You Watch My Back, I'll Watch Yours....Mine...Ours?

Alright dude, first off, lose the Abercrombie, the epitome of perturbing awkwardness with pseudo-fashionable clothing rests in your every stride. Let me simplify that, you look like a try-hard. Maybe if you ditch the Abercombie tee, the American Eagle button down, with a popped collar, WITH A POPPED COLLAR, what goes through your head!? I am at loss for words now, cant even finish my thought, the fact that you assume, with any level of continuity that a pink button down would be okay ON TOP OF a pink tee that reads "A & F" in cursive infuriates me...er uhm...us. Whatever, I...uh...we? Alright, this irks me, I will just stick with singular pronouns from here on out. Anyways, the purpose of writing this does not come with bashing your dress game, although I still feel it stands as one of the main reasons. But, I digress, you see young grasshopper, you have much to learn, and in my infinite wisdom , I shall enlighten your feeble mind. Well, first off, I would like to inform you NOT to give that valentine to Kristin, you know, the blonde gal that sits two rows in forward, who always has a capri sun at lunch. Yeah well she will take the chocolate and throw your love note in the trash, but chin up, she gets chicken pox two weeks later, karma has your back, bro. On to more important matters, well actually, this may sound weird, but I thought that maybe you could give me so advice. See, I remember explicitly sitting in Mr. Faranacci's 6th grade class and pondering what I would look like, where I would live, who I would befriend, and what I might think of myself as a teenager, a big, bad, teenager. And, honestly, me, I do not quite know how grand and enticing the ever-thrilling existence of a teen really stacks up. Quite frankly, the things I would love to go back to a day when after my school schedules consisted of catching up on my Club Penguin account and seducing the ladies on AIM, after a quick snack of course. Now after school consists of homework, college applications, government applications for college, college scholarships, college, college college, and mom yelling at me about college. Sure, most of that has passed now, and second semester senior year has its perks but you get the idea. Point in hand, stressing about which pair of crocs you should wear to school (Crocs, oh my god, you totally wear crocs, I forgot about that, you need help child) as opposed to fretting about meeting deadlines that could ultimately decide your future for the rest of your life seems quite more amiable. Not to mention, you can still rock out to "Kidz Bop" without eliciting judgement, not that I still...I mean...uh...oh, and I guess one more quick piece of advice, stop caring so much about what people think of you. Do not quit the flute because that little urchin behind you said it was "a girl instrument". Do not deny the fact that you played Rooster Hannigan in "Annie" for the 5th grade play because you overheard someone say doing drama club "is gay", you barely even knew what that meant in 6th grade, kid. Do not take down the transformers poster you had in your locker because the kid next to yours took down his posters. Man up bud, take control of your life, live it how you want it, because if you make the same mistakes I did, and quit doing the stuff you thought was fun because other people did not think it had the same "cool" factor as their new bmx bike then you'll lose what makes you, you, even if you're individuality culminates in your stupid, god awful crocs. But all in all, rather than giving you advice, and preaching to you as if I know everything about the inter-workings of life, I guess I want to know something from you. Honestly, if you look upon my life, how I live now, who I am, well, would you be proud of me? Until next time, dude.



Seriously, crocs?

What Could Be Worse Than Second Hand Smoke?

