Awkward Inquiry

"Serena, what happened to your e-mail and your phone #?" --Cap cap.

Why You Shouldn't Pull Over to Poop In Mexico

Never Pull off the road to poop!!

Pete | MySpace Video

(P.S. I swear we're not completely obsessed with poop.)

Mark Gonzales

Something Is Not Right

Does anyone else sense that something just isn't right? It's not one thing either, like massive debts, "global warming", or a war that doesn't make any sense. It's everything. As a member of the "What the FUCK Am I Doing?" generation, I don't know what to do about any of these problems I really have no part in. It's as if one day I became and adult and inherited a bunch of issues (Michael Moore is freaking me out and I owe the government eighty grand) that are way over my head. Remember when we were told that if we went to college we would get a decent job? What happened? Not only do I not have a decent job, I have negative money. College stole my life. It suckled too hard at the teats of my future. Should I just move to South America? Or should I allow myself to slave away just to pay back money that I took out so I could become a productive member of society? It's like I'm starting at square negative eighty thousand. Yep, it's time to get a passport.

I swear to God that poop is not mine!

Do you know what's fucking awkward?

Explaining to your friends why you got dumped by your 19-year-old boy toy (you’re in your mid-20’s) when the reason is so that he could have more time to play video games.

Accidentally getting your coworker too high on Xanax at work because he “wanted to know what it would feel like” and you knew where to get some and now all the other employees are like “Brian, did you get enough sleep last night? You’re working at like 10% capacity today!”

When your friend starts crying because she asked you if your friend was into her and you said you didn’t think so, and now you’re sitting in the middle of a restaurant and she’s all “but I thought everyone thought I was hot! I mean aren't I hot?” but she's not at all and you have a horrible poker face so you try to save it by saying, “you have a boyfriend, you shouldn’t care” and the waiter looks like a deer caught in female hormonal headlights and he's like “do you guys need a minute”, but you’re secretly text messaging your friends to “drop by unexpectedly” and save you because you don’t know how to deal with weeping women even though you are one. There...just pat her on the back. Help will arrive soon.

When you’re the lunch lady at a cafeteria, and you have to wear that hair net and apron, and 14 year old boys from sports camps hit on you and you sort of play along but a part of you is seriously checking them out because they’re really buff and you’re honestly trying to picture what they’ll look like in 6 years, let’s not lie, 4 years, and your boss totally calls you out on it because you didn’t realize that while you were putting together this mental picture in your head you were staring inappropriately at young boys.

Having someone from your class poop on the floor of the girl’s private bathroom when you’re the next person in line, and you know it was her because there’s no other class going on in the building but she tries to pass it off as the person before her, but there was nobody before her and the poop is fresh. Then you go back to your class and she announces that someone “did something gross on the floor of the girl's private bathroom” and winks at you, thus incriminating you as the phantom pooper, when you know well that the pooper is no phantom.

Being publicly accused of being a racist by 6 black girls in your Linguistics and Hip Hop course during a class discussion and now you can’t participate at all because it’s a race and ethnicity class and all the questions are racially controversial. Is it really fair to pull out the race card when a poor white girl is just trying to get some goddamned class participation points? I mean, you guys definitely lowered my grade in that course.

When your “bros” walk in on you crying and listening to Bon Iver because you just got dumped by a 19-year old.

When you get caught shoveling piles of taco salad into your mouth while kneeling behind the counter at the cafeteria by your boss and she feels so bad for you that she lets you make a plate and eat it, but now you have to eat at the same table as your other co-workers who are on break because you’ll look like some weird aloof anti-social asshole if you don’t, but you just want to be that cool loner in the lunchroom because they all smell bad and weird you out. Can you still be a cool loner in the lunchroom?

Getting dumped by your boyfriend after accusing him of being gay. You realize in retrospect it was probably a sensitive subject. Now you have to explain to your friends that you’re an asshole

