I was sick of the improved suggestions pop up on Facebook.

Throughout my time living in Los Angeles, I haven’t been one to truly admire or respect the amenities it has to offer.  I mean there are a lot of wonderful delights that LA has bestowed upon me, but no one day has really made me say, “I love LA.” The other day though, LA shined some cliche movie montage moments throughout my day, and although they were mishmashed with some intriguingly disturbing moments as well…the day will remain a memorable 24 hours throughout my continuing Los Angeles history.

Before I even woke up on March 14, 2010, I was already anticipating what the day had to offer; since it was to be hockey day.  You see, ever since the Olympics (and teased upon earlier through my dating of a Canadian woman), I have fallen into the excitement of the sport; and enjoy that it offers me a Los Angeles sporting team that I can actually support.  As it is, my San Diego upbringing condemns me from ever supporting the Dodgers (although I did have a quick childhood spell following the men in blue when Darryl Strawberry donned their uniform, but was relieved of my Dodger blue apparel when Mr. Strawberry decided to foray into the world of drugs).  As far as my feelings about the Lakers are concerned, I just don’t give a damn about basketball.  If I did, my team would remain the Suns, who hail from my birthright city and state.  So, Sunday was to be the day that I truly got to experience a professional hockey game, and my first Los Angeles sporting event where I was not to be an outsider amongst the crowd.

Since I live extremely close to a Metro station, that was to be our mode of transport.  I am one of the few people I know in Los Angeles, who actually uses it on occasion.  Spending my last six years in San Francisco, I’ve got no qualms about spending some time away from my car and hopping onto some public transit.   Usually, it just ends up being a cheap and simple means of travel.  On Sunday though, getting to the train station my buddy and I were running a little late, since we had partaken in some early afternoon cocktails to minimize our expenditures on beverages while at the game (sorry Mom & Dad, I know you are eventually gonna’ read this…I swear I’m not an alcoholic, it was just a financially wise decision). Our buzzed nonchalant nature got us to the station later than we had anticipated, and as we got to the station we were just in time to see the train scurry away without us.  As the train cruised through the tunnel in front of our eyes, we sat down upon the bench to wait out the minutes before we could get on our way to the arena.  During this period, we were approached by a man who at first glance seemed normal; until his finger began frantically waving in our direction inches from our faces as he condemned us for our evil ways, continually bellowing about the dangers which will encompass us in our afterlife if we don’t find Jesus ASAP.  At first, I thought he may have smelt the bourbon on our breath, but as he went from person to person in the station it was clear that he knew that it was impossible for anyone waiting for a train on Sunday morning to have been buddy-buddy with Jesus…and it was also clear, that he was crazy.

After some time to wallow in our pagan ways and wash away our eventual eternity in hell with some bourbon induced Arizona green tea, the MTA came to our rescue as the glistening silver train rumbled forth in our direction.  As we entered the thoroughly occupied car we eyed seats and rushed to obtain them before the car was to jump back into motion.  As I readied to sit, the train was more prepared than I, as it jolted me forward in my off balanced buzzed state towards the brink of falling face first into the young rough edged, sun glass wearing (worn underground, miles from sunlight), tattooed and  likely gang associated gentleman in front of me.  Luckily for me, my balance saved me inches from actually striking contact with the gentleman in his “below the belt” region.  As I straightened myself into the seat, I noticed some tall lanky black spandex wearing individuals with flamboyant fluorescent wigs across from me, each of whom constantly whispered back and forth amongst themselves keeping secrets not only with their words, but also with their faces; as one kept his face shielded with a black stocking the entire time.  Just as I was soaking in the wigged mystery men, a voice projected throughout the train from a man behind me trying to gain our attention.

