be cold and annoyed and really only get in the way.

This time around, I'm not here to figure myself out or to choose an area of study. Those things ought to be set by now. I still don't know my career path, but I know what I want to study. I know what skills and credentials are required. A Master's student enters the program ready for an intense exploration of the discipline; a Ph.D. student enters to learn how to be a productive part of the discipline.

Many of you who know me have no idea what I'm doing here (to be honest, I'm not always sure). If you've bothered to read this far, you probably have an inkling, but I'll detail it anyway. I chose the University of Missouri for the deficits I found at UK. Specifically, Mizzou has a specialty area called "Culture and Identity," which is precisely my field of study. As a doctoral student, I'm required to select two specializations. My second is up in the air, but I will likely choose "Social Inequalities" or "Social Movements, Political Sociology, and Public Policy." Here's why:

My Master's thesis, as some of you may know, explored strategies taken by Christian Hardcore musicians to manage their sense of self given a sometimes contradictory set of expectations from Christians and Hardcore fans. What I most learned from this project was that I am excited about the prospect of young people working together to build community and push important values through the culture they create and participate in. Popular culture often represents those values we think are important and has the effect of binding people together who share some of those values (usually this is just a taste in music or film, but other times, it can be social or political idealism). I will likely drop Christian Hardcore as a topic of research (largely because I don't believe in religious ideals). But I take away from this project a better understanding of why I want to be a sociologist.

There are two main reasons people get excited about sociology (not to say these are exclusive categories). The first kind is the scientist and/or philosopher who wants to understand the nature/purpose/mechanisms/consequences of social behavior. This ranges from the interaction between individuals to the relationship of social institutions in society as a whole (politics, economy, media, education, etc). Though there are some tensions between these two scopes, good sociologists study both individuals and the structure of society. This is where I started....where sociology first sparked my interest (combined with psychology). I usually focus on what's called microsociology, sociological social psychology, or interactionism (the part that studies individuals).

But I learned quickly about the second reason people gravitate toward the discipline. Sociology tends toward contemporary liberal/progressive politics. In particular, the field values social justice; that is to say, the belief that all individuals ought to enjoy the same rights and freedoms regardless of gender, race, social class, age, sexuality, etc. The most fiery figures in our discipline have a political bent (Karl Marx and C. Wright Mills as the iconic examples). They believe that their research has the ability to transform and benefit society in some way. The graduate students who enter with politics on the brain often could care less about a generic understanding of social life unless it relates to battling inequality.

*cough*militant-Marxists-who-dominate-discussions*cough*

As I've made my way through sociology, I've come to be less interested in the abstract/theoretical nature of society and have found that social justice excites me in a way that makes my work feel worthwhile (outside of the university).

But you can't study everything. You need an outlet and trajectory for those politics. We all have to find our niche, so I use my past research interests to fill this gap. I have always been interested in popular culture and often the sort of culture consumed by young adults (16-25). Of course, the youth population struggles with its own discrimination and harmful stereotypes. Society in general has a tendency to be skeptical of young people in groups. They are seen as deviants, hoodlums or even criminals. This is especially true for "alternative" styles, which most readily accept liberal/transformational ideals (and in the United States, have the luxury to explore new lifestyles because their livelihood does not depend on their participation in the economy). I see this exploration as a great potential for more general social change (music is a clear historical example...Punk, Jazz, Hip Hop, Hippies, etc.). So, in the end, my thesis research involved the formation of a Christian Hardcore community that formed to encourage young people toward a particular ideology and analyzed the strategies in place that both reflected and spread those ideals (if you want to know the specifics, you can read the thesis).

Anyhow, after all this....my general research and political agenda involves the creation and facilitation of youth activism through popular culture in local and/or web-based communities. Who knows what I'll actually research? I may retain my focus on music, or I might shift to film or perhaps video game subcultures that are involved in civic engagement and activism. The ultimate goal for me is to locate or create a space where young people are socialized in a justice-based value system through identification with popular culture. We all learn from the culture we consume....I just want people to learn what I think is important, hah. These ideas are as much about new forms of pedagogy/education as anything. Though I don't think I will ever be a great teacher in the traditional sense, I feel like my goals demand some educational component (or else I am just another disconnected academic who studies but does not actually participate in the social world).

