I've Got a Crush

I've got a crush. I've got a crush that makes me feel like I'm 8 years old all over again, but, then, like I'm 16, and, then, like I have no sense of time. I have a crush that makes me want to be nocturnal, because I don't think that there are enough hours in the day. I've got a crush that makes me feel crazy like the full moon, reckless like a child, spontaneous and fearless, all rolled in to one. I say, "I've got a crush," but honestly, this crush has got me.

The feeling of finding someone or something that makes you feel a whirlwind of emotions, is pretty much the coolest thing in the world. One of my favorite foreign movies is "Jeux d'enfants", meaning "games for children", though in English it is titled "Love Me If You Dare". Now, though the English movie sounds corny and chick-flick-esque, it is actually a fucked up French film that leaves you a little mystified by prankster kids and their decision to live a roller coaster life based on constantly daring each other to do random tricks and who end up together being encased in drying cement. (There is really a lot more to this movie, but that is the no-credit-given summary.) Hah! Yes, and in the movie, one of the kids has a funny line about friendship where he says, "Friends are like eyeglasses. They make you look smart, but get scratched and then bore you. Luckily, sometimes, you get super cool glasses. Me... I've got Sophie."

I like this, because though he is squinting through his 3D glasses as a 10 year old kid, I think he is spot on. It makes me think about how the people we surround ourselves with really make us see the world through different lenses. And, sometimes we are fortunate enough to spend time with those who make us feel like this life is magical and alien, awesome and exciting beyond comparison, and like we are only just seeing it for the first time.

In the movie, years down the road of life, after thinking that what he had with Sophie was over, the main character-guy is being chased by cops, due to their trickster antics, and goes off on one the most excellent rants where he says, "Sophie was back in the game! Pure, raw, explosive pleasure! Better than drugs, better than smack! Better than a dope-coke-crack-fix-shit-shoot-sniff-ganja-marijuana-blotter-acid-ecstasy! Better than sex, head, 69, orgies, masturbation, tantrism, Kama Sutra or Thai doggy-style! Better than banana milkshakes! Better than George Lucas's trilogy, the muppets and 2001! Better than Emma Peel, Marilyn, Lara Croft and Cindy Crawford's beauty mark! Better than the B-side to Abbey Road, Jimmy Hendrix and the first man on the moon! Space Mountain, Santa Claus, Bill Gates' fortune, the Dalai Lama, Lazarus raised from the dead! Schwarzenegger's testosterone shots, Pam Anderson's lips! Woodstock, raves... Better than Sade, Rimbaud, Morrison and Castaneda! Better than freedom, better than life!"

It's pretty epic and awesome, and, like I said, it's definitely a really different kind of movie, but the French always make the most wacky movies, in my opinion. However, maybe it's more of a accurate representation of this world - twisted and distorted, outlandish and unpredictable, chaotic and imaginative - than what Hollywood churns out. For in the same post that I gush about crushes and identify with the tumultuous relationship story of two, pretty much demented, French children, I also have to say that I put my two weeks notice in yesterday, which means, that while it is easy to forget the whole world when you are with someone you care about, the road is waiting. The road, a twisted and unpredictable track for me, riddled with its emotion and adventure, calls me away from the land of enchantment, away from little kid emotions and antics, and away from, haven't quite felt this way in a while...

Tell Me What's Important

It's hard listening to someone complain about their life, over and over again. It makes me think about Dane Cook's comedy skit where he says, in a prissy woman's voice, something along the lines of, "I can't just break up with him, Karen, it's not that easy - my CDs are in his car. I can't just walk away without my CDs."

My mother is like Dane Cook's character, but when it comes to all things that equate to her happiness. She worries about things she can not fix, she comes up with barriers to her own happiness, she plays the victim card every chance she gets, but when we get into a serious conversation about her making some important life choices she responds with the likes of, if she "hadn't sacrificed her life for us, she wouldn't be in the place she is in now." Or, if her life hadn't been destroyed by this and that, she might be able to live the life she always wanted.

We say, "Okay, Mom, so now what?"
 
She says, "I can't just move - it would be too hard on Zelly."