The man who screamed upon deaf ears, struggled to open his backpack and reach for a jar hidden deep within the red JanSport.  He spoke of a child who had been killed by a drunk driver, and how the family needed our help to be able to organize a funeral.  The man screamed consistently in English and Spanish, until he began to sweat from his forceful pleas.  Back and forth he walked asking not only for money, but at least for some respect and condolences.  He touted a photo of the deceased child on the jar, and fervently leveraged it above his head.  I stared at him.  I hoped to convey to him my condolences, but at the same time couldn’t let myself fall completely to his words, as my skepticism continually spoke of the possibility of this all being a rouse.  As I debated the honesty in his voice, the lanky wigged man whose face was shielded walked passed me to hand the man some change.  I on the other hand, fell to skepticism.

We left the train, excited to be a few blocks from the game.  Walking through downtown always feels new to me, and it allows me to feel like a visitor in my own town.  New buildings are sprouting around the LA Live, and the area is beginning to strike a nice balance of commerce and  community.  With each step closer to the Staples Center, we became merged within a continuously growing mass of Kings garbed fans.  We reached the arena being mere specks in a sea of purple and black, and branched off from the masses heading into the stadium as we moseyed our way towards the Will Call window.  I received my packet of tickets and as  I glanced through the envelope ready to confirm that they were the $20 nose bleed seats that I ordered, the price in the upper corner struck my eyes…$62 (score!).  We not only still had the food coupons from the family pack, which offered us each a free hot dog and soda, but now had seats an entire section lower.  Walking to our seats the cold of the ice reached my skin, and as I glimpsed up to the very top of the arena where our seats were supposed to be; a chill swept through my veins.

With the first goal of the game, I involuntarily launched to my feet and screamed alongside the other 18,000 fans.  As we cheered, the sound system began to blare “I Love LA,” and as Randy Newman’s words echoed through the arena and the pulsating rumbles of the energetic crowd shook my body, I truly felt like an Angeleno.  The match-up was a true back-and-forth battle in which I waited with bated breath over every slice of a skate and each smack of the puck.  Biting my fingernails through the entire game, the last buzzer slammed down like a Judge’s mallet as it declared this game a loss for the Kings.  We left the game slightly more somber than if we would have won, but fulfilled nonetheless.

As we opened the doors to exit the arena, the sunlight blasted into our faces blinding our vision and warming our skin; which still felt the reminisce of a chill from our time sitting ice-side.  This day epitomized the perfection of Southern California weather.  Walking through Downtown there was a very sublime feel, as the normal weekly hustle and bustle was resting up for a new week; and the streets were only occupied by the casual Sunday lallygags.  We stumbled upon a nice little restaurant and were able to order our meals two minutes before they were to stop serving breakfast. Sitting on the European influenced patio eating our mid-afternoon breakfast, I felt comfortable surrounded by the skyscrapers and the casual passers-by.

We left the restaurant with fulfilled bellies, and began a meandering walk through the downtown landscape to meet up with my girlfriend who had been craving a Twitter food truck for lunch.  She was driving to meet us, but having just eaten a meal, we thought a stroll in her direction would be good for the body.  As we walked deeper into the Downtown district and further away from the constantly developed area surrounding the LA Live, the amount of hustle and bustle on the streets by the Downtown locals grew; as the degradation of the architecture and lessened quality of the storefronts became more apparent.  With each step forward, the sidewalks got busier with activity.  Throughout my time living in San Francisco, I had been accustomed to occasionally walking through the shadier areas of town and feeling like an outsider among the true locals of the streets; but this was my first time doing so in Los Angeles.  I was excited and intimidated at the same time, since I was definitely intrigued to see what type of people we would come across…especially after having our first interaction be with a man who stumbled directly up to me and as he looked me in the eyes he let out a mostly unintelligible scream that sounded like, “Black Mamba!” I’ve been called many things in my life, but I never believed the day would come when I could be classified under the term Black Mamba…I now feel as though my options for public ridicule or endearment through nicknames are endless.

