Herman Melville was such an overlooked nobody when he was alive that when he died, his obituary reported his name as Henry Melville

"I'm a rock critic. I also write and record music. I write poetry, fiction, straight journalism, unstraight journalism, beatnik drivel, mortifying love letters, death threats to white jazz critics signed "The Mau Maus of East Harlem," and once a year my own obituary (latest entry: "He was promising...")." - Lester Bangs.

While I am not a rock critic nor musician, I do consider myself a writer. I write fiction, scripts, straight journalism, blog posts, television recaps about truly awful shows, poetry so bad it would impress the Vogons, frothing, foaming emails about how I would like advocates of creationism to be consumed by a hoard of rabid, starving raptors and notes inside greeting cards which fall just short of being clever.

As Mr. Bangs' work is inclined to do, it got me thinking.

I've read entirely too many of my high school classmates' obituaries and I'm struck by two things.

One -- I'm way too young to be reading an obit for someone who sat behind me in biology class.
Two -- Obits are, as a general rule, total bullshit.

They're soft-focus memories of a person coupled with generic writing that could be about anyone. I'm sure they're done with the best intentions and can be comforting in times of grief, but I'd much rather memorialize someone for a unique attribute (like wearing plaid golf pants every day in eighth grade) than the fact that he was an accountant.

So, I'm taking a page out of Bangs' book and writing my own.

Am I tempting fate by doing this? I hope not. I want to live to be an old woman with skin like paper with a penchant for wearing Pucci caftans and making great cookies (I'm still working on the cookie thing and you know I've realized? The doughboy is my homeboy).

Is it morbid to write your own obit? Sure, but I think I know myself better than anyone else does and I'd much rather go out in my own words than anyone else's.

Eulogy For A Desktop....or, Dude, You're Getting (Rid Of) A Dell!

My desktop is dying a most undignified death.

It takes twenty minutes, no exaggeration, to boot up and load one Firefox window. Opening iTunes takes another five minutes and if I open up more than three tabs? The entire system schitzes out and needs to be reset.

Ol' Desky is finally heading to the glue factory (or Staples for their computer recycling program).

I've had some great memories with the lumbering beast, though.

It was the first computer I owned. Not a family machine or something I had to share, but solely mine. That ownership meant I could download Paul Frank icons, emblazon the screen with wallpaper that showed off Ron Livingston's exposed rear (Body Shots -- awful movie, awesome scene) and set up my email so that every time I got a new message, a gruff voice would shout out, "Mail, Motherfucker!"

I remember meeting Dan for the first time and spending the night watching Before Sunrise and True Romance. Movies to fall in love to...and we did.

I also watched One Night In Paris on that computer -- approximately eight of us, smooshed together in my room critiquing Ms. Hilton's technique and deciding that she was a lousy lay.

I discovered and downloaded amazing music -- everything from Stevie Ray's ode to Oreo cookies to Rage Against The Machine's condemnation of corrupt political systems.

I uploaded over a thousand pictures -- artsy shots like the one of buddy Paul dressed in his martial arts gear slicing a blue sky with his sword and drunken snapshots of the night we decided to slide down the hallway on beanbags.

I played lots of free Tetris and spent even more time talking to tech support after Pepe's extensive porn viewing crashed my system (thanks, dude).

And I wrote. I wrote. I wrote.

Articles, emails, blog entries, Livejournal entries, papers about the Geto Boys contribution to hip-hop and about the philosophical definition of art, screenplays, unrequited love letters, requited love letters, rants and bits and pieces that have never seen the light of day since.

I brought the desktop with me when I moved to Pennsylvania and it helped serve as a lifeline to my former life. We've had some good times together but now, it's time to move on.

Vaya con Dios, Ol' Desky. Hopefully you'll be recycled into something that gives someone else as much happiness as you gave me.

On Writing

Most writers can be distinguished by four inalienable traits:

1) Their egos. As massive and fragile as Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade balloons.

2) Their ability to be unashamedly self-congratulatory. In high school, I had this amazing English teacher named Terence Oliga who also happened to be a writer. After writing a particularly pleasing piece, he would lean back and pronounce, "Damn it, Oliga! You've done it again!" I blatantly stole this quirk from him and every time I write something that moves me, I lean back, smug and self-satisfied, and proclaim, "Damn it, Oliga! You've done it again!"

