smooth sailing

I went out sailing for the first time ever this past weekend with my friend Robbie. He bought the boat a few month's back and has been out on the water maybe twice and I didn't even have my sea legs yet. I learned what a jib is however. Sometimes when people tell you that certain things are best done "under the supervision of a professional", you should go ahead and heed their advice. 

The day was calm, the sun was out and it seemed like a nice day to be out in the bay, at least to the eyes of an untrained, unexperienced civilian. I was excited, except for the slight headache I was experiencing from the previous night's bender in which I drank half my body weight in free fat tire at my work's benefit. Self-restraint is not one of my strong suits.

We readied the sails, prepped the rigs, and started the motor. Since neither of us were well versed with steering, my jobs was to use an oar to protect us from hitting the dock or any other boats as we made our way into the open waters. It was a little choppy and my fantasies of a nice smooth day out on the waters were dashed, but I didn't really mind too much, adventures are full of surprises. We hoisted the sails and soon we were powered only by the wind and incompetence. The boat dipped and rocked, sometimes leaning haphazardly to the right, but life was good, the sun shining down, and the spray of the water as we set forth. 

I kept thinking about a girl who I just met who I am enamored with. It is always strange how you are most intrigued and captivated by those things which you can never really have. I thought about her laugh which rings like the tolls of a bell and the way she throws her head back at even the most trivial jokes, her eyes creased in delight and it made me smile. Some things are best kept undisclosed and I don't think I'll ever tell her how beautiful I think her laugh is. Robbie and I sat in the stern, taking turns with the rudder, sipping on Coronas, enjoying the experience.

The further we headed out, the worse the water became. I tried playing with the main sail since it was fluttering and not properly channeling the wind. As I toyed with it, the rigging slipped and the sail came a quarter of the way down, the lines became tangled at the top and I could not get the sail back up to full mast. It flapped angrily in protest to my novice treatment. I went to the bow to try to correct the problem, but made it worse. I asked Robbie if he had any life jackets on board, he shook his head no. He tried to keep the boat as steady as possible, but the water had other plans. Suddenly, the wind ripped violently and the boat whipped suddenly in a 180 degree turn, like a car spinning out. My stomach was set to spin cycle. 

Luckily, the turn had pointed us directly back to port and as quickly as possible, we took down both sails and engaged the trusty old motor. On the way back I thought about nothing else except putting my feet back on solid ground. We made our way back in one piece and broke down the sails and cleaned up a bit. We joked about the experience, only then realizing how close we came to being tossed out into the sea. 

Even though the experience was a bit unnerving, I still want to brave the waters. Life is about chances and sometimes you have to take the risk of being thrown overboard to realize that there can be some things worse than never having even lived a little. 

Retraction

Just kidding, I didn't get fired, I now have my first published feature ever. Lessons learned:

- It is okay to introduce someone as "a bit of an asshole".

- My editor takes his sweet, sweet time in getting back to me.

- One out of every five articles will get picked up.

- I need to get another job.

You're Fired.

So I think I got fired for the first ever time ever. I think of myself as a pretty prudent, hard working individual, sometimes susceptible to bouts of insubordination, but in the end I put in my time and do solid work, I think. I love to write, especially about weird shit that I encounter or experience so I jumped at a chance to write for a startup magazine through a business that I have followed and supported for a long time. The articles entailed that I write features interviewing artists or weird contemporary trends and culture. It seemed like a perfect fit.  I'm not 100% sure that me being fired is a done deal, but my editor hasn't emailed me back in a few weeks and the artist interview I have set up for this week isn't responding after expressing great enthusiasm through email exchanges. 

Granted, most of the shit I have sent in to the editor have been kind of off-kilter stuff that most people would find revolting. Thus far, I have written articles/interviews on an ex-street fighter, a felony convicted marijuana dealer, a fanatic gun collector, a swinging couple, and a Chinese prostitute. Obviously these people wanted to remain anonymous, so the required two to three images per article were kind of out of the question. What most people find weird, I find fascinating. The underbelly of society has always intrigued me, that these people have somehow fallen beneath the path of normality and now live in a world that most people will never experience and never understand. What they do is normal to them.

