TheCourtyard's Xanga

the self-confidence song

Thu, 28 Aug 2008 04:09:12 GMT

I wish they sold self-confidence the same way you sell shoes or books or movie tickets, and it would be just as easy as flashing a brand name or spouting one-liners to make yourself a person you felt proud of in the morning. Self-confidence is waking up to your naked body in the mirror and saying “I look good,” versus getting dressed and saying “I look good.” And I’m sorry, I can’t look at myself naked. I’m too busy trying to catch up to the cool kids I went to high school with six, seven years ago, because they’re still around, giant headphones, smirks on their faces, asking “what are you listening to?” “Taking Back Sunday . . . old Taking Back Sunday.” You have to say it’s old, because it gives you a history, a credibility. Self-confidence is saying you were born yesterday because you were and you have a long way to go, versus saying you were born last week, even if you don’t have an alibi for it. I think religion is a good way out of trying to keep up with the scene, because it comes pre-made for you. I like the idea of a God that doesn’t care what records you listen to or how much your shoes cost but totally knows what records you’re going to buy next week or when your shoes will finally come apart after years of abuse and stepping in dogshit. I leave my shoes under the bed so I can soak up all the places they’ve been to when I wasn’t paying attention. I haven’t seen the movie everyone’s talking about, and I probably never will. I don’t know how to tell jokes or how to keep up in conversation between people I barely know. I don’t know why people spend two hundred dollars for things they’ll use to step in dogshit. I don’t know why I’m proud of my records from six, seven years ago, the ones I associated with those kids I hated but, eager to co-opt their tastes and personalities, adopted as my own. I don’t know why I am so tall. I don’t know why I straighten my hair. I don’t know why I’m only happy with how I look every once in a while, and only if I slept well and haven’t talked to anyone before three in the afternoon. I don’t know why I’m never happy, not in the depressed sort of way, but in a frustrated, why can’t I keep up with the scene, any scene, any group of people in any sort of way. And if I’m always behind you, I don’t know why I keep trying to trip you so you’ll walk next to me instead.

as I am tall like the willows . . .

Mon, 28 Jul 2008 01:42:23 GMT

I felt the anger burbling inside me as I waited for my food to arrive at the take-out counter of P.F. Chang's China Bistro in White Flint Mall, which is in a town called Kensington, but prefers to say it is in North Bethesda, because the white women will not bring their BMWs to a mall in Kensington to nearly mow me down with, as they did today. Like the ambiguity of its postal location, the place where I stood was similarly awkward; not quite the dining room, where people dressed in their best T-shirts and sneakers chowed on Chinese fusion cooking, and not quite the bar, where young men with winning smiles attempted to pitch jokes at their female counterparts, who solidly rejected their advances. I grew quite frustrated by this arrangement, and by the entire concept of White Flint Mall, or Kensington/North Bethesda, or driving to and from such a place to feed my mother and brother all the way back home.

Yes, it is good to be back on livejournal. I am scrubbing the place (and its sister place) of its adolescent dirt and grime, preparing it for a lovely future as a home for my considerably more mature thoughts, be they about Chinese food or white women, or poops, but I refuse to elaborate on that as it is inappropriate too.

The summer is long and friendly, and I await its end patiently but reluctantly. I realize I am alone quite a lot, and a day will go by that I speak to but a few people, and not until late, late, late in the day. I have had a few exciting days this summer - driving up to Baltimore to visit friends from college who live in places flung far across this state and nation; or taking the Metro down to U Street with good friends from high school (Gili and Adrienne among them, or solely them) to see an indie band called Tilly and the Wall.

It was unclear to me whom among the seven performers on stage were Tilly, or the Wall, and I found this fact quite confounding. There was a young woman who tap-danced upon a platform with great exuberance, like Sarah Silverman - exactly like Sarah Silverman, in my mind, and nothing else - but it was unclear if she was the Tilly of the band's moniker. I soon discovered that the Wall was right in front of my nose; a large gentleman, drunk and excited to see his favorite band, he eventually explained, had elbowed his way in front of me, blocking my view. And that is a difficult thing to do, as I am tall like the willows, and my eyes are like a panopticon that can see in many of the directions at once, if not all of them.

