Nosferatu: The Memoirs of a Vampire

Browsing through Barnes and Noble, I find that the "memoirs" genre is quite popular. The lives of historical figures and present-day celebrities seem to capture the eye of readers, the occasional glancer, and the obsessed historian. I believe we as a society are intrigued by the notion that someone than ourselves could lead such a noteworthy day-to-day existence. We are absolutely sure that these men and women couldn't have the mundane routine that our lives possess. But honestly, the ordinary isn't very exciting, so we are drawn to the extraordinary achievements, the inspiring words of wisdom, or the scandalous romances of the famous. We seek the source to infamy. How did they accomplish this goal? As an amateur humorist, I have to probe deeper into the shallow waters of self-absorbency we all wade in. There is no denying the fact that immortality is on the brain. Countless retellings of Dracula's eternal promenade in the land of the living and the dead has made Bela Lugosi an American Icon. How then, can we live on forever? I must say as I examine the options, the written word does trump the lacerations of the hellion. However, many men can sit in front of their keyboards and go through the exercise of writing their life's stories, but it is a handful that have experienced this world in such a fantastic fashion that oral tradition does not do it justice. It must be archived for the benefit of generations to come. The unresting question replays itself in my mind. I must reflect on my life, and inquire of its legacy. Surely this perceptive will move me to live touching those I encounter in a more positive and productive manner. I plan to make each day I live prose-worthy...all things considered, I've got the New York Best Seller's List to reach.

Yuppies Begot Affluenza

I wrote much earlier regarding a group of individuals, The Lost Boys, I see quite often. I sit and watch. Much like a birdwatcher, I stare at the peacocks strut their talents and egos. In this psychological analysis, I sit on the couch and the subjects perform "mind tricks" on the unsuspecting victims. They refer to themselves as experts, as masters. There is no question that they have developed a skill that is marketable and financially rewarding. However, after a year of pouring over the data and research, comfortably on the couch of course, I see countless patterns of hubris. These artists have two prime objectives to teach their craft to the layperson, and to convince the customer that the craft is financially worthy. They are selling a luxury, and in any industry that produces a nonessential, you got to work hard on making the public believe that it is a necessity. Yet in this economy, when luxury is, well, a luxury, these misguided souls are thoroughly under the impression that they are worth "all the tea in North Korea." They act as if their clients, their bread and butter, are fortunate, lucky, might I say, blessed by the gods to have them pocketing their money. I guess it really comes down to customer service, and this generation of twenty-somethings just don't "get it." Why? They were given without hardship; they have taken as if entitled; and they have disposed of others as capricious children. They are a perfect example of what happens when "Yuppies of the eighties" propagate. As I sit on the couch, and I will do so today, I will see arrogance on parade. Men and women assured that they are doing me a favor, putting themselves out, or being bothered. Might I suggest, you ponder your place in the clients' lives. Admiration can turn into loyalty or just turn. Treat the patron as your livelihood, and you will have a "lifer."

It Mathers To Me

I love Eminem's new singles. This man is an incredible rapper. Okay, I get it; he has women issues, and I think it stems from the horrible relationship with his mother. However, the white boy can rhyme. "Crack A Bottle" is an awesome display of rapping styles. When you hear classic Eminem fuse into the intense styling of Dr. Dre, and then flow effortlessly into the laid-back soothing sound of 50 Cent himself, it is, without a doubt, a work of musical art. The rhythm is evidently distinct, yet the beat is never compromised. What a body of work this Detroit native has had! Doesn't surprise me that Motor Town would produce a unique musical styling from someone who would have been swept under the rug. If this hit couldn't be enough, couldn't be at the cutting edge, he unleashes "We Made You." This burlesque fantasy is so melodic and dulcet; easily threading a rap stanza as if it was part of early twentieth century music. Marshall, my hat off to what I am convinced is creative and praise worthy. So...Nick Cannon has a beef against you, but so did Christiana Aguilera. This storm shall pass. I just wish that you could find a better subject matter than your disrespect toward women. Hold on to the genius, just filter the hate a little more. "Relapse," as it suggests, has me going back, wanting more. I thought there was no more Eminem; like the Beastie Boys, the novelty of a white rapper had faded into music history, but lo and behold, Slim Shady is present and accounted for. This, Mathers matters.

Tag Them and Bag Them

Sometimes the best thing I can do is stick my feelings in a box. Those complicated emotions that make no sense, I place in a compartment. A taped-off area in my mind far enough away from the surface, so I know that it is there, but I don't have to deal with it...quit yet. I am sure that this is not the way a healthy individual should approach emotional disturbances in the force, but it seems to work for me. I need the Jedi Council to evaluate the feelings, before sending out a Master and his Apprentice. I have tried the "deal-with-your-emotions-right-now," "air-your-feelings," confrontational approach. Everything seems to snowball. The emotions are so supercharged; they take on a life of their own. They grab onto anything else in the vicinity, and the molehill becomes Mt. Everest. No. I need to ponder. I need to make lists. I need to self-examine. I need to leave it alone, and then come back to it. When I have hurt someone with something I have said or done, I need to take a time-out and think about what I have done, but more importantly, what I should have done. This method should produce reformation. When I have a difficult choice to make, I need to sit quietly, and make a list. Analyze the situation. Prepare for each scenario. When I am faced with the possibility of losing something near and dear, I have to talk to myself or meditate in prayer. I need the solace of nature to hear the voice of comfort or reason. I can not always do this process immediately, so I have to label the feeling and send it into storage. I might even walk away with the intent not to reclaim the emotion, but I have discovered that when I am well-rested and relaxed I am better equipped to address the feelings, the problems, and the so-called crisis. My method might be psychological destructive, but I need the process. I need the 12 steps. I want to go through each box with care. I am sure I will get all the compartments dealt with by...oh, let say senility.