Zelly is our golden retriever...

We look at her and say, "Okay, Mom, that's an excuse."

The thing is, it sucks to pat someone on the back during a repetitive pity party. You want to just shake them awake and yell, "If you aren't happy, change it! If you need something different, do something different. If you don't like where you are, go!"

However, if there is something that I've learned from growing up in my family, it's that you can't change anyone, no matter how hard you want to. Instead, you must learn to accept them for who they are.

I'm doing my best to accept my mother for who she is. I'm trying to come to terms with the fact that she sees the world a whole lot differently than I do. I figure, if I went through a divorce, I would be sitting in a developing country on a beach, figuring out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I'd go all Eat, Pray, Love on my life and go learn a language in another place, go backpack into the mountains, or chill in a rad location I'd always wanted to move to. My mom...hasn't quite got there.

I'm reading a lot of Carlos Castaneda right now, and one thing he makes me think about is that we all have our fears, but we have to face our fears. It is scary when life is ripped up from under us. It is terrifying when the world is shaken up, discombobulated and unlike what we've always known, but I believe that it is infinitely more haunting to imagine a world where you never seized that uncertainty and took advantage of your opportunities to live a different life.

I said to my mom, "You are in a unique situation where you can work on creating better relationships with those around you. Whether that is with your friends, your family, your daughters, what have you, you have the opportunity to focus on cultivating better relationships with others, as well as with yourself."

But, the pity party plays on. And, I worry about her. I worry about her priorities, about her goals, about how she sees herself, and about what she dreams of creating for herself. I just don't get it. I hope, for her sake, that she takes a second to look around - at what she has and either accept it, or harness the courage to move on from it.

She laughs when we talk about Carlos Castaneda, because she hears talk about Peyote, spirit animals, and existential questions, and she brushes them past with the wave of her hand, because, to her, they are simply not important.

She tells me about her living situation, her job, her baggage, the story of no resolution, and I brush them past, because, I too, believe that the things she is hung up on are not important.

I wonder, when will we see eye to eye?

Discovering The Land of Enchantment

This week, I have been increasingly stoked on Santa Fe, New Mexico. I think it is an amazing place to live and I straight up want to yell it from on top of a mountain.

Preaching about Santa Fe has become one of my regular activities, though, I have to say that when I was growing up in northern New Mexico, I couldn't wait to get the fuck out. I literally had no appreciation for the place and I felt like instead of being "The Land of Enchantment", New Mexico was more like "The Land on Entrapment."

I mean, I was an angst-y 17 year old and on top of that, I looked around me and saw those who lived here as just being the unfortunate ones who couldn't catch a break or didn't get out of the state while they still could. Yup, that's a lot of ill feeling towards a place. However, when the state only had one area code for the entire place - yes, I kid you not, the whole state had one area code until I was 18 years old - 505, it was easy to feel a little bit claustrophobic. It was if everyone was in each other's business and I thought this place had nothing to offer me. So, I ran from the 505 as soon as I was free from my parents overprotective clutches and I took off...never to return again! Ever!

Until I came back for real a couple of months ago. But, surprisingly, I didn't find the state that I had forsaken all of those years before. In fact, living in Santa Fe is a much different experience than I have ever known, because I keep meeting people who...want to be here. And, on top of that, I keep meeting young people, and rad young people at that, who have chosen, on their own, to move HERE from OTHER states! Hah! Mind blowing, right?

There is a sense of excitement and passionate energy swirling through the air of Santa Fe. Since I work at a liberal little place with a pretty high turn over rate, I get to meet people all of the time who are just moving to Santa Fe now and are psyched on it. They gush to me about the captivating landscape, the sunshine, the art scene, the outdoor activities, and the laid back lifestyle that they are setting into. Oh, and the kindness of the people here! One guy, who I work with, was telling me how he just moved here from the east coast and was also working in a deli there, but he said that the customers there were nothing like those here, where most everyone is friendly and nice to interact with. As he continued about his feelings regarding Santa Fe, I realized that it was the narrative that I am hearing from people all over the place. People are moving to Santa Fe with romantic notions and getting enchanted by the new age medicine, art, and community aspect that this city provides.

