A Learning Experience

There can be something to learn from failure.

Bros Talking Bro Stuff

An actual conversation so good, it needed to be performed by robots.

If I Actually Talked to the Women of My Dreams

The Boy Who Cried “The One”

I’ve been throwing around a new term lately. It’s a term to describe what happens to me on a daily basis on the bus to and from work and in grocery store aisles when all I’m really trying to do is determine the best tuna-for-my-dollar option and while I’m sitting in front of a computer at my friendly neighborhood coffee shop. I’ve described the problem in posts before, and if your personal knowledge of me extends beyond the realm of the blogosphere you’ve probably witnessed the problem firsthand.

If I’m going to have any addictions, I guess I should consider myself lucky that this is my only one. I’ve never done drugs and rarely drink. I’m not a shopaholic and certainly won’t be checking into any sex addiction clinics given my recent resume. No, my problem is a relatively harmless and, if you ask me, endearing one.

I’m addicted to falling in love, and I do so all the time. You have to understand, first off, that I’ve never actually been in love. I’ve loved, but never in reciprocated fashion. That’s certainly done it’s share of damage on my old thinking box, I assume. For this reason, I believe, I’m looking for a chance at love at every opportunity I can. When I see that “right girl” on the bus or in the grocery store or sitting across from me in the coffee shop, then, I’m eager to jump to the conclusion in my thinking box that this girl – who I’ve never even spoken to, mind you – is the most perfect angel in the world and was put on this world for me and me alone.

I call it a heart boner. The typical man’s men get your more traditional boner – deriving from the genital region – when they stumble across a pretty girl, and look to engage the girl in conversation with the intention of dragging her back to their love cave for a night of carnal passion. I, however, have the much more respectable and not-in-the-least-bit-crazy intention of introducing the girl to my grandmother after our first blissful week of knowing each other results in an engagement, wedding plans, and baby-naming possibilities.

Not in the least bit crazy, indeed.

I know my thinking is very flawed when I fall in “love” with these strangers. I understand most women (or at least I’m told) are secretive animals who don’t like to explicitly reveal any strong emotional attachment until a reasonable amount of time has elapsed and social norms finally give you the okay to say “I love you” without looking like a total nut. By these calculations, I must be out of my mind, right? There must be something seriously wrong with me if Wednesday night I was actually considering sitting next to the beautiful girl on the bus and telling her she’s the one I’ve been waiting for my entire life.

Like when genetics made the mean girls from high school get fat in college, however, science has my back. A study of falling-in-love brains has found that falling in love isn’t a slow process that occurs over the first few months of a relationship’s construction. Rather, the chemical reactions within the brain that cause us to feel love occur in less than a second…one-fifth of a second, to be exact. As we sang in Hello, Dolly in the high school musical my sophomore year, “It only takes a moment…”

That one-fifth-of-a-second chemical reaction could take place three weeks into a relationship, three months, or, for the severely emotionally detached, three years. I guess that I, on the other hand, am genetically pre-disposed to undergo the reaction at first glance. I believe in love at first sight because I experience it all the time. Some may not believe in it because their brains don’t reward them with lovey-dovey butterflies for a few months. To each his own.

I’m not trying to imply that I’m any better for my heart boner condition, either. I know I need to wait a little while and find proof that my initial gut reaction was an accurate one. I know I need to keep things under wraps for a little while once it’s confirmed before I go blurting out anything I may regret. The first time I ever said I love you, for instance, came 767 days after that initial one-fifth of a second realization. (But who’s counting?)

My heart boners, then, are perfectly harmless. They’ve been much more common lately, and sure I may be texting my friends a little too often saying, “I found the one!” these days, but what’s the harm in hoping each day that I may have actually found someone to be happy with?

I can answer that question in one-fifth of a second.

Nothing Really Mattress to Me

The night of July 4th, I went to sleep in my bed in Methuen knowing I’d be driving west in the morning and saying goodbye to my childhood bedroom for an indeterminable amount of time. I also knew I’d be saying goodbye to the simple comfort of a mattress on a regular basis for quite some time. In fact, since that night I’ve only spent a handful of nights on a real mattress.

