Tattoos don't last forever. They only last until the "California Raisin" stage of decomposition

For those of you that don't know, I am a part time English tutor for Somali Bantu refugees (and other assorted ethnicities) as part of my Senior Capstone at PSU. A lot of these kids are pretty sheltered because of their family life and culture, which is preserved surprisingly well amidst the pressure and madness of America. Since many of the Somali Bantu live in the same apartment complex, they are able to keep their social mores and traditions at least partially intact. This makes my experience with them all the more authentic and mutually educational. My interactions with these youth are often the subject for much of my deep thinking.

These kids are continually shocked by the absurdity of American culture. Everything from my pompadour haircut and my wafer shades to my emerald green iPod nano pique their curiosity and drive them wild with wonder. Whenever I show up for my tutoring session I'm met with flurry of questions about things I take for granted. There are usually so many questions from so many shrill voices, I can only answer a few per day. A lot of their questions are critical and paradoxical. I can't blame them for being shocked and sometimes appalled by the banality and apparent silliness of American culture. They've got the right idea.

I've always thought of myself as a social critic, but when I'm with these kids, I start to feel like another cog in the machine of American kitsch. I know very well that it's impossible to avoid feeling this way. I'm just like any other sap who was born here and existentially debates with him/herself about their conventions and socialization. The point I'm trying to make is, most of these kids I tutor are just dazzled and fascinated with me, the same way any young mind is when it's exposed to something new. Their fascination fascinates me in return. I revel in the freshness of their opinions and I relish in their criticisms. These kids are heightening my ability as a critical thinker.

I'm going to get around to the point of my story now. I got a couple of fresh tattoos on my arms on Friday night. One big rose and one "Sailor's Grave" bottle. To some of these young kids, fresh tattoos must look like temporaries out of a cracker jack box. I don't know. Either way, some 10 year old girl came up behind me while I was having a conversation and tried to scratch one of them off. She didn't mean any harm, she was just curious. She probably thought it would just smudge or flake away. Much to her surprise, they were very real. When I reeled in pain, an expression of guilt and fear crossed her face. Instead of being grumpy or cantankerous, I gently explained to her that it's a real tattoo and that no amount of scratching would make it come off.

To these kids, getting tattoos is an unfathomable act of stupidity, a vain and ridiculous expression of the grotesque. It was hard for me to get my point across to this young lady that that tattoo ink is permanent, that they would never go away. She asked me if I'd have it until I died. I replied that I'd have it until I'm dead and buried. She asked if I'd have it after my body rotted away and decomposed. I explained that after the "California Raisin" stage of decomposition, the tattoos pretty much go away. After I got done talking to her, I thought long and hard about our conversation. Kids have interesting perspectives. If nothing else, they point out some of the bizarre, absurd, and foolish elements of adult life that we often overlook or consider commonplace. For the record, I have nothing but admiration for the young minds of the world, even if I bitch and moan about overpopulation.

As adults, I believe that it's our responsibility to look to other cultures as mirrors for our own cultural absurdities. I don't expect us to act dramatically, nor feel shame, I just think we owe it to ourselves to be self-reflexive as a society. We should realize that what the west is evolving into is impossibly absurd, yet strangely awe-inspiring. Every day the west is developing a myriad of fatal faults, yet there is a poetic beauty in the antithesis. I say "embrace the whole." Take the good with the bad. We can't have a Wilco without a Nickelback. For every war that's started between different cultures or societies, there is a coinciding moment of bewilderment and strange discovery happening somewhere else in the world between two different groups of people. This example stands as one of the latter. It's not up to us to fully understand one another, but to simply try. I say "scratch the tattoo." We need to peel away the mystery in order to discover and embrace the absurd, the grotesque, and the bewildering evidence that reminds us that the human race is a holy wonder.

Shumaker, heartbreaker, life taker, don't you mess around with me

After the Has-Been Corner basement show on Friday night, I cruised around the party and made conversation with a smorgasbord of old friends. I avoided reciprocating the sultry glances of young brown eyed girls in favor of an exchange of lude anecdotes with the old gang. I made an admirable effort to be a reserved individual to the young female partygoers who glanced at me from over the bonfire.

As the night grew old, I found myself in the living room making conversation with a couple of young hispanic kids that found their way to the party. Despite all rationality, I engaged in a very limited conversation with one of these kids who spoke almost no English. In that same token, my Spanish is very limited. It was nearly impossible for either of us to make any sense to one another that night but it didn't stop us from having a puzzling exchange of words. Against all odds, I tried to ask him how to pick up girls in Spanish. I asked him how to say "what's your phone number, you're beautiful, and how old are you." Those seemed like the best pick up lines to learn. Unfortunately, he was unable to accommodate my request since he didn't know that I was asking him a question. Not long after our conversation fizzled out, I said my goodbyes and left. As I was walking out to my car I heard someone running up behind me. It was none other than the hispanic boy. He walked up to me, stared me in the eyes, smiled wryly and said "we go now, I come wif you." I was a bit caught off guard so I just cocked my head and said "huh?" He just continued to smile made a gesture with his hands urging me to get in the car and said "I come with you." It took me until then to realize that our entire bizarre conversation and my politeness to him was interpreted as some sort of flirtation. The kid was trying to pick me up! I told him straight that I wasn't interested and that I was "sorry." He was shocked that his advance failed. After I shot the poor kid down, he gave me a last sad, hesitant smile, turned and walked back up the street and up to the front porch of the house. As I drove off I saw that his head was hung low and that his friends were patting him on the back, consoling him. I had no idea that simply being affable to a stranger could get me mixed up in a situation like this. Despite all of my valiant efforts to avoid excess flirtation and lustful pursuits at the party, I ended up inadvertently breaking some poor boys heart.

