I saw nomads today

Walking across a bit of green between Rt 116 and the Walgreens. Toting rucksacks and banjos and all manner of vagabondry. Naturally, a dog in tow -- nappy mutt of indeterminate breed.

I'm alternately allured and appalled by vagabonds. They always seem to be having a good, laissez-faire sort of time, maybe on the lam from the authorities. Maybe just Authority. There's a lot of vitamin D to be had as a vagabond in the great outdoors, and vitamin D prevents cancer. Yeah, when times are good, times are grand. It's all face-tattoos and resting on a fellow nomad's shoulder.

Livin', I'd say. You even get to wear zany t-shirts to compliment your zany lifestyle. Citizens for a poodle-free Montana? Hilarious!

Then I have to think there are those other times, and I bet they're probably most times, when you pass the humid, tedious night squatting in an abandoned hovel.

Ew. That looks dirty and not much fun. However, the sun also rises. This gives Zeke more light to work by.

HYGIENE!

When you're not sleeping on a dilapidated mattress in your wretched hut or having zits popped with someone else's disgusting AIDS-fingers, you get to gut opossums or large rats -- really, any marmot -- on a cardboard box with a knife that (let's face it) probably hasn't even been wiped down since the last gutting.

What, no sanitary gloves? I'm afraid Rabies Château loses yet another star. Your establishment is currently down to negative-400-star dining. The good news is that this leaves ample room for improvement. Giving that knife a spit shine would be something. Never eating woodland varmints again would be another. The dog is looking at that palette like, "I can't be too far off."

I blame shows like Lost for creating a false vagabond impression. Those castaways make it all look so fun. Their hands are always clean! Nomadic hands are never clean. In fact, I think this is part of some vagabond code, never having clean hands, along with eating tree bark and hiking 40 miles down a highway after shitting your pants. But even if these aren't "codes" -- I'm sure they're codes -- there are just simply some modern accoutrements you forgo as a nomad. Shitless pants is one.

All images courtesy of the mind-blowing American Vagabond series, which I think should be renamed Your Parents Are So Worried About You, Kevin.

Yancey completes what is surely an assignment meant for 3rd graders

Creative writing prompts are the worst. They are seriously so bad, you guys. I loved my creative writing classes and teachers in high school and college, don't get me wrong. These were wonderful, gentle people who'd often grow beards in the winter because that's what people like them often do, and I find it charming as hell.

But the prompts? Hoo-boy, terrible. The problem is, they're a necessary evil. For as lame and hamfisted and unoriginal as it all is, they solve the #1 problem -- of, like, 4 billion problems -- every writer has, which is ironically enough ACTUALLY USING WORDS TO WRITE SOMETHING.

So I guess kudos to creative writing prompts for getting us to write. They're like that awkward, weirdo neighbor you convinced to make-out with you for the first time in order to give you the confidence to aspire for higher make-out standards.

The second prompt on the Ten Creative Writing Activities webpage includes four sets of 10 things. The four sets are Character, Setting, Time and Situation/Challenge. The assignment calls for students to pick four numbers at random -- one for each list -- and create a story with the ingredients they've chosen.

Without looking at the list, my number selections are:

2 - the number of testicles I have
9 - John Lennon's favorite number
4 - the number four
4 - the number four, again

My writing ingredients are thus:

Character - a photographer
Setting - a college library
Time - after a big meal
Situation/Challenge - a death has occurred

Wow. What a terrible and ridiculous prompt. Ladies and gentlemen, I present the world premiere of the original short story...

To Kill a Mockingbird

Scout Finch loved calling her father by his first name -- Atticus. She also loved clandestine shut-ins who may or may not be extremely fucked up in the head. She also loved a college library.

After a big meal one sunny morning, Scout asked her father, "Why is everybody spitting in your face and generally hating you these days, Atticus?"

Atticus said, "Because they're racist dicks."

"That's cool, Atticus. I don't know what any of it really means anyway because my innocence has yet to be completely shattered by the murder of Tom Robinson at the end of the book. Anyway, Atticus, I need to go see if the weirdo down the block has left me anything else in a tree."

"Okay," he said. "I'm just going to modestly battle racial injustice some more."

Scout checked the tree and found a camera. Scout was now a photographer. She took a picture of the shut-in's house and showed all her friends where the guy who eats birds lives. Then some guy tried to kidnap her, but the shut-in turned out to be a hero and thankfully murdered the guy. Don't worry, though. The sheriff said it's cool and that the guy fell on his own knife, which was a complete lie, but the law allows for some fibbing once in awhile if the parties involved are alcoholic racists and heroic shut-ins who still might be fucked up in some singular, disturbed way.

The End

Update!

