Still Writing. Still Getting Married.

Still writing. Still getting married.

I feel somewhat guilty for abandoning my post lately. I mean, isn’t my civic duty as a writer to write – and write on a consistent basis?

I’ve been attempting to write several articles and essays at one time, and I’m having trouble following through with my ideas. I simply have too many!

I tried to get write an article on internships and an essay on memory while at a Panera Bread in the Cranberry area this Sunday. (I was super fancy too since I had a laptop!)

I got a good bit of writing accomplished that afternoon – my work was actually taking form. However, a group of giggling tweenage girls occupied a table behind me while I was “on a roll.” The girls kept coercing each other to somehow get my attention and talk to me. They thought I was cute.

“Her name is Ashley,” one of them said behind me. “Her number is 555-6969!”

Then they started talking about how one of the girls was “STD free,” which got me wondering, “Only one girl?” Yes, they were sexually perverted, but you can’t really blame them. They’re just a product of their environment.

I continued writing as best I could although I could feel around six pairs of eyes on my ass.

Fire of Desire

Lately, I’ve been yearning to become more active – in all aspects. I want to play a larger role in everything I’m involved with – in everything I enjoy.

I can’t pinpoint the reason for this feeling (nor is the reason important) but for the last week or so, it’s been overwhelming. I’m sensing a major change, but what exactly is it? Could it be my upcoming wedding? A change to my career?

Contrary to what many of you see here, I’ve been writing a lot more – mainly essays about my career and bits and pieces of my book. Am I in the middle of some sort of “writer’s enlightenment”?

Or am I on the threshold of a new beginning altogether?

Giving Inspiration... Or Receiving It?

I was asked to speak to a “Writing in Advertising and Fundraising” class at Pitt tonight. This was my third such panel discussion. I brought the usual with me – samples of my writing on the job (which originated from an internship – so I’m basically the “poster boy” for Pitt’s Writing Program).

I shared the panel with three other students who graduated sometime after me. I figured, “I’m the elder. I’ll show these kids how to give a panel discussion!”

I entered the classroom pumped full of vigor, prepared to take on the role of “cool kid who recently graduated.” Unfortunately, I was the last to tell my “success story” and by the time I got to speak, all the good advice had already been given!

I actually started off quite confident. I even began with a witty remark:

“I should have made more notes. There’s so much I would like to say!”

Nobody laughed. It wasn’t funny anyway. Shit.

As I stumbled through my short bio, I could feel my face getting redder by the second. By the time I shared my writing samples, I honestly thought my head was going to explode. Really. I really thought my head would blow up and send pieces of brain across the room. I was sweating too – much like a fat man jogging through Mt. Lebanon.

But I wasn’t jogging. I just sat there and sort of ran through my piece which happened to be the briefest of the afternoon.

After class, the students had a chance to talk with us individually. My fellow panelists happily distributed business cards to prospective interns while I sat there (the one who had his “new” job the longest) simply cardless.

Shit!

That was my defining moment. It’s time to move on and look for another job. Sure, I’ve been browsing here and there, but I think it’s time to intensify the job search a bit. Find a better position, a better pay and a deck of business cards.

Then one of the students approached me. She was interested in an internship with my senior-living organization. “I’ve called Bingo for a while,” she said. “So I know a lot of grandmas.”

Okay. I’ll stay where I’m at for a little longer (if she honestly wants an internship). However, I will still go through with intensifying the job hunt.

After the panel discussion, I decided to take a drive to Shadyside and search for the elusive Creative Nonfiction Magazine that supposedly has associations with a lot of big-name writers. I’ve known about the magazine for several years now, and I wanted to know more about it. After touring the Shadyside business district for about 10 minutes, I found my sought-after land of potential opportunity!

The door was locked. Shit!!

Bored out of my mind with a half hour on the meter, I sat on a bench across from the Creative Nonfiction office and called Laura to share my woes and hardships. As I yakked away on the bench, I noticed someone exiting the Nonfiction office – it was the mysterious godfather of the genre himself – Lee Gutkind! Or at least I think it was him. We made eye contact and I managed an inaudible “Hi” as he scurried down the street.

Shit!!! What was I supposed to say? Should I have said something? Why did I come so unprepared?!