My room smells like Punjabi and I'm almost ok with it

As I turned off Kabhi Kushi Kabhi Gam and turned on my M.I.A CD, I peered over at my Indian roommate (in the PC sense, she’s actually from India) and realized that I have become obsessed with all the mystery that India has to offer me. Unfortunately I am not writing this to tell you how enticing the people and culture of India are. This is about how Bollywood films are solely responsible for transforming myself into an awkward recluse. I spend hours at the Ann Arbor public library watching movies about Indians who fall in love, find aliens, rob banks, and everything in between while performing randomly placed song and dance numbers. I don’t know what it is about these films but I can’t stop watching them. The people at the library think I’m taking a film class focusing on Hindi cinema. They think this because I told them I was after renting my eighth movie. Hey, better to be a liar than a creeper. Besides I don’t want them to cut me off, and they really might if they knew I was renting all these movies for my own personal enjoyment. My friends already call me “Bollywood” I don’t need some stranger thinking I have deep-seated issues and have decided to use Bollywood movies to escape from reality. Not that this is why I watch these movies. For myself, it’s as if I’ve wandered upon an untapped resource of entertainment, and I plan to use this resource until I can’t look at my roommate with out being overcome by the urge to throw rice all around the room while dancing in a Pashmina. Maybe she’d finally move out and stop stinking up the room with the damn scent of curry, the one thing I hate about India. Yes, the scent lingers and makes your room smell like ass and there’s nothing better than returning home after a long day of school and work to a room that smells like some dog farted in it and then ran away. But I really must say, if you are an awkward person who happens to also be bored I would not hesitate to look into Bollywood films.

Award City Award: Eugene, Oregon

For those of you lucky bastards who have yet to experience the 'World's Greatest City of the Arts and Outdoors' (aka Eugene, Oregon) let me educate you on what I'm quite confident is the most awkward city in the United States.

How can a city be awkward you ask? Where to begin. Oh yes, there not actually being a city. Eugene, OR is composed of, let's say, sections. There's the school section where the University of Oregon is situated. There are two restaurants, a lot of beards, and more than enough dreaded trustifarians in VW Minibuses smoking bowls in the woods. The student body of Eugene sports uniforms of galoshes (yes, galoshes), flannel and Gore Tex windbreakers. Grimaces and mountain bikes are the common accessories. But this is to be expected of a PacNW college town. What isn't to be expected is, well, the rest of Eugene.

After some careful research, I learned that the glorious city of Eugene is plagued by an alarming amount of cancer cases. I think this could be attributed to the cough-syrup fumes emulating form the meth labs dotting the city near the train tracks. Should you wish to familiarize yourself with these chemical plants, take a drive parallel to the tracks and you will see well-constructed junkyards-cum-houses, equipped with roughly four or five twenty-something males wearing baggy sweatshirts and sporting severely vexed eyebrows, open facial wounds (on account of the scratching), petting a dog with a missing leg.

Which brings me to Eugene's deepest darkest, most awkward secret of all; the Bromance epidemic. That's right, next time you happen to drive through Eugene (probably because you missed it and/or decided against it thanks to a sturdy foundation of common sense), just notice the guy-to-girl ratio. And I'm not just saying there's an abundance of men (which there is), it's as if the city (town, village, commune) of Eugene is a large second grade. Men do not associate with women. It is likely for one to see upwards of seven guys hanging around, talking about going to the Men's Warehouse on the weekends, or tailgating to Palo Alto for an upcoming Frisbee Golf competition. Perhaps its the amount of marijuana smoking? THC does affect the libido after all...in any case, the gender separation is perplexing, frightening and absurd.

Not all of Eugene is bad. Well, the pizza is. But Hendrick's park, the small patch of woods (yes, where the bearded hippies park the VWs) is quintessential Northwest and should you be fortunate to live in this part of the city (which is about 1/20th), you'd probably be happy (assuming you wouldn't often journey into the other sections of Eugene).

Have you heard the rumor that Eugene, OR is the Anarchist Capital of the country? As did I, my friend. I think I can safely put this myth to rest. As the Eugenians present at the WTO protests, in actuality, numbered four. The primary origin of the lot being Salem, OR. Not only is this disappointing, but it says something about the city as a whole. This anarchist 'rumor' is not something that originated from anarchists. It's actually the product of some kind of tourist campaign, in which the mayor himself, at some point, commented on the growing number of anarchist residences living in the city. I might be wrong, but it does not seem advantageous for the mayor to boast about the number of anarchists residing in his city as a means of drawing other anarchists. Is the tourism this bad that a city government is attracting the people who would ultimately wish to end it? Perhaps. For the twenty-three hours I was there, I saw only two police cars, one of which had the driver's side window Sharpie-tagged. Which may indicate that the legitimacy of Eugene's police department is, lets say, overshadowed by their desire to house the nation's anarchists. And this should be rightly rewarded. If there were any living there.

