The effects of rejection

So, let's get back to the writing stuff.  If I wanted a livejournal, I would have opened a livejournal.  No, this is Blogger, it's held to a higher standard.

Now, I've been rejected so many times from so many different magazines that I've started trying to guess what the rejection will say.  How will they start, with the bland sort of

"I hope this finds you well"

Or will they tell me how incredibly small my chances were of getting accepted in the first place

"We receive so many submissions"

Will they soften the blow?

"And while your submission is excellent"

Or will they just go at it

"This is not what we're looking for"

Will they wish me well?

"We wish you luck in your future endeavors?"

Or will they do something like

"Cheers!
- The Drabblecast Team"

Yeah, that last one was for real.  Cheers! You're rejected.  It's like breaking up with someone and nudging them going "Good knowin' ya, eh?"

Or nice while it lasted or something like that.

Anyway, one of the side effects of rejection is acceptance.

I got accepted to be published in Underground Voices Magazine, which is not so much a magazine as it is a website.  But it's something! It's $40 of something.  That's right, it's my first time getting paid for my writing.  I'm gonna go spend that money on booze and drugs.  Just like a real artist!

Another side effect of rejection is this:
"Dear Mixer Magazine,
  I'm not going to lie to you.  This story will be published someday by someone.  That someone could be you.  That's the opportunity I'm presenting today, the opportunity to publish this story.  Think about how you'd feel if later on in life you woke up, had your morning coffee and set about reading your daily intake of literary magazines and suddenly BAM! There's my story.  Printed in a magazine that is most definitely not yours.  How would you deal with the regret?

  So do yourself a favor.  Don't live a life filled with regret.  Publish this story."

A writer's apathy is a fearsome thing.

Aggressive impersonality

There is something aggressively impersonal about online classes.

The drop down box says I can laugh
Raise my hand
Applaud
Or agree.

The professor can deny my request to speak.

If this is where higher education is headed, count me out.

Actually, don't.  Now I want to be a professor even more.  I can give an hour of lecture from my couch and get paid six figures.  Cha-ching!

My stars and garters

That expression is peachy keen.  I just watched the last bit of X-Men 3, which is actually directly related to my travel blogging.  On the flight back, I watched "The Fighter", which I mistook for "The Wrestler", thinking I was watching a movie that everyone had recommended.  I also watched the first half of X-Men 3 and was thoroughly unimpressed.  But some latent masochism in me made me watch the rest of the movie.

Beast says, while flying into the final conflict with the big bad guy and almost certain death: "My stars and garters".

Sometimes I think the people who write these big budget movies are just constantly drunk.

Anyway, I wanted to post a quick update to show I am still breathing.  Grad school has started, and with it a dizzying amount of social interaction.  I never realized one could actually have trouble hearing themselves think.  But after 8 hours of telling people where I'm from, what do I do, what's my goals, I needed to flee the room just to have a few inane thoughts to myself.

More to come.

Portugal Day 5: Why Couchsurfing is the most amazing thing in the world and you are incorrect for thinking otherwise

So I spent my last day in Portugal running up and down hills, which is essentially how I spent every other day in Portugal.  Technically it wasn't my last day, today is.  But today I went to the waterfront, sat down and found everything else I wanted to do today suddenly become a lot less interesting.  So here I am.  Writing a blog.  Because that's what first tier tourism is all about.  Doing the same thing in a different place.

I went to Sintra, which is a little city outside of Lisbon and home to one of the most elaborate, confusing castles I've ever seen.  This one, right here:

The picture doesn't do it justice, but in there are essentially three styles of castle: Arab, Medieval and Gothic-esque.  It's called the Palacio Nacional de Pena and was built to be the summer home of King Ferdinand II in 1842.  So, a kind of new castle, all things considered.  Apparently, it was home to the first indoor bathroom in Portugal.  High-tech, y'know.

I should actually say we went to Sintra, not because I feel royal today, but because I was picked up from Lisbon, driven to Sintra and guided up the hill by a Couchsurfer who turned out to be the nicest man alive.  He not only inundated me with Portuguese history, he guided me around the whole of the park around the palace, which consists of stuff like this:

And this:

So.  Valuable guide.  The whole park cost 14 euros, which made it essentially theme park price.  That's why I felt entitled to climb a few piles of rocks and whine that there was no cotton candy.

The second picture is of an old Moorish fort called, Castel Do Mouros.  It's much more my style, as the Pena Palace (Which translated to Pain Palace, ha ha ha ha ha) is a bit too modern, a bit too clean, a bit too full of tourists smelling like suntan lotion and cultural ambivalence.

Castel Do Mouros is like "No, screw you, there are stairs and they are steep and uneven and you just have to suck it up." Just like the Moors.

Back in Sintra, we had some tasty pastries.   One is called a Queijada, which is a kind of cookie filled with a cheese-related sweet mixture and the other is called a Travesseiro which, from what I can tell, is made out of crack cocaine.  It's flaky and sugary on the outside and filled with this sweet nutty goo that I wanted injected directly into my veins.

If that wasn't enough, the couchsurfer asked if I wanted to see the coast.  There's only one answer to that question and so we were off.  Within fourty minutes we arrived at the most western point in Europe.  Face with the full majesty of the Atlantic unfurled before me like a second sky I immediately put my thumbs in the air and said:

"Wassup America!"

Later, we went back to the couchsurfer's house and he cooked a really traditional Portuguese dish called Bacalhau à Brás which apparently means Bacalhau with potato chips.  Don't get me wrong, this was the most delicious substance I had ingested in all of Portugal.  But it kind of blew my mind that one gets it from adding potato chips to frozen fish.