Her eyes met mine with an otherworldly glare, as if my eyebrows had just spontaneously combusted into a shower of ethereal sparks. Or at least basic sparks, I mean, a spark is a spark, as long as I am getting across the point that she looked quite flustered. Oh, right, I should explain, ever heard of second hand smoke? Sure...(“everybody has, the fact that I have to explain this to you exemplifies your ignorance”)..., what, no I did not hear anything. Anyways, when you ingest something you would rather not come in contact with, one can classify it as “second hand”. Well, when people imagine birth defects they think of an extra toe. Or a genetic disorder, a dwarf, or possibly even someone who licks windows on public transportation. But I have yet to find another with as unique a feature as mine, or at least one as invariably unsettling. Everyone has those thoughts they dare not say whilst having a conversation with an adversary whom they may not particularly like, or possibly the quick mental jab at the irksome enemy as they brush by in the hall. Yes, we all have these thoughts, and thank goodness they remain thoughts because, I mean, speaking them would surely lead to a fierce confrontation to say the least. Now, imagine how awful that would...(”It surprises me you can even read”)...okay, enough beating around the bush, think second hand smoke threatens the safety of people? Try having second hand thoughts. Mmhm, every thought I have,  I unwillingly mumble on the spot...(“as if your pathetic excuse for common sense could not have figured that out already”)...I did not mean that, I swear. Nothing personal really, the combination of being a cynical pessimist  and the inability to keep my thoughts to myself has led to some awkward situations before, much like right now. Allow me to use the example I started in the beginning, the time I met Oprah at a book signing. I approached her desk...(“why I would waste my breath telling you this story baffles me”).

The illustrious calling of Cat photography

I know what goes through one's mind when they hear I have fourteen cats, sure, they immediately assume I live in a derelict trailer neck deep in kitty litter, and they may even conclude that I register as legally insane and/or solemn and lonely. But, allow me to diffuse those ludicrous opinions, my trailer has a built in hot tub, the litter boxes only overflow twice a day, and obviously I can not register as insane since I technically do not have legal citizenship in the United States (long story). However, I do have a reputable business with a diversified clientele and am contesting for a spot on the exclusive Forbe's fortune 500 list. Okay, so maybe I just lied to your face. But, hey, that's business. By now one must ponder how exactly I turned my fourteen cats into a lucrative business, and for that answer one must consult the monolith of Instagram. Yes, Instagram, I take pictures of cats, and put them on Instagram, but these do not compare with the sheepish, poorly captioned "lolcats" as one may presume. No, these works of art boast exquisite lighting, arduous timing, chiseled poses, and each cat must possess the proper "qualities" if you will. Whilst most cat pictures that litter the internet and the deep realms of Instagram consist of shaky, low quality abominations taken with an iPhone, my technology stands at the forefront of feline photo capturing technology. I sport a "Nikon X-2000 Jingler" yes, the jingler, a cat toy that dangles from the lens harnessing the feline's perfect attention. Not only does my technology cost exponentially more than my luxurious crib but it captures every last flea resting upon the supple snout of each cat and kitten. Each photo requires meticulous preparation and grooming, each cat must receive exactly five strokes with an ivory brush, diamond encrusted brush on each side of its body. Followed by a fluffing period of 4 and a half minutes using a ten-speed cool breeze hair dryer equipped with the built in scent of Japanese orchids. Finally, I set up the lighting, two Hawaiian imported bamboo tiki torches, to set the mood, and a military grade searchlight, because the best way to bring out a cat's eyes comes with the illumination of a 760 terrawatt bulb. Finally, I put on a cat suit of my own, a skin tight spandex jumpsuit with genetically engineered fur on the exterior so I can be one with my feline models. Who finds interest in these stupid cat pictures? Ah, what a moronic question. I spend 13 hours a day among my companions, watching them bathe in Mediterranean imported catnip, gallop over and throughout their hand-crafted furnishings, and tussle among one another over hypoallergenic, Gucci cat toys.  Then I capture all of this through the tantalizing visual medium of Instagram, put a sepia filter on, and send them away to receive from all of my humble followers. And the question still arises, who finds interest?! Blasphemy, my 460,000 (I just lied to your face once again) followers will quickly answer that feeble question for whatever peasant finds it necessary to ask. How do I profit from uploading free pictures to Instagram? Ha, these questions just keep getting more menial. Like, seriously? How do I profit?! Ha...haha...what a stupid...yeah..uhm, I do not. I work at a Denny's.

