Beach Sloth Doesn’t Suffer for Fashion

Every day I'm hustling.

                I don’t suffer for fashion. It suffers for me. Fashion remains one of the few things I haven’t discussed here at length. Perhaps it is because I’m a sloth and hang upside down most of the day. Sleeping doesn’t require really fancy clothes. Clothes are expensive. Money is better used for cushy headphones. No one needs to worry what I look like, as I have taken the ‘disheveled’ style and mastered the art form. 

                 Lookbook.nu offered a way of receiving feedback on my sweet style. As I perused the many people who had joined the online fashion diary, I thought “Seems chic”. Immediately I joined. Now I was part of something greater than myself. Now I could be surrounded by stylish people who didn’t look down on me. Perhaps I might learn something about this elusive group of people whose motivations and desires escape me. They might even help me out. 

                Last Saturday I hung out with fashion types. I wanted to understand what exactly made them tick. Apparently they had founded a boutique clothing line based out of New Jersey. Though I consider myself somewhat successful in my endeavors, I haven’t started a clothing line or even a company. A mere blogger, I don’t have a company to back me up.  Even more amazingly, they managed to get some coverage from a blog, NBC’s blog. Part of my brain thought about teaming up with some obscure direct TV channel to increase our popularity together.  

                All of them were better dressed than I was. Usually this happens to me. I tend to wear clothing I know I’ll be comfortable in when it rains. By telling me about this, I tried to ‘step up my game’ conversation wise. We discussed those things endemic among twenty-somethings: money, bands, vague goals for the future, a slight feeling of disappointment in everything, etc. That worked out.

                Now I am trying to learn their habits. I have a few head starts. Someone gave me this thing called a ‘comb’ I plan on using later on this year. More exotic gifts came including this strange thing you rub against your feet. That way, your feet are smooth. People have commented on my feet. Perhaps I missed my calling as a foot model, earning that sweet money cake. 

                Besides the joy of learning how to dress (a skill I think I will never quite ‘get’) I learn a more important skill: the ability to talk about it. This ability will allow me to look like I’m about to get all fashionable. People will look at me and say “That sloth knows what he’s talking about” as I speak to them with unkempt hair, a slight mumble and stubble which hides from my razor. Standing there as this delightfully honest mess who at least has finally cracked their secret code of language, if not exactly their sense of style. 

                I want to hug all the fashionistas out there, virtually. Let me know what a good look for a sloth is. Should I wear a suit and tie, or should I wear something more casual, more befitting of my species. Let me know, I want to make Lookbook proud. Send any full-length body pictures of sloths to: beachsloths@gmail.com. Thank you. 

Frank Hinton

               I have focused on Steve Roggenbuck’s latest endeavor, Internet Poetry on this blog before. While the whole site offers a plethora of material yanked from the internet’s general indifference, one piece got stuck in my head. That was Frank Hinton’s piece, which apparently is called “unrequested livejasmin.com pop-up”. I thought about it a lot and decided to find out a little more about this person.

                Frank Hinton keeps busy. Halifax, Nova Scotia doesn’t really offer a great deal of activities, excluding an airline (Air Canada Jazz) which elicits some of the angriest emotions I can muster out of my near-uniform polite attitude. I reckon Frank Hinton is the chief exporter of poetry and literature for the general Halifax metropolitan area.  Besides writing her own poetry, she’s also an editor and founder of the online literary journal Metazen. Metazen is probably one of the best places to publish literature online, since they tend to curate the work and apply such abnormal things like standards. Originally it started as a place to post her drunken writing. As someone who created a Facebook group for this sole purpose, it is reassuring to know some drunken thoughts transform themselves into full-bodied literary journals.

                Obviously she is a female and writes under a male pseudonym Frank who she refers to as “A sad man, a pathetic man”. How she explains it is her enjoyment of ambiguity. Living on a gender pendulum, it allows a greater amount of freedom than simply being thought of as a ‘male’ or ‘female’ writer. There are countless articles explaining how this kind of perception (either as a male or female writer) can create a certain expectation. By using an obvious pseudonym, it makes things more interesting. Her online persona is extremely shadowy, mysterious. We don’t really know much about her besides her writing. Keeping mysterious yet accessible makes the work more interesting, as I find it can be easier to write something when I know I’m anonymous. The pain of writing something with your actual name attached probably contributes to a great deal of dishonesty within literature, as if the writer is trying to impress you in some small way. Frank Hinton’s writing is direct painfully so at times. 

