A peep hole

So I have been writing on the trip– a lot.

I don’t know if anything will come of it.  But I thought I would put out a blurb.

I think I am hanging out with teens too much.  Cause I king of want to make a game of this.  It will be like writing your own ending.  I will put out the teaser and you tell me what happens next.

…

“I yelled at Eric as we walked home from a friend’s house.  I rarely ever yell but on this night I couldn’t stop blistering discontent.  My words raged.

I didn’t know what else to do.  I was desperate.  With each step my fingers gripped tighter, my hands shook faster.   My head ached with frustration and I wanted to hit something, anything–if given the opportunity I would have kicked a pigeon–possibly even a duck.

I screamed everything I could think.  Stupid stuff.  Random stuff.  I told him he was a horrible driver, he took too long eating breakfast and I hated when he talked about himself. I was a third grader calling Eric the fat, smelly kid. My words were spiteful as I picked apart his deep, natural tendencies and called them growing edges.

Eric and I had been squatting in Washington DC for two weeks and we were no longer connecting.

For over a year we had been fantasizing about this trip.  It was our American Adventure–two bro’s packing their lives up, taking only what is required, driving the countryside and helping strangers along the way. It was a beautiful, wonderful fantasy.  But after less than a month, it already felt dreadfully wrong.

Eric and I have been best friends since high school.  We spent holidays backpacking Europe, New Zealand and Australia. But at this moment, as we are working, sleeping, eating, drinking, walking, driving, packing lunches, watching reruns, play gin rummy…being together–it didn’t feel right.  We were no longer working. I felt alone and Eric was always at my side.  “

So there you go.  Tell me what think should happen next.  Maybe your ideas will be better than our life.

Rocketown=work: two thoughts

People often ask me what I do for a living.

Sometimes I tell them I work at a youth center. Other times I say I run an after-school program. But lately I have been thinking my job is to make people believe in themselves.

As surprising as it sounds, I do not actually teach breakdancing, urban rhyme, espresso, art, guitar, film editing, drums, photography or song writing.

No.

I wish I did. I really, really wish I did. But I do not know how to do any of those things–or at least very well.

Instead, my job is to encourage quasi-young people who have these gifts and abilities to share them with even younger kids who would like to learn how.

And then once the younger kids, too, become more skilled than me, I tell them over and over again how beautifully talented they are.

At Rocketown I am a freak’n male cheerleader, pom poms and all, and I love my job.

…

My e-mail broke today.

All morning, my lungs felt empty. I was drowning, suffocating, freak’n living in 1992.

Everything I needed was on my e-mail account. Blast bloody technology.

So what did I do?

I played Ping Pong with Joey.

Then I hung out with Chris, Triple G and Chappy, spoke to a news reporter regarding our fall classes and interviewed two students who wanted to become Rocketown Reps.

Don’t worry—that wasn’t all. I did more important things. After all of that work, Chris and I watched Seinfeld, I sang happy birthday to Casey and Natalie and I chatted about dancing in church.

Oh, and to end the day, Joey and I played another three games of Ping Pong.

All in all it was a beautiful day. I guess e-mail isn’t so ”God” dang important.

Now, how do I post this online?