DJ CC's Greatest Hits

Since I must now shatter my humility and brag about how well crafted one of works seems, I shall take full advantage of this opportunity. All in all, most of works seem to tip the scales of sheer brilliance, so narrowing in on just one masterpiece takes time. However, the piece most likely to bestow upon me the title of a Nobel laureate comes in the form of my most recent blog entry: "Societal Alzheimers" , circa December 18th 2012. I feel the piece mirrors my superb writing skills in its specific and well-executed critique of society's misadventures, the concrete and well-placed examples, and finally the vocabulary so exquisite it seems as if a thesaurus regurgitated on my prose. For instance, I find myself touching on one or two, often stretched, examples in my writing, yet this time around I honed in on real-world happenings relevant to my subject of a frenzied "tempocolypse" (A temporary apocalyptic scare, Corrigan-Chaillet ®). "'December 21st apocalypse'...most searched term...2010", stands out as one of the more notable pop culture observances I included in my observant look at the temporary obsessions of our society. Furthermore, this piece stood out in its exquisite and fervent vocabulary which graces the eyes and mind of the reader like diamond dust blowing in a warm summer's breeze. For example, the word "cacophony" replaces a more simple adjective such as "a lot" or the the word "scoured' taking place of the feeble verb "searched". Little additions like these ameliorate the sentence structure of my writing by adding resonate syllables and intellectual undertones the reader can associate with such prolific word choice. On another note, a very interesting piece which I gave my audience the pleasure of reading comes in the form of my December 4th 2012 blog post, "The Great Gatsby: A Great Conspiracy". The intrigue of this post comes from my own deep-rooted skepticism which never quite eludes me in reading or in life for that matter. Allow me to elaborate, classics such as F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “The Great Gatsby” have undergone insurmountable analyzations by professors and students alike over the decades. The similes and allegories in the book so overdone and overstudied that they hold not even a shred of mystery for reader anymore who may now just google the implications behind them. But what I like to do, as exemplified in my blog: conspire as to the deep, interwoven possibilities laying under the ink of every page. For instance, the interest my post holds comes with the look at unspoken outliers in the plot, such as the possibility that Gatsby himself arranges Nick’s placement alongside him in West Egg to get close to Daisy. The probability of that seems absurd but the evidence I cited supports this tangible, yet skeptical claim. Thus, the interest of this piece lies within a theory pushing the boundaries of what otherwise stands as a widely accepted and static plot of a stroke of luck in the love department which evidently leads to tragedy. Therefore, my blog post brings about the possibility that maybe Fitzgerald's plot does not in fact piggyback off the shakespearean romantic tragedy theme as once thought but maybe he encompasses a new meaning in Gatsby bringing his fate upon himself by manipulating Nick to achieve his love. Finally, the comment which holds the highest regards among the plentiful praise I have received over these last few months belongs to Andrew Phillip Osgood. He responded to my blog observing the sharp contrast between the two camps of thought among my peers when it comes to justifying something so concrete as robbery, against something as abstract as love in “The Second Bakery Attack”. In my blog I attempt to argue that love conquers the implications of petty robbery where none endure any harm, yet Andrew retorted in a way which I had nothing but gratitude for as he opened up a train of thought for me which I had not yet pondered. He asked: “How can the robbery have righteousness if it does not actually ensure permanent happiness and the couple does fall apart in the future”? To which I immediately acknowledged seeing as there exists no definite permanence to the short burst of affection the couple shares after the robbery. I thought about this for the next few minutes (because honestly these kinds of questions do not exactly keep me up at night) and I could not seem to find a stance with which I felt confident on. Yet, Andrew, in thinking about your question I found the problem with your question. Maybe there stands a point where a story must remain as it stands, with no more speculations, and no more contemplations. The reason I can not figure out an answer simply roots back to the possibility that maybe the story ends as it does for a reason, so that the reader can visualize their own ending. So as you visualize your epilogue of fallen love and subsequent arrests in connection with armed robbery, I visualize my epilogue of a rekindled love, sparked in the flames of adrenaline and fast food. Thus, in the end I do not have an answer to your question, but rather, a compromise.

