A look at culture and society through the lens of a starving author from Philadelphia. Follow @MTumbleweed
April 3, 2012
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Going Pro
In case anyone actually reads this blog, I thought it appropriate to explain the number of changes that I will be making in the immediate future. It seems that my blog (to me) is ready to leave it’s infancy and spring into the awkward period of adolescence. Therefore, instead of posting whatever random material I find to be intellectually or physically stimulating, this blog will focus more on one particular topic. That topic being: Culture and society (with an emphasis on modern day trends).
So, in accordance with this new focus, I will be systematically removing old posts (probably all of them) that do not fit into this category. I’m also experimenting with a few different layouts. The blog title however (Mr. Tumbleweed Proudly Presents) will stay the same. Partly because I like it, but mostly because I don’t think Tumblr will let me change it - and even if it will, then my URL which I know for a fact cannot be changed will make absolutely no sense.
What to look forward to?
So, before you unsubscribe with fears that this blog will turn into some incoherent ramblings or a place of obnoxious “reblogs” every 6.7 seconds, here’s what you’re in for:
I’m going to explore our culture and society (as the description implies) as it changes in society. For anyone who has wondered what in the heck Dubstep or YOLO is or why people went from wearing band-tees and skinny jeans to sweat pants and hoodies to vintage cardigans and thick-framed glasses - I plan to explore and shed light on all of it. But I want to also say, that this blog will not be solely about what’s trendy or what’s trending on Twitter, but more so about the changes and fluctuations in our society. So while I might talk about the reemergence of fanny packs one day, I might also post a blog about the fracturing education system in the U.S. and how it affects teen pregnancy and unemployment.
Now, although my blog has transcended from infancy to adolescence, I ask for your patience and understanding. As anyone can remember, the teen years are the most awkward and painful of your life. It’s going to be only through positive feedback and constructive criticism that Mr. Tumbleweed can flower into a fully-functioning, mature adult. So with that all blurted out:
Here’s to the future!
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Why You Should Date an Illiterate Girl by Charles Warnke
Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.
Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.
Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.
Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.
Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.
Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.
Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.
Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.
March 27, 2012
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A man named Tony Shin sent this infographic to me after stumbling onto The Centurion’s website. Our paper wasn’t able to use it, but I thought it needed sharing - especially since I received and answered his emails via my smartphone and then looked him up on Facebook through my phone to figure out if he was a reputable source or just some random guy making up facts. Turns out, he’s pretty good. Check out his other infographics on his blog.
Sorry the image is so small. Tumblr won’t let me use the original size.
March 23, 2012
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This is my life;
I broke down today and bought a pack of smokes. I tried to explain (for some reason) to the woman at the gas station (and perhaps more to myself) that I was on the slow road to quitting. She told me that there was no slow road; that you just have to stop. Admirable words, I thought. She then followed it by “Live fast; die young” and some whimsical words that her late mother had told her:
“No matter what choices a person makes in life, everyone has a number on their ass.”
Truly inspirational.
March 22, 2012
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Even Women Are Confused… Go Figure.
It’s been a cliche since the beginning of time, even holding roots in biblical stories when Eve went rogue and started sampling and recommending forbidden fruit; MEN DO NOT UNDERSTAND WOMEN. As a man, I’ve slowly (and grudgingly) come to terms with this notion dispute my many futile attempts to discover and articulate what is known as the female being. But eventually, it became normal and acceptable to hear “you wouldn’t understand, it’s a girl thing” and “men are so simple.” (Which the latter, by the way, I have no idea how it came in to being. The only thing I can figure is that since women are thought to be so complicated and unreadable by men, then man MUST be simple minded. Oh well.)
So, I’ve come to terms with it: Women are complicated. But surprisingly enough, I’m not the only one having trouble deciphering the inner workings of the ladies.
At work yesterday, I found myself staring at the headless, off-white mannequins sporting this season’s “hot, must-haves.” I could never make outfits like that; could never put together an appropriate or fashionable outfit for a female customer.
BUT I WANTED TO LEARN.
I turned to my manager - a hip, young, twenty-something girl who always seemed to be able to put an outfit together - and asked her, “Teach me how to outfit a women.”
I stood there waiting to have the golden doors opened before me; for her to pull out some ancient book of do’s and don’ts and spell it out for me once and for all.
But she didn’t and she couldn’t. “There’s too much to teach” she said. She scurried into the back room and brought out a picture of body shapes with a description of what style of jeans they should wear.
- The Ruler
- The Hourglass (the only one I knew of previously)
- The Pear
- Curvy
- The Apple (which looks just like the pear, but reversed)
And that’s the best she could do. Apparently there was just “too much to teach.” It was just too complicated to explain simply. In contrast, I inherently have the ability to put together a guys outfit for any occasion (and explain it to you) with quickness, ease, and alternatives.
Is the event formal? Wear a long sleeved button-down shirt. Is it casual? wear shorts. Layers are good. Combining patterns is acceptable but be responsible. Blue jeans should be fitted to the point where we can see your wallet but not your penis. There is an acceptable length for dress shirts. Hats can be good - well groomed hair is better.
And there it is. Done. There’s more of course, but I’m trying to make a point here.
And women’s confusion with other women doesn’t stop with fashion. Even their relationships seem to be cloudy with mystery and suspicion.
