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Schizophrenia

    It’s been quite a while since I’ve last written, and subsequently, several things have happened, the most noteworthy of which is that I’ve found met the woman who I have every intention of making the future Mrs. Nery.  Sadly, however, she is currently unaware of this development, so I’m forced to write about the second most noteworthy occurrence in my life – my discovery that I have Multiple Personality Disorder.  Well, I don’t actually have MPD, but I’ve discovered that more and more recently, I’ve been forced to wear different faces around different groups of people.  While this isn’t all that rare an occurrence, particularly here in D.C. where it seems to be a necessary survival skill, my various personas are becoming more clearly defined.  It has gotten to the point where my friends have even begun referring to me by various nicknames depending on the situation.  However, I realize that not everyone is familiar with all of my personalities, and indeed, many of you might not be familiar with more than one or two.  To this end, I present the reader’s guide to Tristan – a quick and dirty guide to my many faces. 

*authors note* This guide will be written in third person.  I realize that it’s quite pretentious to talk about yourself in the third person, but is it anymore pretentious than writing a public blog?  I mean really…

Tristan – This is easily the most commonly known of my personas.  The reason for this is simple.  Tristan is the person that most people meet.  He is the UPenn alum.  He is the IT guy at work.  He is the activist.  Tristan is easily the most even keeled of my personas.  He is polite and kind, but generally unassuming.  He is laid back and relaxed.  There is not a person who meets Tristan who does not like him.  Of all the personas with whom you could be acquainted, chances are it’s this one. 

DJ Nine Volt – Nine Volt is the party boy.  He’s the heavy drinker, the hard partier, and, of course, the DJ.  He’s the life of the party; loud and boisterous.  He is almost always the center of attention.  Nine Volt is the one who is on the floor dancing with everyone and by himself.  Nine Volt is also occasionally obnoxious and moderately surly.  He’s rude to strangers, but extremely friendly to those he knows.  He’s the one who will buy you a drink if you haven’t got one in your hand and will also call you out for nursing your drink using some variation of his classic “What’s your major?” line.  Sadly, Nine Volt only appears on special occasions, and only when he is surrounded at least 3 close friends.  His last documented appearance was August 6, 2005. 

Buttons – Buttons is so named because of his tendency to hog the dealer button during poker games.  While at first glance, it appears to be a nervous tell, Buttons is simply easily amused, particularly by round, colorful objects.  He was so named by Ms. DC 2004, Therese Lizardo.  Only a small group of individuals has seen buttons, but he appears regularly at the Parkway Poker tournaments held weekly in Northern Virginia.  Buttons is a very poor poker player, as his affinity for colors often causes him to play ridiculous hands like Q-3 unsuited and chase them all the way to the river.  While this occasionally results his winning a ridiculously large stack of chips, more often than not, Buttons is broken.  This is why most of the serious poker playing is left to the Abacus persona.

Tickles – Tickles is yet another persona that was developed while playing poker.  Being the youngest player at the Parkway Poker series, Tickles is often looked upon as the baby of the group.  He is the cuddly, lovable loser at the table.  However, while Tickles was so named by the other players at PP, the actual Tickles persona has been around for far longer than that and is known by a large number of people, most of whom are women.  Tickles is a perpetual resident of “the friend zone.”  He is the cute friend that every female loves like a big or little brother, largely because of his cuteness and hugability factor.  Every female who knows Tickles is fiercely protective of him when it comes to his dealings with other women.  They would beat the crap out of any girl who screwed him over.  They want to see him happy and in love, but not one of them can see themselves dating him.  Tickles is weak and emotional, and he his appearances are becoming more and more infrequent.  Now, only a handful of women ever see him.

Abacus – Abacus was also named during the PP series.  He was so named because of his ability to do quick math and his uncanny ability to quickly do chip counts at the poker table.  While on first glance, it appears that Abacus can provide chip counts based on the sound of the chips hitting the table, he actually has a near autistic knack for counting.  Inebriation only seems to increase Abacus’ mental abilities, and legend has it that Abacus once down two 40’s of Schlitz in a half hour and then proceeded to play a game of monopoly wherein he did all the math for everyone playing despite not being trusted to do the banking because of this intoxicated state.  During the course of the game, Abacus landed himself in jail 9 times in every way that it is possible to get sent to jail.  Ironically, he chose the car token, and his fellow players attribute his incarceration to drunk driving.  Much like an actual abacus, this persona usually stays in one place while all of the internal pieces move. It is unknown whether Abacus’ stationary nature is a function of intoxication or an unfortunate side effect of mental exertion.  Abacus is easily the oldest of all the personas aside from Tristan.  His achievements, while too numerous to mention, prove that Abacus is, without a doubt, a giant nerd.   Abacus is the second most commonly seen of all the personas, and chances are that if you know Tristan as more than a passing acquaintance, you know Abacus as well.

