Like most of you who are old enough to suffer from self awareness, I have a pretty solid idea of what I have inherited from my parents. I don’t mean the brown hair or a face void of chin. I mean the little things that end up making you who you are.

From my mom I got the inability to stop moving around my house tweaking things. From my dad I got a sense of personal duty that borders on (see: lies fully within the boundaries of) obsession.

Obsession sounds like a bad word, a thing which motivates and drives bad guys in movies and books. If you are an obsessive person, you know that obsession can have its downsides, but as optimists, we have to look on the bright side. And that bright side is that obsession is just how shit gets done.

I am obsessive about two things in life at this moment: writing and exercising. If you have known me for a long time, then one of these things made you laugh. Well, poop on you. Obviously, cultivating obsession in these particular areas of obsession doesn’t happen overnight; they’ve been several years in the making. Here’s how I developed as an obsessive.

Write in a Journal

For me, this is best done in the morning; for others it’s the evening. I like writing in a journal because I can plan out my whole day. This is in no way sexy writing. I do not craft and I do not consider this towards my day’s writing, it’s simply a way for me to map out my whole day.

I write it almost as a series of directives to myself. I will write 1,500 words for the book. I will make notes on two podcasts. Exercise will be pushups and crunches.

Sounds pretty banal and robotic? Good. That’s how it’s supposed to sound. Oh, just for poops and giggles, I always tell myself to have a great day.

Think Deep Work, Not Huge Sessions

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Today (or really tomorrow) marks the seven year anniversary of this blog. Twice a week, every Monday and Thursday, for seven years, I have brought my grandmother and a few others some sort of tidbit from my life or POV.

What has it brought me? Oh, people know a lot more about my cat than I feel comfortable with. My mother knows how much I drink. At times I hear a student use a joke I have written and it makes me sweat in horror-filled pride. I have gotten in trouble a few times when people didn’t take to my humor or the particular snark I was flinging.

How I viewed blogging in the beginning is vastly different from the reality I have come to know. I figured it was just a matter of time before I’d be vaulted to international blogging fame and that some literary agent would come out of the woodwork to offer me a six figure publishing contract in order to snatch up the brilliant blogging juice dripping out of my brilliant blogger’s brain. But this has not happened.

My readership is built of my extended community, and probably my blog has otherwise gone unnoticed on the gigantic internet. It exists there as one of surely millions of relatively unknown blogs like small roadside diners.

To those thinking of blogging or writing, this result might seem counter-intuitive. Why get into it if you aren’t going to make money or achieve fame?

Answer: because it could quite possibly be the best thing to do for your writing. The two best things I have done for my writing was a novel and this blog. The novel was bad. This is in not a plea for sympathy or an indirect request for validation or reassurance (no it was great!). The novel was the best I could do then. But it is not good by my standards now, and that’s because I’ve been writing daily for the seven years since it was published. And that’s a damn good thing. Imagine going into the shadowy corners of your parents’ attic and finding a box of your old journals from high school. How would you feel about the writing in those? Right.

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Of the places I have been, Ireland and the Czech Republic do pubs better than anyone else, despite massive differences in approach. Both places value pubs with character and a bit of grime, a homey and comfortable place where you aren’t afraid to lean on the tables in fear of getting yelled at by someone’s mother. Their pubs are places where people go drink beer and shots and talk. This is in contrast perhaps to the more gentrified American pubs, where you may order a craft beer, but feel as though you could be ordering a two-toned drink with a piece of fruit floating around in it. And chia seeds. In a jar.

Czech waiters will shush you if you’re too “loud” and might make you sit where they want you to sit. There’s not a lot of intermixing between tables and groups, but there’s a great pub feel to it all. Chatter, discussion, laughter, the satisfying thump of a fresh tankard of beer landing on your beermat. Others gather around tables and one has the correct sense that the pub has been the center of Czech society for a long time.

The Irish will rouse you if you’re too “quiet.” The barman will talk to you as if he’s been waiting around all day just to do so. But he is a careful artist at the taps. The other drinkers will pull you into conversation, instantly begin making fun of you like an old friend. In twenty minutes you’ll leave your belongings with them as you run to the ATM. They’ll somehow get you to start singing. If you don’t laugh gaily in an Irish pub, then you can’t laugh gaily.

Americans do hospitality and pampering. This is no left-handed compliment. We will simply do anything we can to make you more comfortable than you have ever been. I am far more excited ordering food in an American restaurant than I am in a Czech restaurant. This comes straight from the ordering process, which, in an American restaurant, takes place over about three minutes of question and answers in order to fully cater to my needs a that moment. How do you want that cooked? Do you want truffle juice in those mashed potatoes? Would you like me to bring you a fresh beer when your food comes out? I find this dessert goes best after this meal, would you like me to reserve one for you? One gets the impression that their waiter has thought of anything and everything to make their dining experience as tailor made as it can be. In the Czech Republic a similar order would be like this:

Waiter: What’ll it be?

Me: Cheeseburger.

Waiter: OK.

Me: Oh…can I get that medium please?

Waiter (sighing and rolling eyes): I’m not sure; because [enter complete bullshit reason here].

Me: Thank you.