It's funny when you return to a place, or have the opportunity to look at it through a different lens. I even told my dad the other day, as we hiked through the golden aspens that decorate the Sangre de Cristo mountains on one of those "Indian summer" kind of days (sunny and summery though it is almost November), that I could be completely happy if I stayed in Santa Fe. I told him about the interesting and amazing people I keep meeting here, the opportunities I have to partake in outdoor activities in this incredible weather, and the chance to explore a place that I once knew so well, like I'm a tourist, makes me feel like I'm falling in love with the place for the first time.

I think New Mexico is not the kind of place that is traditionally beautiful, like a Hawaiian sunset, but it is beautiful just the same. If you take the time to notice the expansive blue sky juxtaposed with a landscape riddled with drama and emotion, if you get to spend time talking to people who have a strong sense of history and a pride for their culture, and if you let the excitement and energy of those around you entice you with their art and magic, this place will reveal itself to you, and when it does, you will see the beauty.

He's part donut, part jalapeño, a quarter cupcake and all-around awesome

On September 25, 2012, the Santa Fe Reporter published an article on one person who I

am personally obsessed with. I love his entire outlook on life and I just think he is all around

awesome. Plus, we need more people in this world who are like this. With so many stories all of the

time about people doing bad things to each other and not being loving and what no, I literally think

this guy is an inspiration. I mean how many people do you know who have enthusiasm like this -

holy smokes, he's a personal hero of mine. And, you best believe that next time I drive past him on my

way to work, I'm going to be honking and throwing peace signs. Word. Hah! This literally makes me

happy just to read.

Character Driven

He's part donut, part jalapeño, a quarter cupcake and all-around awesome

Enrique Limón

Three times a week, Micah Ortega becomes a donut.
“I’m ready, man!” he exclaims in a deafening, raspy, Randy “Macho Man” Savage baritone as he enters Whoo’s Donuts on a recent Wednesday.
“I need to kinda get the mojo going—you know, turn up the engine,” he says, making a revving motion with his hands.
Ortega says he gets his mojo from “L-O-V-E, baby,” and after donning a glittery, Michael Jackson-style glove, he begins his transformation.

Today, he’s wearing black pants, a red athletic shirt, gold-framed glasses, Mardi Gras beads and a striped top hat. For good measure, he throws in a Party City-purchased pimp cane with a sparkly handle.

“The more glitter you have on, the more people are like, ‘Whoa! What’s going on over there? Is that an alien?’” he says, bursting into a maniacal cackle. In the bakery’s production area, he approaches a giant felt donut costume.
“This is an intimate moment right here,” he says, making sense out of a pair of suspenders that hold the front and back parts of the costume together, then gently putting it on.
“Then, I make sure I’m OK,” he says, staring at his reflection in an industrial refrigerator with a glazed look in his eyes.
The look complete, he picks up his “secret weapon”—a wooden sign he fashioned himself—and gets in the zone.

Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning for the past three months, this has been Ortega’s routine: After checking in with the staff at Whoo’s, the 36-year-old former pre-med student dons a life-sized donut costume and stands curbside, hyping the fritter emporium.

It’s not easy, but Ortega has the dedication—and zaniness—to make it work.
“Regular people think I’m homeless, and homeless people think I’m crazy,” he says.
“I’ve had people throw money [at me] and say, ‘Hey man, here ya go.’ Who cares? It’s beautiful. I get drunk people coming, and they’ll play the instruments with me. It’s like a big party, actually,” he laughs. “It’s supposed to be, you know?”