• The first night of the road trip was spent in a bed at a Red Roof Inn in Akron (three nights before Lebron James would spark riots in its streets).
• A few nights later (the night of Lebron’s “Decision,” to be exact) I slept in a bed at a Fairfield Inn in Oklahoma City. For the next month I was either sleeping on a couch, the floor, the ground (at the Grand Canyon) or on an air mattress, prompting me to exclaim in moments of high stress, “I haven’t slept in a bed since Oklahoma City!” The most depressing phrase ever uttered.
• In August, on a trip down the coast with two friends from back east, I spent one night on a tiny guest room bed (breaking the Curse of Oklahoma City) and the next sleeping head-to-toe in a hotel bed in San Diego, which I don’t think should count.
• When one of my roommates (or should I say “When one of the people who lets me live in her house…”) went home for a weekend for a wedding, I slept two nights in her bed.
• Last Saturday night after a marathon night of video games (because I am among the very young at heart)  my friend Kyle opted to let me sleep in his king-size bed and take the couch instead of drive me home at 3 am.

And there you have it – all of my nights on a real mattress since moving exactly three months ago. In the meantime, I rest my head on a little air mattress donated to the “Kiel’s a Freeloading Piece of Shit Relief Fund.” It gets the job done. It’s like bottom shelf vodka – distilled enough. On one hand, I don’t have to sleep on the floor or a couch that isn’t long enough for my gangly legs or wide enough for my large torso every night. On the other hand, I’m developing chronic back problems. You win some, you lose some.

Six (and a half, counting San Diego) nights in three months on a real mattress. Do I get any kind of reward for this besides a hunchback when I’m an old man? I expect to have a full-time occupation very soon, and this mattress problem is presenting me with quite the quandary: When I finally begin to accrue some monetary value, what do I devote money to first? A car? How long can I last on Los Angeles’ bus system before two homeless people murder me with their scents? New clothes? God knows I can’t keep cycling through the same Methuen soccer tees once I’m going to a job consistently. A new cell phone? My Walmart Go-phone isn’t exactly a business line. A woman? Certainly a lack of funds has been a convenient excuse the last couple of years for not pursuing any potential female companions, and God knows some girls – especially in this city – won’t hesitate to burn a huge hole in a man’s wallet. Or do I bump all of these necessities down the list and make a fine posture-pedic the first white whale I need to hunt down? Imagine the wonderful thing my life will become once I’m actually comfortable enough to enter R.E.M. sleep!

We’ll see. These are all just crazy pipe dreams for now. A guy can dream, can’t he?

No seriously. I’m really asking you. It’s been a long time for me.

Excuse Me

Global warming.

The economy.

ADD.

ADHD, for that matter.

What do these things have in common? No, I’m seriously asking you. I don’t what to give you the answer so think hard for a second. Take a sip of coffee if it helps wake up your brain a little bit. I’ll even give you a hint: This post’s title. Eh? Anything yet?

Fine. You’re stupid. I get it.

They’re all blanket excuses. I’ve used some of them and I’m sure you’ve used some of them. They’re convenient explanations for problems when reasoning won’t do.

The Aughts were the heyday of the global warming excuse. Every time a snow flake appeared in April or it rained for an entire month or New England had an easy winter, intelligent conversations regarding meteorological studies all went the same way.

“Can you believe all this rain kid?”

“Nah, dude. Freakin’ global warming, bro.”

In the last couple years, the economy has similarly been the scapegoat of anyone’s financial issues. I don’t have a job because of the economy. I have debt because of the economy. I can’t sell my toe nail collection on eBay because of the economy.

With ADD and ADHD, I saw firsthand as a substitute teacher how many kids will frequently put forth no effort in class because of their “disorders”.

“I need to check your homework. Do you have it?”

“No I didn’t do it. I have ADD.” Great aspirations for this sixth grader.

With global warming, the excuse is relatively harmless. If anything, it’s helpful. If more people think crazy weather patterns are a part of a man-made problem like global warming that we’re in control of, we’ll take the necessary steps to correct the problem because we don’t want things to get worse. (In truth, I believe a lot of this stuff can just be attributed to the fact that weather is unpredictable, especially in the region in which I grew up, New England.)

When it comes to the economy or learning disorders, however, falling back on these excuses can become a serious crutch. Let’s first examine my own situation as it relates to my tendency to attribute the economy to my woes.

