Sympathy For The Pencil

New Website

2010-11-13T14:42:00.001-05:00

I've set up shop elsewhere. You can now read more of my work at www.peterjurich.wordpress.com.

A Fantastical Adventure from Cleetwood Cove

2010-08-19T01:17:00.003-04:00

The following vignette is from an email I wrote my mother, but it's a story I want to remember regardless. To give a little context, I spend half of my work days at the apex of what was once Mount Mazama, selling tickets for boat tour in the caldera below known as Crater Lake. To get down to the boat tours itself to Cleetwood Cove, tourists must walk the Cleetwood Trail -- a 1.1 mile hike down the side of a mountain. At it's steepest point, there is a 12-percent incline. They say it's one mile going down and six going up. I hike this trail at least three times a week; it does not get any easier.

So without further ado...

I'm sitting in the ticket shack on the top of the mountain. The ticket shack is the most boring part of the job (I'd actually rather clean the bathroom down by the water). We usually sell out all of our tours by 11:00 and then we're stuck in there doing menial tasks -- and there is much to do to prepare for the next day -- until the rest of the
crew gets back up from Cleetwood Cove around 6:30.

So I'm making out tickets for the next day when I get a call on the radio: "Tickets, this is Cleetwood. Respond to this as soon as you can." I jumped up -- EXCITEMENT! -- and respond with my heartiest "This is Tickets. Go ahead." My coworker Steph down below says, "Are you available to assist in a carry-out? A gal down here cut her leg. The litter crew is on its way, but we need another body." It takes six people to operate the litter -- or gurney -- and they only had four rangers. "Yes," I said. "I'll lock up the shack and be down in 15."

As I'm getting all the padlocks ready and making a sign -- and obviously looking very dire -- tourists are asking me "Why is Crater Lake so blue?" and "How did you get the boats down there?" and all around standing in my way as I try to lock up the ticket shack. A woman asks for water and I say I'm in a hurry. She gives me a really pathetic whine and bitches that she just hiked that Cleetwood Trail and now she has to die of thirst. So I throw her a fucking bottle of
water.

On my way down Cleetwood Trail, I feel super cool. I'm hustling with a radio in my hand and shouting, "Excuse me, folks! Excuse me!" One tourist must've recognized the look on my face because he shouts to a family farther down, "Out of his way! He's responding to a medical!"

Somewhere down the trail, I realize my shoe is coming off. When I bend down to tie it, I notice there is no shoe lace to tie; it frayed so much that it fell off. So now I'm hobbling down the trail, trying to keep it on. Even if I get to the bottom, I'm useless: Without a shoe, what can I do? I get to Cleetwood Cove and search for some rope in the shack down there. Nothing. I find a mini-bungee cord hanging on the wall. Perfect! I guide it through some holes and wrap it around my ankle. It actually works better than a shoelace; I'm thinking of getting one for the other shoe.

One of the captains hands me a Vitamin Water and tells me to head over to the bathrooms where everyone is gathered. I hobble the 50 yards to the bathrooms and there is a 24-year-old girl laying on the bench, surrounded by rangers. The EMT is asking her a bunch of questions. Apparently, she was climbing out of the water and slipped on a rock. She sliced her knee open when she fell and will need stitches. When I arrive, we move her onto the litter. I am volunteered to be at the head of the litter because I'm tall and her head needs to be elevated. I agree to it, but, once we start moving, I make it about 20 yards and give up. I tell them I can't be at the front and a law enforcement ranger agrees to switch with me. We switch out provided I wear this 100-lb. backpack full of oxygen tanks. At this point, I rather be leading again; I have flashbacks of Divine Child.

Going up the trail is pretty fun, though. It usually takes me about 20 min. to get back up, but here, it takes us an hour. The crew and the girl are cracking jokes. Given that the mood is so light, I allow myself to notice how very pretty this young lady is -- and subsequently feel like a total pig. (Ironically enough, when I sold her her ticket hours prior, I thought, "Damn, I'd like to see you again real soon!") Of course she's married, though. Aww bugger; that would be a great pick up line -- something about literally needing to be picked up, ha ha ha.

We get to the top where an ambulance is waiting. I laugh to myself when the EMT says she feels like she will vomit because that trail is so rough. (Haha, I do it everyday, you weakling! Once, I did it twice!) One of the rangers asks me to write down my full name and I imagine when he writes up his report later, a paragraph will read, "Handsome Xanterra dockhand Peter Jurich heroically flew down Cleetwood Trail in record time to assist in our very serious situation -- and with one shoelace at that! We could not have done this without him."

After that, the ambulance took off and I was left again to minding the ticket shack, despite having two hours less to do all the shit I needed to do. I ended up getting it all done before 6:30 and the crew was up the trail by6:45. We were late for dinner, but the cook kept the cafeteria open for us, so we cleaned up while he made our burgers. The day had actually been a very pleasant change of pace.

Reflections from Crater Lake

2010-08-17T20:37:00.006-04:00

I am sitting in a dimly lit dorm room in the middle of the Cascade Mountains, listening to the hail storm outside pummel the roof of this dilapidated shack I call home. I question whether this building can take this deafening applause any longer, or whether an ice rock will penetrate my window and thus my bedroom, allowing for a very crowded evening up here. Dinner is a short hike away and, should I choose to eat anything tonight, I may need to suffer a beating from Mother Nature, who has reared her ugly side very few times since the beginning of my sojourn.

Such is life at Crater Lake.

Two and a half months ago, I set off for the mountains of Oregon, for a world of less technology and less connectivity than most have ever known. Out here, days go by with neither the need nor the desire to turn on a cell phone of any kind. It is this reason that primarily attracted me to this place. After six years of college and resulting indecision, a little bit of wilderness can do the body very well. Since leaving, I've chanced upon several incredible insights of the subjects of love, manhood (I can grow facial hair!), career and sustainability, but none strike me so much as that which I am feeling right now: the wanting to return to my city boy roots.

In the city, it is hard to have a clear mind. There is too much noise, too much traffic and too much outlandish activity. The wilderness is not like that. At first, it is haunting to just listen to the wind and wonder why you're cell phone is not ringing. But it's something that must be embraced --at least to me -- to achieve that clear mind again.

But the truth is, a clear mind can go to waste in too much wilderness. Crater Lake is one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen -- just a blip on the grand scale that is the Great State of Oregon -- and it's a shameful day when one wakes up and is no longer impressed by its majesty. My feeling is that the human race is too far gone down the path of social networking for anyone to live now as I do without becoming a little stir crazy.

I have everything I need out here, but am feeling that crazy looming over -- even though I have the opportunity everyday to hike miles and miles of this beautiful earth. I am suffused these days with an energy that calls me home to a the city, to a place where much happens and nothing goes away unless preceded by a "Everything 90% Off" sign.

In a sense, I feel like this adventure of mine has had the opposite effect on me. I came out here because constant social activity and consumption of needless amenities had turned me mindless and impersonal. Turns out those items of interest are not only an imbedded part of my American spirit, but also a very necessary part of what drives me.

A journalist is essentially a contradiction to himself: While writing is a very personal career goal that requires a certain aloofness, a journalist also needs to feed off social connectivity and always be available. I'm doing my best to stay fresh out here -- to think and write often and not turn to drink out of boredom at 11:30 a.m. -- and by all means have succeeded, but I've developed a kind of appreciation for my other home -- the one not filled with 69 other wandering souls.

I'm excited to get back home next month. I want to run through the streets of Detroit and throw streamers in the air. I want to hug strangers in Dearborn bars and do an article for the Press & Guide about residents in bars that do like to be hugged by strangers. I want a city and a newspaper and consistent WiFi that lets me push my own selfish agenda.

I want to bring this energy home with me.

That is all.

Searching For A Passion, Not A Career

2010-05-27T00:00:00.007-04:00

This is Sean Aiken. He is a little older than me and he is very very happy.

I have been thinking a lot about happiness recently. More specifically, that there are so many people out there who do not know what makes them happy.

Myself included. Happiness has never really struck me as something that requires thought. Friends, well-orchestrated music and delicious food usually do it for me. Everything that comes in between those are just noises. I'm supposed to hate my job -- that's just a part of being human, right?

Last semester, a beloved professor of mine told me that loving your job is often more important than loving your significant other. "You are going to spend more time with your job than with your sweetheart," he said, "so you better choose your job well." In thinking about this, I realized how very true and very sad that is. I don't want to spend eight hours everyday for the rest of my life just so I can spend a precious few with those I love. Worse yet, why do those eight hours have to be spent doing something I hate?

Sean Aiken understood this when he set out to do his One-Week Job Project. He understood that THE REST OF YOUR LIFE is a long time, and that there is no way to know what you love if you don't explore any and all options. A few weeks ago, my friend Kira bought me a book of the same name -- saying that it reminded her of me after I told her I was moving to Alaska to join the salmon season. I never followed through with those plans for several reasons, but Sean's book inspired me to make another choice.

I graduated with a degree in journalism. Naturally, I should get a journalism job, right?

Not so sure about that. When Crater Lake National Park in Oregon called me with an opening working on their dock all summer, I had a decision to make: Do I pursue a career or adventure?

As society would have it, I'd stay in Michigan this summer, working my part-time job of six years, seeking out that coveted entry-level position. And there are good points on that to be made. But they are obvious and I will not list them because they are indelibly trumped by the prospect of hiking, mountain climbing and boating three days a week. The chances of that happening here are slim. Besides, knowing I'm an aspiring novelist, my friend Joel asked me, "What would've happened if Hemingway spent all his time in an office?"

Some people luck out. They discover what drives them early and follow accordingly. Most of us, however, do not. And it is not our faults. College is designed to specialize us: to train us in a field, which makes it virtually impossible to cross over into another. Our degrees are often chosen on a vague whim or hobby. It works out for awhile -- you learn new things, you meet cool people -- but then it hits you: This is going to be the rest of my life. Do I really enjoy it?

I do not know what I like. However, I do know what I don't like. I don't like offices and I don't like negative people -- who can almost assuredly be found in an office setting. So do I absolutely need to do that so I can better achieve happiness? When will that happiness come? I recently met someone who, upon hearing about my memoir, said, "One day I'll get crackin' on that novel. One day." This man is in his 40s. When will "one day" come? When?

Why does everything need to be a means to an end? Why should I work my tail off now to find happiness later in life? We deserve to be happy now. You do not deserve to put your life on hold any longer. On Sean's website, he asks you to make a promise to settle for nothing short of what makes you happy.

I made my promise. Will you?

How Much Free Speech is Too Much?

2010-05-04T19:35:00.010-04:00

A few days ago, my friend Jake brought to my attention a mini-comic handed to him by what could only have been a religious fanatic. The comic is titled "Allah Had No Son" and can be read in its entirety by clicking on that title. The story opens with a Christian man and his son walking past a mosque with a group of men outside praying. "What are they doing, Daddy?" the boy asks of the kneeling Muslims. The father answers, "They're praying to their moon god, son."

One of the praying men overhears this and confronts the father. "I heard what you said, you infidel. The holy Qur'an says I could KILL you for saying that!" The demonized Arab goes on to say that the boy and his father should fear his people and that a Muslim flag will soon fly above the White House. "Think it's impossible? England was our first target... And the Islamic religion is bringing England to her knees."

In a manner loyal to Teddy Roosevelt's famous slogan, the Christian man explains the origins of Islam, stating that Allah is a mere idol upon which the Prophet Muhammad founded his phony religion. Coincidentally, the man has photographic evidence to back up his argument -- which is funny until you realize how absurd the pamphlet is.

(The Bible scripture he quotes is incredibly confusing and contradictory, and would not be my first choice if I were in his shoes: "All things were made by him (Jesus); and without him was anything made that was made... (John 1:3) He was in the world, and the world was made by him, and the world knew him not." (John 1:10))

As the pages move forward, we see the Muslim man lose focus of his argument and, ashamed, accept that Allah is not the way with embarrassing haste. (The clincher, I think, were the mansions; the Christian said God wants "the lost people of Islam" to "live with Him in mansions in Heaven.") He learns that Allah had no son to save his followers from Original Sin and begs for forgiveness. The Christian man says God loves and forgives him and the boy sees how much smarter his father is than the silly turban man.

This whole thing got me thinking about a recent Detroit Free Press article I read about the Hutaree. The extremist anti-government Christian militia briefly put Southeast Michigan on the national radar when its plans to attack law enforcement officials were debunked. Until recently, a federal judge was to release the nine members until their court hearings. What reminded me of the article was this quote by U.S. District Judge Victoria Roberts:

“The United States is correct that it need not wait until people are killed before it arrests conspirators. But, the Defendants are also correct: their right to engage in hate-filled, venomous speech, is a right that deserves First Amendment protection.”

"Hate-filled, venomous speech." To me, it is absolutely no contest that these Hutaree members should be locked up until their hearings. It matters very little to me that there is no evidence proving they were actually going to carry out their plans. The only evidence that can prove that is if they actually carried out their plans.

Similarly, I don't think the Constitution should protect the speech of the above comic. As a journalist, this puts me in a strange place. During a class period of one of my last semesters in college, I got into a short debate with a visiting law professor who contended that ALL speech (except "FIRE!" in a theatre, and the like) is protected under Constitutional law. I asserted that some should not be, like the above examples. Of course, my opinion held little clout, but it was fun to pretend it did.

Is there actually a place in society for hate-filled venomous speech? Is that the same as asking whether we need to protect those who can't protect themselves? I ask because, if so, it is OK to make outlandish accusations to get your point across, just as it is OK to plan killings without actually doing them. Very different examples, yes, but more similar than you'd think. Individuals like the Hutaree members -- anyone who feels they've the right to murder whomever they see fit -- are who they are because they read the stuff presented above. And believe it.

Aren't they kind of the same? One is blatant murder, and the other sets the groundwork for it.

On Behalf of Anyone Who's Used Proactiv

2010-04-29T12:59:00.000-04:00

Dear [Proactiv representative]

Thank you for the "I Miss You" card with the sad teddy bear on it. I was really hoping it was a response to my angry emails long since forgotten, but I was wrong. The card was a very cute gesture, but I regret to inform you that I do not share your sentiments. It has been a year since last we spoke you have not gotten the hint by now: It's over. I have since accepted to the fact that, because I am not interested in your product, I simply will never have sex ever again. (C'mon -- that IS what your ads are going for.)

We had some good times, I know. Like that time your product didn't work on my face, despite what Jessica Simpson said. Or that time I sent you a check for $40 for a shipment I didn't order just to shut you up. To think, all the time, you were planning to send me to a collection agency anyway, making me pay you an additional $40. LOL. You scamp. You devil. I hope you find happiness in your budding career as a comedian. But I cannot be a part of that future.

It was nice of you to reach out to me the way you did, though. I see you on TV a lot, but I no longer wonder what could've been like I used to. No longer do I stay up at night wondering if I would've gotten that job, or if she would've liked me more. I've accepted that I will remain underemployed and single, living in my mother's basement for years to come.

And that I will be forever short $80.

Yours truly,
Peter Jurich

Lessons Learned From A Failed Job Interview

2010-02-19T10:55:00.007-05:00

JOHN: How did the interview go?
PETER: I didn't get it. That's the last time I go into a job interview dressed as an astronaut.
JOHN: They have no vision.

I did not go to a job interview dressed as a spaceman, but I may as well have. I recently had an interview for a very competitive internship. I was proactive in my approach -- had in been in touch with them for the last two months -- and had the backing of a reference close to them. The interview seemed a formality; I was the only candidate they were slated to interview.

Even though the cards seemed stacked in my favor, that never means they actually are. In my assumption that I already had the job, I made a grave mistake: The interview went really well until an employee asked, "So are you familiar with what we do here?"

I wasn't. In all of my excitement, I did very little research. As a journalist, I schlepped Rule Numero Uno.

My arrogance got in my way and I received an appreciated email detailing where I went wrong in the interview (though it doesn't mention my incessant "Umm"s.) I spent a few subsequent hours beating myself up, but eventually came around to another reason I was caught off guard.

As a writer perspective, little of the work I do involves anyone else, so I don't blame myself for not being able to articulate the "teamwork" portion on a professional scale. At a human perspective, however, I should've made the following list weeks ago. As a reminder to myself, I compiled this list of generic questions one will most likely hear at a job interview. It's my goal to have answers to all of these next time around. Not answers to memorize, but at least a readily available guideline.

What are your personal strengths and weaknesses?
Where do you see yourself in five, ten years?
How might your friends describe you as a person, not as an employee?
What are you looking for in an internship? In what circumstance would this experience be successful to you?
Did you enjoy attending WSU for journalism?
Tell me about your writing process. How do you approach a story?
Tell me about a particular obstacle you faced as a journalist and how you confronted it.
Tell me about a time you disappointed yourself and what you learned, would do differently?
Is there a time that you had improved upon a process that had been in place for some time?
When working in a team, how do you handle someone who is not pulling their weight?
What leadership qualities might you bring to a team environment? Examples?
AND MOST IMPORTANTLY: Do you have any questions for us? (Always have questions prepared. Keep dialogue moving. You'd assume that "No" looks like it means you did your homework and know everything, but you get nothing but awkward dead air at the end.)

Of course, if anyone has suggestions of what else to expect in an interview, I'm very open to it. In the meantime, I think I will try the pirate outfit next time...

On The Post-Graduation Lull

2010-01-20T23:47:00.005-05:00

Contrary to what I once thought, young boys and girls walking together down the street together do not enjoy it when you yell, "Wear a condom!" to them out of the window of you 2001 black Honda Civic.

As the universe would have it, I am a graduated person; as my family tree would have it, I am the first male Jurich to receive a bachelor's degree. (This accomplishment is only made dubious by the fact that I've yet to receive my diploma in the mail.) I never anticipated this to be an exciting time -- I've seen many friends suffer through the strife of finding a purpose -- but I just didn't know it would be so hard!

With no real set schedule and no pressing deadlines, my life as of late has been a scavenger hunt of finding significance in each very paltry event. A few days ago, I treated myself to a Dairy Queen milkshake for FINALLY taking my camera in to get fixed.

Ever want to know what a lie your graduation ceremony was, what with the promise of great things and endeavors and other Seussical dreams?

Graduate.

It is truly a difficult thing to feel like a fully functioning human being when your only responsibility is to look for a job. I understand now why grad school seems so attractive, lest I forget there is a giant world out there that must be seen!

Although slightly downtrodden by my newly found -- yet appropriately deserved -- lethargy, I'm all the more encouraged by it. Almost overnight I seem to have become a miserable sot without a care in the world until my three-month grace period on financial aid is up. It is much easier for me to see now why living can be considered such a TASK, for it's not a job or a salary or even a family we want so much as a purpose. A purpose that comes with all those things.

Living, by its very definition, is selfish. To live life to its fullest.

[Author's Note: I actually hate that term, "live life to the fullest." It is a meaningless jumble of shit used only by people who don't know what else to put in the About Me section of their Facebook pages.]

Worse yet, I've done little to fight said lethargy and taste the life I desire. I told myself that I deserve this time off, that I've already worked hard. And while that is very true, I forget my youth. I keep thinking I'm enjoying a solid retirement. If you are confused by that, you should be. Who else can account for the fact that I haven't slept in my bed in the last week, but rather wherever it is that I happen to crash?

Purpose really is hard to come by. And much harder to define than we give it credit for. It's something we go our entire lives searching for and probably never find. So why bother? Most people are not happy doing what they do, so where does the journey end? That search is not only the most important part of the human experience, but isn't it the ONLY part? My friends, my jobs, my daily bathing rituals. All of it is just part of a very selfish desire I have to feel important or needed, right?

Right?

Teddy White's World History

2009-12-10T09:32:00.002-05:00

History books are generally too ambitious, and no one knows this better than the students who have to read them. The authors often try to encompass every detail of the culture, politics and foreign relations of an entire century in as little as 300 pages. The results are generally adequate at best.

Never will one realize how much better our education system can do than by reading “In Search of History” by former Time foreign correspondent Theodore H. White. Teachers who would like to deviate away from the more commonly known details of World War II would do their classes a justice by using this as the supplementary text. In “History,” White’s memoir, set to a World War II backdrop, showcases not his life, but the events that took him on as a novice reporter with a Harvard degree and practically zero journalism experience. White takes us from the ghetto of Boston during the Depression, all around Asia during the war and shows how the rest of the world was affected.

White’s book is elegantly written. While his main attention is to the details that shaped history, he surprises every once in awhile with descriptions that are not always pertinent to the story: the exotic fruits in China, the flowers and gardens of France, the view from his plane over the Himalayas. Also pleasing are his psychological analyses of his sources, be it General Joseph Stilwell’s hatred for China’s nationalist leader Chiang Kai-shek (whom he calls “Peanut” in his private journals) or his own grandmother’s strict Jewish heritage.

China obviously excites White the most, as he makes testament to by dedicating a very substantial amount of the book to the Far East (roughly 250 pages). He makes references of his missing the Far East frequently. As a result, the latter half of the book is not written with the same energy, the same ferocity, as the former. His characters when he reaches Europe suddenly become more stoical and they fade out of the pages with no real explanation as to what happened to them. This is in an almost direct contradiction to his relationship with Chinese general Chou En-lai, a central character whose departure from the words is actually kind of bittersweet. After so much excitement in China and Europe, American politics are much less interesting for the reader.

White’s book is a challenge. Each page is heavy with information, and White expects readers to have prior historical knowledge before picking up his book. He never directly explains why the Chinese and Japanese were at odds with each other; only that they were. Nor does he tell why it was necessary for America to implement a Marshall Plan in Europe; only that it was. Therefore, it does not make a good introductory read for anyone interested in the era. A basic high school education can remedy this, however.

Try as he might, White simply cannot, as a journalist, give the unbiased view of events for which he may have been going. We are, after all, seeing one man’s view of the times – someone who was there on the front line, who didn’t know any better (as he admits) and was influenced too much by what he saw and what others told him. In this way, it reads as more of a memoir. But what makes White’s read so fascinating, however, is that it is disguised as a memoir. There are four short passages throughout that describe his transition between areas of his career, but they are not the most engaging parts of the book. Interestingly, White journalistically sets what should be the main topic – himself – and instead dives into thorough reportage. The little snippets of his personal life we receive almost seem like mistakes in his writing. The birth of his children, his tumultuous relationship with Time editor Harry Luce, the strong bosoms of his colleagues’ wives (a description he loves when describing women): Memoirs are typically riddled with such details, but White’s writing is driven not by self-actualization, but instead by his undeniable ability to educate.

And educate, he does. In White’s eyes, there no wonder why Communism dominated China after World War II; a government’s first duty is to protect its people, he writes, and a government under the oblivious Chiang simply was not doing that; whereas Mao Tse-tung’s government was, even while operating from a cave. As a historian first, he explains the Law of Unintended Consequences: By leaving Germany alone to fend for itself after the war, were other nations doing them a long-term favor, “elevating [the country] to the status of Europe’s senior power” as he writes? (“Our policy,” one of his subjects says of a Germany in ruins, “is to make these bastards work their way back.”)

History texts really should read more like White’s version of the world from 1915 to 1963 – distant enough that one learns about the major players and policies of the period, but personal enough to keep the pages turning. As a memoirist, White may falter (Isn’t the point of a memoir to discuss one’s sex life unencumbered?), but as a journalist and historian, he has succeeded. His book is proof that history, when taught properly by the right person, can be a ride both emotionally and intellectually stimulating.

100-Word Fiction: "Found in Space"

2009-11-22T12:27:00.000-05:00

Out of all the things to find in space, it had to be a copy of Dan Brown’s “The Da Vinci Code.” I don’t necessarily dislike either Dan Brown or his bestseller (though I know many nit-picky people who do); I’m just a little peeved that this is potentially the first impression our intergalactic neighbors might have of us Earthlings. It’s such an arbitrary business: What if they really wanted to connect and share their knowledge with our planet, but then read this book and decided to conduct their studies elsewhere? Why couldn’t it have been a Junie B. Jones?

Author Lara Zielin talks 'Donuts'

2009-09-17T08:05:00.005-04:00

Last month, I had a really awesome opportunity to attend a book launching in Ann Arbor for Lara Zielin upon release of her book, "Donut Days." I had never met Lara, but she was kind enough to promote my own work on her own website, so we chatted and had a grand ol' time.

Seeing Lara was a huge inspiration. She is living that dream of walking into a bookstore and seeing a shelf packed with her books. I wanted to be jealous and hate her, but she was one of the sweetest people I've ever met. I purchased a copy of "Donut Days" and am severely impressed with her. I subsequently had some questions for her.

[Editor's Note: At the time I sent Lara these questions, I did not have a girlfriend. Currently, however, I'm in a great relationship with an above-subaverage young lady.]

THE INTERVIEW

Before we get started, let me say how honored I am to be a guest on your website. Thanks for hosting me. I have appreciated getting to know you and your support of DONUT DAYS. And now that the sappy part is out of the way, on to the interview!

If you had to sum up "Donut Days" in five words, which would you pick?

Girl questions faith, eats crullers.

How did you get a publishing contract? Was an agent involved? If so, how did s/he help you?

I have a wonderful agent, Susanna Einstein, who was able to sell DONUT DAYS in a matter of weeks. What’s so awesome about Susanna is that she really understood DONUT DAYS from the start—she had a total handle on the aspects of the book that would resonate with readers. I am so grateful to have someone in my court like that—who understands my writing and isn’t just out to make a buck or two off a contract.

In general, I’m a huge fan of agents. I think there’s a lot that’s new and scary in today’s publishing world, and agents are the best people to help authors navigate the new terrain. Not every one of them is as awesome as Susanna, but I believe the majority of them are honestly looking out for their authors.

Donuts are a big theme in both the graphics or the blog posts on your website, larawrites.com. What's the appeal? How do they relate to the story of a teenage girl with so much changing in her life?

I was asked recently about what parts of the book had changed during the extensive re-writing I did on the novel, and I answered it by saying that just about the only part of the novel that didn’t change was the donut camp. That had always been the backdrop for the story—from the first draft of the book to the published piece.

The donut camp was inspired by real-life events. When I was living in Minnesota, after graduating from Carleton College, the first Krispy Kreme opened up in the state. People went bananas. They camped out in advance of the store opening; they set up grills and tents; the media swarmed the scene; the line was out the door for days. All for donuts! At the time I thought, that’s an awesome setting for a book. Sadly, that Krispy Kreme is out of business now, but I have my fingers crossed that the franchise is making a comeback. And yes, I friended them on Facebook, and I follow Dunkin’ Donuts on Twitter.

The American auto industry is in trouble. The Big 3 are experiencing perilous avenues because direct competitors like Honda, Toyota and Hyundai are producing safer, cheaper and greener vehicles. How do you feel about the donut's direct competitor, the bagel?

I am a friend to all carbs. I do not discriminate. I do not judge. I simply eat.

Upon the release of your debut novel on August 6th in Ann Abor, you will be a twice-published author. Has the advice in your first book, "Make Things Happen: The Key to Networking for Teens," helped you out personally? Is there a chapter on dating and will it get me a girlfriend?

You don’t have a girlfriend? Seriously? What kind of world is this? Let me noodle on that one. Ladies, you are seriously missing out. In the meantime, I wish MAKE THINGS HAPPEN could help you, but I fear it won’t. It didn’t really help me. And here’s why.

Nonfiction is a hugely different animal than fiction. Nonfiction is a lot easier to get published, for one. Also, I’ve heard it makes more money but I have no statistics to back that up. And I’m too lazy to Google it right now.

I thought agents to whom I was pitching DONUT DAYS would be impressed that I had this nonfiction book under my belt. I thought they would all sit up and take notice of me—and want to read my work as a result. But it didn’t really open that many doors because the book was just too too different from the fiction I wanted them to look at. I guess it’s kind of like how some people can write really great history papers, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re making George Washington come to life on the paper. If that makes any sense.