The more I thought about it the more I realized that this type of situation isn't uncommon. On a daily basis each and every one of us sends someone else's hopes packing simply by avoiding eye contact with a stranger or by denying someone a reciprocal smile. Sometimes it's on purpose, sometimes it's inadvertent. People smash each others lustful advances, fantastic dreams, and romantic hopes every single day by not participating in someone else's holy moment. That's alright with me, though. We all loose in the end so why not prepare ourselves slowly?

Eat a hoof, pay the price

Every once in a while I get the hair-brained idea that it's okay to eat hot dogs. If there are any two rules people should follow it's these two: don't rape and don't eat hot dogs. Today I broke one of those rules by eating a hot dog. I haven't masticated hot dog meat in well over a year so I think I just forgot how god damn hard it is on my stomach. I would equate it to eating staples and bubble gum.

"If a year goes by since you've eaten one, the tendency is to forget about the agonizing pains that are sure to come."
-Adam Shumaker

A few years ago an old roommate of mine used to buy the "BAR-S" 16-packs on a regular basis. These puppies were the bottom of the barrel in the world of hot dogs. I used to eat a lot of them. I'm talking daily. Sometimes for lunch AND dinner. I remember times when I would peel myself out of bed at 3am, get a couple of them out of the fridge, microwave them, and savage them shamelessly in my room like a wolf in a dark cave. Though I have fond memories of those wild iron-stomached days, things have changed for me. I can no longer handle that kind of physical abuse to my stomach. I could hardly handle it then. Today I was reminded of those strange times by eating two of those very same "BAR-S" brand hot dogs. After eating them along with a few handfuls of chips, I became heavily bloated. So bloated, in fact, that my posture changed to the one that fat Elvis had in the seventies before he died taking a shit. I felt like I needed to walk belly first into a fire poker for relief. I walked around with a slight hunch for the rest of the night and I could tell in my shadow that my ass and belly were protruding like someone in bad need of a bowel release. This bloating also came with a terrible case of stomach pains. The ones where you feel like your stomach is juggling a dozen freshly unwrapped razorblades.

Amidst my food consumption tonight, the host of the BBQ I was at explained that it was A-OK to "eat some hooves and assholes" every now and again. I took that advice tonight, but next time I'll think at least twice before I get on my stomach's shit list. I've got a lot of life to live and a lot of potential to spray all over the free world. What I don't have is the humility to walk around like fat Elvis for a night, despite the momentary comfort that warm hoof and asshole provided.

I am a Motherfucker

I decided to do the "park and ride" commute to PSU this morning. I took the max to my Senior Capstone: African Children. It's a study on the poor treatment of African refugees. The teacher, Sam Giola, inspires great topic discussion and allows the class to get involved in the community. So far, it's been a great experience. The class discussion got me thinking about the racism inherent in our schools and in our society. As a class, we discussed Jonathan Kozol, inner-city schools, no child left behind, community service and a range of other pertinent topics. On my walk back to the max, I continued to ponder the subject of racism and how badly it has crippled America's education system, among other things.

As I walked up to the max top I saw some commotion and heard some bad noise coming from a crowd of people. I could hear someone yelling. As I got closer, my suspicions were confirmed: another asshole trying to start trouble. A grown man of 45-50 years with a muscular build and a pontytail was the troublemaker. He was a racist with an attitude problem and a tough guy complex. This guy was ranting and raving about how America was going down the tubes "because of the foreigners." He pointed at a bunch of Middle Eastern international students who were waiting to catch a bus and started calling them "towelheads" and "sand niggers." It was absolutely surreal. There were at least 50 onlookers in close proximity and a hundred more around the courtyard. Most of them looked on in horror to satisfy their morbid curiosity. Most of the onlookers were white, so they felt no immediate need to offer help since the anger wasn't directed at them. Nobody said anything to this guy. At first people either pretended not to notice or were too scared to challenge his racist views. The Middle Eastern kids said nothing in return to the slurs being thrown at them. They just smirked and tried to preserve their dignity by stonewalling him. I respected their attitude. It wasn't long before this asshole took things to the next level. He got right up close to the Middle Eastern kids and screamed, among other things "ALLAH ACKBAR!," "ARE YOU GONNA CUT MY HEAD OFF?," "CAN YOU EVEN HEAR ME?" "DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?" This verbal abuse lasted about 15 seconds before some students started voicing their opinions, mostly quietly to their friends. This murmuring got the asshole's attention. He began to walk around and eyeball people from the crowd, looking for anyone who would challenge him. A young, small-figured female student standing nearby made a quiet comment to her friend and the guy heard it. He started moving towards her aggressively, forcing the girl to back up in fear for her safety. By the time the guy got close to the girl I was already on the move. I dashed between him and the girl and grabbed the guy by his jacket and threw him headfirst into the street. He tripped over the lip of the curb and hit the ground face-first like a sack of Russet potatoes. His head collided with the steel max track. He laid there for about 2 seconds before he started to move again. He slowly peeled his face off of the gravel and started to get back up, trying to preserve his crooked image. The wounds on his face began to appear. The blood welled out of the fresh wounds on his face: from white to pink to red. Blood poured down his forehead and cheeks out of various deep gashes. As he began to pick himself up I told him to "stay on the ground." He didn't listen. I told him again but this time he was already aggressively rising to his feet, still looking for a fight. I had no choice but to give him a return ticket to the concrete. I swiftly drop kicked him directly in the face. The guy reeled in pain. In one final act of anger I kicked his full cup of coffee all over him. The scene was over so I left before the police showed up.