Aside from the mythical anarchist community, there is a very real presence of runners in Eugene, OR. It's called Track Town, U.S.A. or something? Which does...not make it any more desirable to visit? If anything, this slick tag line brings to mind short shorts and gawky teenagers, bull-dozed fields and concrete, relay batons and hurtles--the whole lot. And while a lot of Eugene is this reality, its one of those things better kept mum. Though it seems the tourist department's going for that whole reverse-psychology thing, so perhaps its a lure tactic.

Head over to a restaurant where they serve French toast and pulled pork sandwiches. You'll here locals gripe about the communes taking over town. This frustration was vocalized by a waiter who was, lets say thoroughly disturbed, about the nature in which the commune residents live. Apparently there's an abundance of cats and more littler boxes than people. Which, honestly, struck me as one of the more amusing aspects of Eugene and I regret not having explored this phenomenon further.

Eugene is in a constant state of mist/rain which leaves everyone looking a little more squirrely than necessary. Die hard Eugenians can be deciphered from the out-of-towners by their refusal to wear a rain jacket or sport an umbrella in torrential downpours. That's right, there won't be so much as a bowing of the head. Heads held high, meth-rain is a merely a trivial part of daily existence. Some of the more sissy citizens opt to tie plastic bags onto the seats of their bikes or wear flaps of a scissored garbage bag over their faces to provide a slight salvation from the perpetually moist climate.

Should you be from Eugene, not only am I sorry, but I'm certain you may be growing upset with the nature of this post. This might be because I have never before experienced a place with such a complete disregard for sarcastic humor. That's right, there is no sarcasm. Not even a little smile, a slight laugh when someone slides from the slick of their garbage-bagged bike seat. And actually, this inevitably made communicating with Eugenians a bit daunting. Again, this could be chalked up to the amount of pot-smoking or the meth epidemic: so maybe people are in a constant state of being burnt or in the midst of tweak-rage, but it makes a good-natured visit difficult.

Still want to go to Eugene? Yes, it is something you should experience for yourself. Some advice: flannel and/or plaid, love for the outdoors (so you can appreciate it through the smoke-stained windows of your Mazda), an affinity for running (from the local gypsies who want to sell you 'collectibles' like femurs and gold teeth), a large fleece collection, an aversion to cigarette smoking (because the meth's safer...), a love of cats (as in one day your commune bed being replaced by a slew of litter boxes), a healthy immune system (to thwart the bizarrely hazardous toxin levels), and a car (so you can, after seeing the thirty minutes of Eugene there is to see, get the fuck out of there with some semblance to decency still in tact.)

I Just Couldn't Help Myself.

Gxogle? I understand the concept. It's Valentine's Day. wow. How much money is this person making? The Google icon making man/woman? Is this considered a legitimate profession? Does he or she get benefits? Does his or her boss use Google on the days the designs are posted? Gxogle. Right.

Cute? Or Creepy.

Ah when we’re awkward, there’s such a fine line between cute and creepy. Because 'cute' to awkwardists may mean 'creepy' to the average folk. So then at what point does cute become creepy? Some instances of definite line crossing found in the best cesspool of social deviance--the bar;

1.) The relator. We have everything in common. I mean, everything. At first, finding similarities is entertaining and comforting. You feel you have a special bond with Mr. Coors because he went to the same YMCA for swim lessons that you did. AND you were both minnows. Things, however, start to take a creepy turn when he literally has everything in common with you. Same dog name, same college major, same favorite artist, same double-jointed big toe. This is when you stop providing the information first and stop enabling Mr. Ripley.

2.) The name commenter. Your name’s Alice? My sister’s name is Alice, I love that name. Who doesn’t like their name to be complimented? It could go the other way when you introduce yourself and the belligerent dude behind you shrieks ALICE?! NOT ALICE. THAT’S A BAAAAAD NAME. Within seconds you are informed about some horrible Alice who tried to kill him, stole his projects in advertising school, was crazy, etc. As he’s grabbing your wrist and shaking you because of the PTSD that’s been triggered thanks to your name, you may want to tell him he hadn’t heard right. It’s Sally…yeah SALLY. And you can fake laugh until you track out an escape route.

3.) The drink buyer. Thanks, that’s so nice! A free drink! Especially with the economy, how great, generous, etc. Until he orders you another one and another one and another one. You’ve hardly taken a sip and you’re staring at a row of greyhounds. Maybe they’re for him (something in common?), but no, turns out he doesn’t drink. That’s right, he’s stone cold sober and you’re only a fifth as drunk as he likes ‘em. Declare you have to go to the bathroom as he pulls the five drinks in and “keeps them safe for you.’