As we walked further along the sidewalk, we came face-to-face with a man whose image will remain within my memory for years.  The man coming towards us stood about three feet tall, and moved towards us at a rapid pace; barreling down the middle of the sidewalk.  As I scanned the man’s stature, I was shocked to recognize that the upper body of this short person seemed to be of average adult scale; and as my eyes lowered towards his hip I noticed that his whole abdominal was covered in duct tape and there were no legs reaching towards the sidewalk.  The man carried himself upon his hands, and moved similar to a gorilla.  His legless lower body slammed upon the ground with every move forward, with the only padding being that of the duct tape (which also seemed to have some sort of plastic bagging beneath it).  His face showed no pain or frustration.  I know that to him this is just normal, and his only way to get from one place to another.  For me though, I had to wonder how it’s possible for a man with this disability to not be properly equipped for everyday travel.  I am assuming that this man can’t afford the proper health services to be accommodated with a wheelchair, and I may be wrong; it may be that he has chosen not to receive a wheelchair for other reasons.  This is not where I go into a discussion about the state of our health care system, cause I really wouldn’t even know where to start.  This is where I recognize that, this man who passed me so nonchalantly within a minutes time, left a mark on my subconscious about the overall survival strength of the human spirit.  I’m sure there was a point in this man’s life where the struggle was near unbearable, but on this day when he passed me it seemed as though he was completely comfortable with his situation and the life that he is living.

My phone rang in my pocket, and I picked it up to the voice of my girlfriend who was telling us she was nearby.  As we turned the corner, we met her midway down the block.  With a hug and a kiss we were on our way to the Calbi Korean taco truck.  The Twitter trucks have been all the rage in the Los Angeles area, and my girlfriend and I are on the bandwagon ready to eat up all the trucks have to offer.  Within the past couple months, this has been one of our favorite things about living in Los Angeles.  So as we reached the truck, my stomach was content with my mid-afternoon breakfast, but my eyes and nose were jealous of the meal she was about to have.  Watching her fulfill her mad craving, I was pleased to see her content.

Of all the Twitter trucks, one has remained elusive to my girlfriend and I.  The tasty treats of the CoolHaus ice cream truck have always been just beyond our grasp, and after finishing her burrito we decided today was the day we were going to get to savor the masterful ice cream sandwiches.  We were ready to travel wherever it was in the city, but my friend had other plans…so first we drove him home.  After an hour of sitting in the car staring at a variety of license plates while sitting in the ever present Los Angeles traffic, we reached the opposite end of town.  Distressed from our time in traffic and the reality that we were now on the opposite side of town from the ice cream truck, our truck hunting spirits were slightly distraught.  We were not going to give up though, as we got back on our way towards Santa Monica, where the truck was to be sitting beach-side with sun flaring off of its’ silver exterior as it sat waiting for us beside the pier.  The conquering image of finally holding one of those ice cream sandwiches in my hand and sitting on the beach enjoying it, continuously ran through my head on an endless loop.

As we neared Santa Monica, we meandered towards the beach and down the Pacific Coast Highway towards the pier.  Reaching the parking lot, the silver shine of the mini-truck was not instantaneously visible.  We drove through the packed lot, meandering past the half-paced beach-goers.  We knew the truck was serving a beach soccer tournament, and at the perimeter of the lot we could see tents set up which seemed likely to be associated with the tournament.  As we neared the tents, there was no crowd or soccer ready youngsters around.  It was all uncomfortably quiet as we approached the tents and we still had seen no evidence of the truck being nearby. Getting close enough to see what was happening around the tents, we understood that everything was being packed up and the tournament had already finished .  We had gotten there too late.  As the reality of our failure seeped in, our stomachs grumbled with disappointment.  I skimmed the Twitter feeds hoping that it had moved onto another location that we could venture towards; but all was silent.

