What it Feels like to be at the Forefront of Something

I just finished a lecture with Shailagh Murray, the Washington Post reporter who followed Obama's campaign since its conception.

That was cool.

But, interestingly enough, I learned something. Surprise. Learned.

Right now, well, if I had followers, I would be at the forefront of journalism. Maybe.

I think sometimes that I'm an alright writer. I really try to be. I'm always on top of things. I try to background most of my stuff. I keep up with the times. I know where to look for relevant information. My spelling is okay. And so is my right click finger.

And my writing makes me important. My education makes me important. It doesn't make me desirable. Not yet.

I need my idea.

She said something interesting tonight. Sheilagh said, "We are just talking about what to do; where we're going."

Amazing. Thousands of journalist were laid off today and some of the biggest news organizations in the country are just talking about what to do; where they're going.

Well, I have news too. As a student, a writer and future professional: I don't know where you're going.

How much can I really do when there's just a screen in my face and letters at my fingertips? I guess that I can do quite a bit. I'm writing right now.

To some, I'm just writing shit. I'm just rambling. This isn't art. This isn't journalism. This isn't anything but a public diary that someone has yet to look at. Just another one.

But what if someone were to look at this tomorrow, tonight, or in the next five minutes and think, "I like this." Would I change? Would I realize that my forefront idea might be working–that it might be materializing?

That would be something. I could change my whole shit repertoire to a piece full of journalistic integrity and important layout of public insight.

But, first, I need someone to read what I've written. It is shit.

It won't be for long.

What it Feels Like to Shoot a Wizard in the Face With a Potato

Wizards suck.

Not all wizards. There are a few bitchen wizards. Example: Gandalf.

A friend of mine, he's making a spud gun. It'll shoot a potato through just about anything. I'm sure you've seen the videos. Spud guns are fun.

I don't have a video. Sorry. I might soon though.

It feels great to shoot a wizard with a spud gun. Especially a king wizard. There's not much you can do to block a potato that's flying at you 156 feet per second.

Not even much a wizard can do.

What it Feels Like a Few Hours Before Major Surgery

Hungry as all sin.

There are about a trillion things that you want to do before you're rendered useless for the next six to eight weeks.

You want to hike up that mountain you've hiked up every weekend since you were in college, you want to nail that trick you'd been trying at the skate park for the last few months and you want everyone to leave you alone.

Most importantly, you feel worried. You feel worried that the world is going to pass you by again–of course you've done this before so you can reflect a little bit–and that you're going to miss a whole swath of life because you can't walk.

You dread it. You feel sorry for yourself, and you don't tell too many people. You just tell them that you're having surgery.

You think about what used to happen to folks who had surgery years ago. How much longer they spent recovering. You read stories about John Elway and how he can barley climb stairs without wincing and you kiss your knees because you know that they can still be fixed.

You think about a major world event that, conditionally, could happen. You think about how you can't be there to see it, to write about it, to talk about it in the same context as all the people you know are able too.

You think about all the movies with hospital accidents and the people in there who were just trying to recover from an injury they never asked for.

Then, again, you think about yourself. You start to think about all of the details that you never recognized before. You want to call out all the people who double space after periods because of some flaw in their educational upbringing.

You think about all the details with your diet. You don't want to eat any of the same crap that you've been cramming. You're going to be immobile. You're going to get soft. Not fat. Soft. You accept that. You accept it, and you know you have to take it lying down, but you don't let that hunker you.

You buy the good food, like you always have, and figure out how you're going to portion it. You've always eaten well; but you've always eaten a lot. When you get your once a month junk food this time, you'll probably only have one slice of that ginormous pizza.

You think about the books you're going to read and how you'll be willing to give them your undivided attention. You're not going anywhere for awhile.

You think about the people that have it a lot worse than you do, and you wonder why you need to do all of this reflecting.

You think about the people who the world rushes by everyday you're rushing with the world. You think about how you're sort of joining those ranks.

You're not going anywhere for awhile.

What it Feels Like to Not Find What You're Looking For

I have a simple request: I want to write on the wall in the shower.

Why is that so hard?

Anyway, I figured out how. This is America. I can buy it somewhere. But that's not what this is about.

When you have something in your head–you know it exist, you know you've seen it before–and you decide to begin the search for it, you really put your mind to it.

When your mind is on it, you feel great. You feel so focused. You feel like you've never been more resourceful and successful in your entire life, no matter how many times you've dreamed of something and then looked for that something.

All of your energy is pounding ideas through your brain; creative, insightful ways to execute your goal that you can't fathom in day-to-day life.

