When you don’t have a profession to speak of, it becomes very easy to think that you no longer “count “ as a part of society. When you get together with friends and the conversation inevitably turn to work stories, you stop being able to contribute, and, at least in my case, sometimes start to feel inferior to those people.
If I see Bobby Jindal or another Republican yahoo claiming that the Obama adminstration was “unprepared” for the spill, I’m going to go on a killing spree. Last I checked, our federal government has no way to be prepared for the fuckuppery of a private company that isn’t even based in the US. It’s called British Petroleum for a reason, folks,
I’ve thought of myself as a writer since I was 16. This occurred largely when I realized that English classes and creative writing and such were the only things I was good at. I did the most I could with the skill and went on to college to get a degree in English. Living in [...]
My first opportunity to consume an alcoholic beverage is still a vivid memory. I was 19, a freshman at the state college. My friends were seniors, who had no problem obtaining alcohol. This led to the crime of me drinking cheap beer through a funnel at an end of the year party. Underage drinking is classified as a “problem” more than a crime, an attitude reflected in the inherently isolated world of a giant college campus in a rural area.
Professional athletes, or really anyone with a ridiculous amount of money in their checking accounts, do live under a different set of rules. I suppose this is easy to do when you can buy your way out of any problem. It’s a form of intoxication, being drunk on the power that that kind of financial security allows you in our society and the feeling of invincibility it generates. This can lead to other forms of intoxication: drugs, alcohol, sex, etc.
Anyone who has known me for more than five minutes knows that I’m a massive Boston sports fan. My mood can be determined at any given time in relation to the fortunes of the Sox, Celtics or Patriots. (There’s not much else to do in the ass end of Connecticut, unless you like to gamble). And the whole experience was defined by one constant: When it counts, the Sox lose. I always expected to be one of those fans who would live to be ninety without ever seeing my baseball team reach the top of the mountain, sitting in a nursing home going on and on about the Curse of the Bambino.
The Tailor, John to his friends, is 32 years old, and always sees the value in being underestimated. He hopes to someday write the greatest science fiction novel ever conceived by man, but has to actually have the idea first. The Tailor is an avowed Trekkie, in case you didn't get the handle reference.