Our stomachs still craved sweetness, so we accommodated them with some local frozen yogurt.  We had lost the battle with CoolHaus, but eventually we will win the war.  As we finished our yogurts, we realized that we had to take advantage of our time being in Santa Monica.  Driving through the area we had no desire to shop or cruise down the bustling pier, but we did notice that the sun was about to set.  Since we both live in Hollywood, it is rare that we get a chance to watch the ocean sunset.  We rushed towards the beach, as the sun continued its path behind the buildings and ever closer to the horizon.  We were determined to make it to a comfortable place on the beach in time.

We pulled into the beach-side parking lot as the orange glare streamed through the windshield, and the sun hovered slightly above the calmed waves of the Pacific Ocean.  We sat side-by-side letting the last rays of sun soak in, and feeling fortunate that we could experience this moment together.  After a day that encompassed so much, these few minutes of pure beauty and calmness settled the senses.  To imagine that this sunset happens everyday, no matter where I am or what I am doing, is comforting.  The daily struggles we encounter are temporary, this natural beauty is permanent.

As this day ended, I felt a complete sense of joy in the overall variety of the day.  After living in the city for almost two years, in this one day I felt as though I had really experienced the overall Los Angeles landscape as a local.  I’m not ready to go running down the streets screaming of a love for LA, but there is much that I truly do love about it.  I have much more to experience here, and I understand that with an open mind to the opportunities this town has to offer, I can continually be enlightened.  I also can’t wait to chomp down on one of those ice cream sandwiches…they will be mine, oh yes, they will be mine.

-B

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   What causes cancer? By now it is probably obvious to most people, that everything causes cancer.  It seems as though everyday an article will come out with a new “breakthrough” which presents a new danger,  such as red meat and the temperature of your tea, both which have recently been debuted as cancer dangers.  While these studies tout possible risks, most scientists and cancer organizations will admit that what truly causes cancer is still a mystery.  So to try and single out the dangers, we poll and tally the people who have been plagued by cancer; and dissect their lifestyles to try to learn how they got infected.

   In this day and age though: where everything from the sun, bluetooth headsets, and the power lines we walk under cause cancer; the average person is enveloped with dangers every minute of the day.  So in a daily routine where most of these dangers have become commonplace activities, how do they decide what to point their fingers at as the culprit? How does hot tea, or in essence hot water, get blamed?

   There are so many variables within a given study and the individuals involved, that I find it difficult to believe that they could ever have a pristine study.  When a study finds a link between cancer victims such as red meat, why is there not more stated about the rest of their lifestyle? It is likely that there are other ties in the victim relations, other than the meat.  The consumer is not the only variable as well, considering that the location of the farm and butchering processes should also be discussed.  Not all places are the same, and not all people are the same.  Each environment will have their own risks and factors, and each individual will have genetic variations and a different history.

   With a headline geared mentality though, all the public receives from most news sources is a pre-emptive declaration of risk.  The news knows that the individual (their consumer) cares most about their own mortality and trying to extend personal lifespan, so they are willing to present personal health risks as quickly as they can.  As the consumer, we should listen to the news with a grain of salt, and research the studies we think may affect us personally.  

   I know that in the name of science any possible cause must be presented, and that overarching risks found throughout victims have to be evaluated.  So if they can point out hot water as a silent killer, than I am going to go out on a limb and ask what about psychological cancer development.   What if just the continual presence of cancer risks and their dangers being in the forefront of our mental landscape can infect us?

   As the mind is capable of breaking down a person’s health through the mental distress of  a broken heart, and of making a perfectly healthy person sick by acquiring the  symptoms of a disease to which they have been mis-diagnosed; is there not the slight possibility that it can develop cancer as well?  I’m thinking that if we are willing to search out all potential variables of cancer risk, than this hypothesis is not as crazy as it may sound.   

   Can it be that this article right now is giving you cancer? As I am giving you time to think of the dangers of cancer, subliminal anchors may be cementing themselves in your psyche to believe that cancer is a highly probable reality for your future.  The more we think about it, the more we accept it as our own.