I know I posted seven seconds ago, but I feel a need to share something else with you.

I've had these little bottles of Jack Daniels whiskey for about a year. They're just little ass shits, sample shits or whatever the fuck. My parents gave them to me because they got them somewhere and they don't drink.

Anyway, I don't much like whiskey, but I decided to mix myself a drink because, you know, depression. Now, I don't have Coke -- or Pepsi for that matter -- and I don't know what else you cut whiskey with other than that, and really, if there is something else, I doubt I have it. Unless you can cut it with salt or lemon herb marinade.

What I do have is Cherry Coke, so I cut the whiskey with this. Don't worry, though, because it tastes like ass.

Update! #2

Actually, you know what? A few minutes later, after some of the ice has melted, it doesn't taste half bad. I know drinking alone is one, but what number is drinking shit you find nearly rancid on the list of signs you're an alcoholic?

The worst part about having friends is having friends leave you

Not "leave you" like, "I'm leaving this friendship permanently because of a calamity." The leaving I'm talking about is your standard issue "that's all for now" leaving. Leaving that implies future visits. This sort of leaving happens everyday, literally dozens of times.

Most times, this leaving is fine, often welcomed, but I just experienced it in a big way. Three of my best buddies in the whole wide world who I don't get to see very often, along with my girlfriend, just left my apartment after surprising me Friday night with their visit.

The weekend had been tabbed SURPRISE WEEKEND, 2009 for the last few weeks. My girlfriend, the surpriser. Me, the surprisee. I figured she was planning a trip to see a concert or visit some metro museum or zoo. When I returned home Friday night from work, there was my girlfriend -- obviously -- but then here too were the three aforementioned friends, one of whom lives six hours away. It's difficult to coordinate four different schedules, let alone when the people involved live so far away, so seeing everyone standing in my livingroom definitely had me surprised to beat the band.

There was drinking, there were movies. There was bowling and grilling out. Hell, we just DID. IT. UP. But, inevitably, shit starts turning back into pumpkins and people have to get on with their lives. What's so strange is that our lives were once pretty similar to the weekend we just enjoyed. The last two days were a microcosm of five years ago, sped up and a little more cramped and uncomfortable in a one-bedroom apartment. But we remembered all the moves. It's like Brain Wilson singing those old Beach Boys tunes. Yeah, it's different. It's also kind of sad and depressing, but all the original sentiment is there. Just wasn't made for these times, indeed.

Of course, the worst part is sitting in your apartment alone after everyone leaves and getting crushed by the solitude. I'm used to being alone for stretches. I really enjoy alone time, in fact, but find me someone who doesn't feel a shade uneasy after a bustling weekend visit from close, long-lost friends, and I'll show you a BIG FAT LIAR.

And I guess this is all just to say that I miss my friends. I've often imagined scenarios in which we all move to a similar geographic location and pick up where we left off before everyone started moving so damn far away. Just like your group of friends, we always waxed about writing movies and/or TV shows together. The thinking now goes that if we can all find addresses close enough to each other, we can start collaborating to produce all that award-winning material, finally achieving monetary and creative fulfillment, our collective dream.

But again, just like your friends, as time goes by and life's ever-tightening grip takes control, the reality of this gets more and more unlikely, just as the assumed/assured critical and commercial reception of our hypothetical creative ventures edges closer to hyperbole. The image is then that of the four friends, now all old and decrepit, sitting in their rocking chairs insisting that had they been given their proper chance, they'd have done something truly special with it.

Deep down, this reality is almost easier to bear than any attempt to actually get anything done. Because that requires some faith, and who has the time/patience/nutsack for that? Better to never try and never fail than to try and fail miserably, right? This is what really keeps us from doing anything, not six hour commutes. The commute excuse is handy, though. And hell, we're not quite all 30 yet, so we still have at least 10 more years of insisting that it could all still go off.

Filibuster the dream, y'all.

The journey is arduous

Having a blog begs the question: why?

Why am I doing this? What reason do I have to cultivate a public blog? It's not as if the world is clamoring for more first-person chronicles. There are millions of blogs already, why add to the already stinking pile?

In previous blogs -- all of which contained my real name -- my ostensible purpose was merely to post when I felt like it, keep it casual, nothing serious. Yet, inevitably, this led to my obsessing about if I was posting enough, whether what I posted was "good enough" and just an overall sense of dread and foreboding at the idea of keeping the thing going. I'd also run into situations where what I wanted to write about didn't jive with what I felt I could write about. My name being attached to the blog, and all my friends, family and possible employers having access to it.

Eventually, after a few months, everything would collapse. I'd demolish the entire artifice, deleting or password locking everything -- the online equivalent to clearcutting.