Societal Alzheimers

Does anyone remember the wide-spread pseudo-panic that swept the country this time last year? The vehemence with which we all mercifully chattered about the inevitability of our fates? I do. And I find it quite odd that staring at the same date that two years ago would spin our country into a societal meltdown brings only a smile to our faces. Allow me to elaborate, as the Mayan Calendar supposedly predicts, the world and all of its wrongdoings will meet a swift and violent end come December 21st 2012. When this theory came began to become publicized by the media the peoples interest morphed into gut wrenching fear. Maybe this theory no longer fell under the category of a simple conspiracy? The thought crossed my mind more than once, and rightfully so. Within days of comprehending the apparent severity of the situation I along with millions of others contributed to "December 21st apocalypse" as the most searched term on google for 2010. As I scoured scores of websites I came across methods of our demise ranging from planetary collision to zombie infections. What crushed my dismal hope of survival further came with the release of John Cusack and all his glory in the cinematic flub of the century 2012. This film lit the fuse, turning an already impressionable mentality into a cacophony of despair. Millions searching for this event turned into hundreds of millions, including myself and it got to the point of absurdity that NASA began releasing articles disproving the theory in order to calm the public. However, their release only calmed the those skeptical of it in the first place and for the most part, those plagued with concern found no solace. With all of the internal chaos swarming around for the weeks after the film I can still remember my little cousin coming to me teary eyed asking about the verity of his certain end. At that point a realization struck me that only have us as a people created this mad theory to the point of ludicrousy. As I sat there explaining the scientific and archaeological evidence in as best a way a nine year old could comprehend I found myself feeling more relaxed than him, even though he simply smiled and went to finish his hot wheels track. With my explanation of the impracticality of such a stellar end I found myself feeling elated, on a higher tier of thought than everyone else still frantically searching for reassurance. However, this great catastrophe of panic and outrage fizzled as quickly as it detonated, exemplifying an overdone theme in life: time, does in fact heal everything. Within weeks conversations never even contained a hint of the subject, as a matter of fact, when I brought it up to see what reaction I would net, all I got was an indifferent shrug. To this day this mystifies me. How could those who seemed so ignorantly humble in the face of the “ apocalypse” now hold less interest and fear than I? Well, maybe the answer lies in the overdone theme of time healing all wounds, or quite frankly, the lack thereof, honestly, all this shows: society gets bored. Yes, this profound absence of emotion over an event so turbulent that it prompted thoughts of suicide among pockets of our population all boils down to societies innocent boredom, the passing of a trend. Quickly our minds rerouted themselves from fiery death to Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez kissing at the beach, which I suppose acts for the better. Society seems to function much better when they sit panting over their computers fretting over the ending to Gossip Girl rather than purchasing the deeds to underground bunkers to ride out a solar flare, hurricane, earthquake, tsunami storm. Thus, the beauty of our society resides in our ability to move on when necessary, and never look back, thankfully. Because if we did not possess this ability then our town of Chagrin Falls would most likely find itself in a frenzied destruction over our judgement day this Friday, which on the bright side would mean no school. I mean, if we had a hurricane day already who says a pre-apocalypse day seems like too much to ask?