Styles – As his name suggests, Styles is the most fashionable persona of the bunch and is extremely concerned with his appearance and that of those around him.  He considers himself a bit of a fashionista and is metrosexual to the point where he is often mistaken for a gay man.  Styles first emerged in the late 1998 when Tristan/Abacus entered the University of Pennsylvania.  While Tristan had heretofore been concerned with his appearance (he had a vanity kit, mirror, and hair drier in his locker), Abacus and his nerdiness still held a great deal of influence, which resulted in an abhorrent lack of style.  This, coupled with the tickles persona created a need for a reinvention of sorts, and from this need, Styles was born.  Styles, while still unsuccessful with the ladies, at least looks good.  In recent months, Styles has taken to wearing a trademark “Biggie” cap.  It is because of this cap that Styles was so named.  While at a party in February 2006, a gay man approached Styles and introduced himself, using the line “I like your style.”  It was thanks to him that this persona received its moniker.  Styles loves to shop, and is every girl’s best friend.  He gives great advice on clothes and boys.  While still stuck in the friend zone, the difference between Styles and Tickles is that women want to introduce Styles to their friends (and sometimes they’re female).

Darth Abacus – Despite the similarity in name, Darth Abacus is nothing like the Abacus persona.  As his name suggests, Darth Abacus is a Sith Acolyte whose goal is personal gain.  He has collected all of the strengths of the aforementioned personas with none of their weaknesses.  He is a grifter and a charmer.  He is well dressed and articulate.  He is passionate and energetic. He is intelligent and manipulative.  Watching Darth Abacus work a room is truly an amazing site.  He is the epitome of a DC mover and shaker, and it is this persona that is rapidly making a name for himself within the DC power circles, and it is this persona that is developing a reputation with the women.  Many will take credit for his development, but the truth of the matter is that only two men truly deserve the credit.  Darth Abacus’ success with women may be attributed to his devil may care attitude which was developed under the watchful eye of Darth Saxy.  Credit for his success as a power player is owed to Darth Mikee.  Darth Mikee kindled Darth Abacus’ lust for money.  He has tutored him the arts of poker playing and sports betting.  Mikee has nurtured Darth Abacus’ desire succeed in the private sector and is responsible for introducing him to many of the power players.  It is because of these two individuals that Darth Abacus is as successful as he is.  Many have met Darth Abacus, but so powerful is his game that most do not realize that they are being manipulated until they have served their purpose.  Even then, most are powerless to stop him from using them again.  Recently, Darth Abacus has selected an apprentice.  Only time will tell whether or not Darth Philph will live up to the potential that Darth Saxy and Darth Abacus agree that he has. 

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    Having fielded a couple of private and not so private requests to continue my writing, I've decided to once again grace the internet community at large with my presence.  It's not that I haven't been writing.  I really do have several entries since the last one shown below.  However, those entries were more for the purposes of personal introspection rather than an expression of general discontent as had been the case with the entries you see below.  They are therefore invisible to everyone except me.  Those of you who have read this blog in the past have probably noticed that several of the entries have gone private - reason being is that there are aspects of my life that I choose to discuss with only a select few.  Those of you with whom I do not converse regularly who find yourselves among those privy to the private entries are so because you have interesting perspectives on things.  I enjoy reading your comments, and therefore, you get put on the list.  Besides, many of those entries contain disparaging remarks about people, and I'd rather they not see those remarks, lest I be forced to explain myself. 

    Don't get me wrong.  I stand by what I have written, but I find that most people do not have the same attitude that I do when it comes to verbal jabs.  Take all the shots you want at me; I don't really care, and if I'm in the right mood, I'll fire right back, but in the end, I don't care what is said, and I will still maintain an air of civility around you.  Mind you, I said I would act civilly around you.  I won't necessarily afford you any respect, because respect has to be earned, but that's another entry in and of itself.  I have decided that this entry will be about another subject matter entirely - one that is very near and dear to my heart.  Today, I will write about the ethnicity of the Filipino people.