I’ve realized a lot tonight. It’s time for change. It’s time to search for a new job. It’s time to write more (a lot more). And it’s time to prepare my portfolio for whatever may come my way!

If you or anyone you know has a lead into any nonprofit fundraising work in Pittsburgh or the surrounding areas, feel free to drop me a line. Isn’t networking what the internet is all about?

My Beard and I

What started as a few hairs on my face has grown into my friend.

Sometime last week I decided to sprout a beard – an idea I’ve been curious about but never had the will-power to execute. At first, I looked rather dirty and homeless, but after I trimmed it Sunday morning, I only looked dirty.

The funny thing about my facial hair is that it’s a dark red (whereas my head-hair is brown). Several of my co-workers noticed the contrast right away and freely pointed out the obvious as if to catch me in some sort of “red dye” conspiracy.

During the last couple of days, I’ve been tempted to shave it all off and go back to my familiar seal-like appearance. The closest I got to hacking the beard off was last night while trimming it. I thought that I had cut a bit too much off on the left side. “Damn it,” I thought. “I may as well take it all off!”

But I didn’t. Something was telling me not to go through with it just yet. Something was telling me to “hold off on that.” Something – perhaps the beard – was sending me a message.

I know it sounds crazy, but as the beard grew, it developed a life of its own. It’s no longer a question of “Am I growing a beard?” It’s a question of “Is the beard growing me?”

This tiny Ewok on my face (who has acquired the name “Red”) wants to live and resists death by the blade. My only hope is that I can go against his wishes by Sunday, when I have an engagement photo session.

So I’ll leave you with a little factoid: Facial hair is basically pubic hair. Think about it. Guys start growing hair on their faces around age 12 via the goofy “eighth grade mustache” (especially those of Italian background). Is this not the same age as a little life-changing event we call puberty?

Oh yeah. That’s what I thought.

Exactly One Year From Today

In exactly one year from today, I will be married.

Grandpa says it a big step, but so is alphabetizing an expansive album collection.

What I think I’m trying to say is that I’m ready for the “challenge.” Notice that “challenge” is italicized. This is because I don’t see our relationship as such. It’s all very organic for us. Sure we get in our moods, but who the hell doesn’t? If nobody had moods, life would be as exciting as a job at the paper factory.

So on September 27, 2008, I will be a married man – and I’m so thankful. I can’t imagine how anyone can live in this world alone.

Forever Phillips

I was involved with the Pittsburgh Flying Disc Society’s Scholastic Disc Golf Championship at Phillips Park (a long title, I know) this passed Saturday.

I hoped to show up at 8:00 AM, but arrived close to 8:30 which led me to wonder if I had the right park. I expected to come in the middle of the madness with middle school and high school kids registering and tossing money all around. Instead, I arrived to a wide open case of beer and dozens of empty cans littering a park bench and surrounding area. Same old park.

I’ve been a lifetime member of the PFDS for nearly three months now and this was my first official “duty” as a member. I somehow convinced my friend (and fellow disc golfer), Pete, to join the club as well and dragged him along for the event.

Pete and I used to frequent the park in our own high school days. Twice a week, under the supervision of one of our teachers, we and our friends would meet in the park for a round or two of disc golf. Once a year, we participated in a city-wide championship where we played against the best high school players the city had to offer. (Attendance for these championships ranged from 20 to four.)

Now I’m on the other end. I’ve become “the teacher” to middle school and high school kids – but do I have the credentials to mentor young lads? I’ve played disc golf off and on for nearly ten years, so I don’t consider myself knowledgeable in “the way of the disc.”

But I surprised myself during the “putting clinic” in between the rounds. At this clinic, I was to give tips to the potential “protégés” in an effort to enhance their putts and approach shots – and that’s just what I did! All of the sudden, I felt like a pro with a vault of information.

“When you practice putting, practice with the same disc you would use on the course. Don’t use a driver.”

Statements like this poured out of me while the kiddos hung on to every word. I was like their Disc Golf Deity!

I enjoyed the time I spent as “the cool teacher” (although no one actually described me as such) and look forward to my next event as a PFDS member.