And yet, probably not inexplicably at all, I'm back. Back without a name, but back all the same. I don't know if an anonymous blog -- one I plan to keep from those I know in "real" life -- will be any different from all the others, but two posts in, it does feel different. My hope is that if I end up vanishing for a week or two or write about things that eventually interest me alone, I won't feel that strange sense that I'm letting someone or some group down. I won't feel like my personal brand is at stake. Because inherent in all my blogs -- and really in every creative venture I've attempted -- the primary goal has been to simply please myself.

I do care about approval from the masses. I want what I enjoy about myself to be enjoyed by others, but when you start catering to others first, informing your work with what you think they would like, in my experience that's when the end is near. In this sense, we can all take a cue from Ivan Drago, the Russian colossus in Rocky IV. When Mother Russia turns on the boxer during his fight with Rocky Balboa, he throws a Soviet official from the ring and exclaims, "I fight for me! For me!"

So this is me fighting for me, but I promise not to grab any of you by the neck and toss you from the blog. It's silly to dismiss the opinions of others a priori because the opinions of others are often pretty spot on. It's just that on the Internet, they tend to be fairly scathing. So, I won't be telling anyone to fuck off or accusing people of "just not getting it." These are reactions from people at odds with the fact that they are failing at the most inherent human compulsion -- to communicate. Anyone who starts blogging, myself included, is doing so not simply for himself, and those who claim otherwise are fooling themselves. People like Henry Darger can make these claims. Blog authors cannot.

If the key is to grab the reader's attention, then baby rape

Our hero smashes the figurative champagne bottle against the figurative hull of his figurative vessel that is this blog. It's name? The ever so catching I Missed Again, its endearing, self-deprecating undertones no doubt winning you over immediately.

In the spirit of transparency, for which I will constantly strive, an admission: I Missed Again wasn't my first choice for a name. The first choice was Easy Lover -- I have this thing for Phil Collins. But you know what? That URL was already taken. Okay fine, Blogger.com, just ruin it. Invisible Touch will do. But then that was taken, too.

Against All Odds? Land of Confusion? Sussudio?!?

No. No. No.

Fine! I pull out my Face Value jewel case -- actually, why didn't I just use that? -- and scan the track listing. "I Missed Again" is a nice cut. Also, the aforementioned endearing, self-deprecating undertones. We have a winner.

So, I Missed Again. You now know why.

Let's see, what else? I'm 27. I'm male. I'm white. My name isn't Yancey, thank god, but this will be my handle because... well, because I don't know why. It's an immense amount of pressure coming up with a pseudonym, isn't it? Rather than creating some sort of anagram from my real name -- which, now that I think about it, would have been better -- I went with Yancey. It just popped into mind. I recalled former Pittsburgh Steelers wide receiver Yancey Thigpen. In fact, the original handle was exactly that -- Yancey Thigpen. But, realizing that this would probably be considered ILLEGAL to post as Yancey Thigpen -- not being the athlete who compiled 313 receptions in nine NFL seasons, myself -- I went with the far more general, if somewhat less intriguing "Yancey."

I also have a thing for obsolete minor sports stars, recognizable and key components to their teams' success during their tenures, yet utterly forgettable a handful of years after they retire. I mean, check out Thigpen's Wikipedia page. Not even a picture.

Other obsolete minor sports stars include:

Mike Greenwell
Otis Thorpe
Bam Morris

I guess what it boils down to is that I'm interested with the idea of dropping off the face of the earth. BUT ANYWAY...

This blog? Shit, I don't know. I've had blogs before, sure. Never anonymous, though, so this is a first. I doubt the tone of this blog will be much different from blogs past. I mean, I probably wouldn't use the phrase "baby rape" in a post with my name attached to it, but that's just because I live in a world that doesn't look kindly on evoking the image of babies getting raped.

Obviously I don't advocate baby rape. Who does?¹ I'm just saying that there are some people whose circumstances and obligations in life prevent them from even mentioning it. My circumstances and obligations are such. So, sure, it's a little empowering to have the freedom to say "baby rape" without fear of serious repercussion. Because isn't that what it's all about? My feeling okay with saying "baby rape?" God bless America.

Don't worry. I'm not going to go bat shit insane with all this new found anonymity. No racist diatribes here, my black and Asian friends. I love you all. Just think of it like I'm talking how I would around my closest friends who know me best and who know that I'm really very much against things like baby rape. Down with baby rape!

So, in a way, we're like best friends now. Isn't that nice?

Anyway, more to come. We'll see what this turns into. No need to smash the egg open to get the hatchling, we'll just let it hatch on it's own. What?

I don't know. Just, goodbye.

- Yancey



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¹ Baby rapists, I suppose.