Old Beginnings

"I'm a soldier, Adriana. You gotta remember that."
Christopher Moltisanti

It was that quote from The Sopranos that inspired me in many ways. It, among other things, is the primary muse for this installment of my anonymous, unread Internet opus.

A quick background: Christopher and Adriana are two twenty-somethings who are engaged to be married. Christopher is a made man in the Soprano family - one of Tony's (the boss) cousins. Adriana is his naively dumb but loveable girlfriend who loves him despite his frequent beatings and his prolific drug use. She desperately wants the two of them to leave New Jersey and their life in "this thing" behind, and while he has entertained the idea for her benefit, he's never really thought seriously about walking away from his entire life. Which begs the question: can you ever walk away from your entire life?

There are a slew of aphorisms and quotes that would make it seem that you can walk away and start afresh somewhere else: Every day is a new beginning. It's never too late to start over. Et cetera.

But IS it ever too late to start over? I've written, I believe, before about how you can make all the changes in your life you want, but at the end of the day, you're still yourself - stuck with your past, your mistakes, your triumphs and failures. These will never change. And they will forever influence the choices we make. So that to me says that you can never really start over. You can never have a clean slate.

Sure, you can make changes. You can change careers mid-life. You can finally get that divorce. You can move to a new city where nobody knows you. But are you back at the beginning? You're not - you're a 50 year old intern; you're 45 and single, not 25 and single; and you still know you. You may be at a figurative beginning, but it often leaves you either very far behind or very worried that whatever you've tried to get over in your past will eventually come back to haunt you.

This is one reason I have so much admiration for recovering alcoholics or drug addicts: they have actually managed, in some form, to cast off their past and look forward to a different - not new, but different - life. I have yet to win the war against my temptations, and part of me feels like, what's the point? Just because I stop doing XYZ doesn't mean I never did it - I'm still damaged goods, imperfect, a danger to myself.

So I guess what this comes back to is the universal theme in my life - how we deal with our past. I can't seem to get over mine; it lives with me every day. Some days I'm able to forget about it, when I'm busy, or feeling unnaturally content, but some days it comes back with a vengeance, like a roaring tornado set on destroying everything in its path. You can rebuild a town, but that won't stop the tornadoes from coming. I have allowed myself to fall victim to my past, which bolsters the idea I've built up around myself that I can never start over. Yes, in a way, I realize this is a self-fulfilling prophecy and that I'm only setting myself up for misery by thinking this way, but there IS a grain of truth to it.

I hope that one day I'm able to allow myself to believe that I can start over and leave the past and all its troubles and worries behind me, but it never seems to work out. I'll say, This is the last time, this is it, really, this time, and then it's over. And a few days later I'll be back in the exact same spot, holding back the tears of disappointment. I have yet to learn the tools for moving on.

Which makes for a rather interesting existence. A major part of life is learning to let go and move on, because, to be cheesey, if you're not living in the present, you're doing no favors to anybody. What's past is past, you can't change it, so get over it...right. So I live every day trying desperately to move on from things that plague me, I spend my time daydreaming about how in the future, "one day," everything will be different. I spend very little time in the present. And I don't think that's a good way to live.

It's sad, really, because I do want the most out of life, and I do want to learn to let go and move on without the heavy burden of age-old baggage. So every day I try to drop one tiny piece from all those suitcases being dragged around in my mind, try to forget one old hurt and regret. It's slow moving, but I think it's working.

In the end I don't think it's about starting over when life takes an unexpected turn, but more about the big picture of where each misstep and action puts you next. My uncle once said to me, "Remember, every decision you make is right if it's yours." I had to think about that a while, because initially, I completely disagreed with it. But now I understand. You have to own yourself, you have to recognize that everything is a brick in the journey - the journey that can end in eternal bliss.

But until I've mastered the art of forgetting, I try to listen to those former alcoholics: one day at a time.