Anyway, I’m proud of my first book and I think it’s held up over time. In fact, it might even be more useful today than it was back in 2003 when it was published because competition is so tight for jobs now. Networking can really give people a leg up in a variety of contexts. But MAKE THINGS HAPPEN and DONUT DAYS are in two separate categories, and never the twain shall meet.

What has been your best experience so far in working with a traditional publishing house?

My editor. For sure. She knew just what the book needed in order for it to shine, and that kind of help is invaluable. I am a better writer for having gone through the editing process with her.

Your worst experience?

I think just figuring out the ropes has been a challenge. Like, how much input do I get on my cover? What happens when deadlines are missed? Who does what with regard to publicity? The good news is, it will all be so much easier with my second book!

Your Facebook page says you once swallowed a moth. How has this particular incident influenced your writing?

Ah yes, the infamous moth-swallowing incident. Pure protein, as they say.

I think the moth has made me less afraid of putting my characters in really uncomfortable—or even flat-out gross—situations. For example, in my next book, PROMGATE (coming out in summer 2011), I have my main character throw up on the carpet at one point, then watch it sort of sink into the fibers. Oh, sorry is that TMI? My bad.

Your email address is new.zielind@gmail.com. Where did the "new" come from? Were you aware that there is a nation called New Zealand or is it just a coincidence? Do you fear there might be a lawsuit against you for taking the name?

I actually invented the address after my ex and I split, and I returned to my maiden name, Zielin. I was all like, this is the new me. So I made a play on New Zealand with my email address. So far, the aborigines haven’t come after me or anything, but I do sleep with a light on, just in case.

Besides your next book, PROMGATE, do you have any other projects in the hopper?

I started this new website called Crap I Used To Write, showcasing the totally amazing works I penned as a little kid. I was a genius right out of the gate. Truly. I mean, with works with titles like SALLY AND THE TIME MACHINE, how could I not be? I’m looking for peeps to contribute crap they used to write, so if you have any—or know of someone who has any—have them visit the site and email me.

Any words of wisdom for readers (i.e. me)?

I know the road to publication can be arduous. It took me a looong time to get an agent and get my first book out there. So, even though it sounds cliché, keep writing and keep working. [cue music] And that’s one to grow on.

Our Dumb World

2009-08-02T12:32:00.005-04:00

I wrote this email to a friend yesterday and decided that the thoughts are worth putting up on the blog. Enjoy.

I just got back from being a "bodyguard" for my friend's mother while she kicked out a very hotheaded renter. (I'm apparently the most intimidating young man she knows.) She had gotten this renter through Craiglist, which, if you're not familiar, is sort of a catch-all for services via web 2.0 -- from odd jobs to blow jobs.

Literally. Later, when the renter was out, she, another mother and I talked. My advice to her was that I would never invite someone into my house through a website from which I could also hire prostitutes. But it is what it is.

There's really no way around Facebook and I hate it. It's used for both apathetic time-wasting and professional networking. The line between the two hardly exists anymore and I'm having a hard time coming to terms with it. I'm finally -- and I mean FINALLY -- at a point in my life where I want to start a serious career... and the first step is dependent on a tool I use to check in on girls I used to have crushes on (NOT a pair of binocculars).

Really, Country? Like... Honestly?

2009-07-24T00:40:00.006-04:00

Tonite, I'd like to bring your attention to a few videos.

The first is a meeting in which attendees protest the crazy idea that Barack Obama does not have a legitimate American birth certificate. Click here.

The second is not that. Click here.

But still, there are huge similarities.

But for a fistful of relevant awesome, click here.

You Will Be Missed, Frank McCourt

2009-07-20T00:57:00.008-04:00

Author Frank McCourt died of meningitis yesterday at age seventy-eight.

In October of 2005, I was going through a bit of an Enlightenment, late blooming as it was. I was understanding that the world is, in fact, much bigger than Southeastern Michigan and that there was a distinct possibility that I might not make it as an actor. Many of my dreams were crushed and I became quite lost. With the last of my innocence hanging on my a thread, I wanted something to hide inside. I decided I wanted to be a reader. Only I didn't know where to begin.

My mother very persistently suggested a book called "Angela's Ashes." She told me that it's the story of a boy growing up in poverty-stricken Ireland during World War II. The boy's father was an alcoholic and his mother had more children than she could afford. All the while having religion shoved down his throat by a pious grandmother. I admit it did not sound to appealing to me -- it sounded downright depressing -- but I knew nothing else. I gave it a go.

And how very impressed I was! Immediately, I was taken in by McCourt's charm, his grace. He did not seem to regret his terrible upbringing; he was celebrating it, pouring his embarrassment on paper for the entertainment of us who were ashamed of our very own younger years:

"When I look back on my childhood, I wonder how I survived at all. It was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood."

That type of ironic humor kept me transfixed throughout the entire month. (I was a slow reader. Still am.) As a once-sheltered Catholic myself, McCourt's honesty pummeled everything I knew about being human, made me realize that it's OK to question faith, to chase certain emotions, and -- most importantly -- to laugh at yourself. His was a endearing self-deprecation that would stay in my heart forever.

From the moment I read the last word of McCourt's memoir, I knew what I wanted to do for the rest of my life: I wanted to write; to tell stories; to incite laughter, sorrow, anger and lust in people I'd never meet. Sure, "Ashes" was the first real book I'd ever read, and I had little experience writing anything, but why not? Why not try writing a book at nineteen? Better yet, why not try writing a memoir? Just like the author of the book I adored so much!

And I did, Frank. It is four years later and my life is forever changed because of you. I've since published that memoir, am working on a novel, and I'm reaching out to people. EXACTLY in the way you inspired me to. I'm making people happy, and I'm making people upset, and I'm helping people cope with -- and especially laugh at -- their own crumby pasts by using mine as an example. Just like you. Just like I wanted to do. Do you see what you've done? The cycle is still going. There are so many just like me who have looked to you as a role model and are giving back in the best ways we know how, in the ways you showed us.

Sometimes, people enter your life with the most perfect timing. I do not know how my life would have turned out had I not picked up that book so long ago. I also cannot explain why it struck such a chord with me. What I do know is that it pushed me along gently through my own work and shaped my own humor and voice and even forgiveness. Because of Frank McCourt, I'm happy today. I have direction, I have feelings, and I have love. It's sad that he left us, but he deserves his peace -- he's lived more lives than most of us.

Well, There Goes The Gym Membership

2009-07-16T08:17:00.005-04:00

[This entry made me realize how difficult it is to write when I'm not bitter about something. It is really really boring.]

My understanding is that when people graduate from college, the thing they miss the most is their membership to the gym. Too much stress is put on the Freshman Fifteen. No one ever talks about the Graduate Twenty.

Metabolism aside, that is something I need to start thinking about. Two weeks ago, I discovered that I'll be graduating in December, only to later find out that there were two gen. ed. courses I skipped and I'll be graduating next May as planned.

Then two days ago, I saw a counselor who told me that, because I've been technically registered at Wayne since 2004, the two gen. eds., which they added in '05-6, don't apply to me. I was "grandfathered in," Luke said, though I don't feel any older.

I never quite got the hang of college and being a student has never felt the way I thought it was supposed to feel. I've always had a job or two, never got piss drunk on Thirsty Thursday, never sat in a study group in the library and, really, never had fun. It's an experience I never got and don't really give a fuck.

What's increasingly amazing to me is how many people are actually like this. It seems like the much larger demographic (unless you attend USC). But I don't think college ever REALLY stops. It's not like in high school where if you're still going to parties two years after you graduated, you're a creepy asshole. You can still get the experience without having to pay for the education. (Much like a journalism degree.)

And now I'll be graduating in in December '09. Wow. A year ago, this time, I had no idea if or when I would graduate. I never quite planned on it, assuming I'd be in college forever -- forever stuck in a world in which I've never felt completely comfortable. (The ironic thing about not being good at making friends is you make friends with other people who are not good at making friends.)

While that is very exciting news to be sure, it is not the best part part. (Why did I write 'part' twice? How strange.) Yesterday, I met with someone who is quickly becoming one of my favorite people about doing a Directed Study next semester in which I would write a novel. I've had this idea cultivating in my head for well into the last year, but have been simply too stressed out to give it the attention I think it deserves. I didn't expect anything from this meeting -- after all, college, for me, has never been a place to do something you loved -- and was whole-heartedly ready for disappointment.

But before I could present the four-page proposal I had written the night before to prove my seriousness, he said, "Let's talk about this project." Stupidly, I stumbled into the speech I had rehearsed in the car on the way there to convince him to let me do this. I didn't know he was already down.

I had to write a formal proposal to the Communications Department, but that was it.

Next semester, my last semester, I'll be writing a very silly novel about the auto industry. For a class.

It won't be that killer college experience I'm sure and will be a helluva lotta work, but goddamn am I excited.

Book Review: 'Jolt City'

2009-07-03T13:28:00.016-04:00

Before Batman had Terry McGinnis, before Captain America had John Walker, and before Indiana Jones had Shia LaBeouf, the Green Knight had Martin Rock.

"Jolt City" (2009) is the story of the Acrobat (Rock), once sidekick to the great superhero, the Green Knight. Ten years have passed since they worked together, their relationship marred by irreconcilable differences. But when billionaire Ray Cradle, the Knight's secret identity, falls victim to cancer, what happens to the city's symbol of hope? Can no one take up the mask and stop the consistent onslaught of ravenous superfiends?

Lucky for Cradle, Rock has kept tabs on him since their falling out and has a pretty good idea of what happens next. Always putting others before himself, Rock sacrifices his personal life to keep up the city's belief that the Green Knight is an eternal force not to be reckoned with. The younger, stronger (and sometimes homeless) crimefighter loyally keeps the city at peace.

But when a demented sharpshooter threatens the life of not the Green Knight, but Rock himself, the once private citizen is suddenly thrown wildly into the spotlight. Media speculate on his dark past as he is posted on the front page of newspapers -- often beside a story of a very different nature about his masked alter ego. Can Martin Rock keep up the very public appearances of both himself, loathed by the entire population, and the Green Knight, Jolt City's beloved vigilante?

A long-time fan of superhero comics, third time Detroit-area author Tom Russell of Turtleneck Films has behind him a lifetime of research that played in the development of this very well-crafted masterwork. With it, he brings his own criticism of the genre and magnificently intertwines the timeless themes that have kept it so very popular. He also throws out the cliches that have long been beaten to death. Forget everything you ever knew about superheroes and put on the coffee; it's going to be a sleepless night.

Four years and 330 pages in the making, "Jolt City" is not just a story for superhero fans; it is a story for everyone. Though the plot largely revolves around thwarting the bad guy and saving the city, it is far more cerebral than that. The pages are evocative, intelligent, ambitious and sexual. Though the Green Knight is one in a million, Rock is all too human: He still feels heartache over his stolen childhood; still feels torn between the love of two beautiful women; and still struggles in teaming up with the enemy for a greater good.

It should also be noted that the book is self-published through Amazon's CreateSpace.com and indicative of the current state of the publishing industry. With the world economic crisis at hand, and reading material gradually moving into cyberspace, publishing houses are suffering just as much as any business and are acting accordingly: More and more manuscripts are being rejected to make room for those that they anticipate will be immediate bestsellers. Therefore, authors are trying their hands at print-on-demand services, if only just for the pride of seeing the hard work properly bound.

Self-publishing is quickly becoming the future of the publishing world, seeing as the industry increases by roughly 30 percent a year. Self-published books generally get a bad wrap because there are little-to-no standards to see a finished product. Because so much bad writing outweighs the good stuff, it's a shame that many readers may never enjoy great works such as "Jolt City."

Russell's book would most definitely circumvent the slush pile and land a publishing deal should he ever decide to send out his manuscript. Support the author and buy this book today!

An Unwelcome Disruption to An Otherwise Productive Afternoon

2009-07-02T14:57:00.013-04:00

The libido makes us do stupid things.

While doing an interview today for my upcoming blog book tour, I received an email notifying me that someone sent me a Facebook message. (Actually, it said someone "cast ye a scroll on ye olde Facebook," seeing as my language setting is on English (Pirate).) The message read:

$2 Drinks and $175 admission all night and if you message me back right now i will put on my unlimited viplist. Only a few booths remain so go reserve yours now before it is too late thank you and hope to see you tomorrow :)

$175? I thought. Oh, well there are going to be $2 drinks, so...

Accompanying the message was a video of people dancing. Many bars, I've always felt, are generally for people who have nothing to say to each other but are still lonesome, so what the hell? Next time you're in a bar that has music BLARING, look around. No real conversations going on. In fact, the tables are more or less occupied by awkward looking groups of people looking around and sometimes smiling at one another. And thank God when that popular song comes on; this gives the members of those groups an excuse to sing to each other as if to say, "What fun we are having with our friends!" The underlying thought, of course, is, What am I doing here with these idiots?

More importantly, the video did not make me want to go to the venue tomorrow night anymore than I did before seeing it. Which makes me wonder why anyone would spend $175, and then some, on a night of sloppy drunken dancing (which, I might add, I do every night in my back yard for free.)

Are we that stupid that we'll believe that we'll have a better time at a party that has the same basic outline of a house party -- minus beer pong -- if we pay $200 to get in? Is it true that I'll get to experience the life of a movie star if I go here? Maybe, but the difference is that movie stars don't wake up the next morning broke.

Except maybe Pauly Shore.

In short:

Girls need to learn that there are easier ways to look pretty and dance.
Guys need to learn that there are cheaper ways to get girls to touch their penises.

Welcome to North Carolina

2009-06-30T16:17:00.007-04:00

Life is more fun when you have a goal in mind.

About two weeks ago, while doing the dishes, I decided I was going to switch some of the drawers in my kitchen to confuse my mom the next time she came home. I was distraught and downright anguished over the idea that the drawers were switch-proof, meaning they were all different sizes. The task of manually moving silverware did not outweigh the hilarity of the joke and so I begrudgingly abandoned the task altogether. Still, I needed some sustenance in the context of baffling elders.

I looked around my living room and realized it has looked the same exact way for all of my 23 years of life. Furniture has changed rarely and it has always been the same basic template: couch here; chair there; table adjacent. This would not do. No, not at all. Two darling comrades and I spent the next hour rearranging the furniture in my house. It started off as a joke, of course, as I thought it would be funny if everything were in completely illogical positions, but as it turned out, Fortuna wanted me to utilize the Feng Shui in me and make the room look nice.

It turned out nice.

All because I started doing the dishes.

For the same reason that I rearranged the living room, I went to North Carolina for a week this summer -- that is, for no reason at all, inspiration struck. I spent far more money than I thought I would, but it was quite needed; I haven't been on a vacation in about two and a half years. I only vaguely knew one person who lives in NC, but the state called me so it had to be done. My first real travel experience by myself.

I always knew that I was good at finding adventures, but never fully realized it until I was called to set out on my own.

My trip in a nutshell:

Had a five-hour dance party on the beach with a pack of cougars (the type of woman, not the animal)
Slept in the sand on the coast of the Atlantic
Woke up at 7 to white trashy neighbors offering me both liquor and pussy. That's Southern hospitality for you, I guess.
Declined neighbors' offers and opted for shrimp and grouper instead
Got kicked out of a hotel for playing in the kids' area
Sneaked into the pool of another hotel and skinny dipped with a national-touring americana band
Ventured through a small town obsessed with bears and visited an apartment in Bear Plaza owned by a man named Barry Barrington and afterwards took a picture of a cop car that read, "Proud to wear the bear."
Covered most of Eastern North Carolina in a road trip extravaganza
Had a real Southern meal with a real Southern family
Was never so happy to wake up 20 times every night. (You try being mad at the cat pictured above.)
Ate an allegedly hallucinogenic worm from a tequila bottle
Went on a soul journey with three goals in mind; accomplished all goals plus an unexpected fourth. What were they do you think?

While these experiences are all completely viable options for a novel of some sort, what I value most from my trip was something I've never really had before: a clear and attainable goal.

In one year, I will have graduated with my bachelor's in journalism. After that, grad school always seemed the best option considering job opportunities are slim, esp. in journalism. As it turns out, there are excellent schools in the area of Raleigh, NC. I definitely think I need to be down there now. The South is so interesting. The people are friendly, I don't think I've ever eaten better in my life, and the accents make the girls sound ten times more adorable!

Granted, those are not the three best reasons to go anywhere, but it's more than that. I feel like I have a better context for my own life now. It feels good to have desires again outside of projects that I can do here at home. I am most definitely southbound. For Political Science. Duke University anyone?

Blog Book Tour!

2009-06-29T01:24:00.003-04:00

It is one thirty in the morning and I've been awake for an hour. For the last few weeks, I've had an internship that calls for my being up by three thirty. This requires of me an early bedtime that does not bode well with my internal clock. The garish youngster in me disturbs my old man around the time that I should be out partying and drinking. The end product is a very tired Peter by the time he has to be at work by five.

I've started to compile a blog book tour. In light of 21st-Century enterprises, and the fact that I have no money to go on a real book tour, I've taken a cue from Elisa Lorello, author of "Faking It", and decided it is far more frugal to hole myself up in my room and query other writers in hopes of getting a guest spot on their blog. The guest entries can be anything from an interview, a general description of my work or website, or -- my favorite -- absolutely any idea at the host's discretion.

Self-promotion is the idea and, while I'm appropriately querying blogs whose niche is the writing world, the latter seems the most fun. A friend of mine suggested D&D and web comic sites. I would do that in a heartbeat. Truly. I'd love to draw a webcomic about my adventures in writing. In this, I'm curious as to how many different demographics I'd be able to reach -- or at least garner interest within.

And so, here's my idea: Do you have a blog? Would you like to support a struggling young author? Do you have a totally inane topic that you think it would be fun to make somebody right* about? I'm your man! Just let me plug my work on your website and I will do just the same for you!

*write

Black Lessenberry's Jackberry

2009-05-04T22:23:00.010-04:00

[Although I'm posting this on May 27th, it was written on the 4th. I'm not sure why I neglected to publish it.]

I have a final exam tomorrow morning. I know this to be true simply because I know this. Tomorrow at eight o'clock a.m., I will take the big one. The one for which all of my classes ever have prepared me. COM 5080. History and Law of Journalism. It is two classes combined into one for some inane reason, taught by the infamous Jack Lessenberry -- Michigan's quintessential journalist -- whom one of my friends will argue is a pervert. (I respectfully disagree, but it's a fun conversation topic anyway.) There is perhaps one other class in which I've worked harder and I feel I'm ready for this exam.

In short, this test counts big time.

So why do I have the time to sit here and extrapolate on stressful occurrences of the collegiate type? Well, this morning started off like many other mornings: I woke up at seven, showered, had breakfast. I had gotten a good night's rest and treated myself by easing into the day, taking nothing as problematic and living, as they say, in the moment. I enjoyed my fruit, read some news and did some lounging. Mornings like this don't happen often, but I figured tomorrow is not going to be as carefree, so why not enjoy today?

For awhile, I've been meaning to email Jack to make an appointment regarding my summer internship with WWJ, since he's the "instructor" for the course. In my relaxed state, I decided to do just that. Knowing him to prefer emails get to the point, I kept it brief:

Hi Jack, Will you be in your office today at 3?

Peter Jurich

I got a response within seconds:

No. Why, are you not taking the final?

I didn't really know how to take his answer. I thought it was kind of strange of him to assume something so silly. He knows I'm not an idiot (I hope) and I know skipping his final would mean an imminent failure and a following meltdown. I therefore decided it was a joke. He's got kind of a dry sense of humor that really could go misunderstood, so that must've been it. Yes, it was a joke.

And then I read it again...

It did not say "Why, are you not taking the final?"; it said "Why are you not taking the final?" I needed a moment to let this register. Why are you not taking the final? Why are you not taking the final? What did it mean? I checked the date -- May 4th. Did that ring a bell?

At the dawning of this profound moment, I'd like to say that I handled myself well, picked myself up and coolly drove to class, but that would be a lie. "OH MY GOD!" I yelled at the top of my person. What proceeded was a rage monster mightier than I've ever had. I began kicking things in my room and shouting "Oh fuck, holy shit, oh God, oh God, oh God."

My mother burst in my room, understandably panicked. "What's wrong?" she asked. "The final," I hyperventilated. "It's right now. Oh fuck. I'm going to fail." The final started at eight. This moment was around quarter to nine. In my haste, I sent my professor an email telling him what an idiot I was and can I please take the final tomorrow? After sending it, I realized what a stupid question it was and gathered my things.

"You won't fail," my mom said. "Just calm down. You have plenty of time." The poor sweet woman followed me with reassurances as I picked up my things and bolted out the door. I left the house with her yelling, "Take your time! You'll get into a car accident!"

I don't think I've driven faster in my life. There are moments in life where what you should do and what needs to happen are not the same thing. This was one of those moments, for the speed limit on the freeway is not ninety. Regardless, there was a clear and steady path paved for me. Somewhere along the way between Kings of Leon songs, I was comforted by the acceptance of the situation. It couldn't get much worse really.

Regardless, I got to class. I had my response ready should the professor make a smarmy remark. I wanted to very jovially say, "Fine day for a final, eh?" and thus impress the class with my carefree charm during their educational endeavor -- Yeah, I show up to finals an hour late. What of it? -- but no one was amused by my tardiness and resumed.

The final was easy-ish. I succeeded, but only because of the existence of a Blackberry.

Jack is a teacher who prides himself most -- among all of his accomplishments -- on the fact that he has never had a naked picture of himself on the Internet, or that he has never "tweeted." At least that is what I've come to understand. Either way, before purging of oral vulgarity upon receiving his immediate email response, I thought to myself, How cute; my professor is texting me via the final exam.

But, of course, that was not my only accomplishment that day. Be it as it were, my life spun out of my control eight months ago, through no fault but my own. I for some reason decided to take on a 25-hr/wk tutoring in a Detroit Public School while undergoing the two very hardest school semesters of my life. I've yet to find anyone who has had less fun than myself this school year (a sure sign that I do not live in a Third World Nation). While I think I've done well to keep myself grounded, albeit a tad unhinged, I've lost a lot of connection to myself. On this day, both the job and school is over. I can feel the recovery process beginning.

When I got home, I noticed I had received response to my question:

Nope. Get here or fail.

You Know You Live in 2009 When...

2009-04-26T15:37:00.003-04:00

1. You are alive right now.

3. You didn't notice there's no Number Two.

4. You checked to see if there was really no Number Two.

5. Right now, you're laughing at what a dumb asshole you are.

6. You're forwarding this to all of your friends.

Zoloft

2009-04-25T03:19:00.009-04:00

A few weeks ago, some coworkers and I were discussing our views on our own personal happiness. General consensus was that it's a scale: 1 is happy; 100 is angry; the mood shifts relative to the situation. Understandable.

I looked at mine differently. My happiness, as it were, has always been an oil drill, with above ground being happy and below ground being angry. While the scale still exists, albeit more vertical, there will always be a little bit of me below ground, always slightly bitter about something. It doesn't matter where or when. Nothing goes under a cynic's radar.

Upon learning this about myself, one particular coworker said, "Peter, that makes me really sad to hear that." The way in which it was said made me feel like such an outsider. She was so sincere, so concerned about me. I always thought it was normal, but I couldn't help but wonder if others might react the same way, if other people somewhere out there are legitimately happy and don't walk around and see the shameless decadence of a dysfunctional two-party system gone horribly off-track. I felt like a fucking monster.

Three o'clock in the morning may just be the most appropriate time to articulate these thoughts.

I go through sporadic and very severe bouts of depression. I've written an entry about this before, but I don't think anyone understands how very cold it is. In these attacks that have lasted anywhere from one hour to two weeks over the last eight or nine months, I very simply cannot function in a healthy manner. The very worst part of this is that the thought of my friends -- with whom I share very strong bond -- makes me sick. In this state of mind, I want nothing to do with them or anyone else. I just want to curl up in a ball and sleep until everyone goes away. I keep my grades up and go to work on time, but I absolutely loathe every bit of it. I function, but -- like I said -- not too healthily.

For a while I have considered seeing a therapist, but the problem with that is, by the time I'm out of the funk and ready to make that call, I feel fine, like it's the last time I will ever feel that sad ever again so why bother asking for help?

But it always comes back around. I've finally been able to start recognizing the symptoms of an onslaught, but when you're hanging for dear life on the edge of a cliff, it will do you no good to recognize the trees below as Douglas-Firs; you're still in peril.

So finally, I had the gumption to call my long-time physician who I trust more than many. He's never steered me wrong and, a professional eye hidden under a candid joke, going to see him always makes me feel seven again -- a feeling I adore.

We discussed my state of being and he deemed it a little less than fine. He said some things I can't quite recall but he eventually got to the point: "I want you to try Zoloft," he said.

I was against it. I don't want to be drugged. I don't want to feel drunk. I just want to feel normal. Sometimes, however, it takes a little boost for you to to realize that this is how you actually can feel, never so deterred by the weight of a heavy heart and mind. A content state of mind does exist! Zoloft, as I now understand it, is a therapy; not a drug.

And so, I'm taking Zoloft. It's only been a day, but even so, it's in me. I woke up this morning and felt no different than most days -- able, with an underlying sadness and stress. It was not until about two hours ago when I started to feel better.

I will admit that conditions are perfect. Earlier, I saw Flight of The Conchords at The Fox, the weather has been what Michigan needs to feel like at this time of year through November, and I just got back from a night of scouring Dearborn afoot with a few loved ones. Even so, even in moments like these, surrounded by friends, the oil drill is usually never too far out of the ground and I tend to feel a little empty.

But tonight, all I could do was laugh, not only in voice, but in spirit and soul! "Holy shit!" I shouted at one point, "I haven't had a single negative thought all night!" It's true. For the first time for as long as I knew, I wasn't being constantly reminded by anything of a great opportunity I missed or the loads of work and uncertainty that lay ahead. Despite never knowing anyone who is normal, I feel that way now. Without realizing it, I've seemed to have lost track of what anger feels like. To test myself, I watched some videos of George W. and Ann Coulter -- two archfiends that are almost certain to get my blood boiling -- and felt indifferent. I'm not sure I've ever really appreciated how whimsically my drapes dance as the wind blows through my open bedroom window.

And yet, I can't help but feel like such a statistic. The world debates as to whether it's OK to (legally) drug the problems away and it's still something I don't advocate, but it's something you can't understand until you get to that point. I may be perceived as writing a little overdramatically right now, but who can really understand the inner workings of even their most intimate lover?

Through all this, I'm worried. Last night, I was so hesitant about popping one of these tiny pills sanctioned to myself. Is this really what I want? I asked over and over. Well, I trust the good doctor, so bottoms up!

I'm worried because tonight, I can't wait to have my second Zoloft pill. I'm excited for it! In a few short hours, it has made me more progressively minded than I've felt in a long time. (And since it increases the effects of alcohol, nights out can only be cheaper this summer!) I don't want to feel this ebullient over taking a silly little pill, but I can't help but feel this way. Solving the problems on my own has done nothing for me and, if I totally regress after treatment, it's time for a therapist.

There will come a point in the next few weeks where I will undoubtedly miss myself and go off the meds to try and create a healthy balance within. But until then, the oil refinery is shutting down.

The Detroit Free Press/News Joint Operating Agreement

2009-04-23T11:52:00.015-04:00

In August 1988, Detroit Free Press photographer Mary Schroeder was outside the Frank Murphy Hall of Justice covering a murder case when she heard the news on her radio.

“This was before cameras were allowed in the courtroom,” she said. “What are you supposed to do when you're waiting outside? It's boring.”

The Joint Operating Agreement between the Free Press and the Detroit News had passed. The next day, Schroeder was on the front page of her rival paper, the News, wearing a pink blouse, a sun hat, radio in hand and her face lit up. She was ecstatic.

“All of a sudden, the court case was minor,” said Schroeder, who has worked at the Free Press for 30 years. “Had the JOA not gone through, the Free Press would have closed.” Her celebration was premature, however, in that this was before the merger had seen the opposition it was going to.