See The Whole Picture, Jig-Saw.

Low self-image is my chronic condition, at least that is what I am told. I find that after years of observation and experience, I am more equipped to understand and interpret the shadows, the dim-lit alleys, and the by-ways off the beaten path. It is very interesting that the youthful gentleman looks at a woman's depth of emotion as a struggle with self-image. I recognize that criticism has always been a defective trait in the feminine disposition. We often find ourselves comparing and contrasting the superficial, the insignificant, and the trivial. However, desire, disappointment, and angst are not low self-esteem. They are parts to the puzzle. You place every piece on the table. You might even divide them by color or shape. All that is apparent is the disorder, the disarray, the fragments. It is a process pulling the pieces together, and creating the whole image. A lustful banter, a political analysis, a comedic anecdote may interlock, and expose the soul...the picture. The pain and discontentment are the pieces that you are certain do not fit. They have no rhyme nor reason. At times, you struggle to make them fit, make sense of them. You wish that someone with a new pair of eyes could come in and find their places in the puzzle. Low self-image is not the box. The box is attractive and demonstrates the put-together picture, however, it contains all the fragments. Of course, low self-image is a piece. It is a part not the whole. Feelings of uncertainty, fear, or the weight of the world on your shoulders are not due to feeling "fat." Life's trials and responsibilities stir up emotions that are bleak and wearying. A young man's trouble might not necessarily register equally to a woman's thoughts filled with concern and preoccupation for the future. Her needs are many, her duty is endless, and her wants are placed aside. So when I lack the ability to figure out where a piece goes, I get frustrated, and look for another piece. It is not low self-image. I am just focusing on another part of the picture. I want you to fit Jig-saw.

Les Miserables Is the Music I Hear

Fantine's song touched me.

"There was a time when men were kind
When their voices were soft
And their words inviting

There was a time when love was blind
And the world was a song
And that song was exciting
There was a time
Then it all went wrong

I dreamed a dream in time gone by
When hope was high
And life worth living
I dreamed that life would never die
I dreamed that God would be forgiving
Then I was young and I obeyed
And dreams were made and used and wasted
There was no ransom to be paid
No song unsung, no wine untasted

But the tigers come at night
With their voices soft as thunder
As they tear your hope apart
And they turn your dream to shame

He shared a summer by my side
He filled my days with endless wonder
He took my childhood in his stride
But he was gone when autumn came

And still I dream he'll come to me
That we will know the nights together
But there are dreams that cannot be
And there are storms we cannot weather

I had a dream my life would be
So different from the hell I'm living
So different now from what it seemed
Now life has killed the dream I dreamed"

I'd Like Fries with my Revolution

Obama has been in office for 100 days. I think everyone who was fearing that the heavens would plummet, can sigh a breath of relief. Although the economic situation in this country hasn't found the sunnier side of the street, Obama, as the chosen one, has given us a ray of economic hope or should I say, given Fidel Castro an entire sun beam of hope. The President has lifted the travel embargo to Cuba. Wow! I wasn't shocked. Democrats have been trying to lift the embargo for years, and they have finally succeeded. It is the plan of this administration to allow family members of Cubans and Cuban Americans to travel freely, but let's be serious. The only travel will occur one way. Cuban Americans will do what they have always done. They will visit Cuba with tons of medicine, underwear, and soap to family members that can't afford it or that the ration line ran out of. I think it naive or maybe politically wise of the Cuban American community to declare complete support for the embargo. The community has been notorious for going through Mexico to visit Cuba. Am I fuzzy on the principle here? If the whole point of the embargo is to economically weaken Cuba in order for the dictator to relinquish control over the island, I don't think back-door entrance is doing the trick. The highly educated population lives in poverty, and yet there has been no uprising. Cubans just want out without effort. No revolution. They just want to buy Pepsi any time they want, or get from their family for free. Perhaps, making the people taste capitalism more frequently might shake them up, and get them to realize that their Cuban American cousins can't do it for them. They want it. They have to do it for themselves. Civil rights violations, food and medical supply shortages, and travel and religious restrictions should be enough to get the crowd fired up. But when five television channels of Fidel blast the horrors of the "Junited" States' embargo and your family continues to send you what you need, you believe there is a North American Monster. What can you do? Just turn on the Salsa music, and pray that the revolution will be over soon. Viva la revolucion de complacencia!