Dribble Pop

...or laugh

Almost two weeks have passed since I last updated my blog and I am ripe like a fruit. This post may seem tainted because I am in a strange state of mind at this moment. I have just watched a movie that I found randomly when browsing movie trailers on apple.com. The movie is called Chumscrubbers, an unfortunate title. Described as a dark comedy, the film rehashes many thematic cliches that explore the consequences of subrubia. How the desire to attain a cookie cutter life with a nuclear family and financial success leads people to ignore the chinks in the armor and develop emotional holes that lead to behaviors that affront "normalcy." The tone and the odd characters left a disturbing taste in my mouth and yet I thoroughly enjoyed the film. I grew up in two different types of suburbia: the big house suburbia where you don't actually know any of you neighbors but they know you and the town house suburbia where you know your neighbors, but they don't know you. The former occurer pre divorce, the latter post. Both felt incredibly isolating, and when I had lived in college surrounded by others and even now when I was living in a city I did not feel capable or didn't know how to breach that isolation. I react to people in three types of ways. There are people I am obsessed with, mostly girls I am attracted to and could spend countless hours on end with them doing anything. I would be content to have them mow the lawn while I watched. Then there are those people I enjoy spending time with a great deal but in a moment I can become bored or "finished" and need to leace their presence. I would have difficulty staying in the same place for a long period of time unless I was thoroughly entertained. Even when I was entertaining people at my house I'd get up and leave briefly to satiate my need for a social respite. Finally there are those I cannot stand and cannot be around. As I have gotten older, the numbers in this category have significantly decreased, but when it occurs, my personality changes and I'm not my usual kind self. I might be resulting to hyperbole or oversimplifying, but when I think about it, this seems to describe my true primal feelings. People can change categories at the drop of a hat. Even people very dear to me. It happened with my best friend in tenth grade for a period of three months. With my mother it happened an entire year. I have regrets about how I treated them, but at the time it felt so strong and I couldn't deny how I felt. I feel a bit apprehensive about posting this, but I announced my disclaimer about how strange I feel tonight...

A week back at school and I feel like the Stranger in Albert Camus' most famous novel. I've been induldging in a societal taboo. Talking at length with a person I shouldn't and yet I'm getting more sucked in every night. I'm being drawn by the emotional connection. I need to click and isolation is starting to wear on me. My principal has had difficulty in connecting with our staff. She is unaware that she separates herself from the teachers to an extent that she doesn't understand them. Others have made comments that she's not a people person, but I don't know if that's true. Even though she walks around presenting an air of professionalism, every now and then she'll let down the drawbridge and reveal a vulnerable scared side of herself to me. I appreciate it. And I want to help her. I want to take the initiative in making my school better and nurturing the environment, but I get scared about teking on such a huge responsibility. When it comes down to it, even though I've come a long way, I still hate responsibility. Part of it has to do with a malaise I've grown accustom to. I shirk responsibility. I procrastinate it. While I know many people also suffer from procrastination, it doesn't suit a teacher. There are consequences to being unorganized.

Time seems to be passing quickly. I live my life looking ahead to the next event on my calendar: a school vacation, a dinner with a friend, a birthday, a weekend. These events are coming at me at the speed of light. Even though there are no major deadlines weighing on me, nothing pressing, I feel like I'm running out of time. I don't understand why this feeling of impendingness(is that word) is bothering me, but it feels like it's poking at my brain. Disaster seems to be looming like a guillotine and I want to nip it in the bud before it can get the best of me. I know I sound vague, but my feelings are just that, indistinct.

Last week I remembered almost all of my dreams. I think this was because I was staying up later than usual and cutting off my sleep mid R.E.M. cycle. The most fascinating dream placed me in the back of an open air train car. In the center, there was a large green felt table with poker accoutrements scattered across it. There was varely any room along the edges from the table to the car rail, but about nine men were cramped around playing cards. I was in a "specator" car behind it, nut my car didn't really make any sense because the only people who could see the game were those in the front row. Midway through the game, I was invited to participate in the tournament. I was honored, because the game was sponsored by Abraham Lincoln who I knew was in the presidential car of the train three cars ahead. I didn't ever see Lincoln, but I knew he was there. It was a great dream, but astonishingly weird.