Although being the only giant fritter in the city might seem isolating, Ortega isn’t alone today: His father, Jim Ortega, is unloading some tricks of his own from the pair’s Mitsubishi Montero. After being estranged for most of Micah’s adult life, they now work in tandem.
“I just moved here a year ago, man. Just to be with Dad,” the human donut says. “I wanted to reinvent myself. I wanted to do something different, you know, and this is working out for both of us.”
The elder Ortega takes a shiny Bach Mercedes trumpet out of its case, props himself next to the entrance to Whoo’s parking lot and starts playing “Stormy Weather” like a pastry Pied Piper.
“It takes it to a higher level, and people sure do enjoy it,” he says between notes.
He gazes at his son’s quirky getup.
“He was always an entertainer,” Ortega Sr. says of his son, “trying to make people laugh [and] be comfortable with themselves, consoling them when they have a problem, even though he’s not certified.”
“I’m a certified something, though!” Donut Man says, having visited the neighboring Body Up Nutrition for his “lifeline,” a black and green tea with a shot of energy.
But for Ortega, the costumed performance is more than just entertainment—it’s a bona fide business model. His one-man marketing business, Second Glance Promotions, has become so popular that Ortega has run out of hours in the work week, and he’s on the hunt for like-minded hires.
“I’m looking for some more freaks…freaks like me,” he says as he walks to the corner of Cerrillos Road and St. Francis Drive—or, as he likes to call it, “the intersection of the universe.”
“Yeah, baby!” he shouts at oncoming traffic. Initially, he gets no response; it’s still early, and people seem like they’re in a hurry to get to work. “The buses are awesome; they honk all the time,” he says—but even the bus drivers don’t seem to notice him.
“She was probably blinded by the light or is having a crappy day,” he says of one impervious driver. “You get old people here; you get cholos—everybody loves donuts; people are just a little sleepy today.”
Determined, he starts beatboxing to the music in his head. “The main thing is to connect with the audience,” he says, the maniacal laugh making a thunderous encore.
The third time’s a charm: The operator behind the wheel of the whisking Rail Runner gives him an approving nod.
“What up, Santa?” he roars. “What up, beautiful? Call me,” he tells a lass in a VW Beetle, his aforementioned mojo newly vindicated.
He’s breakdancing and engaging passersby with undeniable gusto; the energizing tea is clearly living up to its claims—he’ll see Justin Timberlake’s SNL Omeletteville character and raise it an Accu-Check blood glucose monitoring system. As Ortega performs, the melodious sound of his father’s trumpet floats across the busy street.

Ortega’s business model is decidedly lo-fi: It depends almost exclusively on the craziness of his costumes and his own, personal charisma. But Whoo’s co-owner Jeff Keenan says there’s no question that it works.

“It’s definitely worth doing,” Keenan says, calling Ortega’s thrice-weekly shift “the hardest-working two hours you’ll ever see anyone do.”
Ortega can attest to that. It’s 50 degrees outside, and his face is dripping with sweat. He started his shift 15 minutes ago and has another hour and 45 minutes to go.
“I used to work out, until I got this job,” he says. “[Now,] I’m doing cardio almost like, freaking six hours a day. I mean, this is crazy...this is like Tae Bo, or something.” Ever the entrepreneur, he jokes, “I’m thinking about getting a workout video going.”
Though some might assume otherwise, he says his job cuts the financial mustard. “I probably do above minimum wage,” he says, adding that he charges clients anywhere from $15 to $20 per hour, depending on how many days the gig will be and “what they want to rock.”
Keenan says the reward his business reaps is three-fold. After witnessing Ortega’s mojo-infused performance, some customers will come in right away. Others will mentally landmark the location and come back later. Still others, who haven’t seen the semi-legendary character firsthand but have heard rumors of his existence around the office water cooler, will tactfully wander in, too.
“It’s pretty amazing the impact it has on the business,” Keenan says.
Whoo’s can probably use the extra bump: It’s within walking distance of a 24-hour Dunkin Donuts, a McDonald’s and a green mermaid-emblazoned sign heralding the opening of a new, drive-thru Starbucks.
Ortega, however, is unfazed.
“Dude, the stakes are higher for them,” he says. “Because I’m here, they should be scared—because people love this stuff, man.”