   I know that with this far fetched theory I may be losing you, but if it is even slightly possible as a variable than it should be researched.  If it were to be found slightly logical, than the onslaught of cancer risk articles that we are often pre-maturely presented may be the number one risk to our health.  In a way, that may even be a good thing.  If it were proven to be a risk, than at least more restraint would be put into the publication and distribution of these risks into the public’s general conscience.  I don’t want to hear the risks as immediately as they are thought of, I want to hear them when they are proven without a doubt.  Give me fact, not fanfare.

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Find more About Lazertag at: http://www.myspace.com/lazertagmusic

Throughout my life, this has only become more evident through the advent of personal electronics. No matter where you go now, there is a high likelihood that those who surround you will be talking or listening to some sort of device. I spent many days in San Francisco huddled closely by strangers on a MUNI train or bus never to utter a word, as I and my neighbor would both isolate ourselves into the seclusion of our IPODs. Pretending to be mesmerized by my music, I would make sure to divert my attention and refrain from any type of connection. Why though, are we so afraid to connect with others?

We walk on the street, making sure to avoid eye contact and to give enough personal space. We stand two feet away from each-other as we fill drinks at a restaurant. We keep sunglasses on our face while inside. We start conversations on the phone while approaching a register in a store or restaurant. We listen to our IPOD as often as possible, or play games on our phones. All just to guarantee not to make any connection with the other people who surround us.

I have begun to truly admire my Mother’s ability to approach anyone, as she welcomes any type of connection. It may seem strange at first when she wanders off to some unknown group of people, until you begin to see the smiles upon their faces. They honestly welcome her into their space, and within minutes it could seem as though she had known them her whole life. It is possible to feel the energy of the surroundings change as she formulates a connection not just between her and them, but between our group and their’s.

I am trying to hone some of my Mother’s skill within myself. The past couple of days, I have tried to remain open to the possibility of talking to those around me. At first it was scary to begin a conversation with a stranger; never knowing their personality or way of thought. With each interaction though, I have begun to feel more comfort in the process.

I have begun mostly by talking to the checkout people and workers of those institutions which I visit within a day. Within the first moment of interaction, they quite often are pleasantly shocked to be recognized. How often we get caught up in the routine of a transaction and forget about those who stand in front of us. One transaction after another the employee can fall into a routine of labor, and feel just as a cog in a machine. With a little conversation, it allows them to break from the monotony and remember life outside of work. I have been sincerely thanked by a concession employee at the movie theater this week, for asking him how his day has been and truly listening to his response. Within these interactions I also benefit, as I am able to see the employees’ true personalities. In a time when so many transactions are automated and pressing a few buttons is the norm, it is nice to truly use the possibility of interacting with another person.

Another place where I have felt the benefit of conversation with strangers is within elevators. Why do we allow that uncomfortable silence to happen? Any conversation is easy in an elevator, as it is as simple as stating the obvious awkwardness inherent with elevators or usually some sort of observational recognition. More often than not, the other person is just as desperate to not fall victim to the silence and will work to fill the short ride with some chatter. Within my short time breaking the elevator silence, I have met numerous people within my apartment complex. In a large complex, each time I ride I have the opportunity of meeting someone new.

There is so much that can be learned from those around us, and so many situations which can be brightened up by building relationships. I am not saying that I will stop everyone who walks by me on the street, but when an opportunity is available I am going to try to be open to it. My belief is that with a welcoming approach, most people will enjoy breaking societal silences and be glad to meet a new person. A majority of the day we are bored as we follow routine, and a new interaction can be a refreshing way to break the brain out of auto-pilot. Give it a chance…people aren’t so bad.

-B

So as I stated in my last post and as witnessed by skimming the dates next to my postings, recently my rants have been fewer and far between. To remedy this situation, I wish to keep writing as often as possible, telling myself that writing even the simplistic emotions of the day will be better than writing nothing. So here it begins, the thoughts of the day.