The Ramblings of a Fool

I have recently been accused of being self-involved and disregarding of the welfare of others. This is not the first time this has happened; other so-called friends have said the same thing. The thing is, they all have one thing in common: they are males who have made their sycophantic love for me more than obvious. And so, for this reason, I sort of slide into a mode where I feel that I can talk about myself forever and they will be there to listen.

I think (I hope) we all have those random, scattered people in our lives who we go to to listen to us, to give us limited feedback (even when more is desired), to fill in a sporadic void when one needs desperately to pour out one's soul to someone. So is it really fair to accuse someone of being self-centered and uncaring when it's inevitable that they have similar people in their lives? And they usually never even bring up themselves anyway - how do they know I wouldn't offer the same listening ear if they were to lay out their issues and problems for me?

We all have people we use and abuse in life - I guess this isn't really a good thing and isn't something I should be promoting, but my thoughts are acutally that it helps us as a people to prop each other up in this manner. As long as you're not using someone for malicious or self-promoting purposes, what's the harm in having a shoulder to cry on?

Honestly, the point of all this is that I was really insulted by the attack of this most recent "friend," and wanted to cease contact with him. The funniest part? I haven't stopped talking. As long as he's going to listen, I'm going to talk. Right or wrong, that's just what it is.

The Unexpected Fear

Up until very recently I thought my biggest fear was failure, unemployment forever, a lifetime of spinsterhood. But now that things have suddenly and inexplicably fallen into place, I have discovered a whole new fear: contentedness. It's just so eerily unfamiliar that I'm not quite sure to make of it. Great job, great boyfriend - nobody can have it all, so it's frightening when it appears that you do. I find myself anxiously waiting a dreaded phone call that something terrible has happened, that my family has fallen apart, that someone I love has died, that it could all fall apart at any moment.

People have been telling me they wish they had my problems - my financial situation, while shaky, is gaining ground and I'm well on my way to supporting myself; the seriousness of the relationship (my first) with my boyfriend has suddenly terrified me and I don't know how to cope with that fear; I'm stressing about making a big purchase (my first real mattress since leaving home). But they're missing the point - problems are problems. It's like people who think that being a millionaire is blissfully perfect, smooth sailing once you've entered that coveted tax bracket. But it doesn't solve any problems, it just introduces a whole new set of problems.

Suddenly money + a fantastic job + an even more fantastic boyfriend doesn't equal perfection. I knew it would never be easy, I just never expected this fear that it wouldn't last to set in as a sort of permanent (though I hope it's temporary) rain cloud looming in the distance. I hope that I can embrace happiness and my good fortune, that I can accept that I've worked hard and deserve everything I finally have, but it just seems too risky. Is the bet worth it? Is it really worth it to live in the moment and not worry about what may or may not happen?

The logical answer is yes, that is what our ultimate goal should be - to embrace the good times and enjoy them while they're there. But that's so difficult to do when you've conditioned yourself to unhappiness, regret, and longing. How can we suddenly retrain our style of thinking when we realize we sort of have it all? The ideal situation, I guess, is to shed the worries of the future and love every moment (and I really despise such pathetic cliches).

This is becoming easier as I'm easing myself into this new phase of life - a phase filled with real, not empty, promise; filled with love and understanding and growth. I suppose one of the most important lessons of times of happiness and calmness is to allow yourself to grow and gain from the experience. Bank good feelings, recognize when you're blessed, and give yourself room to falter. As my new - and fabulous - boss reminds me every day, people make mistakes. You will fall, you will screw up, you will not please everybody you encounter. But allow yourself to enjoy the mistakes, because they're just minor blips on your current happiness radar.

I'm not really sure what my point is, or even what I'm talking about anymore, other than to point out that just because everything seems to be perfect doesn't mean it is - good fortune is still heavy with the mystique of what lies ahead, where the next block will take you. Because it won't always be like this.

But the eternal question still plagues me, the question that haunts me in my deepest moments of darkness and hatred and uncertainty still haunts me in my pleasant times: how did it end up like this?

