Archive for November, 2008

Much A-Jew About Nothing

November 28, 2008

Dear Readers

 

It is with regret that I must begin today’s blog on a sombre note.

 

It seems that not everyone on planet blog has a sense of humour. Some, clearly with not enough intelligence to see that 99% of what I say is with tongue firmly in cheek, deem it necessary to read my blog, take it literally, and send me abusive emails. Which is fine.

 

But if you’re going to call me a ‘cunt’, please at least spell it correctly. We’re all about correct spelling here on ‘Arrogant Fuckwit and to the Future’.

 

To anyone reading this today, a plea from this blog’s author: If you are not intelligent enough to spot sarcasm or satire please do us all (mostly me) a favour and FUCK OFF. If you don’t like what I write, FUCK OFF. If you do not get that I (a) make reference to, and (b) constantly make fun of Jewish people because I myself am Jewish, then please stop reading immediately – you’re embarrassing us both.

 

And lastly, you can call me every name in the sun – I don’t care. But don’t make fun of my hair. That shit ain’t cool. Dick.

 

On a lighter note, yesterday was a fine day.

 

I managed to meet JL, who has not changed even one tiny bit (this is a good thing) for some coffee and Yo! Sushi – where I introduced her to the delights of Yakatori chicken – as planned. I was much more nervous than I let on – as I always tend to be when I am meeting people who I have wronged in the past – and I kept making stupid jokes about myself. Total defence mechanism.

 

Unfortunately for all concerned, JL is not the only person I have ‘wronged’ in my life, and my nerves stem from what I view as weak excuses, in my more unsure moments. I have learnt, as my Hoffman group will attest, that my behaviour was often not my fault, but rather a learned or reacted behavioural pattern. Often, they were natural defence mechanisms. But it takes a person of serious compassion, empathy, or understanding to buy that.

 

I want to, and do, accept responsibility for all my actions. I do not blame myself for everything as I once did, but I accept responsibility for my past, so I can absolve myself in my present. It’s the only way I find I really let go. This process, however, tends to leave me in an apathetic no-mans land, where I am fighting between telling someone ‘it wasn’t me, it was all involuntary/it was me, and my fault’. It’s a conundrum alright, but I find if you explain yourself fully, understanding tends to be your reward. Equally unfortunately, this is not the first round of apologies I have had to make in my life. (A time machine to 2002 would most likely find me apologising for the years 1996-2001)

 

After leaving JL around 6, I had to go to my dreaded Thursday class – ‘Biological Basis of Behaviour’. After working my ass off for a couple of weeks, I had been disappointed that the teacher of my Wednesday class had not marked my recently-handed-in essay, being that I thought it was rather good, frankly. Unlike my Thursday class, my Wednesday ‘Foundations of Modern Psychology’ class is the most interesting thing I have ever been a part of – I actually ENJOYED researching and writing my essay.

 

However, Thursday is a different matter. The class is fucking hard, and rooted in science and biology, two subjects I’ve not studied in the past, and have no interest or capacity to do so in the future. With that in mind, I have aimed for a ‘pass’. I was particularly worried last week, when I handed in my first essay ‘The Differences Between The Right and Left Hemisphere Of The Brain’. The problem, really, was that I felt I could answer the question in about 4 lines. This is never a good sign for an essay of considerable size.

 

So, in came padding – extensive research, history, modern examples of study – which all complimented my correct, but far too vague, answer. And the result? 54%. And I am fucking delighted. I lost 10% for not having a reference section at the end (oops) and another few percentage points for including web links in the main text as my references. But the comments were really pleasing – ‘well written’, ‘well researched’, ‘enjoyable’ – and it put me in a great mood for the entirety of the class, which was about the biological process of anxiety. In my mind, technicalities stopped me from getting around 70%, which is a HUGE achievement for a first essay in 13 years, especially with it being on a subject I don’t actually really ‘understand’.

 

And that, dear readers, draws this blog entry to a close.

 

Until next time, I bid you all farewell. Except anonymous email guy – you can go fuck yourself.

 

Lots of love,

Closed Box

The Greeks Invented It You Know

November 27, 2008

It’s not easy being awesome, let me tell you. Sometimes, the pressure of being as absolutely awesome as I am can get to you. Sometimes, people react to your awesomeness in adverse ways. Same thing with being a Jew, or, as I like to call them ‘the rest of you heathens are fucked’.