Several piercing, woo-hoo! battle cries later, Ortega has finished his shift at Whoo’s and is headed to the next gig: promoting discounted haircuts at Salon de Bella on Rodeo Road. He loads the donut costume into his SUV and pulls out the next prop.
“These are six-foot-tall scissors, bro,” he explains. To err on the side of caution, he carries anything and everything he might need inside his car. “Sometimes I’ll have four gigs, and I have to change in the truck,” he says.
Other cartoonish objects in the “party mobile” include a giant electronic cigarette that emits real smoke, which he uses to promote The Vapor Store.
He pitched that client so well that his dad broke his pack a day habit and is now keen on e-puffers. “I’m down to about six or seven cigarettes a day,” Ortega’s dad says. “It’s working!”
His lungs given a rest, Ortega Sr. says he’ll belt out “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” on the horn while his son is at that gig. “It’s a joint effort,” he adds, a packet of Virginia Slims 120s peeking from his shirt pocket.
It’s this father-son combo that has turned the once strained pair into symbiotic accomplices and sets them apart from run-of-the-mill sign carriers hawking no activation fees or a plushie beaver trying to move used cars.
When asked how he responds when his buddies inquire about his son’s professional life, Ortega Sr. says, “I say he promotes businesses.”
“We make fun of that, you know,” he continues, when asked what happens when friends press for details. “Our neighbor has a son [who] plays football for the Chicago Bears, and he’s on the line, and he’s 6’5”. ‘And what does your son do?’ he’ll ask. Well. ‘He’s a donut, and sometimes he’s a little cupcake,’” he chuckles. “I’m proud of him, though. I’m very proud of him.”

Twisted Scissor: Ortega channeling his inner Dee Snider.

Along with the supersized shears, his son’s costume for the hair salon also includes metallic pants and a Dee Snider-approved wig.

“I’m spent, dude,” Ortega says. “I’m trying to get my second wind, man. This wig is going to help out.”
“Wait a minute, weren’t you a donut earlier?” a regular, in for his fade, says when he sees Ortega. The staff giggles.
“He’s a blessing,” salon head honcho Valerie Garcia says, adding that Ortega has been “the best form of advertising” she’s ever contracted.
Ortega conceives and embellishes each of the costumes he uses at his various gigs. In effect, they’re a reflection of his own creativity. When coming up with the salon costume, he says, “I was just like, ‘What will people stop and go ‘wow’ about?’ You’ve got hair, you got scissors…you don’t have to be a brain surgeon to know there’s a salon somewhere in the vicinity,” he laughs, holding onto a jug of V8 Fusion juice, his fuel of choice for the 11:30 am-1:30 pm shift.



Standing at the corner of Rodeo Road and Zia Drive, he’s ready for business, each honk from passing cars feeding his “ultra rock star” persona.
“It’s not all glamour, baby. It’s hard being a rock star,” he says, adjusting his Technicolor ’fro. “People aren’t ready for this man,” he hollers. “They’re like, ‘What the heck!’”
An elderly lady witnessing the shenanigans firmly presses the walk sign button, her eyes expressing a mix of awe and horror.
“Some people just like to be silly, I guess,” she says, fiercely clasping her purse as she finally crosses the road.
Ortega carries on.

His job, Ortega says, cuts the financial mustard.

Like every superhero before him, he has an interesting back story. His parents divorced when he was four. After his little sister was born with spina bifida—a congenital disease that can result in neural problems and sometimes paralysis—a young, musically and artistically inclined Ortega knew he was put in this world to make a change.