I downloaded the cd Volume One, by She & Him, which features the vocals of Zooey Deschanel and instrumentation by M. Ward in a debut recording. Ever since I first witnessed her performance in All the Real Girls, I have had a crush on the cute and innocently adorable Zooey Deschanel. Viewing that film at my college in a small intimate screening with the director present, I had no idea what to expect. All I knew was the director’s previous film, and off reputation was ready for whatever he had to offer. The film was good, and all though it didn’t compare to the director’s other film, it was unavoidable to fall in love with Zooey alongside the main character in the film. Her performance was completely natural, and her expressive eyes held a gentle gleam that could encompass all of her emotions.

Not much later within the film Elf, Zooey first premiered her singing voice, and with every word of “Baby It’s Cold Outside” I found myself questioning if it was truly her who I was hearing. There was an old Billie Holiday like jazz sound to her voice, it had a strong depth to it but always remained soft and welcoming. With a little deliberation, I was forced to recognize that the voice I was hearing was without a doubt rooted within the same young and innocent soul I was watching on the screen. Now I was smitten on a whole new level, and knew that in time I would hear that voice again.

Recently, I ended up seeing her in concert where she performed two songs as part of an ensemble concert in a storytellers type format. There were many established musicians there, and at this point Zooey had nothing recorded beyond her appearance in Elf. As she stepped on stage her nerves were evident, but as her voice began to emanate throughout the hall the tones got stronger with every beat. The classic old school voice reverberated through me as I began to picture her in black and white, a glimmering sequence dress, and whiffs of smoke filling the room. In a musical period where so much is over produced and tweaked, watching her and M. Ward as the only two on stage deliver so much emotion, was an excitingly refreshing experience.

What I hoped from the cd was a good format to display this powerful voice, and songs which were not too over produced. The cd delivered on every level. Throughout the cd Zooey’s voice and songs vary between a Patsy Cline type country twang and a lovingly tone reminiscent of the Doo Wop style of the 50s with the Wall of Sound orchestration. I’m not a music reviewer, so I can’t get too complex in my review, though I can say that every song is a very comforting sound which is easy to welcome into your musical collection through its fun sound which never loses its natural feeling. The tone feels as though it is rooted with the sounds of many of the musicians to which they feel an ultimate respect, and that I should have received the music on a record burned in acetate instead of downloaded straight to my mp3 player. I have no idea how many of the songs are covers, except for a few obvious ones at the end. What I know is that, throughout each song I never lose the warm feeling from hearing her voice and as a debut it showcases her vocal ranges to a good variety.

I know that with the windows open on a nice sunny day, there is nothing that could keep me from smiling while listening to this record. Times have changed, and music these days often over use loops and hooks to drill lyrics into your subconcious without worry of any emotion behind the music. In this day and age technology has allowed for anyone to go into a record studio and have their voice manipulated into the correct tones, but through all the tinkering the sounds get so clean that many of the emotions disappear. I feel that a record like this allows for a rawness to the overall production, understanding that leaving a natural feel to the performance relays to the listener the true ability and emotional dedication of the artists.

I wish I could say that I will let the needle wear thin listening to the record, but instead I shall play it on repeat a few times through my samsung yp-t9 mp3 player. After writing this, what I really have come to understand is that I wish I could make the connections and references within all the musical stylings of the songs. I enjoy music, and even took a few musical history classes in college, but no matter what I am still a very casual listener. So in the end, I recommend the cd.

This was supposed to be much more simplistic and concise. My goal for future daily thought postings is to be just quick blurbs.

-B

I Hope You Enjoy!

As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, the most important path to joy seems to be finding the ability to live in the present. Worrying about what is to happen in the future, what may happen, and what already has happened only acts to keep us out of touch with our current situation and the desires present within us. The only time that matters is now. All the planning for future joy, will be to no avail; if at the moment you can’t allow yourself the time to sit in the present and search within for the joy which currently awaits your acceptance .

