A Friend

            My friend is pretty cool.  He’s a social kid both in person and on the Internet.  He can sweet talk adults enough so that they say: “That kid is going somewhere.”  He also likes the internet – a lot.  His virtual, super secret, chat room, forum community has recently been in the news for leaking the seventh Harry Potter book.  They also discover all the popular YouTube videos before they get popular – My New Haircut and Fleamarket Montgomery are just two examples.  In addition, he was, at one point of time, an accomplished level 70 Dwarf Priest in the ever-expanding World of Warcraft, which was recently spoofed in South Park’s 10^th season.  His guild was equally renowned as they were the second best guild on the Azhara server – hosting over 10,000 subscribers.

            Recently he has been pushing for a job in Las Angeles at Disney.  He figures that it’s easiest to write for kid’s shows.  He is right (in a sense); he is witty and obviously funny, so writing kid comedies should come natural.  He wrote a spec script for the new, popular show Hannah Montanna, and is over-anxiously waiting a response.  He is going through a semi-mid-life crisis at the age of 20 – maybe ridiculous, but nevertheless funny.  His unusual obsession with Disney comedies has become a laughable matter of late. 

            He also has a passion for food and drink.  He likes fine cuisine, and he can shotgun a Bud Lite in an impressive 1.75 seconds (our friends timed him). 

            As a person, he is sometimes pushy, but usually funny.  At times people are intimidated and don’t understand his harsh jokes – though most of the time people take his personality with a “grain of salt.”  Sometimes he’s lazy, but when motivated – active.  Sometimes he’s everything, and other times he’s everything else.   

Event with People

Harry Potter fun:

Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince came out in the summer of 2005.  I was going to be a Senior in High School, and two of my best friends, Matty and Mike, were (and still are) avid Harry Potter fans.  The light bulb inevitably lit, and we decided to dress as an assortment of characters and go to the “book premier” at Barnes and Noble.  We were bored seventeen and eighteen year-olds, and this seemed to be the start or end to an epic summer night.

            Being the summer, the costume store had limited options, and my cousin (Matty) and I were left with children’s sized Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy costumes respectively (Matty actually fit into the costume pretty well being a shorter buddy).  I also purchased some Loreal styling gel to get that sleek, slicked back style that the villainous Malfoy so effortlessly personalizes.  Kevin was stuck dressing like a dementor – a life sucking guard of the sinister Azkaban – and Mike was Dumbledore, an obvious choice because of his large physique.  We also purchased a stuffed Hedwig (Harry’s owl), wands, and brooms. 

            What initially started as a joke became a serious effort to out-do all other Potter nerds on the night of the 15^th of July.  We pulled up to the premier in full garment driving a yellow Jeep that gained most people’s attention.  Walking into the store, Mike lifted his arms as if praying to a God and yelled: “Hogwarts is in session!”  The crowds cheered.  We were a hit.  After about an hour of miscellaneous fun – racing kids on brooms in the store and casting spells on the dementor (Kevin) – we finally procured the long awaited copy of book six. 

            Leaving the store, we attached Hedwig to a string and attempted to make her fly as we sped past viewers in front of the store.  Though our Hedwig was mercilessly beaten into the pavement, some still applauded our intense efforts.  Other Potter fans were horrified.     

 

Lone Experience

A time by myself in London Airport:

I was in London-Heathrow Airport for the third time in one year (this was almost exactly one year ago).  As is usual at this heavily trafficked spot, lines were slow and most flights were delayed – including mine, which was delayed for five hours.  To add to any inconvenience I was already experiencing was the fact that I had arrived to the airport about a half an hour earlier than the suggested time.  I made it through the lines – security and baggage check – in good time, about two and a half hours (I think that’s pretty standard now). 

I arrived at the waiting area where seats were filled with people from all countries.  Some were flying to the Middle East, others to America, others to the East, and even others to other European countries.  This airport was any college’s dream – a hodgepodge of ethnicities, races, and religions. 

I ate rather quickly – a pre-made pepperoni pizza that was heated in the oven.  It was covered in orange grease.  I love the grease.  And I love dipping my crust in the grease to make a more insatiable treat.  Crust is just too dry and floury to be enjoyed without any “dip” (if you can consider grease dip).  I sat in the waiting area alone for a while – around one and a half hours.  I had bought some last minute Christmas presents.  They had a Harrods and many other tax free shopping options.  I then thought about going to one of the pubs.  I was 18 and eager to have just one more drinking experience before returning to the states.  I thought for a while about the implications of a young looking eighteen-year-old sitting at a bar: Who are his parents?  Would people think that?  Would people really look down on me?  Fuck it.

