I don’t know how to say this. I don’t even know where to begin. I guess I should just come right out with it. It’s over.

I know this is tough to hear. This has been the longest relationship I’ve ever been in. I remember how it started. It was freshmen year of high school. We were so young, so hopeful. You were funny. You posted on my wall, “ yo yo yo what’s up homeslice?” Your sense of irony was advanced for a thirteen year old. At least, I hope that’s what it was.

But for the love of God, stop poking me on Facebook.

Look, don’t get me wrong. I understand the genesis of this poking fiasco. You poked me. Hilarious. It affirmed our friendship. However, it has spiraled out of control. We haven’t talked in three years. You moved to Europe. Your cover photo is Taylor Lautner. And yet every other week, I get this terrifying notification. No, it’s not a friend request from my grandmother. It’s you. Poking me. Again.

I’m sorry, but this “poke war” is the lamest conflict I’ve ever been a part of. Honestly, the argument with my mother over which bedding to get gave me more of an adrenaline rush. I sit behind my computer, and click return poke. No explosions, no bright lights, no passive aggressive comments on the color red and its linkage with Satan worship. I mean I wasn’t expecting the virtual Battle of Gettysburg, but to qualify this interaction as a “war,” you’d think it would at least give me the excitement of when my Sims family got murderered- may they rest in peace.

Why do we keep poking each other? Are we suddenly going to reconnect? Is this poking going to contribute to our relationship development? No, because poking is the virtual equivalent of blue balls.  It’s like, “Hi! I exist! I care! But do I care enough to actually say anything to you? No.” Maybe Zuckerberg invented this sadistic relationship device as revenge on all those friends he didn’t have in high school.

So for the sake of my sanity, please refrain from poking me. I’ve tried to ignore your poke before, and you poked me again. Please don’t. It’s been fun, but poking lingers like the cream sauce at Usdan.

I hope we can still be friends.  Facebook friends at least-

Love,

Me

Is predictably awesome.

Let his sweet, sweet voice carry you through the last week of classes.

Their shouts, the whistling of the wind—all ring out
over the parapets and mausoleums of a city just below.

They’re bickering again.
It started with the toilet seat:

—”Is it that hard to put it down after you take a piss?”
—”I don’t understand the big deal. Why don’t you put it down if it bothers you so fucking much?”

All that calamity up there is whipping up the wind,
throwing bodies of wind down into the metropolis.

—”What the fuck is this?” Riujin, god of thunder, mutters, fingering
a dried bit of toothpaste caked on the tip of an open tube of toothpaste.

—”What’s that honey?” Fujin, god of wind,
shouts from behind a passing cloud.

—”Nothing!” Venting his anger, Riujin smacks his drum,
sending a thunder clap out over the financial district.

And all pell-mell the pulse floods every little
alleyway and kiosk, even stretching its one

pounding fist into the deep where the subways
make their frantic rounds.

All the air down there shakes like thunder, the
thunder robbing the air of its old vibration.

Tables had been set, lights had been lit. The whole space
had jittered eagerly for the announcement of the subway.

Even the rails gave off sound—a carbon copy of the sound
being grated out somewhere in the dark of the tunnel.

Above, sirens are beaming their warnings through the
streets, slick and cruel from the falling rain.

—”Well now look what you’ve done!” Fujin is groaning from above a stratus cloud.
—”You’ve pissed off the neighbors.”

Vigorously brushing his teeth, Riujin peers down
into the little net of streets and buildings below.

—”Wonder what they’re up to down there,”
the god of thunder gurgles through his foaming mouth.

The two groups that stood out the most were the youth, Obama’s 2008 volunteer backbone, and the very wealthy, his financial one. For the first group, the simple truth was that many young people who had spent hundreds of hours volunteering for Obama in 2008 were disappointed by his first term. The lofty goals of hope and change are, to be fair, difficult to efficiently legislate under the confines of checks, balances, and a liberal use of the filibuster. For the other group, the very wealthy, there seemed to be a sense not only of disappointment but of genuine hurt by his rhetoric against the 1%. Obama’s populist platform made them feel alienated, even attacked. Though this was clearly a technique to marginalize Romney, many Obama-supporting members of the 1% felt betrayed that he had taken their checks and then criticized them.