For so long I have wished upon stars, and waited for my day to come. From the day my Grandma taught me, “I wish I may, I wish I might; upon the first star I see tonight,” I have used it without fruition. I have sat waiting for my train to come in, thinking that the future is where all my dreams will be offered to me. Always, I was looking to the future; as I constantly followed the belief that eventual financial and romantic success will lead me to joy. This year, I have begun to learn that the joy I so often wished upon stars for, is available daily and is offered to me consistently. As I offer time to myself, through meditation and through personal outings, I leave the worries of past mis-haps and future goals behind. The more quiet I can make my mind, the clearer its’ present desires are offered and fulfilled.

What I have noticed within my own learnings, is that most of the thoughts I had running through my mind dealt with situations which were possibly going to arise, or already had. I allowed myself to create unnecessary anxiety, as everything I was worrying of was in the realm of the uncontrollable. The future is to be dealt with only in the presently motivated necessity, where organizational tasks can be accomplished but not dwelt upon.

It is easy to allow the existence of future tasks to become a procrastinated exhibition of your “responsibilities” and worth. Not dealing with something that can be immediately dealt with, as to allow yourself the ability to declare the almighty phrase of, “I am just so swamped, I can’t..”. This phrase becomes an excuse to avoid opportunities you may fear or changes in your routine, and also allows you to feel like there is meaning to your existence as you become a dependent figure in the completion of a variable amount of tasks. We present our amassed levels of responsibilities to others as proof of our worth, and seek their acceptance and approval of our daily doings as being a worthwhile attribute to the overall well-being of the society. We tell ourselves that if I were not here, the tasks would never be completed; and hope others to see the same.

We are not here to complete tasks. We are here to take advantage of all the moments we have, and fulfill all of our innermost desires. Although I write with conviction and authority on this subject matter, the fact is that I am not where I want to be. The concept is so simple that it becomes baffling to accept. The main goal is just to let go to the now, and act upon pure intuition; not being dependent on acceptance or self-judgment. So many barriers have been built based upon societal judgment and an endless supply of self-imposed rules and restrictions.

Since early childhood, we are raised to seek approval and acceptance through a system of grades, treats, and eventually through promotions and raises. I am working to rid myself of my mind’s controlling nature of real-time deliberation, as it tries to protect me from the possible humiliation of failed social interactions. I want to stop worrying about what people may think about what I do, and just do it.

As a tool to direct me into a intuitive reality, I have begun an improv acting class. My goal is not to become the next John Belushi, as my comedy and acting skills are not to be celebrated. Through improv, I hope to take steps towards removing the moments of deliberation, in which I afford my mind the time to question its desires and the affects of my possible actions. On stage, any moment of deliberation kills the pace of the scene and the necessary conviction to sell the idea to the audience. Every action must not only be decided within a split second, but must be stated confidently with an infecting energy. So far, I am not very good at it and often mess up. Through just two classes, I have already felt myself begin to gain a comfort in putting myself out there with the opportunity of failure constantly present.

From every mistake, I am faced with the reality that it is just one moment which will pass by; and as it does, I recognize that I have survived. Every step towards actualizing my full present day potential is a step forward, and I am beginning to welcome failure as a necessary stage in my evolution. I hope for this lesson to lead me through potential social situations and job opportunities, as I allow myself to be put in situations where failure is possible. I shall not let the fear of failure stop me from acting upon the desires, which lead me towards opportunities of pleasure. Fear grows stronger with every second of thought that it is offered. Act quickly and intuitively, or it is likely you will not act at all.