A Blogger's Sorrow

It’s been awhile since I blogged about anything and I feel my “return” is long over due. Sure, I logged on and off a few times for the sake of checking messages, but now it’s time to chime in with a good ol’ cyber rant.

Tonight I read an article by Jessica Coen who claims to be a former “notorious” blogger who freely voiced (or wrote) her opinions in a clever and sarcastic manner across the empty void of cyber space. Sound familiar?

Many of us can attest to this behavior (voicing our often unwanted opinions), but Coen was victim to harassment to the max. Besides the typical (and often expected) heckling from peers and random retards, she received pornographic images, inexplicit death threats and harassing phone messages. One bold individual took it as far as to hack into her personal life and steal her identity. Is this the price for genius?

Based on Coen’s description of her own writing style, she seemed like a pretty entertaining blogger in her hay-day. But it was all cut short because of (you guessed it) jealousy.

The one thing I took from this article was that Coen’s readers (most likely bloggers themselves) were simply jealous of her clever writing skills (and the attention it received). And what would most faceless, nameless people do over the internet in such a situation? They would probably lay down their manners and rip her a new asshole. One of Coen’s peers fell victim to a similar situation. One blogger messaged her friend with “I hope someone slits your throat.”

Today Coen is a senior news editor at New York Magazine online – so eat it, people. In the end, her writing got recognized (and your taunts and threats fueled her article for Glamour’s “Hear Me Out” section). That’s ironic in itself!

And as some of you may know, I was also a victim to the backlash of jealousy – from my own good friend. Sure, he didn’t threaten to physically hurt me (because he knew he couldn’t), but he went as far as to post excerpts from an instant message conversation on my MySpace page in hopes that I would receive negative reactions from my readers.

Jealousy is a powerful thing. It can entice people to do off-the-wall things – things like disowning a good friend because you disagree with their move to California for love’s sake. (Haha!)

Classholes

I’ve met a lot of older people set in their ways. They expect breakfast served no later than 10:00 AM, fruit sliced a certain way and tobacco stuffed into a pipe. Even my Dad, while watching a sitcom, will reflect on the days when saying “son of a bitch” on television was not even an option.

We younger people tend to think of previous generations as groups of bitter old people with diaper rash. We tend to look at their “crotchety” behavior as counteraction against our youthful, and often, jubilant manner.

Is this really the case?

I attended a private school in the South Hills of Pittsburgh during seventh and eighth grade. My classmates and I wore uniforms every day - white, button-down shirts, blue slacks (pants) and dress shoes. We had gym class once a week, which required us to change into our “gym clothes” (in other words, “clothes that public school kids wore”).
Sure, we enjoyed “slumming” in our play clothes for 40 minutes or so, but it required shedding some clothes in front of each other.

It took only a few weeks at this school to realize that each boy had their specific area on the bathroom floor. Chris changed closest to the door while I stayed in front of three sinks, behind an orange partition. Dan stayed against the wall, between Chris and Dave, who changed in front of the stalls in the back. Kevin’s spot was adjacent to Dave’s, while Matt and Jon’s spot remained in front of the urinals, next to the sinks.

For over a year, I observed their behavior. Were the girls doing the same thing? Why did we assume our positions? Were we being conditioned by our teachers to establish routine?

The more I thought about it, the more my theories made sense. We had assigned seats in almost every class. In the library, we were allowed to sit wherever we wished, but for some reason, we usually took the same seats. This situation applied at the lunch table as well.

And like these places, our positions in the bathroom were entirely up to us. We were establishing our own rules – our own routines! As most other eighth graders I knew, I was not fond of routine – it made life too predicable and thus boring.

So one day, when we went to change for gym, I made sure to be one of the first to enter the restroom. I passed my spot near the orange partition and dropped my bag of clothes in Dan’s area. The rest of my classmates soon followed into the restroom, noticing my move. They looked at me with eyes that said, “What are you doing?” They appeared very concerned of the move and the impending results.

Dan was one of the last to enter the bathroom. He looked at me. Then he looked at my spot near the partition.

“Ebel, what are you doing?” he asked.

I didn’t play dumb. “Thought I’d change it up a bit,” I told him.