    I was browsing through Myspace the other day (yes, I am an e-stalker; admit it, you do it, too) when I noticed that I was not finding as many Filipinos as I expected I would.  Those that I did find were in the Philippines proper or were quite obviously FOB's.  I must confess that I was browsing through people on Myspace because I enjoy starting conversations with random people that I find on Myspace.  Very few of them actually write me back, but that does not deter me from attempting conversation anyway.  In any case, I've come to notice that I have greater success with individuals with whom I have something in common, be it race, religion, or location, and so in attempting to find people with whom to have a conversation, I will usually narrow my search using one or more of the aforementioned criteria.

    There is something you must understand about the browsing criteria in Myspace.  You can limit your searches by general ethnic group (ie. Asian, Black, Latino, Caucasian, etc.), but not specific ethnic group (Filipino, Somalian, Peruvian, British, etc.).  In running my search, I had selected "Asian" for ethnicity and come up with barely a page of results.  Ok, I thought.  Perhaps there just aren't many Filipinos around my age who live in my area as I thought there would be.  So, I decided to adjust the criteria to reflect individuals who live near me and who are Catholic.  Low and behold, the field tripled in size.  This was unsurprising given the large Hispanic/Latino (I'm not really sure what the PC term is) population in my area.  Encouraged by the larger field, I began to peruse pictures and, subsequently, profiles. 

    The first profile I clicked on was for a cute 24 year old who we'll call Gina.  Now as I clicked on Gina's picture, I noticed that she looked Pinay, but since the Philippines was a Spanish colony for so long, as was most of Latin America, I wasn't getting my hopes up.  Imagine my surprise when I clicked on her page and up popped a Filipino flag.  What the hell?!  So I browsed through her page and noticed that she classified herself as a "Pacific Islander."  Curious, I returned to the search page and began to click on various other individuals only to find that most of them were, in fact, Pinay and that they all considered themselves Pacific Islanders.  This brings us to an interesting question.  Are Filipinos Asian or Pacific Islander?

    This is a funny question, because it only seems to be an issue with Filipino Americans.  Ask any FOB or person in the motherland, and they will almost invariably say that we are Asian.  I suppose it has something to do with the identity crisis that many Filipino Americans face.  I don't really care why it is that this question is being asked, I just want to weigh in with my opinion.  It's not like the opinion really matters, though. I won't be able to convince each and every Filipino American that I'm right, let alone every person who reads this, but I want to make my opinion known anyway. Said opinions are based on an admittedly incomplete knowledge of Philippine history, but they seem logical to me, and I'll keep believing that I'm right.  For the record, I believe that Filipinos are Asian.

    From what I've gathered from talking to different people who believe that Filipinos are Pacific Islanders, the crux of the argument stems from the fact that the Philippine Archipelago is, in fact, located in the Pacific Ocean.  That is an undeniable geographic fact. But if this is the only criteria by which we are to base the argument that Filipinos are Pacific Islanders, then there are several other things that must be taken into consideration.  The first is the fact that the country of Japan is also a group of islands located in the Pacific.  The same can be said for the island nation of Taiwan.  And don't forget about Singapore.  Yet I'll bet that if you were to ask almost anyone, they would consider the people who are from these countries Asian and not Pacific Islander.  Thus, if this is the only criteria by which we are to make this argument, we find ourselves on the proverbial slippery slope, having to consider individuals from these other countries Pacific Islanders as well, but we do not, and therefore it is incorrect to make the initial argument.

    There is a second level to this argument which points out that Filipinos, unlike the inhabitants of Japan, Taiwan, and Singapore are brown.  In fact, we more closely resemble the inhabitants of various Pacific Islands like Guam.  Additionally, our culture bears remarkable similarity to that of the Chamorros on Guam.  The truth of the matter is that these similarities are more likely the result of a shared history of Spanish colonization.  In fact, history tells us that the first Filipinos came from Africa, the next group who settled in the Philippines came from Indonesia, and the final group came from Malaysia.  The Filipino as we know him today is typically a derivative of all three groups, with some Spanish mixed in.  At no time in our history did any of the three major Pacific Islander groups (Micronesian, Melanesian, and Polynesian) settle in our country.  So what does that tell us?  Well, it tells me that we're Asian, not Pacific Islander.  It seems pretty clear to me, but feel free to interpret that as you wish.