The Power of Unemployment

If I have learned anything since graduating college, it is that at no other time in one's life can your happiness truly be in the hands of others than when you are unemployed. Yes, I willingly quit my job. Yes, I am happy about that decision. But no, I did not realize that it would be so hard to find another job.

Six weeks into unemployment, the fear and dread and mild depression have sunk in. Internal monologue is peppered with "I am worthless," "I'm not doing anything with my life," and "Nobody thinks I'm good enough" sentiments. You have been told all your life by well-intentioned elders that nobody has control over your happiness but you, but somehow, in the face of rejection after rejection after rejection, it seems that they have a little more power than you were taught.

It's hard, because on the one hand, you know you're worth something, that you have plenty to offer, that things are most likely going to work out. But on the other hand, sometime shortly after sending out the 75th resume and cover letter, the subtle sting of rejection grows into a mighty stab that leaves a gaping wound on your psyche. You try to fill your extra time with productive things, but your bank account is starting to disappear along with your self-esteem, and it takes all you can just to dress yourself in the morning.

Maybe some people don't fall victim to such bouts of depression, but I would venture to wager that the majority of educated, talented, non-morons would at least start to suffer a touch of the blues after six weeks of failed attempts to make that next career move. You begin questioning everything you did that got you here - was transferring schools, leaving behind a great group of friends and a wide open door for travel at the sake of your future career really worth it? Were three years of unpaid, illegal slave labor for the sake of having the extra edge necessary? Do you even actually know what you're doing? Sure, you're still young, you're still trying to find your way. But...shouldn't the road be a little less bumpy at this point?

I guess the lesson in all this is that life really never is easy. That even when things seem good, they're still precarious. That as optimistic as you can enter into something (I was plenty excited and looking forward to this job hunt for the first two and a half weeks), it always has the potential to take a disappointing turn. It is during these moments that you must desperately hold onto the concept of being in charge of your own happiness. That you mustn't give in to these feelings of hopelessness, that this will pass and it will work out. That you must truly use this as an opportunity to learn how to take responsibility of your own happiness.

But at the end of the day, the rest of the world is still treating you as though you're not good enough, and you can't deny that that's hard to deal with. It can be difficult to drag yourself out of bed in the morning, but the best you can do is to power through it, and to force yourself to experience the power of positive thinking. If you must cave and sacrifice some of your dreams, swallow some of your pride to make ends meet, it will just make you stronger - I hope.

I have to take to heart the words of my father, for whom I have the highest respect and admiration. He's a big fan of metaphors and catchy words of wisdom, and one of his favorites is the old adage, "It is not your situation, but how you handle it that defines you. Hold onto yourself and don't forget...I love you."

I realize that I'm luckier than most, with parents who are not only willing to but are able to support me, both emotionally and financially. So I take comfort in that, and force myself to actively seek out the positives that are meekly shining in what seems to be the dark night. This is an opportunity to learn, a chance to grow stronger, a reminder that I actually am very blessed.

So I have realized that though the power of unemployment is mind-boggling, it is no match for the power of human determination. And I am grateful for that lesson, despite its costs.

Brangelina: Not Your Average Saints

http://perezhilton.com/topics/angelina_jolie/they_grow_in_factories_20070314.php

3 March 2007

The media’s worshipping of Brad and Angelina disgusts me to my very core. After hearing this morning that they’re in the process of adopting yet ANOTHER ethnic child, I am beyond infuriated and can’t believe that people buy into their bullshit.

NEWS FLASH: CHILDREN ARE NOT COLLECTIBLES, ANGELINA. “Collect all thirty-seven!” doesn’t come stamped on the baby-soft butt cheeks of wee ones, and starting a veritable United Nations of ethnicities and creeds under one roof is nothing short of moronic. In addition, her quotes recently to that French mag about how her natural born child is not as love-worthy as her adopted ones because she was born into privilege is vomit-inducing. Your little orphans never experienced pain, dumbass, you swept them out of their terrible situations before they could formulate memories of living in squalor. It’s almost as if she only had Shiloh as a favor to Brad, who, in his American stupidity, wanted a blood child.