                She has a few poems lying around in odds and ends. Apparently she also has a chapbook called “I don’t respect female expression” coming out around the end of April from Safety Third Enterprises. But I haven’t read it. So I won’t go over it. Instead, I’ll go over her poems she’s had lying around, whatever I could find basically. Most of these I found on her Spartan-style Tumblr which you can access here. Though I won’t review every one of these, I do recommend reading all of them. 

                Her piece for Lamination Colony, called “How to be Me, an Instructional Video narrated by Frank Hinton” shows a certain playfulness. In here you learn how to hate people on a bus, chew off your fingernail in public (which is an actual skill) and how to avoid negative thinking upon waking up. Since she does have this on the internet, she explains how to post online in order to flame or remain anonymous (both good choices). Along with these apparent instructions is the final sentence which states “You were once a child and you had it all”. That’s probably one of my favorite lines of hers. Children get lucky with the amount of happiness they get. Then come teenage years they grow overly angst-ridden and depressed. Finally, in their twenties they begin trying to improve themselves through questionable practices of self-help, self-improvement and other endeavors of dubious merit. 

                Relationships get a lot of attention in her poetry. Every word she uses has a distinct meaning or conveys a particular meaning. In “I’d be a Barbie without him” she takes on a female persona. Frank becomes one of the antagonists in this story/poem. Jumping between ages, you see the evolving attitude and increasing knowledge of sexuality. Some of it is humorous, like at age 17 when she tried to return the rock to Glenn but Glenn didn’t live there anymore. Other instances show Frank as a 12 year old, then what I’d think was a first-time at 18, I could be wrong. Everything is in shadows here. Nothing really is fully explained, but as time progresses; certain numbness sets in followed by a plea at the end. 

                Part of my joy reading these are how well she describes various feelings about love. Love is a difficult thing to write about without falling into the extremes of anger, sadness, despair, happiness, coy, and so on. Frank Hinton avoids these. She writes things with an honesty that’s hard to find. Being honest could be funny or tragic, it depends on the circumstances and often her work can be both.  Her chapbook will explore these themes even further.

Training Boys and Training Girls

               Well, you see, when you reach a certain age you begin noticing certain changes. Your voice gets deeper and you discover hair in places you didn’t really pay attention to before. Now those places happen to be more interesting than they were before, you’re not really sure why. This is just a part of growing up. Also, you’re an asshole to your parents most of the time yet they tolerate it. Congratulations, you’re a teenager.

                The teenage stage exists in life as something you can look back and say “Well, at least I got to be an asshole with no negative consequences for roughly seven years”. While you’re busy being a repugnant jerk you want love. You want someone to be attracted to you, either physically, mentally, or spiritually (I don’t know if the last one is something which attracts people, maybe that works for Mormons).

                Anyway, everyone goes through this phase. You find someone. Maybe you’re lucky and it is that special someone. Generally speaking, it isn’t. It is usually someone who you’re able to tolerate more than most people yet isn’t a friend of yours. They are something more, something special.

                I remember when this happened to me. Sitting in a crowded room learning Chinese, I saw her. She sat next to me since I was the only other teenager taking beginner’s Chinese. The rest of the class was made up of small children who already spoke Chinese and were taking the class to make me feel stupid, like I should have already known this information. As she sat down, I thought:

                “She looks so cool.”

                Her dress came out of the seventies. When she spoke to me, she had this positively sweet voice. It sounded educated. The education of countless schools I’ve never heard of nor attended. As she wrote down the Pinyin, she wrote down phonetic pronunciations next to next word. Before she left, I asked her what her name was. She told me Sam. I wished I had asked for her phone number, but I forgot to and kicked myself for it.

                One year later her friend Cat approached me. Cat said Sam found me interesting and wanted my email. I had almost forgotten about her. After I gave her my email address, she looked at me like I was crazy. It was such a terrible email address; I’m embarrassed I even had it as an email address.