    Finally, there is a school of thought that makes the argument that when America, and indeed the world at large, thinks about Asians, the three ethnicitiess that spring immediately to mind are the Chinese, Japanese, and Koreans. Filipinos are often overlooked, and it is therefore prudent for Filipinos to associate ourselves with a different ethnic group so that our issues are not lumped in with those of other APA groups and thereby overlooked. To these individuals, I ask why would you want to further marginalize your issues by associating yourselves with an even smaller ethnic group?  Besides, Filipinos represent the second largest APA group in terms of population in the United States.  The problem is not that we are overlooked but that we do not make enough of a fuss as a group.  If we would only organize and flex our considerable financial and political muscle our issues would be heard.  Sadly, though, we cannot speak with one voice, though that is an entirely separate matter.

    And all this leads me back to my original proposition.  Not only are Filipinos Asian, but we should recognize that we are Asian and be proud of that fact.  Let's start by changing all of our Myspace pages to reflect this fact.  A fortunate side effect would be that it would be easier for me to find Filipinos to e-mail, but hey, I never said I didn't harbor any alterior motives in making this argument. 

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You Cannot Escape Your Destiny

    Being that the Star Wars: Episode III is due out this month, I’ve been unable to escape the media blitz surrounding its release.  I’m not a huge fan, but I love the series and will undoubtedly see it on opening night.  I’m told that it is during this installment that Anakin finally makes the transition to Darth Vader, which would explain the film’s prevailing theme of “You cannot escape your destiny.”  That having been said, I’ve recently had the chance to peek into my own destiny, and it is an admittedly scary one.

    For the past week, I was in the Bay Area for my cousin’s wedding.  In truth, my cousin and his wife have been married for 5 years, and even have a four year old son.  However, Kat’s parents are incredibly devout Catholics, and they wanted their daughter’s union to be blessed by the Church.  The only way for this to happen would be for them to have a Catholic ceremony presided over by their parish priest, and so this past Saturday, I took part in my third wedding ever.  I was a ring bearer when I was a young child, but I hardly remember it, and I was an usher in my aunt’s wedding when I was in high school, but I was just an usher, so for all intents and purposes, this was my first time as an active participant in a wedding.

    Spending time with my family is always fun.  I could write several entries based on the events of this past week alone, and I probably will, but none of the stories are really germane to the subject of my destiny, so I’ll spare you those.  They do, however, go a long way to explaining a lot about my personality, and they are quite entertaining, so I will record them at some point for posterity’s sake. But anyway, the wedding…

    Weddings are always an interesting proposition.  You take two different people from two different backgrounds, often from two different cultures and try to conduct a single ceremony.  Let’s be honest, weddings are expensive and conducting two different ceremonies is not something most families can afford.  The funny thing is that I didn’t figure this would be the case with my cousin’s wedding.  After all, both my cousin and his wife are Filipino, and both are Catholic.  Boy, was I wrong.  What I failed to account for was the fact that my cousin, Bugoy, is Filipino, while Kat is Filipino-American, and while this may not seem like such a big deal, the difference is quite surprising. 

    Perhaps the most significant difference is who shoulders the burden of paying for the wedding.  In Philippine culture, it is the man’s responsibility to pay for the wedding.  In American culture, it is the woman’s.  The solution?  Split it down the middle, right?  Wrong.  It’s a little more complicated than that.  Apparently, women want all sorts of bells and whistles at their wedding.  I knew that women wanted their weddings to be perfect, but I had no idea just how obsessive some of them become.  They want control over everything – even down to every single song on the DJ’s playlist.  Men really couldn’t care less.  The cheaper the better, especially when we’re paying for it.  This being the case, there were some spectacular fights between my cousin and his wife and my aunt and uncle about the minutia of the wedding, particularly those portions of the wedding that had to be cut out because they cost too much, but which were an important part of American tradition.

    On that note, there were a lot of traditions that should have been a part of the wedding, because they would not have cost a significant amount, but were not.  I’m not sure who is to blame for this, but they were kind of a big deal.  The most obvious omission was the tossing of the bouquet and the garter belt, both of which Kat had.  I suppose that Kat’s incredible shyness is to blame for her refusal to let my cousin remove the garter and throw it out to the crowd, but why she chose not to throw the bouquet in the very least, I cannot explain.  As an aside, my cousin pulled it off her and tossed it to me later.  I know that doesn’t really count, but the meaning behind the gesture was fairly obvious.  Bugoy was simply reminding me that if we’re going by age, the next member of the family in line to get married is me.