 

This morning, I get on the tube (The London Underground) at the usual time – about 7.15am – take a seat in the same sort of area as normal, and start watching Seinfeld on my iPod. All the usual suspects are there – fat guy who’s that kind of fat where its not a glandular thing he just eats too much cake, Jewish girl who uses her boobs and a short skirt to deflect from the fact that she applies her make up with a shovel, old guy with a comb-over, and the couple with the baby in a pram who know everyone is pissed off at them for taking up so much fucking space. So I’m watching Seinfeld as you do, ‘what’s the deal with chicken?’, yes, very funny, ‘you know where we are now? We’re out. This is what ‘out’ is.’ Very amusing. And then, about 2 stops in, as tends to happen, someone takes the seat next to me.

 

I shower every morning. For once, I am clean shaven, and, as such, I have applied the tiniest amount of aftershave, (to soothe the skin and so I smell good) which I deliberately chose to compliment my honey oak and vanilla shower gel and neutral deodorant. All my clothes are clean – I am wearing freshly washed jeans, a brand new and never worn (just back from the dry cleaners) black shirt, and a grey suit jacket. Yeah, I dressed up a bit because I’m meeting JL. Eat me.

 

So the gap between stops is about 2 or 3 minutes, and while I’m watching Kramer sliding all over the place, and the light reflecting from George’s head, I notice this woman occasionally looking at me, and then looking at her paper again. She’s reading the ‘Metro’, which is this free morning paper they give out in London, which is the reading equivalent to being arse raped by a bear. Anyway, she’s reading about this Iranian or Egyptian or something foreign dude who is complaining because he signed up to some joke text message service and received a racist joke. Big fucking whoop. No-one mentions that he’s unemployed but HAS A FUCKING IPHONE. Anyway, he’s clearly a douche.

 

The train pulls into the next stop, and this woman takes one last quick glance at me, and then GETS UP, WALKS TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE TRAIN, AND SITS DOWN. And so I’m just like ‘what the fuck?’ It wasn’t a clearer area of the train, and she sat down between two other people. But then it hits me.

 

Secret Nazis.

 

Secret Nazis are everywhere – in your schools and supermarkets and even in your workplace. You might be sitting next to one right now. They meet predominantly at night, where they being each gathering with a chant of ‘Ich werde nie einen jüdischen Buchhalter einstellen’, which literally translates as ‘I will never hire a Jewish accountant’. Which, as we all know, is a lie. ALL accountants are Jewish.

 

They then pass around pictures of Hitler, and spend time either playing backgammon or fashioning ninja stars in the shape of a swastika. True story. I saw it on the news. Oh, and they wear yellow and collect pigeons and smell like potato.

 

Aside from the secret Nazi who deeply offended and confused me by moving this morning, today is a momentous day, and not just because I have a freshly shorn scrotum. No, today marks the first occasion I finally worked it all out. My final solution. (Damn you, Nazis!)

 

‘The Morning Bag Conundrum’

 

The ‘bag’ is a difficult obstacle for a man to negotiate – either you end up looking like a student or you look like a woman. Either way, there’s no ‘manly’ way to go about carrying a bag. You can carry a laptop bag, certainly, but laptops are an exception to the rule, mainly because if you’re ferrying a laptop around so often that it facilitates buying a dedicated bag, you need to re-examine your life. And people that work on laptops on the tube? Don’t get me started.

 

For a while, I carried all my papers and textbooks for classes in a rucksack, which meant I had to dress appropriately. Out went my classy awesomeness, and in came Wayne’s World-esque flannel shirts, converse all stars, and a corduroy jacket I borrowed from 1984. However, at 29, instead of looking ‘hip’, I looked like a fucking moron manchild, which isn’t going to help as I signal to women on the train that I love them and want to marry them in morse code through eye movements. On second thoughts, that might not be the best idea – might look a little crazy.

 

The thing is, I still have shit to carry. So, leather man bags? Too gay. Rucksacks or just carrying papers in a haphazard manner, covered in tea stains and with the corners curled over? Not gay enough. But fear not, resolution has been reached. Document wallets – The perfect halfway house between gay and not gay enough. Which I shall call ‘straight’.

 

Anyway, I’ve clearly gone insane, so I’m going to leave you for the day.

 

All the love in the world, except to secret Nazis

 

Closed Box

Ok, Fine

November 24, 2008

Thank you all for your comments and emails. I didn’t realise quite how many people I know read this blog.

 

After a weekend of due contemplation, I have decided to return to this blog. I originally left thinking I had said all I could about myself, and the process I had done. I was wrong. I cannot promise that my entries will be of the same frequency, length, or entertainment levels, (intentional or otherwise) but I shall do my best.

 

I am entering a huge period of change – and I am afraid. The next few months are going to provide huge challenges and tests of the ‘new me’, and I am suffering with enormous apprehension, borderlining on dread.

 

But I’d like to start ‘Back And To The Future 2.0’ with something else.