The election has come and gone and now, barely three weeks after, we the American people have begun the age-old tradition of judging our President. We will judge him for what he has done, what he has not done sufficiently, and what he has yet to do—and as we should. As the most powerful democratically elected man in the world, our President ought to be subject to constant assessment and judgment.

What is interesting, however, is how extremely personal this process has become. Very often, criticism of the President’s performance is lodged somewhere more internal than on a surface-level interest in policy. Belief in a candidate is now a very emotional thing; a relationship is formed and, while arguably one-sided, a good deal of reciprocity is felt.

Campaigns depend on their volunteers and consequently work to cultivate a sense of inspiration and devotion. With every phone call made and envelope stamped, volunteers come to feel they are vital parts of the campaign process. Even though they know logically that their individual tasks are negligible, they keep coming back because they feel a connection to the campaign and, more importantly, to the candidate. Pragmatic details like policy plans and positions may convince voters which name to check at the polls, but they aren’t what motivate a volunteer to travel long distances and canvass in the bitter November cold. The impetus is something stronger, something more personally affective: a belief in the candidate and the future that they represent.

However, politics is quite often a burial ground for hopes and beliefs, and supporters will inevitably be disappointed to some degree. What’s interesting though is how this disappointment can so easily take on a note of betrayal. I voted for you, I volunteered for you, I donated to you, I believed in you, and then you went and did something that I explicitly disagree with. This thought process is clearly illogical, but that’s because it’s an emotion, not a polemic.

In a way, we are doomed from the start. Very rarely will we find a candidate with whom we agree entirely on every single issue—but we throw in our lot with them regardless, work for them, build a kind of “relationship” with them, and ultimately we cannot help but be disappointed when they go against something we believe in.

People, particularly the young, will never stop being inspired and disappointed by politics—so what do we do? Politics is never going to stop happening. For every jaded citizen who pointedly removes him or herself from “the system,” someone else with beliefs and a vote jumps in. Boycotting is certainly easier than being involved, but it is hardly an effective technique.

We shouldn’t be afraid to get inspired by a candidate.  We shouldn’t close our hearts against new leaders and new ideas out of disillusionment or the fear of disappointment. We must instead be wary citizens, canny to the way the system works, and recognize that the very nature of politics requires—no, demands—a healthy sense of skepticism. Politics is, in the end, the art of continually sacrificing what you want in the hopes of getting something a little bit better.

It’s Winter 2008. Bear Stearns has gone under; the financial crisis is now in full swing. It is, by almost any criterion, the largest economic failure since the Great Depression. Many people will tell you the banks are at fault, but that is similar to a mechanic saying that the problem with your car is the engine; it’s a simplification. The problem lies with mortgages. Specifically, subprime mortgages.

This term is not intuitively interpretable, despite how often it may be thrown around. A mortgage is straightforward enough, it’s the loan you take from a bank to buy your house. Subprime mortgages are lousy mortgages. They’re sub-prime, because they’ve been made to borrowers who probably can’t pay them back. Maybe the customer doesn’t have a job. Maybe she’s living beyond her means in a $10 million McMansion. Maybe his livelihood is dependent on the Adderall cravings of a generation of frazzled New Yorkers.

The first customer. It’s easy to tell she is waiting. Her foot is tapping, she’s twirling her straight blonde hair. Evan walks up to her and charismatically hands her a coffee cup filled with pills. She pays him. It’s done.

Evan walks with a kind of calm serenity you wouldn’t expect for someone who receives nearly 10 texts per minute. He doesn’t have much to worry about. Women aren’t an issue. He has a Lebanese girlfriend with a large bust and an even larger contract with Random House. Evan likes to say that she picked him up. He has a beautiful brick-walled apartment on Ludlow St. right next to Katz Deli. He has a safe.

Evan didn’t choose this profession, but rather fell into it. With his degree in economics from UVA he could have been a Wall Street stiff. He was for a while, until the market crashed. Evan said that he managed enough money to buy a house in the Hamptons until that day when it all vanished. Adderall became a way to make money between jobs. It was just too easy.