A Joint Operating Agreement, or JOA, is a provision under the Newspaper Preservation Act of 1970 that allows for two newspapers to merge their operations should one be in danger of going out of business. A JOA would allow for the two publications to consolidate printing, distribution and advertising costs, among other factors. The agreement is exempt from antitrust laws and must be approved by the U.S. Justice Department. Detroit is the 22nd city in the nation to have a JOA between two newspapers.

A decade earlier, the two organizations engaged in what has been described as “the nation's biggest newspaper war” in which the owners -- Knight-Ridder Newspapers, Inc. of the Free Press and then-owner Evening News Association of the News -- battled for higher circulation. Knight-Ridder began slashing Free Press advertising and subscription costs with intent of leading the News in circulation. ENA followed suit with the News. The papers were selling for a significantly less amount than other papers -- the News, 15 cents; the Free Press, 20.

“The papers were just pouring all sorts of resources into trying to show that they were the better paper so that they would ultimately survive,” said Pat Beck, a Free Press photographer since 1977. “The advertising rate was well below what the national average was.”

In August 1985, Allen Neuharth of Gannett, the nation's largest media chain, purchased the News from ENA for $717 million, confident that it would win the newspaper war.

The News was the nation's ninth largest newspaper, the Free Press the tenth. They fought for control over Southeastern Michigan, which was the fifth largest demographic in the nation. The News, however, had a 20,000 circulation lead over the Free Press and was therefore set up to be the prevailing paper.

Between 1981-86, the Free Press was estimated to have lost between $10.7-13.8 million a year. By the time Gannett propositioned Knight-Ridder for a JOA to save the papers, the News had lost $20 million and the Free Press lost $35 million.

“Al Neuharth was looking for a cash cow to finance USA Today, which was sustaining heavy losses at the time,” said Lynn Henning, a News sports writer and columnist. “A JOA in Detroit would be a steady stream of friendly revenue for him.”

A JOA can typically take two years for approval, as proven by the JOA's that were in operation at the time. Then-Attorney General Edwin Meese was appointed to oversee the hearings, which were thought to be an easy win.

Administrative law judge Morton Needelman reviewed the JOA but did not find substantial evidence to rule in favor thereof. According to Henning, “the field staff thought it was crazy” and they could not find a significant amount of losses on part of the Free Press based on the documentation provided.

Local 34022 of the Newspaper Guild of Detroit (or Local 22 for short), a union that represents employees of Metro Detroit newspapers, called for the two papers to raise their prices because the JOA was in “severe jeopardy” since Needelman’s evaluation.

Meese disregarded his staff’s research and approved the agreement.

“Meese, being the ultimate Washington insider, never having met a monopoly that he wouldn't have supported, was completely behind the JOA,” Henning said. “Just because he had friends like Neuharth in the corporate world, they were all very chummy.”

The JOA received opposition from unions and businesses that thought Meese was acting ineptly and arbitrarily. Even then-Mayor Coleman Young disapproved.

“It was when that stupid state senator, Kelly, threw a wrench in the whole thing where he didn't like it,” said Schroeder.

Michigan State Senator John Kelly, D-Grosse Pointe Woods, was one of the strongest voices speaking out against the JOA. “By God, you don't mess with your morning Free Press, your church or your baseball team,” he was quoted in “Paper Losses,” a book about the Detroit JOA by Detroit News Washington correspondent Bryan Gruley.

Kelly, acting on part of the community's business, civic and labor leaders asserted that a JOA in Detroit would lead to a one-newspaper town, a monopoly, which would severely raise the price of advertising.

The opinion of Kelly at the News was much different than at the Free Press. Many News staffers opposed the JOA because that would mean their paper would lose their competitive edge. Henning said Kelly “performed a very noble role here in exposing [the JOA] for the hypocrisy and what it was.”

Kelly proposed an anti-JOA bill that failed just as quickly as it was drafted, but it represented a growing coalition of workers, Free Press and News staff among them, who petitioned Meese to take another good look at the terms and conditions passed.

“The guild was opposed on several fronts,” said Louis Mleczko, president of Local 22. “Not only was it going to negatively impact our members and employees because it would hurt them contractually on wages and benefits in the future...but we also could see a diminution of the quality of journalism being practiced up until that time in Detroit.

“It was fiction that, without a Joint Operating Agreement, the Detroit Free Press of all papers would fail and go out of business. The whole thing was a cynical ploy by the two largest newspaper chains in North America to effectively end the competition against each other and carve up this lucrative newspaper market.”

The opposition grew stronger and, despite Meese's ruling, filed for an audience before the U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals. The appeal was granted and the case was reviewed by a panel including Judges Spottswood Robinson, Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Laurence Silberman. On Jan. 27, 1989, the court ruled in favor of the JOA in a 2-1 decision. Opponents were given 10 days to ask the Supreme Court for review. It was granted.

The Supreme Court accepted the case, but there were more problems when Supreme Court Justice Byron White dropped out of the case, leaving eight members of the Supreme Court left to decide the ruling.

“The machinations were deepened by Washington,” said Henning, “leading right up to Byron White refusing himself from the case, which resulted in a 4-4 split.”

At the time, his reasons were unknown, but it was later discovered that White had stock in Gannett. His vote would have undergone much scrutiny had that information gotten out.

Regardless, the opposition did not contest the Supreme Court decision and the papers merged operations for, as the agreement stated, 100 years. They would share profits 55 percent for the News and 45 percent for the Free Press -- a number which would eventually meet at a 50/50 profit split.

It was awkward for some time. The papers had become a “hybrid newspaper,” called the Detroit News & Free Press, until they were strong enough to sustain themselves independently.

The weekend edition was particularly awry. On Sundays, the News covered local, state, business and sports, and the Free Press covered features. On Saturdays, the opposite.

“As a worker, it was odd,” said Beck. “If on Saturday, there was a huge fire in Detroit, the Free Press didn't have a news section on Sunday. If there was a big sporting event, we didn't have a sports section.

“Sometime, though, we'd get around it by having breaking news features.”

The Papers Covering Themselves

At the time of covering the events, the two papers struggled in reporting their own financial losses, as biases and competition were still underlying factors in the news. The Free Press stories were subtly biased, but biased nonetheless.

According to Mleczko, “The Free Press went on a shrill political campaign where they were running front page editorials and bludgeoning the public, saying, ‘If we don't get this Joint Operating Agreement, we're going to go out of business.’”

In the April 15,1986, issue, several staff writers quoted Neal Shine, then-senior managing editor of the Free Press, as saying, “This newsroom has more spirit than any in the country that I know of. My only concern is that we not lose our spunk and zaniness.”

In the following paragraph, Free Press publisher David Lawrence said, “I feel good that the News and Free Press will be here a century from now. There certainly is a mixture of sadness anytime there is change. At that same time, I know this is the best for most people.”

But in the same story, the staffers quote only Mleczko: “We're not going to stand still for this,” he said. “This will cost all departments employees.”

There is a discernible difference in the types of quotes between the apparently fun-loving and optimistic Free Press and the stern, angry News.

The News was slightly more tactful, in that, while the publication successfully reported unbiased accounts of the agreement, it disguised several other stories as editorials. Unfortunately, credibility is lost in the reader’s eyes when he realizes that almost every story is an editorial.

A clip by Gruley in the April 15, 1986, Detroit News read, “The Evening News Association, former owner of the News, and Knight-Ridder had discussed a possible joint agreement several times between 1981 and 1984, but failed to agree because neither side was willing to relinquish control of a combined setup.”

From this, the reader can’t help but imagine ENA and Knight-Ridder as unorganized and stubborn, and that Gannett alone saved the two papers from their ends.

Mleczko feels the News had a much more fair and accurate coverage because he “got the sense during that time period that Gannett didn't care whether the JOA collapsed or not. They saw a chance to invigorate themselves and make a lot of money and be a very direct competitor against Knight-Ridder.”

On Nov. 14, 1989, both papers ran editions that were seemingly dedicated to the final Supreme Court decision. The News coverage was more prominent, however, running seven articles on the outcome in the first eight pages. Page 5A was lined with eight quotes from concerned parties involved or affected by the JOA; only one supported it.

The Free Press ran five articles on pages 1, 8, 10 and 11A.

Henning is ashamed of how the JOA proceeded, and how the papers reported the proceedings.

“It's a prime example of how newspapers can never be trusted to cover themselves,” he said. “We were never getting anything close to the truth.

“Clearly, there should've been someone looking at this thing more critically and from a more investigative standpoint.”

Beck said that the Free Press staff was shocked that they were “painted as the failing newspaper,” but they were painted as such because it originally filed as the failing newspaper.

The nation had perceived the JOA as Knight-Ridder’s idea, despite Gannet first reaching out.

A January 4, 1988, article in the Wall Street Journal by Joseph White said, “Back in 1979, executives at Knight-Ridder Inc., the nation's second largest newspaper chain, took a big risk that seemed to promise rich rewards at one of its largest properties, the Detroit Free Press.

“Stuck in second place behind the rival Detroit News in the war for newspaper supremacy in Detroit, it seems the Free Press and Knight-Ridder gambled that spending millions to win over readers and advertisers would either” win the race for Knight-Ridder or result in a planned JOA.

A Two-Newspaper Town

Had one of the papers failed, it would have marked the second paper to fold in Detroit in a 30-year period, preceded by the Detroit Times, which folded in 1960, citing the reason as “rising costs.”

The Detroit News bought the Times and then-News publisher Warren Booth wrote the front page story on Nov. 7, 1960: “In such circumstances, the surviving newspapers are faced with greatly increased responsibilities to the community.

“The owners and staff of the News are fully aware of this aspect of the closing down of the Detroit Times and are prepared to carry out these responsibilities.”

The Free Press opposed this decision because this would mean that the News would gain the Times’s old circulation, as noted in this front page announcement of the merger:

“All Detroit Times carriers are asked to report to their regular Detroit Times substation branch or dropoff points today and everyday of this week. Every carrier will continue his route and deliver copies of the Detroit News to his former Detroit Times subscribers.”

“The Detroit Times was a viable third paper that just couldn't compete with the other two when push came to shove,” said Henning. “Every town has papers that existed fifty years ago that no longer exist. Three papers just weren't going to make it back then. It was a great product.

“Fortunately, a lot of the people at the Times were able to find jobs at the News and the Free Press.”

The JOA Today

There was more shifting of power in early August of 2005 when MediaNews Group bought the News and Gannett bought the Free Press.

Knight-Ridder went out of business.

Under the recent JOA, the News became a morning paper, same as the Free Press. The two papers also began to publish separate Saturday editions. The Sunday edition has been published solely by the Free Press.

“Gannett not only owns the Free Press now, but they own 95 percent of the Detroit News,” said Mleczko, “so to say there is a Joint Operating Agreement is a legal technicality in my view.”

Mleczko said the future is not looking good. The Detroit News has “a 200,000-page circulation now, which is the lowest it’s been in close to 100 years. Now it only has print home-delivery on Thursday and Friday. It doesn't even have a Sunday product. We've seen a great reduction in their size and scope as a whole enterprise.

“If you didn't have two daily newspapers competing against each other, then the quality of the products would erode because it’s in the interest of these corporations to cut all of their operating costs -- business and editorial -- and try to maximize their profits that way. Unfortunately, that has been the legacy of this Joint Operating Agreement in Detroit.”

Currently, due to dwindling circulation numbers, newspapers have to advertise themselves on television, which is potentially costing more money than the ads draw in. The JOA was enough to get the two papers out of the 20th Century, but could crumble in print in the near future. While the JOA may still be in effect, it will certainly be using another vehicle to deliver news.

On April 13, The New York Times wrote a report on Internet news outlets that act more like news hubs than a news sources.

Websites like EveryBlock.com and Outside.in “collect links to articles and blogs and often supplement them with data from local governments and other sources,” the article said. “They might let a visitor know about an arrest a block away, the sale of a home down the street and reviews of nearby restaurants.”

Although it is a development that has been in consideration for over a decade, it is not without faults. In the absence of actual reporters, stories a vague and open-ended. Should newspapers go in this direction, websites will be more often than not be owned by one company like Gannett.

The Greatest Email I've Ever Received

2009-04-16T00:06:00.008-04:00

Somebody out there is a marketing genius. Today, my friend Jay [above right, circa 2005] had his Gmail account hacked and the following letter was sent my way, and the way of his other comrades, addressed respectively:

Peter

How are you doing today? I am sorry i didn't inform you about my traveling to Africa for a program called "Empowering Youth to Fight Racism, HIV/AIDS, Poverty and Lack of Education, the program is taking place in three major countries in Africa which is Kenya , South Africa and Ghana . It as been a very sad and bad moment for me, the present condition that i found myself is very hard for me to explain.

I am really stranded in Ghana because I forgot my little bag in the Taxi where my money, passport, documents and other valuable things were kept on my way to the Hotel am staying, I am facing a hard time here because i have no money on me. I am now owning a hotel bill of $ 820 and they wanted me to pay the bill soon else they will have to seize my bag and hand me over to the Hotel Management, I need this help from you urgently to help me back home, I need you to help me with the hotel bill and i will also need $1000 to feed and help myself back home so please can you help me with a sum of $1820 to sort out my problems here? I need this help so much and on time because i am in a terrible and tight situation here, I don't even have money to feed myself for a day which means i had been starving so please understand how urgent i need your help.i have decided not tell my family so that they will not be worried.when I return I will tell them and they will understand.

I am sending you this e-mail from the city Library and I only have 2.30 min, I will appreciate what so ever you can afford to send me for now and I promise to pay back your money as soon as i return home.You need to transfer the money through Money Gram or Western Union to the address below.Pls reply back to my alternate email address at jenright5@rocketmail.com becuase gmail servic is very bad here in Ghana Hope to hear from you soon.

Here is the address on how to send the money

Name: Jason Enright

City: AccraZip code:00233

Country: Ghana

Regards,

Jason

Database FAIL: the negligence of sexuality at a university level

2009-04-08T00:00:00.029-04:00

I'm very disappointed right now and I will tell you why.

In a previous entry, I expressed great disdain over a Critical Thinking class I am taking, in which the only thing more absurd than the subject matter is the fact that I can't seem to pass the fucking tests. In this class, we were given an assignment for which we are to research three different brands of some type of electronic gizmo. Based on the write-ups in scholarly journals and peer-reviewed articles we'd found using Wayne State's library database, we are to compare and contrast each brand based on three criteria and, in three to five pages, assess which of the three would make the most logical purchase. The point of the assignment, I imagine, is to test our hand-eye coordination as we stab our feet repeatedly for being exposed to such a blatant insult.

But, of course, I find fun in most things mundane. (That's why I'm a writer.) I therefore found it an obligation to do just that with this assignment. The day the paper was assigned, I figured that most everyone in the class will be researching laptops, cameras and cell phones. "What if I researched sex toys?" I whispered to the girl who had the misfortune of sitting next to me that day. After a few tentative giggles, she said, "I'll pay you if you do."

It wasn't exactly a serious proposition, but I really couldn't help imagining the fun I'd have as a heterosexual male person scouring academic journals for products meant to stimulate the very fascinating female genitalia. The teacher would most likely be appreciative of the change in pace. Fun aside, it would also be a comprehensive and in-depth study -- real A-work -- that I would post on this very blog to better serve the womenfolk in my life. This spur of the moment idea consumed me. I was going to study dildos.

"How much?" I asked my friend.

That was a few weeks ago. It wasn't until today that I actually sat down at a computer and began to research the damn thing. I didn't anticipate difficulty: Just log into AcademicOne; search for something like 'sex toys,' 'masturbation via dildo' or 'vaginal pleasure'; and engulf myself in a hoard of concupiscence.

But I made a mistake. Apparently, sex toys are deviant.

Enter said disappointment. There were plenty of studies to choose from on sex-related topics of scientific ambivalence, but no product reviews on a database that claims itself to be "the premier source for peer-reviewed, full-text articles from the world's leading journals and reference sources." If I type in 'laptop,' I get 570 results; 'camera,' 1474. Virtually nothing on sexual pleasure.

While it promises to be most engaging, I'll think I'll wait for a rainy day to read "Comparing fecundity in parthenogenetic versus sexual populations of the freshwater snail Campeloma limum."

It was disappointing because it would seem to me that university databases are overtly prude. Certainly, a healthy sexual appetite is more important to someone's mental well-being than a garage door opener with a 50-yard reach. This was proven to me time and again since I relayed these frustration subtly on both Facebook and Twitter: "Peter Jurich is having a very difficult time finding product reviews for dildos in WSU's library database for his Critical Thinking research project."

No questions asked, I was immediately offered research assistance from the online female demographic. There was intense interest in the ambiguity of my statement I imagine. Why was he studying this? How was he studying this? I began receiving offers for "personal product reviews lmao" and even my own mother sent me an article about vibrators from Holistic Wisdom.

"That must be nice," said Whitney Jones, a French Studies major at the University of Michigan-Dearborn. "I wish I got vibrator emails from my relatives."

Unfortunately, the above all eludes the purpose of the assignment and I hate to think that my professor will, in turn, be missing out on a compelling study that drew so much attention so fast. I suppose I could very well shoot an email his way inquiring whether I can conduct this study for full pointage anyway:

yo prof,

i'ma study dildos cuz girlz be trippin me out, they wanna tell me all about playin with themselfs n shit.

ur boi,
Peter Jurich
as7015@wayne.edu

There's really no reason I can detect as to why sex toys should not have a presence on a database that revolves around consumerism. It's disappointing because, through this, I still get the impression that sexuality cannot be discussed in a mature manner, despite on-campus events that have proven otherwise.

It can be argued that the product descriptions will be browsed more by those who feel the above sample email is acceptable and less by those actually seeking purchase, but that's minor -- for anyone who is looking there for the wrong reasons, they are either ignorant to the pornography industry or trying to mix education with perversion.

I, on the other hand, am engaging in neither; I'll be looking up which clock radio is best.

Why I Make A Better Journalist Than Tutor

2009-04-06T16:38:00.003-04:00

[STUDENT is reading to MR. PETER and struggling on a T-word.]

STUDENT: Mr. Peter, what's this word?
MR. PETER: It's the nation that just joined the European Union.
[awkward pause]
STUDENT: What?
MR. PETER: You eat it on Thanksgiving.
STUDENT: Turkey!
MR. PETER: There ya go.

[LIGHTS.]

Things That Go Crash In The Night: a product review

2009-04-04T13:32:00.006-04:00

Friday morning around 1:30, I had just lay down to whisk myself to slumber when a loud crash from my basement disturbed me.

I live in a typical middle-class neighborhood in West Dearborn. My house isn't much, but it's nice. If I were a burglar, I'd know that there are probably better houses on the block in which to break, but there are also worse. This one is just right; Goldilocks couldn't have designed a better target.

I heard this crash and am ashamed to say that my first thought was, I'll just go to sleep and hope I wake up tomorrow morning! As it turns out, Jim Gaffigan was right. He has a joke where he explains a situation similar to mine. In situations like that, he said, he just rolls over and goes back to sleep. "You can't get me if I'm sleeping!" he whispers comfortably to himself.

For a few seconds, I contemplated this. But the more I thought about it, the more my heart started racing. Those familiar sounds your house normally makes -- the ones to which you've grown accustomed to falling asleep -- suddenly aren't so familiar anymore. The humming refrigerator becomes a stranger, the leaky bathroom faucet an acquaintance. You trust no one(thing).

And so I needed to investigate. My house was chilly so I put on the warmest sweatshirt I have so as to best have a chance against a possible adversary.

The catch? It displays a picture of Kermit the Frog with "the Muppet Show" written loudly behind him.

I felt this benefited me in two fashions: 1) Should someone really be in my basement, they'd be taken aback, suffused with pleasant nostalgia, long enough for me to kick their ass (I am, after all, a green belt); 2) If I'm going down, it's gonna be in a "Muppet Show" sweatshirt.

Gingerly, I touched my feet to the floor and stalked to the kitchen. We don't own guns and my baseball bat was in my car, so I went to the cutlery drawer and took out a knife. I've never used a knife in combat before, but I loved "The Count of Monte Cristo," so I have an idea of how it works. I went downstairs.

I turned on the lights and began snooping around, jumping around corners as it is done. I didn't breathe. Around this time, it crossed my mind that Luke thought that breaking and entering would be a hilarious joke. That boy and his projects -- honestly. Despite potentially harming my friend, I kept my knife-wielding arm poised high, much like how Jim Caviezel taught me. The laundry room was secure.

And so was the main area where one can easily hide behind mounds of boxes and a drum set. For some reason, we have a bar in my basement. No one was hiding behind that either. Regardless, how unnerving it was, the clatter with no origin.

Looking around, however, I found the source: our Swiffer Sweeper, which was previously leaning on the wall, had fallen onto a bag of empty pop cans.

Earlier that day, my mother asked me when I was going to return them. FML.

Guarding Against Libel

2009-04-02T23:55:00.009-04:00

It’s called a plong attack -- that sudden rush of fear that wakes reporters up in the middle of the night and has them questioning, “Did I do the right thing? Did I do everything I could in the situation? Was I fair and balanced enough?”

“It’s heart-stopping,” said Joe Swickard, a criminal justice reporter at the Detroit Free Press. “You get up in a cold sweat. You don’t really have cause to worry. It’s just that fear that you have really screwed up.”

Swickard, who will have been with the Free Press for 30 years this May, has had his fair share of these attacks and can testify that his colleagues have as well. As a reporter, he has far more at stake than just his own reputation; he is also responsible for those of his subjects.

“It’s one of those jobs that it’s so bad you have to love it,” he said. “It‘s like doing a term paper all the time.”

Reporters have an obligation to deliver the truth to readers, listeners and viewers. They are in a constant struggle to report fairly, accurately and objectively. To accomplish this, they must check and double check all of their facts before turning their assignments in for review.

Even then, Swickard said the assignment goes to two or three more editors for approval.
According to Swickard, editors “can be annoying, asking what you think are stupid questions, but you know they’ve saved your hide a whole lot.”

The reason for such stringent editing is that news organizations are doing their very best to avoid sloppy and untruthful reporting done either out of malice or negligence -- which is grounds for a libel or slander suit.

Libel concerns written falsities on subjects, and slander concerns spoken.

“You always want to make sure they’re sure,” said Free Press metro editor James Hill. When dealing with reporters, Hill will “look them straight in the eye and say, ‘Are you sure?’”

Hill has worked for the Free Press for nine years and keeps copies of all documents that his reporters cite in their work “just in case.”

Swickard understands why.

“People, for any number of reasons, may not be accurate, whether it’s out of malice or just being unaware of the situation,” Swickard said. “They pass along information that they think helps illustrate a person’s life or shed light on them. They won’t be accurate or they may just be a spiteful person.”

The same is just as true for radio stations. Rob Davidek is the news director at WWJ News Radio 950 in Southfield.

“What we run into -- and it’s an issue, it’s dangerous for us -- is there are other people who might go and put another name out there,” said Davidek, who is very wary of where sources get their information.

“Everyday, we’re dealing with decisions. Is this slanderous? Is this libelous? We’re thinking about that every story we write.”

Davidek is going on 16 years working at WWJ where he has served many positions. He began as a part-time overnight assignment writer. Then, after three years, a full-time evening assignment editor. He’s been a Morning Drive producer (a 5-10 a.m. shift), an assistant news director and eventually a news director in 2005. As news director, he oversees the final product that goes on the air, as well as manages a staff of 30-35 people.

His responsibilities at the CBS-owned station are many, but his worries are assuaged by his staff. He is reassured that they are just as careful as he in safeguarding against libel and slander.

“All the people here have gone through a law class regarding broadcast law,” he said.
He doesn‘t worry because they would not be in the business had they not been trained to defend their work properly.

“It’s something that, with our experience as journalists and broadcast journalists, we deal with.”

Beth Fisher has been a reporter at WWJ for 12 years. She graduated from Iowa State University with a degree in journalism and worked around Ohio at WMOA, WOHO, WERE and WWWE. Before working with WWJ in 1997, she worked with WDIV-TV and WXYT in Detroit.
“You can’t just put anybody on the air saying anything about anybody,” Fisher said. “You have to watch that because something could be slanderous.”

Fisher stressed the importance of attribution. As a reporter, it is important to leave your opinion out of the story because, otherwise, the report would seem biased and unfair. By attributing an allegation to someone else, the reporter does her job by delivering only the information that she collects, as well as upholding the integrity the organization she represents.

On reporting subjects, there is also a distinction between two types of sources -- public and private persons.

Fisher defined private persons as those who “are not seeking the limelight.” They are ordinary citizens who go about their days normally, whose primary motivation is their and their family’s welfare.

A public person, on the other hand, “is someone who has sought a place in the public forum or the public square,” said Swickard. “Someone who has put themselves forward in some fashion.” This includes, but is not limited to, politicians, community organizers, actors and musicians.

When reporting on public persons, a reporter must display both negligence and malice, as ruled in the New York Times v. Sullivan U.S. Supreme Court decision. The famous libel law ruling set a precedent for public figures as “libel proof.”

In the 1960s, police commissioner L. B. Sullivan of Montgomery, Ala., contested an ad in the New York Times, which he claimed held inaccuracies that libeled him. The Supreme Court ruled in favor of Sullivan in a decision that meant a plaintiff has to show that “actual malice” has been demonstrated on part of the publication.

Extra measures must be taken in dealing with private persons, however, because the plaintiff only needs to demonstrate that the reporter misread or neglected to check facts.

“Sometimes, private people get thrust into the public eye,” said Swickard. “That’s where judgment and balance come in. The boundaries start shifting.”

Swickard works more sensitively with private subjects, especially victims of tragedy. He “would not necessarily give them veto power,” but he would definitely clue subjects in more on what will be published and what the possible ramifications for publication might be.

Under other circumstances, he would not share his work so openly with his subjects, but he understands and respects the privacy of those protective of their reputations: Years ago, his younger sister was a hostage in an armed robbery at the restaurant at which she worked.

“She was in her last semester in college, working two nights a week at a pancake house,” he said. “Next thing she knows, she’s herded into a bathroom by a bunch of gunmen with the cops outside.”

The situation ended peacefully, but when his sister’s picture appeared on the front page of four major Chicago newspapers the next day, Swickard took away a very personal account of subjecting private persons to public scrutiny.

The Rouch decisions have also had a great impact in reporting on private persons. The Michigan Supreme Court ruling in Rouch v. Enquirer & News of Battle Creek U.S. Supreme Court decision concerned David Rouch, whose name was released in an arrest on sexual assault. The Battle Creek Enquirer & News reported Rouch as charged, though he never was.

“Anyone can be arrested,” said Swickard, who covered the Rouch case in the 1980s. “Arrest just means that police take you into custody. How many times have you heard of innocent people convicted and then later cleared?

“Covering police and courts for years, I know that a lot of people get arrested, taken into custody, but no criminal charges are ever brought. You try to wait for the official paper trail to begin.” Examples of a paper trail are warrant requests, written documentation or on-the-record- statements by a police chief or prosecutor.

“Our policy is unless somebody is arraigned and appear in court, we do not broadcast their name,” said Davidek. “The one little twist in that is if the prosecutor’s office were to sign or issue a warrant for somebody, then we use the name as well.”

Reporters at the radio station do not depend on police word alone. They, too, wait for the documentation.

“We live in a very litigious society,” said Fisher. “People will file a lawsuit at the drop of a hat.”

When reporting an incident prior to an official arraignment, Fisher encourages giving a very basic description of the suspect -- one that will not lay blame to one specific individual or small group of individuals, but will still keep the public informed.

Fortunately, Davidek could not recall a time when WWJ was convicted of libel or slander. He does, however, remember a story involving a reporter’s description of a grocery store. Lawyers contacted the station and suggested that the story could be slanderous.

“We went back and listened to the tapes to see what their concerns were,” Davidek said. “Our reporter did not talk to the store owners, but she went into the store and saw the conditions that were described.”

At the Free Press, Swickard cited a story from the 1930s involving Charles Coughlin, the controversial and antagonistic Radio Priest at WJR, who sued the newspaper for calling him “a congenital liar.”