Dan had nowhere else to go besides my regular spot. The restroom was silent as all eyes stayed on me and Dan. The only noise came from Dan, who became increasingly verbal with his opinion for me. “You wanna be me?” he asked. Occasionally, Kevin, another “classhole,” chimed in with a “Yeah, Ebel” or a “You’re such a loser.”

The taunting continued throughout gym class. Every chance Dan got, he would toss either an insult or a dodgeball at me. I never took his threats or put-downs to heart. Instead, I saw myself as a patriot – someone who stood in the face of public humiliation for the sake of independent choice. I was an American hero.

Dan’s name-calling lasted throughout the remainder of the school day, even during “silent reading hour.” Nevertheless, I had proven that crotchety behavior is not something one acquires at middle age; it is a gradual transformation that starts in one’s pubescent years. Students who took “assigned seating” to heart were in the process of becoming more than “classholes” – they were preparing themselves for a lifetime of monotony.

Brain Stains

I spent several hours tonight cutting unnecessary people from photos dating back seven years.

I’ve got to say – a lot has happened in seven years. Hell, a lot has happened in a year. It was actually the past year’s events that prompted my decision to erase my past. So with selections from Radiohead’s “OK Computer” playing in the background, I cut up, scratched out and mutilated my past.

During my cleansing experience, I had a few awkward moments where I looked back on some wonderful memories. These were conflicting moments. I found myself realizing: “I have to destroy this person’s photo or they will haunt me forever, but if I do, I may lose a piece of a happy, monumental time in my life – my transition from high school to college.” A significant bulk of photos was taken during the summer of 2001 – a pretty good time, just before everything went to hell.

It seemed to all end when the fall began. College was new and stressful, and the girl I was dating wished she would have chosen “the other college.” If I had all the photos in sequential order, in flipbook form, you would surely see my smile turn into a frown before your eyes!

It all ended because the girl (whom I refer to as Sum Dum Ho) hadn’t figured out what she wanted from life. In the end, we wanted two different things. I wanted a home with children and a good woman. She wanted something in the storefront window.

Then I came across more recent photos – photos of my Power Buddy, Laura. We’ve been dating for a little less than a year, but she wants the same things that I do. In the past, with the other girls, there was always some doubt (even in the beginning of the relationship) as to what they wanted with me. They often fooled me into believing we shared the same goals. Laura is different. She has no ulterior motive. She shares my visions of the future. She longs to be with me and only me. She actually wants to have children.

Sum Dum Ho only wanted the splendors, such as regular vacation/weekend trips. And even if she waited until I could afford them, she still would not have appreciated it. She would eventually long for a place of her own (still requiring regular vacations to Florida and other places far away) but would be unable to control her spending habits. I mean, you can’t become a home owner when you constantly buy pink, useless garbage.

As I write this, I continue to crop myself out of situations I wish I could take back. However, it’s because of these situations I am where I am today. I always knew what I wanted – I just had to take a long, bumpy road to get there.

And although I have the power to cut up photos and throw away objects from my past, I may always have the memories stained on my brain. I keep telling myself that this is a part of growing up and that everyone goes through it at some point in their life.

Describe Injury: Stapled Thumb

I almost always carry a pen with me just in case I have to scribble something down, however I don’t always carry a note pad. For scratch paper, I rely on my trusty co-workers!

I was in a paper predicament the other day while at the Main Reception desk – had the pen and not the paper. Darlene, the receptionist, was kind enough to supply me with several small pieces of scratch paper joined together by a loose staple. I grabbed the loose staple in an attempt to separate it from the sheets (without sacrificing the integrity of the sheets). Before I knew it, half of the staple was hooked into my thumb.

Dang.

I brought my thumb up to my face and took a gander at the damage. The staple was actually hooked quite deep inside of my thumb – inside one end and out the other with a big hunk of flesh in the middle. I briefly struggled with the staple, trying to push the one end back into my thumb so that it would come out of the other end.

I finally managed to pull it out, but not without some blood. I pushed up on my thumb to make the blood come out as if I was squeezing a cherry flavored Gusher (remember Gushers?). Since I didn’t want to get any blood on my mint green shirt, I walked downstairs to the Wellness Center for a Band Aid and some antibacterial cream.