The banks that have failed were historically reluctant to offer subprime mortgages because it’s likely that the customer “defaults” on their loan; they fail to pay the bank back. In this case the bank has essentially bought a house, which is not something the bank wants or needs. It has made a bad bet on a customer, and it has lost money.

Two things were different leading up to 2008, though. First, the housing market had been on a steady upward climb for 15 years, meaning banks believed their houses were sure to increase in value. Second, banks realized they could bundle thousands of subprime mortgages and sell them to unsuspecting customers. These two changes incentivized banks to make “predatory loans,” aka loans to people who could never repay. The bank would then take these loans, package hundreds or thousands of them together, and sell them off as a bundle, leaving themselves with the profit and the buyer holding the bag.

With his briefcase slung low around his shoulder, Evan pushes the iron door of a brownstone in Brooklyn. Inside, he’s met with smooth handshakes and few words. This meeting is strictly business. Evan leads the discussion, bringing up the fact that it is unfair for Eric to hold such a lucrative piece of the market in the Lower East Side. His section is too large and his prices were too low. After little discussion, it is decided that prices are to be set at $1 a milligram and that Eric’s territory must be shared with Evan. Despite the lack of smiles, you could say that this made everybody happy.

By bundling loans, banks could make an attractive deal for buyers. The product was shit, but the packaging sparkled like silver. This business of subprime mortgage lending had become so profitable, and the banks so confident, that they loaned out far more money than they should have. Then people defaulted on their mortgages in droves. The banks were left with millions of loans that suddenly weren’t worth any money. This trickled down the food chain: groups that had bought the packages of subprime mortgages went bankrupt, retirees lost the nest egg that had been called “safe,” colleges lost their endowments, millions lost their jobs or homes or futures. Subprime mortgages had been propping up the world’s economy, and in days the crutches disappeared.

Around 5, Evan takes his puppy Abby for a walk in Washington Square Park just before dinner with Celine in SoHo. Abby is almost an accessory for him, a conversation starter, like a nice watch. A petite brunette bends down to pet Abby without hiding the wide smile on her face. “Aww how cute!” she coos. “Cavalier King Charles Spaniel,” Evan calmly replies. The brunette turned to him and started up their own conversation, not realizing that she was in the palm of Evan’s hand.
“Babe, don’t think I can make dinner tonight.” Sent 6:37.

On the way back to her studio apartment in Chelsea, they walk through a few camps for Occupy protesters and pass quite a few buildings with the word “foreclosed” slashed across the windows. It is snowing now and his boots have a few melted flakes dripping down them. Evan puts his hand on her waist. She looks up at him, smiles and says, “I have some blow.”

Instead, a remarkable old man settled into the chair across from me, heavily and with a worn sigh.  He looked at me, sitting cross-legged in my wooden chair in an oversized sweater and bright floral pants, earbuds in head, gum in mouth, Adderall in bloodstream, eyes on Macbook, and he frowned.  He stiffly uncreased his copy of the Times and shot me a disapproving glare.  From time to time, he harrumphed loudly so I wouldn’t forget that he was not only there but very much unhappy about it.

I was indignant at being so quickly and ruthlessly written off as some kind of young delinquent.  What right had this stranger, this crotchety old man, to judge me without any kind of interaction as basis?

I decided, then, to publish a series of live-tweets about my time with this old man.  Here is the unedited (but for chronological sorting) transcript of my tweets.

11:46AM – 23 Nov 12
tweets to the old man who chose to sit across from me in the newton public library and is evidently very sorry he did but refuses to move:

11:47AM – 23 Nov 12
dear mr., i like your denim button-up on denim button-up ensemble and that you chose to wear khaki pants so you wouldn’t overload the denim

11:49AM – 23 Nov 12
dear mr., i noticed you noticing me using photobooth to fix my makeup, be warned that i will do this at least 3 more times in the next hour

11:51AM – 23 Nov 12
dear mr., i’m sorry if my gum-chewing is disturbing you but you would be much sorrier if my un-minty-fresh breath were in your face

11:55AM – 23 Nov 12
dear mr., you are reading the Times and i am reading Forms of Time & The Chronotope in the Novel—sounds to me like grounds for friendship

