New York Times and decaf coffee.

He was, and continues to be one of the most unwavering people I've ever met. 

His routine was like that of Old Faithful.

Day after day, waking up at 5 am, to rye toast and chilly hardwood floors, spending his days driving school buses around bucolic countryside. He would then return, about 12 hours later, trudging slowly up the front walk, maybe with a few minor, but necessary groceries in hand. 

Then, dinner with wife of 53 years (and still counting...) Upon consumption, he would praise, 'Well, nice dinner momma', clear the table, load the dishwasher, and easily make his way to his notorious perch in the living room. 

     Sigh, leisure time. With feet elevated and reading glasses balanced at the tip of his nose, his face would be perpetually shrouded with the day's New York Times, decaf coffee within arm's reach, and ambient classical music wafting around the room. 

This is my grandpa. 

Patient, hardworking, not desirous of much, except to provide for him and his. His modest, reserved demeanor would never feel the need to gloat about how he wonce worked in a spacious office on the top of a NY skyscraper, or how he was once a big-shot at Bell-Atlantic Telephone Co. No, you'd be more likely to get that out of his beautiful, occasional spit-fire of a bride. (A woman who would bear his four children, watch the birth of their 8 grandchildren, and wash his underwear for the greater half of a century.) 

His hair had since gone salt&pepper, his mid-section increased, as did his cholesterol. His pace slowed from a stride of power and determination, to an ever-faithful, sometimes unsteady trudge. 

This is an excerpt of a short story I'm writing. It's still a rough draft, just a little something I wrote on the train this weekend. Hope you enjoyed. 

lets blog about vaginas. ready? go.

Last night I experienced a renaissance in the form of a play I saw. After much persuasion, curiosity and a persistent feeling of hesitant intrigue, I saw a production of The Vagina Monologues, that is currently being put on by my school. It is a collection of vignettes and narratives, written by Eve Ensler. Now, I had known about the play for a while, even seeing a clip of it in my theater class last semester, but I had never really liked the idea of it. Yes, all women have vaginas. I have a vagina. What else is there to say about it? Why make these exhibitionist proclamations about it? Just keep on living your life. 

But, why not try something new, right? I have to admit, I was still a little wary of the concept when I saw the merchandise for the show including t-shirts that said 'Vaginas are for lovers', and lollipops in the shape of vaginas. Now I've never considered myself conservative-minded, but I was a little shocked, (if not borderline appalled). But, the show had received good feedback, and I knew it wouldn't be in poor taste. So, I sat back and strapped myself in for the ride. 

What I saw for the next two hours was a collaborative, creative piece that entertained, perplexed, educated, shocked, and impressed me. I understood the purpose of the play was not for exhibition, but celebration. Eve Ensler intended for women not only to embrace their sexuality, but their confidence and sense of self. What better way to do that then by talking about it, and performing it. 

I watched my female peers in front of me, perform monologues about every aspect of their vagina imaginable--from the obvious standpoint of pleasure, to sexual awareness about rape and abuse, to informative pieces about the history of vaginas and their role in society, and about empowering yourself through your love for your vagina. There was so much being thrown at me that, upon conclusion of the show, I didn't think I'd need to say vagina for quite a while. But I realized that that was one of the purposes of the show--to make the word less taboo. It definitely succeeded. It revealed to me that it can be socially acceptable for women to talk about stuff like this. Hell, men talk about their genitalia all the time. They're practically best friends with it. So, why the double standard?

Now I must admit there were parts of the show that left me a little uneasy. One of the first monologues tackled a word that I will never, ever be friends with. Everyone has at least one word that they can't stand, and will never use. Mine is cunt. Eh, I cringe just typing it. Let me tell you, I cringed even more watching it be explained and spelled out in a high-energy, passionate monologue, performed by a friend of mine. While I admired the approach, it is just something I will never get over. 