Situations like this are avoided everyday though responsible research and unbiased reporting.

As for plong attacks, Hill doesn't think they will go away soon for any journalist.

The threat of a lawsuit “is something that you will always have in the back of your mind,” he said. “But as long as you know that you’ve been thorough, and that you’ve checked and double checked as a reporter, it’ll help you sleep better at night if you’re confident.”

Book Review: 'The Powers That Be' by David Halberstam

2009-03-31T16:14:00.006-04:00

History has always been defined by the most prominent names and events, but less regarded are the people and situations that formed those names and events. In “The Powers That Be” (University of Illinois Press, 2000), David Halberstam takes an inside look at the history of history -- the major players involved with the inception of newspapers, radio and television as the manipulative core of politics and entertainment.

“Powers” follows the evolution of CBS, Time Magazine, the Washington Post and the Los Angeles Times from their entrepreneurial beginnings to their places as major influences on people and politicians. Halberstam gives an intimate look into the lives of each company's owner, and the reporters that made them great, not only professionally, but privately as well. Nothing is too sacred for the author and yet the information is presented with such class that nothing feels too obtrusive. We see the young and ambitious become hardened and angry, the pushy and powerful become crestfallen and dour, and the rich become richer.

The progression of ideas in advertising and the acumen behind them allow for understanding and interpretation of news as open source. For example, Bill Paley of CBS may have seen the future before anyone: In competition with the then-leading radio station, NBC, Paley allowed for affiliates of his station to plug in and use its broadcasts for free in return for preferred time blocks for his own series. Before delivery was a department of the newspaper business, the Los Angeles Times, in a joint operation with delivery services, ran out the competition. These ideas are taken for granted today, come naturally and seem less innovative. But given the proper context, it is no wonder that the subject media was run by those who transcended natural selection. (How many people really know that Walter Cronkite’s preference for hands-on field work made his career?)

The work is also a testament to modern attention spans and incentives to read dailies: It was Lester Markel, editor of the New York Times, that immortalized the usage of a Sunday edition, packing the work of his more proficient journalists between lingerie ads. And what ever happened to afternoon papers anyway?

Readers may often feel objectified and used, but no less engaged, as they get the inside look on how moguls of their day viewed the general public -- as numbers, lucrative and impressionable numbers. It is a book that elicits a different view on the world where advertising techniques go less unnoticed and leaves a bitter feeling of spite toward big business. Keeping deceitful ads in mind, you might have second thoughts before buying your mother that Snuggie she’s been asking about.

Politicians prove to be Halberstam’s best subjects. Be it FDR berating a reporter for asking whether the president might run for a third term, or Eisenhower’s anathematic relationship with television broadcast, Halberstam’s work shines when he describes the actions and reactions of those apparently running the country. Presidents are seen at their very worst on the campaign trail and are diminished to blubbering and inarticulate fools in the shadow of publishers, advertising agents and television executives. To read about the country’s most powerful individuals in such a sour light is a guilty pleasure that rivals eating ice cream while watching “Growing Pains.”

It’s admirable that the amount of research done for this work should be as cohesive as it is. All things considered, a project this large is nearly impossible. Halberstam not only delivers the information, but the metaphorical cherry on top is that it is enjoyable. The author rewards you for getting through his lengthy paragraphs generally by ending them with a voyeuristic peak between the blinds of his subjects' windows. Alcoholism? Great! Marital problems? Even better!

Halberstam’s manuscript is riddled with delightfully quirky, and often parenthetical, anecdotes. These scenes are what gives the book the character that makes it such a fascinating read. They are subplots. They are character development. Clara Luce is to Harry Luce as Cho Chang is to Harry Potter -- their interactions don’t drive the story, but the reader would be robbed of the fun without them.

Where Halberstam succeeds in quirky anecdotes, however, he fails in repetition. He spends pages delivering the most accurate portrayal of each character that he can, at the expense of the reader’s monthly déjà vu quota. Certainly CBS reporter Edward Murrow and Washington Post publisher Philip Graham are the same person -- they were both charismatic professionals, way ahead of their time, who fell into “dark times” while undergoing the pressures of their respective careers. At 736 pages, forests may have been preserved had the author decided to divvy up similar material between General Harrison Gray Otis of the Los Angeles Times and Harry Luce of Time, Inc. Both had visions for the country, using their platforms accordingly, and both felt that the bigger they became, the greater the obligation and workload. One can only describe the pugnacity of power-hungry megalomaniacs so much before he finds himself running out of words.

And is confusing at points; given the depth of the manuscript, time is not completely linear and jumps back and forth between decades. Each paragraph is packed with so many facts and vignettes that it is difficult to define what its primary purpose is. In this, indentation sometimes becomes irrelevant and is utilized arbitrarily.

Fans of print journalism will read “The Powers That Be” just as they might engage themselves in the work of an artist who they just discovered had died years ago -- partly out of genuine interest, partly out of reminiscence and admiration. Today’s newspaper is becoming a defunct relic and television broadcast is regarded as extremist and unreliable. By way of the Internet, news is free and increasingly more niche. It is of little comfort to readers in these days of economic downturn to know that mass amounts of money were exchanged just as violently years ago as they are today. Especially in a market as once flourishing, and now dying, as journalism.

Ideas From The Road More Travelled

2009-03-18T14:28:00.008-04:00

I am convinced that the Ohio Turnpike is where mufflers go to die because the side of the lengthy Interstate is littered with the aforementioned construction.

Earlier this afternoon, I followed a Walgreens truck to a service station on the side of the road--partly because I was thirsty, partly because I was transfixed by the symbol on the back of it's haul. I've never noticed the Walgreens symbol before. It is a picture that stumps me. A blue cauldron being filled with intergalactic burnouts. If Walgreens has a motto, I can only imagine it might be "Walgreens: We Pour Stars Into Pots."

Now, suburban Ohio looks a lot like Michigan where businesses long closed are concerned, but the service stations--these bastions of excellence--make me believe that they are the soul reason that Ohio is not worse than Michigan in terms of economic downturn. They are practically strip malls, and with one every thirty miles or so, there always seems room for growth, always new job opportunities. Security, Starbucks, custodians, architects. It just might be a little easier to find a job in out neighbor to the southeast. The price of land on the side of a busy highway can't be that expensive and it is only a matter of time before I-80/90 becomes the new California during the Gold Rush.

At this particular service station, I had accomplished my goals (birthday shopping mostly) and was on the way to my Horse when I was approached by two girls. "Hey, do you have a cigarette?" one asked.

I chuckled a little. I'm not sure I look like a smoker, but I suppose I often look like someone who is brooding because he wants one.

"No," I said. "But I've got something better. Do you liked cheesecake?"

I did have cheesecake. Earlier, I was at a fruit market to replenish my stock of citrus splendor; I have recently taken up healthy snacks much to the chagrin of my expanding girth. I call it a Kira Frabutt Diet, though she has yet to be informed. I was looking for the five best-looking oranges when I looked up and discovered a shelf of strawberry cheesecake. It looked phenomenal and at three dollars for two small slices, how could I resist? I purchased, sat down in the market and enjoyed one of the two, but felt myself both full and straying away from my diet. The other piece remained in my car.

"Yeah!" they both said excitedly.

"Well, I only have one piece, so you'll have to share."

"That's OK!"

So I got the cheesecake and left it to them to decide who would eat the crust. It may not have been rat poison and carbon monoxide, but were they thankful!

I can only hope that karma actually does exist and that, since I will currently begin asking strangers for cigarettes, they will apologetically say no but offer something better in return. Who knows what this endeavor might turn into! New shoes? A boa constrictor? A pot full of stars?

The possibilities, seem endless! Of course, should the response ever turn out to be "Sure thing," I might have a smoke now and then.

This Little Light of Mine...

2009-03-17T19:23:00.007-04:00

A few nights ago, I was offered cocaine in the bathroom of a really awful bar in Taylor, MI. I should have known it was awful right the start; there was an area designated to beerpong, an activity I loathe but am ostensibly good at.

It was not so much the idea of being offered as it was the way in which the situation was presented. I walked into the men's bathroom, which was no bigger than your own bathroom at home, and discovered six or seven dudes--my above Halloween costume, circa 2006--all exchanging moneys and stepping into the stall. A wiry young man with erratic eyes and ravenous demeanor jumped on me metaphorically and said, "Hey man! You like to party?" He began to rub his nose voraciously and sniffle.

I was quite privvy to the goings-on and the sign language, and I assessed that this young man probably did not have a cold. "No," I said, and proceeded to the urinal.

My friend again disturbed my human nature. "I don't think you know what I mean, man! You know--party!" He began again to play with his nose.

Also wise to the proper lexicon, I said, "No, I don't go skiing."

"OK!" he said in exaggerated surrender, as if it were he being accosted. "But don't tell nobody, cool?"

At this, I was brought back to the last time I was offered crack. During Detroit's Dally in The Alley, I was walking to the corner store when...

"Yo pimp," a voice behind me beckoned. Being the only pimp in the viscinity, I turned.

"What?"

"Pimp, whatchu need?" said a short and stocky boy, dressed again as the above Halloween costume.

"A beer," I said.

"Nah, man. Whatchu need?"

"Nothin' you're selling." I walked away.

"Hey, man," he said again.

Man? I thought. I thought I was a pimp! Oh, the fickleness of advertising, always playing with our egos.

"Man, don't tell nobody."

Peeing in the bathroom, I contemplated the various types of drug dealers. I found it silly that, in my limited experience, pot dealers seem to be more crafty. They hide in bushes, keep dim purple lights on outside their windows at night and insist you call them things like "Green" or "Booya." It is not a very dangerous drug, but the surrounding business seems a little more organized.

Crack, however, which is actually addictive and provides far more danger to the planet, is thrown around messily by regular looking guys that sit in your physics class.

I also thought it funny that, comparatively, both dealers acted tough but, in the end, shriveled into an insecure mash of shame and fear. "Don't tell nobody."

These thoughts were interrupted by a man at the urinal next to me who noticed I'd been standing at mine for about two minutes.

"Sometimes," he said, "it's just hard to piss."

Boy, is it ever.

Mr. Paine Would Be Ashamed of Us

2009-02-19T20:28:00.005-05:00

Which of the following is NOT a way to win favor in a persuasive argument?

A. Listen respectfully to the other person's opinion.
B. Take notes and present relevant rebuttals.
C. Kick and scream until you get your way.
D. Empathize with and therefore understand opposing viewpoints.

This is an example question from a test that I took last week for a critical thinking class. The answer is very clearly C. Frankly, I am disappointed and a little insulted that I should be required to take this course. It's remedial at best (Where else can I be reminded that my credit score suffers if I don't make timely payments?) and I imagine it is a lot like anger management. "Don't hit people." "Yelling is bad."

I come from--in peculiar manner, I admit--a mentality that anyone older has all of the answers. I know longer feel this way, but years ago, the seniors of my high school junior year bore no more knowledge of the world than the eighth graders I looked up to in middle school. To be older has always meant wiser. Anyone, be it a grade above me or five years ahead, always possessed an unattainable knowledge and maturity. While this class of mine has done well to reinforce the actual reality of life--that people are just people--another situation has done so much more for me:

Very recently, I canceled my account with AT&T, or Cingular as it were, for a CREDO Mobile--a cheaper and more efficient cell phone service. They're fantastic; they paid my early termination fee with AT&T and one percent of my bill go toward progressive nonprofits. Right up my alley.

A few days ago, I received my last cell phone bill in the mail from AT&T. I thought I was over and done with those jerks, but I guess not. I opened the mailer and discovered that, although I canceled my account last month, I still owed a service charge for the month. The charge? 32 cents.

32 cents. How paltry. How inane. How ridiculous (or "ridick" as we of the chic class say). My brain could not function. I was wrapped in a spool of lies and propriety, too awe-struck to take offense. Oh God, how silly!

I was not going to write a check for this. That would be a terribly hypocritical waste of paper for one who just joined a more humanitarian cell phone company. So instead, I stuffed the envelope with loose change. I'm slightly embarrassed by the fact that it took me two 42-cent stamps to mail 32 cents, but it is what it is.

Whomever sent out that final notice obviously had not taken a critical thinking course.

During one particular two-hour period--of the aforementioned class--that I walked out of, the teacher went over four winning attitudes for success:

Welcome criticism
Think of no one as below you
Ideas can be understood without being embraced

I did not stick around for the fourth.

"It's not rocket science, guys," the teacher loves to say. Apparently, it is.

I suppose it is only my own fault that I'm in this class. It's a freshman-level course that I neglected. I'm a 22-year-old in a room of 18- and 19-year-olds. Still, my heart goes out to the woman in her forties who usually sits behind me. Middle-aged students do not take college lightly--it is their second chance at life--and they will break their backs to attend class. I find it hard to believe that a woman with two jobs and three kids, one married, needs a lecture on credit card fraud.

And so on the days where I force myself to go to class if only to catch up on the curriculum and flirt, my thought process takes a more empathetic stroll; I no longer pine over how smart I might be in the future so much as how dumb I used to be. Who knows? This class might be benefiting someone. Three years ago, I certainly did not understand deductive reasoning (If a trout is a fish, and fish can swim, then a trout can swim), let alone cosigning a lease for an apartment (which, had I been my mother, I would not have done for me).

I have to wonder what kind of testament to our times a class like this might endure. I'm reading a book right now called "The Powers That Be" by David Halberstam--an extensive history of four news organizations that shaped history. At 792 pages, it takes a dedication I would normally lack if not for the fact that it's for a class. That aside, it is enjoyable and interesting.

In the book, the characters are intelligent, unique and have a natural acumen for their respective lines of career. Also, they are all living in "exciting times." The Depression. FDR's New Deal. The invention of radio. World War II. Could it be a better time to be Someone With An Idea? In those days, were there critical thinking classes to help form those ideas?

I understand that books carry a momentum that life often does not, but at some point, the print must meet the reality and fantastic things will happen. I fear, however, that my generation is being babied if such common sense needs to be spoon-fed to us. Formal meetings involving college administrators have to of been held in order to decide that this class was right for college students. Fantastic things will happen, but certainly such progress is being slowed down via lessons that should be instilled in high school.

And so I find myself ambivalent. A few days ago, I attended a group discussion on the future of education as it pertains to elementary school students. Truly, something has to change there; as teachers get older and more reluctant to adapt to new innovations, be they in mentality or technology, kids are way ahead of them and a spiral of disrespect and aggravation ensues.

But maybe it's our high school and university students who are in trouble, especially if we need to be taught/reminded how to think. While higher education for the young'ns makes their futures brighter, the alternative is the much more immediate concern. Just as you'd complete the project due tomorrow rather than the one due next week, what's in it for educating children when the young adults have just fucked everything up?

All I can hope for is that the gears are in motion to combine solutions. I will not doubt the fact that I have learned a few things from this awful class, albeit from the external sources I was curious enough to look up. So it's better than nothing, but what I would like to see is that this class be taken out of the required college curriculum; it is far too silly to be in there.

In place of taking it out of a college curriculum, however, I'd like to see it put in a high school one instead. Especially by today's standards where adolescence is frowned upon, even by adolescents themselves. Let's have babies. Let's get in debt. Let's work full-time. We must do these things now before we accumulate more ambitions. Fantastic things are happening all right.

Honestly. I teach middle-schoolers with credit cards and cell phones. You tell me who really needs the critical thinking class.

Happy Birthday, Jeff Daniels.

Lacuna Beach: a writing exercise

2009-02-05T11:38:00.008-05:00

I came to Blogspot because I'm positive I don't need to check my Facebook again before I get started on homework. I came here to deter myself from looking at pictures of stupid things my friends are doing and hopefully do some productive reasoning in the interim. Unfortunately, though not shockingly, I've nothing to say.

Lately, I try always to write with purpose, but this time I have none. I've come here only to avoid a bad habit that many young collegiates have. I promised myself to publish whatever surfaces, and what a stressful idea that is! What if nothing comes of this writing? What silly ramblings will become far-reaching and immortal today?

It's an uncomfortable situation, coming to the means of relaying a message when you've neither a clue nor the definition of what that message might be. An uncomfortable situation, but not one unfamiliar to me since I often take my foot out of my mouth to speak inarticulately about things far beyond my understanding. In conversation, I tend to cruise by on amiability alone. When it comes to actual debate, my strongest defense is to enforce my opinion so brashly until others believe that I really must be correct. I usual am, of course, but I feel like a child sometimes; I have the right idea, just not the vocabulary to transfer it civilly.

I had a rare moment last semester in my Greek Tragedy class where I actually knew exactly what I wanted to say and how I wanted to say it. The event, however, was through no fault of my own. The teacher called on me to address a histrionic discrepancy and, as I started to speak, I had deja vu! In this weird out-of-body experience, I saw myself answering the question exactly how I wanted to answer it myself! In reality, I was just repeating what I said in the dream to present to the class a very thorough and valid argument. Amazing! I thought. Is this what it feels like to think before I speak?

It is not often that I am of the mind to speak on behalf of coherent thought. I'm usually in too much of a rush to get the thought out, and so cognizance leaves me. This makes March 19th a very timid area of discussion.

Be it as it may, I have been asked to give a speech at the University of Michigan-Dearborn to discuss this thing I did once. I'm not an expert on self-publishing, nor am I much of a public speaker, but I'm determined to make this the best fifteen- to twenty-minute speech anyone has ever heard. The last time I gave a formal speech was back in 2005 when I took COM 1010. Those stumblings were pretty awful.

While brainstorming for what's ahead, I had a slightly more comforting thought: The last time I spoke in front of a large group, I was teaching a class of second-graders how to write Halloween stories. I was nervous prior to, but it was much easier than I imagined. Second-graders will eat right out of your hand. I related this to my future predicament as kind of the same thing. In fact, my peers would be far less judgmental to me than their younger counterparts, given that they're too polite to raise their hands and ask what those "little red bumps on your face" are!

Regardless, it is a nerve-wracking thought, my standing in front of a class of eager listeners who are there by choice. I'm vowing to myself that this time will be different. This time, I might rely on a little more than deja vu. I think I might actually do some preparing for this one.

I think that turned out well.

It's Only Emo If You Let It Be

2009-01-24T14:21:00.014-05:00

Time to switch things up again, I guess.

Every few months, I have a panic attack. They are typically the loneliest and most dreadful forty-five minutes of my life, and there is seemingly no way out of them. They are set off by very minor occurrences and bestow upon others a most cranky and unpleasant devil that Euripides himself could not muster. I typically reemerge from them, however, motivated, confident and undeterred by time restriction.

The last time I had one, I was on my way back from a brilliant day swimming in Lake Michigan with my extended (though not through legal binding) family and a group of beautiful people that made for a feel of Venice Beach--before I was told of how dirty it was. The ride home was just so... quiet.

As a self-proclaimed crazy person, I must admit that the stillness of silence does not do my body good. Like most members of the human plethora, I over-think and over-analyze. I do this without abandon and usually for lack of anything better to do. A deadly combination that is, the tendency to ruminate voraciously with no real thought to ruminate over.

But it's what I do. A downward spiral of regret and self-loathing follows. I should've done this. I've never done that. Next, comes the violent outbursts. I require physical assertion and, in this particular breakdown in the backseat of my fake dad's Prius, I had none. Therefore, the impact was twice as criminal.

That night, my mother concluded, "You're not crazy. Everyone in your family is, so you think you must be, too." She also admonished me to find a fuck buddy (the darling parent), but that actually turned out to be of little comfort.

The result of this breakdown was the decision to allow myself to be consumed by work. I decided to take on fifteen credit hours of school and work five days a week at a high-maintenance job. It was the worst semester of my life and I lost touch with a number of fantastic people, but it consoled me for some time. A schedule took the place where my life once was important. I did not allow myself time for regret simply because I did not allow myself time for thought. Even my weekends were spent doing homework.

I write this because today I had my moment but an hour ago. That horrible mass of unmerciful melancholy suffused my ambition and left me feeling fetal. I should have known it was coming because I started biting my nails again recently. It began when I was considering, albeit irrationally, the massive amounts of ravenous work that must be done for me to fit a society's definition of 'successful.' As I was walking upstairs from my basement, I tipped over a hookah, spilling murky water and marijuana residue on our piano.

[Note to current and future employers: The device has not been used since December 31st, 2007.]

The feeling was not cordial in introducing itself; it bombarded me with false information and guided me around my house and told me everything I hated about my existence. It told me that I'll never graduate, I'll never see my work on store shelves and my room will never get clean. My sickness was no consolation.

In these moments of reflection on my experience, I generally understand the real reason for the despondency. After all, no use crying over spilled resin, right? It is here that I understand the sort of nonperson I've become. I get sick much more frequently these days and my laziness is becoming more prevalent, especially after a long Christmas break and a work schedule that boasts far less hours than before. At first I was quite happy with myself, hoping I could start to enjoy my life and start breathing a little. Maybe even get more involved in school.

Instead, I just got lazy. I looked in the mirror this morning and realized how gaunt and lanky I've become. It's really the first time I looked into a mirror--really looked into a mirror, not just physically--for a few months. Lately, my body has not been a part of me, so much as it has been only a vehicle with which to get from Point A to Point B. I've been swimming so deep in work for the last few months that I feel like I've lost myself in the grocery store. I'm both the panicky parent, searching fervently for his precious creation, and the runaway child, so curious and over what's behind the next corner with no regard for consequence. Yikes.

I guess Barack Obama really can't do everything.

And so the transition begins. I have all this energy now, feeling so good to look outside my window and see the sun, for it does not shine inside the cerebrum where I have undoubtedly spent an ugly portion of my day. I need to start making lists of things to accomplish. I need to stick to my three-meals-a-day regiment. I need to start appreciating more the relationships that are somehow still tied to my ship. I need to engage daily in some self-examination.

But more importantly, I need to travel. So if you've got like a hundred bucks to spare, that would be cool.

An Inside Look At Duck Syndrome

2009-01-19T15:55:00.003-05:00

Duck Syndrome (as defined by Frank Warren of postsecret.com): Floating along on the surface, looking fine... but paddling like crazy underneath.

I was recently referred to a friend of a friend, the first of which is studying creative writing in Ireland on a scholarship. She is taking a class called "The Author, The Book, & The Marketplace" and asked me for an interview to use as a kind of case study for a big paper she has to write. Seeing as I'm no credible source of information, I was a little flattered. I also wanted to keep the interview to remind myself of some of the lessons I've learned throughout the last few years. Here it is:

Writing Process

1. Why did you feel the pull to write a memoir?

Boredom mostly. I had just completed my first year of college and I hated it. I left my first college (Wayne State University in Detroit, MI) and was going to a community college that many referred to as "thirteenth grade." I wasn't feeling challenged nor was I making many friends. And writing a book was something I had always wanted to do, and my story is a little unique, so I said "What the hell?"

It also grew out of some pretty selfish intentions, though. I mean, a twenty-year old HAS to have a little bit of an ego to think that others might want to read about his life. So I guess the intention was validation--feeling the need to exist, I guess.

I eventually grew out of that and discovered I was actually on to something good, though. It was then that I realized I didn't want to write; I had to write.

2. Describe your writing process. How did you write the memoir? Did you have a certain routine? Where do you write?

Ugh. I didn't have a writing process, which is why it took me three years to write. In the beginning, I was way too undisciplined to continue what I was doing very efficiently. I'd set time aside to write, but I'd just end up taking a nap. I write in my room mostly. It's true what they say about why you should not write there--your mindset is that of comfort, not work. The times that I take my laptop away from my house, in a library usually, is when I get the most done. It's very important to work in a working environment.

3. What did you learn about yourself as you went?

It was a unique experience for me in that I was growing up as I was writing. At such a young age, I was still getting insights into my own life away from writing that young men and women must realize. Many of the chapters came about during the writing itself. I was still learning about sex, drugs, relationships and all that. In a way, I'm glad it took so long to write because I was then able to bring those new insights into it.

So through my writing, I think I became more mature because growing up was an absolute necessity for finding, trusting and keeping my voice. Had I finished earlier than expected, it would've been slop.

4. Did you change names or place names, and why?

I did. Typing is mostly self-deprecating humor, but a lot of it runs a fine line towards defamatory where others are concerned. I changed the names because, regardless of how I felt at the time of the events, the people and places involved were kind of the inspiration for me to write. So I'd basically say we're even. I'm no longer angry because I've been antagonized again and again to a career path.

5. How long did it take you to write the memoir, from start to finish?

Three years. October 2005 to September 2008. Damn.

6. What was the most difficult thing about the writing process? The easiest?

I think the difficult part is right now--the limbo between completion and publication. When you finish, you think, Wow! I'm an author! I can't wait to see my work on store shelves! But it's far from there. I did not immediately choose the self-publishing route. I sent out my queries and played the waiting game, but I will save that for questions 9 and 10.

The easiest part comes during the writing when you find your groove. You'll know when you're there. It happens when you sit down and start forcing sentences out because you know you have to write, but before long, you're watching you're hand(s) move faster and faster and you're not even sure who's writing the damn thing anymore! An hour has gone by and you have two single-spaced pages! When did that happen? Granted, it might be all rubbish, but it's progress.

7. How did you know you were done?

Ooh! Good question! I guess I knew I was done when I knew what I wanted the last chapter to say and wrote it. Being twenty-two, you can imagine it would be difficult to bottle up your memoirs when you're not even sure where your life is going. I had tried several different endings, none of which worked, nor were very optimistic. (I suppose, then, it's ironic that I end with me getting hit by a car.) Because my life is open-ended, I decided to make the book that way, too. It seemed logical. It seemed complete... incompletely speaking. Once I had an end goal, the parts written before came into fruition and just made sense.

8. Did you think of a specific audience or marketplace as you wrote?

No, and I think that's where a lot of my trouble was the first two years in production. Knowing your audience is key because it gives your work a distinct purpose. The passion follows. If asked who would want to read your book, "everyone" is not an answer. Ever. But it was my answer for a long time.

One night, a friend of mine told me I'd make a good Young Adult writer. That stewed for a few days before I had that wake-you-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night-like-a-loud-crash-of-thunder gestalt. "That's it!" I proclaimed to no one. "It's not a book for everyone! It's a book for teens!" From there, everything fell into place. The purpose was there, then came the passion. I fell in love with my project all over again (as I had been feeling discouraged about where it might wind up). Suddenly, I wasn't just writing silly little stories that my grandmother might find interesting; I was writing a guide for awkward teenagers stumbling cluelessly through life as I once did.

So to reiterate, once I found my audience--my niche--I was able to look at the manuscript through the eyes of a teen and decide what should stay and what should go.

Publishing Process

9. Talk about the process of trying to get your memoir published. Who (agents?) did you talk to, and what did they say?

I had brief correspondences with many agents--fifteen being an guesstimate--and was rejected by all of them. My query letter, I thought, was pretty top-notch and I like to think I was querying the right people. The worst response I had ever received was one that began with "Dear Writer." It was a sentence long and cut out on a strip of paper, rather than a sheet, which made me believe he just mass produces them. I've never been so insulted in my life. The thing is not to take it personally. That's a piece of advice you will hear over and over again, but never quite grasp until you're put in that position.

Which is not why I sent him a letter back calling him a stupid jerk and a detriment to the publishing industry.

It's amazing how far a polite rejection can go. One that says "Dear Peter" and at least includes the name of my book, followed by "Good luck" or "Keep at it" is actually kind of pleasant to receive.

10. How long did you try to get it published before deciding on self publishing?

I began sending out queries long before I was even finished because advice I picked up here and there told me to always propose nonfiction ideas before completion to make sure agents would be interested. I did not realize then that nonfiction is not the same as memoir. So I think I sent them out for a year and a half before I got frustrated and called it quits.

But self-publishing didn't follow immediately. As you know, I posted the manuscript online for anyone who was interested. That was an amazing choice! The responses were sensational and my optimism soared. Not only that, but it was enough to catch the interest of Writer's Digest--a nationally read writing magazine. An editor at WD contacted me and proposed I write an article for an upcoming issue about free online publication. Through the website, I received my first paid writing job.