 

A good few years ago, when I was just a little boy lost in the world, I was a full time bartender – a perfect job for someone with as much false bravado as I. I worked across London’s clubs and bars, most notably in the relatively-famous Ice Bar. (More info here: http://www.belowzerolondon.com/icebar/)

 

It was here I met a friend of mine, who we’ll call JL. JL and I became fast friends, she a girl version of what I wanted so badly to be – free spirited, a rock chick of the highest order, impossibly cool, and able to live a life like no other, despite never having any money. JL epitomised the ‘free’ way of life, working as a waitress/bartender to keep her with just enough money to put in her little car to drive to wherever it was she needed to go. I loved her, hated her and was oh-so-jealous of her in equal measures.

 

On what I think was her 24th birthday, and being that I wanted to show off – I was occasionally like that once upon a time – I organised to throw JL a birthday party at my house with the people we worked with. A great time was had by all. The downstairs part of my house was nearly destroyed, and my relationships with most of the people I worked with was destroyed when I threw them all out of my house at 3am, absolutely terrified that the carnage would continue.

 

JL and I slept together for the first time that night. For about the next six months, between icy glares from my co-workers, and a thin line between people resenting me for living in a huge house whilst working as a bartender, and people just hating me for being an arse that night, JL and I became what I guess were sort-of ‘fuck buddies’. There were no booty calls, no random meetings, just sometimes, we’d go out together, and sometimes, we’d end up having sex.

 

I think I liked JL because she bought out a side of me I so wanted to expose, but was so scared and self conscious of. With JL, I was caught up in the party world, still dangerously close enough to drugs and booze, without really partaking, that I felt ‘part of it’. We’d do crazy shit, like one night, after working until 1am, going to Kabaret (http://www.kabaretsprophecy.com/) until 4am, and then checking into the Sanderson Hotel, drunk off our arses, trying to pretend we’d missed a train.

 

I genuinely loved JL. Of course, now, with hindsight, I see a great deal of why our friendship developed the way it did, and why I ultimately acted the way I did with her, but there is no question in my mind that I loved her. She and I would never be ‘together’, but I honestly thought the world of her.

 

Unfortunately, our friendship ended. I was pushing and pushing, forever seeing how far I could take things, including ways I don’t particularly want to recall. Things ended when I got some tickets to a Red Hot Chilli Peppers concert for her and her friend Amber, and then decided I wanted to charge her for them. I was looking for excuses. I acted like a prick. We went our separate ways.

 

My time at The Ice Bar was further tainted by my relationship with my manager, a guy we’ll call Dan. Dan and I didn’t get on from day 1, for a number of reasons, but mostly I suspect it was because I have a tendency to come across as an arrogant southern posh prick, and he was a no-pretensions northerner – from Leeds originally, if I remember correctly. Not that I’d like to generalise about people from certain regions, but there were no real ‘personality’ clashes, per se.

 

The point of bringing Dan into this story is this – about two weeks ago, I got a friend request from him on Facebook out of nowhere.

 

I left it for a day. I really didn’t know what to say. Eventually, I wrote to him, still not accepting the request, saying – ‘Dan, thanks for the request. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you didn’t like me when you knew me – what gives?’

 

He replied, apologising if he wasn’t particularly nice, I did the same, and we haven’t spoken since. Of course, I looked at his profile, and there she was looking out at me – JL.

 

I have done much work, and spent a great deal of time, apologising these last 4 months. I have made up with people, reconnected, and built and re-built a number of bridges. I took me 3 days to work out what to email JL.

 

I apologised profusely. Explained what had happened. Explained what had happened since. I pressed ‘send’, and felt a genuine sensation of panic about the torrent of abuse I felt I was sure to receive. I was wrong. The sincerity in my voice was apparent in my email, erm… apparently.

 

JL forgave me for the way I acted, and accepted my apology. And now, for the first time in 4 years, I am meeting my former best friend, and one of the few people I have ever loved with any sincerity and I am ABSOLUTELY FUCKING TERRIFIED. It’s there, casual coffee between two old friends on Thursday afternoon, and it is just galloping towards me – incessant and unrelenting.

 

Why am I scared? Well, here’s the thing: what they never tell you is that quite a lot of the time, people get into a certain way of life, no matter how destructive it is, because it’s fucking good fun. Why did I ever do drugs? Because I fucking loved them. Why did I so love indulging in the lifestyle my friendship with JL afforded me? Because I fucking loved it. And now? I guess I’m afraid that she’ll take a look at me – a good 15lbs heavier, quieter, more humble (seriously) and more weary and war-beaten than I ever was – and be disappointed. And, I’m worried that the new me won’t quite know what to do when looking into the mirror of my past.