“I don’t have a job because of the economy.”

Not true.

While the trickle-down effect of the recession certainly made finding temporary work in the Boston area difficult while I was still living at home, the truth is I earned my college degree in Film & Television. First mistake. I earned that degree at a university in a city that, while it sees Hollywood productions on a frequent basis, is not the place to be for someone who needs to be exposed to the development and writing aspects of the industry for his career aspirations. Second mistake. Finally, upon graduation I didn’t move to the one city where I could sell my skills in exchange for employment. Third mistake. As a result, it wasn’t easy finding work, and understandably so. The 2008 crash has made it easy for me to lament, “The economy is really screwing me,” but the truth is I brought this on myself and would have had difficulty even if Wall Street was steady.

“I have debt because of the economy.”

Kiel, you silly boy.

I have debt because I went to a private school worth more in one year than I’ll make from my first two years of salary rather than attend a perfectly suitable state school. I have debt because I came to Los Angeles for a semester, where a car was needed to get around to my internships, and charged the rental to a credit card for four months. These decisions weren’t financially crippling because the economy tanked. Sure, getting a job right out of college would have helped, but the debt would still be there. It would just be more in control.

I think these blanket excuses can be dangerous. They’re an easy way to avoid responsibility, and no where is it more dangerous than regarding the diagnosis of child learning disorders.. It broke my heart when kids simply wouldn’t try because they knew they had ADD or ADHD and that could get them off the hook. I understand there are some real issues there and I’m not fully educated on the topic, but this disease has become so over-identified that I question its validity. It gives kids who need to be challenged a simple way out.

I couldn’t sit still or keep me mouth until the latter years of high school. Ask anyone who went to school with me growing up. I probably had ADD/ADHD. I was constantly in trouble and challenged by teachers to keep myself in line and focus on my work. Had I been diagnosed with a learning disorder (and by today’s standards I believe I absolutely would have), how would I have responded to that convenient excuse for all my actions? Let’s say I was diagnosed in 7th grade. By the end of that year, my straight As may have become straight Bs. By the end of 8th grade, Cs would have been commonplace.

Maybe I would have worked hard despite the label. I don’t know. There’s no point arguing either way for something speculative. My main issue is allowing people to get out of taking personal responsibility because they’re too lazy to consider the problem for what it might really be. Don’t follow the pattern of blanket excuses that others rely on. You can do more for myself if you understand your contribution to your own problems because that’s what you can fix.

Okay. I’m sorry I became so preachy.

But it’s not my fault. This damn economy makes me cranky.

It’s Not Me, It’s You

If my ability to be amorous was on trial, a giant pile of evidence would be stacked against me as the prosecutor tried to prove my romantic ineptness – transcripts of painfully awkward text message conversations provided by my cellular provider or stacks of letters kept by middle school love interests. Character witnesses would take the stand against me with damaging stories to tell, i.e. the girl I took to her senior prom, and by the time I dropped off at her house at the end of the night, she was uncontrollably crying.

It’s certainly been a bumpy road on my way to being a 23 year-old man with no real adult relationships under his belt. There was the girl who chose my best friend over me, even though he was in a relationship and I was readily available. There was the girl to whom I lent my coat one night at a house party when she complained of being cold, and she proceeded to go to the basement to give a hand job to one of my friends – while still wearing my coat, nonetheless. Bottom line: I don’t do well with women.

God knows I’m trying. Perhaps that’s the problem, though. Women hate effort. I’ve seen it first hand. They want the cold jerk who pays no attention to them rather than the guy who offers to buy them a drink. Being nice reeks of desperation, and I smell worse than a landfill in the middle of the summer.

I don’t try as much as I use to. It’s easier this way. I don’t go out of my way to try to talk to a new girl when I see her out in the real world because she’s gorgeous and makes my heart rapidly pitter-patter. I’ve tried to woo those types. It’s not worth my time or the damage to my self-esteem.

Last week, I was sitting in the coffee shop when the cute girl sitting across from me brought a piece of Boston cream pie back to her table. I’m a giant fan of the coffee shop’s Boston cream pie, even playing my friends in Wii Golf with slices of pie on the line. When I left the coffee shop that day, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to comment on this delicious pie to the girl who’d just eaten it. I asked her to first unplug my computer from the outlet (which she was sitting next to) before trying to engage her in a wonderful pie-related conversation.