3) Their desperate insecurity. It's like erectile dysfunction. They glare at the blank page, seething with an increasingly visceral anger. They stalk the room, clutching fistfuls of hair, wild-eyed and wondering why the words won't come. They lament the death of their gift by drinking until they're either as jittery as hyperactive children on sugar benders or until they slur their words and collapse in a heap - cheap whiskey lingering in the air like rancid perfume.

4) The fact that when it comes down to it, writers are essentially assholes. The worst being the Public Writer. Real writers hate this guy. You know the type -- he sets himself up at Starbucks, laptop and iPod in tow, pretending to be an artsy type when in actuality, he's just a hapless prick who spends more time leering at the cute barista than he does actually writing.

These traits aside, I started thinking about what it means to be a writer. Anyone could be an insecure asshole. Anyone would be egomaniacal and self-serving. But, what defines a writer?Publication? The constant fluttering of fingers over keys? The ability to craft a thicker, juicier sentence than one's peer? The almost orgasmic glee that comes with the organic usage of polysyllabic words?

It's been two years since I had anything published and these days, my fluttering fingers craft more emails than anything else.

This drought lead to a bit of a personal crisis for me. Could I really even consider myself a writer anymore? Am I a neverwas hasbeen? Is this the bit where I start drinking?

I've never written for glory (because let's face it, it's not like I was writing for Rolling Stone, The Guardian or The Times) and neither did I write for money. I wrote for myself. Because I could. Because I was good at it. Because it was the one thing that made sense in a world filled with uncertainty.

For a while, everything I scribbled seemed like effete rubbish. It was soulless and devoid of intellect.....like a Fox News anchor minus that creepy plastic sheen they all seem to have. Lethargy and the daily grind won out over inspiration and I just stopped.

And I hated that. For me, not writing is arrhythmic -- not life-threatening, not devastating, but annoying. I feel uncomfortable in my own skin and impatiently huff until it passes and I can be me again.

My heartbeat regulated itself and I've started writing again. Nothing epic, but I have a good feeling about this. I hope it lasts.

And on that note -- what makes you feel like you? Your ability to talk politics/religion/money without inciting a riot? Your ability to make anyone laugh? Your athletic skills? Have you ever had this ability wane? What happened when it did?

Something to think about...

No jobs! Freelance! Best thing in the world for a kid your age.

Slingin' Ink.
Slingin' Ink.
Slingin' Ink.
Slingin' Ink.
Slingin' Ink.
Slingin' Ink.
Slingin' Ink.
Slingin' Ink.
Slingin' Ink.
Slingin' Ink.
Slingin' Ink.
Slingin' Ink.
Slingin' Ink.
Slingin' Ink.
Slingin' Ink.
Slingin' Ink.
Slingin' Ink.

Yes, it's obnoxious, but what do you want? I majored in journalism, not advertising.

Dear Me at Seventeen:

Hi. This is your older and wiser self at 24.

The next seven years of your life will be interesting to say the least. You'll lose people, you'll meet new ones, you'll move, you'll change but most of all -- you'll get a much better idea of who you are and trust me -- you'll really like her.

Firstly -- high school doesn't matter. Wait. Let me amend that. The academics matter somewhat, but all the rest of the stuff that's causing you to stress out? Don't even bother.

The yearbook turns out great, you pass your AP exams and prom is such a non-issue and as soon as it's over, you'll wonder:

A) why you fretted so much about it in the first place.
B) why you spent so much damn money.

Buy a cheap and cheerful dress and put the rest of that cash in your Kate Spade bag account (your 24-year-old self really wants one -- preferably from the London line).

The guy you end up going with? Good guy but not the guy for you. Try to remember the lyrics to As Time Goes By when you kiss him (which you will invariably do because he's cute and plays guitar). A kiss is just a kiss. Nothing more.

Speaking of people -- they change. They'll grow and move on and lose touch. It's bound to happen and it's all right. Very few people actually keep the promises they hastily scribble in yearbooks (by the way, an inordinate amount of people make reference to your virginity in your yearbook. Feel free to tell them to fuck off).

There's a tall white kid named Jerry at your school. You kinda know him, but not really. This guy will be the best friend you ever had. You'll end up rooming with him and Paul in college and it will be the best time of your life. Remember Paul's friends, Dana and Jake? They'll become family, just like Jerry and Paul. Think of this as a fabulous reward for all the crap you'll go through in that department in the next couple of years.