But I don't think that's what necessarily sealed the deal. My first interview was with an artist I've looked up to and respected for a long time. I went into the interview not only as a writer, but as an avid fan. It took me about three emails just to get him to respond, only with the reply of  "i'm a little bit interviewed out right now, i'll only do it if you ask good questions, if not forget it." Okay fine, understandable, the man has a full plate and probably has been asked the same stupid ass questions a million times. Long story short, he gave answers which were hateful, arrogant, egotistical, and without a grain of humility. His answer to: What advice would you give to any aspiring artists was "Go fuck yourselves" among other illuminating gems. He has just lost a devoted fan. If anyone wants any of art that I have acquired of his on the cheapsky, inquire within.

With the interview section, I wrote an intro and basically called him an asshole, because that's what he came off as. I sent in the article and haven't heard back from the editor since. And to conclude, that is why I think I have been fired and probably blackballed from the company/gallery/magazine for life. For calling someone I used to look up to an asshole. 

None of the articles have been published, maybe they are too outlandish or my writing/interviewing style sucks. I'm not quite sure. The editor has never critiqued or said anything besides asking why I never send the required images. So these things are just sitting in my hard drive probably never having the opportunity to seeing the light of day. So I'm just going to post them one by one up here. I will start with the ex street brawler interview, enjoy.

Modern Day Cowboy

Living in a city like San Francisco, like any international city, where crime is relatively low (in most areas) and people are accepting of differences and eccentricities, it is a little haven away from what the world really is. A bubble of daily life, a hodgepodge of people zipping through the streets, unawares of anything else besides the new fashionable political/environmental/business/celebrity gossip topic. Not ever really knowing what danger and chance really are.The only battles fought now are through commerce, conference rooms oftentimes referred to as war rooms, fighting with words and money, the most cultured of warfare.

Our country was built upon manifest destiny, a striving to West across the vastness of middle America, where treachery and loneliness abounded. It is easy to forget that, living in a city: people have nice safe little lives, visit quaint cafes, sit at the park, and tour galleries on First Thursday walks. A little city of atmosphere and culture.

What happened to men being men? I don't mean the glamorized lifestyle of rappers and gangster type shit, but knowing how to use your hands, standing in the face of confrontation, not backing out when shit hits the fan. Most people prefer their safe little bubbles, putting money down on a mortgage, decorating their condos, voting for their party. The roamers and cowboys of the West are a thing long forgotten, only to be seen portrayed by the likes of John Wayne and the Marlboro man.

I met Q back in college. He is a menacing man who walks with a lumbering gait, shoulders always hunched aggressively forward like a cagefighter entering the ring. He is the type of person you would avoid making eye contact with if passing down a narrow sidewalk. His knuckles are calloused and hard from years of abuse, on his left shoulder is "V" shaped scar, a souvenir from a brawl a few years back. Despite the outwardly intimidating appearance, he is a loyal friend, university educated with a degree in bioscience, and a stolid force in even the most compromising situations.

He grew up fighting in the streets of Ramona, a city outside of San Diego, fighting for pride, fighting with his hands, fighting for everything that was not given to him. Comparatively, most men are nancy boys. I'm not advocating violence, I just lack respect for any man who has never fought and stood up for anything before, to have been built without a spine, raised on education and culture alone. Many people forget that when shit goes awry, we still must fight, and we must know how. 

We meet at a dive bar in Ramona, his local hangout. The place is filled with hicks who give me side glances, we order Coors Light.

On his education:

"I'm the first one in my family with a college degree. To most fucking people out here, that's amazing. My grandfather left me a trust to pay for college and without it, I don't think I would have gone, I would either have ended up in the army, jail, or dead. I fucking love science, its the answer to how everything works. I actually really enjoyed being in college, it was definitely different from where I grew up. I'm still trying to apply to pharmacy school, but right now I'm just working as a substitute teacher and a nurse."

On women/marriage:

"Fuck marriage. It's about the stupidest thing any man can do to himself. My friend Tyler who I use to run with got his girl pregnant a few years back and all he ever does now is work and take care of his kids. Doesn't have a fucking life. And you know what's happening now? He's getting a fucking divorce and has to pay child support. Fucking idiot. I don't think I'll ever be in a relationship, every time I fuck a girl I just don't like her anymore. The only thing I can see myself doing is having a girl from each country in the world, have myself an international family."

On growing up:

"It was never easy having nothing. My parents didn't give a shit what I did. They were pretty fucked up themselves in the head. In the streets, everyone hated everyone else. You stuck to your group and they were family. We were never a gang, we didn't carry weapons or nothing. We fought everyone, the blacks, Mexicans, and the other trailer trash kids. I supported myself by selling 40's and weed to other kids. It wasn't about territory, or whatever the fuck gangs fight for now."

