So.  This blog was a failure.  Sorry.

I’ve gotten busy doing all sorts of things that I don’t care about, that don’t fulfill me entirely, that involve things like “paying bills” (what is that?) and “being an adult” (again, I’m not understanding these terms).

However, this has prompted me to reevaluate both my writing workflow and what I want to do.  It’s also given me a chance to look objectively at what’s been going on with the few digital sites I own and to reevaluate what should go into them, what will be most productive for me (as a writer) and what will be moderately entertaining to you.

I’m not writing regularly.  I want to.  I need structure, though.  I’d also like to move my work more towards the “creative nonfiction” path with a goal of producing one good idea, one piece, one jumping off point per week.  Many readers here know that I’m obsessed with This American Life (even my glasses resemble Ira Glass’s).  Growing up, every Saturday, my Dad would listen to public radio from 8 until 2.  In this timespan, many great shows came on (Car Talk, Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me, Whaddya Know) but the one I’ve always loved most was This American Life.  Who better to serve as a guide for new projects and structure than the the person (Mr. Glass) who was the reason I decided to start telling stories all those years ago.

And so, from now on, on this blog, you’ll find some sort of meditation of mine pertaining to This American Life’s weekly theme.  Whether it’s a full blown story, an idea, a character sketch, whatever, it’ll be here.  I’ll post the week’s theme, a link to the original podcast, and then my work pertaining to it.

In this way, I think the theme of the blog will remain and a title/format change doesn’t need to take place.  Still, I’m interpreting, mish mashing up, working things out, and trying to communicate them to someone, somewhere.  It’ll all get lost and smushed up and contorted into face-cringing positions along the way, but that’s the point of Destructive Interference: To see what shows up at the end of that process.

As always, if you have thoughts of any sort (or if you elect to write something of your own pertaining to this theme) please share them in the comments.  If there are full blown entries, I’ll be glad to post them to the blog, as well (and give you full credit, of course).  I especially welcome comments or ideas about this whole change immediately.

For the more pithy side of me, please do check out I’m Appalled.com.  I’ll be getting short-form angry/funny on there as much as possible.

Thanks.  See you all on the other side.

Upon arriving in BeanTown (at North Station), my traveling companion and myself walked along Summer Street across Fort Point Channel which gave a great view of the bridges on Congress Street and Seaport Boulevard, along with the Boston Children’s Museum and the giant Hood Milk Bottle.  Having no idea how pervasive the Hood Dairy Company is on the East Coast, the epically phallic monument to cow lactate had me aghast.

Upon dropping bags off at a custom framing gallery owned by my partner in travel, we headed back in to downtown Boston.  My Hipster-Sense kicked in immediately (it’s a lot like a Spidey-Sense) and I promptly found the most indie of cafés in a 6-block radius to aid my caffeine-stained brain: the Boston Common Coffee Co.

Left on my own to wander historic, downtown Boston, I made my way over to Boston Common.  I assume it’s only famous because of Anthony Clark’s stunning and cut-short sitcom by the same name.  Who cancels a new TV show that ranked 8th in yearly ratings… and who can resist the stunningly engaging Anthony Clark as a down-home Virginia outsider making his way through the big city in the Northeast?

I then made my way to the Massachusetts State House, whose sole historical significance is that of a symbol for antagonist Collin Sullivan’s ambition in Scorsese’s The Departed.

And what visit to historical Boston wouldn’t be complete without a Ben Franklin impersonator.  While he responded to my question about his syphilis ailment with much guffaw and accuracy, I, much like Dwight Schrute, am 99% sure that it was not the real Ben Franklin… 98.

Later on in my meanderings about town, I walked through most of the (expensive) Beacon Hill neighborhood – where the amount of perfectly-coiffed trees and historical homes were only outnumbered by the number of trust funders wearing Ugg boots and perfectly-bent baseball caps.

Rounding out my day on my train ride out to Wenham, MA (where I was staying in a secluded house in a forest), I partook in a cup of Bean Town’s finest coffee: Dunkin’ Donuts.  Rich, steaming, satisfyingly robust with a hint of burn, it was great to end the day with a coffee that didn’t cost three dollars while utterly lacking any sort of quality (Starbuck’s).

The rest of the weekend was spent relaxing with friends, drinks, Old Fashioneds that I prepared for my hosts, and helping a kid who was tripping on acid out of jail.  All in all, a complete success.

p.s. all photos except the milk bottle taken with my iPhone.  Apologies for the lack of quality.