11:59AM – 23 Nov 12
dear mr., i’m fine with mouth-breathing if you are

12:03PM – 23 Nov 12
dear mr., with your angry throat-clearing you are cockblocking my attempt to make eyes at unknown attractive male perusing the biographies

12:09PM – 23 Nov 12
dear mr., this song has a jammin’ beat and i thought maybe you’d like to hear it, but you don’t, so i’ll turn it down

12:14PM – 23 Nov 12
dear mr., frequently looking out the window helps me gather my thoughts

12:26PM – 23 Nov 12
dear mr., goodbye and this was nice

–––

This one-sided exchange, wordlessly told in 140-character intervals, in a way represents many of the general accusations leveled against Twitter.  There is the antipathetic relationship between the older (him) and younger (me) generations, implicit in my vituperative and somewhat mocking tone against him.  There is the inherent redundancy of both form and content, from the useless first tweet (stating what will be made obvious by the nature of the following tweets, which have no need for introduction or clarification) to the entire idea that I was sending “letters” to an elderly stranger who would most likely never “receive” them.

But at the same time, I think there is a glimmering of some deeper humanistic impulses to be found in this silly little tweet series.  Notice, for one, the term “dear,” a reaching-out, even if out of resentment, in an almost forlorn attempt to make contact with a stranger.  And really, all tweets seem to have an underlying “dear”––in this case, to an explicit person, but sometimes it may be “dear self,” or “dear world,” or just “dear anyone.”  I wrote my tweets jocularly in the form of missives or letters, but in truth, Twitter as a whole is constituted by nothing but letters (not characters, letters) that are sent without address or stamp.  Tweets are not just thoughts, they are missives; we do not articulate, we pontificate; we produce so that it may be consumed.

It is enough, in the Twitter phenomenon and maybe as an abstract truth in general, to be heard.  It is a dialogue, yes, but one in which one side remains silent; it is important that there is a recipient or a listener, but the emphasis is on the telling rather than on the response.  The core value is performativity, a kind of gleeful sublimation of the content of the “story” or tweet to its narration.  We tweet to be read, and to be read we must captivate.

And yet, the progression of the tweets is one of increasing intimacy (even if an intimacy generated only by myself).  Beginning with clothing and outward behavior and reading material, I start confiding to this old man about my attempts at flirting, my taste in music, my thought patterns.  The tone shifts from one of mischievous poking fun to one of empathy and genuine interest.  As the tweets shuffle along in time in that quiet library, their coat of ironic humor starts to wear away and they begin to take on a more human tenor, a more inner voice.

Maybe Twitter is redundant.  Maybe it is a quirk of a newer, technology-obsessed generation.  But in its essential form, it comes back to that lonely human desire to narrate; it is a telling of tales.  Twitter exists in a strange balance of the wholly performative, in which content is eroded of value in favor of the technique of its conveyance, and the wholly substantive, which desperately wants its content to be heard.  Dependent upon a social network, it nevertheless does not rely on explicit exchange between the subjects of that network.  This is not capitalism.  All the individual needs is the knowledge that the network itself is there, silent but alive, and they cannot but open themselves to it.  Twitter is listening.

There is something tragic about the process but at the same time, something unsettlingly precious.

Or maybe it’s just Twitter. #whoknows.

• 1 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
• 2 1/2 cups cold water
• 1/2 cup maple syrup
• 3 shots bourbon
• Crushed ice

Mix lemon juice and water and stir in maple syrup in two parts.  Taste for sweetness and adjust accordingly.  Pour bourbon over ice in a tumbler, and then pour lemon-water-syrup mixture over until tumbler is full.  Put your lips against the cold glass rim, sip slowly, and recall the taste of summer.  Let the warmth of alcohol heat your stomach while the ice chills your teeth.  A deep breath to clear your head will rush against the cold sweet flavors in your mouth and your body will tremor with the chill.

A Hotter Toddy

• 1 cup water, with or without black tea
• 2 tablespoons honey
• 1 dash lemon juice or 1 lemon wedge
• 2-3 shots Jägermeister
• 1 sprinkle cinnamon

Combine water and Jäger and bring to a boil.  (Add teabag if desired.)  Stir in honey and garnish with lemon and cinnamon to taste.  Taste the anise and licorice-y undertones in the spicy Jäger blend and think of the smell of pine trees.  The bite of cinnamon warms your tongue and the honeyed tea smooths down any inflammation of the throat even as the alcohol inflames your brain.  Feel festive.  ‘Tis the season.