If I succeed here, I will be open to explore both academic jobs and public/civic work involving youth non-profit organizations or community policy development. My ideal job would be to work with a community center that uses films, concerts, video games, and other arts to increase community involvement. I might hold a position where I hold voluntary seminars to critically evaluate cultural choices and organize social justice involvement programs for young people. Of course, that would require the pre-existence of a venue for this endeavor and/or other people willing to invest in its creation. One of my most under-valued skills is my social organization abilities (gleaned from years of pulling Mikey out of his house). Once I make connections, I can put things together like nobody's business (I'm not sure what that expression really means). Realistically, it will probably never happen, but I can push myself in that direction.

I guess I'd be okay with a professorship, but it's quickly becoming my secondary career path.

Well, congratulations if you made it through this mess.

Christ, I can't imagine anyone read all this. Oh well. :)

-Mike

The Trailblazer

After a full day of sitting in my living room, slaying Fel Orcs in my lap and watching Olympic feats in the periphery, I go for a walk. My apartment begins to feel like a cave. It could be an apartment anywhere for all the world around me knows.

I've taken this walk almost every night for the last week. I follow the residential side streets near my apartment to Broadway, where I trek downtown to be part of city life for a short while. I used to listen to music when I walked, but lately, I make use of the time to call friends and family. To hear their voices. To ramble on about my daily grind. I spread it around so people answer the phone. I could probably call three people a day for a week and only talk to everyone once.

Tonight, as I stroll down Broadway and bore Katie, a couple guys sitting on the side of the road throw something at me. It hits me on the side of the neck. I look back, and they laughed. I keep walking, keep talking to Katie.

Downtown is pretty hoppin' at night with pubs, clubs and sports bars lining the streets. I turn down 9th, the hippest street in Columbia. It leads to the sociology building on campus. Some street folk ask for change along the way. They don't ask everyone, but they always ask me....even when I'm on the phone or have my iPod. Maybe I look generous. Maybe I look lonely. Or maybe my cell phone and iPod are just symbols of wealth. I dig in my pocket....I should sit down and trade my loose change for some conversation. I pass a coffee shop called Lakota on my way toward campus. I've seen about 10 coffee shops here, and that's the only one I can find now. I don't believe in fate, but what choice do I have?

The first day I forged this imaginary path, I stopped at a stone bench along the outskirts of the campus quad. It's a henge-looking seat with three rectangular pieces. It's funny how we (or maybe just I) attach ourselves (myself) to the slightest of habits and the most insignificant of objects.

I sit down on my bench (one of three or four just like it in this small stop) and look out over the would-be grassy courtyard. It is a sprawling, temporary desert ahead of the stately academic building. This setting could be quite grand if not for the construction that college campuses love so very much. The naked ground is surrounded by a fence of tiny orange construction flags. Sod rolls and tractors obscure the expanse not twenty feet from my seat. In the center of the quad stands a line of monstrous Roman columns like prison bars. A few people climb the base of the behemoth architecture, cheerleaders and long-dreaded Bohemians. If they squint, they can see my shadow on the smaller stones of the bench.

This scene is like my place in the world. It is the process of rebuilding with tractors all ready to work and grass prepared to grow; but this is night, and nothing moves. Everything rests without purpose, without much needed change. Massive symbols of the past rise up at the crux of the construction site, and I hold tight to the nearest stones. Strangers live nearby, but I sit alone. I watch the world make sense of itself around me.

I am the quad. I am anticipation of the future.

I get up and leave, cutting between buildings back to 9th. I pass drunks and couples patio-dining on the sidewalk. I stop at Lakota after looking around the same ole' street for another coffee shop. There's an attractive blonde girl working the register. I order my coffee, add a little creamer, and take a seat. I test myself not to look at her while I rest from the walk. I stare at the art on the wall, glancing at patrons chatting, some an arms length away. The light is warm, and I imagine, if the place doesn't get too busy, I could do my work here. But for now, I stare at the wall, sipping my coffee. I feel embarrassed. I get up and leave.

I turn back onto Broadway. I pass the short wall where the two disrespectful young men once sat. I'm not on the phone this time. I remember the dry smack on my neck. All at once, I feel an overwhelming sense of rejection.

I pull the phone from my pocket, select another number and hurry home.

I can't ruin this for tomorrow.

-Mike

Mike's Magical Misery Tour

Enjoy a romp through my new home. Comment so I know you watched it. That way, I'll feel like you were there with me.

And read my other posts.

***WARNING**** I say the word "notice" a lot. And "anyway". And unflushed toilets.

Part 1



Part 2

-Mike

M. I. (for short)

Several months ago, I started a different blog.

