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!)