I wish that I knew what I know now when I was younger

This morning, half the grand steps in front of the Carnegie Library were blocked off by yellow caution tape. Two men worked, bent over cement equipment. They both wore white t-shirts and deep tans. It wasn't even noon and the heat hung heavy on the shadeless steps.

A mother with young children stopped for a few moments to watch. The toddler, a boy, was especially interested in what was happening. The baby on her hip yawned.

"You do well in school and go to college so you won't end up doing what I do, okay?" said one of the men to the little boy. The man wiped his forehead and chuckled a bit, the kind of laugh that's meant to make serious statements light hearted. His voice was the sound of a thousand cigarettes.

"Hard work," said the mother. "Hard, hard work."

Seems I never get enough of me

Five years ago, I started this stupid blog under an even stupider name on the last day of April. Less than a week later, I graduated college, packed up my dorm, and boomeranged into my parents' basement. At the time, I was jobless, moneyless, and directionless. Right now, I have a job, a little bit of money, and some occasional sense of direction that changes depending on what I read on the Internet that day.

Am I happy? I guess so. I'm not unhappy. I wish I could save a decent amount of money, but I'm much better with my finances than I used to be. I'd like to strike a nice balance between being impulsive and being rational. I've been told I obsess over the little things and underestimate the big ones. Everytime I start talking or thinking about where I am in life, the dumb optimist side kicks in and ends it with a hearty "It could always be worse!", so I guess I'm doing okay.

There are more than 650 posts on this site. A lot of them are crap. I'm not at the point in my life where I can read them without cringing, but I'm glad I still have them for when I don't find myself so embarrassing.

What I've written on here varies widely from one post to another. I don't follow a schedule and post erratically. I know of blogs that started around the same time as mine that grew to be very, very popular. Some of them are still around. Others aren't. They disappeared slowly, like smoke, becoming private or invite only. But this fossil's still around, for now at least.

Here's a few entries that don't make me choke:

The time I dented my mother's car on Christmas

Remember when I encountered a bear while house sitting?

Like many words, 'new' has many different meanings

How I spend my Sundays

My sweaty, sorry, soul-shaking, slap-me-in-the-face-because-I-need-it 25th birthday

I know more about Star Wars than most West Virginians

An ode to a now-closed cupcake shop 

Despite this dumb website and its purpose for keeping track of memories, I've recently started journaling again for the first time in years. I've been depending on what I write here to keep track of things, but to be honest, I'd rather keep most my observations and day-to-day blahblahblahs on paper the old fashioned way. I forgot how nice it can be to scribble things down, even when my hand cramps.

A city with no children in it

 It's a Saturday afternoon in mid-May and the park is empty.

No screaming, no running, no jumping, no joking, no laughing, no crying, no swinging, no singing, no fun. The trees are the only ones making shadows on the playground. One fell apart on the slide. The puddle of dirty water and broken branches are evidence that this mess has been sitting here for some time.

After a while, two teenagers come by and play basketball. Their dribbles are too faint to fill the silence and echo faintly, tiny in comparison in the space that they need to fill.

A man pulls in driving a gold sedan. There's a wheelchair on his license plate. He opens the car door and sits for a long while with his feet on the ground, looking down, as if he has to think about each step before moving forward. Slowly, he leaves the car, holding on to it for support, unsteadily but with a purpose. He holds a bottle of water in one hand and a napkin in the other, wiping off marks on his car invisible to everyone else's eyes. It shines even in the shade.

Ordinary moments in our ordinary lives

This week, you guys.

MCA passed away. You're the worst, cancer.

Maurice Sendak died, that salty ol' storyteller.

Vidal Sasson too. I feel bad for thinking he was already dead.

Citizens voted. It did not go the way most of us wanted it to and the effects of this will be felt for years.

The President said what many of us had a feeling he must have been thinking for a long time.

The guy who wants to be president was an awful son of a bitch as a teenager.

There were some pink funnel clouds, ndb.