After that, I decided to take a next step.

Self-Publishing Process

11. Describe how the self-publishing process works. Do you do all the editing? Do you have control over the cover design or the layout of the book?

Yes and yes.

First, I'd like to point out that there is, in part, a difference between self-publishing and print-on-demand (POD) service, but they are essentially the same thing. Self-publishing is handled completely by the author and anyone whom he wishes to hire. All proceeds go to him. POD, in which I am involved, is a service by which you are paying an outside source to do the dirty work for you--the assemblage of the manuscript in book form--and that source gets a percentage of the selling price. The difference therein lies primarily in capital.

Some POD sights offer editors for you, but my feeling is that a good writer should also be a good editor. Granted, there are many things an author might miss, but that's where typingwithonehand.com comes into play. Not only was it good exposure, but readers were enthusiastic about catching mistakes; suddenly, they had a say in the manuscript and direct influence on the author!

12. How will you market and distribute the book?

I'm not at that point yet, but firstly, I will keep typingwithonehand.com up to generate interest. I had received a few emails from readers worldwide asking where they can buy a copy, so I'm inclined to think that even though they are getting the full manuscript online for free, tangible ownership is still a huge factor.

POD offers an international audience, seeing as the vehicle company prints books off as they are ordered and sends anywhere in the world. There is seemingly endless potential at any corner of the Internet. Did I exhaust my enterprise in Southeast Michigan? That's OK; let's try Dublin, Ireland! Middle-aged golfers in California don't like my work? Maybe marine life enthusiasts in Argentina will! The possibilities for exposure are, by my sights, wherever I choose to advertise!

13. What are the downfalls and advantages to self-publishing?

Downfalls:

POD is not highly regarded in the publishing world because virtually no criteria is set for the manuscript. POD makes the most poorly edited and wretched stories look like legitimate reads and is seen as a clever way of circumventing the slush pile. It makes anyone an author, deserving or not. However, I feel there is a keen and sure-fire way to avoid such harsh criticism: good writing.
What you make up for in timeliness, you payback in accuracy. This is a very recent insight (this past Thursday actually). Because you pay nothing, the service could reflect that if you don't do your research. My initial publisher, createspace.com, failed to incorporate the changes I made to my manuscript. And so when I sent away for a second proof copy of my book (updated from the original), they sent me the first proof again, albeit the cover update. It was a very disheartening moment since I told everyone I ran into that my book would be available this week. I since decided to change service to Lulu.com.
Agents are more excited about something fresh and something new. This is more psychological, but taking on a new project is more appealing if it has been unread, undiscovered, by the rest of the world. Self-publishing might, in some cases, decrease your chances of acquiring a traditional publisher because the very fact that others have read your manuscript, in a way, "taints" it.

Advantages

Immediacy. There are many preparations that need to be taken in order to get your manuscript ready for print, but the actual setup will take you an hour max. It is just a matter of uploading your manuscript and your book cover. Ta-daa! I uploaded my files yesterday and ordered a proof copy on the same day!
No legal jargon. Granted, there are issues that require your research, but for the most part, a respectable POD service will handle everything.
There is always the possibility of being picked up by an agent or publisher. If you're good at marketing yourself, it's a distinct possibility. If not, the Internet is still at your fingertips and your market is still endless.

14. What is your list price?

$14.00. A brief once-over of my personal library told me that that is a popular selling price.

15. Who owns the rights to the book?

I do. Both the website and the book have an area for legal information that explains my copyright (or "copyleft") with Creative Commons. If you're not familiar with that, you can check it out at creativecommons.org. Their slogan is "Some Rights Reserved." The idea is that a true copyright can often be too restricting on what an artist can or cannot do with his work, or what you can or cannot do with another artist's work. With copylefting, the artist controls all aspects of distribution--whether others can rewrite some of the work and even turn a profit off of their rearrangements. It's also recognized as a legitimate legal binding. Copylefts can also be registered with the Library of Congress for further legal purposes.

16. Where is it sold?

Once available, hopefully soon, there will be a link to the Lulu.com page for any of my projects. The book will, in the future, be given an ISBN number, which Lulu.com owns, so in this way, I will be able to sell it on Amazon and even contact resellers like Border's, Barnes & Noble and other bookstores.

General

17. If you had to do the whole thing over again, would you do it differently?

Yes and no. I'm a completely different person now than when I started, and that, of course, only comes with growing up, which I undoubtedly needed to do. It was a long and stressful three-year process, but it couldn't have been done any other way. After all, how could I write about a subject (i.e. myself) that I knew so little about?

18. Do you have any advice for the unpublished memoir writer?

Be careful. Memoirs are hit-or-miss, in that the author doesn't always have a grasp on what would be interesting to the reader. It's important to understand that, although your memories are extremely paramount, emotional, or hilarious to you, the reader might not care so much to know about the time you stepped in dog poop on the way to the grocery store unless it either is a short paragraph or ties into another event later. Don't go into huge detail of events or people that will fizzle out; you're wasting the reader's time.

My advice for any artist... publish online for free. If nothing else, your friends will love to know what you've been up to.

19. Will you write another book (fiction or nonfiction)?

I'm done with nonfiction, I think. It was fun, but it's time to move on. Writing loses its splendor when you're constantly writing about the same life. I have a few fiction stories in my head and I'm pretty excited to know where those characters will take me. Another memoir might come someday, but not now. I'm looking forward to taking my time on other projects and exploring that "college experience" I keep hearing about... even though I'm a senior.

Russell's Quarterly # 5: Gaming With One Hand

2009-01-16T16:29:00.004-05:00

So Tom Russell, who won the contest for my book cover (hopefully out soon, provided Lulu doesn't disappoint me either, grumble grumble) would not accept an earnings of $150, nor a date with our beloved John Scaramucci.

Instead, he asked me to write an article for a free e-zine that he does called Russell's Quarterly, where you reviews, deconstructs and exerts his own brand of thought to video games both new and old.

The issue my work is featured in can be viewed here, in Issue # 5.

But I highly suggest a Google search of Russell's Quarterly to find any of them. Any can appreciate, gamer or not.

Less Lather, More Rinse

2009-01-02T01:17:00.019-05:00

Well, that was certainly an odd sensation.

For a fleeting moment, I believed that I did not exist. I thought that I was dreaming, that maybe I was not of my own reality. I came to my senses, of course, but I will admit that the lighting in this room is slightly ominous.

This mild feeling of etherealism was not unprompted. I'm reading a book called "What We Believe But Cannot Prove" and within the pages is an essay by the mathematician Keith Devlin. (Devlin says that to first understand what needs to be proved, one must first understand the definition of "proof"--which cannot be proved in and of itself.) The bulk of his essay aside, what struck me most were some remarks in his opening paragraph:

"I can prove to myself that I exist, but I can't prove it to anyone else. Even to those who know me well, there is always the possibility, however remote, that I'm merely a figment of their imagination. If it's rock solid certainty you want from a proof, there's almost nothing beyond our own existence (whatever that means and whatever we exist as) that we can prove to ourselves, and nothing at all that we can prove to anyone else."

I gotta admit, I've never been one to buy into such foolish existentialism, but here I am, unable to shake the thought that I might not exist. I was lying in bed, determined to push the notion aside until morning because I should be well-rested for work tomorrow morning, but goddamnit, what good is a job if you don't really exist to perform it? It turns out I'm insecure not about my body image, not about my complexion, not about my social skills, but my very role as part of the human race!

In an effort to prove that I once lived, I turned to my journal--the kind of a more personal nature. I thought I was satisfied with what I had written, but my mind still ached for a more user-friendly medium of writing. Rise up, you fool! it rang to me in the clatter of my head. There are ideas here! Go forth and cultivate! I tried arguing that my hand hurt from all of the writing I did by hand, but my mind was determined to break my sleep patterns and push me toward this damn computer.

The idea behind existence is funny, especially by today's standards. I'm not meaning for this entry to turn into a Why are we here? piece, but I do want to challenge the meaning of a moment. Humans are bonafide masters at making significance out of the most menial and insignificant moments. I blame this on movies. There is an unwarranted desire in everyone to have a director in a small room somewhere whispering "Aaaaand close-up" as we toil away in the private hours on homework, careers or even dirty dishes. If not for movies, feelings of fatigue and mental anguish would not quite be accompanied by the romanticism that surrounds them today.

Movies today have fooled the world populace that simple tasks are more difficult than they really are, that existing is more difficult than it really is. If it were not for movies, we might not have much concept of a montage--or at least not one as definable or comprehensive. If it were not for montage, people would not have such a specific and visual understanding of the task that lies ahead. In working on a large project, our perception of forthcoming activity is absolutely exhausted as we envision everything that needs to be done at once.

We have even fooled ourselves into thinking that telling others how we feel is scary. After all, self-expression is much more daunting when you're not being viewed at a superior angle with "Eye of The Tiger" playing in the background.

A little more than twenty-four hours ago, the world endured, once again, a most relevant and universal example. New Year's Eve. There's mass preparation for this, the birth of... whatever. At some point on New Year's Eve, you come to realize that, at midnight, you will not have an out-of body experience; you will not tingle upward into the heavens just briefly enough for your spirit's body to prepare itself for a new beginning, a new life.

10! 9! 8! 7! 6! 5! 4! 3! 2! 1!

What? I'm still the same person? It's still up to me to make a difference in my own life? Well, fuckin' A.

All that perparation for nothing. The cosmos doesn't care that the earth has done it's job for another year. That's like giving an employee a raise whenever he comes to work on time!

The new year is comparable to the movie "Snakes On A Plane." It was fun to talk up, right? It was gonna be fantastic! "Get these motha' fuckin' snakes off this motha' fuckin' plane!" Ha ha ha ha! But then something happened. The movie finally came out and we all said, "You mean we actually gotta watch this shit?"

But I digress entirely. My point is, or was, that life--living--is so much easier when one stops believing moments are significant. They're not.

Existence is significant; moment is relative.

Relative to you. And how you feel at that time. That is what is significant about a moment.

Happy New Year.

The Grinch Had An Accomplice

2008-12-27T22:29:00.008-05:00

"Good, good, thanks for asking! How was yours?"

These are the most common words you will mostly likely hear around this time of the holiday season, December 26th through December 29th. They are the direct result of a question that sounds, to half of the nation, something like a llama spewing out a live pig into a garbage disposal. That question is "How was your Christmas?"

Mine was not good, good, thanks for asking. My family, being my family, did not function as a collective group of organisms. There was tension, drama, yelling and awful racist jokes. I write this neither in jest, nor in a grasp at your sympathy. I write this without shame and understand that you might do just that. Plain and simple, we are not holiday people.

What I've come to discover more than anything this year, though, is that most families do not comprise holiday people either! What an enlightening perspective that is for one who grew up surrounded by a torrent of amiable responses to nosey inquisitors! What's even better, I've found, is that life is much more interesting this way!

There is a blessed security guard at the library I now only sometimes work at. His name is James and he's extraordinary. Today was the first time I saw him in months. We hugged and he said, "How was your Christmas, man?" I made the mistake of saying, "Good! Yours?"

You'll recall I described James as "extraordinary." Here is why:

"Shitty as hell," he said. "I hate Christmas."

Now, James is not a dour man. In fact, he is quite jovial and always ready with a smile and a joke. If James was given lemons, rest assured that this man would not settle for lemonade; he would bake a lemon merengue pie. That feeds eight.

Because of James's unbridled honesty, I was impelled to revoke my original response and give him a true one. What followed would've been a funereal discussion on holiday bigotry that would've dampened Scrooge's sentiments, had it not been for the laughter with which we equipped our conversation.

We talked about gift-wrapping and how silly it is to spend so long on a decoration that will last less than ten seconds, how half the country may feel love and happiness on this day while the other half suffers from depression, how maybe it's better to buy myself three things that I want than hope that three other people get them for me! It was a good-natured and therapeutic moment.

Not only this, but I think people appreciate the honesty more, too, no matter how bad. I begrudge no one who actually had a pleasant holiday. Congratulations, in fact! You were born into normalcy! However, I love the idea that an invitation into my ill-fated holiday might actually open a door for someone who had one of the same category. Suddenly, this person has a pair of ears that might actually want to hear about how fucking shitty his Day of Happiness was!

This year, I've also come to know that people are not boring. There are several formalities plaguing our existence that are unstoppable if your goal is not to bring down the demeanor of others. "How are you?" "Good. How are you?" "Good."

There is a pinnacle moment in this conversation where you have the opportunity to make a difference. That moment, of course, is when you are the one being questioned. And that difference, despite what you think, is not for you. By answering a question like that truthfully, you are garnering so much more respect from the person who asked. People are not superficial; they are far too complex to be. They know when they are being placated. If you give their question a trivial answer, do not expect anything different in return.

For example, a friend of mine recently asked me how my Christmas was. Feeling a surge of honesty inspired by James, I told him how it was. Then I asked how his was. His reply was both sad and outstanding. "I hear you," he said. "Three Christmases ago, in front of my entire extended family, I told my mom to go to hell, that she didn't deserve to be my mom, that I never wanted to see her or hear from her again."

Now THAT is honesty! How interesting! How blood-thirsty! How... human! Wow! I was blown away by the visuals that encroached on the area of my brain reserved for pictures of my friends sitting at large tables with their families and laughing and getting along! It was beautiful and such candid moments should be exalted!

I kind of wonder what response this friend would've given me had I said, "Good, good! How was yours?" I hope the response would be the same, but I think I'm wrong.

Long As I Can See The Light

2008-12-25T00:20:00.012-05:00

It is twenty minutes into Christmas Day and I feel I'm already in a dire state. Lethargy like none I've ever known suffuses my tired mind and it is on fumes alone that this hand of mine is able to operate into a choice couple of words for which my brain nitpicks through a musty database of silly vernacular.

It is, as Caesar would have it, the end of the year. This is our time. Our time for reflection. This is our time to be elements of surprise even unto ourselves. It is inevitable around this time that we ruminate on moments past within the last 365 days, and they often come up in our dreams--successes, joys, regrets, missed opportunities.

For me, in all of this, I think of words I should've written but never did. (In fact, as I write this, I keep leaning back to rest myself, only to remind that same self that if I stop now, it'll never get finished.) I'm often embarrassed to call myself a writer. In my defense, I never gave myself that title; it grew organically via the will of others. I suppose if you've written a book, others are fully justified in their assessment, but I can't help but feel it is an inaccurate molestation of the title. Sometimes I write, but more often than not, I think about writing.

2008, you've been good to me, and I've learned much under your umbrella. I've learned how to shape a child's mind, and that the act of said shaping is the most important thing you could be doing at that moment. I've learned the advantages of a hard-working mindset. (They are far more rewarding than hard work itself, as the former also includes the latter.) I've discovered scientific, philosophical and analytical edges of my mind worth peering over, and how to love unconditionally those in your atmosphere.

In you, 2008, I've jumped out of a plane, discovered art in it's most decayed field of degeneration, lost battles but won the war against a raging and tumultuous river, built houses, kissed beautiful young ladies, sold an article to a nationally-acclaimed magazine and won a penis-shaped pencil eraser at a sex toy party I covered for my school newspaper.

Unfortunately, however, I somehow lost track of something very important to me. Writing. Among the many lessons I've learned this year, one of the most important is this: Write more of what you do and less of what you don't. This is imperative to anyone who has ever thought about taking up a pen, pencil or quill. I've learned the same thing over and over and over in the last year. And that is that it is irrefutably difficult--and damn near impossible--to write about something that happened last week. To really capture that moment, to really be able to read into your own mind and understand yourself fully, YOU MUST WRITE WHEN YOU NEED TO!

There were so many times that I've said to myself, "I'm too tired now. I'll get back to that later." I must ask myself now, how does one get back to an emotion later? How does one feel later? If there is nothing else you can be proud of, you can take pride in the fact that, through writing, you are a contributing member to the world of psychology. Studies may never be done on you and your journal, but your immortality might eventually inspire, enrage or digress. So nice to have an impact. If only on yourself. Especially on yourself.

Great. Now I'm energized. No longer lethargic, apathetic or cathartic. After writing what I just did, I suppose the righteous thing to do right now would be to write about how I feel.

Maybe later.

Put a candle in the window
'Cause I feel I've got to move
Though I'm going, going
I'll be coming home soon
Long as I can see the light

Scowling in The Face of Laughter

2008-11-12T21:20:00.011-05:00

I am by no means a community activist. I have every intention of being one, but my current schedule rarely allows me expendable time to do things like promulgate to unlikely crowds the invisible conflicts going on behind their backs of which the are ignorant. My schedule also does not allow me to look up these things. (It does, however, allow me time to write blog posts.)

Unfortunately for the emotions I quite often indulge in, something happened last week that did not turn my world upside down so much as it did balance it. Barack Obama became the president-elect of the United States. I'm not quite certain what this means to the rest of the world, but I'm told it's optimistic. Me? I feel awry.

I spent about three-fourths of the last eight years complaining about the failed policies of the Cheney administration and about one-fourth of that time actually educating myself on what I've been complaining about, thus turning my confusion into anger. And then just when I found my voice, just when I was confident enough to debate others of a different opinion and rip their minds to shreds, this remarkable and intelligent fucking asshole runs for president... AND WINS!

About a year ago, I discovered Michael Franti & Spearhead. This is a group that contributed a great deal to the focus of my anger into a semi-comprehensible voice. Their music is catchy; the lyrics are political; their message is Power to The Peaceful. Most of all, the music spoke to me. It made me feel OK with being angry. It made my frustration beautiful. Music, as it so often does, inspires you to do wonderful things. I began to do just that. I found a place in my world.

This past weekend, I had my ticket to see these guys in Royal Oak. It was a very exciting moment for me and all parties involved--even the teller seemed very enthusiastic about allowing me entry. I anticipated a travel through time where I could protest the Vietnam War with fellow anti-violence persons. I wanted to shout along with the surrounding crowd about what an asshole George Bush (or Nixon) was. I wanted Michael Franti to tell us, his whoring electorate, just exactly what it is we can do to save this country! I wanted to SCREAM in rage over the wrongs that were done to us poor working class folk! Despite the desires of this one innocuous fan, however...

That anger never came.

"Detroit," Franti said, "America has done a very admirable thing that has totally blown my mind. This country has elected Barack Obama to be your next president." This was followed by cheers, hugs and hand-holding. The music was still fantastic, but the message had less of a presence in me than it did before. The only thing I could do was accept the joint passed my way and enjoy the ride.

And so I'm not quite sure what this means for people like Michael Franti. Even Keith Olbermann's rating must be slipping, I'm sure. These are people who have taken the teetering sanities of people like me and soothed them with clenched teeth in the evening hours when we were positive the world was going to shit. These people are no longer angry. When I look around me these days, all I see are smiles. (Whenever someone cuts in front of me on the road, I don't get mad anymore; I just assume he's a frightened Republican.)

It's easy to get mad because it easier to blame the umbrella to the cool air beneath it. What I mean by that is it's easier to make a sign that says, "FUCK BUSH" rather than a list of his constituents and why you don't agree with them. Suddenly, I find myself under this umbrella that has kept me out (or I was kept myself from under) for so long. Suddenly, my job is not to damn the rain and blame the umbrella. I really gotta look now for something to be mad at. Keith Olbermann isn't going to give me the kindling anymore. I have to schedule time to look into policies both local and national and pick and choose what I like. Suddenly, I'm thrown cerebrum first into a 30-credit hour course--on top of my already burdensome 14!

And so what will become of Michael Franti & Spearhead? They are so good at addressing the broad scope of the problems that affect an international audience, and now happiness has infiltrated their minds. Must they now do the same as I? Should they be researching local issues to secure the Angry demographic? I can almost imagine the songs on their next album:

In a school board decision of 5-2
They're gonna put more erasers in the classroom
What the hell's wrong with the erasers we got?
Maybe the problem is that there's too much chalk

And so now I'm left asking how will President Obama handle this situation? He will be inaugurated into a country of happy pleasant people that may no longer need a president at all. The lower class will rise and the angry class will fall. How, Mr. Obama, am I supposed to make a living being happy?

The Text Best Thing to Humanity

2008-11-09T13:13:00.008-05:00

Consider the following public service announcement:

A man is leaving a bar on a cool crisp fall evening. He is stumbly and happy, for he has been imbibing impure liquids. He walks up to a crumby red Pinto and fumbles with his keys for a moment. A group of people just as drunk as he walks by. Our man gets in his car, takes a deep, puts his car in Drive and leaves the parking lot.

On the way home, he pulls up to a red light. A cop is seen driving across the street perpendicular to he. Our man wipes his brow nervously.

The man gets home to his apartment. He walks up one flight of stairs and crawls up the second. He's made it home. He walks into his apartment and falls on his bed, asleep before he hits the pillow.

The next morning, he wakes up, hacks a cough, scratches himself and checks his cell phone. "1 new text messages," it says, from 3:42am. He checks the message: "home ok?" The man smiles and responds: "lol yea"

Fade to black. A deep and cautionary voice reads the white lettering. "Text your friends when you get home. They'll worry about you."

Growing up in late 20th-Century middle America, I've seen my fair share of government- and independently-sponsored public service announcements regarding drunk driving. "Friends don't let friends drink and drive," they say while while showing footage of cars careening off buildings and houses getting swept up in tornadoes. They're excellent ads for anyone between the ages of seven and 15, but little else.

Being in situations similar to that of our friend from the above PSA (though I've never crawled to my front door), I've discovered that this message is totally lost on the demographic for which it is intended. The last words I've heard time and time again upon leaving a group of friends at a bar, party, etc., has been, "Text me when you get home."

Truly, this is a pathetic attempt at showing compassion for your fellow human being. In fact, I can't think of anything less generous that doesn't say, "I don't care what happens to you until tomorrow morning." What would happen if your friend didn't text you? Would you mind? Would you worry? The text message is the most ephemeral form of communication and they're even easier to forget about when you're not receiving them.

When I hear someone tell me to text him and let him know I got home OK, I feel he is just covering his own ass. He is letting it be known that a response is not necessary; when his pocket vibrates, he will hastily reach for his cell and acknowledge my safety so he can stop worrying and get back to his sixth beer. In this way, he can lose his phone, turn it off, and I will be none the wiser. Before he goes to sleep, he can turn off his phone, fully assuming to wake up the next morning to "home ok" sent seven hours earlier.

There are some individuals, yes, who actually do care and will text you after ten minutes or so with "home ok?" That's nice, but you can put lipstick on a text and it's still a text. If there is no response, that allows this person to assume you've gotten home but just passed out.

I propose people put an end to this raunchy bastardization the caring spirit. Tell your friends to CALL YOU. CALL THEM JUST THE SAME! It's silly to make this blog about NOT letting your friends drive home drunk. That will never happen because all anyone has to say is, "Are you sure you're OK to drive?" with big puppy eyes and a concerned voice for them to feel they've done their humanitarian work for the day. "Yes," says the inebriated party in question. "Positive." And all is well. "OK, drive safe!" As it turns out, the basic rule seems to be "If they can walk, they can operate a vehicle."

Barack Obama is the President Elect.

2008-11-05T00:46:00.001-05:00

I think that is worth mentioning.

I Was Sittin, Waitin, Wishin...

2008-11-03T21:26:00.002-05:00

Eight years ago in 2000, Al Gore and Geoerge W. Bush raced for the White House and it meant absolutely nothing to me. "Alex! Peter! Come here!" my mother squealed from the kitchen on the night of the final presidential debate. My brother and I, much younger people, obeyed.

"Yes?" we asked.

My mother was ebullient. "Al Gore is going the next president!"

"How do you know?" we asked.

"Look," Mom said, and she pointed to the television screen. "Look at his profile."

I had to admit, there was something oddly familiar about Gore's profile. The broad wingspan, the curvature of his nose. "He looks like the American eagle!" Mom proclaimed.

And with that, she was convinced. As far as she was concerned, there was absolutely nothing to worry about... until Election Day. Eight fucking years ago.

Bush stole the election, despite his aquiline opponent. Consequently, my once so certain mother sat across the kitchen table and watched the news in tears for weeks to come.

I wonder what kind of person I would've turned into had I not spent such a large area of my life under the Cheney administration. It's shocking to me to think that--Jesus--I spent three and a half years of high school under such corrupt and sordid shit. And much of my college years as well!

It is the eve of Election Day, November 4, 2008 and I'm sitting in the middle of history. In the past year, I feel like I've been on the defensive. I've worn my "Who would Jesus bomb?" bumper sticker with pride, lost respect for friends and tried to keep work at least educational for some of my more unlearned coworkers, much to the chagrin of a Republican boss.

So who would I have turned into? Would I be striving for a journalism degree? I read last night that journalists must be cynical and observant. I think I fit both categories (the former more than the latter perhaps) but how much of that do I owe to the Cheney administration? I maybe had a promising future ahead of me before I turned into a monster. I may have actually have gotten that Theater I was so promising myself. I might have been on Broadway, delighting audiences. I may have been careless, worrying only about feeding my own hunger instead of the hunger of millions worldwide I now find myself concerned with when I finally do satiate an empty stomach.

In the last few months more than ever have I heard the term "liberal media." I now, in the throes of a journalistic endeavor, find myself slightly offended by this statement. I assume there is some point where one reporter must look at himself and ask, "Sure, I'm a reporter. I'm supposed to be objective... But godamnit this isn't a fucking GAME!"

And it's not a game! At the RNC, Bush referred to us--HALF THE COUNTRY--as "the angry left." Is that OK? Is that intrinsically moral? Should the President of The United States be sneering at half of his country? How can we not be angry when we watch our "leader" pointing his finger at us and saying "Nah nahnah boo boo"?

Oy. I feel like I didn't do enough. Bitching and pissing and arguing doesn't solve anything. Unfortunately, neither does the occasional Facebook post that someone might catch and forward to a friend. If Obama doesn't win tomorrow, it's my fault. Peter Jurich from Dearborn, MI.

And so here I am now, worried sick because I never got out and registered strangers to vote. To vote for who? To vote for what? We're certainly not voting on candidates anymore. We're voting for ideas. We're voting for concepts. Many of us will never meet Barack Obama. And therefore, what does he mean to us? Is he even human? What about McCain? We've gotten to know him and his family over the last year. Does he really matter.

This is all quite self-serving. Not this blog for me, but this election for you. There comes a point where it feels like all your really voting for is literally to have someone live in the White House. It doesn't matter what he stands for, it doesn't matter what we want. The question is, "Does this person deserve a better dwelling over this person?" It's a home makeover program on a lesser scale. It's me feeling like I have early arthritis and so I stop writing all together.

Welcome To Responsibility

2008-10-25T12:03:00.007-04:00

Seeing as two days ago, I got my picture taken as a staff member for the yearbook of the school I work at, I guess I'm officially an educator.

When in the process of tutoring, I can't help but look at certain situations from the child's point-of-view. For instance, I'm constantly looking back to my own childhood at "Blessed Spirit" and picking out certain areas where teachers would talk to me in an easy-going carefree and light-hearted tone, then suddenly switch voice inflection immediately when they talk to my mother. It always seemed to me that adults thought that children could not understand what they said if they lowered their voices and talked faster... What's more, it was true.

Today, I find myself doing just that innately. I angelically repeat those annoying little lessons we all grew up with: "Fighting isn't the answer; just walk away." "If all of your friends jumped off a bridge, would you?" "Now you know better than to eat the soap." I now understand my elementary school teachers. I sympathize with them. No matter what went wrong, keep the child happy; keep his world innocent and his mind simple.

This strategy fools no kid in inner-city public schools. As my coworker Khadigah put it, they are constantly being exposed to the backstage goings-on of the system. For example, during MEAPs, I heard a teacher admonish her class, "Do well on your MEAPs, boys and girls. Help keep our school open!"