4.) The fly. A guy pops up next to you. You smile, kind of blush and he smiles and kind of blushes. Cute. You make your way to the stage and you’re doing some kind of rabbit dance when you hit someone and….it’s him. What a coincidence. You move stage right and you’re pogoing and sway to your left and you say sorry! But it’s him and he just smiles. Soon you’re in the bathroom and he’s outside the door, you’re at the bar ordering RedBulls and he’s in the seat next to you. Smoking a cigarette, his hand juts out from no where, holding a steady flame. Yup, you got yourself a bar stalker, find fake mustache.

5.) The watcher. Dancing, you notice a guy across the audience watching you. You meet eyes, etc and it’s cute in a tragi-emo-hipster kind of way. But the next song, he’s still watching you and you shrug it off; you’re a pretty good dancer after all. But song after song, he keeps watching and you start to lose a bit of rythym. You keep looking over your shoulder paranoid that maybe this guy knows you from somewhere else. Maybe he’s the guy who prank called you a month ago and pretended to be a serial killer (that never really got resolved, afterall). What if he’s a narc and knows you’re holding? The music grows faint and your blood’s beating in your ears. Ditch the show before you panic-seizure the two grams out of your pocket and all over the dance floor.

6.) The drug guy. Sure why not? It’s been a while. You smoke a joint out back, do a line in the bathroom—whatever your forte. You thank him and part ways. How generous. But in fifteen minutes he’s back and wants another go around. You kindly turn down his offer but he won’t let up. He’s got you by the arm dragging you to the bathroom so he doesn’t feel pathetic doing it alone and he’s talking the whole time, going on and on, asking you questions, not caring if you answer. Soon you realize you’ve become the drug-guy’s babysitter and he’s quite an addict. P.S. There’s no such thing as free drugs.

7.) The DIY cell phone guy. He’s asking for your number and he’s, well, very attractive. You go to type it in. But he wants to see it, he’ll type it in. How nice. Until you notice him going through your text messages and taking a ridiculous amount of time to punch in ‘ROB.’ You ask for it back, but he’s not done yet. Finally, after a good five minutes of pestering, you get your phone back and immediately go to erase his name, but it seems as though he didn’t even get around to doing that. Five days later, you’ll be going through your contacts and find Mr. Big Cock. Erase.

And good God, this was only in twenty minutes of observation. Must. Rekindle. Faith. In. Mankind. Awk on.

Hipsters Welcome Ski Pants Into Wardrobe, No One Into Band

Last night I went to a show in glorious downtown Costa Mesa, California. The bar was kind of dungeon like (in a cool way) and the clientele was, to be expected, hipster-esque. I say hipster-eque because while Orange County hipsters are full in force, they are a slightly unique hybrid—varying form the L.A. hipster and certainly from the hipster of New York origin. Of course, they all have two things in common: beards and fedoras. And there were plenty of both. However, the Orange county hipsters opt for more beachy-geekdom. Board shorts with a white button down (I swear) and, for the girls, a low-cut one-piece bathing suit under high-waist jeans. Interesting. And then there was the girl wearing full-fledged ski pants and I just really don’t know what to say about that one. Because, one, it’s Southern California and two, they were the bulky mom-ski pants. I mean they were actually legit for taking on Stowe or Okemo back east. Bizarre. But quirky. What I also found interesting was that there had been three different bands listed, yet the same members seemed to compose all three of the bands. There was one folky-twang girl who remained exclusively in the first, but the rest of the members just rotated instruments like those weird gym classes you used to have when the gym teacher was too hung-over to organize a softball game and would instead opt for ‘stations,’ while he did nothing and you jumped rope for three minutes before moving on to buddy-crunches. Is this the new hipster phase; pretend you’re in three bands when it’s really just one with a different name and some guy playing the fiddle instead of the bass? How confusing. It was good despite the videotaping that seems to be taking over hipster shows. Is it some kind of indie-folk-stage porn? It isn’t uncommon to see people videotaping live shows, but it is strange to see an old school video-camera (a la vintage typewriter) held by some little guy without shoes on. Also there was shushing. People actually sushed during the show. Wouldn’t it seem that a shush could be louder than hipster-mumble-judging? Wouldn’t it maybe irritate the band to perform to an audience that is relentlessly shushing? Let’s not do that, concert-shushing. Perhaps the ski-pants should be reconsidered as well.