Yeah. About that? You're gonna go through a bit of a trial by fire. It all works out in the end, but for a while there -- it's gonna suck. My advice? Call bullshit when you see it and remember that the words 'Welcome' aren't tattooed on your back. You're going to meet someone who basically embodies everything that is wrong and rotten about humanity. Remember that her opinion means nothing and don't let her get to you. Like I said, call bullshit when you see it and you'll be calling it a lot in her case.

As for your love life, I know it's complicated now, but it doesn't have to be. The on-again-off-again drama you've been embroiled in since last year? Let it go. He's a tool and you deserve better. Seriously. Don't answer his calls, stop penning emo bullshit in your journals, turn off the sad bastard music and blast some AC/DC, alright?

Tough love? He doesn't love you and you don't love him. The sooner you accept that, the happier you'll be. Trust me.

All those people who deride your belief in a movie kind of love? They're idiots because it happens and it happens in a big way. You know Dan? The Internet Boy? Rainmann Dan? Yeah -- totally the love of your life. So much so that you move to Pennsylvania to be with him. I know, it sounds insane, but I swear it's true. Oh and in case you're wondering, he's just as cute now as he was in high school. (Proof of how amazing the Internet Boy is? You're gonna win an essay contest. Assbag McGee won't even call to congratulate you. Internet Boy, though? Will offer his genuine praise and congratulations and years later, you'll find a folder of your writing on his computer. Saved files because he thinks so much of your talent. See now why he's the love of your life? Yeah).

What else? Oh -- you find out that you have a bit of a quirky thyroid. Calm down. It's not a big deal -- just switch to decaf and your heart will stop doing that thing where it's trying to stampede out of your chest. You also discover that you're allergic to orange juice. Remember that on your 21st birthday when that last Screwdriver sends you over the edge.

The best advice I can give you is the best advice Kay gave me -- "Just keep writing and you'll be OK." Make sure you keep in touch with him. He's one of the better people in your life.

Oh yeah and one crucially important thing -- dear God, run out right now and buy a flat-iron. Seriously. Stop reading and do it. It'll be the best purchase you ever made and after one use, you'll become emotionally involved and I think your psychological well-being may even end up being connected to the straightness of your hair.

Have fun and when you're at your first Bakesale, keep an eagle-eye on the movements of the fat girl. Your/My ankle will thank you.

Lots of love:

Jaime xx

One of these things is not like the other

I read this article recently about Rashida and Kidada Jones (daughters of music producer Quincy Jones and actress Peggy Lipton) and their struggle with growing up biracial.

Although I'm not biracial (my parents are both of Indian origin), I found myself relating to the Jones' story.

My mom is fair-skinned with green eyes and often mistaken for Caucasian. On more than one occasion, Indian women have come up to me and commented on "how well my mom speaks for a white woman." Paps, on the other hand, has skin the color of burnt toffee and (much to our amusement and his chagrin), looks an awful lot like Erik Estrada from CHiPS (Call him 'Ponch' and watch his face suffuse with rage -- good times).

Genetics being what they are, my sister and I inherited a combination of our parents' features. I'm tan...but not really dark. My hair is naturally dark, but it's not really that river of black ink associated with most Indians.

Not only do we not 'look Indian', apparently -- we don't 'act Indian.'

It's been this way since we were kids. Growing up in Southall (a predominantly South Asian neighborhood on the outskirts of London known for its role in Bend It Like Beckham), most of our friends wore a school uniform during the week and slipped into salwar kameezes and lehengas during the weekends. Sparky and I, on the other hand, were more comfortable in jeans with Ninja Turtle patches on the knees. Our cousins went to Saturday school at local temples. Sparky and I ate Coco Pops and watched cartoons.

As children, we weren't particularly 'Indian' and as adults, little has changed. The tea I drink isn't hot and spiced with cardamom, but rather cold, diet and bottled by Arizona. When it comes to movies, I can rattle off the most obscure Hollywood trivia, but can't name one Bollywood feature released in the past five years. and unlike most model minority Indians who study medicine or business, I went in a completely different direction and majored in journalism.

I've never really understood how to integrate into the Indian crowd. I gave it a try, but was rebuffed because despite not having an ounce of Caucasian blood, I'm "too white." A coconut, if you will -- brown on the outside, white on the inside.