Envy: A Fuel For Inspiration

The pompous, the wealthy, and well, those just shy of royalty, we all stumble upon their lairs every once in awhile. Sometimes we just observe their affluence from the road in a solemn wonder, staring at the fruits of capitalism. In no way am I critical of the extravagancy these people enjoy, for the most part they earned their living and consequently elicit respect from my envious gaze. Living in the area we do, Chagrin Falls, upper-middle to upper class living hardly makes me bat an eye anymore, just a way of life. However, this past spring break I traveled to the epicenter of the one percent, ground zero of  opulence, pinnacle of the american dream: Malibu, California. Mansions and Porsches that left me in envy here gave way to oceanside villas and Bugattis there. Hence, I found myself in a bit of a stupor driving down the Pacific Coast Highway getting passed by Ferraris with massive sprawls of gated estates and the pristine beaches competing for my attention. I sat there picking up my jaw from the floor so frequently my arms became sore. These people have, with no exaggeration, everything. Now I understand the implications of this claim: "Oh but I'm sure they are not truly happy", or "They could have depression". Surely their lives must lack some aspect that could help alleviate the sheer jealousy of those driving past the massive sprawls of their beachfront property. Yet, when I went for a stroll on the beaches, passing by the owners of these lavish palaces and fast cars, all of them had a vitality in their eyes that only a sense pure contentment could bring. These people possessed this incredible lack of worry and consternation to my sheer disbelief. However, where most find themselves cringing with jealousy, prying their perfection for a downfall, a kink in their armour, I found myself studying them, their mannerisms, the way they carry themselves. Yes, instead of envy my consciousness honed in on interest, instead of disgust I felt inspiration. The CEO’s, entrepreneurs, and inventors walking alongside me on this beach did in fact have it all. But, they took the same strides as I, they kicked up the sand the same way I did, their hair blew in the wind the same as mine. This parade of success on Zuma beach struck home a precious thought: these people are only human. Sure, I do not know their life story, how they acquired their profound achievement, but I do know that within myself awaits a lustful ambition much akin to what must reside within their own minds. The only thing standing in between my life at a desk job working a nine to five, and diving into an infinity pool overlooking the Pacific: the key to unlock the ambition stowed away within my mind, within all of our minds, and forge it into fruition. To find the key, one must simply find a motivation, an inspiration, and for me that rests within my memories of staring in awe at the vigor of the successful. Thus, I do not look back to the shores of Malibu with a passive longing for the lives of those I walked next to on that beach. But rather, I think back to that pristine shoreline confident that someday I will strut through that same sand which instilled in me inspiration, with a smile of contentment upon my face, knowing I made it. Does that sound a little overconfident? It might, but it not matter, for I have found the key, and the journey starts here.

The Great Gatsby: A Great Conspiracy

Hardly ever do I encounter profound epiphanies, they seem quite rare in their timing and presence, but then again that probably constitutes their profundity. Furthermore, the categorization of an epiphany varies for many and usually encompasses a life altering revelation, maybe at lest a temporarily ameliorating or devastating thought. However, today during the last thirty seconds of my ever awakening first period AP English class an epiphany struck me with the force of a Mack truck t-boning a Smart car. What if Nick's luck of moving into a proverbial "shack" so seemingly different from all other houses in the area, mansions of sorts, took place at the hand of the mysterious Gatsby himself? Does not it seem suspicious that this man with no prevalent reputation lands a house right next to the vast estate of the fantastic Mr. Gatsby? However outlandish this may seem, and however idiotic I may look to many of my peers who unlike myself have read this classic already, it may just come to fruition. For instance, a questionable deal lands an astray Nick Carraway next to Mr. Gatsby in the first place reflecting on how an unnamed young man "suggests [they] take a house together" (3). Normal, yes, but at the last minute "a firm ordered him to Washington" (3). Thus, I believe Gatsby played a hand in that young associate of Nick's convincing him to move right next to him, where he would remain at the disposal of Mr. Gatsby, who we found out in our last reading desperately needs the help of Nick. How seemingly perfect to have Mr. Carraway, the key to reaching Daisy, quite literally at his doorstep. Now, before jumping to conclusions that all of this seems a conspiratorial claim one must account for the resourcefulness of Gatsby as seen in chapter four. He feverishly searches for Daisy, cutting out newspaper clippings of her in the Chicago newspapers, eventually moving into an incredibly expensive mansion just across the bay from her. Therefore, Gatsby obviously has no reason not to do research to find a connection with Daisy in the form of Nick he could use to bridge the abyss that grew between him and his lost love. The idea that the same man that has cities like "Chicago calling him on the wire" and "lived...in all the capitals of Europe" (48, 65) possess the ability to pull strings in such a manner to track and influence an average man from the Midwest does not seem so brash. Finally, the finishing touch on my pseudo-revolutionary epiphany comes with the motivation that backs his drive to perform all of theses tasks to get to woman across the bay. What more could a man with seemingly everything, money, cars...hydroplanes want? Maybe he wants the one material possession that can complete structure of his happiness: love. The one thing he can not purchase with money or influence he can not have, and thus he channels his ambition, I would say more-so than greed, to put Nick under his influence, and acquire that which lays just beyond his reach, the green light across the bay, his own american dream, love.