I have Monday off for Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday. I wonder how he would react to our current social establishment. Would he be amazed by everything that's been accomplished since he began his mission, or would he see how far we still need to travel. Would he have an opinion on the way middle easter citizens are being treated in our country now? If he was alive now, how would his "dream" be different? Would he need a month or a year in order to fully understand where the problems still lie, or a day?

Corey left for London two weeks ago. I miss her. I can't call her so we've been communicating through emails. We've never used this medium to communicate before and it's extraordinary because she's the same in some ways. Her tone seems different though. I guess we express ourselve differently in our writing compared to our speech.

I have more to say and update, but this will suffice for now.

Is anybody out there?

Let me hear you scream! or laugh...

So this is the New Year, I don't feel any different...

Time for the awaited New Year's Eve exploits of one Garrett P. Sussman.

After bumming the day away, I drove to New Orleans to Andy and Jake's house. There, we enjoyed a delightfully well prepared pre-bash dinner of salad, butternut squash soup and a brilliant apple pie for dessert. Jake happens to be an excellent cook. The guys live pretty close to the French Quarter, so it was no time before we found ourselves amidst the hectic neon lights and precarious bead tossing of Bourbon Street. Our first drinking game involved predicting how many underage children were present among the destitution that triumphed the glory of the street. Needless to say, we were hammered only three blocks in. When he had our fill of the debauchery of tourists beckoning drunk sorority chicks for a brief flash, we headed towards Jackson Square. Jake and Andy were taken by the extensive mist that hovered in front of us, but I felt strong feelings of Deja Vu, considering the weather was much the same last year. The silver lining was that it was quite warmer. As we approached the stage the beams of purple and green stage lights created an atmosphere of carnivale. It was almost as topsy-turvy as Crew Du Vieux, but not quite. There were no men walking around with pizza boxes filled with giant stuffed penises. We arrived at the tail end of a set break and were thrilled as Arlo Guthrie took the stage. He emerged in full glory, decked in his cowboy apparel and his long gray wispy hair. His choice set consisted of three songs which seemed a little weak, but he was solid. Our second drinking game involved surveying fluffy boas throughout the crowd. We encountered a few raving drunks desperate for conversation. One guy told us an epic story about how he stared at a woman for two hours, claiming that she was the MOST beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He then detailed his dismay when he learned that she was 59 years old. He was about halfway through a two liter bottle filled with half orangeade and half vodka. 2006 arrived with a exuberant countdown by Mayor Nagin. He got his publicity shot then disappeared into the darkness. We meandered back towards the house and came upon the coolest spectacle of the evening. A man established on a street corner was banging away on the most incredible contraption. It looked like one of those carts that had every instrument imaginable on it, including a giant bass drum, but this one was purely percussional. He had a ravishing beat puttering along and was surrounded by an entourage of drunk hipsters who had found a long whit rope and were participating in a hilarious game of limbo. Everyone was involved, dancing and clapping and falling on the ground as they tried to go under the rope. We remained as passive observers for the better part of an hour. When we got back to the house, Andy immediately passed out. Considering it was only one o'clock at this point, Jake and I were not ready to end the night. We went to a vacant parking lot across the street and set off the remainder of our fireworks. We took turns trying to hit an empty wine bottle with out roman candles. When we ran out, I realized that I was not drunk anymore and decided to head back to La Place. I walked in the door to find Jon and Karen playing drinking games with the girls passed out on the couch. I joined them for a few rounds of high-low, got thoroughly wasted and finally scampered off to bed. This was a good new years. On the GPS scale, I'd give it a solid seven out of ten.