“I wanted to find a cure for paralysis. I wanted to help her—that was my dream,” he says.
He enrolled in a pre-med program at Oral Roberts University in Tulsa, Okla. One year from graduating, “life happened,” and he dropped out—but Ortega sees the positive even in that.
“What I really found out, after that world crashed down, [was that] maybe I can use that gift—which is songwriting and helping people—maybe I can use that to eventually help fund research to help my sister; use my gift to help in some way, rather than just finding a cure straight-up,” he says.
Still, his mother was recently unemployed, and Ortega took a string of odd jobs that barely made ends meet. Eventually, he landed a gig as the ringman at a “cowboy auction” in Tulsa, displaying everything from diamond rings to cattle à la Vanna White. It was there that he discovered his knack for marketing, devising a way to raise the bar for himself and his coworkers.
“They were just wearing plaid, and I was like, ‘Dude, we’re selling Baccarat crystal—we need to be upping it.’ So I wore a tux and white gloves,” he recalls.
That choice would lay down the groundwork for the rest of his life.
“They just let me go crazy, for some reason, during the auction,” he recalls. “I was able to read the crowd; they fed me. I was able to read them to see if what I was doing was making them happy—[and] so it kind of evolved from there.” Ortega found that not only was he good at promoting, but also that he truly enjoyed it.
“That was the beginning of me doing what I love,” he says. “I loved Thursday nights, man. They unleashed it; they said, ‘You can go crazy’—and I mean, I pointed at people, I yelled, I yipped and I wore a cowboy outfit, an Easter bunny outfit...”
But six months into his move to the Southwest, the former rabbit again had trouble landing a job.
His options running out, he stepped in to apply as a waiter at Joe’s Diner.
“I said a prayer that day,” he recalls. “I said, ‘God, please let me do a job that I can be me at, help people while doing it and make money.’”
They weren’t hiring. But before hitting the pavement, he noticed a waving cowboy leading people into the joint. “I was drawn to him. I said, ‘That dude’s cool, man.’”
Ortega approached the wrangler and started talking about his background. “He owned his own promotion company. Little did I know that I was pitching myself to him,” he says.
He landed a three-hour-a-week stint and, after the buckaroo relocated to Arizona, the gig was all his. Word of mouth quickly spread.
“People want to see the fantastic,” he explains. “They’re tired of the normal.” It’s all part of his plan for world—or at least Santa Fe—domination.
“I would love to have 25-100 entertainers, mimes, jugglers—dude, whoever! Just crazy freaks outside on every corner rocking it hard for everybody,” he says.

On another day, Ortega stands outside Wow Dawgs wearing a “hip-hop hot dog” costume, talking about that the City Different is ready for the marketing gremlins that, with his guidance, would sprout from his foam-covered back.

“I think that they want it, man,” the accidental performing artist says. “There are a lot of people that want to unleash that inner craziness inside them, here in Santa Fe—it would be like Indian Market, 365 days a week.”
Ever the pitchman, he shares his company’s slogan: “Second Glance will give your business a second chance.”
“There’d be a yeti on the corner over here, scissors over here,” he muses. “It would be like heaven on Earth. Or like Disneyworld on Earth.”
His 40-plus-hour workweek about to wrap up, he’s now dressed as a red pepper for Jalapeños, a Mexican restaurant and food truck.
He accessorizes the outfit with a pair of gray rattlesnake boots and a yellow raincoat for an effect he likens to “the Batman of the desert.”
He’s twirling a pair of maracas like nunchucks. Moments later, a hippie-looking dude, waiting for the light to turn, hops out of his car and joins Ortega by playing the bongos.
Wrapping up a rousing rendition of “Tequila,” the elder Ortega is confident that his son is destined for stardom.
“He’s already an icon, but he’s going to be an icon-con, like King Kong,” he says.
“You know, Brad Pitt was a chicken before he got into stardom. That kind of encourages me when I feel depressed,” Ortega Jr. says.
“Troy, baby! Watch out, Angelina!” he shouts.
Later, as Ortega stands next to the Jalepeños food truck, the topic turns back to his sister. “She’s like ‘Micah, why don’t you get a real job?’ Ha ha! She’s awesome; she’s cool.” His rough voice then softens as he shares how much he enjoys making her laugh.
“You know, people live in hell sometimes—and you just want to make heaven for them. You just want to give them a piece of heaven, basically.”
His dad’s amplified voice booms from a megaphone on the opposite side of the block. “Buy one, get one free here at Jalapeños. We’re at the corner of St. Francis Drive and West Alameda.”
Dad, it turns out, has suffered “four or five heart attacks and a mini-stroke,” so Ortega Jr. sees his creative marketing business not just as a career, but also as a chance to make up for lost bonding time.
“For him to be able to be out here playing the trumpet…I think I would do it just for him, so he has a good time,” he says. The fact that I get paid for it is straight up just gravy.”
Pensive, he reflects for a moment, and then his businessman side takes over.
“Just don’t tell the owners that, OK?"