Drunk Cider

• Equal parts champagne, bourbon, and pomegranate juice
• Two parts hot apple cider
• Orange cut into sections, with peel still on
• Cinnamon stick for garnish

Mix pomegranate juice into cider and add orange sections.  Stir in bourbon first, then champagne, using cinnamon stick to stir.  Let sit before drinking, so the citrus of the orange disseminates into the drink and the flavor infuses into the flesh of the orange.  The heavy heat of cider and cinnamon and bourbon will lighten itself with the tickling bubbles of champagne that prick against the roof of your mouth.  Fish out the cider-sodden orange sections and hold them in your mouth, peel out, like a child in the summertime.

Enjoy the story of the Brotherhood of the Travelling Bono with musical stylings from The Dustys, a good ol’ fashioned Rock & Roll band from Washington DC.

I also have a healthy suspicion for any supposedly nice event that involves people getting crushed to death and still does not get shut down by the police or feature the Rolling Stones. I can see our forefathers bursting with joyful tears as they watch the headline news from heaven; “We finally did it,” Thomas Jefferson must weep, clutching Franklin’s hands like a giddy schoolgirl. “America is living up to the exact vision we had for it.” Franklin gently sweeps a single tear, watching a cavorting Washington sweep Hamilton into a low dip. “O! America! Our manifest destiny is secured!” they all sing rapturously to the applause of every dead person lucky enough to land in American Heaven.

My most effective strategy for dealing with reality is a complex web of ignorance and denial—I highly suggest it. I usually manage to avoid consumption of much advertising media beyond the ads on Hulu, so returning home for Thanksgiving and subjecting myself to live television induced a bout of culture shock. The aggressiveness and frequency of Black Friday commercials was unmatched by any other sensory messages I’d received in the last month combined; I began to see Target catalogues flipping behind my eyes as I slept (EXPECTMOREPAYLESS). Despite my best efforts, the reality of America’s economic ugliness was forcing itself on me like the dog that wouldn’t stop humping my shoe at Thanksgiving dinner.

This was what the majority of Americans go through every day, driving past billboards, listening to the radio, watching Bravo; no wonder so many were in the stores on Black Friday, willing to risk death-by-encrushment to snag the new LED 7-inch whateverthefuck_TM. It wasn’t until I remembered the utility of the mute button that I was able to put the nightmarish memory of capitalist America behind me once more, retreating instead into the comfortable safety and serenity provided by a Law and Order: SVU marathon.

What long-lasting lessons did I take away from this holiday season? I’ve been reminded of the importance of gratitude, relishing in minute methods of resistance to unwelcome mental intrusions: mute buttons, eyelids, Netflix, or a simple lobotomy if you really want a permanent solution.

Don’t know what Secret Santa (or its more politically correct relative, secret friend/buddy/benefactor) is? That’s kind of fucked up, but alright, I’ll explain. Essentially a group of people–a class, extended family, knitting club, or what-have-you–get together and are assigned at random to give someone else in the group one or more gifts, potentially culminating in a larger final present. Fantasy Secret Santa is when I do this by myself and imagine what every member of a group would give each other. Round 1: politicians.

Barack Obama to Mitt Romney: A silver medal.

Bill Clinton to Hillary Clinton: An early endorsement for the 2016 Presidential Race.

Malia Obama to Barack Obama: Basketball signed by First Lady of the U.S. Michelle Obama!

Senators of Colorado Mark Udall & Michael Bennet to the American People: Half an O of really dank chronic.

Sasha Obama to Michelle Obama: Plaque, with inscription: “Best Mom Ever.”

Michelle Obama to Hillary Clinton: A GPS tracking system for her husband.

Mitt Romney to Hillary Clinton: A series of expensive chocolate roses, culminating in a note reading, “Want to get back at Bill? You can have your own scandal.”

