A Proper Farewell (3)

Wednesday/Thursday/Friday

Tufts. My home-away-from-home home. What always struck me about Tufts is how the large majority of people are genuinely nice. It was what caught my attention when visiting schools, and it's what has kept me a happy camper these past two years. However, beyond the niceties, I've come to learn that everyone at Tufts is quirky, in all the best possible ways. It seems like everyone realized they could embrace who they are and what they like, or that they're free to explore themselves in ways not available before, and as a consequence, e'rybody is fucking weird. Which is great. My kinda people.

And so it was with a heart beating with excitement that I returned to my home-away-from-home home. After the four hour bus ride spent on my iPod, a few stops on the red line, and a quick hop and skip to College Ave, I was back and raring to go.

“FULL STEAM AHEAD, CAPTAIN”

Glimpses of the Trip

(I'm gonna trim the events of my stay to keep your interest. While my life is as fascinating as a 3-legged dog winning a race, most of my time at Tufts was spent just bopping around trying to find friendly faces to talk to. Those conversations, while meaningful to me, would probably mean diddly squat to all y'all readers out there, so I'll simply leave them where they are in my head.)

• Getting dinner with my “big” John (aka Slurpee) and my “little” Andrew (aka WINK). After waiting for Andrew to return from catching 40 winks (aha, see what I did there?) we stormed into Boston Burger Company and dominated some of the most glorious burgers I've ever seen. John got the Mac Attack, a fine burger with mac'n'cheese on top of it between two sesame seed buns (there might've been some other toppings but I didn't get a bite/ask him). Andrew and I ordered the 420 burger, a diabolical concoction only Frankenstein's creator could have come up with had he decided to work in the food business. Or, ya know, a burger that someone really high thought of. Either or. Anywho, it's a towering beast of food composed of a thick beef patty, mozzarella sticks, fried onion rings, cheese, fries, and honey mustard sauce. The burger is actually tall enough that the only way to eat it without unhinging your jaw is to actually compress it to about half its original size. Even then you're still risking painting your face with food, but it's a sacrifice most are willing to make.
• Returning to 126 Packard. As a brother of ZBT, I am happy to spread the good word around the world and make us known internationally – a ZBT missionary, if you will – but it still sucks to be apart from the brothers; they're a good bunch of guys and some of them are my closest friends. As Depressing as it might be to leave the house for a year and miss the seniors' graduation, nothing got in the way of some good ol' panama (our version of Beer Pong where the ball is live until held by someone, and you have to re-rack at 6 cups). Josh (aka Popo) and I held the table for a good chunk of time, embarrassing all those that dared to tempt the fates by stepping up to the other end of the table. FOOLISH MORTALS, THOU SHALL NOT PASS. We lived like kings until dethroned by Slurpee and his friend. Fuck you, Slurpee. Jason, you're chill. It was a good run, if I don't say so myself, and I was merrily
• Breakfast with Katie and Sam (+ Elizabeth). You two were my original “girls,” and you both hold a special place in my heart. Nothing too special about this meal, unfortunately, just conversing like always and nomming on some food from Hotung. (I know I said I wouldn't write about this kind of shit, but it was a good touch to the end of my stay)

And yeah, that was about it. I returned home with my departure a scant time away. I hear you knocking on my door, Japan. I hear ya.

A Proper Farewell (2)

Tuesday was spent ricocheting between tasks: pick up glasses, pick up contacts, pick up sandwich from Scaps, pack suitcase for Japan because I'll be at Tufts Wed-Fri and won't have time otherwise, say goodbye to Dad, write blog, etc. ad nauseum. It wasn't too shabby, though. Even though I generally frown when facing the monumental task of squeezing what I find essential into the confined space of a soft trunk, I don't completely begrudge the packing process. More often than not I manage to find scraps of paper and pictures from days past and allow myself a moment to relax in nostalgia. Specific to this packing experience included the Tufts Public Journal (READ THAT SHIT), my yearbook from middle school, and a letter from a girl I used to love. Ahh shit, right in the feels – reaching down your throat and gripping your adam's apple feels; eyelashes doomed to be drowned in a saline solution feels; sad smiles because you can't have it again and have to move on. Yeah, those kind of feelings.