Yeah, you’re pretty effing lucky if you’re an abandoned Third World type who gets adopted by an American celebrity. But I’d much rather be adopted by Kevin Federline than by these two lunatics. They aren’t even raising their own children, and their collector’s items are by default destined for rehab and death-by-overdose. Money doesn’t make somebody a good parent, and when you can’t even treat your own flesh and blood with respect, how can we expect you to treat the others with respect? The whole peace-among-all-colors line is nothing but pure publicity.

Angelina’s dagger stare and her know-it-all smirk make me want to rip off my arm and attack the real estate agent who sold them their house in New Orleans. They don’t deserve to live in a city where real families exist. Or even real people, for that matter. They should move to the moon and start their own colony of doll children. They can bring the Thetan Cruise clan along with them and invent space ships to take them to L. Ron’s Galaxy of Greatness. That’s where they all belong.

Point Break (AKA The Greatest Movie Ever Made)

Point Break (1991) is one of those rare hidden classics that you find amongst the “VHS For Sale—Everything $2” bin at your local video rental. The crowning glory of the rival surf gang action adventure genre, Point Break takes its star-studded cast (Gary Busey, Keanu Reeves, and Patrick Swayze) and award-worthy script to whole new levels of awesomeness.

I had the good fortune to Netflix Point Break recently—and not, admittedly, because of its cast or what could only be an incredible storyline, but because of a supposed cameo by my own personal rock hero, Anthony Kiedis. But little did I know what a cinematic treat I was in for.

The premise of Point Break is straightforward enough: two undercover FBI agents (the green young Keanu, who is partnered with the seasoned and wise Busey) are directed to find and arrest a gang of bank robbers who have been terrorizing SoCal and call themselves “The Ex-Presidents” because of their choice of disguise (masks of former U.S. Presidents). Somehow Keanu decides that some of the local Malibu surf gangs are suspicious and chooses to take up surfing to infiltrate these enemy actors (and who wouldn’t?). After getting rescued (Keanu’s surf skills aren’t quite up to par for the wilds of offshore Malibu) by the chic and 90s-sexy (meaning flannel and a I’m-a-strong-woman-with-a-man’s-haircut) Lori Petty, Keanu comes to the obvious conclusion that these surfers know what’s up. So, he enlists Petty to teach him how to surf.

Through Petty he comes to meet the demi-god himself, the charismatic and sage-like Patrick Swayze (if ever there were a poster child for the ballet dancer action hero, Patrick Swayze would be it), the leader of the cool surf gang. He takes young Keanu under his wing, teaching him the ways of the surf world and how to master the tides.

But, lo and behold, Keanu becomes too close to his new friends, losing sight of the job at hand. Enter Anthony Kiedis, member of an evil meth-fueled surf gang that throws wild parties and is clearly up to know good. Said surf gang pummels Keanu and nearly kills him until Swayze runs to his rescue. Keanu’s partner, The Man With Teeth Like Chiclets, then realizes that Keanu has become too close to the group he’s trying to infiltrate, and tries to shake some sense into him, but in vain, as Keanu has already fallen for the sexy Lori Petty and is under the enigmatic spell of Swayze.

With red herrings (energized by Anthony’s stellar role as an Indian chief-esque meth lab worker), twists, Oscar-worthy performances, and the ever-present symbolic role of the ocean, Point Break brings good moviemaking to whole new levels. The highlight of the film is obviously when Swayze leads Keanu into certain death by making him jump out of an airplane with no parachute. What happens? Well, you’ll just have to see to find out.

Point Break (1991): Thirty Stars out of Ten

They're Dropping Like Flies

As I learn of yet another one of my close 22 year old friends becoming engaged, it takes all my energy not to ball up my fists and punch a hole through the wall in pure, unadulterated rage. What the hell happened to the women’s movement?