“When was your last tetanus shot?” Sheryl asked me.

What? How was I supposed to know? The last time I received any vaccination, I wore pants with Ninja Turtles on them. After I filled out an INJURY REPORT, I called my mom while she was at work to learn that my last tetanus shot was exactly10 years ago. Time for a booster!

Since I refuse to die from an infection due to a staple, I returned to the Wellness Center with the grim news. Sheryl directed me to the “first room on the left” while she got the vaccine. I paced around the room for a bit, staring at the ceiling. All I wanted was a Band Aid.

There are few things we can be sure of in this world.

1) Gasoline will never again be less than $1.00 per gallon.
2) James Blunt is an alien.
3) And you can always expect the unexpected in almost any situation…trust me.

I Write the Songs That Make the Whole World Sing

Ever notice that a lot of songs bring out the worst in people?

Okay, let me clarify what I’m trying to communicate. Have you ever noticed that certain music can bring out an ugly, embarrassing persona when combined with either an enormous ego or a large quantity of alcohol?

Stupid Songs

I’ve seen even the utmost conservative businessman loose himself whenever the first few chords of “Sweet Home Alabama” shoot from the speakers. He’ll loosen his tie, unbutton his dress shirt, raise his drink and, with his New Jersey accent, give a rebel yell. (It always makes me cringe when I see the whole bar go nucking futs over this stupid song.)

Stupid Music Selections

I recently attended a wedding where I was reminded that you can take the girl out of Pittsburgh, but you can’t take the Pittsburgh out of the girl. The music selection made me cringe. At one point, the wedding party was dancing to that old KC and Jo Jo song from the late nineties. Who thought this was a good idea? First of all, the song’s played out – for at least eight years. Hell, I know all the words and I hate the song. Second, and most importantly, the name “KC and Jo Jo” sounds like a circus act featuring a dog and a bear.

A good majority of the wedding guests were well over 40, and therefore couldn’t relate to the borderline bubble gum selections. They sat out for most of the songs. Call me old fashioned or a lame ass, but I think the music selection for a wedding reception should be a little deeper, a little more unique, a little less like the cover songs of BackSync.

So why am I bringing all this up? The truth is that I’m a music connoisseur. That’s right – I buy it, I critique it and I make it. Therefore, I can complain about music.

So when you find yourself in a bass-thumping auto with a thug wannabe blasting some song about oral fixation and sticking “it” in your “moon pie,” tell that "thuggish" friend of yours to grow a brain, gain some self-respect and pay attention to the moronic lyrics.

And when you’re at a wedding and you hear the first few notes of a boy band song, feel obliged to get on the microphone and talk some sense into whoever planned the wedding.

And when you’re at a crowded bar and hear Pittsburgh red-neck wannabes hoot and holler for “Sweet Home Alabama,” get up and leave. Maybe go to Denny’s.

Hello!

Hello! Is anyone out there?

I come from the cyber cesspool where everyone has their own little “space.”

Perhaps “cesspool” is too harsh. Aside from the sex freaks and bad press MySpace has received in the past year or so, I think it’s safe to say that Tom and his crew have done quite an impressive job in expanding their little social site. There are now a number of organizations, interest groups and corporations associated with MySpace (yes, I did get a kick out of the recent Simpsons Movie ads). But sometimes bigger isn’t always better. Things get lost in translation – things like blogging.

I started blogging on MySpace a year and a half ago. People read my entries, posted comments and wrote their own blogs in response to mine – exchanging ideas in a cultural kind of way!

But something happened. The site became a media circus and people like that Tequilla girl were receiving major press (and I’ll be the first to say she’s a complete moron with less talent than my chest hair). Almost overnight, the site became a haven for sexed up coke fiends, cheaters, no-talent hacks, super megastars and complete, total losers who only seem to post bulletins containing stupid chain letters or surveys. The blog as I knew it was drowning in an ocean of retardation.

As blog comments dwindled, I began to think, “Is it time to break away from this madness and join up with a more reputable site?” So to make an unnecessarily long story slightly shorter, I joined up with blogspot.

Now if this site loses its way, I guess I’m out of luck (unless I want to pay for a domain name).