    Yet another glaring omission was the bachelor party.  Granted, my cousin has actually been married for 5 years, but he never had a bachelor party the first time around, so it only seems fair to me that he be allowed to have one this time.  Kat, however, would hear none of it.  Fortunately for Bugoy, I am the smoothest talking member of the family, and I was hell-bent on giving him his bachelor party.  So, I approached Kat and promised that I would only take Bugoy to Dave and Buster’s and that I would have him home by midnight.  She took all of our cell phone numbers and threatened us all with dire consequences should Bugoy come home after midnight – not that any of us were worried. 

    In any case, I didn’t get the chance to plan this little escapade and left it up to the best man.  This turned out to be a not so good idea as we ended up at a strip club in the middle of Silicon Valley.  The strippers were hot, but there were tons of computer geeks in there.  I swear, it was like Harold and Kumar go to the Kit Kat Club, except that everyone not with us was either a Harold or a Kumar, and all of them had money to burn.  Therefore, the ladies ignored our little party, which was fine for a while, because that meant we got free shows, but when my cousin wanted a lap dance from a specific stripper, it took us damn near an hour to coral her, and when we finally did, her prices were outrageous.  Compounding this was the fact that the place did not sell alcohol, and since we were in California, I couldn’t smoke inside, either.  Now granted there was plenty in that room to keep me entertained, but I wouldn’t have minded a slight buzz.  In the end, though, everyone left with a smile on their face and a much lighter wallet.

    Returning to the topic of financing a wedding, my cousin is not a rich man.  As such, he could not afford to give his wife all of the things she wanted.  So, she asked her parents for money.  Here’s the problem with Kat’s parents.  Kat and her family have been in the United States longer than we have been.  The unfortunate fact of the matter is that because of this, they have developed a belief that their family is better than ours.  They believe that they are more sophisticated and intelligent.  For our part, we have done little to disprove this.  Sure every once in a while we pick up the tab for dinner, but on balance, we act like a family of savages, and I am no exception. Oh well, at least we have fun.

    Case in point:  my antics on the day of the wedding.  The wedding was scheduled for 2 p.m., but because of the number of people sharing a bathroom, I had to be ready by noon.  Having spent the previous night ignoring my cousin’s curfew at the Kit Kat Club, I was barely able to drag my lazy ass out of bed by 11:30, and by then there was no time to eat.  So what did we do? We stopped by Jack in the Box on the way to the Church, of course.

    As everyone who’s ever eaten and Jack in the Box knows, the restaurant is a model of inefficiency, owing to the fact that they prepare your food only after you order.  But you know what?  That’s what makes it so damn good.  Anyhow, by the time we got to the Church, it was 1:30, and they wedding party was already supposed to be lining up.  But we were starving.  So here we were, two members of the wedding party, hiding in the parking lot scarfing down Jumbo Jacks and fries.  Classy man, classy.

    During the wedding, my job was to tie the cord around the groom.  For those of you unfamiliar with Catholic weddings, traditionally, the bride and groom have a cord tied around their necks in a figure eight to represent their infinite love for one another and to symbolize their being bound to one another.  Well, as I went to tie the cord around my cousin, the priest whispered to me to make the rope tight, so I did.  I made it so tight, in fact, my cousin was choking.  So there he was turning all shades of purple, with half the wedding party and the priest laughing our asses off in the middle of the wedding.  How refined.

    Finally, there were my antics at the wedding reception, beginning with my wedding speech.  In my defense, I was asked to make the speech 1 hour before it had to be made because the best man couldn’t make the reception.  So there I was, trying to entertain my date and come up with a wedding toast.  Given adequate prep time, this toast might have been more profound, but given what I had to work with, I fell back on good, old fashioned crude humor.  The following is the speech as it was delivered:

    Good evening everyone.  My name is Tristan, and I have been asked, this evening, to deliver the wedding roast.  I mean toast.  Before I begin, I'd like you all to know that in the event that I offend any of you this evening, I sincerely apologize, and the woman sitting over there in the cream pantsuit-the one who blessed the food, Ms. Edna Nery, is my mother, and any complaints should be directed towards her.  