                Sam emailed me the most articulate proposal for a date ever. I responded with coffee at Starbucks. After I figured out how to get uptown to some previously unknown super-rich area we drank coffee and chatted. While I sat there, she wanted me to ask her questions and pressed me to tell her about myself. Once I finished my coffee, I got back on the train back home. 

Looking at a giant Citibank tower growing out of nowhere as the train came out of the tunnel, I figured I failed. That was the worst experience I had in my entire life. I got home, checked my email, and saw she wanted to meet again. Her emails showed off a certain flair for writing. Mine showed the ability to construct a sentence utilizing basic grammar. 

Together we trained each other. Neither one of us had been in a relationship before. Each one of us overcame certain problems. I learned how to deal with a father who thought I was a worthless idiot though her mother was nicer. She learned the importance of flattering parents with literary references. Her parents thought I was cute though. My parents liked her, but when they first saw her they said “I thought she’d be prettier than that.” Even at that early point in my life, I had learned the important skill of hype. We taught each other all of these important skills and more. 

But it wasn’t meant to be. We grated on one another’s nerves. I didn’t like how she had been to Tibet but didn’t know how to get to Chinatown in lower Manhattan. Our politics clashed. I told her I loved her. Sam said she liked me. From that experience, I learned love is a strong word and like isn’t. Finally, after countless stabs at trying to ignore the other’s relentless ambition to get a perfect SAT score, the other’s ability to laugh through the entire duration of “A Walk to Remember”, and other larger problems we broke it off. 

We broke up over the phone. As she kept on hinting around the idea of breaking up, I bluntly asked:

“Are you trying to break up with me?”

She answered:

“Would you be upset if I said yes?”

I said:

“No, I wouldn’t. You’re free to choose whatever you want.”

The last thing I heard of her voice was:

“Thank you. You’re really nice.” Then she cried a little on the phone before she hung up. 

Everyone has a training boy or a training girl. That way, as you grow older, you’re not a twenty-something who has never been in a relationship. You’re someone who has loved and lost. Maybe next time you’ll be better. Next time things will work out longer. Wait, you’ll see.    

Effing Twenty Something: A True Story

                  I thought it would be different. Society glorified your twenties as some remarkable, un-reproducible piece of your life, something you’d look back on with fondness. 

                “You’ll have so much fun” the television blared in front of me “All that awkwardness will be eliminated, to present to you the prime time of your life” various advertisements tell me on the internet, radio, newspapers, magazines, songs, movies, etc. 

                All of it was wrong. None of it told the actual truth, of what it is like to be a twenty something. Perhaps my parents warned me of this, of their problems which make mine seem miniscule. They fought in wars; they watched the USSR’s rise and fall. Plenty of horrible stuff occurred during their time growing up, yet somehow it felt better. Reasons, evidence existed that things would get better. Where’d that evidence go? 

                Why the lying? I don’t get it. Who felt there was a need to create this great illusion, this false reality I could believe in? I got promised so much, and received so little. Sure, I’m fortunate enough to have this computer, this roof over my head, this car, this money, this job, but it isn’t exactly what I hoped for. 

                Now as I try to explain to people what’s happening to me, they tell me “Oh, it gets better in your thirties.” When I was in my teens, these same people told me it gets better in your twenties. What is the waiting time before things get better, more interesting, more exciting? Do I have a time line for this, or will my satisfaction constantly get pushed further and further into the future so by the time I get to that terminal endpoint I’m given a sticker that says “Relax” in big bold letters. By the time I realize that things don’t get better, that the entire universe moves in a constant state of entropy, of moving from high to low energy, those liars will be long gone, passed onto another realm. 

                Everything I was supposed to do I did. That 401K got set up. At work I maintain a perky, cheerful attitude that brightens up the office. My tastes would be considered ‘cool’ or ‘hip’. I take care of other people, have empathy for others. Yet after I do all this careful planning, all these things that are supposed to make me better, I don’t feel better.

                Trying to complain, I’m told I can’t. Venting is apparently wrong. Whenever I have problems I try to tell other people, they tell me to think about all the people who have it worse than me. I don’t understand who the fuck installed this fascist bubbly optimism regime, but I hate it. 