So I went to the bar where a good football match was playing.  I don’t remember the teams; I’m pretty impartial to the soccer in the UK.  I sat down with a Guinness by myself – an eighteen-year-old drinking by himself.  I was “that guy” at the bar who sits by himself – the loner.  I stared at people.  Some looked ashamed, or at least my guilty conscience made them appear ashamed.  After six pints, I didn’t care what people thought, and my waiting had become more enjoyable.  I was buzzed. 

Being “that guy” was fun.  People at the bar started conversation. “You remind me of my son,” some would say.  Others would just ask me the intent of my travels.  To some I lied: “I am a music reviewer for Rolling Stone,” but to others I told the truth: “I was making photocopies at a small PR firm that represents bands that I had never heard of.”  It was fun.  I had and seized the chance to be the loner for at least one moment.       

 

A Moment

When I discovered the problems with truth:

During the fall of my senior year I was enrolled in two philosophically minded courses.  One was appropriately named Philosophy and the other, ToK II (Theory of Knowledge).  During ToK I – a class I took the previous year – we had discussed subjectivity and the process of knowing (pragmatism as a way of knowing is just one example).  I had become increasingly frustrated with the content of the course – we know things through our senses, I thought; everything we know is from the external world, and it must exist.  This doubt or, more probable, this inability to understand these far out concepts had really turned me into a frustrated student.

Then it came to me while I was in the ToK classroom.  A round table was the only piece of furniture in this discussion conducive room.  The chairs were comfortable, and photographs were hung around the room taken by an esteemed teacher (of close to 50 years).  Egypt, New York City, Morocco.  There were pictures from all over the world.  I had “spaced” out many times in this classroom – drawn to rotting student-made projects sitting on the floor and the black and white photos on the wall. 

During this class, though, we were discussing the nature of slavery, and, in particular, was it okay – or at least “okay” for the people of the time since it was common practice (an accepted “truth”).  And so it hit me: Truth is a very vague concept – what we know or think to be true could be completely false.  I began to ask what is subjective/objective?  And can or will things like evolution be falsified in the future?  And so began my stage of questioning, of developing my philosophical brain, a stage that still and hopefully will always continue. 

 

A Place

My description of a beach at the NJ shore – a place that I have become more and more familiar with over the years:

It’s always summer at Johnson St. beach.  There are always sandals sitting at the bottom of the splintery stairs – a unique trait assigned to this particular strip of beaches at the New Jersey shore.  I can always recognize my family and close family friends from a distance; they are sitting in a circle around the left lifeguard flag – a marker of where to swim.  The flag is purple with white writing reading: “Swim between the flags.”  I can recognize a number of sandals belonging to my family or friends.  Reefs, Rainbows, Birkenstocks.  Hyperactive kids run around near the top of the beach – what was affectionately named the hot sand when I was younger.  The beach has always served the same purpose to me: It was a time and place of relaxation.  Though what is considered “relaxing” has changed from building “water works” (clear tubing attached to a lifted bucket, creating an amateur plumbing system) to reading and conversing, I am still relaxing. 

Reading on the beach is unique: It impedes a seemingly simple task by adding wind, water, and sand.  Senses, however, are heightened – your feet are dug deep into the cold sand, constantly moving and grasping the granular surface.  Your bare body is also exposed to the hot and cold effect of the wind and sun.  The sun is hot.  The wind is cold.  And if you have returned from the water, your body is already cold and covered in a, hopefully, sand-free towel. 

Uncle Jerry, an inducted “Uncle,” still wears his straw hat decorated in beach badges like a proud veteran.  His dragon shirts are still an important part of his beach wardrobe – fueled by an obsession with the Lord of the Rings trilogy.  And Uncle Jack still commands the communal Saturday and Sunday crossword puzzles from the New York Times – something I have recently begun to appreciate. 

The waves are small.  They crash on the shore and the shells begin to talk, swishing and clattering with the movement of the ocean.  Everything is smiling and enjoying good company – the dunes, the people, the ocean, and the sand.  Everything is happy.