As I have allotted time for myself, the greatest thing that I have recognized is my need to stop thinking. I have stopped to listen to my mind, only to have it tell me to stop listening to it and begin listening to my heart. The mind is like an attention crazed child, desperately seeking attention while never being fulfilled. First, the inner mental child may crave an ice cream which momentarily relieves when received, but very quickly will be replaced with an all new desire; such as a toy. Through rewarding the cravings you fulfill the mind’s desire to be recognized, but while always craving recognition a new desire will surface immediately. The desires’ of the heart long to lead you towards recognizing your full potential, and wish for you to gain understanding and experience as your true self. The heart doesn’t speak as often as the mind, and it is very necessary to work on clearing the mind to be able to hear what the heart has to say. To stop wishing upon the future, we must learn to live in our present and become the beings we are meant to be; beings who act intuitively upon our true desires and strive for the joy which emanates from the knowing of our true self.

-B

I have started to question my manhood. I have not decided to question my level of manhood based on my desire to be with women, my muscular strength, or my overall level of testosterone; as all of those factors except for muscular strength I feel fairly confident. No, this questioning has arisen as a result of me viewing a pair of boots on a man the other day, and wondering if that was ever an option available to me. What does it take to pull off a pair of boots in all seriousness?

When I have imagined myself in cowboy boots, it has been in a John Wayne sort of representation. My visualization consists of a gun holster strapped to my hip and crushing a cigarette beneath my leather bound pointed toes, as I confidently stand in the hardened sunlight opposing my silhouetted next victim. A gold sheriff’s badge bounces rippled streaks of reflected sunlight upon the ground in front of me. My woman stands by my side showing not an ounce of fear, knowing the inevitable outcome her smile flares sunlight off of her glistening white teeth in my direction. With ease my hand glides to my gun, a sub-conscious automation pulls the trigger and the bullet screams through the dry air and strikes my victim in the chest; his feet fall out from beneath him, and a cloud of dust circulates in the air as he strikes the hardened ground. Blood spilling from the wound it continues to pool atop the dry soil, as he is left gasping for his last breath upon the barren road. Heroic responsibilities finished, I stroll through the pebbled road crunching my way towards the saloon. I make my way up the stairs to the saloon, with the hammering of my heels announcing my arrival. Busting my way through the saloon doors they swing creakingly back and forth, and the once bustling bar silences upon my arrival with a cumulative fearful inhalation of breath. As I relax to an awaiting glass of whiskey, I recognize this as just another day at work.

That is how my imagined Utopian relation to cowboy boots plays out. In the real world, I feel as though instead of representing my masculine strengths and heroic capabilities, they would act more like an indicator of my masculine faults. I picture them more as a juxtaposition of character within my style, than as an attributing element. I am not looking to completely makeover my entire stylistic existence, replacing my t-shirts with button up flannel and covering my head with a cowboy hat. All I was thinking, is trying to find a way to be able to supplement my appearance with the crunching and hammering walk of cowboy boots.

My desire would be, that the supplemented boots would allow me to walk through the streets and into a bar feeling as though I was passing through the creaking saloon doors. Although the sound of The Killers music would be reverberating within the walls, I would only hear the inhalation of breath respecting my entrance and masculine nature. An intimidating and confident power, emanating with every hammering step. In reality though, I think that after leaving the comfort of my Reebok Pumps for the pointy and tight boots, my walk would be comparable to that of a hobbling puppy who had recently hurt its paw. With my hobbled walk and overly smiley face, the tighter clothing emblazoned with artsy images would simply seal the irrational existence of the boots and the raw natural power that they exude.

The man I saw the other day, wore the boots along with the flannel I spoke of before and whitewashed jeans. In this day and age, that is where it seems that the boots belong. As it is not completely necessary for that man to ride a horse to the bar, he damn well better have drove a pickup truck there. For me in my pearl white Infiniti I30 and my tight artsy clothing, the boots seem as though they would be better left in the trunk. Maybe if I find a cheap pair at a thrift store or swap meet, I’ll buy them under the guise of a possible Halloween costume. No matter what, a good pair of cowboy boots and a toy gun could still be empowering enough fun for a simple man like me to make them worth the ownership.

-B