“They have great pie, huh?” I said, nodding at her cleaned plate.

“What?” she answered uncomfortably.

“You got their Boston cream pie. I love it. My friend and I make bets where the loser has to bye a round of pie.”

“Uh…yea. It’s good.”

I know what you’re thinking: Kiel, why do you have to be so weird? You can’t just talk to strangers about pie like it’s no big deal and be surprised when they feel uncomfortable.

Agree to disagree. I want no part in a world where a man can’t politely address a young lady about an inane common interest, no matter what that interest is or how little the two people know each other. I was just being nice. I wasn’t trying to use the pie as a segue to intercourse in the coffee shop’s tiny unisex bathroom. The girl reacted like I had the plague, when all I wanted to do was start the foundation of some type of relationship with a person I see frequently in a place where we both spend a lot of time.

That’s when it dawned on me. For years, I’ve assumed I’m chronically single as a result of my own doing. I must be wrong for every girl I make a pass at. I must be saying the wrong things and coming on too strong, right?

Wrong. When I look closely at the gameday footage to analyze the pitfalls of failed romantic wooings, I can make one obvious observation: if these women can’t handle simple conversation with a carefree and laid back guy, then the problem is on their end. It’s not me, it’s them. That’s the stance I’ll be taking from now on for the sake of my own self-respect.

When I’m still single at thirty-five, well, then I’ll re-evaluate.

I Have Issues

I’m not sure what happened to me along the way or what movies I watched as a little kid to make me the way I am. If I had to blame any one thing, it would certainly be movies – romantic comedies and love story dramas alike, the kind I watched growing up whether out of choice or because it’s what one of my parents had on the TV at the time.

In these movies, the romantic man always meets his love interest in a unique way. He says something special to her at the grocery story or the bar or the coffee shop to get her attention and show her he’s different than the other guys. More importantly, she awards his individuality with mutual affection. Romance blossoms and blah blah blah – you have your movie.

My biggest crutch is that I continue to think my love life will fall into place according to movie rules. In that way, who ever I end up with was predetermined long ago and I’m just along for the ride as the screenwriter of my life leads me to my inevitable happy ending (no pun intended). Because of this, I fall in love with a different beautiful girl every day. I see her in the mundane situations of my life – the kind of situations that would be mundane in a movie, too, if it wasn’t when the protagonist and his love-to-be first come in contact with one another – and immediately start to piece together how our relationship will go.

Scene One: I initiate contact with the Beauty. I win her over with my wit and humor, causing her to look past any physical shortcomings like not being Brad Pitt in the face or The Situation in the abs.

Scene Two: We hang out for the first time and I show her a fun time by doing something with her she’s never done before. (No, not sexually.)

Scene Three: We hit a road block. Maybe I’m insecure about my poverty and don’t think I’m good enough for her. As a result, I blow it and push her away.

Scene Four: Through some grand romantic gesture, I win her back. It’s smooth sailing from there and we live happily ever after.

Before you begin a profanity-laden tirade about the ridiculous and pathetic excuse of a man I am, try to see the humor in this because it’s all true. If you’re around me enough, you’ll see it, and once you’re accustomed to it you’re more than welcome to laugh hysterically at me. I did it with the pretty and tall waitress at the comedy show I went to last night. (I think we could see eye-to-eye about a lot of things. Get it?!) I did it with the girls from Iowa that passed me on the highway in the middle of Missouri, causing me to devote the next twenty miles to catch up to them as every tractor-trailer in the Midwest proceeded to get in my way.

I’m doing it right now. Across from me, the most gorgeous girl I’ve seen in a long time is sitting and laughing with friends, and all I want to do is strike up a conversation and begin the four-act play going on in my head. I think I deserve a shot too. My intentions are pure. I just want to fall in love-at-first-sight with such a girl and never have to pine from a distance again.

I’m not some creep looking for a random sexual encounter with every attractive girl he sees in public. In fact, I dismiss most pretty girls as being run-of-the-mill and nothing special at all. With a few, though, I spot something different – an incomprehensible trait that makes me 0h-so smitten. In the past I’ve called this special sense “the It factor” or, more directly, “a smittenizing quality.”