 

And maybe I’m worried that I am opening a door I have no control over closing.

Goodbye

November 11, 2008

Dear Friends,

 

Though a great time has passed between then and now, I still remember starting this blog like it was yesterday. It was a balmy but distinctly un-summers eve, and, as the orange sky was perforated by silhouette cloud, I could but stare and ponder the eight days that had passed.

 

I had undergone a metamorphosis; a fundamental change in self, marking the end of my childhood and the weight it carried, and taking me finally into adulthood. Memories were every bit as vivid as they had always been, perhaps even more so, but they carried no emotional baggage. I had laid to rest the ghosts of the past.

 

In the course of 78 posts (this has been the 79th) I have mapped out a second journey – that of a frightened man having to deal with authenticity for the first time, to today; a story of a man a million miles away from perfect, but incomparable to the child masquerading as a man he was once previously.

 

Friends, I have decided to bring this blog to a close. It has served its purpose, and run its course. I only hope, as it lay dormant in the infinite universe of cyberspace that it can serve the purpose I always hoped it would – to help. To inform. To comfort and aid those who found themselves as I did some four months ago; taking those astonishing first steps.

 

I leave you now as I came to you – with eyes wide open in wonder and gratitude, that I never knew a life could be lived this way. Despite peaks and troughs, I feel as though each day brings growth, and my love for myself remains as strong as ever.

 

To my readers – be you a regular visitor, a fellow course-mate, or someone who has stumbled upon me by accident, I thank you for hearing my confessions, and wish you nothing but love and happiness; but mostly, love for yourself.

 

I wish you all well on your journeys.

 

Closed Box

Der Krieg Vom Gemüt (Und Der Glückliche Jude)

November 10, 2008

Ok everyone, get out your ration books and put up your bomb shelters – it’s war!

 

Thursday night was ‘Biological Basis of Behaviour’ night – the class that hell borne of it’s cursed behind.

 

There is no way of describing the inhabitants of this class without sounding like an arrogant, judgemental prick, but, for the purposes of this story, I shall run just a risk, and tell you about two in particular – Olga and   Helen, thus called because I cannot remember their real names.

 

Helen scares the crap out of me – large and German, she regularly talks over people – not, I hasten to add, me – and is eager to offer counter opinion whether it is or isn’t asked for. Olga is Polish – slight and quiet, she is obviously ridiculously intelligent, but it would be perhaps fair to argue that her extensive education has come at the cost of developing social skills.

 

Wasn’t that polite?

 

Anywho, on Thursday, it kicked off. The class discussion was on functions of the brain, and which side of your brain controls what. (Left side of the brain controls your right side, and vice versa, if you’re interested) There was some discussion about blind people, visual stimuli, and Braille. And then, suddenly, it went to war. In broken English, Olga and Helen began to verbally batter each other of a difference of opinion about the way Braille was written, the force and gusto of which has not been mustered by a German since the Nuremberg rallies.

 

Over the way you poke holes in a piece of paper.

 

I would apologise to any blind people reading for that sweeping generalisation about what I am sure is a vital lifeline… but…

 

(as a side note – do they have Braille porn? And, if so, do you need two hands to read it?)

 

The weekend came and went in a slew of words, random papers about defence mechanisms, and psychological pondering, as I write two essays for my respective classes – ‘Discuss and Evaluate What Psychoanalysis Means By Defence Mechanisms’ and another one about brain functions, whose exact title I can’t quite remember. Either way, my head hurts.

 

For some reason, I’ve been sleeping a lot. I slept through dinner on Friday night, had a good 2 hour nap on Saturday, and fell asleep for at least 45 minutes on Sunday, which combined left me completely awake at 1am last night, watching The West Wing, and contemplating how tired I’d be this morning.

 

Answer? Very.

 

I think this mood I found myself in contributed to this, a mental list of things which piss me off no end.

 

David’s Monday Morning Grumpy List (aka ‘I’m Getting Old)

 

  1. Sunglasses indoors.

 

You’re on the tube. It’s 8.30am. Outside, it’s pouring with rain. Why the fuck do you need sunglasses?

 

  1. Pointy shoes

 

No, you do not look like you’re fronting an indie band. You look like a schmuck.

 

  1. People with lack of special awareness.

 

Just because you’ve decided to leave the house with everything you own packed into a rucksack, don’t assume I want it thrust in my fucking face, dipshit. Take it off, put it on the floor, and be a bit considerate of those around you, asshole.

 

Ok, that’ll do.

 

That’s it from me for today folks. I shall see you when the blitzkrieg comes.

 

Lots of love,

Closed Box