//end emotional tangent

PAUSE::

Re: Middle School Appearance

Why didn't someone shoot me for having hair that long. I mean, come on. That shit went down past my shoulders, and didn't even have the rocker or grunge look that might give some credence to not lopping it off with a pair of shears. Fuck all y'all for implicitly allowing that mane to grow to gnarly proportions (looking at you Mom, Dad, Perry).

RESUME::

And as such my Tuesday went. However, my brother came to free me, if only for an hour or two, from the drudgery.

“You wanna come see The Master at 7?”

Done and done. I wasn't too sure if I could afford to go, but shit son, I only got a few more moments with him before I begin my process of becoming an expat.

The movie was interesting, to say the least, and while I hadn't formed strong opinions of it during the film, the vague feelings I had were given more structure after the movie when I was talking to my bro about it. In his words: “You know how Philip Seymour Hoffman's son said he [Hoffman] was making it all up. Well, that's kinda what the movie felt like near the end; he [Anderson] was just making it up and didn't know how to finish.” (excuse me Perry if I misquoted you)

And that's kinda how I felt when watching the movie. I thought Joaquin Phoenix's character was phenomenal, though, and the way he and Hoffman interacted in the first half was great to watch, the dichotomy between them: an intelligent and well-spoken man attempting to “reveal the truth” and a brutish man who just lived life, almost as honest and true as you can get.

Anywho, check it out. See it, make an opinion, talk to me about it.

That was my Tuesday.

PEACE, BITCHES

A Proper Farewell (1)

How the hell do you say goodbye to one person, let alone everyone and their pet rock? I'm not even looking at this from the emotional perspective of, "Woe is me! I shall miss you friends and family, from the deepest corners of my heart to the frayed ends of my hair!" - kinda thing. What I'm talking about is the straight up practical side of the issue.

I guess I could simply write a facebook status, paste a post-it note on the fridge, and leave some voicemails to those aren't close by/don't have facebook. That could cover my bases. I guess.

But fuck that shit. I want to leave on a good note, replete with warm-and-fuzzies, tight hugs and stupid smiles, back pats and "I'll see ya later, man (or kid, son, boy, cracker, schmuck)." I want to Costanza my exit from the states: leave on a high note. (I'm praying to his noodly appendage that that Seinfeld reference wasn't too far out there. People have watched Seinfeld, right? I'm pretty sure. I hope so. Maybe? That wasn't even that well known of an episode, shit....)

I think that I did it right, though. I did it justice. This past week has been a sprint of making sure all of the t's have been crossed and all of the i's have been dotted and all my fucking shit and paraphernalia was in order. But, betwixt the mad dashes to Costco before it closes to get my contacts and visits to the local pharmacy to get enough drogas for my time in Japan, I caught my breath and sat down with those that matter. "You don't have time; you make time," kept going through my head this week. And it's true. You make time.

Monday

After getting back from a weekend of drinking in the sun in Montauk, I threw on my fancy schmancy, "make me look good" clothes and drove down to the Harvest on Hudson to meetup with my girls from the poolhouse over the summer.

PAUSE::

For those I haven't already regaled (read: bothered) with stories about my summer job, I was a poolboy/cabana boy/"recreational facilities manager." I cooked, cleaned, organized, and assisted with other tasks on the property of my employer, specifically his poolhouse. Over the course of the summer, I became friendly with some of the regulars there, namely my employer's daughter and her friends. They kept me company and joked around, helping the summer breeze by.

RESUME::

I arrived there and sat down, waiting for the others to arrive. Soon after, C walks through the entrance and we went to the bar to sit. Fast forward half an hour and D and L arrive, fashionably late because they couldn't figure out how to get there. It's a 25 minute drive, 20 if you speed, 15 if you don't care about your life. But I digress, they came, I was happy, and everything was right in the world (except Rob didn't show up. Fuck you, Rob. I'm LIVID as shit. Not really, but it did put a damper on the night.) After some chitchat we sat down at our table and got down to serious business. We were gulping down the "water" left and right, laughing, cracking jokes, tossing expletives into the air like confetti, and just having a grand ol' time. And oh lord. OH LORD. LAWD! They drank me under the table. By the time I was starting to feel the water hard they were just sitting back all casual.

Experience. That's what they had on me.

After enjoying dinner and dessert, we said our goodbyes, hugged it out, and I went back home, ready to fall into the folds my ice blue comforter. Sleep came quickly, especially when assisted by the comfortable white noise of a fan.