Yesterday, a teacher asked me to see her about a student. I went to her room thinking we'd step out into the hall and talk quietly and privately. Not so. She talked as she would to an auditorium of pundits about her student's falling grades and told me (as well as the rest of the class) that that this student is going to fail. While I don't have a Teacher's Certificate, I do know this is unacceptable and I hate her audacity. I was once again thrust back to 1992 when Mrs. Jose asked me to step out in the hallway so she and my mother could discuss my medical history. Oh boy, to me they were having boring grown-up time. To the fifth graders I was surrounded by yesterday, they were getting gossip! Whose failing what? Why? Does he know anything?

Two days ago, a mother came in and asked me for an assessment of her son's progress and attitude, as well as suggestions to keep him doing his homework. "I'm not trained to do that," I told her. Maybe she saw me standing in line for staff photographs and figured I had a Master's. That's a flattering thought, I guess.

Regardless of this, I'm not sure which would be a more beneficial route. My lifespan covers two elementary school extremes: safe but sheltered private v. honest but growling public. Growing up in the former, I think I turned out OK, but it came the awful price of eighteen years of ignorance. Currently working in the latter, I find that, anywhere, kids respond to you better when you treat them like adults. They see through those aforementioned exaltations and words of praise. All I did was write, 'The dog ran from the racoon.' Get ahold of yourself, Grandpa. Apparently, some teachers I work with don't feel you can't treat children enough like adults.

But do adults smack each other in the head when another screws up?

Ugh. I know a happy medium exists somewhere. My job is to make that happen. Regardless of everything I just wrote about treating kids like adults, it's good to be reminded that I'm still, in fact, working with kids. By this, I mean I'm usually brought back to reality when one says, "I finished my work! Do I get a treat?"

Or consider this conversation that happened Tuesday:

[PETER is helping second-grader JALIN write a story about a Halloween party.]

PETER: Jalin, you keep writing 'We had...' 'We had chips. We had cake. We had candy. We had pop.' Why don't you try using some commas? This sounds very repetitious right now.
[JALIN looks confused.]
PETER: Do you know what 'repetitious' means?
JALIN [suddenly very excited]: Oh! Like 'vote for Barack Obama!' Like that?

[PETER submits, puts his head down and laughs hysterically. JALIN is quite unsure of whether he should laugh, too.]

Construction worker sues Obama for plagiarism

2008-10-23T20:09:00.016-04:00

A building contractor filed suit yesterday against Barack Obama for plagiarism.

"I'm really hurt," said Bob the Builder, host of a television program of the same name. "I was such an adamant Obama supporter in the nominee races. I even got my grandmother to trust black people. That's not easy."

The lawsuit concerns the popular PBS children show's catchphrase, "Yes, we can," which is the majority response from toddlers who are asked, "Can we fix it?" during the opening theme.

The Obama campaign has been using the slogan "Yes, we can" to rally crowds and promote change since the Illinois senator chose to run for President.

Builder said he holds intellectual properties for the slogan.

Builder, who has been a public figure since 2005, said he is disappointed in the Democratic presidential nominee "for being so oblivious to current events."

"I'm like the biggest thing out there," he said. "I'm bigger than Joe the Plumber."

Plumber [Sam Wurtzelbacher] received media attention after the last Presidential debate when Obama and Republican nominee Sen. John McCain made an example of Plumber's business over a tax issue.

Though Plumber does not have his own television program like Builder, there is talk of an MTV reality show due out March 2009 called "Pipedreams," in which Plumber hopes to find true love by eliminating one of 20 female contestants each episode.

MTV has confirmed that the contestants will have large breasts.

"We think Bob might have a case," said Andrew Ludlum, Builder's attorney. "My kid watches him all the time."

Builder's continued success is supported through television royalties and his sales of DVDs, books and plastic hardhats.

Supreme Court Justice Stephen Breyer is scheduled to make an official statement tomorrow after reviewing the case.

"John McCain loves Bob," said senior McCain advisor Nancy Pfotenhauer. "When we originally pitched ['Yes, we can'], John said, 'Now hang on. I don't want to steal from my good friend, Bob.' He's really quite astute when it comes to kids' shows."

After much debate, the McCain camp eventually decided on "Yes, we will."

No comment has yet been made by the Obama campaign.

Patience Comes To Those With Gait

2008-10-18T02:28:00.004-04:00

Last nite, an international best-selling author--whose work has been translated into 25 different languages--told me I was "making a big mistake."

What's more, I think this person is wrong.

This author, whom I will refer to as "Peaches," presented to an audience of three-thousand people a series of excerpts from their own writing that, to me, was very inspirational. I've never gone and seen an author speak to such a magnitude of fans like that before. I saw Dave Eggers in Ann Arbor, but that was in a Borders to a much smaller crowd. Yesterday, Peaches proved to me that it is definitely very possible to achieve your dreams, and mine quickly became that of a book tour around the nation, reading off what perhaps many could write, but I had somehow received notoriety for.

After the show, there was a book signing. Stupidly, I did not bring any books of Peaches that I own. I settled on getting my ticket signed.

There was, of course, an exasperating two and a half hour wait. During this time, I watched other fans leave the table beaming, positively radiant over meeting such an fantastic and ebullient individual. Finally, it was my turn to meet him.

Peaches made a few gay jokes about my male friend and I attending the show together and we laughed. Finally, I outed with what I had to say.

"Peaches," I began. "I was wondering if you had any advice for young writers." Assuming I'd get the typical admonition about being patient, I pressed on: "Specifically, to someone (i.e. myself) who has finished a memoir, is tired of agent rejections and--"

I was not allowed to continue.

"Oh, no no no!" Peaches said. "Don't do that! You're far too young!"

My face probably betrayed my confusion.

"You can't be older than 21!" Peaches assessed. "Your job right now is to be sleeping with the wrong people!"

Peaches told me that I needed to grow up, wait about 10 years, then and only then will my work be ready for public scrutiny.

I told Peaches about the website and the Writer's Digest article.

The response? "You're making a big mistake. It's only a website."

I became extremely irritated by this person's existence. It troubles me to think that such an influential figure is making the kind of peregrination that allows for the discouraging of young artists.

ESPECIALLY ARTISTS! Perhaps what Peaches meant to say was I needed time to adjust my craft, let my talents flourish, and gather more life experience to really get a feel for what people will respond to. Unfortunately, all of these messages were lost in the negativity that permeated through the surrounding five-foot radius.

Upon leaving the author whose work I at least appreciated, I couldn't help but realize how shut up this person must be to tell an enthusiastic hopeful like myself to put my project off for another decade. I couldn't quite imagine Peaches reading anything outside of anything Peaches wrote. Peaches now represents to me a tradition that has long since died. Maybe screwing off and apparently sleeping around works for some people, but--holy Hell--at least be a little more open-minded towards any dissension!

I'm not discouraged by Peaches, but I'm disappointed. You'd think that a professional in any field would be willing to understand new media pertinent to that subject. Maybe I challenged Peaches's views of a fan? I don't know.

If you'll excuse me, I have wrong people to sleep with. I'll get back to you in eight.

Pearls and Swine Got Nothin' on Me!

2008-10-16T17:52:00.003-04:00

Trouble approaches us in many shapes and sizes. For me, it appears every morning at the bottom of my coffee cup.

The problem is that coffee is not water, milk, nor any type of liquid with which you can splash your face at the end of a marathon. (Would you honestly do that with milk? Weirdo.) I fail to recognize these facts when I see the porcelain bottom that indicates I'm almost done drinking. Subconsciously, I think, Bottoms up! and I wet my whistle with bitter crud. There's really no stop to this innate sense of propriety. The coffee is mine. With such little left, I've almost no choice but to selfishly pour it down in one last stream. I regret it every time, but I'll never learn.

On the subject of things I will never get the hang of, I'm living out of my car. Of course, there is a difference between living out of your car and living in your car; I am participating in the former. Every day after breakfast, I step outside my house, enter my garage, figuratively "jump" in my car and think, Home, sweet home. When I feel like it, I bring a pair of blue jeans to change into after work in one of the WSU parking garages. I eat with the fervor of a thousand gods while driving.

In my treks across the Detroit Universe, I've rediscovered Coldplay. I kind of feel it's my duty now to blare the sweet euphonic poetry while driving--to sneak in my own little way into people's cars and share the love of a day-to-day dependability. I'm probably ill-placed in this respect; not everyone loves the music I do.

I know it's not quite time for that ball to drop, but I can't help but ruminate over the last year of my life. I keep thinking I had it so much easier in those days. My misery back then, regardless, was justified: I was attending a shitty school, feeling stuck in a job that I now feel I took majorly for granted, despairingly sending out a virtually unpublishable manuscript, and ignorant of the proper use of semicolons!

These days, I feel slightly silly thinking about the non-person I probably appear to be. I do my best to maintain relationships, but sometimes feel too burned out. My schoolbag is packed more with food than textbooks. When I'm walking across the campus of an institution that should probably occupy more of my thoughts, I sometimes feel a little self-conscious over the fact that I'm always eating (salubrious, mind you.) There must be something funny about the young man in black slacks and a collared shirt striding down the mall sloppily scarfing down an apple and wiping the debris from his face.

I relayed these concerns to my friend Scotty, telling him I imagine himself one day having this conversation:

SCOTTY: So I was talking to my friend Peter--
FRIEND: Peter? Who's that?
SCOTTY: You know--the kid who's always eating.
FRIEND: Oh, him!

Scotty assured me that he has never once had to have this conversation, but I see it on the horizon.

"Mr. Peter! Mr. Peter! Why you walkin' so crazy?"

2008-09-28T01:29:00.004-04:00

I spent an hour today teaching a class of thirty second-graders how to write a Halloween story. I had a vague ideathat I might be doing something like this, but it didn't hit me until I was told that is what I will be doing. I am probably one of the least qualified people I know who should find himself in this kind of situation. But in light of most events in my life, it continued without my imprimatur on the matter.

We started off brain-storming what comes to mind when prompted with the word "Halloween." Hands were raised (as I held the key) and things like "Pumpkin," "Candy," and "Reindeer" were suggested. Earlier, when my coworker Khadigah was doing the same kind of thing, once they got the word "Costume" on the board, one kid raised his hand and said, "I had a costume last year! I was 50 Cent!"

These kids amaze me. This is an awesome story that a kid wrote a while ago:

I like my school because it has teachers
like to help you become a better
reader and learn your math.

So when I grow up, I will be able to
count money. If you don't learn to
count, you will get cheated out of your
money.

Or if there's something you want and you
get it, it might cost 25 cents and you might
give them $1.00 which is all you
had, but you need to know that you
75 cents coming back.

The End.

Actually, it's more of a novelty than an awesome story. Frankly, I think this child, whatever grade he is in, is way too worried about his financial future.

It isn't always so fun. After class, I told the teacher that she has a really good group of students. She seemed discouraged. "Treats," she said. "That's how you get 'em to learn these days. The kids aren't coming to school to learn anymore; they're coming to eat."

At the time, I shared a disconcerted scrunch of my face, thinking this to be indicative of Detroit Public Schools. Now that I look back, that's probably not true. Kids are kids. I was probably just as bad.

It was a great day until I found my iPod in the washing machine.

Calling All Artists (or people who like crayons)!

2008-09-27T19:41:00.014-04:00

I'm holding a contest and I want your participation.

As I'm sure you know by now (because I've made damn sure you know by now), I wrote a book called Typing With One Hand, and the full manuscript is currently online for your reading pleasure at www.typingwithonehand.com.

If you don't already know, Writer's Digest, a major writing magazine, has decided to buy an article I wrote on the topic of online publication. I have not been told the exact issue yet in which it is supposed to appear, but I'm told it's "slated for December."

This is very exciting, but I want it to be more exciting. Therefore, I want a print version available for purchase by the time the article sails across the magazine's nationwide readership. This is a great opportunity not only for me... BUT FOR YOU!

You see, Typing With One Hand is currently without a cover, and in order for there to be a print version of the manuscript, there must first be a cover. Therefore, I'm asking you--yeah, you!--to design one. I want you to read any or all of the website, get a feel for what it's like, and design for me what you think would be a book cover that best represents the style.

Of course, there's no contest without a prize. Along with the potential for worldwide exposure, I am also offering $150 & A DATE WITH MY FRIEND JOHN SCARAMUCCI!!!!!!

This is John -------->

This is a very serious offer. Design the winning cover, get rewarded. The deadline is November 15th and you can email submissions to twohmemoir@gmail.com. Please forward this on to any artistic people you know.

I hope to hear from you all.

Peter Jurich.

Things That Upset Me & Blogs That Forget Me

2008-09-16T09:10:00.012-04:00

I no longer have the mental capacity for bookstores. Honestly. Walking into one is just begging a lifetime of animosity to suffuse my already weary mind. I say animosity because that is often how I feel towards authors--Michael Chabon came out with a new book? But I haven't read his last new one, that jerk! There is, at this point in my life, way too many novels, way too much information, in which I will never be able to indulge. And so as I sulked away from the counter, receiving awry looks for purchasing a New African magazine, I left with the vendetta to one day come back to Borders armed with a sleeping bag and a hotplate, set up camp in some forgotten corner that is always neglected at closing time, and spend a week reading every book there. I always do.

In light of things that upset me, I got a flat tire a few days ago. It exploded on I-94. My car swerved in and out of a few lanes before I was able to steer the monster onto an unfamiliar exit and into a gas station. Not surprisingly, my reaction was not one of anger or disconcerting. As a matter of fact, I burst out laughing and said, "Whoa! Awesome!" There was nothing awesome about my predicament to be sure; it was 8:30 p.m., I was exhausted, hungry, smelly and I wanted to be home. But throughout the entire tire-changing procedure, I thought it was the best and only adventure that could have happened to me. (My favorite part was the stoner pulling up in a red junker and asking me if I needed any help. I said I did and he drove away.)

I'm not sure when I started to react the way I do to certain situations, but I do know that it is out of spite for the human race that I do. My beginnings are humble, but so are those of a lot of people who would not think a flat tire is "awesome." Most of the time, my instinct tells me that because the majority of people would have one kind of equal but opposite reaction, I should do the antithesis; my reaction should be equal, but never opposite. Does this mean I try too hard to be unique? I hope not. I think I fit in well most of the time. Regardless, I seem to have some kind of innate disdain for that which is prevalent in both pop and human culture, but for some reason never addressed.

Music is a great example. Here are some laments:

Approx. four times out of 10, the words "fade to black" will appear in a song on the radio.
Will country singers never find a word that describes their agony and despair as well as the word "blue?"
If masturbation weren't such a taboo topic to write songs about, I'll bet many a whiny rock star would not beckon you to "save me from myself" so often.

The list goes on and on, but this leads me to wonder how I'll react upon sight of my firstborn child. I hope I'm happy, not because I wouldn't be, but because everyone reacts that way so why the hell should I? I'll probably crack a joke, something like roaring "Natality!" in the way the announcer from Mortal Combat says "Fatality!"

I'm blogging when I should be studying; I'm typing with one hand when I should be typing with two; I'm out of my mind when I should be in it. These are all things that make me incredibly ordinary, but only one is seemingly justifiable: blogging.

By blogging, I am making myself more important. I am becoming accessible, famous even. I am depending on you to read this and have some kind of revelation. These words make me proud to go to class and say, "I don't have my assignment completed." These words represent an existence that would otherwise not be there if I were not documenting this moment--in my room, scratching my belly, thinking about Miles Davis. This is the most remarkable evidence of human integrity on record and you are witnessing it! Isn't that phenomenal?

I don't have my homework done, teacher, because I was inspiring the masses.

A Bitter & Biased Coverage of The Republican National Convention

2008-09-04T20:41:00.013-04:00

8:35 p.m.

So I'm watching the RNC and I feel very very scared because just as many Us out are out there as Them. Mike Huckabee (whom my grandmother refers to as Bob Huckleberry) was just interviewed on Sarah Palin. He stated she was not elected for the knowledge she possesses, but for her judgment. He said that she got to where she is through good judgment, despite one of many articles that boast otherwise. He also compared her to Harvard professors who know law and politics inside and out, but the fact of the matter is that they never got to where she is so their influence makes no difference. Through this, I'm reminded of this George Burns quote: "Too bad the only people who know how to run the country are busy driving cabs and cutting hair." He was right; it's a damn shame, but, since they're not prominent political figures, fuck 'em, right?

8:43 p.m.

In a failed effort to create some kind of patriotic comradeship, a "a tribute to 9/11 victims" was just shown. It had nothing to do with victims and everything to do with every Arab you know being a terrorist via footage of rioting Muslims that Christopher Columbus would be proud to deem "savages."

Keith Olbermann commentated independent of the other anchors and MSNBC. So much class. I love that man.

9:02 p.m.

Too busy talking to Nick Olah to watch Sen. Lindsey Graham (SC) speak. Nick is a lot more interesting. Today is his birthday and he's drinking beer and watching football. I just read that back to him and he said, "Haha, you make me sound like a frat boy!" He's now trying to convince me that he's not a frat boy: "I like to dance; frat boys don't dance, do they? I try to dance a little bit every morning!" Nick then suggested I listen to the song Young Turks by Rod Stewart. Thanks, Nick!

9:27 p.m.

The video intro of Cindy McCain started. Oh, how wholesome--the first thing they did when they met was lie about their ages. They fell in love, sure, but let's not mention the crippled wife that stayed by John's side during his recovery; Cindy's prettier anyway.

9:35 p.m.

Cindy McCain takes the stage. She is putting on quite a performance. It sounds like a monologue more than anything. She must have rehearsed this 20 times. There's absolutely no emotion in her speech. No compassion.

I really can't sympathize with these people. I'm looking into my television at a room full of people who already have everything they want or need. Barack is criticized for promoting change simply because his critics see no problem with the state of things. Why change when all is perfect?

"This campaign is not about us; it's about our special and exceptional country." Wasn't that taken directly from Obama's speech?

Cindy just commended VP nominee Sarah Palin for being "hockey-mommin'" and "big game shootin'." It's very sad that those are her most notable accomplishments.

I spent the last few months kicking my nail-biting habit. I just started up again out of frustration. Damnit...

9:56 p.m.

McCain video. [insert angry critique here.]

10:13 p.m.

John McCain takes stage. He looks like he does not know where he is. There is a broken record of "Thank You" spewing from his oral hole. He thanked Georgey Bush first for "leading us in these dark days following the worst attack on American soil." Mark my words--he just ruined his chances of becoming president.

I'm confused. If, as he stated, every man is created equal with inalienable rights, how come gays can't get married under his rule?

What is going on? There's a upset of some kind! "The brown noise and the static," he says of a protest in the room! Jeez, there wasn't anything like that at the DNC. That will either work for or against him: On one hand, he's hated so much to have a protest INSIDE, but that could also make the "angry Left" look crazy and--dare we be--emotional.

This speech is a gift. He keeps getting interrupted by presumably his own people shouting "USA!" to the point where he doesn't know what to do. I think his dementia is taking an effect.

"I don't work for a party... a special interest. I work for you." Nice try.

"I fought for more troops in Iraq when it wasn't the popular thing to do." He keeps digging his own grave.

Are people actually as inspired listening to this asshole as I am listening to Obama? Looking back on other presidential candidacies, I think Republican don't feel they need to put as much effort into their speeches because they know they already have everything and, even if an opposing view is elected, they won't lose their assets in their lifetime. Just musing.

I'm sorry, but he really sounds like a crotchety old man complaining about all the new-fangled machines taking over the planet. I hate to say this, but he has William Henry Harrison written all over him. Harrison died a month into office after contracting pneumonia by taking off his suit jacket during his inaugural address, trying to prove he wasn't old. Harrison was 68-years-old, four years younger than McCain.

If McCain wins and dies in office, Sarah Palin will have to take over.

He won't stop talking. Jesus, please make him stop. It's 11:02 p.m. and I have to pee. Please Sen. McCain. Please let me pee.

Wait... he's wrapping it up. Thank God.

What stands out most to me is his utter lack of control, in that his speech would've been a much more bearable length if he were strong enough a figure to calm down his supporters and say something powerful enough to make them listen.

"We're all just a-raisin' McCain?" Is that the song playing? That's quite obnoxious, but slightly appropriate. We're all resuscitatin' McCain? Huh? Yeah?

11:10 p.m.

Bye.

These Entries Get Worse & Worse

2008-09-04T17:09:00.005-04:00

So I'm attending a university. People do this, I know. And for what field of study is completely relative to the individual. I've come to understand that this has been going on for quite a long time now and all over the country. I had a notion of this when I read The Radicalism of The American Revolution a few semesters ago in which Gordon Wood mentions something of a college education. People go to college. When they do, they feel good about themselves.

I feel good about myself. This is not quite contingent on my attending school at a university level, but it helps. I made an observation today on campus that would normally send me running in circles and performing sloppy acrobatics. Today as I walked around campus with my satchel over my shoulder and my cell phone in my ear, in a swagger that I adopted long ago in an effort to look cool that has now become part of me, I realized that I look just like everyone else. My cynical nature would typically have me believe this to be a horrible thing, but I actually found a quiet solace in this. Perhaps it is the definitive nature that this year brings to me: in semesters past, I was gradeless and major-ish; this year, I am a senior with a major in journalism, soon to be applying for a minor in PR.

I like this journalism business, but I wish not all of us were liberals. I like a good debate and I love a stupid Republican. My classes provide neither. As it turns out, we're all like minded individuals--as it turns out, I'm not unique! Hmm. Someone in this room must want to go to war! Someone in here must think that runner-up for Ms. Alaska is a perfectly good qualification to run a nation! What is going on!

I like journalism because it requires discipline, which I lack a lot of. Sometimes I watch Morning Joe and ask myself how he can interview some people and not reach across the table and grab their throats and cuss and scream and vomit in the dumb fucking faces...

Speaking of which, I missed Sarah Palin's speech last nite. I'm a little angry at myself for this, but it really couldn't have been much better than those of the Bush twins, Georgey and Laura. Now, in the most unbiased form I can wing, I don't think I'd quite be able to understand any independents who are watching both conventions and will still vote Republican. The RNC seems to be lacking a lot of the American Spirit and Values to which it often resorts. There lacks huge compassion, in comparison, and more reading teleprompters than actually addressing the American people as... well... people. (My favorite part of Georgey's speech was that he had to read "I love you, Mom and Dad" off the teleprompter.)

Tonite will be a circus for me. At 7:00, Kwame Kilpatrick will issue and official statement regarding the previous court proceedings and his "decision" to step down. At 9:00 (9:30?), John McCain will address the nation in his Republican presidential nomination acceptance speech. Both are going to providea lot of hilarity for me. Kwame Kilpatrick has been training for this: this morning, he was humble and good-mannered, in a no doubt effort to retain some respect. He does have that ability--after seeing pictures of him smirking and glad-handing reporters this morning, I almost felt sorry for him. Why would we crucify such a nice man? I thought.

Which reminds me. On Labor Day, I went to go see Barack speak. Among us norms in line, there were ladies signing petitions to keep Kwame in office. I shouted, "KWAME'S KRAZY!" to one of these ladies and she shouted back, "You don't even live in this city!" Then, another woman ran up and said, "It don't matter; it don't matter!" I left them arguing. It was hilarious.

John McCain, who is krazier, will say "my friends" a lot.

Until then, enjoy this video.

Bye.

Scatterbrained...

2008-08-31T16:16:00.004-04:00

And now, a story problem:

Bob wants to go in a $2 lottery ticket with Bill, agreeing that if they win, they will split the earnings. Said earnings amount to $1-million. Bill does not have a dollar at the moment, but has full intention of paying Bob back--presumably. Bob fronts Bill's dollar and wins the lottery. Bill pays Bob back the dollar he was initially to spend on the ticket. How much of the earnings does Bob owe Bill? Does Bob owe Bill anything?

Yesterday, I went to Lake Michigan. It was a very unexpected peregrination, but no less an appreciated one. Unfortunately, my sojourn had to come to an end, as sojourns usually do, and I had to come home.

This also happens alot, my coming home. I'm really beginning to hate it. This isn't to say that everytime I come home from work, the grocery store, etc. I'm unhappy. But this happens too often after time away in another city at least an hour and a half away. Everywhere is so much more beautiful than Southeast Michigan, it seems. While I'm pretty sure that everyone feels this way about their hometown, I have little reason to believe that Dearborn is an attractive city to anyone passing through. I couldn't imagine myself saying, "This would be a great place to raise a family." People hear enjoy three things only: eating, scowling and tailgating.

Not very long ago, tho long enough to make me a terrible newspaper journalist, my friends Matt, Alex and I went on a picture-taking adventure to old book depository in Detroit. This adventure was decided upon the evening before a thunder storm, so the abandoned was slightly malodorous. Either way, if you click the link provided, you'll find what we walked away with.

It was a troubling, but enlightening adventure. Troubling, in obvious reasons: Once a flourishing city, Detroit is now reduced to a shitty sinkhole for waste. (These guys know whats up.) Enlightening, in that there's so much young artistic talent in Detroit that's being wasted in these buildings. Part of being graffiti, I know, is that it's supposed to be a little more raw and undiscovered. But I don't think it should be any less hidden from the world. I mean, you're not going to find the same people scourging abandoned buildings as you might find traipsing around the DIA on a Sunday afternoon.

The art comes at a huge price. Sure, these buildings act as a canvas for many young artists and the result is incredibly stimulating, but is all of that really worth the deterioration of a city?

Once again, I had a point, but lost it. I should learn how to come to the computer with a topic in mind.

Ugh.

I Prefer "Delightfully Unhinged," Thank You Very Much

2008-08-28T23:32:00.008-04:00

I was going to blog tonite. Honestly. I had this whole thing written up in my head as I was watching Taxi Driver earlier. But that all went to pot when around ten after ten, Barack Obama took to the stage of the Democratic Nation Convention in a forty-five minute fistful of awesome in the best damn speech I've ever heard. The speech, of course, is only rivaled by that of his wife, Michelle, a few days ago. I'm not an emotional person, but I found myself in tears (so I guess I'm emotional after a few drinks.) His speech was absolutely perfect and I think this man HAS TO HAS TO HAS TO be the next president. Anything else would be a fucking crime.

Above notable mentions in policy, Democracy, humanity, etc, I think Barack's most important quality is his ability to inspire. He has the uncanny ability to lift any American out of the insignificance of his own existence and have him believe that his dreams are still attainable; that he is still important to not only others, but to himself. Marx believed that one of five (seven?) of the media's largest roles was to have every American believe his or her voice is heard, whether it is or not. This is very true, but those were different times (like yesterday) and more than ever we as individuals need to feel powerful again.

Because how do you define an individual existence? How do you define day-to-day mediocrity? I got a haircut the other day that I would definitely define as mediocre. So mediocre, in fact, that the lady forgot to trim an entire side of my head! (I was so anxious to get out of there, I didn't notice. That's OK, tho; I'm in college and am now seen as retro.) Regardless, is that an inspiration? Later, I mowed the lawn and did some laundry. It was one hell of a day, but no matter how accomplished I felt, none of these will aid me in my endeavor for future success. Empty promises or not--most definitely not--what we need more than anything is a president that will convince me to stop overseeing the more paltry goings-on of my day and start progressing in what really matters.

A great example of this is an email from my friend, Joel. The email is dated June 7th, 2006, and I will only admit to him now if he reads this that I often take a gander at the following excerpt from time to time when I feel quite down on my luck or self. The excerpt is as follows:

I really hate to tell you this but you are transforming into something of a hero for me, which means you are a concept. Don't let this drive your ego, you aren't becoming a hero because of what you've done, are doing, or are set to do. You are becoming my hero because of what I assume you are doing. At this moment here is my assumption. PETER JURICH IS NOT BORED AT WORK. HE IS MAKING AN OBSERVATION BOTH WITTY AND POIGNANT WHILE EARNING A PAYCHECK AND MAKING HIMSELF LAUGH. PETER JURICH IS WALTER MITTY AT THE LIBRARY. HE IS COYLY JUDGING AND READY TO SHARE IF HE FINDS YOU WORTHY.