How does one 'act' Indian, anyway? Watch insufferable plagiarized tripe churned out by Bollywood? Spend hours meditating underneath the statue of some poly-limbed, blue skinned deity? How does one 'act' anything -- white, black, Japanese, Cuban, Greek, Polynesian?

I don't understand why it makes sense to perpetuate the stereotypes of your culture in order to fit in with your culture? Especially when people have worked so tirelessly to abolish aforementioned stereotypes. I mean, there's much more to African-Americans than hip hop and slang. There's much more to the Japanese than video games and anime. There's much more to Cubans than booming sound systems and gold jewelry.

If I bought into these stereotypes, I'd be selling out who I really was.

So -- I'm 'too white' for the Indians (despite not being Caucasian) and I was once called a 'goddamn cockroach' by an insufferable fifteen-year-old with less brain cells than teeth (and that's saying something).

I don't have kids yet, but I will one day and but I worry about how they will be treated. I want to believe that the world will be a much more tolerant place, but know this is naive. While there are substantially more biracial people in the world now than there were ten years ago, there's still lunatics out there who believe that miscegenation is immoral and depraved. Hell, I'm sure I personally know some.

I've been lucky in life and found amazing people who are completely colorblind and would rather judge me for belting out the worst songs possible at the top of my lungs rather than judging me for the color of my skin or my heritage. Hopefully, my kids will find people like this too. Hopefully, everyone will.

The Dating Pool Needs a Little Chlorine

I've seen this posted all over the internet -- the infamous list of "50 Things Girls Wish Guys Knew."

It makes me want to punch people. In the larynx.

Some of the things I agree with (17. Three words -- honesty. Honesty. Honesty.) but they're pretty obvious and I very much doubt that any man's in the dark about them.

Dating is one of those things that's supposed to be relatively easy but we tend to overcomplicate. You meet someone, you get to know each other and you click or you don't. Don't square-peg-round-hole it. If it works, it works. If not, better luck in the next round.

The "Game" has always annoyed me. In addition to the rules (the wait-two-days before calling rule, for example. It's so stupid! It's not like eating and swimming. You dig someone? Give 'em a call!), there's a litany of unspoken codes and edicts and maxims and guidelines and secret handshakes which all invariably lead to dating becoming a completely unnecessary and torturous social obstacle course.

But what I hate even more is nonsense like this list which perpetuate this crap even further. There are 21 groups on Facebook dedicated to this meme which means that's there's probably a legion of women out there who read this and actually adhere to the idiotic principles therein.

Why? It makes no sense! Why acquiesce to all these arbitrations? Mikey didn't and he ended up being the big winner here tonight.

So, here's a much more realistic look (albeit abbreviated) look at the "50 Things Girls Wish Guys Knew."


1. Don't tell us when you think other girls are hot. I have no problem when my boyfriend proclaims his ardor for Evangeline Lily (which, by the way, I've heard ad nauseum since the last episode of Lost). She's hot. I know it. He knows it. Saying Evangelline Lily is hot is akin to saying fire is hot or water is wet. It's a simple fact and nothing more. I'm almost 99.98% certain that by merely stating a girl is hot, aforementioned girl will not magically show up and proceed to fellate the guy who made the statement. However, if by some twist of fate, Evangelline Lily showed up on Dan's doorstep? He gets a pass (because let's face it, that's pretty damn cool). As for Miss Lily? I'd make a necklace out of her teeth.

3. If you don't act like soap-opera guys, don't expect us to dress like Victoria's Secret models. If there's one thing I do not want in my life, it's for my boyfriend to act like a 'soap opera guy.' This would mean that he would cheat on me (quite possibly with a blood relative), impregnate said relative, develop amnesia and have soft-focus conjugal relations with me to the strains of cheesy jazz music. He'd also wear his hair in the douchebaggiest of all styles -- the blowout. As appealing as all of that sounds, I'm gonna pass. And as for the Victoria's Secret Model thing? My boyfriend doesn't expect me to dress like a VS model. He actually likes me in jeans and a tee. But, if I looked like her, I wouldn't wear clothes if my life depended on it.

6. We think about you all the time. I'll admit I think about Dan a lot, but I also think about the quickest way to procure pizza (girl's gotta eat), why Ann Coulter/Rush Limbaugh/Michael Savage aren't held to the same standards as Don Imus was, whether Axl Rose will ever regain his former glory, how the Dolphins will do next season, if that pink polka dot dress I liked is still on sale, how the Jim/Pam/Karen triangle will resolve itself on The Office and how I'm going to rig the cable at Mom's so I can get free HBO and Showtime this summer. This doesn't mean I love my boyfriend any less. It just means I'm a busy girl.