On fighting:

"We just liked to fight, if someone said some shit to you and you didn't like it, you took care of it or you're going to be known as a pussy. Fuck, we fought for the stupidest reasons, but it was what it was." He says this with a grin. "There's nothing like coming out of a fight with your hands all cut up from the other guy's face. We use to set up fights and just go at it. I've been in so many fights now I don't even remember them all. Most people won't fight you unless they're drunk or have somebody else there to back them up. Fuck that."

"People will hear about you from other towns, about how you're good with your hands so you have to fight them. We used to set them up at a buddy's back yard. Sometimes people would put money down."

"I've only been knocked out cold once. That's when I was young and stupid and thought that I could take on anybody. This Mexican dude down the street was talking all kinds of shit and I got right up in his face and he knocked me on my ass. I don't get up in anyone's face anymore. I learned my lesson after that."

Every few years, he'll take off to a new country and bring a backpack. He'll travel for months, doing odd jobs to support himself, picking fruit, bouncing at bars, anything to feed and travel for a week or two. Living on the road, always in seek of adventure and danger. In a sense, it is a very pointless life, with no direction nor meaning. But he lives on whim, with no discretion of where he will go. It is the very epitome of what cultured men have been taught not to do. He is free of any constraints and obligations and was probably better to have been born into a different era. 

He doesn't express shame or regret for the things he has done, merely citing "I would not have survived else wise." It is easy for society to judge men of his character, but where can one go, when life offers no respite for the calling of the primeval. Modern life is often constraining and rigid, lacking in men's needs to beat their chests and plunder. The city with all its artificial edifices are not enough for men like Q. There must be more. 

Apology Letters

I've written several letters in the last two days, some by hand, most electronically, and some embarrassingly through social networking sites only because I didn't have their phone numbers or addresses. If you've read one of my earlier posts, I've stated that it's something that I've always wanted to do, but was incredibly hard for me to set about. They were all apology letters, to girls I've dated or had relationships within the last few years, save a few who were just kind of bitches, excuse my french.

I've been traveling for the last 3 weeks, sleeping in airplanes, airports, buses, couches, trains, hostels, benches and any other place I can lie my head and get a few moments respite. Fourteen hour flights ain't got shit on me, it's the god awful movies that I have a problem with. Whenever I am away from home, it gives me time to reflect on everything that has been going on, what moves I want to make next and how things have been going. One thing I've kept going back to is the way I've mistreated women in my past and for as many excuses I can give about that, the blame invariably falls upon my own shoulders. When I'm walking through the world alone in a place I've never been, I realize how utterly lonely I will become if I continue through life trudging through the mud. I've done and said things that make me want to throw up and kick myself in the face a million times and all the inner turmoil I've suffered through the last few months is probably still not enough retribution, but now I'm straddling the line of self-flagellation. 

So I just decided to do it, I spread it out over the course of a two nights writing fest. Mostly just doing a lot of apologizing, ranging from a paragraph to two pages depending on the amount of asshole I was. It's been an incredible relief and as far as life goes, I don't really want to head down that path ever again. I'm sure a lot of the letters will be received with a pinch of salt and others with complete disregard, but I haven't done anything with more conviction in awhile. It started out really with just one letter and after that was done o.c.d. reared his ugly head and said "bitch, you ain't done. there's at least six more you have to write." So, I did it, one after another, pages and pages of my sordid past getting pulled back to the surface. 

It's easy to be a dick, you just have to be an inconsiderate egomaniac. I find it a lot harder to be a good person and it's something I'm really trying to work at, but these things take time and i'll really have to see how things go.

I do not want to be an infinitely miniscule blip. There are a million things in the world I want to do and yet this bitch procrastination sometimes strangles me tight and I lie in stress-riddled daydreams, thinking of all the things that I could potentially accomplish. It is easy to dream of all the extravagant successes and forgo all the hardship and perseverance which comes with such rewards. 

Where has God gone?

Where has God gone? The corruption and sordid nature of the young modern seems to beg the question of how morally bankrupt the youth culture has become. Growing up I was brought up strictly Christian, baptized at birth, Sermons on Sundays, prayers before meals, that whole deal, but after watching the corruption and in-fighting of the congregation and the eventual schism of the church I grew up to abhor institutionalized religion.  I still do now in a sense and can never see myself going back unless I were intrigued by some fine young lady. 