At the time of Joel's writing this, I was far from the aforementioned Peter Jurich described above. I think at that point, I told him, "Yeah, I think I wanna do a memoir." Since writing this email that which I adore, he has done humongously great things with himself and has therefore inspired me to, two years later, become the observer of the poignant. It sounds silly, but the inspiration perpetuates itself. It is not what either of us are (at this point in our lives), but more what we appear to be.

Of course, it isn't until years down the line when neither of us have anything to show for it that we'll look upon the other in a different light, but it's all relative to NOW, right?

So the discrepancy lies where it counts the most: in action v. inaction. Truly, I feel that people are the most insignificant of entities when we are alone and not of social representation. Maybe other people are different, but I'm a complete moron on my days off from responsibility. My days will start off well: I'll wake up around 9:00, maybe do a push-up or three, and then make a list of things to do. By 11:00, I think I still have the entire day to get accomplished what needs be so what's another fifteen minutes spent in bed? By 4:00, I find I've done none of these things (surely reading, stimulating the mind, is just as productive as registering for financial aid) and rationalize that the day is over and there's always tomorrow anyway, so whatever.

This is my fatal flaw, but it's good to know that others might think I'm busy being witty or poignant. (It should be noted that this mindset has encouraged me to constantly deface the Mel Gibson poster at my work.) The key is taking these very insignificant hours--those where no one is calling, wooing, or betrothing you--and doing with them all you can.

To come full circle, Barack's speeches make me want to write this blog--a blog that no one would read if not for the Facebook News Feed it will attach itself to thanks to the RSS link--and make me want to appear productive to you so that you can appear productive to someone else. Eventually, the lies will expose themselves and the regret will be so much that we'll actually have to do something with our days! Later at night, when we can be social, it just feels good to be able to tell people about our days and what we did.

With that said, I think whatever president comes out of this generation will have a difficult time getting elected. Media may have to scrounge up pictures of Barack's 70's afro, but they won't have to go further than Google for your topless keg stand.

At one point, I had a good idea for a blog.

I think I'll sleep now. Pray that cats don't keep me up all nite with their necking.

Thinking Before I Type (usually a hazard)

2008-08-24T17:12:00.003-04:00

So as I drove home from Michigan State this afternoon, there was "I <3 PENIS" on my arm, a heart around my left nipple, but most importantly, there was a thought in my head.

Ya know the term "one in a million." If you're not, it's a term used between two people, one of whom is expressing an affinity, platonic or otherwise, to the other. When used in a sentence, it sounds like "You're one in a million."

But let's break this down: There's six billion people in the world and one-thousand millions in each billion. That means that there are 6,000 people out there exactly like you. So really, what that person is trying to say is, "There are 5,999 other people out there that I can get the exact same amount of satisfaction from."

Therefore, reader, allow me to be the first to say that I think you are one in six billion.

This Was Uncalled For

2008-08-22T17:13:00.003-04:00

So, this morning I was watching television while eating breakfast. This is a fairly common ordeal for me, but I'm rarely brought to some kind of outlook on society in these early hours of my day. In concerning humans, I find it ironic that this came while watching National Geographic.

The show I was watching in particular was Be The Creature, which is hosted by two high school bullies who adjusted to life after education and realized they like animals. The episode in particular was about hyenas. The two brothers followed a pack of wild hyenas for a few days in a Jeep with only a video camera. Some of the footage was pretty cool, but one thing caught my eye as unique, or more specifically, not unique at all.

In a mating ritual described as "not well understood" by the Kratt brothers, the female hyena will roll around in her own vomit to appear more attractive to gentlemen callers. Apparently, the scent of her vomit is so potent with traces on animal carcass, it's used as an aphrodisiac among the species. Now, maybe this is just me, but my initial thought was, Aww, it's like she's putting on make-up! She's getting ready for a night out!

Within seconds of playing in her own disgorgement, the female hyena was surrounded by five amorous mates. I've been to enough clubs to credibly compare my experiences to what was on my television. The male hyenas circled the female with concupiscent intention, but tried being tactful. One with more courageous waltzed up and began sniffing her ass. I laughed myself silly, imagining that he was asking her butt what her major was, or what she liked to drink.

The female, eventually privy to the males ideas, darted away quickly. I was reminded of a stand-up show Dave Chappelle did where he expressed disdain for girls at clubs who dress really promiscuously, but have no desire to go home with him, or any guy for that matter. He said there's nothing more frustrating than dancing with one of these girls and things start getting hotter and heavier, so he'll start moving his hands down lower. Then the girl stops dancing and says, "Hey! Just because I'm dressed this way does not make me a whore!"

The hyena was then approached by another male who she allowed herself comfort in. That must be her besty, I thought. The one that's had a crush on her since middle school.

She eventually scurried away from the entire pack. Perhaps she decided she didn't want to get laid that night, or perhaps the same rules apply to hyenas as people: "Just because I smell this way does not make me a whore!"

Honesty is The Best Policy

2008-06-27T14:12:00.004-04:00

[PETER is walking down Second Ave. approaching Wayne State campus. GUY across the street spots Peter.]

GUY [shouting]: Hey, man!
PETER [shouting back]: I don't have any money!
GUY: Now, why do you think I was gonna ask you for money?
PETER: Because you were!
GUY: Yeah, you right.

[Both go on their way.]

The Most Interesting Video You'll Ever See

2008-06-20T14:00:00.001-04:00

This is Gabe... eating macaroni... for three and a half minutes.

A Mass of Scrabbling Lacking A Good Proofread

2008-06-18T20:22:00.006-04:00

So here's the deal: I had a recent email correspondence with the managing editor of a writing magazine, arguably the biggest writing magazine in the U.S. (from what I understand). He mentioned that an upcoming issue will feature "new and innovative developments in the writing/publishing world." In the same correspondence, it was proposed that I write the lede article about publishing a manuscript online for free.

So, armed with a six-pack of Sam Adams (and three down), I hope tonite to create some semblance of what that article might say. I'm doing this on my blog because there is a mental stimulus here that I don't quite get from staring a blank Word document. It is a stimulus of fearlessness which lacks inhibition. There's no pressure that what I write will appear in a nationally acclaimed writing magazine, nor will anything here be taken seriously. Here goes...

Since released to the public on May 31st, 2008, the free online publication of Typing With One Hand has been nothing short of a remarkable experience. Anyone who has ever tried to query agents and go about things in the traditional fashion--convinced that their work is deserving as such--knows that the process is painstakingly long: Agents don't get back to your for weeks and, as you open the reply with jittery fingers, you're only left with an informal rejection in the end. It's an awful feeling of despondence leaving you every time with the feeling that all of your hard work has been for naught.

By doing things this way, there are no weeks spent in waiting, there is no feeling of dejection, and there is nearly instant gratification. It's as quick as setting up a Blogspot account, buying a domain name, and making a Facebook group (which is where the good majority of my traffic comes from). Another keen perk is that, this way, I was also able to use a tracker on his site, such a Google Analytics. This way, I am able to get an accurate count of who is reading my work, where they are from, and the average amount of time readers spent there. It is also easily accessable to readers (who, as it turns out, are far more attentive than I would have ever imagined).

Most importantly, though, people are reading it, and isn't that really what it's all about? Because it is so accessible, and because it is free, it is more likely to be spread email to email. It is true that if a tangible manuscript is your ultimate goal, that those who have read it online until that point are less likely to buy copies, but despite how many people you send it to, you aren't going to hit a very large audience; after moderately promoting myself, my current count is just under 600.

Still, after such speculation, I have to ask myself if it was in quiet desperation of in personal growth that I had posted the manuscript for free. After all, who works so hard perfecting their work only to give it up with no financial gain? Certainly not me! I thought. Where did I go wrong?

After all, like anyone else who grew up with an American Dream, taking control of your destiny means, among other things, being rich. Any writer who's seen the movie Capote has a completely different vision of what being a writer means. Who knew that writers schmooze with movie stars anyway? I just wanted to occasionally afford cheesecake.

Expensive desserts or not, I have discovered something great in my efforts for decent exposure: that having people read, understand, critique, and enjoy your work is just as good--if not better--than getting paid for it. It is a very personal experience. Because the wide-spread goal is happening slowly, I am able to respond to emails from the several strangers who just wanted to congratulate me and offer some guidance, and even make a few new friends.

The only real downfall to this whole thing is that there is no money coming in, but one needs to ask himself: Would you rather have no money and no exposure, or no money and good exposure? As I stated earlier, I'm doing this as an exercise to gather my thoughts before writing a complete 800-word article for a very notable magazine. (I will be less drunk and more serious at that point, but I think this is going well.)

It makes perfect sense, too, that this should be online. It is a perfect representation of my generation in many ways. First is obvious: Simply put, we're an internet-savvy generation that will find any and all ways to perform online. My second reasons stems from a recent seminar I attended that journalists Dan Gilmore and Nick Clooney spoke at. At this seminar, they spoke of citizen journalism and the unabashed relentlessness with which it is nearly putting degree-journalists out of work. Ordinary people, with blogs and camera phones and YouTube, have all of the means necessary to become hard-hitting journalists themselves . While they were not directly speaking in terms of finished manuscripts, it is easily relative to that topic. And why not? Industries like that of publishing are hard enough to break into when you're no one, so why not explore new realms of publication?

The article is due July 15th. This is a start I guess.

Apple Bottom Jeans & The Boots With The Fur

2008-06-15T21:32:00.004-04:00

Atop a wobbly and precarious two-story scaffolding where I helped nail aluminum siding onto a house yesterday morning, I was able to return the favor of a construction worker who believed in me enough to let me up there in the first place.

If you don't know anything about aluminum siding, it comes in panels that need to be nailed to the house, overlapping each other consistently so that the seam faces the same way on each one. Jim, my friendly mentor, and I discovered one panel one row down, however, that was overlapping the wrong way. Instead of taking everything apart, we tried to figure out a way to fix it methodically. While doing this, I suggested, "Well, maybe we can just cut around them and sort of improvise a little."

Jim looked at me funny. I'm not sure if he didn't know what the word "improvise" meant, or if he just trying to figure out if the word fit the sentence. I admit, it was an odd thing for me to say.

A few moments later, John, another professional constructor of houses, climbed up with us to check in. "How come this is going the wrong way?" he observed. "We want all the lays going to the right."

Proudly, Jim said, "Yeah, we just noticed that. We were thinking that we would just kinda... improvise on this one."

The job turned out to be a learning experience for us both.

Saving The Planet One Painting At A Time

2008-06-08T22:00:00.003-04:00

A few weeks ago, my friend Luke returned from a business trip in Africa. When he returned, we met at our friend John's house. He had a gift for me: a very stylized and raw(?) painting of a seaside village whose inhabitants were hard at work--women transporting jars of water; men fishing. It is a fantastic work of art and an instant favorite of mine.

So naturally, I'd forget it at John's house. Luke knew this and since then, our conversations have begun antagonistically with, "So wha'd you do with that painting I gave you?" or "Where'd you end up hanging your present?"

Finally, today, we met at John's again and I boasted to Luke a keen memory in that I would definitely remember to bring the painting home. I had it in my hands with all intention to leave with it. When we left to play frisbee, leaving John's house empty, I forgot it again.

"Hey John," I said. "Is your side door unlocked? I forgot Luke's painting again."

"Yeah, should be."

I went back to John's. My intention was to go back inside, grab the painting, then put it in my car and head the park. Just a moment ago, however, when I went to my car, the painting was gone! But it was in here! I thought. Wasn't it?

I began racking my brain. Where the hell did it go? I retraced my steps mentally. I had full recollection of going back to John's, walking in his side door, seeing the painting on his dining room table, then... blank. It was the strangest thing. Why did I walk into John's house only to leave empty-handed?

Well, here's what happened:

Upon strolling into my cohort's kitchen, I noticed that the kitchen light was on. This is a waste of energy, I thought. As I went to turn off the kitchen light, I noticed the dining room light was on, too. This house is empty! This couldn't possibly be good for Global Warming! I became so absorbed in turning off all of the lights in John's house, I once again forgot to grab the work of art I would so love to one day see hanging on my bedroom wall.

So if you could get it back to me, I'd appreciate it.

Gas Ho's Cut

2008-06-07T23:31:00.006-04:00

I will no doubt get kicked out of Wayne State's journalism department if I keep citing it in emails the way I do:

Real Detroit Weekly,

While your readership doesn't really strike me as the literary type, four beers have encouraged me to write you.

Wait--let me start over... Hello. My name is Peter Jurich and I'm a journalism student at Wayne State University. I'm emailing you because I was wondering if Real Detroit Weekly would be interested in doing a short piece on a website I recently created. The content of the site is the manuscript of a memoir that I completed and am having a hard time finding representation for; the content of the memoir is just the right amount of embarrassing sex and drug stories that Detroiters love.

The book is written for teens and young adults who are struggling through the awkward and confusing time of their lives that they are in. The average reader who enjoys jokes about family dysfunction and cracks at Catholicism, however, will love it. It is not a particularly inspiring tale, but I'm hoping that it will encourage young writers today to keep doing what they're doing and realize that Eminem ain't the best we can dish.

The website in question is http://www.typingwithonehand.com.

Thank you for your time,
Peter Jurich

Families That Lie Together Stay Together

2008-06-05T15:54:00.005-04:00

Decades ago, after my mother graduated from Dearborn High School, she received a form in the mail: a survey asking all Dearborn High graduates what they're currently doing with themselves, where they're going to school, what they're majoring in--questions you might ask a potential mate at a college party.

My mother thought this to be a ridiculous manifestation, seeing as she had little desire to keep up on the lives of former classmates, and therefore decided to invent a life that did not exist. She wrote down that she was the founder of a winery in California, not thinking that this could possibly come back to haunt her.

Oh, but it did. Years later, she was at a party when an acquaintance asked her, "Cathy, where is your winery in California?" Mom was caught quite off guard. "Umm, Napa Valley," she said. The conversation ended, and Mom was thankful to have dodged a bullet.

But it was not over. She was at an outing of some sort--one that involved her then toddler, Alexander (my older brother)--when she was approached by yet another mother. "Cathy, what is your winery in Napa Valley called?"

Stunned, Mom came up with "Pebble Springs."

"Oh!" said the interested second party. "And how much did it cost for you and your husband to open up this winery? I'm quite interested."

"Not much," Mom lied. "We had some inheritance."

"It must be difficult to run from Michigan, eh?" Questions like this persisted, and the snowball kept rolling. This lie was apparently one of my mother's biggest regrets (aside from marrying her ex-husband) since it involved her in so many awkward encounters.

On a related topic, I recently received a form in the mail for Dearborn High graduates of '04 inquiring as to what I'm doing these days in college, business endeavors, or otherwise.

I am the co-owner of Pebble Springs Winery in Napa Valley, California.

The Liberian Literacy Foundation: A Million Books For A Million Lives

2008-04-20T12:54:00.006-04:00

With the end of the semester right around the corner, we students are no doubt looking very forward to that small amount of pocket cash we'll get through selling our textbooks. And why not? We've worked hard and deserve a night or two out, compliments of Marwill bookstore. (Of course, it isn't until later that we realize it was our money to begin with.)

What would you do if I told you that you had a chance to do something awesome with one of those books? If you're willing to donate one of your college texts to an extremely worthy cause, The Liberian Literacy Foundation will gladly take it off your hands.

The purpose behind LLF is to build schools and provide children in Liberia with a proper education through the reselling of your textbooks. The Foundation will sell your book to other students from its website for a set price of $30 (regardless of the book). That $30 will go to pay for the storage and shipping of the books and the building of schools overseas.

Wayne State has agreed to be the kick-off school to be used as an example to other universities. The success of this project at WSU could potentially begin a nation-wide effort to help Liberia to increase the 50% literacy rate that it faces today. If you'd like more information, you can visit the Liberian Literacy Foundation website:

http://www.liberianbooks.org/

This movement can and will change lives. If you'd like to contribute, you can either get in touch with me and I'll meet you wherever to receive whatever, or you can use the deposit box located in the Honor's Program of the 2nd floor of the Undergrad Library.

Thanks for your time.

A Nameless Entry

2008-04-01T20:43:00.011-04:00

How often in conversations do you use the name of the person you're talking to?

About three weeks ago, Kira and I were driving home from a too-short weekend in Chicago probably around six or seven o'clock. The sun had just about set. As Kira was driving, I was flipping through her iPod searching for a song to play on the car stereo and my eyes were not on the road. Suddenly, Kira gasped, "Oh, Peter!" Immediately, I panicked. We're about to hit a truck, I thought. We're about to go soaring off the bridge at 70 mph and -- what's worse -- when they find my body, I will not be buckled up.

I was very wrong. In my haste to look up, I shocked myself with a beautiful view of the Windy City. In a kaleidoscope across the starless sky, the city made up for the absence of nature in the form of bright towers and accentuating streetlights. It was like one of those pictures you see in National Geographic: nice to look at, but tickles your adventurous streak. Except it was not a picture. I was there, looking at the city. It was the kind of moment a picture couldn't capture.

But I digress. The point is, I heard my name and my instinct told me trouble was afoot. So, do people associate their names with emergency? (This topic set the bar for the duration of our four-hour ride ahead.) As it turns out, a name could very well just be one more thing we have a tendency to take advantage of.

It really can't be helped, however. Just as the more negative traits of someone stand out to you more than the good, so do the times that we actually hear our names. In elementary and high school, it is far more shocking when a teacher catches us up to no good and shouts our name than addressing us amiably to answer a question. ("Peter Joseph!" was never my favorite thing to hear growing up.) And even at home, our names are associated with chores and responsibilities. Our names become synonymous with "trash" and "dishes."

Think about the last time you had a conversation with someone who used your name when it wasn't preceded by "Hello" or "Goodbye." The usage made you feel special; it made the conversation more intimate. In some cases, it just felt damn right out of place. Even strange. Either way, it was a memorable moment (as you just proved to yourself). It is the type of good and personal feeling that you could easily perpetuate, but probably shouldn't, for fear that hearing your name would then lose its luster, its sensuality. Sometimes, it just feels good to hear your own name without reacting innately with a cringe.

Maybe Pavlov didn't need a dog; just a childhood.

The Persistance of Persistence (for lack of anything better)

2008-03-23T20:21:00.018-04:00

In today's world, we are too concerned with feeling special than actually accomplishing what we intend on. I suppose that the context I am mainly referring to is when this logic is applied to sales. A recent outing to get a new cell phone triggered this stream of thought.

For those of you that call me frequently, you know that my phone is not in working order: I can only hear you when you are on speaker phone, and you can hardly hear me over the echo of your own voice. This is obviously disconcerting for both parties because A) I cannot talk to you in public, and B) you cannot openly complain about whomever I am with. I finally decided to go to my local AT&T store with my mom's boyfriend, Paul, to get a new phone, hoping it would cost less than $80.

We were greeted by a schmoozer if there ever was one: slicked back and shiny hair, thin experimental college moustache, pressed baby blue collared shirt and a fancy Rolex to accent. In the softest and friendliest tone I'd ever heard outside of elevator music, he said, "Good afternoon. My name is Travis[not his real name]. Welcome to the new AT&T. How may I help you?"
"I'm looking for a new phone," I said. "This one doesn't work anymore." I explained to him my malady, but he did not seem to be paying attention; he seemed to be looking through me with good-intentioned eyes rather than at me with attentive ones. He had a solution to my problem:
"OK, well who is your internet and cable provider?" he asked.
"Wow," I said.
"And how much do you pay for that?" he asked.
"It's not under my name, so I'm not sure."
My answer was not in the script. Travis took a blank-faced moment to process the next portion of his speech. "Did you know that the new AT&T provides telephone, internet and cable?" he recovered. "By signing up with us, you can consolidate all three bills into one very low monthly bill and save yourself a lot of money."
I did not know what this had to do with my busted phone. Travis produced some official looking papers from a binder called Travis's Binder and displayed them before me. "I suggest you look over these guaranteed low prices and consider switching over to the new AT&T." He inched a pen surreptitiously across the desk.
Paul stepped in: "The bill is in his mother's name," he said, "so he wouldn't be able to sign anything."
"That's OK," Travis assured us with a sort-of smile that betrayed his irritation for the man who just busted his sale. "I'll give you some copies to take home to your mom. I understand because my own mother was a little reluctant to sign on herself, but she is perfectly happy now with the service she is getting. She can now record up to four channels while watching a fifth. She loves it."
Travis handed me some papers and I could not help but think of the Mitch Hedberg joke, "If someone on the street gives you a flier, they're kind of like saying, 'Here. You throw this away.'"

Our trip was not a total waste, though. When we finally did get to the part about my cell phone, Travis asked for the name on my account number.
"Peter Jurich," I said.
"Oh really? I went to school with a Jurich," he said automatically with no genuine surprise. Given the rarity of my name, I was skeptical. I wondered how many family names of his customers he had gone to school with. This theory evolved into a series of dialogue between Paul and I on the way home regarding what other things Travis might say to people in effort to create a lucrative relationship: "Your last name is Smith? I went to school with a Smith. Do you know Bill?" "Oh wow. I have an eight in my phone number too." "You live in a house? I live in a house, too. Is yours made out of brick?"
After twenty minutes of bullshit, Travis finally informed me that my warranty wasn't up on my phone and I qualified for a free new one if I call Customer Service. I did that when I got home.

"Hello, this is Tracey. Thanks for calling the new AT&T. How may I help you?"
I explained again my situation. She asked for my number and I gave it to her.
"So," said Tracey, "while we're waiting for your account information, how are you today?"
Great, I thought. Someone else who went to school with a Jurich. I told her I was fine.
"What kind of weather do you guys have right now?"
"Snowing," I said.
"Yeah, same here!" she laughed forcefully.
Out of politeness, I wanted to ask her what kind of weather she had, but I couldn't bring myself to; I figured that the closer I got to this woman, the more likely a target I would be for someone who needs 2000 more nighttime minutes (because the probability of my popularity increasing overnight is extremely high and I might need ALL of them.) My recalcitrance became harder and harder to maintain, however.
When my account finally was up, she asked me questions that ranged from "What are the last four digits of your Social Security Number?" to "What is your major at Wayne State?" Over some time, I began feeling AWKWARD and RUDE if I didn't speak. I found myself asking about her seven-year-old son and what kind of grades he got in school. Turns out he wants to be a baseball player, the cute little guy. I suppose I would prefer this kind of treatment to the alternative, but the lingering question did present itself eventually...
I noticed you're on our $40/mo plan with only 200 texts. Do you sometimes find that the current plan isn't enough for you? Do you think that you could benefit from an upgrade in service?"
"No," I said flatly.
"Well, I see that you sometimes go over your text limit and my personal recommendation would be to upgrade, but that's just me. Hahahaha!"
"Thank you, Tracey, but no thank you."
"Thank you!"
My new phone was in the mail, so I had no reason to be talking to her anymore. "Tell your son I said good luck," I said and hung up. Unfortunately, I kind of wonder, a day later, how Tracey is doing. She was a very sweet woman even if it was all for show. She almost made me feel guilty about not upgrading my phone plan.

Maybe I'll do that tomorrow.

Structure 5

2008-03-19T22:33:00.004-04:00

So I found this poem that I wrote awhile ago. I'm not one for poetry very much, but I felt that the experience I had was worth poetring (sp?) about. See, on Wayne State campus, there are two parking structures that are copacetic for anyone who has classes in Manoogian: Structures 2 and 5. Structure 2, closer to the desired building, usually has room. If that's not the case, Structure 5 is acceptable... if you've never used it before.

Structure 5 is wretched and I did not understand this upon my first time parking there. (I'm quite positive that small gremlins make it their home at night.) In Structure 5 normal driving rules do not apply. One must be feeling especially temerarious to willingly roll onto its ugly face, for I almost got ran over twice when on foot. I do not like this planet, or at least this small portion of it. So without further ado:

Structure 5 is where it's at
If you've a mind for sneak-attack
No one cares should you live or die
Around the corner, battles cry
Primitive hunters -- no stealth involved
Unsafe driving is what it's called
Keeping lights off; there is no logic
In risking another insurance deposit
To strafe would be your final yet
Your step is crucial to your bet
Gambling on a concrete floor
Three stories above the exit door
Parking structure burning bright
In the afternoon delight
No one will know you were once alive
When the body is found, they'll soon believe

That was a terrible mess of words that you probably did not intend to read. Your life is no different from reading it. In fact, when on WSU campus, when there is only parking available in Structure 5, you'll not remember my warning until the last second when it's too late.

Have a nice day.

Babies Never Stop Crying

2008-03-18T15:18:00.011-04:00

As college students, we are on a perpetual road to self-discovery. We have finally escaped our pubescent natures and have realized some sort of method to our bodies' mechanics (this does this, that does that). This time of our lives is very exciting, and justifiably so—it took us a very long time to realize that no one really cares what we look like. At some point, however, our enthusiasm turns to tribulation when we convince ourselves that we cannot completely become the people we are destined to be without revisiting who we once were.

This is why I think being an obstetrician must be an extremely difficult job. Aside from the fact that, in most cases, life literally depends on those brave enough to accept the calling, I imagine that the career is also packaged with an awful burden that offsets the beauty of childbirth. I'm referring, of course, to the time when those children eventually grow up and seek out the wisdom of their Givers.

In some way, I can see myself searching for Dr. Joseph Stern. He is, after all, one-third my namesake. I was the last baby that he delivered before he switched careers to liposuction and at this point of my life, if that doesn't scream existential, I don't know what does! I imagine he retired long ago and now lives in Vermont. I think that's a safe bet. I've never been to Vermont, nor do I have much intention to go there (no offense to the good people of the Green Mountain State), but Dr. Stern is definitely a Vermont kind of guy.

He has a wife definitely. And children probably. His career was no doubt sparked by the birth of his own kids, little ones that he could shape and influence in the chaotic and threatening world that he carved out to be peaceful and easy if only for their sake. But they are grown and moved out by now. Who knows—he might be a grandfather!

The morning I visit Dr. Stern on his farm (he probably has sheep; he likes the fact that he could make his own winter coat if he felt ambitious enough), the freshly-risen sun will be shining exuberantly over tranquil woodland critters lounging by the pondside among the patches of amiable marigolds that the submissive, but very well-bred, Mrs. Stern just planted a few days earlier in time for Spring. I'll walk up the creaky steps to the cozy bungalow that lies next to the mighty apple tree that supports the now rotting fort which the family spent building together in a much younger summer season. I'll hesitate a spell on the porch before adjusting my posture and telling myself that this is something I must do if I'm to ever figure out who I really am. A television can be heard inside. I knock on the door and a dog barks.

An old man opens the door, pushing aside a feisty golden retriever. He's not too old, maybe mid-70s. "Can I help you?" he asks.

"Are you... Joseph Stern?" I ask, whispering unintentionally for dramatic effect.

"I sure am. What can I do for you?" He's so kind, I think to myself. After all these years, he's still the same old Dr. Stern!

"Sir," I swallow hard, "I'm Peter Jurich." My big youthful eyes are watering at the sight of this great man who has aged elegantly.

"Yeah, what're ya selling?" he asks. He's a bit incredulous. He does not seem to remember me, the very last life that he brought into existence. Perhaps old age is getting the best of him. I decide to repeat myself. This time, I emphasize my middle name.

"I'm Peter... Joseph Jurich."

"I know, you just said that! The dog here's Max, that road up my drive there is Fenkel, and I'm irritated. If you'll excuse me, I gotta catch the end of Law & Order."

He's about to step back inside his house, but I step with him. "Sir... you delivered me... 22 years ago."

"I delivered you?" he asks. Then suddenly, he has a gestalt: "Damn Google!"

I continue my conviction: "Dr. Stern! It was your hands—those hands right there—that brought me out of the dark and into the light! You gave me life, Dr. Stern! You are the reason that I stand before you now! I lov—"

"Oh, get off my porch already!" the angry old drunkard (Yes! I can smell it in his breath now!) shouts at me. "I get about twenty of you kids every year coming to my house, disturbing my family, crying because your life has no meaning. 'Oh Dr. Stern! Please tell me what it all means! I'm in college and I thirst to know why I'm here, why you brought me into this cruel world!' Well I don't know, OK? So just leave me alone and go backpacking through Europe or something! I held you for five minutes and maybe flirted with your mother for two! Why do you think that means I have the answer?"