On the other hand, my favorite monologue was one entitled 'My Short Skirt', in which a woman justifies her decision to wear a short skirt, and to explain how it is no one else's property, or business. It was one of those moments that makes you want to snap and say 'Damn. Girl knows what's up.' This monologue kind of helped to identify my favorite aspects of the play--those of empowerment and awareness. Call me a feminist (you'd only be half correct), but I was definitely very pleased with the play's ability to shock audiences about the injustices of women, and how sometimes people don't give a shit. Not only did the play inform/educate, but it gave the very clear, definitive message that these injustices are not okay, and should not be accepted. Rather than being ashamed for being raped, women should love their vaginas, and embody a sense of self-worth. That's basically the strongest message I took from the production. 

So, as you can see, I survived. And I am no longer a Vagina Monologue virgin. I'd also like to point out that I saw the play with two friends- one straight boy and one straight girl. And upon gazing at my fellow audience members, I saw women, men, gays, straights, lefts, rights, mothers, and even a few dads, who happened to be perpetually blushing as they watched the 'apples of their eyes' fake orgasms on stage. =0

On spring break...

Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. 

But no matter, the road is life. Sometimes it seems like life on the road is nothing more than a jumble of airport terminals and postcards. Gas stations and cramped apartments. 

Sometimes, home feels less like the place you grew up and more like a scattered collection of familiar couches and good friends. Sometimes, we meet people along the way who make impacts on our lives we can never really calculate. 

-kerouac.

Obama-rama. For a limited time only?

One of my fondest memories of the past year was the wonderful night when Barack Obama was elected the 44th President of the United States. I happened to find myself in a hotbed of political fervor, commonly referred to as Boston, MA. Not only that, but I happened to be immersed in a 'communal artistic haven' within the hotbed of political fervor

. Some may call it Emerson College. 

So as you could guess, on the eve of our nation's most significant political renaissance of the 21st century, the majority of my peers were awaiting with anxiously liberal breath on the night of November 2nd. Be it snuggled up watching CNN in the comfort of a common room, or blogging on a Blackberry, the majority of college-aged semi-interested students gave a shit.

Yet, if I fast forwarded to tonight, February 24th, 2009, the common room crowd an

d Blackberry blog topics would be very different. Toda

y was not the date of an election, or an inauguration, but the current President's first address to Congress, his game plan of sorts, or agenda for the next 4 years. Essentially our President is discussing th

e same things he did during his campaign. Turning ideas into promises and realities. So why was is this once-heavily involved cross-section of society now apathetic towards the rock star political doppelganger? Why aren't college kids waiting with baited breath to hear the

 words of the current president that they worked so hard to elect?

I'm very hesitant to say this but maybe my long-kept secret theory may be true. Maybe the Obama-fad has finally passed; boiling down the political band-wagon

 fans from the socially aware youth of our current nation.

Where are all of the Obama t-shirt clad activists who were once so involved in the current state of our contemporary world? Perhaps I'm being too harsh and assuming that, just because students aren't gathered and celebrating means they are not t

uned in, or aware of the goings-on of their new administration. 

By writing this, I am not implying that I am higher intellect or interes

t than anyone else, I haven't even stated that I watched Obama's address. I am simply making an observation. 

SO, what do you think of this observation?

Is it accurate, is the Obama craze slowly dying down now that the job is done, and he's becoming less of a phenomenon and more of a diplomat? OR is the recent political inclination of the nation's youth still just as strong, just more sustained and normal? Or am I simply being a politically pretentious jerk? Your thoughts....

Ode to North Jersey

Written on 1/18/09.

There must have been an age when their neighborhood was found in the 'Prime Real Estate' section of The Post. & every time a moving truck would force itself up that embedded slope, the new home owners would exchange contented looks, breathe a satisfied sigh and smile, pleased with their new decision & eager to forge their new suburban homestead. 

To think, for such a reasonable price, they were only 20 minutes from the city. And if they bribed their super& went to the roof & craned their necks, they could see them...

Those persuasive, intoxicating lights that have that have attracted to many urban pilgrims with allure and the glamor of a new, reformed city life., 

The residents of this neighborhood had already tried their luck, and whether they had found it or not, they ended up across the river, in North Jersey, living vicariously through the events and moods of the city, parasitically feeding off of its resources, (and consequently the famous Brick Oven Pizza.)