I don’t know what it is just like I don’t know for certain what my problem is. What I do I know is right this beautiful girl and her full lips and her brown eyes and her perfect smile will be the only things on my mind, at least until it’s a new day and I have new object of my healthy obsession.

***

The girl just left and now I’m sad. If I keep doing this to myself, maybe it isn’t healthy.

Dear World, Please Give Me a Job

Exactly 11 months ago I wrote my first blog (back in my Tumblr days), and it still rings true today. Eerily true.

Click here to read.

Coffee House Confessions

The internet at the house where I’m staying ends up on the disabled list more than J.D. Drew. It works fine at work, but during the day the DSL light is almost always blinking red, meaning I’m without the interwebs with a full of day of idleness ahead of me.

Luckily two blocks away is a cozy coffee shop called Stir Crazy. It’s a smaller, more personal answer to Los Angeles’ countless Starbucks and Coffee Bean and Tea Leafs…or is it Coffee Bean and Tea Leaves?

Inside Stir Crazy, you get the feeling you’re sitting in a log cabin, with the wooden-paneled walls surrounding you in all directions. It’s not the largest restaurant in the world, but I can say this: it’s bigger than a bread basket. According to my calculations, Stir Crazy has four employees who rotate all the shifts. For the sake of my memory, I know these baristas (and baristo) as Blonde Coffee Shop Girl, Brunette Coffee Shop Girl, Black Coffee Shop Girl, and Manny. His name might not be Manny, but he’s a short Latino that looks his name should be Manny. If you keep up with my posts, Blonde Girl is the cold one who rejects my polite gestures of friendly conversation. Brunette appears to be a sweetheart, although very shy. Black Coffee Shop Girl is actually named Christina, and I know this because she is the one I get along with best. I felt we should know each other’s name if we’d be seeing so much of each other, even if she does only work on the weekend.

In the last month, I’ve spent more time in Stir Crazy than I’d like to admit. Their coffee isn’t Dunkin Donuts’, but it gets the job done. I know when I need to get here to make sure I get one of the working outlets before the place fills up in the morning. I even know which chairs are most comfortable (I’m in my favorite right now) along with which chairs squeak and squeal every time my gluteus maximus or minimus flinches.

Their music selection suits me. They play a lot of Beatles and Sam Cooke, which is nice because it’s as if they’re optioning one of my own playlists. It’s a relief, too, because the atmosphere of this environment screams Hipster, and they could very easily resort to those off-the-beaten-track song choices that help that type of clientele feel special and enlightened. They luckily don’t make this mistake, instead choosing to play the songs widely regarded as the best classics, no matter how “popular” (that dirty word) they may be.

When I come here, I am all business. I get my coffee and sit by an outlet so I can use my free interwebs to aid in my job search. With all the hours spent here, I can’t help but people watch, especially when such a high percentage of the regulars are just begging to be watched. They’re of the L.A. type that is weird for the sake of weird – standing out due to fear of mediocrity or (gasp) normalcy.

Here is a brief rundown of the cast of characters I see almost every day:

The Writer

There is nothing worse than a writer who loves to talk about how he is a writer. I don’t do it, partly because I’m aware of this obnoxious quality after sitting through several screenwriting workshop classes with self-described writers more full of shit than a horse stable, and also partly because I’m not so sure you can call yourself a writer if the extent of your work has only been seen on a sparsely read blog or exists in a Word/Final Draft document that no one has seen but yourself.

…but I digress.

I sat next to The Writer today because I chose to sit outside. I rarely do, but he always does because he smokes constantly and you can’t smoke inside. As he told me today, “I can’t write unless I’m smoking.” Of course, pal, you gotta feed your art, even if it is at the expense of your lungs.

The Writer loves to bring strangers into his work, even if they have no idea what he is actually writing about, which they never do. Today, with a young lady sitting across from him, he put his hands in his face and let out a loud, exasperated sigh. Like he wanted, she asked what was wrong. “I have – how do you say – writer’s block,” he answered in his phony accent that bounces around between British, Indian, and Spanish. Now she’s intrigued. This guy’s a writer, so he must be sensitive and different than most guys. He must be as deep as…as deep as…

Well, don’t ask me. Ask him. He’s the writer.

