Explain to him (or her) that, while non-standard, it is perfectly valid to romanize the name “Naruto” as “Nalto”. Their favorite character, actually, is named Nalto Üzmacky, and the girl in his group is named Sacla.

Said anime fan may bleed from their extremities from the effort put forth in their resulting argument. Hilarity!

On this particular Saturday afternoon I found myself in that awkward combination of boredom and stir-crazy, where I simply must get out of the apartment but have no real idea to what ends. After a brief subway detour around my old haunts in Brooklyn Heights (where I was honored to spend $9 on a “gourmet” fast-food hamburger) I found my way to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Now, I hadn’t been to the Met in some years. If I feel in the mood for a museum, I usually go to the Museum of Modern Art, which never fails to inspire me while simultaneously making me question what the hell some artists are smoking. But the Met’s cavernous size meant that it might be good to get lost in, so I paid my $20 and got the little metal “M” lapel pin.

I honestly can’t remember the last time I ever felt so bored by art. I came to an important realization, as I walked through the halls adorned by centuries old paintings and sculptures: I don’t really give a shit about most artistic time periods.

The REALLY old stuff from truly ancient civilizations is fascinating to a point… But let’s face it. You’ve seen one clumsily-scribbled upon clay pot from 5000 B.C. and you’ve pretty much seen ‘em all. Whether they’re from China, from Greece or from Egypt they all pretty much look the same. The statues are interesting from a “look at how talented they were back then” point of view, but one quickly tires of those as they begin to blend together in the mind as well. There is nothing here to relate to, to identify with, or to learn beyond what we were taught in grade school. Nothing until the last few hundred years, and often the most interesting things have been said in the last 50.

Now, you might be saying, “but Justin! It’s all about the culture! The thousands of years of humanity! Isn’t it interesting to imagine how people lived back then?” Well, frankly… no. We already know what people did back in the middle ages, and it was mostly trudge around in muddy, shit-strewn streets, eat bad food, get sick and die. In between, they prayed a lot, self-flagellated because the church told them to, and that was pretty much that. There’s no great romanticism about it — they were miserable, dirty people. I have trouble watching any remotely accurate film about those days because people are so filthy and live in such a state of self-delusion that I quickly tune out. These people have nothing to teach me, other than what it’s like to shit out a kidney.

So as I walked the halls of the Met, being stared at by fat naked women that more closely resemble giant throw-pillows than anything human, pointing at some magical event from the bible recreated, I began to wonder… what, if anything, does any of this art actually say about us? About humanity? If those halls are to be believed, vast stretches of art history serve no other purpose other than to either illustrate the bible (or, in the East, some other religion), or get a paycheck for painting soulless work-for-hire portraits of the rich and the royal, with ne’er a hint of irony or cheer or anything other than cold dead seriousness. Moments of joy, humor, and humanity in general — the whole purpose behind all the art that I love — don’t even seem to come along until the late 1700s.

Gee, does this mean we’ve actually advanced as a race?

Headline: “Prominent Orchard Park man charged with beheading his wife”

From the article: “Obviously, this is the worst form of domestic violence possible,” Erie County District Attorney Frank A. Sedita III said today.

I want THIS guy representing me!

And now for something uncharacteristically non-ironic. It’s a really hard time right now for a lot of people, and having stumbled upon this today, I was really struck by how touching it is. Seemed like something we all could use right now.

I give you… Mr. Rogers’ retirement speech. Perhaps the last old guy we really did respect (a little).

I can’t decide if I think this is amusing or not. Nancy Pelosi just rick-rolled. I’m not a fan of Nancy Pelosi (I regard her as the same sort of self-important melodramatic middle aged woman that usually gets her self-esteem from teaching 3rd graders), but honestly, if anyone can still get an image boost from participating in an ancient, played-out meme, it’s a congressional baby boomer. (And yes, I think there’s a 17-year-old page behind this.)

Sorry for the lack of updates the past few weeks, but between moving to a new apartment, a rigorous social schedule (whee!) and a normal work schedule, I haven’t had time to do anything. In fact, the only reason I’m typing this right now is because I pulled a nerve in my neck by sleeping funny last night, and I can’t move my head to the point where I can watch TV in bed as I wait for the Benadryl to kick in.