In much smaller news, a certain slightly awkward yet charming person whom everyone either loves or loathes* told a true tale as part of a storytelling slam.

I'm one of those weirdos who likes talking in front of large groups of people. I always have, even in elementary school. I think it's fun and obviously, I like the attention.

Don't think I'm the picture of confidence. I still get nervous. I usually I think I'm going to throw up, even though I have yet to do so (I first wrote "even though I never do", but that's the quickest way to a jinx if I ever typed one).

I had this bottle of water that was three-quarters gone and I decided if they called my name, I'd take a big swig before going up on stage to keep from getting nervously dry mouthed. I even took the cap off so I would be ready.

My mind's going, "Okay, name, drink, get up, go, name, drink, get up, go, name, drink, get up, and oh god, don't knock over the water or trip over your chair or the stairs or over your own two feet..."

Before I could mentally spiral down into my dark worrywart world, the sensible side of myself spoke up. It usually likes to make its presence known at the most inconvenient times when I really don't want it coming around ("It's 3 a.m. on a Friday night. You have to work tomorrow. Coffee and Greek fries are a bad idea."). This time, I didn't dismiss it.

"Listen up. You know this thing. This isn't your first time talking in front of strangers. It'll be fine."

And it was. I think it went better than all the times I practiced it.

I don't have a video of me telling the story, however, if you buy me a few drinks the next time I see you, I'll happily retell it, hand gestures and all.

It's so small in comparison in everything else that happened in the world this week, but this was my favorite. Don't tell the pink clouds, they'll probably get jealous.

*If there's a heaven, I'm pretty sure that's how I'll be described on Saint Peter's guest list.

Battle In The Bathroom: The People Vs. The Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh

For years, there has been a war in the women's bathroom of the Carnegie Library, main branch. Women, girls, ladies, chicks, gals, whatever we're being called these days, have been writing, drawing, ranting, scribbling, scrawling, doodling and defacing the walls of the bathroom. These walls have been painted on a weekly basis back to basic shades of beige or pea soup green. Unlike the New York City Clean Train Movement, the spotless walls have not slowed down the scribblers in the slightest.

About a year ago or so, the library began posting a single 8 x 11" paper in each stall, asking people to write on the paper instead of the walls. Few obliged, but more mocked the paper, writing on the wall right beside it. Others ranted that asking people not to write on walls is a violation of the First Amendment right to free speech.

What's the big deal? Who cares? Why does this matter?

One, the library system is not rolling in money. Two and a half years ago, multiple branches were voted to close by the board and it was only by adding a referendum this past November which allocates a small percentage of property taxes to the library system that those branches were able to stay open. Late fees were raised and other services have been cut. Repainting the stalls and dealing with this crap kills up valuable money and time. The words and drawings are also sometimes inappropriate in an all-ages library, if you know what I mean.

Two, the library recently changed tatics. They painted the stalls black.

Unfortunately for them, silver Sharpies exist.

 

The black is not popular.

Three, I'm torn on this issue. I love the library and I hate to see it defaced. It's senseless. If these people were so concerned with free speech, they'd get on a computer and start a blog or hell, even a tumblr if they're too lazy to type. On the other hand, I kind of love it.

The stuff they write ranges from passionate and thoughtful to immature and dumb to nonsensical and insane. They write quotes, song lyrics, poems. They have conversations.

And even though blogging works for me, I understand how it wouldn't for someone else. I've written before about how the internet is much less anonymous than it was 10 or 15 years ago. Everything has become yourfullname.com or facebook/therealwhateveryournameis when at one time that was really discouraged. Writing on a wall would feel much freer in comparison.

The only true solution to this problem would be stainless steel stalls, like the ones in the Squirrel Hill library. They have a few scratches, but are otherwise flawless. They could also do what's done in some bathrooms at CMU, which are "Share and Support" walls with notes written on paper and taped up including space for people to leave their advice back.

Curiously, this problem is almost exclusively in the second and fourth stalls. Evens, not the odds.

The situation in the men's bathroom is a mystery, as I am not permitted inside.