                Instead I jump up and down on my bed as my music plays. Lately it seems that technology has become the new opiate of the masses. No matter what bad thing happens, if I get lost, get delayed on a train for 8 hours, so long as I have an IPOD, I can tolerate it. Every time I scroll through the meticulously well-picked songs I got for myself, it reminds me that someone I’ve never met cares.

                Is this what being in your twenties is supposed to be like? All this disconnection can’t be good for me. Occasionally I wonder whether or not I’ll ever be able to find that other voice in the dark, shouting, longing for someone to understand. The more I speak with my friends; I realize they have the same issues. 

                By society’s standards, I’m a loser. Yet I’ve traveled to multiple continents, have helped people in the direst of situations, and have been there in general for countless numbers of people I may never meet. Somehow that doesn’t even count, I haven’t created my own company like the smug asshole Mark Zuckerberg, I haven’t gotten my book published, I haven’t accomplished as much as people tell me I should’ve gotten done. While I’m being told of everything I need, am supposed to do, I’m told I ought to be having fun. Maybe if everyone stopped talking at me and began listening, I might not feel so sad, so trapped, and so small. 

                How can this be the prime time of my life? I know there’s that silly saying of “No pain, no gain” but I at least thought I’d have some company in this twenty something misery.

...Ever have one of those days where you miss something so much, you wish you could turn back Time for it?

As I get older, I wax nostalgic for those more idyllic times. Now that I’m a productive member of the workforce, I am forced to hide my cool music references as people around me discuss sports statistics. Blankly I nod my head in agreement as they talk about overpaid athletes. Yeah, those athletes I’ve never heard of, in that sport I don’t follow in any way, shape or form are overpaid. 

Browsing my facebook, I know I’m not alone in this. Not all my friends work in office settings, some work as BestBuy returns specialists. That means that they are responsible for getting you your money back if you are not 100% satisfied with your purchase. Others work for their dad in various construction ventures. With all these differences in pay, social interaction, and environment they all share one thing in common:

            They miss college.

Oh, the days spent on the green in front of the Stalinist architecture that was the library. Days seemed to go on forever, with interactions with your social peers occurring on a fairly regular basis. Everybody knew what reference that was, you didn’t seem weird. I mean, who didn’t memorize every line from Woody Allen’s movies in the 70s? 

Life is hard. College was easy. You’re uncomfortable being the youngest person in your workplace. People there tell you about how their children or grandchildren are your age. Sometimes they’ll even talk about how well you two would get along. They think out loud about how they should hook you up with them and as you grow nervous, they’ll laugh it off. Instead of admitting that they were making you uncomfortable unintentionally, they’ll say it was deliberate. But then to completely throw you off your game they’ll take about how their children aren’t dating people ‘as good as’ you. So you’re stuck.

Yes, relationships at work are virtually impossible. No matter where you work, those areas have been fully sterilized. There’s no passion, no raw love allowed on those premises. You miss the days where you’d go into a large pile of people and wriggle around, since you were a very strange person. At your job, people don’t do that. In fact, for most of your adult life (excluding a select few) you’ll never encounter that joy again.

Being a twenty-something is unfortunate. This is the period that is foretold to be awesome, but really you get treated like an awkward kid. Instead, you’re just kind of missing out on the fun of being in college while not treated with any sort of respect you’d get being a tad bit older. Don’t worry though, as soon as you hit thirty, immediately you’re considered to be ‘serious’ with all the responsibilities that entails. Oddly enough those are the exact responsibilities you had in your twenties, only now you’re acknowledged for them. So what can you do in the meantime, the in-between time?

 This

Can you simply wear a revealing one piece bathing suit as you walk around the battleship the USS Missouri? I think that’s been done, by none other than the immensely talented Cher. 

Walking around the battleship to adoring sailors, she sings about “If I could turn back Time” harking back to better times. “Words are like weapons they wound sometimes” she belts out as the battleship begins attacking an enemy Soviet sub. Russian planes try to bomb the battleship in a failed attempt to stop her singing, but these colors don’t run. Those Russian planes are downed thanks to the support Cher’s voice gives to the anti-aircraft missiles.

Never fret then. By watching this video, it feels like you are turning back Time. You can feel the rush of being in college, of working at your local radio station and ensuring all copies of this song were promptly destroyed, of hanging out in piles of people. Well, I’m glad to allow those memories to flood to you again. If only I could turn back time.