I'm no angel, I've participated in my fair share of chaos and mayhem, week-long benders, habitual drug use, run-ins with the law, but in some sense at the very back of my mind I know right from wrong. I can differ between what is just dancing around acceptable behavior and when you cross the line into utter immorality.

So many of the heroes that we look up to have fallen from grace or just merely chosen a road in which fame, glory, and money are the ultimate achievements. The myriad number of athletes who have admitted to using enhancement drugs (A-Rod, Clements, Marion Jones), the rise of ultimate fighting as an entertainment sport (Randy Coutoure, Chuck Liddell), the numerous celebrities whom have gained national media attention for being whores (Traci Lords, Jenna Jameson, Sasha Grey). As a culture, we seem to be deeply drawn to the dark, dirtiness of humanity like rubbernecking at a car crash on the shoulder of the freeway. Where can the line by drawn from a little debauchery to extreme depravity?

It's just entertainment, no one takes that shit seriously you will say. People don't automatically copy what they see, it's merely to pass the time, have a quick wank.  Fucking and fighting have been glamorized to a point where these celebrities become a very staple of our culture. They are rewarded for this. Their images and acts are broadcast streaming at your fingertips through the internet, through cable television, through magazines. Sex and violence, Astarte and Mars, modern day demi-gods of our culture, celebrated and scorned, love and hated. 

But maybe they have got it all right. What's the more insane act, to sit in a cubicle nine hours a day for the rest of your natural life or to fuck for a living. To be a cog in a wheel at some corporation which couldn't give two shits about you or to train to beat the shit out of another human being. Surely, they have differing disadvantages, carpel tunnel instead of gonorrhea, lack of self-fultillment instead of brain damage and on and on. So really, there's no real definite answer, I just know that if I had a daughter or a sister who wanted to be a pornstar, I would not accept it very readily.  

But culture seems to have a give and take, an ebb and flow, each generation has its own set of values and moral standards which it deems to be right. I suppose in the end people can really do whatever the hell that they want for all I care as long as they don't impede on my rights. It'll be interesting where this road goes, if it'll continue down the current road of depravity or somehow we'll experience some sort of rebirth and be saved.

Drinking on a Wednesday

I have a final due in two days, but I feel like getting a drink. It’s Wednesday night, but the day really means nothing when you just want to get rip roaring drunk and forget about the day, the week, the month, the interminable stresses of life. I call up a buddy and he says he’s going downtown, he’s with another friend and they’re headed to Vessel. I am relieved to know that at least I won’t be drinking alone. They pick me up a little while later and before I enter the car they look at my shoes proclaiming, “Dude, I don’t know if you can get in with those sneakers.” I’m not going back inside to change and if they don’t let me in I figure I’ll just wander down into the Tenderloin where most bars won’t really give a fuck what I’m wearing.

We get to Vessel and don’t have a problem with the shoes. There aren’t many people, but I didn’t come out to socialize. We grab a few drinks and I ask my friends if they’ve got any other plans for the evening, but they dodge the question and snicker to each other. We make some small talk and again I ask if we should try to go to another bar, but they once again spurn my question. I don’t try to pursue the topic any further and figure that any misadventure late into the night would be fine by me, I order a few more shots.

The crowd thickens: businessmen, socialites, students, hipsters, and degenerates fill the space. I spy a cute, well-dressed Asian girl at the bar and make eye contact, she’s been standing at the bar all night and has eye-fucked every guy in range into buying her a drink only to wave them off after a few minutes conversation. I won’t be talking to her tonight.

“We’re leaving,” one of my friends announces. It’s only around 12 and I could probably use four more rounds, but don’t object.

They keep strictly reticent about the situation and we hop into the car and drive past Union Square down Geary into the Tenderloin. There are herds of crackheads gathered thick around street corners like a congregation of roaches.

“We can head out to the Mission, I have a friend who’s bartending on 22^nd” I say hoping to at least to get in some more drinks.

“We’re going to a massage parlor” the driver answers as we make a left and pull up to a stop. “We didn’t want to tell you earlier since we thought you’d object.” I didn’t think of myself as the square type. I’ve been to brothels and bathhouses in about a half dozen countries as a detached observer and am actually a bit intrigued to see how these things operate in my own city. “I wouldn’t have” I say.