But this gentleman was indeed the Wall, and he danced like the Wall, arms akimbo, head strutting in and out like that of a peacock, or an owl with a neck. In time, it became more of a show to watch him profess his love for Tilly through the dance than to watch the tap-dancer herself.

Oh, yes. An indie band is one that I would seldom watch, preferring instead my traditional emo bacchanals at the 9:30 Club or the Recher in Towson, with its many youthful emo children. But like all things, I must grow older and increasingly elitist about my tastes, all part of the great separation of one with the mainstream that America is built upon. In this act of seeing Tilly and the Wall, I become a part of something more than dinners at P.F. Chang's China Bistro and quabbles over where Kensington begins and North Bethesda ends. Lo, from the power I have gained from saying I went to this show alone I could smite both locations into oblivion, and the BMWs that would hit me would instead sink into an abyss not unlike that of a reservoir's outlet into a dam.

this year in me

Sat, 15 Dec 2007 05:27:42 GMT

A year ago I was a misunderstood filmmaker; two years ago I was such a sap I decided to start a band with my [then-six-year-old] brother; and three years ago I found out the girl I liked already had a boyfriend. It is very convenient having all of these important life milestones laid out for me - on the Internet, no less. I realize that I've been doing this for over three years now, save for the past four months, where I more or less fell off the face of the Earth.

Tonight after midnight, I walked down to CVS to buy some soap. It is exam week; a lot of people have 8 a.m. exams tomorrow morning, and College Park is dead. It is depressing, and I didn't see a single person until I left campus. Everyone seemed to be at CVS, in line for Red Bull. On the way back, I decided to walk past Allegany Hall, a dorm with these huge leafy bushes in front of it. "Hello!" said a voice from the foliage. "Uh, hey," I said, moving closer, trying to make out the figure squatting on the ground. Maybe it was somebody I knew.

I saw she was holding a phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and I figured she probably wasn't talking to me. Then I heard the trickle of water, and noticed the dark puddle on the ground between her legs. She wasn't laughing or crying; she wasn't humiliated or proud, but maybe surprised. And so it's come to this, I could see her thinking.

"I'm in front of a dorm, peeing in the bushes," she said to the person on the other end, putting a cigarette to her lips. "And some guy is walking past."

I tried to walk faster. Three years in College Park and I've never seen a girl peeing in the bushes in front of a dorm while smoking a cigarette and talking on the phone. You'd think it happened every day here from the way she acted. I was horrified as a freshman, green about college and overly self-righteous about everything.

"Who's walking past?" she kept going. "Just some random-ass guy."

"Yo, tell her Dan Reed is walking by!" I yelled. She didn't hear me because she was still peeing, and I was embarrassed to have seen it.

These are the stories I will tell my kids one day, when they ask what college was like, and this mythical place called College Park, where even the night before 8 a.m. exams you can find people too drunk to enjoy God's gift of shame.

dan is bringin' the drugs

Sat, 18 Aug 2007 21:58:25 GMT

For quite a while this afternoon I was hopped up on a drug known to me as Percocet. Upon popping the little, bitter pill, I knew only one emotion: "useful." I did a great many efficient things in the minutes following, such as making a phone call, checking facebook, writing an e-mail, and checking facebook again soon afterward.

I have been in the house for at least two days now, having had my wisdom teeth removed on Thursday. I remember little of the surgery save for the smalltalk I made with the dentist as he shoved the IV in my arm, explaining that there was valium seeping through the little tube that went inside of me, and I thought of The Princess Bride and Prince Valium, and . . . then I was swollen, being led to the car, which was parked next to a trash can with a sticker on it for a local band called The Spotlight, and they were everywhere, I thought, even on Main Street in Laurel.

The Percocet is a glorious drug, and do I ever feel inspired as it courses through me. On occasion, I will want a cigarette to bring me down from the pillowy heights, but the doctor insists that I cannot smoke for it will loosen the stitches in my mouth.

And I do not want those stitches loosened, for I want the healing to be quick and effective, so I can get up without feeling faint, and drive the car without going limp at an intersection, and eat foods other than the applesauce. God, I love the applesauce. I bought twenty-five dollars worth of applesauce and pudding in preparation for the surgery, but I am already tired of both.

i got tha hongry for illegal chicken

Sun, 15 Jul 2007 16:47:19 GMT

When I am behind the counter of the shop, or hiding from the cameras through which the corporate office is watching me, I will be stricken by the unavoidable club of Tha Hongry. I begin to savor for something more than ice cream, or even a fro yo.