9. We like you to be a little jealous . . . but overly possessive is not necessary. No -- overly-possessive is a restraining order.

13. We're allowed to be late . . . you are not. If you're going to start up with completely mad double standards like this, it will come back and bite you in the ass. I.E. -- "I'm allowed full control of the remote control...you are not." "I'm allowed to forget my wallet every time we go out...you are not." "I'm allowed to sleep with whoever I please...you are not."

16. Laugh at our jokes. What the hell happened to honesty³? Sometimes, a joke will fall flat on its face. Accept that and move on.

19. We never have to wonder if your orgasm was real. I'm pretty sure guys already know this and those that don't? They need to pick up a copy of this now.

21. Would you like it if a guy treated your sister that way? We didn't think so. If you did the things you did with me to your sister -- we need to break up and y'all need to move to Alabama....quickly.

26. We love surprises! As in, "Surprise! The condom broke!"? I don't think so.

32. When we use our teeth it means that you suck at going down on us, so we are just returning the favor. Because attacking your boyfriend's penis with a pitbull-like ferocity is so much better than talking about things in a reasonable manner.

34. Hit it and quit it, because later I'll be with you're best friend and he lasts for hours. Firstly, it's your and secondly, any girl who'd sleep with your best friend and has precognitive knowledge about his stamina is probably a girl who shouldn't have slept with in the first place. Might wanna head to the free clinic and get that itch investigated.

36. Sometimes “NO!” really means “NO!” Actually, you passive-aggressive bint -- no always means no.

43. “Fat Chicks” have feelings too. Yeah...and they smother them with cheese and eat them. And if you thought I was being serious, you're a bigger moron than the putz who wrote the original list.

Your reason and your passion are your rudder and sails of your seafaring soul

What does your soul look like? Assuming it was a material, tangible quality. Something you could reach out and touch.

Mine would be bright and glossy. Like those metallic candy paint colors. Shiny like chrome. And sunny. Definitely sunsplashed. Lots and lots of colors – Superman blue, Bing cherry red, juicy tangerine, buzzing neon pink, sour lemon yellow, summer grass green – shimmery. It would be constantly percolating – drip-drip-dripping with ideas and thoughts and queries and philosophies and explanations and theories.

Noisy. Chattering away like a five-year-old. Flashed with fragments of songs, scenes from movies, TV and cartoons, classic quotes from books and memories and daydreams. Lots and lots of images, but lots of words too ‘cause I think in a mixture of both.

How would my soul feel?

Like squelching your toes in wet, brown-sugar sand. Like summer’s first really juicy, really sweet peach. Like those butterflies you get when you’re thisclose to kissing someone you love.

What would my soul taste like, smell like?

Easy. Well, not really, but I think it would smell like a starkissed suburban night – like gardenia and laundry and barbecue. Comforting – like you know you’re home and everything’s going to be alright. As for the taste? Probably picture show popcorn – hot, fresh and buttery. Yeah. Moviehouse popcorn and an ice-cold Coke clinking with lots of chipped ice.

However, to all this, there is a flip side because every action has an equal and opposite reaction.

So, as well as the kaleidoscopic glimmer, I’d have a darker side. Not quite Jackson Pollock, but something more black-and-white film noir…with a faulty projector which keeps snapping and slipping. It would feel cold. Like hands that just won’t warm up. Frost-bitten. It would be snarled and knotted, like tangled bedhead. It would taste like bitter espresso, making you grimace and cast it aside. It would smell like after 4th of July when the last firecracker has popped and all have deserted the streets except hazy dragons of smoke.

Front page!

My article about the closing of the Back To The Future ride made the front page of The Future!

If you're in the UCF area -- pick up a copy. If you're not, check it out online here.

I'm really proud of this piece. Anyone that knows me knows what a huge fan of the the trilogy I am, so to be involved with it on this level? It's pretty amazing.

I'm also shocked by the front page. I thought it was going to be a little blip buried on page A5. The graphics department did a stellar job. It looks fantastic.

Front page article. Lunch with Dana, Steve and The Best Friend. Universal Knights tonight, Greek birthday dinner tomorrow evening -- yep. It looks like it's going to be a great weekend :)