We walk down a flight of steps to a door guarded by a one way mirror, watched ominously by the unblinking red dot of a camera above our heads. Someone pushes a buzzer to the right, aptly labeled with a sign that says “buzzer”.

We walk through the door and are greeted by a man behind the desk, the man who controls the buzzer. “You want a massage?” He asks with a thick Vietnamese accent. My friends reply in the affirmative. Buzzer man nods his head over to a couch indicating for us to take a seat. The room is about 20’ x 10’ with two black leather wrap around couches. There is a big screen playing Euro trash dance party music videos, a disco ball whirls on the ceiling, and there enough fluorescent light buzzing in the room to light up half of Vegas. This seems to be a commonality of all brothels around the world, fluorescent lighting as the mating call of the night. On the other couch sits an older lady in a grey full sweat suit,with a hands-free device affixed to her ear sitting with a laptop alternating her attention between a game on the computer and the big screen. She doesn’t pay any attention to us.

Six girls enter the room like cows filing in for milking. Their dress ranges from two piece bikinis to skin tight mini skirts, all bright colors. A few girls are bold and make eye contact, smiling coyly, while others look at the ground. Cosmetic enhancements are just as varied, some with ridiculous bosoms, but all are thin and attractive, the fluorescent lighting hiding any skin defects.

“I’ll take the one in the pink,” “I’ll take the one in the black,” say my friends, like choosing items off a fast food menu at Burger King. “And you?” the man behind asks looking at me. “No thanks” I answer “I’m just going to wait.”

The girls shuffle out just as they had come in and the two chosen ones take my friends’ hands and lead them into the hall. I ask to use the bathroom and am told it is to the left at the end of the hall. I make my way down the dimly lit passage in between muffled moans and whispering voices. There are about twelve rooms lining the hall, half of them with the door shut. The rooms are furnished with a single twin bed, a small tv, a dresser and a single, stand up, shower. I come back to the main area and sit back on the couch, wondering how long I’ll have to wait. I sit idly watching sweat suit lady play computer games while the buzzer man resumes his place behind the desk, head propped up with one hand and fingers rhythmically drumming out time with the other.

He looks over at me again. “You sure don’t want massage? Only $50”

I shake my head no. “I sure could go for a beer though. You guys sell any?” He shakes his head no. “You think I can run down to the corner store and bring one in here?” Again he shakes his head no. It’s strange that you can fuck girls for money, but you have to strictly adhere strictly to the no drinking clause. “Well, how about a cigarette, can I smoke in here?” He beckons me to follow him down the hall and he pulls out an ashtray and hands me a cigarette out of his own pack, Marbolo lights.

“You been working here long?”

“Since 1990.”

“You like it?”

He gives me a look like I’m stupid. “It pays the bills.”

“Is it your wife up there?” I nod towards the common area indicating sweatsuit lady.

“No, no, no” he shakes his head adamant denial, “my girlfriend back in Vietnam. I go back every two year see her. She can’t come here, no visa.” He’s around 45 to 50 but the wear and strain of his line of work has marked his face with a defeated look and he never once smiles. We make some more idle chat and I can’t really get him to talk much, but I wouldn’t really talk to me either if I were him. I sit back down at the couch after the cigarette and begin having a real serious inner debate about whether or not to get a massage, because I could use one, but I know how that bitch temptation works and once she grabs a hold of you it’s really hard to shake her off.

Men shuffle in and out, some drunk and boisterous, some nervous and shifty, all greeted with the customary “You want a massage?” but everyone leaves happy. Everyone except me, buzzer man, sweat suit lady, and probably all the working girls, but I can’t really make that assessment call. After another half a life time, my friends shuffle out with grins on their faces and we head back to the car and they give me unwarranted play by play action sequences of their “massages”.

I really have no objection to this sort of thing in a sense. It’s just a job and despite how degrading and sordid the whole ordeal is I realize that maybe someone people just get dealt a really bad hand in life. They just have to try to make the most of it. I sit the car ride home reticent, ignoring the banter between my friends in the front seat, reliving the situation and wondering if paying a few hundred bucks to some girl for a circumstance encounter isn’t so much different than taking some regular girl out for a night on the town just to get my rocks off. But in the end there is a huge difference, some people just choose to ignore it. But I have no place to judge, all I wanted to do was get drunk on a Wednesday night.