I've been neglecting you, haven't I?

Well I'm on the cusp of a story. More deets to follow.

College is fun. Life is fun.

I am a packrat.

My room is a cove of items from my childhood- toys still collect dust in boxes in the bottom shelf of my bookshelf, still home to many picture books that I enjoyed in my early years and pictures that have faded in color, next to certificates yellowing behind more recent accolades. My closet holds unfinished Lego projects, old Shonen Jump magazines from my 2 year subscription in middle school and both my Boy Scout and Cub Scout uniforms. My drawers are an archive of classtime doodles, binders will bursting with schoolwork from whatever grade they were used in and my forgotten Yu-Gi-Oh! cards and handheld gaming systems.

Items that should have been cast away as soon as I outgrew them instead got stashed in every available space. I hold a connection to each and every item I possessed. Rather, I forge some arbitrary attachment to every item that I own, regardless of their actual importance in my life.

All through my life, I have worn out shoes and backpacks and papers and when the time had finally come to throw them out, I would kick and scream and cry. I always felt so connected to the items, even though I had no significant memories with them. I still vividly remember being forced to throw away one of my backpacks, my eyes watering as I lifted the trashcan lid, holding my backpack in my other hand for as long as I could. I suddenly tossed it into the trashcan, letting the lid fall as I ran back into the house and cried, cried, cried.

So last week, I surprised myself when I told my little cousin he could take some of my toys home with him. The “yes” had come out with almost a tone of carelessness, and I quickly reevaluated what I had just said. These toys were different from anything I had been forced to part from before. They WERE my childhood, items that were prevalent in almost every childhood memory I had.

One of the toys he asked for I remember receiving. It was a Power Rangers Megazord, one of my favorites. I remembered the first day I received it, how my hands shook as I held the shiny new figure from the weight of the toy and my excitement. I remembered the afternoons I had spent in the backyard with it, battling invisible enemies and finding new configurations for it. So why would I be so willing to give something I was so attached to away?

Then I remembered my cousin’s face all the times he came over just to play with it. He battled with his own imaginary enemies, he fiddled with its “instructed” formation and created his own combinations, same as me. If I had any time to give it away, there would be no better time than now, when I would be going to college. If I had any person to hand it to, there would be no better child than he, the boy who would care for it as I did, as I have forgotten to. The first step to becoming an adult would start with throwing away the chains of my childish antics.

So I didn’t cry as I watched him walk out of my house with a box full of my old toys. I knew what he would do with those pieces from my childhood. I knew that I might never see them in the same condition I left them. But I was relieved because I knew that they would not be unused because I left. I knew I would not have to face another trash can.

My room is still filled with childhood pieces left to be taken away by more deserving children. But in the spaces left by the pieces I gave today, I can hoard pieces from the beginning of my adult life. I am still a packrat. But I am no longer attached.

Season 5 of Dexter

HOLYYYYYYYYYY SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT IT’S ABOUT TO GET REAL ASDKFLDSJFLDSKFJDLKSJFKLDJFLKDJFJK

I hope that clarifies how excited I am for this upcoming season of Dexter. I mean, last season blew my mind with the (trying to avoid a pun-type adjective so I’ll go with some buzz words) sharp writing and stellar performances all around. Everything seemed to have come to a head last season, but it all wrapped up quite nicely, as Dexter finally feels at home with himself, his family and his “dark passenger”; Rita got closure with her daddy issues, Quinn just blossomed so beautifully as a character and really melded into the ongoing storylines; Masuka was Masuka; Arthur Mitchell found his right path and all seemed well. I was happy and wondering what the writers could do to amp the show up more when Dexter went into the bathroom to find Rita dead in a tub and Harrison crying in a pool of blood.

This trailer shows me a couple of things I’m really ecstatic about:

* They’re continuing major water cooler story lines from season 4 (besides Rita’s murder), including the Kyle Butler one, the Rita-Elliot (God that guy is such as sleaze) affair and the growing tensions between Quinn and Dexter.
* The changing dynamics in Dexter’s life- he now has no one to depend on to take care of the kids when he’s out killing, but apparently he still can so I want to see how they explain that.
* QUINN+DEXTER. I know I already said it but GOD THESE TWO NEED MORE SCENES TOGETHER AND THIS SEASON WILL BE FULL OF THEM.
* MORE CHARACTER GROWTH FROM DEXTER OH GOD. I mean, I thought Dexter was DONE, a fully fleshed out character, but here it seems like they’re showing Dexter crack under all of the pressure he is now under.

Anyway, that was me fanboying all over your dash. But seriously, get caught up on Dexter now, because this season will be killer (sorry but I HAD to stick one in).

Paul Conrad, in memoriam

“The important thing is that we continue to fight for these things [freedom, democracy], so that we have a country that is enviable because we, as a democracy, are the makers of our own destiny, the destiny of our generation, and for many more generations to come.” - Paul Conrad, ‘I, Con’

“Paul Conrad died.”

My mom informed me (rather bluntly) of his death a few days ago. At the moment, I took it in slowly, mumbling, “Oh,” and proceeding to walk off without so much as a second thought.

Today, my dad was organizing and found a book, which he gave me. It was “I, Con,” Mr. Conrad’s autobiography and the book that had introduced me to him. And as I held the book in my hand, I remembered him. I opened the book and saw poignant and detailed political messages arranged with skill and precision; words and images juxtaposed to call politicians out on their blunders. I remembered receiving the book my sophomore year and reading in awe all the Presidential terms he lived through, the 21st century he saw and wanted to correct.