Finally travelling again, boys and girls. This time I’m travelling via bus to the home of Will Hunting, illicit tea disposal, and horrendous accents (I’m vowing to annunciate my Rs every time I say “haRboR” or “my boy’s wicked smaRt).
More pics to come. For now, after a putrid departure from Chinatown, I’ll leave you urbanites with a pic of the zooming leaves from my window.

Testing out posting from my iPhone. This could get weird.

But Kermit and LCD Soundsystem raise some good points.  Gentrification, being poor for the first time, moving to a city that is somehow safe, political and police-oriented disillusionment… but oh, how we still love you.

And for more Kermit action, here‘s a site made by someone with this absolutely brilliant idea: “Soon after the death of Jim Henson, Sad Kermit spiraled downward into a life of addiction, romance, and pain.  The songs and videos on this webpage shed light on Sad Kermit’s descent into his dark, hurting world.”

Sad Kermit

A couple of posts ago, I mentioned that I’d moved into a new apartment.  It’s a proper den of idiocy near the Lorimer stop on the L train.  A converted warehouse where I reside on the top floor with two roommates.  We have roof access and we’re steadily doing our part to up the awesome factor.  Incidentally, this also entails upping the amount of wine we drink while looking at Manhattan from our spectacular view.  Enjoy the video tour (and more) after the jump.  Continue Reading »

It’s true.  It’s been twelve long years and, for some strange reason, I still skate.  I’ve broken my wrists and ankles multiple times, gotten a few concussions, been ticketed far too many times to count, and had to deal with condescending security guards and police more times than my ego will let me remember.

But even at age twenty-five, something compels me to go out and throw my body around.  I’m coming out of a period where I actively tried to resist skating so that I could concentrate on my studies (grad school), but I now have a modicum of free time.  Again, I find myself drawn to skating.  Somehow, going out and exploring the city I live in while attempting to change the way I view everyday structures (as obstacles, not as objects) still has some sort of hold over me. Continue Reading »

Well.  It’s been a while.  I’m not dead, nor is my computer – though I’m considering which death would be more tragic.  I have only one explanation for not actively letting you all know what’s going on: in the words of my friend, Anna, “Oops.”

That’s not to say I haven’t been busy.  In the past three months I’ve moved to a new apartment, doubled the amount of freelancing I’m doing, taken on more responsibility at HeaveMedia, completed a massive Capstone project (resulting in my graduating from graduate school), gone to Las Vegas, gotten punched in the face in a bar in Midtown Manhattan, gotten a new bike, thrown numerous barbecues, interviewed a band in Boy George’s old apartment, gone home to Chicago twice, saw David Bowie cooking eggs, and gotten my tan on an obscene number of times on my new roof.

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The Myers-Briggs test was first given to me during my freshmen year of college.  Approximately 48-hours after returning from an alcohol-induced hospital visit (thanks, big 10 colleges and bigger-10 egos), I found myself filling in an unending amount of bubbles on an 8-page scantron.  The visit to a school therapist was mandatory in order for me to maintain residency in the dorms, so I decided not to voice my displeasure with the idea that this overweight, underworked human being could glean a portrait of my personality based upon a #2 pencil and unending writer’s cramp stemming not from a Kerouac-esque stream of consciousness, but nearly an hour of responding to questions by elementary “coloring inside the lines.”

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I’ve been a fan of Garrison Keillor ever since I was a little kid.  I didn’t have much say in the matter at the time because my parents refused to listen to anything but NPR when in the car, but that’s beside the point.  I’ve grown to like almost all the same programming as my parents (it makes my chest hurt to say that) and Garrison Keillor’s “A Prairie Home Companion” is no exception.

Since I usually can’t catch it when it airs (sorry, I do have slightly more important things to do Saturday nights…) I subscribe to the podcast that updates every Monday with his segment, “News From lake Wobegon.”  Garrison performs this monologue every week by himself without a script and it’s usually one of the most uplifting, honest, and accessible portions of the show.  This week’s was particularly good, ending with the line:

“He says, ‘We’ll think about it…’ that’s all you have to do, is just think about it.  If you think about it you will say ‘yes’ eventually.  We know that.  Life is irresistible.  Love is irrisistible.  If he thinks about it, he’ll go.”

Here’s a link to all the podcasts, the first one is the most recent/the one I’m talking about (like I said, it’s a good one).