Now, I am the least likely candidate for a feminist. I once was a registered Republican. I am, for the most part, a traditionalist. I think that the man should make the first move and believe in the fundamental inequality of men and women. I can’t stand those bra-burning bitches with unibrows and hairy legs and their “feminine mystique.”

But it really irks me when my friends decide they’re worth nothing more than writing their life away at 22 for a man.

Okay, whatever, they may be “in love.” But that’s a crock of shit. Nobody falls in love at 22 anymore who isn’t Amish or Mormon. It’s just not normal. For all of the craziness that the feminists in the 60s and 70s brought us, they also had a point: women, tear off your aprons, take the world by storm! Despite our fundamental inequalities, women are just (if not more, I might add) as capable as men to run corporations, find cancer cures, be politicians, blah blah blah.

This we all know and love and nobody in their right PC mind would try to challenge it. Which is why I just cannot get my head around the concept of my fellow females being so willing and eager to get married and have babies so young. Don’t you have dreams of your own? Career aspirations? Personal life goals?

They say that history moves like a pendulum, and that this retroaction is a natural reaction to the women’s movement. But that doesn’t really make a whole lot of sense, since the women’s movement changed the world as it was. It evened out the playing field, and made the world more receptive to women in general. These things should be championed and celebrated and we should praise our fuzzy-legged foremothers for them.

And some will argue that the point of the women’s movement was that women should be allowed to do whatever they want to do—even if that means closing down shop at 22 and turning into a baby machine at 23. I shouldn’t begrudge anyone their right to choose, I know. But it would behoove you marrying folk to take a second look at why, exactly, you think it’s necessary to cut your life off at a time when the world is at your feet. We’re not exactly in the depths of a shrinking human race, here, it’s not crucial that you reproduce ASAP to propagate the species.

I think the real problem is not that they’re in love or that they want to have babies, but that they’re apathetic. Generation Y is the generation of affluence, and with affluence comes apathy. We’re not as motivated as Gen X’ers or Baby Boomers to go out and change the world—it even seems that anti-war protests and stormtroopers on the White House are spearheaded by “real adults.” It has been made so easy for our generation to just sit back and do nothing but watch TV, play on the computer, page through the tabs, etc. etc. etc. With more money and more education, we take just about everything for granted.

I’m not trying to denigrate my peeps, here, but honestly, why else would girls flash their tits for some beads? Why else would they decide to shack up right after college and work a brainless job until they can get hitched? Boredom, I tell you, it’s boredom. You would think that something like the Iraq war or the horrific treatment of women in the Middle East would be issues that would mobilize people, but apparently, we’ve decided it’s just more pleasant to do nothing. (Until it affects us, that is.)

I can’t help but wonder if we’re throwing everything our mothers and grandmothers worked for away, back in their faces. Maybe I feel like an outsider because I do want things for myself, and because I have been single my whole life. But it just seems to me that girls who marry themselves off so early in life aren’t giving themselves enough credit and aren’t embracing all of the options the world has for them. You can’t very well drop everything and go backpacking around the world for a year at 27 if you’re married and have a mortgage and twins on the way, Susie Q. Why would you want to deny yourself the experiences of life?

In the end, I suppose it’s none of my business to pry into the reasoning behind other peoples’ decisions, and the beauty of living in a free society (so they say) is that we’re free to do as we please. And so I am grudgingly happy (and, natch, a little jealous) for my friends who are overjoyed that they’ve found “true love” and are going to live happily ever after. I hope the divorce rate goes down, I really do, for the sake of all my friends. I hope they’re still able to do something for themselves other than fall into a life of soccer motherhood. We do have a right to choose, and I shouldn’t try to stop anyone from seeking out what they believe is their path to happiness.

But don’t you dare come crying on my shoulder when you’re knee deep in diapers and haven’t had sex in a month.