The purpose of this blog was to jot down my dreams, daytime fantasies and, yes, even reflections on my overworked sexual cognitive narratives (likely in place to compensate for a lack of physical gratification).

Can't you see I'm neutralizing my language here, so as not to embarrass you? Or me?

You know what I'm talking about.

That blog went nowhere, and you'll never see it, but it is a fascinating idea. Sociologically.

It's also pretty damn funny.

-Mike

Olympics vs. Little League

Over here in Missouri, I've got my finger on the recall button of the remote control, swapping between the Little League World Series and the opening Olympic games. This is not boredom, my friends. I want to watch both.

It's no secret these days that I enjoy sports. Living in the central hangout point of many friends in Kentucky for the last year, my....athletic apathetic friends have suffered the college football, NFL, and college basketball seasons (sometimes, it really was suffering....Heidi). I'd like to thank Jim and Laura Garrett for the kickass TV just prior to Bowl season.

The first friends I made in elementary through middle school were jocks. We watched sports, played sports, breathed sports. I was in Little League, middle school basketball, and would have played football had my mom allowed it. I was about to join the high school tennis team when a move to Quincy, Illinois removed me from those friends and located my tiny frame in a bigger, tougher school.

When Michael Jordon left the NBA, I became a Utah Jazz fan. It was a natural progression, with family in that state and my love for the mountains. When Jordan returned, my loyalties did not. The Jazz met twice in the NBA finals, and I rooted against my entire home state and most of the country. They lost, both times, but they had style. I cheered on Jerry Sloan’s numinous pick-‘n-roll offense, Jeff Hornasec’s blind prayers that banked off the glass and right through the net, and Malone’s power underneath. But my love for the Jazz could be traced to one player, their point Guard, John Stockton. Before I reached double digits, I already knew that I would never be tall enough to play basketball. My mother barely scraped the five foot line, and my biological dad stood at six feet. I would come in at an average 5’6,” but Stockton gave me hope. Though he peaked six feet, he was a mouse on a maplewood floor of elephants, biting with dirty teeth, stealing cheese and sharing with his kin: his arms thin but elbows sharp; his style scrappy, smart, and resilient; a short white kid controlling the game. Stockton was the Robin Hood of NBA history; he holds the career records for most steals and most assists.

I spent a good part of my pre-teens dreaming hoop dreams. I devised teams comprised of myself, my childhood best friend, Jeremy Robbins and a number of other classmates and NBA stars. In our early version of Fantasy Basketball, we created tournament brackets and calculated season stats. With uncommon displays of youth realism, we usually lost to the Jordans in school, but I always led the way in steals and assists. Every summer, we cycled from sport to sport. We played soccer, street hockey, tennis, held races, and every other sport you can imagine (of course, always with the trifecta of American sports mixed in).

After two years in Quincy, I immersed myself in books rather than physical entertainment, but always with my eyes on the games I loved. I watched the Sosa/McGuire duel for the home run record from my premium location, two hours from St. Louis in the home state of the Cubs.

Then I moved to Glasgow and finally found my crowd. They were not the sports crowd, and my sporting life went underground, hidden, probably on purpose, from my newer, smarter group of friends. After a while, sports were subsumed by other interests....music, video games, computers. I kept my eyes on the headlines but rarely watched a game.

Until, that is, I moved to Lexington for grad school and found myself alone for the first time in years. Oddly enough, it was not the professionals that introduced me back to the institution of sport. I started watching the Little League Baseball World Series (insert pedophile joke here...Tyler). Maybe it was my own memories of Little League or the pure emotion with which children played the game, but I was glued to the television through August. When that was over, professional baseball approached the playoffs, so what the hell, I watched that too (the White Sox actually won that year...never in my childhood). Then I got into UK college football, and it's been downhill since. I will now be living with a sports fan and attend a university with national title hopes (not to say they could survive the SEC). Eventually, my friends back home would have to cope with the return of ole' Sporty Mike.

So now, in my isolation here in Missouri, I sit watching the Olympics, the GREATEST of all human sporting events, not to mention the most impressive feat in international cooperation in human history (despite human rights issues -- I won't tell Nielsen if you won't). I mean, did you see those opening ceremonies? Jesus.

Then I switch to the Little League World Series and watch the same unique mix of competition and cooperation but this time with childhood socialization, and I brim with pride in human sport. Despite the conservative and even xenophobic political tendencies that have run through American athletics (yeah, that's right MLB, WORLD Series?), games are a basic form of human existence.

And, alone in my apartment, sport is a way to connect with the rest of the world.