Chris Christie to Hurricane Sandy: Text message, “:*(“

Monica Lewinski to Bill Clinton: REDACTED

Sidney Villard Schleiff: i’m so lazy i didn’t do captions

Alice Lee: die in a hole
just kidding, it’s okay

SVS: we could have a dry/ironic interview

AL: okay
so tell me about this wolf mask
what did it mean, both literally and metaphorically?
[AL makes popcorn, eats it.]

SVS: well, it was a halloween parade in Stockholm

SVS: how does that popcorn taste btw?

AL: burnt
am i asking the questions here or are you?

SVS: i guess you are
as editor, you can be the authority
but not for forever okay?

AL: okay
so who’s the man in the wolf mask?

SVS: he is just an anonymous swedish kid i like to call ingemar

AL: like the filmmaker?

SVS: not exactly. ingemar johansson, the Swedish boxer

AL: are you interested in boxing?
your Method staff portrait [in Volume IV, Secrets and Lies] is actually of you in a boxing stance

SVS: yes i think i am definitely drawn to boxing, although i’ve never really done it myself

AL: would you say you have a boxer’s physique?

SVS: i have a long reach for sure

AL: tell me about the man with the balloon

SVS: ah the man with the balloon
i took this one on Stroget (gotta pronounce it at the back of your throat, like you’re choking on vegemite)
it’s a very crowded shopping street in Copenhagen and this man caught my eye
because selling balloons every day is an old school move

AL: agreed.
thanks squidney!

SVS: word

But it took me a few days to realize the the hat had disappeared, which begs the question, did you really lose something if you don’t know it’s gone? You may never discover those few dollars that have disappeared from your desk or those few nuggets of weed that have disappeared from your grinder. Chalk it up to negligence or sly thieves. Yet it takes most people only a matter of minutes to realize if their back pocket is devoid of a cell phone. But what about those things that are nearly impossible to lose? I have seen masters of the game lose keys, pants, pets, and even cars on occasion. Most people feel the pain of the loss, but not everyone knows the adventure that follows.

Think of the lost item as a gift to a stranger. An oblivious altruism. While he may not intend to be, the drunken law student “making it rain” out of a cab is undeniably a philanthropist. Losing things can be too easy, it’s finding them that is hard.

You never find something the same as how you left it. The new scrapes and scars tell stories of new journeys. It is up to you whether to embrace them or feel like they have destroyed something familiar. I remember making a music video in which a Sonny Bono doll goes through a sort of Odyssey. It leaves the pocket of its quirky owner in mint condition and returns by the film’s end with tire marks on its back, pesto sauce on its chest, and sand in its asscrack. Each stain the mark of a story. It’s all too easy to be bothered by the ugliness, but what you don’t see  is the old man smiling at the doll during their dinner date, the kid’s wide eyes as he throws the doll into a beachside sand-dune, and the couple’s astonishment when they find it discarded in a dumpster.

It’s easy to neglect how frequent these journeys happen. But consider how far a dollar must travel to get to you. According to WheresGeorge.com,  I have one dollar that has been traveling for 846 miles and over a year and  to reach me.  George had been traded for a few pieces of Peppermint gum at the NC State campus store, George had seen the marble counters of First Citizens bank in Atalla, Alabama and the insides of Betty-Rae’s cluttered purse in the suburbs of Tennessee. George readily gives up his secrets, showing you his scars, tears, and folds like the pages of a picturebook. But for some reason, we never think about the travel log of the insignificant.

Just the other day I saw my beloved hat in some Facebook photos, on other people’s heads. I pressed my thumb up to the screen to block out their faces and made it look like it was mine again. I had loved it, cherished it. But it was hurting me. Now it was whoring itself out to total strangers. It was covered in their stories and their sweat. It would never be the same. I pictured a grimy couple having disgusting sex while passing the hat back and forth between them, “Go Raiders! Go Raiders!”  This was fucked up. I needed it back.

I sat at Usdan looking at the sad panorama of my peers with their own hats, perfectly tailored to their own head. And then I saw it. A lanky kid from Alpha Delt walked bouncily towards me with my Raiders hat on his head. He stopped and placed on the table. With a big shiteating grin, he said, “Dude, this little guy has been on quite a fucking trip.”