Did We Just Become Best Friends?

     Paul Muldoon is considered a celebrity amongst poets. He is a professor of poetry at Princeton University, and was the Editor of Poetry at The New Yorker Magazine. Last night, I was privileged enough to hear him read a handful of his poems. He read a couple that I knew, including "Cuba," "Anseo," and "Meeting the British;" he also read a few that caught my attention, including a song that he'd written.

     I'm not quite sure, but I believe the song was titled "Comeback," and was about a musician longing for an old lover. In this song, Muldoon mentioned Bruce Springsteen and the Stone Pony, two things very close to my heart. As a Jersey boy, I've spent many nights inside and outside the Stone Pony, which is a small music venue in Asbury Park, New Jersey. This monument is also famous for being the birthplace of Bruce Springsteen's career. I myself have mentioned "The Pony" in songs of my own, and was ecstatic when Muldoon mentioned it.
     If given the chance, I don't think I would have asked Muldoon any specific question. Instead, I would have attempted to converse with him. He is a native of the County Armagh, my family's original home in Ireland. I would have loved to speak with him about whether or not he knew any of my uncountable family members, and then about his knowledge of and experience at the Stone Pony. God knows there are infinite stories from the Pony, and I'm sure Muldoon has a few good ones.

Yelling and Knowing

     Home is my favorite place on earth. Home is the ocean. It's crowded summers and empty winters, it's friends I wish would never leave and acquaintances I wish would get lost. Home is where I had my heart broken, where I broke a few hearts, and where I met the love of my life. Home is two hours away.
     When it comes to going home for a few days, I waste no time. This past weekend, I found myself sitting at the Fairfield train station at 11:45 a.m. waiting for a 12:30 train. Once to Grand Central Station, I strode through the streets of New York, passing city dwellers and J-walking in front of cabs. I needed to get to Penn Station in order to board a New Jersey Transit train bound for home, and I wanted to get there fast. After all, it was Halloween, and I was surprising my girlfriend for her birthday.
     I used my iPhone's GPS to navigate through the city streets, and finally found myself making a bee-line for Penn Station. Only two blocks away, I was sandwiched between two men that were attempting to avoid an oddly dressed hispanic woman that had backed up into them. I sighed as my 75 pound bag put a strain on my shoulder.
     I continued to the crosswalk that was a few feet ahead, and listened contently to the acoustic sessions that I had just downloaded. Suddenly, I heard an angry vibration behind me. What the Hell was that?
     I turned around and saw what looked to be a homeless man yelling at me. Me? What did I do?
     I took a headphone out of my right ear to listen to what he was saying.
     "--roll yer eyes! Why ya roll yer eyes!" He sounded illiterate.
     "I'm sorry?" I asked.
     "You rolled yer eyes at her! She's autistic, asshole!"
     I realized the man was babbling about the sigh I had let out when my the men sandwiched me. I wasn't rolling my eyes at a girl. I didn't even see a girl.
     "You got somethin' against autistic people, asshole?!"
     He didn't just say that. At least I wished he hadn't. He was about to wish he hadn't.
     I walked toward the man. I was a good foot taller than him, and at least thirty pounds heavier. The eyes of pedestrians commuting to work widened; they thought they were about to witness a brawl, but I had no intentions of fighting this man. Instead, I got so close to his face that our noses could have held up a marble notebook. "You think I rolled my eyes at her?" I asked.
     "I don't think! I know!" the man yelled, red faced and nervous.
     "And you think I have something against autistic people?"
     "That's right! You rollin' your eyes back there!"
     I took another step toward the man, and he took a step back. "I did not roll my eyes at that girl," I said quite angrily, "I rolled my eyes at my heavy bad that was putting heavy pressure on my shoulder. As for me having a problem with autistic people, I'd have to disagree on account of my brother being autistic."
    At this, the man was dumbfounded.
    I continued. "So how about you calm down, and go back to your friends." I turned around to see everyone at the crosswalk staring. They weren't stares of anger, but rather "way to go" stares. "You rolled your eyes!" The man yelled again from behind me, but I didn't look back. My headphones were already back in my ears.
    The lights turned green and I walked again toward Penn Station, but I couldn't help but replay the situation in my head for the rest of my trip. The man thought he was doing the right thing. He thought he was standing up for his friend, who was autistic. Had it been my brother and me in that situation, I probably would have done the same thing. The only thing that made me righteous was my side of the story. As bad as it may sound, maybe thats why he's homeless and I'm not. He yelled before he knew. I knew before I yelled.

The Things I Google

     It actually amazes me how much one can tell about a person through their search engine history, specifically Google. Children Google things they want for Christmas, the elderly Google genealogy in hopes of discovering more about their origins before they head for the big wheel in the sky, and everyone else Googles whatever pops into their heads.
     After looking into my own history, I chuckled a bit. Everything I've Googled in the past week could define me in a nutshell.
     Trucks for sale, song lyrics, guitar chords, writing internships, dog names, it''s obvious that I've put a little thought into my further through my search history. What will I do? What will I be? Cliche questions with constant unique answers.
     I want to be a writer. I want to be involved with music; whether that means writing about bands or concerts, or writing about the stock market while playing in a Jersey Shore bar band. Whatever makes me happy will be ideal, and until I discover what that is, I'll just have to keep on Googling.