-Mike

Bit o' Memoir

This is a short scene I wrote for my memoir. It takes place amidst an early chapter about my move to Glasgow.

Just four hours prior, in the front yard of my mom's house, a St. Louis policeman snapped silver cuffs over Dad's wrists. In the back yard, the same cop pepper-sprayed Lexi, my mom's dog and then my mom. From the living room, I could see her dark hair blow wild in the wind. She was on all fours.

I gathered a few of James' toys in a clothes hamper: a translucent plastic case of Hot Wheels, a yellow tyrannosaurus rex with a green belly. That one used to be mine.

Someone, the wind, wailed against the windows. A social worker questioned Misty, and then me.

I folded pairs of tiny white briefs and rolled up little sock couplets.

The absence of Lexi's bark filled the house. Damn cops. She was a downtown stray; she only thought her family threatened.

I pulled a few cartoons down from the shelf and stowed them atop his shirts and pants.

When the basket was full, I carried it to the car. Dad's hands were free. I handed him the basket and returned to the house for my brother and sister. I carried James to the car, his arms around my neck, and Misty followed. The four of us left.

Blue lights flashed for half a block along the curb, but Lexi was nowhere to be found.

-Mike

Happy Adult Life Odds Quotient

This is a mathematical equation I constructed during a freewrite to calculate the odds that my life would be happy following my move to Glasgow in 1999 and given the parameters of self and family prior to the move.

HALO (Mike)=             [ (IQ )(R )(ME) ]

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

                            (A2 + P + D + K + S + I + $)

Dependent (predicted) variable: HALO = Happy Adult Life Odds
Independent (causal) variables:
Self Variables:
       IQ = Intelligence, R = Resilience, ME = Middle Earth
Family Variables:
       A = Drug addictions, P = Psychiatric hospitalizations,
       D = Divorces, K = Kidnapping incidents,
       S = Suicide attempts, I = Incest accusations,
       $ {1983-1999} = ∑ (Relative poverty Line – Yearly family income)

Yeah. I'm a qualitative social scientist.

-Mike

Leetter

Recently, I took a writing workshop with Dr. Lee Martin, author of River of Heaven, the memoir From Our House, and the Pulitzer prize nominated The Bright Forever. The workshop was a great exercise that reminded me how every decision an author makes in their writing is important, from the overall structure of a piece to the slightest detail. I wrote him a letter to show my appreciation and talk a little about my memoir project after the class. I thought I'd share that letter in case anyone is interested in where I'm going with the book. Thus far, I've written around 15-20 thousand words this summer (I would say 2-3 chapters, but I'm not sure about how it will break apart just yet).

Anyhow, here's the letter....

Hi Lee,

Sorry it's taken me so long to respond to your further revision suggestions. I've gotten myself moved to Missouri and now have about 2 weeks of free time. I know about zero people here, so I'm getting a lot of lingering tasks finished.

So did you think the short scene at my mother's worked? I believe I told you that I wanted to keep her character relatively flat until later. I really liked the idea of focusing on her dog in the scene rather than her. It sets up a very intentional distance with her part in my life that I struggle with later.

I've been thinking a lot more about shorter, punchier chapters as I work on this memoir. I think I have a lot of stories to tell, and I am a very emotional, existential writer. So when something does strike me, my best writing emerges from my mood and the emotion associated with the memory. It just flows better. Sometimes I am inspired by just describing a place like the first chapter I showed you, or by socio-analytical prose. Sometimes I just like writing little goofy pieces -- and as I think my humor is an important part of my identity, I have no problem including those. While free-writing one day, I sketched out a mathematical equation for my life. It was cheeky and fun. I would like to feel comfortable including all those components of my writing and myself. That big messy compilation of characteristics and stories about the people who brought those traits about is "why I came to the page" in your words.

On a couple more practical notes, I don't think I'm so good at embroidery and transition between scenes. I try to use these expository and descriptive moments to fill the gaps, but it usually doesn't work. It feels forced....the reader just wants to get to the next active scene rather than appreciating the middle stuff. That kind of long form weakens my writing style. Smaller, descriptive/analytical/humorous/etc. chapters would force the reader to give full attention to those other aspects of my life that I am interested in writing about....those things that give my character depth without explicit action. Because I'm not good at weaving that into the narrative, I think my writing will be stronger if I parse it out into distinct pieces. My postmodern theoretical background makes me cautious about forcing linear connections in a narrative anyway (even if things follow one another in the timeline).