This, I now remember, was the man who inspired me, who I modeled my own cartooning style after. I credit this man to helping me win various cartooning awards at write-off competitions at the local, state and national level and for giving me the brief dream of becoming an editorial cartoonist. Without him, I probably would have struggled as an editorial cartoonist on the Spartan Scroll; I would have lacked not only the skill and the passion required for the job. He does for my cartoons what Geoff Boucher and Bill Plaschke did for my personality features, and I regret not being able to meet him while he was still with us to tell him this.

But thank you, Mr. Conrad, for your contribution to modern cartooning and for showing me that we can all have voices that resonate far and wide, we just need a pen and a good idea.

Day 6: Beauty

Every weekday, I step off the bus after work and find myself surrounded in the screeching tires, revving engines and steel-and concrete high rises. The air smells of smog and dirt and the sidewalk I stand on is hard and unforgiving. And all the while, people push by me, regarding nothing but their destination and their own well-being. It must be Los Angeles.

And I continue forward, up a set of cobbled steps into a beige marble-lined square. Suddenly, everything has changed- the high rises take no presence over my location, and the ground is suddenly smooth. I walk forward towards a large square of grass, where dogs romp and play with each other as their owners smile and chat, looking as if they had been there forever. And I tread over the soft, wet soil, past the giant purple tower rising to my right. People sit at tables underneath large green umbrellas, business suits and ragged jackets interacting without much regard to the appearance of the other. A tall wooden tower rises immediately in front of me, host to a shabby wooden birdhouse and a million colorful scribbles all over its unfurnished walls. And soon the square opens up again, falling into a circle of stones that cusp the end of a yellow waterfall off the end of a purple arch. The arch connects to a long wall adorned with giant soda can mosaics of the King of Pop and a colossal painting of Salma Hayek. People skirt the edges underneath the shade, coming in on 6-foot tall bicycles for a weekly gathering. I pass a group of students admiring the City of Angels visible from the square, chattering loudly and snapping shots of the brick high rises.

But I cannot stop but notice the activity around me still, the rhythm of the heart of Los Angeles pulsating in vibrant color and remarkable harmony. Here, in Pershing Square, L.A. is at its essence and people from all parts gather to contribute to the vibe.

And as I step out along the large inset crack and back into the busier part of LA, I always find myself smiling, still giddy from seeing this side of LA. It truly is a thing of beauty.

I strode onto the bus, Keane drifting from my earbuds and a peculiar scene caught my eye. As I strode to the back of the bus, I couldn’t help but continue to turn around to glance at a man that was sitting in the front of the bus. He was tall and lanky, a beige fedora hiding the top of his jet black hair and a pair of aviators hiding his eyes, and around his neck he had a pair of arms from the little boy sitting in his lap. And as I stood towards the back of the bus, I couldn’t help but look at the man interact with the child. Every movement the child made, every string of babbled words that came out of the child’s mouth, every shift in position the child made- the man sat captivated, listening, interacting, adapting.

Maybe it was the difference in hair color, but for some reason I could not relate the two people. To me, they were a random pairing of child and adult- a pair that was brought together to ride the bus together, hand in hand. This was part of their mystique- I wanted so badly to be the man, to be able to love a child, to be able to engage with him, to be able to love the child even though it might not be his own. I was compelled sit across from the man and introduce myself- maybe start a conversation, just to ask him how he did what he was doing.

And as the bus rolled to another one of many stops, the man and the child got up, and I suddenly hoped to see the man get off the bus and let the child go, that as soon as the child was off his lap, he would stop caring because he wasn’t weighed down. But then I saw the man walk onto the sidewalk, child dangling from his arm and I immediately regretted my hope. The bus drove away and I watched the father and his child romp playfully on the sidewalk.

I hope to be able to love like that someday. Even if the child I get in the family I start isn’t mine by blood, I want to love him or her like the man loved his child.

Today, I felt a twinge of paternity.

Untitled (wanted it to be Day6, but it sounds terrible.)

Tom waited underneath the stone arch, glancing back occasionally to check the time on the copper clock tower behind him. He clutched the purple orchids he had wrapped clumsily in magenta tissue paper. He exhaled mist and shifted side to side, waiting anxiously for the bell to chime 8 times and for Line 14 to pull up and open its doors.
The steam collected in heavy, thick masses around him, obscuring the tracks and the platform across the way. The hills, tinted with purple, rose to cover the orange-yellow sun that was settling behind them for its daily slumber.
And soon the 14 rolled around the bend as the sun threw its last golden rays into Tom's eyes, blinding him momentarily. When he opened his eyes again, the train was pulling into the station, the front car and many others sliding past him in stripes of blue and silver.
And the engine quieted and the wheels skid to a stop as the blurs cleared into a single set of double doors. The tall glass hinges folded in two and Ann stepped out of the shadows behind the doors.
Her eyes met Tom's, and for a minute they stood still, staring at each other as people blurred past them, hurrying to get on and off the train. And then Ann ran to Tom, prompting him to drop the orchids so he could cup his hands around her face and stroke her sunken cheeks, kiss her slightly crooked nose, wipe the grime from her forehead and brush her frizzy hair away from her muddy eyes.
And after four years she was still the divine creature he had fallen in love with.