I believe in free speech. That guy had the right to say whatever he wanted to. Until he began to act threateningly towards innocents, I had no intentions to act violently. But when things got ugly, I took control of the situation: for better or worse. I take no pride in the unfortunate turn of circumstances. I regret having to resort to violence. In that same token I would have regretted what would have happened to the middle eastern kids and the small-figured girl if I hadn't stepped in. Ponytail Pete was on the lookout for blood and (thanks to me) the only blood he ended up finding came from his own face. Just for the record, I won't stand for anyone making people at PSU feel uncomfortable because of their race nor will I stand for unprovoked violence toward women. Not on my motherfucking watch. No matter now controversial this seems, I stand by my decision like I stand by my love for oxygen.

Trader Joe's Vs. Winco

I've got to admit: somewhere along the line I got suckered into shopping at Trader Joe's. I think I did some junkyard math and thought for some reason that I was getting a better deal there. I could have just been deluding myself into thinking I was getting the good end of the deal but it's not true. Trader Joe's is hip and not much else. Anyway, on average I've been spending $100.00 to $150.00 on Trader Joe's food per month. Last month I spend $150.00 on groceries and they were pretty much gone by the 15th. It was absolute bullshit. Trader Joe's is expensive: there's no two ways about it. To add insult to injury, there are always a few things I get from Trader Joe's that I found out are already expired by the time I get home. Do you know why? That's because Trader Joe's sucker other people into shopping there as well and those people are usually broke hipsters who can only afford to buy a small handful of groceries at a time. For this reason, whatever these hipsters don't buy sits and expires on the shelf. That's where I come in: buying a shit ton of groceries at top dollar and also ending up with all the shit that the hipster kids can't afford (which is expired).

The point of all of this rambling is to tell you all that I was brought back down to earth the other day. My brother Garrett was like "let's go to Winco." And I said "Okay." It's a little bit of a drive out to 112th but not too bad at night. I ended up with a massive amount of groceries for about 70 dollars. I got every bit as much as I get at Trader Joe's when I spend $150.00 and it was, quite frankly, a more colorful and interesting experience. There aren't just white people there, which is cool. The produce wasn't all wrapped in plastic, the aisles were big enough to walk through, and the food is all fresh because they sell so god damned much that the stock actually ROTATES. On top of that, the prices are fucking amazing and the company is employee-owned. I also want to express my love and admiration for the bulk candy bins and the seasonal candy. They are a thing of beauty. How did I forget about Winco? I love you!

Marketable Mental Illness

I think I've had just about enough of junkyard pop psychology in film and literature. I'm talking about split personalities and personality disorders. Brad Pitt in Fight Club? C'mon. Christian Bale in American Psycho? Please. People with multiple personality disorders aren't driving cherry red sports cars and holding down high-ranking corporate jobs. People with multiple personality disorders are the ones wearing oily rags who have no teeth and babble nonsense incessantly from under a pile of crumpled newspaper and coffee grounds in a dank alley. They're the ones who curse to themselves and scream "fuck your mother" at the top of their lungs in dimly lit street corners. These are the ones who take dumps behind the trash cans on Burnside and don't care if your conservative family looks on from ten feet away in awe and horror. There is nothing convenient, interesting, or likable about having a multiple personality disorder. Fight Club, American Psycho, Identity... these type of movies are goofy trash.

They could make a movie about a person with bi-polar disorder who turns into a werewolf on sad days and roams the west hills in search of yuppy blood (with a soundtrack by My Chemical Romance). In that same token they could make a movie about a person with ADHD who is so out of touch with their attention span that they slip into another dimension and conquer an alien race. As long as mental disorders are portrayed as being cool plot devices, they could have a summer blockbuster about a superhero with an addictive personality. ...I think there may actually be a movie called "Hancock" that fits that plot description.

The only character whose mental disorder is "cool" and "interesting" is Mad Dog Murdoch from the A-Team. The only reason I label this the exception is because I love the A-Team and I love Mad Dog Murdoch.