Again in the practical world, I am about to be a graduate student again. I need to dedicate a lot of time to professional development if I want to find a job in the field (though I am not at all sure if academia is even where I want to be). This will restrict the time I have to work on my personal writing. I'll make the time, but I think I will be more productive if I rely on shorter essays and figure out ways to piece it together later. I'm coming to terms with this becoming a project of several years. I don't have the luxury, nor the talent, to kick out a book in year. I just need to keep it in mind as I make my way through the rest of my life.

I also wanted to tell you how much I appreciated your class. For a long time, I've wondered how different my life would be if I focused on literature and creative writing rather than sociology. I don't necessarily regret my decision, but I still feel like I have a talent for writing and a clear voice. Your class has helped me to better understand the craft. I'm not a product of literary training (though I appreciate it a great deal and want to assimilate as many techniques as possible). My other trainings lead me to different conclusions. I think about rhetorical devices at work in my writing...audience, purpose, politics, consequences to discourse as much as character, structure, plot, etc. If I ever do consider publication, I don't really care if I'm seen as a literary author. Hell, if my primary audience is young adult/teen readers struggling with identity and similar conflicts that I've faced, I think I can live with that. It certainly matches my agenda in research and politics.

You're incredibly supportive, and I can't help but wonder how often, while admiring the desire to write and considering it a lifelong pursuit, you're skeptical of the ability of most students to forge a productive career. I know you think we should respect the choices that authors makes and respect them in the review process, but sometimes, don't you think some writing is just plain crap? Sorry...that irked me all semester for some reason. In some ways, it makes me unsure about the quality of my own writing when all work is evaluated with the same regard (not that you have any other option as a teacher).

Well, I think the workshop made me a better writer (or at least a more aware writer), and I thank you for taking time out of your busy life to teach in Kentucky for 3 weeks. I hope it was worth it for you (even if only financially).

Sorry for the diatribe! Have a great semester at OSU. Unfortunately, I'm an SEC football fan, so enjoying losing the national title game. :P

-Mike

Tío fenomenal!

She said I was a phenomenal guy. It was in Spanish, and she may have said I was a phenomenal uncle, but I liked it. Gosh was she cute -- with one of those smiles that makes white noise of the room or the outdoors or wherever it falls. Too bad she lives in Spain and has a partner and I have no reason to assume (nor should I want to) anything but sweet and neutral affection.

I don't think I get enough compliments because I have a death grip on the few I do catch.

-Mike

I'll break promises, I promise.

I make a lot of mental contracts. I commit to people. I commit to ideas. I commit to culture. I commit to plans I make to jobs, to school, to lifestyle choices, and should the opportunity come along, I will commit to a partner.

I believe this to be one of my most prized virtues. It makes me dependable and creates a distinct outline of my character that people usually like.

Once I decide I want to be friends with someone, I am persistent. I don't think I am overbearing. I'm sensitive. I build something unique and make people interested in me. That's cool, right? I take pride in forging strong bonds and maintaining those....for a lifetime if possible. I don't even have to like you once I've signed on. You must do me a great injustice to curtail all this effort. I can really only think of two ways that comes about.

1. You harm someone else I love. If it is severe enough, I may cancel you.

2. You go out of your way to neglect our friendship. I will tolerate this for a long time before giving up, and it is always your fault. Notice I said no effort; I'm satisfied with the slightest interest. And if you should have a change of heart once I've broken ties, I will reinstate you in the time it takes to see your name on my caller ID or a message in my inbox.

With all the bonds I help to build, both of these happen all too frequently (right now, in fact), and it hurts. Commitment and dwelling go hand and hand.

This kind of bond takes a lot of work. I don't bother with most people, but I accumulate enough to keep me busy and help me feel connected. Strangers and acquaintances: you're out of luck....these benefits come only after signing. Perhaps I understand the tax every new relationship puts on previous contracts. New friends take more work. I don't need more people. Okay, that's ridiculous, I just need to know people want to know me before I put pen to paper, and I am entirely awkward otherwise.

Sometimes, honoring commitments requires me to sacrifice others. This should be a fairly rational decision.