    That having been said, there I have a few more disclaimers which should explain some of the aspects of my delivery this evening.  First of all, I’m only 24 (and single), and I have an incredibly limited understanding of what it takes to make a successful marriage (for which I am sure that my mother is eternally grateful).  This being the case, I hope that you will forgive the lack of wisdom that my words contain.

    Furthermore, this wedding puts me on the clock.  I’m the next in line to get married in the family, and delivering this speech is like putting the final stamp on my death sentence, so I hope you can understand my lack of enthusiasm. 

    Additionally, I was asked to give this speech at the last minute because the best man, Marko, was unfortunately unable to join us.  I therefore beg your indulgence for my lack of eloquence.

    Finally, I am related to the groom, so anything that comes out of my mouth is bound to be incredibly uncouth.

    To the bride and groom!

    Pretty good, eh?  It embarrassed the hell out of my mother, but sadly,  it doesn’t end there.  In order for me to be able to deliver that speech properly, I had to get sufficiently liquored up.  Thanks to my advanced state of inebriation, through the course of the night I requested (and convinced the DJ to play) The Electric Slide, The Achy Breaky, The Cha Cha Slide, and the Macarena, I sang along to just about every song that the DJ played at the top of my lungs, and I managed to dance with every woman in the room who was at least 20 years my senior.  It’s safe to say that I was the life of that party, but at the expense of what little dignity my family had left in the eyes of our new in-laws.

    All in all, it was an eventful weekend, and I was in the thick of it all.  I normally hate taking those internet personality tests that tell you what kind of breakfast cereal or transformer you are, but if my weekend was one, these are what my results would be:

    You are the drunken Filipino uncle.  You make crude, racist, and/or sexist remarks at the most inappropriate times, and you will not hesitate to make a drunken jackass out of yourself at family gatherings.  You burp and fart in public.  You are the one out back handing porno magazines to the 10 year-olds boys and bragging to them about your sexual prowess.  Half the family hates you.  Your wife is scared to take you out in public.  Your kids refuse to introduce you to their friends.  On the other hand, half the family loves you, and everyone is always entertained when you are around.  You make people laugh, and laughter keeps the soul young.  Besides, parties just wouldn’t be the same without you, so have another drink, Tito.  

    You cannot escape your destiny, and if this is my destiny, then I should probably be a little scared.  So should my future wife and children.  On the other hand, at least there won’t ever be a dull moment.  

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I’m Getting Too Old for This Shit

    You know there’s something wrong when you get starting tired at 9 p.m.  I had originally attributed my fatigue to working late and not eating enough.  But lately, I’ve been eating enough and have been doing virtually nothing at work.  I’ve also been leaving the office earlier than usual (a full hour after the office is officially closed as opposed to the normal 3).  My second thought was that maybe I haven’t been getting enough exercise, but that is definitely not the case.  I’ve been going to the gym regularly, and my weekend with Faye and Polo was definitely a workout.  Not enough sleep, maybe?  No, I’ve been getting at least 8 hours a night.  Mono?  Lupus?  Some other horrible disease?  Nope.  Got checked out last week, and I was given a clean bill of health.  Sheer boredom!   That’s gotta be it.  Nope.  Sorry.  Try again.  Between trying to find a new job, a new place to live, and getting ready to jump back into a regular DJing gig, I have plenty to keep me occupied, and frankly, quite entertained.  The only explanation is the one that we all dread hearing:  I’m getting old.

    I probably should have gotten the hint when Faye began telling me that I’m old and began introducing me to young PPA members as one of the “oldheads.”  It should have occurred to me when she introduced me to JD and he commented that he hadn’t even graduated from high school when I left Penn.  It should have been a sign when the last time I attended Barrio (which, by the way was far and away the best Barrio I’ve EVER seen at Penn), I was only able to identify about 5% of the current PPA membership and a total of 7 people in the audience.  I clearly should have realized when college kids at my ECAASU workshop and at my UVA speech addressed me as sir (for the record, I thought they were just being polite).  I should have known when my hair started falling out and my friends all started getting married that I’m getting old.  I should have realized.

    But I didn’t.

    Instead I have clung desperately to my youth.  I work and hang out with people 3, 5, 10, even 12 years older than I am.  They call me a baby, and I naively believed them.  I convinced myself that they were right – that I am still just a kid.  Half my friends down here either own a house, are married, have a child or some combination of the three.  These are all things that people do when they are adults, and since none of them applies to me, I couldn’t possibly be one of them, could I?  Me an adult?  No way! 