The Peruvians make a chicken that I am quite enamored by. It is called Pollo a la Brasa in the Spanish, but I do not know its meaning in the English. There are a great many Pollo a la Brasa restaurants in this area, and they are not hard to find. When the smell of the rotisserie wafts into your nose holes, there is little you can do to stop yourself from swerving across several lanes of rush-hour traffic to reach the source of such a smell.

For a year, I have longed to eat a Pollo a la Brasa that was nearly the stuff of legend. The restaurant was called El Pollo Rico, and it made Wheaton a legitimate place to be in, as opposed to just that shopping mall where a fellow was stabbed two years ago. I have had serious Tha Hongry for it, despite never having eaten there.

But, alas, El Pollo Rico was raided by Immigration last week, and its owners were thrown in jail for harboring illegal aliens. I cannot help but wonder if the Immigration people are vegans, and they do not approve of chicken that falls off the bone. My heart is broken! If it is a crime to make such a spectacular Pollo a la Brasa (as I have been told it is), then perhaps I am a criminal, too, for wanting to enjoy it.

sometimes a frozen yogurt is called a "fro-yo"

Wed, 27 Jun 2007 04:04:01 GMT

Today was a banner day at the shop, in which a great many things were scooped. One gentleman, however, ordered a frozen yogurt. It is not scooped but rather forced through a complicated and frightening machinery, one that takes three hours to clean, as I did this morning.

The gentleman entered the shop with his nose turned up. "It smells like a sewer out there!" he exclaimed. But this is Montgomery County, I thought, we have exported all bad smells to Virginia. "It smells like ass!" the man continued.

I sprinted from behind the counter and out the door, to where the construction workers and stroller-pushing mothers were making their daily progression. As I took whiffs of the putrid air, an emo boy walked past the store. Bleached-blonde hair, studded belt, confused smile: a fine specimen, increasingly rare and rarer still on the clean streets of Rockville.

"Yes!" I yelled. "This is not a good smell!"

The emo boy stared at me, perhaps alarmed that the smell of ass would bring tears to his eyes. (Or was he comforted?) I returned to the store; as the emo boy continued to stare at me through the windows which lined every inch not already covered in ice cream, I made the gentleman a frozen yogurt, which he enjoyed thoroughly.

In time, I forgot that smell, but I remembered the look of horror on the emo boy's face, and the glint of the sun in his belt's studs, as I recalled the story to anyone there being paid an hourly wage to hear it. There are times, I realize, when God makes the street smell like ass, but only so you are impelled to go out and smell it, thus stumbling upon the other glories of His creation.

i have become curious about television, and baltimore

Thu, 14 Jun 2007 19:46:04 GMT

A life of scooping and blogging has proved far crueler than I originally anticipated, despite the free goodies I eat on the job and the many interesting and powerful people I meet on the blog. There has been one thing that gives me solace, at least of a momentary variety, and that is the Box.

The Box sits atop the television in our family room, and when it is not tied up by my brother or step-father, I will wander downstairs to explore the hundreds upon hundreds of magical channels. One of these channels is called The N, and in the evenings it plays a program called Degrassi, which seems to involve a number of frustrated, sexually active teenagers in Canada. I assume the Canadian accent, for all its shortcomings, must serve as something of an aphrodisiac, and I long to visit such a place where it is spoken.

But I will be missing Degrassi tonight, for I am attending one of my emo bacchanals this evening, in Baltimore. The band is called theAUDITION; they seem hostile towards spaces and Traditional Capitalization, and I find that rebellion intoxicating. The lead singer is tall for an emo boy, which is comforting after the minor crisis I had last summer upon seeing how short Chris Carrabba is.

The show is in a part of Baltimore that I am not familiar with. That part is called "Everything That Is Not The Inner Harbor." I am scared about the neighborhood, in a suburban sort of way, but I remind myself how afraid I was to visit the 9:30 Club for the first time, and how it was actually in nice Towson that my car was nearly broken into, and I do not feel so bad about Not Inner Harbor Baltimore.