Big Girl Jobs

Working part-time at the food co-op has provided me with everything that I wanted from a job when I returned to the United States. I work minimally, meet awesome people, and I still get a pay check every 2 weeks. Perfect. In fact, being in Santa Fe has given me the opportunity to live out my life in pretty much the most perfect way, for me - in my current mental space. Though it would be great to have a job where I made, you know, to make some "real" money (Real as in more than minimum wage for part-time work...haha, oh, full-time, there's an idea!), it is really awesome being able to work at such a laid back place with like minded folks and for the time, I dig it.

Today, while climbing up in the Jemez mountains, the mountain range that skirts Los Alamos, my adolescent retreat for hiking, camping, fishing, and socializing due to countless hours spent driving down intricate networks of dirt roads in cars borrowed from parents as we searched for elaborate party spots (outside of jurisdiction and away from forest service patrols), my friend asked me what I was trying to do once I returned from Korea. I thought - "Well, shoot. Coming back from Korea, eh? I guess there is just so much that I want to do still - school, classes, experiences, you name it, and I'm so young, that I'll just keep following my passions and see what happens."

I do want to get certified for this and qualified for that, travel here, and live there, but in the same sentence we joke about the luxury of having disposable income. This makes me start thinking to myself - do my life goals hinder me from ever getting on that road to, I don't know, stability? And, if I prioritize stability, does that mean sacrificing the 8 year old attitude I have in regard to my dreams and expectations for myself. Hey, I just want to go with the flow and do what I'm passionate about. Haha, in fact, it was just the other day that as my mom began to badger me about law school again and the possibility of me actually setting out a serious life plan, I responded by explaining my dream to convert a van into a mobile home and cruise around the continental United States. My poor mother. Yet, in all seriousness, due to the ambiguity of my course, I sometimes worry that I am at a crossroads, as so many others are at this age - twenty something and really just starting out on their own. There is an emphasis for people to settle down and get serious - like our lives belong to two different avenues - a crossroads between "the road" and settling down. Between travel and stability. Between part-time purgatory and career moves.

As a response to this whole big existential crisis, here's the deal with this whole living-in-the-real-world-thing, we don't know the end result of our decisions; we can't foresee our 80 year old selves reminiscing on "what-ifs" or dwelling on regrets, so how are we supposed to know what is best? For one, I believe that stuff makes people crazy, but all that we have right now are our whims and desires. I say, go after what's good - no matter what that is. It's all subjective, right? I know the road isn't for everyone and I also know that many of us have already made some pretty life altering decisions that make us feel like the time for dealing with all of this is in the past, if it can even be broken down to a two possible outcomes/a delineated fork in the road/a heads or tails kind of deal.

I guess what I've come to realize is that we are sometimes so hung up on tomorrowland, that we forget about what's going on around us. Working at the co-op has taught me a lot about people, about those from different walks of life, and has made me appreciate this city for what it has offered me. Though I'm still making minimum wage, am barely an adult, and don't have any real stability or possessions to speak of (hah!), by focusing on living passionately in Santa Fe, I have been thriving in this new environment and realizing that maybe it doesn't have to be a choice between one way or the other, that I can shun this socially imposed binary, and if I keep focusing on living out this life in my passionate, 8 year old way, big girl jobs might be in my future, but for now my priorities lie in meeting rad people and scraping by, and, I dig it.

Mr. Genuine

Flagstaff, Arizona is chock-o-block with colorful characters. Back in 2010, going out on a Wednesday night in that mountain town meant glitter, neon, and the expectation of seeing a plethora of "gingers", folks donning literal fox tails, and new age hippie types getting down to the get down. I went back to Flagstaff at the beginning of August, this year, and I felt right at home when I turned to a girl at the bar who resembled a cat due to her DIY cat face paint across her otherwise 80's inspired self. Characters. 