    And yet, the evidence is there.  I have bills to pay.  I work 40 (read: 60-70) hours/week.  My hairline has receded to the point where I’ve decided to just shave my head and be done with it.  My joints ache in the morning.  I try to be up by 6 and in bed by 9.  I can’t drink like I used to.

    On the other hand, I’m not married, and at the rate I’m going, won’t be for some time yet.  My responsibilities are fairly minimal in that I only have to take care of myself and I do not yet have a mortgage.  I haven’t yet complained that today’s music sucks (though I feel it’s important to educate today’s youth on just how much of their music was sampled from music that was popular when I was their age which was in turn sampled from music popular when my mom was my age), nor have I started complaining that people play their music too loud.  I tell stories that start “when I was your age,” but they’re not so much to teach a lesson but rather to share a funny anecdote.  I still laugh when someone says “blow.”  I am still a fiercely devoted fan of “Codename: Kids Next Door (Numbah 1 is the coolest).”  That’s saying something, isn’t it?

    Perhaps what this all means is that I’m in the second “tweener” stage in life.  The first tweener stage normally coincides with the onset of adolescence.  We’re not quite kids anymore, but at the same time, we’re not exactly teenagers.  The years when we are age 10-12 are marked by a period of drastic physical growth.  This second tweener stage appears to occur between college and marriage – often coinciding with our early and mid twenties, and is marked by a period of drastic psychological growth.  We are no longer teenagers, but we are not yet full fledged adults.  We have some adult responsibilities, but at the same time, we still have our youthful tendencies.  I must say that much like adolescence was, this is an incredibly awkward time in my life.

    So what does it really matter anyway?  Well, I am faced with a potentially life altering decision.  Well, it’s not really, but it’s related in a whirlpool kind of a way.  I must decide by tomorrow whether or not I want to go up to Penn to celebrate what will likely be my final Spring Fling.  It has come to my attention that this is the last year when people who I knew while I was at Penn are still there.  That having been said, I feel like it’s the last fling that I’m actually allowed to attend.  Next year, no one will be inviting me up to fling, and even if someone did invite me up, I’m not sure I’d be able to participate to the best of my abilities.

    Mind you, if I go this year, I won’t be able to fling like I used to.  I’ve gotten to the point where I’m too old to drink several gallons of alcohol and then bludgeon a friend with a giant q-tip in the quad.  However, I’m not too hold to drink a forty, eat a cheesesteak, and then walk around carrying a red plastic cup full of God knows what.  I still feel like I am young enough to get completely loaded and head to a frat party full of undergrads, but I’m far too hold to try to hook up with any of them, and I’m certainly too old to get into any fights (if I do end up going, though, I’ll certainly bring some back up).  Who knows what the next year will bring.  I might not feel up to being drunk for a good 24 hours straight.  Who knows?  I might even have a serious girlfriend (cough, cough…yeah right) with whom I’d rather spend time.

    What to do? What to do? The window of opportunity is fast closing.  I’m old, and I’m getting older by the minute.  Should I be content to relive my college experiences in my memory or should I attempt to recreate them, albeit without the other oldheads who made my four undergrad flings so memorable?  Fling most certainly will not be what I remember, but it definitely has the potential to be a lot of fun.

    I cannot believe that I am sitting here trying to come to a decision about what to do.  Sadly, it is yet another indication that I’m getting old that I am sitting here weighing my options as opposed to waking up tomorrow, calling in sick, packing a bag and rolling up.  Perhaps there is a happy compromise somewhere.  Perhaps, I can just roll up Saturday and spend the weekend in Philly.  It’s not like there’re many more compelling reasons to stay down here.  If I end up flinging, I end up flinging.  If not, it’s a weekend away from the house and, coincidentally, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb.  That’s enough of a reason to head up, methinks.

    So the decision is made.  Philly, here I come.  As far as when I roll up, I’ll leave that to fate.  If I feel like going tomorrow, I’ll go.  If Saturday, then Saturday.  I’m not old enough not to be spontaneous, but I’m too old not to have some semblance of a plan beforehand, half-baked though it may be.  I’ll round up the Joe and Jay II and make sure it’s cool if we crash at Celine’s.  I am going to abuse my body this weekend, and I will do it while I still can.  I just hope that I don’t wake up Sunday afternoon and think to myself “I’m getting too old for this shit.”