If I seem a little harsh toward The Writer, it didn’t help his case that in the hour I was sitting next to him today, I inhaled about 5 packs worth of cigarettes second-hand.

The Filmmaker

The Filmmaker is here everyday. He must arrive when they open at 7 am because he’s here no matter what time I arrive. He always has his own table with his laptop and speakers set up. He plays his 10 minute documentary over and over again, biting his nails as he watches with a scrutinizing eye. He shows the film to anyone who shows even the slightest passing interest, and is sure to keep them for at least 30 minutes to discuss the topic that they obviously care nothing about. He treats the coffee shop like his own personal office, constantly making business calls regarding his project and talking loudly and openly with no regard to the other patrons.

I don’t know whether to hate him or respect him for his passion, but after seeing the same old crap from him for weeks now, I think you can guess where I’m leaning.

The European

The European wears capris, obviously. He has long hair and a beard, obviously. He has an indistinguishable accent, obviously. In fact, he may be Middle Eastern instead of European, but for the sake of the stereotypes from an American point of view, let’s just call him The European.

He actually isn’t a bad guy and I don’t mind him. He does, however, love to guilt me into giving up my power outlet so he can charge his computer and/or phone. He’s done it three times already, which is three times more than I’ve had to appease anybody else. The problem is he is so nice and humble when he asks. How can I say no to that face?

Here you go, buddy. You’re welcome for Hitler.

The Spencer Pratt Doppelganger

This guy doesn’t even bother me, but I just think it should be noted that there is a regular here who is a dead ringer for the worse half of Speidi.

The Actors

This bunch is Stir Crazy’s most formidable clique. They have a revolving door of regulars from day to day, but their ringleader is a thin, pretentious woman who looks 40, dresses like she’s 30, and acts like she’s 20. They generally sit outside, smoking cigarettes and talking about nothing/themselves, occasionally running lines for their next failed audition.

The Mafioso

I’ve only seen this man a couple times, but I think he’s a character worth mentioning. He dresses like the skunk-haired guy in The Sopranos and always has a few buttons undone so his gray chest hair can run free, with a giant cold chain hanging down from his neck, of course. He plops down on the couch-for-three and takes up all the space for himself. He has loud conversations about vague, perhaps coded things with his ever-present lackey, a Neanderthal whose countenance leaves you no doubt that he has the intelligence of a celery stick.

One of the best conversations I’ve ever overheard came when The Mafioso placed a phone call and felt it was okay for him to speak loud enough for the nearby strangers to here. In his dialogue with a mystery person on the other end of the line, he was trying to get something in return for a service. Of course, the something and service were both unknowns. However, the highlight of the conversation came when The Mafioso said, with a shrug of the shoulders, “You know us. We always gots plenty’a pots on the stove.”

When people ask me how my job search is going, for now on I will answer, “You know me. I’ve always got plenty of pots on the stove.”

The Dinosaur Hunter

No one confuses me more than The Dinosaur Hunter. He wears a large safari hat every day, and he is here every day. He drinks coffee non-stop, usually with a soda or an energy drink on the side. Yesterday, his energy drink was bright green. He was very excited about this. I’m not so sure how his heart feels about all this caffeine and sugar he is ingesting, as his hand usually shakes when he brings a drink up to his crazy, bearded lips.

I call him crazy because when ever I see him talk, his body moves and flails violently – the kind of movement a body must make when it’s finally been freed from years of containment in a strait jacket. Even when he’s sitting silently, he jerks his head quickly from side to side, reminiscent of the velociraptors in Jurassic Park.

When he isn’t engaging with one of the strange friends he brings in to keep him company, he’s sitting at his table flipping through his mole skin notebook, which shows the bizarre sketchings and scribblings in pen and pencil he must do when he’s sitting naked in his living room with electrodes on his nipples. Occasionally, he’ll grab whatever is within arm’s length to sketch on and gives his neighbors a first-hand experience of his genius in action. The result is usually something resembling a Helen Keller self-portrait.

***

In conclusion, if I don’t get a job soon, and continue to spend 8 hours of searching for work from dozens of places (both part-time and full-time) and face nothing but rejection or (worse) no response, the cold-hearted asshole who wrote this blog post will only become more prevalent.

Your move, World.