Dropping the F-Blog

Dropping the F-Blog, or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Blog

"Hello sixpack of confidence / been so many nights since we first met / glad to see you've brought all your friends / for another night of plastic cup politics" ~~ Less Than Jake

It’s that time of day again: time to blog up another sentiment for all to read and (hopefully) enjoy.

Today’s blog considers the mind of a journalist. That’s right, among my more mundane personalities is “journalist.”

All journalists of any merit share several symptoms, including (but not limited to): a passion for writing, an observant nature and a strong interest in … well, pretty much everything.

Being truly observant often requires a level of detachment from the subject at hand. It’s difficult to be really passionate about something without your feelings clouding your perceptions of an event. For example, let’s say a snake is released into some random college classroom. Someone who LOVES reptiles, and knows the snake is harmless, might observe the resulting pandemonium quite differently than someone who is terrified of anything with scales. Thus, when journalizing, it is best to find a happy-medium – an interest in the subject without silly old emotions getting in the way.

Now, we learned in Journalism 100 that sometimes the “journalism” state of mind can cloud common sense just as well as emotions can. The best documented examples have come from war situations. A photojournalist will take pictures while nearby soldiers are shot down. Rather than putting down the camera to see if his friends are alright, an act that might save a life, the photojournalist simply keeps on taking pictures.

There’s some sort of psychological term for this behavior, but damned if I can remember it at the moment.

So anyway, having never been in a war situation, I can’t imagine responding that way. I’d like to think if my friend was shot, I’d say, “Fuck this silly old camera” and see if there was anything I could do to save my friend.

But the other day, in somewhat less dire circumstances, I found out how easily one can slip into that frame of mind – a detached fascination with the horrible and the obscene …



It all started at Jardy’s party …

*cue harp music, fuzzy edges to vision*



So I’m at the party and it’s getting to the point where the good men are taken and most of the rest are drunkenly attempting to grope the few remaining girls. This is prime time for Trevor, because, as a general rule, I try not to grope anyone who isn’t groping me first. This sort of philosophy is derived from a similar one posed by my friend Adam Holland:

“I always let the girl make the first move. That way I know I can’t lose.”

The situation also harkens a Paul Simon quote: “She looked at me and I guess she thought I was alright / alright in a sort of a limited way for an off night …”

So goes my life.

The party is raging all around, and I’ve had not-awkward conversations with several girls. In fact, I’ve actually managed to keep one girl interested for a period longer than five minutes.

We’re having a pleasant chat when, out of the corner of my eye, I notice an interesting character has entered the party. He storms into the room, walking not-quite-confidently enough to pull of “cool.” His head is shaved, and he’s wearing a black suit, complete with tie that matches his purple button-down shirt. In other words, he’s overdressed.

He tries valiantly to strike up conversations with several people who do their best to avoid him.

But back to my own banter: the girl and I are laughing and I’m quickly running out of subject matter, but I’m saved by Dave , who comes over with a hilariously ironic story (and as we all know, I can’t get enough irony).

Unfortunately, the conversation grows stale anyway, as the stranger encroaches on our personal space.

The newcomer says something in Spanish, to which Dave responds, “I’m sorry, I took French.”

We laugh, but the dude immediately switches to French, and we all stare. Dave manages to wander away, in pursuit of other women.

The girl makes an attempt to be social and converse with this suited stranger. But her French isn’t nearly as good, and I can see she is a) completely unable to continue talking to him and b) growing increasingly uncomfortable.

Now, this is the pinpoint, the moment when things go horribly awry. The more socially conscious part of my brain is saying, “Ok, time to step in and rescue this poor girl.”

I don’t have to say anything particularly witty, just something to excuse the two of us from his presence. Something like, “Hey, wanna get another drink?” or “I think the foosball table is open” or even “I’m sorry, but we need to go stand over there now …”

But I don’t. And why? Because I’m riveted. Here is a man with atrociously less lady-skills than I possess (and that ain’t much). He is clearly striking out, and yet he plows ahead anyway, either oblivious that he is about to crash and burn or ignoring that fact and making a vain effort anyway.

So I watch, helpless to stop, as he babbles away in a creepy French accent, grabs her hand and kisses it. She gives a polite smile and pulls her hand away, but he won’t let go.

Now the alarm bells are sounding. Do something! I have about a million things to say (I usually do), but I say none of them. Because I want more. I want to hear what he says next. I want to hear her reaction, and HIS reaction to HER reaction. He and I are moving swiftly in opposite directions to the same result. To continue conversing with this girl, he needs to shut up, and I need to open my mouth. Yet we both stubbornly insist on staying the course. And to me, all of this is much more compelling than any conversation she and I could have if I remove her from the scene. As in television, as in war, I’m powerless to interrupt the events unfolding before me.

And so she manages to disentangle herself from the stranger, and we move across the room. But things are different now. She needed help and I ignored her. Whether she consciously recognizes this fact is no longer an issue, because in the present, in the now, things are a little awkward, and at a party, late at night, there isn’t room for awkward mistakes.

*end flashback*

So that’s my story. A “journalistic” mindset can indeed overcome the moral high ground. Instead of moving someone to safety, I just watched, entranced, wondering what would happen next. And now I understand others who may have made the same mistake in much worse situations.

Party girl, wherever you are, my most sincere apologies. But that was the response of a journalist, and I’m not sure another would have done it any other way.

Peace,

Nas-T