Your spirits build. You look forward to your triumphant assent to attainment and the gratification that you'll feel having gotten your prize.

You've even invented new ways of doing things that you didn't use before; that you may not use again. You picked up a phone book. You visited the one Asian imports store at the mall that no one ever visits except for rich neardy kids with money to blow on ninja weapons. You finally went into an antique store. You found a way to organize your resourcefulness with better email accounts or simple software.

You found out that other people are doing the same thing you are. They're looking for something.

But you don't find it.

It feels like the time your significant other told you they're going to leave you because they want to. It feels like that because you liken it to that.

You feel lost, hopeless and try to forget about it. You can't remember why you were looking for it in the first place. You just know that it would be a cool thing to have. You got obsessed with finding it and you forgot about the purpose of finding it.

You feel effort without a purpose. And it hurts, maybe not as much as it did when you gave in, but it hurts.

Then, you get in the shower the next morning. You look at the blank walls and you want to fill them up with words.

You invent a new way to look for that magic item. You find it.

You forget about the arc of feelings you had in your un-focused research and you feel better about yourself and your reflection.

What it means to hear someone lie

When I hear someone say that, "I've been up since 7 a.m. yesterday and I haven't eaten anything and I've cried 1,000 times since then," I feel cheated.

I've never done anything like that in my life. I don't think I've tried.

Sometimes I think about what it would be like to be so stressed out that I can't see straight, but then I think about how much I like life when I get something done the minute I think of it.

How do you put things off?

I think, to hear someone lie means to hear someone tell you exactly what they think of you.

I lie too. I don't lie to my friends or family or anyone really. Not that much. I try to lie. They usually catch me. Usually.

I think to hear someone lie makes you feel like you're better than them. In a small way. The smallest of small ways.

The way that you feel you should be in front of them in the line at the bank, or the way that you feel you have to power to tell them, "shut the fuck up!" in a crowded theater and they're talking on their cell-phone after the million dollar ad plays that asked you politely to turn off your cell phone.

It makes me feel like that person really hasn't done much to lie about. It means that I can feel better about utilizing my schedule and getting things done in a manner that doesn't require me to lie.

Or does it. Does it really make me feel like I'm better, no. It just means that I know a lie when I hear it. It means I know I'm better.

I'm sure that we all hear people lie and brush it off because, well, we're better than that.

When I lie, I make the mistake of not thinking over how I'm going to lie. I think that other, better, more seasoned liers spend a lot of their time thinking about how they're going to lie and all the ins and outs of their lie to make their lie the best lie of all the lies they've ever told.

If they've spent time telling lots of lies, I can't imagine how good next lie will be.

To hear a lie means to think about all the lies that you've ever told and all the lies that you're every going to tell. It means to think about every possible exageration that you can think of–every exaggeration that could be logically possible–and how you would implement that into a part of your life.

"I'm late as all fuck," doesn't count yet.

However, I could say that I'm late because there were, like, 20 billion dogs outside my house, all of which were taking a dump at the same time, and it stunk so bad, and I only had my $500 dollar shoes to walk through it all, and then, there were, like, 1,000 things wrong with my car, and, oh my god, I just wanted a sandwich.

That's all possilbe. That's whitty. Someone would buy that. I'm sure that I could pull that one on a girlfriend or random in a room and get a funny look.

That's what it means to hear a lie.

A motorcycle solving climate change

How cool are motorcycles?

They're so fast, sleek, sexy, sav-y on gas, cheap and fun.

How bad do you want one?

Well, I really want one. Here's the thing. All that hypocrisy about "hybrid cars being the way of the future," is such a huge load of I don't even know what.

Why can't we all just buy motorcycles?

1. Traffic–alleviated. The wide roads already allow motorcycles to fit three to one lane. That's three commuters that could have been in three different diesel trucks, taking up at least 100 feet.

2. Fun–fixed. So many people don't like driving. It's boring. It's easy. It's passive–almost. Put them on a bike where they always have to be thinking.

3. Bad drivers–gone. You can't be an idiot and be on a bike. It's impossible. If you are, your chances of being killed are are so much worse. You actually get to be human on a bike. You get to use your brain.

Oh, the best part: no cell phones.

But, even if every person had a bike, there is still a big safety issue. You might be out of your cage, but now your out of your cage doing 90 on the free-way and could fly off.

Where a helmet. Where long sleeves. Where big shoes. And gloves.

Instead of that Toyota shit box, buy a motorcycle and learn how to ride it.

Part of climate change: in the works of being solved.