Confessions of a not so Dangerous Mind: Aspirations vs. Reality

Exile allows the werewolf plenty of time to think. Too much, sometimes. The werewolf is a late twenty-something with a liberal arts degree, MBA, and several years of diversified professional experience in financial services, tobacco, and politics. Although described by some as an eccentric, he's your average aspirational American white dude trying to make sense of this struggle called life.

We all dream of the ideal where, what, and who we are, or shall become. For the likes of Mr. Day (see previous post), it manifests itself rather tragically, and ends pathetically. For others, it matures on a more realistic level. One of the werewolf's closest friends, a hot-shot attorney, aspires to a judgeship. The werewolf has other friends who realistically aspire to things like being a good father, a respected writer and author, a successful entrepreneur, a senator, and so on. All admirable, some realistic, and each honest in its own way. He did have an acquaintance during his undergraduate at Emory who vociferously aspired to become a dictatorial Sri Lankan strongman, while also boasting about being in a pilates class with former First Lady Rosalyn Carter. (The werewolf still isn't sure which was weirder, the dictatorial dream, or lying about pilates with a former First Lady)

The werewolf has his own conundrum. If he could be the architect of fate, the werewolf would like to have been a great white hunter in Africa during the late 19th or early 20th century, or a Rhett Butler-esque gentleman mercenary, fighting for just, but lost causes. He'd have settled for being on the frontier of the British Empire during it's nascent stage development, or being an official in President Teddy Roosevelt's State Department. Sadly, those doors were slammed shut long before the werewolf was ever conceived, so he doesn't have to worry about being seduced into some pathetic lying scheme regarding the things he never can be. The werewolf is perfectly content with harboring and nurturing those pursuits in the wild wilderness of his imagination. In the meantime, the werewolf has settled for an aspiration of not living a life of quiet desperation. He knows the world will never be his oyster, but when exile ends, as long as it ends with something that has an element of excitement, travel, or pursuit of a cause (lost or not), but bigger than he, the werewolf will accept those terms and engage with the reckless vitality that has been pent-up in exile. He'll know when these terms present themselves. In the meantime, the werewolf will never run up the white flag of surrender or become beholden to boring conformity. That is something he'll never lie about, and will take to the grave. Here's to staying true and chasing aspirations.

Confession of a not-so Dangerous Mind: Content vomit.

It's funny. Since starting this blog(way back during the tail-end of2009), I have found something different about how I write. Let me predicate that by saying that I have never been much of a formal writer. In fact, writing never came very easy to me at all. Yes, I was a double major in Political Science and History, and have pooped out papers of varying lengths on a spectrum of topics since the early days of college. Plus my various jobs have required a reasonable amount of writing over several platforms. I have always thought in the back of my head that people were either born excellent writers(hat tip to my college roommate), or could be trained/educated into being decent writers. I frequently labored to find words. Writing in the days of yore was very much a task I had to focus on completing properly. That's changed a little and is strictly limited to the scope of this blog.

I know my attention to technical writing excellence leaves much to be desired. I frequently forget little rules about semicolons, quotation marks, and other grammatical details that were once drilled into my head with ruthless precision. However, for the first time in my life, outside of rapid-fire email responses, I find my writing is subject to content vomit. I see something that triggers a a recall of some sort and my fingers struggle to keep up with the pace of content that my brain is squirting out. It's called "vomit" because it's content is of questionable/unknown origin that free flows out of me like a dozen Taco Bell "tacos supreme" the morning after a night of binge drinking. An ugly release, if there ever was one. However, like someone who has suffered from chronic constipation their whole life, there is a perverse relief and cathartic joy from their first bout with diarrhea (At least I'd think that to be the case). It may be fleeting and twisted, but it's the change in tone and opportunity to experience something new that is enjoyable. Here's to loosening up.

Confession of a dangerous mind: An Anglophile admits to liking something French. Phoenix - 1901(live)

It's funny. For years I eschewed almost all things French. There is no serious logic to the roots of this Franco-contempt I harbor. Since I was a child, I have always been imbued with a profound Anglophile streak. This can be chalked up to a deep resonance for tales of Churchill, Nelson, Thatcher, and Wellington among others, while despising the likes of Marshal Petain, and generally interpreting the French as venal, petulant, feeble, and unreliable. I still proudly maintain most of these biases. The Lafayette shtick never really held that much water with me.

My anti-Gaulish bona fides were so legit that during the spring semester of my junior year of college in 2003, a political science professor started off his April 1 lecture by announcing that I was taking up a collection to repatriate the Statue of Liberty to France. Along with collective gasps of dismay from the classroom, the girl sitting in front of me quickly snapped around and in wide-eyed rage accused me of being a "patriotic pig," before the professor could announce it was an April fool's gag. Gone are the days.

I guess I have mellowed a tad through the years. Despite never taking to French wines, even though my father always pushed them on me, I have always loved French ties. I permanently borrowed my first Hermes from my father towards the end of college, and have aggressively expanded my collection French ties since then. My favorites have always been the unlined, unstructured ties of Arnys. They tie great knots and drape distinctively. Charvet ties have such bold colors and are so beautifully woven that their elegance is hard to surpass, but I find them delicate and quick to fray, hence they don't get worn as much. Hermes has great patterns, although some would consider them cliched. The Hermes tie I lifted from my father is probably thirty years old, yet its subtle display of equestrian bits goes with just about any professional outfit I can throw together. Timeless.

I have never thought much of French rockers. For the most part, the French just aren't programmed to get rock and roll. This link says it all. Trust me. However, I will confess to being pleasantly surprised by Phoenix. I find their current hit, "1901," to be appropriately catchy and enjoyable. I became aware of the band years ago through their song "Too Young," and always thought them to be French Canadian for no good reason. Anyways, since this werewolf is in exile, he'll be honest with the world by starting to admit that he is finding a few French things likable.