Importance of Commitment

_________________________ = Decision

Threat to Commitment

If I must choose between friend A and friend B, and friend A is clearly more important to me AND I chance losing them, the decision is friend A. However, if I know I can maintain that relationship with A regardless, I choose B. At least, that is how the formula should work in a rational world.jj

******

For the second time in my life, I decided to move away for grad school. This decision requires a delicate consideration of commitments I've made in my life. There are dozens of people I left behind when moving to Missouri; people ten times more important to me than any degree or career. So, because I know I will be unhappy with my career, I blindfolded myself and signed the contract anyway. Who knows why? In the first grad school venture, I was pretty miserable, and that was two hours away from home. Now it's seven. Sure, I chose a sociology program with a specialty in culture and identity (the field of study where I locate myself). Sure, I picked a school in a progressive city that better reflects my politics, has lots of coffee shops and vegetarian dining. Sure, I'm ready for a change of pace. Still, all the pros of this place cannot hold up to what I have at home....that precious community of people I love.

This virtue is also a vice. When I commit to things, it's come hell or high water. I suppose this is the American ethic shining through my personality. I stay the course. I would probably be much happier in a creative writing grad program, but I've defined myself by sociology. I would probably be happier staying home, being with my friends, and knowing that they will assuage my career apathy more than the other way around. I endure relative abuse from friends who aren't nearly as good to me as I deserve. Hell, I can't even edit my own writing because I commit to the words I've written and fear what will happen if I lose them.

So I am committing to something new....being willing not to commit, to dropping things that don't work. I will throw away pages of writing because I know it sucks. I will say "fuck you" to people who don't give my energy for them some return. I will give up on these degrees that have become a bit heartless and mechanical.

Don't get me wrong, I still love my discipline. It has changed my life. And I still need the perspective a Ph.D. degree can offer. But if this Missouri thing doesn't make me happy, if I am not satisfied enough by my work and the new life I make in Missouri, I won't be afraid to quit. I will move back home, be with the people I love, and I will find something else to make of my life.

I won't be afraid.

I won't be ashamed.

-Mike

Slant Homophones

I moved to Columbia, Missouri this week.

In case you did not catch my not-so-novel pun, that lifechoice was the stimulus for this blog.

In the last year, I took a year off graduate school to write my memoir and try my hand at teaching. The writing did not come until late in that year, after I made the decision to move because teaching 8 sections of community college introductory sociology every year on shit part-time instructor pay did not match my career goals. I loved living around my friends again, being there for the weekly gatherings, sharing a home with some of them.

So it seems I can never be fulfilled in every aspect of my life. I have intellectual and political passion in graduate school, but I am plagued by terminal homesickness OR I live amonst my dear friends, only to become sickened by the horizontal trajectory of my career.

So, because it is work's turn, I have dedicated the next 3-5 years away from home. That is life-altering, guys. It is possible that by the sheer momentum of such a decision, I may never reclaim what I lose in the process. I don't cry often, but the night before I moved, while everyone gathered as we usually do, and Tony was back from New York before his permanent move, I snuck away to cry four or five times. I don't think anyone noticed. It's changing and its drastic and the most important things in my life may never recover.

Enough with the complaining for now: I'm here. Fortunately, I convinced one of my friends, Matt Humphrey, to move along with me, but he will not be here for another 3 weeks. Classes do not start for another 3 weeks. I am alone in a strange place with no structured activities for 3 weeks. It is these sorts of conditions that force a person to blog for the sake of their sanity (when I should be working on my memoir).

Now four days here in Missouri, I have built a desk, two bookshelves, put up curtains in all the rooms, unpacked my shit (haha), and tried to install World of Warcraft for two days (which doesn't bode well for the "casual play" promise I made to myself). The power went out, and I freaked (blaming Matt for not getting the utilities in our name before I realized it was the whole neighborhood). I thought my recently purchased food would go bad, and then I assumed that someone would break into the apartment (maybe the junkie who knocked on my backdoor yesterday to ask if she could borrow a spoon) and kill me because I didn't have a flashlight. No one would find my body for at least 3 weeks.

I took a walk around town. It's really a remarkable community....a small 100-150k population where the university is right downtown and lots of local business peppered all around. It's a progressive city in a conservative state, which is a delightful and familiar contrast to Western Kentucky. The walk reminded me that when lonely, I walk. I've not been lonely for a while now, and so I've gotten fat. When alone, I also blog (if you look at my MySpace blog history, this also coincides with my last move home).

Long story short, I'm kind of excited about living here, about participating in the community, about intellectual stimulation, and yes, even about the time alone. I am also terrified, and I need a way to keep in touch with home (aside from the few who play Warcraft). That's what this blog is about. I'll probably mix it up with traditional style blogging, rambling, pieces of my memoir (acceptable and otherwise), poetry, and silly stuff. I don't know why anyone would be interested in all this....but I hope you'll humor me because I miss you so much. :)

-Mike