BTW, Twitter blows. I can’t imagine a more pointless communication tool. Why NPR has such a hard-on for this thing I have no idea.

As with most really popular things I hold out on for a long time, like Avatar: The Last Airbender, Harry Potter, Google and autoerotic asphyxiation, I expect Twitter to be fucking amazing.

So I’m on. “Worldofcrap” is my name. Add me. I don’t use GMail socially, so it’s a pain in the ass for me to do it myself.

I haven’t updated in a while because I’ve been really busy with work and moving. Just to post something, here’s a particularly passionate Yelp review I wrote tonight.

LA SIRENE (558 Broome St., NYC)

I didn't have this, but I think I will soon. Gives you an idea what their potions look like

This tiny little bistro tucked away on the West side (almost in Tribecca) was a completely unexpected treat. The Prix Fixe dinner for $25 was an enormous bargain, considering the amount of food we got. The portions were absurdly (and delightfully) generous for New York City French cuisine, and the atmosphere, though cramped, was fun and relaxed. Each reservation seating is given a luxurious two hours for its meal, so there’s plenty of time to luxuriate.

I had the French Onion soup, which was light and delicious, while my friend started off with a duck liver paté that was quite good. But my excitement didn’t really start until our plates of musssels came out. These were succulent and delicious, and soaking in a sauce/soup that was incredible. I had the wine sauce variation, but I regret not getting what my friend did: a light creamy apple curry sauce. After finishing the muscles we indulged in the soup and every speck of the flavorful ingredients that added to its flavor.

The waitress, despite manning the dining room herself, was incredibly attentive, constantly noticing our need for more bread to soak up the sauce. The chef and owner was regularly out and about the dining room, and when I asked the waitress what a particular desert was (its description, in slightly mangled English, wasn’t all that helpful) he nudged in excitedly to explain it himself. It turned out to be one of the most spectacular things I’ve ever eaten, the Sabayon Chaud aux fruits du moment. A hot assortment of liquor fruit compote topped with a frothy egg yoke top, then lightly grilled until the yolk becomes almost a thin layer of crepe. It was an absolutely moving experience that left me near tears.

I treasure places like La Sirene. It’s tiny, their hours are short, and they are missing amenities like a liquor license and a credit card machine, but they are happy to prove to those that give them a chance that these things are merely secondary, and will dazzle you with an attention to detail and a pure love for their art that is second to none. We are blessed for their very presence.

I spent the last week in Detroit.

This isn’t the suck-fest it usually is. In fact, it was downright pleasant. My parents, bless their souls, spent their time and (increasingly precious) money spoiling me rotten, and seeing my sister and her fiancée is always fun. Despite being ground zero for the current financial armageddon plaguing the country, the place radiated the same slow-drip echoes of life I’d come to expect of the place.

My post-adolescent anger at the land has long since dried up, and now whenever I visit I’m constantly in awe at the pace of life there; how every emotional impact seems absorbed and slowed as if suspended in a giant vat of Karo syrup. It’s something that I can only appreciate in low doses, but that I can appreciate it at all is progress. And after the punishing few months I’ve spent trapped in a vicious circle of self-doubt and defeat, it was exactly the healing I needed to step back and redefine my path.

That said, the path wasn’t exactly a clear one. The day after Thanksgiving was my 10 year high school reunion. Now, having been someone who never fit in among those his own age, to say I was apprehensive about this reunion was an understatement. I wanted to attend, if for no other reason than to sate my curiosity. I’d made a clean break with a large cast of characters that had followed me for years, and I was admittedly overcome with curiosity as to what became of them, for better or worse. At the same time, I was absolutely terrified of being judged by the same group of milquetoast preppy kids that had failed to accept me years earlier.

After a lengthy review of my personal appearance, I nervously drove my mother’s SUV to downtown Birmingham, a small suburb that fancies itself the Beverly Hills of Detroit. (Not having driven at night in 8 years I was white-knuckle the entire trip.) I walked in and to my surprise was greeted by a small group of guys I remembered well with appreciation and fond memories. These were nice people, and while I didn’t have much to say to them, it gave me some much needed self-confidence.