Montauk and Family Time

My dad, in an attempt to reaffirm the fact that we are a "family," and not simply related to each other, planned for a weekend trip to Montauk, all the way out on the tip of Long Island. We would reinforce our love for each other by building roaring fires on the beach, bulldozing bowls of muscles, and getting sloshed off 18 packs of beer from the IGA grocery store down the block. In short, we would be living the dream, and be living it with each other.

But wait, there is more!
"More?" you ask, raising one eyebrow to match your questioning tone.

Why YES, my friend, compatriot, fellow navigator in the waters we call life, there is more. My cousin, Nolan, would be joining us. Out of all the members in my family (immediate, extended, etc.), he is probably the best suited for the potluck of quirks that constitutes the Kerrs at 565 Broadway. What I mean to say is that he's a level headed guy, completely able to go with the flow; he can talk politics, laugh at dead baby jokes, build fires, and stay happy in the moment.

How many dead babies does it take to paint a barn?
Depends on how hard you throw them.

The drive up was fine and dandy. Riding bitch the entire way wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, due in part to some fine literature I had, as well as funny stories from Nolan.

PAUSE ::
 -- Anyone interested in fantasy should take a look at Garth Nix's Sabriel series (three books long, about 1500 pages all together). I started reading it a long while ago because of a suggestion from a friend (looking at you, JW), but didn't finish it. This vacation gave me the perfect opportunity to dive into some good storytelling and I was delighted. Even as a 20 year old who is realizing that some fantasy may no longer be meant for him (simple language, more basic characters, etc.), I was still able to throw myself into Sabriel.  --

RESUME ::

We arrived at the Ocean Beach Resort around 3:30, settled into our rooms, and immediately fell victim to the whisper of nap nap time. Three hours later and we awoke to a sky filled with creamsicle clouds and streaks of raspberry sinking into the horizon, underlined by a tremendously deep blue that seemed to gobble it all up. It was nice. It was really nice.

The rest of our vacation was a patchwork of moments like that. We would get up in the morning, nom on some diner food, then lazily explore the island. And everything seemed to match our pace. Or maybe we matched the island's pace. Maybe that's what Montauk is like in the off season, just kinda slow and simple. And it wasn't that the people seemed to take things with ease, but rather that it was the only way to go about things.

But hey, don't get me wrong, Montauk wasn't all rose colored and peachy-fucking-keen. The tip of the island is boring as shit, and I'm pretty sure that the only forms of entertainment outside the movie theater that only shows ONE film --  I'm fucking serious -- is getting merrily buzzed and sitting on the beach, hopefully remembering to reapply sunblock to prevent cancer from rearing its ugly head on your beautiful nose 40 or 50 years down the line.

Now, you may be thinking, "Graham, that sounds like an awesome time. You're an idiot. And your nose isn't pretty."

And I would agree with you, to an extent. It's really nice. And, to not appreciate the few days I have to lounge around is pretty dumb. But after a few hours of baking in the sun, it really does start to get to you. There isn't much to do.

My family and I did make the best of it, though; my mom scrounged through some tourist pamphlets and found a boat the would take us out fishing, my dad got some restaurant tips from a friend of his, and my brother, Nolan, and I continued to tell jokes.

It was a good time, all in all.

How do you make a dead baby float?
Take your foot off of its head.

http://meangirlgifs.tumblr.com/post/11656649393/peace-bitches

(copy and paste the link, you fucking twat)

Foreword

My name's Graham Kerr. I'm studying abroad in Japan for a year.

In case you don't know me that well, here are some tidbits you should keep in mind before you continue reading:

1) I try to type like I talk. Unfortunately for me, when I am speaking, I gesticulate, change tones and seriousness, rock back and forth, stop mid-sentence to laugh or smile, do a whole slew of other things. My idiosyncrasies are many. So, to properly reflect the feelings and emphasis I use when I speak, this blog will be littered with italicized, bolded, underlined, and capitalized words. I might even throw in a .gif here and there if words aren't accurate enough.

2) I curse like a sailor sometimes. If that turns you off from reading my blog, then go fuck yourself. But seriously, sorry if it offends anyone. It's just that sometimes, the efficacy of an expletive makes it the perfect word to reach for. Everyone has had a moment where the word on the tip of their tongue was, "FUCK," or something similar. I have lots of moments like that.

3) I wax poetic every now and then.

With that in mind, I hope you enjoy what I have to say.

PEACE, BITCHES