Mr. Stern slams the door in my face and leaves me to freeze out in the cold cold Winter night. He doesn't care how many miles I walked, how many trains I hopped, to see him. He is mean and bitter and I never want to see him again. But cutting my losses, I pick up my satchel and begin my trek through the snow toward the road that led me to this lonesome sordid shack. I might as well make the best of it while I'm in the area; the barber I frequented in middle school retired to New Hampshire. Maybe he can tell me who I am...

When Three Years Finally Pay Off

2008-02-13T21:22:00.003-05:00

Sometimes, something will happen at your job that makes the entire day (and the years that led up to it) totally worth it. Today was that day for me. The following happened around 8:20pm, ten minutes before closing.

[PETER is doing something. KID approaches the desk.]
KID: Mister, will you make me a sandwich?
PETER: What? No way, dude, this is a library!
KID: Aww, c'mon! Make me a sandwich!
PETER: Sorry, pal. I'm not making you a sandwich.
KID: Why not?
PETER: I got nothing to make a sandwich with!
KID: If you did, would you make me a sandwich?
PETER: I'd make myself a sandwich.
KID: C'mon, mister! I'd make you a sandwich!
PETER: You are so lying through your teeth right now!
KID: How do you know?
PETER: You're just some kid!
KID: Make me a sandwich!
PETER: No!
KID[sulking away]: You suck.

[PETER goes back to what he was doing.]

Death by Chocolate (and other things ironic)

2008-01-02T00:22:00.000-05:00

2008 will be a great year, aside from the fact that I already broke my promise not to bite my nails. In fact, I think I started off this year far better than I have many other years. (I say 'many' because you can't top carelessly gurgling in a crib.)

I almost choked to death today. Seriously. My mother and a man who is not my father went to the movies leaving me an empty house. As I sat down in my quiet living room to contemplate which guilty pleasure to indulge in first, I reached for the candy dish in the middle of the coffee table. My candy of choice was a Hershey's Kiss. I was stunned to discover it was dark chocolate. I love dark chocolate! I said to myself. I really do. If you're ever in the neighborhood, and you have dark chocolate, please stop by.

Anyway, in my elation, I consumed said chocolate candy perhaps a little too hasty, as I did not find my taste buds satiated by the treasure in my mouth, but rather discovered a sharp pain in my jugular and an inability to express the anguish. I couldn't breathe.

As a former Boy Scout of America, my training taught me to act calm, saunter to the nearest table, and thrust the edge up against my sternum; so naturally, I jumped up and down and flailed my arms to no one, retching coherencies all the while. I was dying. It was awful.

At some point it occurred to me that my present actions would not save my life, so I ran to the kitchen to perform the Heimlich on myself at the kitchen table. I was in position just in time for the Kiss to melt in my throat and slide down my esophagus. Truly, it was one of my finer moments in life.

Funny as this whole situation might seem, I did come out of it with a greater appreciation for life. After 30 seconds of panic, all I could do was lie on the couch for 15 minutes and reflect on things I've done, things I'm doing, and things I want to do. The latter list was much longer than the first two (as it should be at my age), but it really was one of those keen reminders that anyone can die at anytime. I think it's just a matter of what you want your headstone to say. I don't quite fancy "He choked on Hershey chocolate."

I probably over-dramatized the whole situation, but it's the feeling that's important in this case; not the event itself. I assume, however, that like most of my New Year resolutions, I'll simply forget about it in a week, and resume taking things for granted. But for now, this moment, this bunch of words that I'm typing, I feel good. I feel very good. Alive, really.

Help!: Confessions of a Memoiraholic

2007-11-04T19:30:00.000-05:00

I love a good horrifically awful childhood memoir just as much as the next person, but I think that I should stop reading them, for I think they could be the cause of the two-year bad mood I've been in. It started off with Angela's Ashes, which as you probably know is my favorite book. Frank McCourt describes his "miserable Irish Catholic childhood" with such humility and forgiveness that you can't help but fall in love with him. Unfortunately, he does not use quotation marks, thus leaving those I've suggested the read to extremely irritated.

From there, I was addicted. I then ran into The Kite Runner (fiction, but tragic nonetheless), What is The What, The Jungle (also fictional, but still horrible), The Glass Castle, and 'Tis to name a few. Now I find myself drawn into Execution by Hunger, the story of a Ukrainian village's struggle against an intrusive Communist regime, told through the eyes of an adolescent Miron Dolot. I've loved all of these books, but they might be taking a toll on my fragile head.

I recommend them all (the majority of them use quotation marks), for they've all brought something new to the table that is my world -- some new perspective, or crisis that the liberal hippie college student in my wants to fix. But reader, my heart is entirely too heavy for the 21-year-old boy that I am. In fact, I sometimes feel guilty just for being happy or content. Therefore, I need something to read. Hopefully, you'll be clumsy enough to bump into this blog and kind enough to make a suggestion for me -- something fictional with a happy ending, please. I no longer want open-ended stories where my impression is that the open-ended life of the narrator still exists with his or her open-ended problems. I need help, but not self-help books. Those are still memoirs; just plotless and preachy.

I'll Take "War on Terror" For 300

2007-11-02T09:02:00.000-04:00

So I turned on CNN this morning (by mistake, mind you) and found something horrible: the anchors were literally pulling news stories on notecards out of a box and having "experts" comment on them via satellite. I came in around the time that the female anchor pulled out a card that said "Hillary vs. Everyone Else." At this time, she asked questions about Hillary as the front-running candidate and how her competition is looking for any excuse to expose her. Nothing new.

We had a discussion in my Political Science class the other day regarding the 70% of Americans who think they are informed on world events because they watch local news. As part of the lecture, the teacher had us watch about 20 minutes of local news to prove that it was mostly weather and fluff. CNN is not local news, and yet it's twice as fluffy. I turned on a game show this morning! Is real news really so scarce that stations have to play little games to make it fun and interesting for the viewer? Next week, if I turn on Morning Joe, are they going to spin an oversized wheel for answers?

To push this just a little further, when the contestants signed off, the male anchor heartily said, "Thanks for playing this morning!"

New York Times Essay Contest

2007-10-28T19:32:00.000-04:00

A while ago, a friend of mine turned me onto this contest held by New York Times Magazine in which entrants were to write a response to Rick Perlstein's article, "What's the Matter With College?" The winning essay, and four runners-up, were to appear in the following issue.

A week after I turned in my best effort, the editor of the magazine emailed all of the applicants asking permission to publish all of our essays on the website, in lieu of giving us all the credit he felt we deserved. I totally forgot about this until today when I found my essay, "When The Party's Over." Enjoy!

If you feel so inclined, you can go here to read the winners, but they're not as good as mine, of course.

A Humbling Moment

2007-10-08T15:34:00.000-04:00

So just today, I was in contact with the editor of the editorial page for The Detroit Free Press, hoping to submit my coverage of tomorrow's GOP debate. After emailing him, his reply expressed interest, and asked when I could have it to him by. I responded, and when I sat down just now to check my email again, it said I had a new message. Excited, I checked my inbox...

It was Ticketmaster; D.L. Hughley is in town.

Life is funny like that.

Michigan Budget Crisis

2007-10-08T14:31:00.000-04:00

Part of my Political Science class is to discuss in the online forum our responses to various news articles pertaining to different issues. Since I scarcely have interesting stories to share to all two of my readers, I thought I'd start sharing whatever I'm posting on UCompass:

There's an article in the Detroit Free Press today(10/7) by John Wisely concerning the annual meeting of the Citizen's Research Council of Michigan, a Lansing-based nonprofit. Specifically, the article was about former state treasury official Tom Clay's study of the state budget over the next ten years. Clay says that, even with tax increases, state expenses will still overturn revenue by 5% every year, which will result in a $6-billion shortcoming by 2017. Clay's study shows that the recent agreement between House and Senate does little to improve conditions; that it is a short-term fix to a long-term problem.

Another interesting take on the article is Gov. Jennifer Granholm's response to the presentation. "She defended this week's budget deal but acknowledged that more work remains," The article reads. What I'm getting from this is that, even after the minor shutdown and the eight months to come up with a plan, there is still no decision made. I feel as though the budget deal reached was only made to keep citizens from thinking that nothing has been accomplished.

The increase is set to take place Dec. 1st, and "is something I'm sure we'll be working on," Granholm says. Let's hope so.

Why Shoelaces Burden Us

2007-09-28T18:47:00.000-04:00

Earlier today, I was running on one of the treadmills at The Civic Center at approx. 6.0mph when I tripped on my shoelace and fell. It was the best.

Book Analysis: One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest

2007-09-24T20:18:00.000-04:00

Individualism has never been celebrated quite as uniquely as in Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. Published in 1962, the book is just as powerful and relevant today as it was the generation that embraced it.

The idea for the novel was inspired by Kesey’s legal drug experimentations for a mental hospital in Menlo Park. In the introduction to the book’s 40th Anniversary Edition, Kesey describes the experience as such: “The doctor deposited me in a little room on his ward, dealt me a couple of pills or a shot or a little glass of bitter juice, then locked the door. He checked back every forty minutes to see if I was alive, took some tests, asked some questions, left again.” None were wise to idea that Kesey was fueling the fire for a book that would change society’s perception of psychiatric care.

Told from the perspective of the elusive “Chief” Bromden, Cuckoo’s Nest tells the story of a hospital ward turned upside down by the arrival of the boisterous R. P. McMurphy. McMurphy, a self-proclaimed “gambling fool,” makes it his every intention to disrupt the otherwise monotonous and resigned manner that the ward has taken on under the rule of Nurse Ratched in order to suit his own desires. McMurphy quickly catches on to the condescending patterns of what the nurse considers therapy and decides to try things his own way. His mentality that the other patients should be treated like men -- not children -- is both nerve-wracking and awe-inspiring to anyone on the ward who has already fallen victim to routine, save for Nurse Ratched.

Upon publication, Cuckoo’s Nest brewed a storm that had speculating readers question the effectiveness of America’s mental health facilities. The measures taken by the staff in the novel are sometimes extreme, and an underlying theme is that the best cure for mental illness is simply laughter, freedom, and the occasional fishing expedition. The question then comes into play as to whether or not McMurphy is actually crazy or not -- brash as he is, he shows no real signs of insanity -- but insanity and passion often go hand-in-hand, and McMurphy is definitely passionate about life. What might irk Nurse Ratched the most is the urgency in his voice every time he speaks –- “talking louder’n you think he needed to… talking down, like he’s sailing fifty yards overhead,” as the narrator puts it.

Whichever intention Kesey had when writing his first novel, one thing is clear: he doesn’t expect anyone to take anything sitting down. Every time McMurphy interrupts a meeting, or every time he suggests a new cockamamie scheme, he embeds just a little more of himself not only into the patients, but also into the readers. As society, sure, we understand that rules are integral and not without purpose. But as humans, we can’t help but root him on in his quest to irritate if only for the sake of irritation.

I’m not exactly condoning the idea of interrupting class with raucous remarks or belching loudly in the middle of restaurants, but I’m sure what anyone can take away from the read is that this life is the only one you have (as far as anyone knows for sure, but that’s a completely different discussion), so why not make a little noise, go out with a bang? McMurphy’s passion is what drives: a passion for gambling, baseball, and ladies. No matter what happens, he must always be on top; otherwise, he only feels that he’s cheating himself. Unfortunately, these sentiments are also shared by Nurse Ratched.

Cuckoo’s Nest starts out a bit rocky. What you should understand is that the narrator is also crazy and his hallucinations can be very vague before you get the hang of him (After all, Kesey did write a portion of the book on LSD). The pages in between though are vivid, smart, and hilarious. The characters become more dynamic as time in the ward goes on, and you might find yourself missing them when all is said and done. Though it’s not very action-driven, it’s easy to understand why the book received the overnight success it did.

Fireworks in 3D

2007-09-23T21:37:00.000-04:00

So a friend had some extra tickets to last night's Tigers game. Upon offering, he mentioned that they included a free meal. OK, cool, I thought. They'll give me a hot dog and a Pepsi.

Wrong.

The tickets gave us access to what I called The VIP Lounge -- a violet chamber with with a hundred some-odd tables of happy families -- that sat above right field and an extensive buffet. We obviously did not fit in since none of us knew what to expect. We were jeans and hats and baseball gloves among diamond earrings and parted hair and collared shirts. I was able to partake in pork chops, baby potatoes, fruit salad, and the best fucking bread I've ever eaten. It was truly a reminder that life is often better when you let someone else take the reins for a little while.

However, the highlight of my night was discovering how to make 3D glasses. It started off when I lost the contact in my left eye. For three innings, I was half blind and my depth-perception was way way off (I was fearful of running into people six feet in front of me). I felt like I was drunk, but without the influence that makes alcohol so enjoyable.

In my lameness, I decided to put on my sunglasses during the fireworks display after the game. That is when the world came to life. I don't know what the connection is between varicolored explosions, tinted eye wear, and corneal disarray, but I guarantee that the show I experienced was much better than that of my cohorts.

I spent most of it like (8-O

Anyone who wears contacts, I urge you to try this. You will feel good.

Bathroom Buddies

2007-09-17T17:10:00.000-04:00

Having a camera phone allows me to capture and immortalize this passing correspondence between two strangers who just happened to use the same bathroom stall. Though they may never meet, their memories will live on.

Detroit and Other Jazz

2007-09-16T21:32:00.000-04:00

I've lived near Detroit my entire life and I love the city. One of the things that we Detroiters take great pride in is the stigma that comes with it. There's definitely something edgy about going to a new city or state and being able to say, "I'm from Detroit." People look at you differently when you're from Detroit: they tiptoe around you and choose their words wisely, while others expect you always to have stories that involve drive-bys, gang-bangs, and drug deals. That's OK -- no one needs to know that you're really from the suburbs.

I can remember going to Tigers' games as a kid and feeling like I need to walk extra close to my mom for fear of ravenous homeless people. Flash-forward fifteen years later when my friends and I decided to get an apartment in the bustling Wayne State campus. In the first few weeks, I was unreasonably terrified to even walk from my car to my front door. (I presume this is the fault of local news stations.) But after some successful promenades, I came to realize that it's just like anywhere else.

Not too long ago, some friends turned me onto a little jazz club off Mack in Eastern Market called Bert's. It's interesting to pull up into what is arguably a rough-around-the-edges neighborhood and enter a bar resounding with laughter and brio. On Wednesday nights there is karaoke hosted by a live band, and you will see some of the most talented men and women of all ages performing their renditions of songs often better than the original.

What Detroit is is Pride, and its citizens are chock-full of it. The people there trudge through miserable day-to-day bullshit, but the city really knows how to shine with a positive attitude on nights like these. The club's patrons are well-aware that they are at the bottom of the food chain. They are seeing the worst economy in the US and Kwame Kilpatrick is only making it worse. But still the mood is, "Fuck it. Let's drink, sing, and have fun."

And this makes the surrounding suburban areas look really stupid.

Suburban kids (Dearborn being a prime example) absolutely love scowls and stiff upper lips, entertaining the idea that they are tough shit. Smoking pot and driving a Mercedes down Outer Drive is not called "being from the streets;" it's called having successful parents. I actually find it a little offensive to see these young actors pretend that they have hard lives. It seems to me like a mockery to those who really do. These kids cannot fathom what it's like to walk around in some of these peoples' shoes, and I think that the day they do will be especially hard on them. Suddenly, they'll have something to grimace about. Suddenly, your boy don't got your back.

Gangstas and bitches, Detroit is a beautiful city with an awful reputation. However, every city deserves the same reputation. There's always going to be a dark alley or crack house. It's kind of interesting to drive between Detroit and Dearborn in the evening. If you base safety off the looks you get from people in the car next to you, then Dearborn is far more dangerous. The drivers seem to give a much bigger stink about what you think of them, not realizing how dumb they look trying to convince you that they're "bad."

After all, the worst thing that's happened to me in my twenty-one years in the burbs is getting egged by high-schoolers.

Where Wings Take Dream

2007-09-15T19:09:00.000-04:00

Through my friend Diana's birthday, I found myself smack in the middle of the Michigan State Fairgrounds yesterday attending a Ring of Honor event, my first ever wrestling show. My first impression was stepping out of the backseat of the car and getting a strong whiff of ganj. Though no high was achieved, the night only got crazier.

I was shocked as to the great athleticism that the wrestlers showed, but quite possibly my favorite aspect of the night was the idea that I could literally shout anything an no one would care. People took fancy most to remarks such as "You're epidermis is showing!" and "Ya wanna see my dick?" Other promulgations like "Fergie Ferg!" didn't go over as well. Neither did my attempts to get the crowd chanting "USA!" or "Fuck you, A-Rod!"

Other members of the crowd did not enjoy the tomfoolery as much. I was sitting on the end of my row of compatriots when a game of Scratch The Head of The Person Next To You broke out among us. I was left playing with the hair of a total stranger.

"Was that really necessary?" he asked peevishly.

"It was from her," I said, pointing to my attractive female friend in defense. "You gotta pass it down." He was not convinced.

"Was that really necessary?" he persisted.

"No," I caved.

He turned away, and I kept my distance, for a brawl might've ensued had our shoes touched. At the end of the night, though, lessons learned were that Budweiser has a peculiarly high alcohol content and that celebrities are much cooler when they speak gibberish (which might explain my attraction to the Red Hot Chili Peppers, whose bassist plays Donnie on the awful awful Nickelodeon TV show The Wild Thornberrys.) Happy birthday, KupZ.

Searching for You: An Evaluation of Musical Integrity

2007-09-04T21:55:00.000-04:00

Where are You? Who are You? Where did You come from? For years, musicians have asked these questions to listeners over countless radio waves, but have they yet to receive an answer?

I think a better question is, have we yet to receive ours? In a painful effort to keep up on modern music, I usually flip through MTV and VH1 a few times each morning (they squeeze music in for about two hours). One day, it occurred to me that I've been listening to Linkin Park come so far and become so numb for years, and in the end, it doesn't even matter! All because of the elusive, yet omnipresent, "You."

In the 1960's and 70's, rock was still pretty experimental and love songs were actually common. "You" represented a lover; not specifically male or female, but one with whom we can all relate to and have a picture of in our heads. When used outside of the theme of eternal love, it was obvious that artists used the pronoun as if addressing a crowd or giving a speech. For example, in Jefferson Airplane's 1967 classic, White Rabbit, Grace Slick helpfully explains that "one pill makes you larger/and one pill makes you small/and the ones your mother gives you/don't do anything at all." Acid versus Tylenol. Simple, cautionary, and also gives "You" a purpose.

People have always loved bad music. This was prevalent 60 years ago when Pat Boone's cover of Fats Domino's Ain't That a Shame ranked higher than the original in charts. What made Boone so popular, though, was that he was an agreeable figure for parents -- ironed khakis and collared shirts -- which is the exact opposite of what rock & roll's history stems from. Musical evolution has always revolved around damning the man and rebelling against the authority that inhibits. Since this inevitably includes music that one's parents might listen to, music is ever-changing... and has seen much better days.

As the evolution of music progresses, there seems now to be a focus on the angst-filled, poetry-writing teen. Lyrics in the songs of so many newish bands, such as Daughty and Silverstein, often reference a vengeful and malevolent "You" that I'm beginning to think is the same person. Their songs are filled with lies and cheating and wasted time. The chorus of Silverstein's Smile In Your Sleep states that "you say you're weak/you won't let me down/you lie through your teeth/you smile in your sleep." Besides the fact that it's hard to find a song void of lingual clichés, they are usually poor and contradictory in their use. When I listen to these songs, I can only imagine the intended audience as a very nonthreatening Bond villain.

My guess is that the Aerosmiths and the Eagles of yesterday spent their time searching for love, and that recent artists have found it, concluding that the grass is always greener on the other side. Some advice that aspiring writers are given is that every story has already been told; what remains unique is how it's presented. The same applies to music: every song has been written, leaving artists open to find new ways to deliver the same message. The best and most relevant example for this that I can think of is Hey There Dililah by the Plain White T's.

Right off the bat, we get the gist of what's going on: "Hey there Dililah, what's it like in New York City? I'm a thousand miles away, but girl, tonight you look so pretty." OK, cool, he's writing a letter. Is he writing a letter? I don't know, and that's fine! This time, we know who "You" is and might actually find a personal connection with her simply because we know her name. Dililah is in New York; he's not; they're in love. It's a story. Outside of being readable, it's also a pretty catchy tune.

I hope Linkin Park eventually finds themselves so they can stop putting their trust in You and pushing as far as they can go. The act is getting old, and frankly, I'm a little disappointed that these grown men are handling their post-adolescence so childishly. For once, I'd like to pull up to a red light and hear nonabrasive songs blaring from the car next to me.

Get me that Pat Boone.

Monkey Business

2007-09-04T21:02:00.001-04:00

If any patrons knew what we did at work, I don't think they would take us quite as seriously.

Researching The Holy Spirit

2007-08-26T09:51:00.000-04:00

This is a story that I deleted from this blog a while ago because I thought I was going to include it in the final manuscript. Since it no longer fits the point of purpose of what I'm doing, I'd thought I'd put it back up. It's just as relevant (if not, more so) and the usage of the RSS on Facebook will hopefully create more traffic...

I decided to return to the old stomping ground, Divine Child Church, on Easter Sunday. This was not by the usual circumstances that I would've attended about ten years ago either: Mom didn't wake me up fifteen minutes before and announce our leaving in five, nor did I have to get up at six in the morning, take a cold shower outside with twenty scrubby boys at the water spicket and put on my Boy Scout uniform. No, I chose this route today all on my own, to prepare in whatever segments that needed to be written regarding my previous life as a church-dwelling boy of the (sort of) Christian faith.

I chose Easter Sunday because it would undoubtedly be the most packed "audience" the church would see all year round. And it was. Mass began at 11:30, but, based on prior knowledge I hoped still held true, I decided to get there at 11:10 to avoid any crowd. My efforts failed miserably, as there was already a line to get into the Gathering Room, and into the church when the 10:00 service got out. Wall to wall it was with people in The Gathering Room. Men showed off their wives. Wives showed off their children. Children griped about their collars. (I knew that pain too well.) Sons and daughters who had returned from college were miserable as well. After six or seven months of neglecting their native faith, replacing it with binges of drugs and alcohol, they were forced to return home for the weekend and once more upturn their tactless roots of sit, kneel, stand, pray, kneel, pray, stand, sit, eat host, leave.

"Peter Jurich!" I heard from a corner. Adjusting my eyes, I found a group of old grade school friends I'd not seen since, well, grade school. As much as I loathe these moments, I found it a little pleasant. We reminisced about the old days when boogers and spitballs were flung at each other across the pews, and brought up current events by commenting on one another’s' facebook or MySpace profiles. ("So when did Amanda get hot?" or "Did you see what a wreck Bill turned out to be?")

Eventually, the organs started grinding, and people bottlenecked themselves in.

"Where's your family?" Megan asked as she met with her's.

"Oh, uhh, they're on their way," I stammered over words.

I was a little surprised. The church was everything but different. It was, however, better this way, as I would need as much familiarity as possible to recollect all of those odds and ends that made up my past. I sat down and slumped in my usual nostalgic churchly fashion, but immediately felt awkward. Everyone around me was kneeling and bowing before going into their pews. I felt very obliged to kneel myself, but after I did so, I realized everyone was just following the crowd too. I wondered if anyone in the room was in genuine prayer, but I found no one. It seemed the entire congregation was kneeling, yes, but they were also looking around and waving, seeing who they knew. Some people waved over their friends. Here! Sit next to me!

As much as I tried to blend in with the crowd, I found it more difficult than it should've been. All of the rituals that were once embedded hard into me head were lost. Luckily, the man standing next to me was very patient with me, and did not seem to mind me modeling every motion off of him: Oh, this must be when I stand, or Oh, is this when I scratch my knee?

"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit," the priest began, and someone here or there would respond with a reluctant, "Amen." The priest was young, possibly in his thirties, with a goatee. He was, by a presumed youth definition, "hip." He continued in his soothing baritone, "May the peace of the Lord be with you," while the same few droned a lengthy, "And also with you."

Outside of the muscle memory I apparently lacked, I started not to feel as completely out of place as I thought I was. As physically uncomfortable as I was in the uncushioned seats, the experience was mentally comforting -- even exciting! -- to me. I was not there because I had to be here, as the moods on everyone’s faces portrayed. I was there for research, and research I did. Though the faces may have changed, the people stayed the same.

Just as it always seemed to be, church was still a way to show off your appearance rather than your faith. This was obvious in every toothy grin and botch of hair that shown two feet off its owner's head. During The Our Father (the musical version), families held hands and mothers produced extravagant Kathy Lee Gifford smiles upon their six-year-olds, putting their arms around them and coercing them to sing. The smile was subtle enough to fool the surrounding people into thinking they were not a shallow, empty family, yet wide enough to silently tell the kid, If you don't sing your heart out right now, I'm not feeding that precious dog of yours. The fathers were less subtle: If the kid don't sing, smack ‘em in the head.

Being about three feet taller than I was last time I had received the Body of Christ, I realized what a spectacle it was. This was an even better chance to show off how good you might look in that tie or just how much leg you could get away with. After solemnly munching on the wafer, pretty girls would bust into showy strides back to their seats, waving to their friends. Loud, head-turning greetings were thus exchanged. "Hi! How are you? Oh, my God! Wow! Well, I'll see you after church!"

Much further to my dismay was discovering what line I was in, and specifically, what priest from whom I'd be receiving the Holy Eucharist. The monsignor of Divine Child and I had had many negative run-ins in the past, most of which involve his disdain for me wearing my hat in church to prevent gawkers from gaping at my battle scars. He was a mean and powerful man. (He could flatten a hat in one good stomp.) Most students and perish-members had very little respect for him, and it pleased me to see that, after I'd not seen him for nearly six years, his condition was looking sour.

"The Body of Christ," he moaned, while his compassion for those words hid deep in his underbelly.

Shit! I realized. I can't take this host! It's rancid; poisoned; given to me by the Devil himself! I gotta do something fast!

Fortunately, The Sign of The Cross provided ample time to pretend to swallow the host, and later pocket it at my pew. Yes, that's right. I, in some retrospective universe, am a thief. I stole the Body of Christ. I took whatever appendage I was blessed with, and debunked it by hiding it away in my khakis. But how could I eat it? I'm not Catholic anymore! For all I know, I saved my tongue from an eternal existence amongst sulfur and hellfire! The ducks that hang around the Rouge River would much more appreciate the blessing.

After we all ambled out of the church back into The Gathering Room, I had realized I did not have my own copy of The Easter Mass booklet (and I had to have one as a souvenir). I didn't want to ask another stranger where I get one, since the first lady I had asked gave me such a look of remorse, I feared for my unborn children.

“I’m not giving you mine, if that’s what you mean,” this big-haired wretch swore to me. Mercy! I thought. Does she know that I didn't eat my host, and rather shoved it in my pocket?

I spotted the hipster-priest humbly leaning over a woman in a wheelchair and giving her praise and wishes of a Happy Easter. He then knelt before some children, thanked them for coming, and roughed up their hair playfully.

"Excuse me, Father," I said as I approached, and his disposition changed drastically based off my teenage appearance.

"Yo, what's up, man?" he said, his voice no longer light and kind, but deep and rough. He grasped my hand in a much firmer handshake than I'm used to.

"Uh, I just wanted to know where I could get one of those Easter Mass booklets," I said. He had one in his hand, and I had hopes he would be Christian enough to give me his.

"Over there," he said pointing.

"Cool, thank you."

As I quitted him, however, he said, "But we need ‘em for the next mass."

"I just wanted to grab one for my parents," I lied.

"Well," he said. "I guess you're outta luck then, huh bro?"

OK, bro, you're a priest, I wanted to remind him. Instead I held my tongue and wished him a Happy Thanksgiving even though it was Easter, and left.