Conversations generally had a three-minute life to them: I would reintroduce myself, they would reintroduce themselves, we’d feign excitement at seeing each other again and perhaps regurgitate a random memory of the other person, recap what we’d been up to lately, and then find ourselves without further topics of mutual interest. Stammering after a few seconds of awkward silence, we’d politely excuse ourselves and move onto the next person. The lack of name tags meant we were constantly guessing as to who each other were if we didn’t recognize them (we’ve all put on a lot of weight), so some conversations were a polite game of chicken, each of us trying to hide the fact that we MIGHT be able to place the other person’s face, but the name utterly escaped us.

After regurgitating the last decade of my life in sound bite form several times, I became mindful of just how lame it sounded. I wasn’t going for my doctorate, I didn’t have any major credits to my name. In fact, I really had very little to brag about. I began to sweat, and as the loud bar with laser lights and loud music and hockey on the TV started to fill up, I had a sense of panic as my eyes swung across the room, looking for someone who might be open to conversation. As my prospects increasingly dimmed (especially among the women — I never had much interest in those fake and judgmental cunts, and they returned the favor) I decided I had to get the hell out of there.

I don’t regret going. It allowed me to finally close the chapter on that period of my life. Those people don’t matter in any way, and never really did. Also, I had rejected them as much (perhaps more) than they rejected me. But my panicked state was made worse by two things: that I had accomplished so little, and that I had left the car’s headlights on and the car wouldn’t start. (I called my dad to come out and give me a jump, and then laid back in the driver’s seat and reflected.) The day before, my grandparents had asked me if I had been on television lately. Apparently some family friends had called them excitedly after confusing me with the Saturday Night Live announcer’s introduction of Jason Sudeikis.

As the week wore on and I had time to think, I realized that I’ve been chickening out and short-changing myself. I had deprived myself of the possibilities of becoming somebody interesting by burrowing deeper and deeper into my nerd nest, no longer having the experiences nor the ability to communicate with others in a way my dreams required of me. And I vowed to change that.

Found an old notebook of mine, and was struck dumb by a moment of clarity sketched on it. I remember writing this to a friend, 6 years ago.

I suddenly realize that I fear dying. The realization dawned on me, during an idle moment, while my mind was preoccupied with my usual psychotic obsessions. Dying — death, not necessarily of the body, but of the mind. Nothing is scarier to me than the inevitable death of my thought, my memories. Whether these things fade away, or drift into the communal ether is something that even religion can’t (or won’t) answer.

So, why the sudden fear of such a thing? Perhaps because I am starting to realize the fragility of that thing we call “mind.” Whether I can blame chemicals or something more fundamental, the result is the same. I can’t escape it — my mind is failing. I feel it failing — like a weak heart. I can feel my own sanity slipping away from me. It’s absolutely terrifying — every psychotic episode seems like it brings me closer to death.

Assuming, then, that my time as a functional human being is quickly coming to a close, my dreams and aspirations suddenly develop a new sense of urgency. The threat of becoming unable to fulfill my dreams weighs down on me like a cloud of dread. I absolutely cannot afford to stay idle.

Whether I’ve ten useful years left in me, or even five, the clock is ticking, and I must achieve. If I don’t, all of my struggles to keep a hold of my wits will be a complete waste.

I was a senior in college when I wrote this, and suffering from near-crippling bipolar disorder. It was easily one of the worst years of my life, and yet one of my most important and formative. I’m no longer anywhere near that unstable and haven’t been in quite a long time. I sought treatment by a professional, and came out okay.

And yet there are certain aspects of being in that place, that very dark place, that I miss. First and foremost is the sense of direction, the drive, the panic-induced aspiration. It’s been so long since I’ve been on the brink and worried about losing my mind. Stability has robbed me of this, and complacency has set in. Maybe “complacency” is too strong a word, but I’ve most certainly lost the fire in my gut, replaced by a vague sense of unease and discontent.

I’ll be spending the next few months trying to get that back.