Yet, from an outside perspective, these residents were far from city dweller

Their neighborhood now adhering to the reputation of a shanty-town, 

a crowded slum just far away enough from a metropolis.

The overpacked layout of houses and apartment complexes were packed like little red and white monopoly pieces stacked in the crook of a hill.

And at night if you stood at the right distance and silently observed for a bit of time, you would see the golden glow of comfort, emanating from every window, as the residents watched their favorite shows inside.

And if you watched particularly hard, you might even see the houses breathing; deep and consistently, as if they were all sleeping. 

& every house would soon begin to resemble a square block of a comfortable patch work quilt.

Every glowing window and breathing condo would  begin to melange together into an ambiguous microcosm of society.

...i need to start using punctuation. and complete sentences.

God's Head Cold

Maybe sometimes God gets sick.

Not really ill, just that nagging inconvenient sick. The kind of sick that makes your head feel like a big ballon, with your sinuses pushing on your brain.

Maybe God gets that. 

And of course when he foes, he feels miserable, drowsy, lethargic, blah blah blah..... BUT, being the workaholic that he is, he's gotta do his job. He has to answer prayers, solve problems, intervene with disasters, et cetera.  All of these divine tasks and he still realizes that he needs to decide the weather for the entire world.

No pressure. No big deal. 

Just deciding how the world will look and feel that day. So, he sits down and begins to map it out for the earth that day. 

& he says okay. It's summer in the southern hemisphere, we'll make it hot...What the heck, I'll throw some tropical storms over the rain forest, and give the outback more sun--make it nice and toasty. 

And then he gets to North America and does his thing. He's losing steam so he wants to get this over with. Some rain on the wildfires in Southern California, a cyclone in Kansas (for old time's sake), and sunshine in Philadelphia. It's always sunny there...

And then he gets to Boston.

And he sneezes.

The end.

PS. This made me grin when I checked my mailbox today, and saw that I had some pictures from the 'home front.' Maybe it will brighten your day. 

My little bro, Sean James Smith. 9 months old already. 

(2 teeth and counting....) =)

Pleasant Surprise of a Wednesday

I love people. 

Watching people

That's not meant to sound creepy, but really.

Observing those going about their everyday, the monotony.

Walking in their functional Monday through Friday shoes, that they put on this morning, still sleepily begrudging their alarm clocks.

I sit, immersed in the lunch break strolls, and mid-day commutes--minds wandering, heads bobbing to casual strides.

I usually sit amidst normalcy.

BUT, what's even better is sitting and observing people on a beautiful surprise of a day. 

A February indian summer, of sorts.

I watch as shrouded people suddenly hatch from the drab grays and beiges of their outer layers, looking around, slightly baffled, as they acclimate themselves to a pleasant gift from everyone's dear friend, global warming.

I watch as postures straighten up, and smiles slowly appear on faces.

I observe businessmen loosening their ties, and calling their suburban wives on minute Bluetooth headsets, just to discuss the weather, and see how their days are going.

And THUS, kindness is spread.

I watch au pairs push urban youth in streamline strollers, as kids squirm to let loose and run in the much, stomp in a new network of tiny streams, from melted snow, that have temporarily taken over the sidewalk.

I watch the natural phenomenon of people ice skating in shirt sleeves, gliding around the placid surface as if they're Canadian geese coming in for landing on a tepid pond. 

Yet, some are not always so graceful.

And of course, there are still the regular idiosyncrasies of a thriving metropolis.

The haggard bum in weathered leather, condemning me--pointing fingers as I sit and type on my laptop on a park bench.

And the compact group of urban youth, skipping school, smoking cigarettes on the corner and chiding the businesswoman who happens to be wearing a particularly tight skirt today.

Things still aren't perfect here, and I'm not suggesting that a pleasant climate change can create a utopian Wednesday in the city of Boston, Massachusetts.

I'd just like to note the happiness and temporary relief that people all around me are experiencing. As if the city is taking a common, collective sigh, loosening up their wooly, winter scarves, and absorbing the naturally-induced contentment, and spoonful of seratonin until spring shines through.