Stray from the ASU wannabe stream, shun Greek life, and embrace the character club that becomes Flagstaff's alternative bar scene; you'll get quite a taste of local culture. The character who all of my guys friends were hung up on when I was back at 7,000 feet was an individual who was just "soooo damn genuine". "Genuine in what way," was my question. "Just soooo damn genuine," was their resounding answer. "You'll know what we are talking about when you meet him," they told me. "The guy just oozes genuine-ness."
 
And, girls apparently, love it. (Which was most definitely why the guys proceeded into a full explanation of the "head tilt", direct eye contact, and slow, complimentary emotional tone of speaking which scores Mr. Genuine hot chicks in Flag, while my friends battle in snark-y conversations on the sidelines.) Disclaimer: Boys, if you are reading this, I totally love you and your snark-y selves.

I can see how it works, though. I mean, I don't need a guy who tilts his head to a near 45 degree angle when he holds my hand, looks into my eyes, and lathers on a nauseating layer of (Are you really being genuine?) genuineness, when he opens his mouth. However, the reason I'm explaining all of this is because I am being driven crazy by this dude, who I work with, who keeps trying to engage with me on that bickering word battle level that is just self-conscious-boy-flirting, but honestly, comparatively, I'm kinda wondering to myself - where the hell is a little straight talking genuine-ness? The thing is, most of my life, I've been in some little debate world, (literally) where as a member of the debate team, hanging out with debaters incessantly, my life became about nit-picking counter plans, arguing about the implication of words and economic policies, obsessing over fake-world bullshit and trivialities stemming from the Economist, and seeing this as a normal way of engaging with people. I looked for partners in friendship and in love who could 3-point an argument or at least didn't shy away from cynicism, political banter, or pretentious elitist debate game playing! Hah! Holy cow! 

However, I'm not the same girl I used to be. I don't get off on belittling patronizing or condescending quips that I used to see as confidence or the ability for a guy to "hold his own". I don't. I want to surround myself with those who prioritize respect for people, not a desperation to be "right". This guy talks down to me in front of others, then has the audacity to announce to me that he has to ask me a question, but he has to wait until after work...doesn't ask me right away, but lets it sit out there - hovering over our next handful of interactions, though he continues to make a big deal about needing to ask me a question. All of this makes me ultimately uncomfortable (Is he actually going to say something or are we about to share another weird silence due to the unresolved question mark that needs attending to? i.e. "Buck up, princess"), but then he doesn't ever get the courage to ask me out - just asks me about where to go and get a good beer - all while belittling me as an excuse to converse with me in our work place. Oh gosh - this is a rant. Tell us how you really feel, right?  

What I've come to realize is that though I'm interested in people's reading lists, I'm not trying to date you because of it. If you have a gift of gab and are quick on your feet, that's awesome, but the manner in which we speak should not leave me wounded by zingers. We live in a world where we underestimate the importance of making people feel comfortable; we say things to watch reactions and we test the water before we show our emotional selves. If head tilting and deep pools for irises are all part of some guy's "game", at least they result in an overdose of sincerity rather than the feeling of being put "on tilt" and needing to assert your intellect, as a justification for respect, before a dude will just buy you a beverage.

I like my brothers to be snark-y, but my threshold is all tapped out. I'm not down with getting to know folks through pissing contests and resume face-offs. I like comfort and characters. Hah! I like gingers, fox tails, uninhibited dancing, and if a guy tells me he used to be fat, I know I'll love him for life. It's because he probably doesn't realize how beautiful he is, but he's seen it all, and after all those years he didn't feel like a million dollars - he compensated by developing a stellar personality, unparalleled sense of humor, and an enormous heart. 

I'm not going to make assumptions about what is successful in relationships and dating, nor will I make blanket generalizations about what women want. I just know that we all can learn a lesson from Mr. Genuine. In a world so ready to blanket emotions with sarcasm and snark attacks, it's almost a novelty for a someone to put meaning behind a compliment. Honesty, with our emotions, requires a hell of a lot more confidence than intellectual sparring. Bravery is shown through wholeheartedness and is way more endearing than sucker punches.

In Flagstaff, the San Francisco peaks edge the town and they stand as tall, in many cases, as the walls around bleeding hearts.  So go on, maybe tilt your head a little, you know, it takes real confidence to just show you care.