I can’t count the number of times that I’ve heard a woman say one of these following phrases, if not all of them:
- I don’t know why she’s acting like that
- I don’t know why she said that
- Do you think she’s mad at me
- I don’t know what I did to her to make her act this way to me
So, I’ve come to this conclusion: Yes, women are complicated, but they don’t have some higher understanding of each other. They can relate to each other in certain circumstances, but they are just as confused and bewildered as Adam was.
February 28, 2012
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10 Reasons Why I Never Change My Facebook Profile Picture
- I still look the same as the one that I have up now.
- I rarely have interesting moments in my life that deserve a picture.
- When something interesting does happen, no one thinks to snap a photo.
- My cat will not sit still long enough to take a portrait with me.
- Facebook has banned offensive content.
- When I do finally change it, people are so use to the old picture that they have no clue who I am at first (which is sometimes a good thing).
- Candid shots of me usually involve one eye closed, an elongated neck, and an oral posture that seems either defective or unnatural.
- When I do happen to get a good picture, I figure it best to try and make it last as long as possible.
- I want people from high school to be able to recognize me so I can deny their friend request.
- I have better things to do than be on Facebook and worry about profile pictures.
February 22, 2012
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“This I Believe”
I believe that time is inaccurate. That it is not a valid measurement of significance or priority. I believe that the lovely woman in the blue sequin dress, who has not found a person to kiss by midnight on January 1, is no more lonesome or pathetic than the couple embraced beneath the mistletoe on Christmas. I believe that we should not serve as indentured servants to the hands of a clock, but that time should instead warp and bend it’s rigid requirements to our needs and desires.
One summer day, when I was a young boy, I was playing outside in front of my house while my grandfather pushed an old red lawnmower across the yard. I stood in the driveway, watching him pace back and forth with the buzzing machine leading the way. His white, thin hair was wet with perspiration from the Pennsylvanian summer sun. I too was warm. As he worked on the small patch of green grass that hugged the curb, he suddenly collapsed. The roar of the lawnmower’s engine slowly quieted to a hum and then, silence. My grandfather’s brown leather shoe had slipped off and now laid oddly beside him. There were no dogs barking, no children laughing, no birds singing. The air was still.
The moment in which my grandfather died, by the standard of fixed and structured time, only lasted about 10 minutes before the ambulance took him away. Subjectively however, it has lasted much, much longer. He has been dying for years in my mind. He is stuck next to the old red lawnmower, with his shoe by his side, and I am standing in the driveway waiting for him to stand back up.
And as short moments can last eternities, the opposite is also true in that long periods of time can pass in an instance.
When I was 15, I got my first real job working as a cashier at a fast food restaurant near my home in Warminster. Thankfully, my young metabolism let me eat enough of their cuisine to fill my appetite for burgers and fries for a lifetime – without being left with a significant weight problem. Frankly, I can’t stand the stuff now.
One of my coworkers at the restaurant was a girl named Lisa. She had dark dyed hair and thick framed glasses. Her house was a block away from mine so, on days that our shifts ended at the same time, we would walk home together.
On one such night, we had walked to our splitting point and stood out on the corner to finish our conversation. As we began our closing statements, I negotiated with my internal monologue to build up the courage to kiss her. Eventually, I did and then stumbled home as a young man drunk with love.
Sadly, five hours had passed during that conversation and goodnight kiss – my courage must have been procrastinating – and my parents were furious. I was grounded for two days.
It felt like forever.
(To see the NPR series that inspired this piece, visit their website.)
January 18, 2012
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The People I Go To College With
- Blonde Girl: (While chatting with another classmate, she is trying to log into a computer in our Creative Writing II class. She's having a rough time though. She turns to face me) Do you know your username?
- Me: Yeah. It's your last name and first initial.
- Blonde Girl: (Laughing nervously) I don't know my username. That's so sad, I know. I don't know mine. I hope we don't have to use the computers today.
- Me: (Immediately turns away and ignores her.)
January 13, 2012
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whether or not you want it to.
January 12, 2012
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My new motto.
(Source: to-young, via magiccarpetrider)
January 4, 2012
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Why I Hate My Hometown
- Me: (Minding my own business, walking the streets of my suburban hometown and taking pictures with my digital camera of the cold and calm day.)
- Random Punk 1: Hey! Hey you!
- Me: (Continues to mind my own business.)
- Random Punk 2: Hey lady!
- Random Punk 1: Yo nigga!
- Me: (Walks away without acknowledging the little bastards, because I only answer to my name and not that bullshit. Later on, realizes that although I am 23-years-old, I still get picked on by the neighborhood fifth-grade-bully. I wish I was a complete asshole or loved prison so I could have beat the shit out of those kids and taught them not to fuck with strangers. God, I hate this fucking town.)
August 24, 2011
- [Flash 10 is required to watch video]
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A tribute to those who were caught in the chaos of the 2011 VA earthquake.
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A tribute to those caught in the chaos of the 2011 Virginia Earthquake.
(Pictures credited to www.google.com)
April 7, 2011
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I Have way too much clutter in my life!
4 different email adresses
Facebook
Twitter
3 diff. blogs (4 if you count the one I abandonded)
Foursquare
Linkedin
…and that’s just on the web!