After all, Not Inner Harbor Baltimore is north of here, which means it is closer to Canada, and whatever makes the teens of Degrassi so horny. Yes. Perhaps love can be found in Baltimore tonight.

perhaps too much ice cream can give you nightmares

Sat, 26 May 2007 02:50:33 GMT

I had much difficulty sleeping last night. I tossed and turned for hours, and perhaps at three or four in the morning, I heard a creaking under my bed. Anxious and sweatlogged, I leaned over the side to see what was wrong. I tried to stifle the screams as I realized there was a Dave under my bed. My worst fears come to life! I jumped under the covers and cowered, praying it would be gone before morning. And then it was.

There has been nothing quite so gratifying in recent days as my brother's face when I came home with a severely melted pint of ice cream, and one I had hand-packed myself at that. I have a new job now in the ice cream business, as a scooper. I will not name the place where I scoop now, but anyone with a Facebook account and or - I fear - eyes could figure it out themselves.

The shop is in Rockville, which is a place I am very familiar with, but one that is nonetheless far away from my home, and not easily accessible by the bus I had grown to love working in Bethesda last summer. I am enjoying, though, the ability to show up at work in shorts and a T-shirt, albeit one that bears the name of the company on it. There is also a hat, and I have found I am falling victim to Hat Head.

Tomorrow is opening day, which coincides with a great number of festivities in the Town Square. Augustana, a band whose songs I have heard on the Grey's Anatomy or some similarly-minded show, will be playing. I have been promised that a great many people will come to the shop and demand a variety of desserts that I may have to assemble and serve. It will be a test of fortitude, I think, if I can successfully provide for all of these people without my spirit withering away like kindling in a woodstove.

We are a small army, the fifteen or so fifteen-year-olds I am working with at the ice cream shop, and I think we will conquer the masses of Rockville with ease, or at least the ones from Richard Montgomery High School, since my co-workers all seem to go there anyway.

when drowning, always look behind you

Mon, 21 May 2007 04:25:11 GMT

I was right, for I have come home to Silver Spring and discovered that there were, in fact, no Daves. I checked under the bed, behind the shower curtain, and in the garage, but there were no Daves in any of these places. Due to the fact I have no eyes in the back of my head, I am forever fearful that there is a Dave behind me, but it is something I may just have to deal with.

There has been very little leaving the house, and I have been thinking about many things, such as Harford County, and cleaning my room, which is a process not unlike cleaning the Great Wall of China, except that the Great Wall has been filled with old copies of the Blake Beat, and every five minutes, I stop to read one, or to check Facebook, or to look at maps of Harford County on the Google. All of these things are very engrossing and bring back the memories, some of which are exciting, many of which are sad.

I did leave the house on Friday, when I read poems with Terpoets at Artomatic, which is a sort of a month-long art festival that takes over two floors of a very swanky office building in Crystal City. The office building reminded me of what I would have liked to do when I was young with my step-father's office building downtown - to run with a marker, scribbling across the walls while screaming "FUCK!" at the top of my lungs as all of the secretaries ran after me, unable to keep up.

I was drowning in a sea of cooler-than-thou as I saw the art and the live bands and the films and listened to the poetry, so much so that I had to leave. There was too much of everything to handle, and I longed for the safety of my Great Wall of Room, despite the fact I am drowning in it as well.

i know a great many daves

Sat, 12 May 2007 00:38:36 GMT

In recent days I have not had a great deal to do, and as a result there has been much navel-gazing on my part. The job search has been fruitless, and I cannot help but contemplate any mistakes I have made in the job-hunting process. I have, however, taken solace in how the job search has distracted me from being single, which causes a great frustration inside of me. Without either a job or a girl/boyfriend, I will be left a summer with nothing to do, and that is a scary proposition.

I also realized that I know many people by the name of Dave, or David. This is an unsettling circumstance. Perhaps there are too many Daves in my life, I have wondered. Even I am called Dave, by people who have just met me and have yet to see the difference between a Dave and a Dan. I am not sure how I will deal with this overflow of Daves, though I am comforted by the possibility that there will be fewer Daves when I go home. In College Park, I can only think of five Daves off the top of my head; at home, there are none.

There is a Kids In The Hall sketch relating to this situation. It is a worthwhile viewing experience, if only to understand the issues that arise from knowing so many Daves.