Then I went to sleep in the amazingly comfortable bed the couchsurfer had prepared for me.  Honestly.  I'm not going to say that anyone who thinks couchsurfing is a good idea needs to get their head checked.  That's a bit too much.

I will say that they're wrong.  And I have a SD card of amazing pictures and a belly full of cod fish to back me up.

Side Note: Stories from the hostel

Let me set the scene.

There's some beers being passed around.  I'm in the middle of a conversation with someone when I guy I haven't talked to brushes by me.  But before moving past, he puts his hand on my stomach and begins to rub it.

It took me a second to realize this was really happening.  And then another second for me to remove his hand and tell him flatly, "Don't touch me, man."

He responds by looking both surprised and hurt, neither of which he had reason to be, and he begins to move on his way.  But, before moving completely out of view, he steps back and says:

"I'm not gay."

Well, what's important is that he tries.

Portugal Day 4: That's right, I forgot I'm still traveling

So I'm back in Lisbon, and let me tell you...

I forgot I was traveling.  And that traveling = stress.  Even in a spot as cool as Lisbon, if there's stress to be had, I will find it and rub it all over myself.

I got myself a fancy hostel as a reward for being so thrifty, which I guess defeats the purpose.  The hostel is posh, with scrambled egg breakfasts, a lounge with jazz playing and iPads to rent.  Yes, iPads.  No, they couldn't just let you borrow a functional and portable laptop, they need to give you Mac products.  That's the kind of posh this hostel was.  Mac product posh.

But I didn't even stay for a minute, I jetted out to see more of Lisbon.  The woman at the hostel advised that I take care as Lisbon is not just number one in hostels.  It's also number one in pick-pockets.  So, that little seed planted in my mind, I started suspecting every person that got too close.  I shoved my hands in my pockets and gripped my belongings as if these thieves had the capacity to phase through the fabric of my pants and steal.

I went to the Tower of Belem, which used to be a fort and prison and is now a bastion for ripping off tourists. Five euros to get in and wait in hallways as other tourists took pictures of each other in front of cannons.  On the way back, I ran into a random band playing in the park.  And, unlike most random concerts I run into, these guys didn't sound like they were holding instruments for looks.  Even more, they were GOOD.

Then I went to get pastries at this place that was famous enough to have an aggravating line of whiny white tourists bustling at the door.  It's called a Pastel de Belem and consists of a little custardy mess held by a flaky crust.

It is delicious.  There's not another word for it.

Next came the mistake.  Across the river from Lisbon is another city (technically, apparently it's sort of included in Lisbon, but people in Lisbon don't like to admit it).  From the waterfront of Lisbon you can see a statue that looks reasonably sized from that far away, but is actually an enormous stone Jesus with his arms outstretched as if asking why the fuck did they decide to put him in the middle of no where.

Because that's where he was.  I rode the ferry over, waited a half hour for a bus, got harassed by crazies on said bus, wait another half an hour while the bus navigated narrow streets with all the color and variety of canned meat and then finally I arrived at the top of the hill.

And the park was closed.  That's right, an enormous park with beautiful views of Lisbon is closed before sunset because fuck Portugal.

I remembered, then, that I'm traveling and as a result, periodically I have to hate my life.  The bus driver laughed at me (good-naturedly) and I contented myself to take pictures from behind the gate and kick the door.

I spent the night in Barrio Alto and continued to be impressed by how cool it is.  Looking back over this entry all that happened was I saw some sights, listened to great music and ate pastry.  Which doesn't, I guess, give me any reason to be stressed.  Sometimes I forget that I'm on vacation.

Portugal Day 2 and 3: Now with Pictures!

I missed some blog entries due to surplus of coolness. Lisbon turned out get gradually more awesome the more time I spent there. My first night I went out to Barrio Alto, which means High Neighborhood which is not just a name. The neighborhood is, in fact, elevated. To get there you either take a graffiti-ed trolley or you walk up a monstrously long, monstrously steep hill.

Then you get this: 

So people climb.  Every night. Because Barrio Alto is amazing. The same twisty windy streets and architecture which just oozes history, but dotted with a bunch of bars selling cheap cocktails which people tend to take with them to the many scene overlooks that dot the neighborhood.

It's sickening how neat the area is. Like, actually makes me nauseous. And no, that's not just the cocktails, though they are delicious.

The past two days I spent in Lagos which is, in every sense of the word, a beach town. What locals there are, having no real place to go for vacation, are high-strung and kind of rude. All of the bars/restaurants have English menus with London prices. It still manages to have the cool streets and buildings, but underneath it's the same as any Jersey shore neighborhood. A land where time stand still during the winter and allows everyone to develop a keen sense of haughtiness that fizzes on through the summer.

Doesn't stop Lagos from being beautiful. 

There's not just beaches, but these enormous cliffs casting themselves in various dramatic formations out over the water. There are beaches to be sure, beautiful white-sand beaches with clear blue water. A number of the beaches can only be reached by boat and are therefore very secluded and therefore filled with naked people. I always am struck with wonder at how a woman with their boobs hanging out can just walk around like it ain't no thang. And how the husbands resist the urge to form a full body shield around their wife.

The hostel was filled with characters. And by characters, I mean 20-year-olds. I've finally hit the age where people stop saying “Oh, I thought you were older” and instead just nod and smile encouragingly as if I had just told them a story of how I conquered heroin addiction. Aw, you're so brave to be 26 and in a hostel.

I hung out with people until I remembered why I like to travel alone, and then I did. Not that I didn't have fun with them, though. Together we discovered why Port wine is so popular and later discovered why the streets are empty during most mornings. It was a beautiful thing.

But I'm ready to be back in Lisbon. I got a taste and I'm hungry for more.