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There’s a definite after world feel in my office today. In the first place, the place is completely dead. For the most part classes have ended and there’s nothing happening today so there’s not one student on the 7^th floor. Additionally, the heat of June has created a confluence of effects. We need to keep the doors and windows open, with the window blinds down to keep out the sun. So the place is dim and, while the open windows and doors allow air mobility, the gods of ironic comfort call forth aggressive currents to slam and thump the windows against their frames.

We jerryrig them open with boxes of paper, chair backs, door stoppers, and rope. But still, now and then a door slams in impossible surprise. Then there is the wheezing and wailing the wind plays as it rattles the windows. The sunlight never seems to go away. And the office gets eerily quieter as my colleagues get picked off to do busy work.

At this point in the year, we are short timers. There’s only a few weeks left until we are allowed to frolic in the meadows of summer and sip from the fountain of replenishment offered by relatively late mornings and guilt free late bedtimes. In reality, I do very little of this. I almost never frolic, my summer bedtime is remarkably geriatric, and I like getting up early so as to enjoy the day before it becomes mercurial. Nevertheless, the end is nigh, and we are looking over our shoulders.

At this time of year our teaching duties are essentially done, so we embark other university work. This includes syllabus design, pedagogical development, research, writing, or editing. Basically a lot of stuff we couldn’t devote all that much time to during the semester.

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When I am trying to relax after a day of school or study or research, I do what a lot of you do – I put on a show I have seen 12,000 times. I know, I know. I should put on a classic film or read Flaubert or even watch something new, but when I want mindless relaxation, this is what I tend to do.

When looking for this sort of entertainment, I go for old friends like Frasier, Seinfeld, and Friends. I sometimes go for The Office or 30 Rock, but only if I want to cringe and implore the gods of Michael Scott with ten minutes of genuine “Why!? Why would he say that!?”

One thing that has become clear is that today’s technology renders most of the plotlines and antics of a nineties show completely obsolete. Seinfeld’s complete shtick was a comedy of errors that flows (or clashes) together into one big serendipitous catastrophe. Whether it’s George and Art Vandelay or Elaine trying to bed JFK Jr, a series of cosmic occurrences leads it all to explode in their faces. Hilariously.

But all of that would be easily handled in seconds with a cell phone. The missed opportunities, the misunderstandings, the botched explanations and mismatched ideas. Gone. Done. Taken care of by a text message: Jer. Where R U? Cool. C U in 2.

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After sitting on the metro platform for ten minutes to soak in the cool winds, I finally brave the train. It’s enclosed and stuffy, there is not one window on this metro. I sweat preemptively while even thinking about the crowd and the closeness. I shudder, it’s going to be miserable. But I have to go to work.

If there’s a bright side, it’s that I’m right. I am miserable. I literally grumble the entire eight minute journey. While I am not directly addressing anyone or speaking loud enough to be understood, I do a series of low mumbles and irritated heavy breathing. I must come off like a drunk crazy homeless guy who can’t help wondering why God has chosen him to lead the armada against the turtle people. I look around the metro: I hate everyone and everything on it.

Let’s just be clear, I am not proud of this. While I am a relatively normal and pleasant person, the humidity has a way of bringing out a rage in me that is frankly super villain worthy. I hate everything when the clouds above el Praha close in the heat and make life unpleasantly and inescapably wet. Everything. The cat is an asshole, the little kid crying should be shipped to Iceland. Dog forbid someone hold me up at the grocery store – which in the Czech Republic happens every time you walk into one. I am a lunatic, only it’s not the moon which transforms me into a monster.

In the U.S. it’s slightly better. Only because each covered domicile or building or room or hut is blasted with the comforting arctic temperatures of air conditioning. If you’re overheated you can go to the mall or a bookstore or anyplace. But not in Prague. This induces my rage all the more.

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At first, I was upset that limitations were being put on the First Amendment. These rights include freedoms of speech, expression, and religion. And even though this president is a walking endorsement for the extreme reach of free speech, he doesn’t much care for it when it comes to something he can score points on.

The more I thought about it, however, the more I warmed to the idea. If we put some limitations and conditions on free speech and expression, then I have some demands.

There are people I never want to hear about again. Paris Hilton no longer exists and neither do any of the Kardashians. Uttering the names Kanye West or Ted Nugent are as offensive and irresponsible as shouting “fire!” in a crowded theater. From now on, all humanity shall refer to the walking logical fallacy who (sometimes) inhabits the Oval Office as He Who Must Not Be Named.

Philadelphia sports fans can will on board with a few of my other ideas of expression and speech we should crack down on. From now on, nobody is ever allowed to mention a homerun Joe Carter hit in 1993. Any support, whether fashionable or vocal, should ever be put forth in favor of any New York baseball team, any Texas football team, or any Florida sports team at all.

I’d like to nip a few sayings in the bud, as well. From now on one cannot say “YOLO,” “You go, Girl,” or “I’d like mushrooms on that, please.” I will no longer hear any slander towards cats or cat people. I’ve been sick of that crap for a long time and think it’s about time we stop people from making those comments, because they almost offend me.

There’s been a lot of talk about what’s acceptable to do at work and I’d like to address that as well. I wish to see no socks with sandals in my building. I will not tolerate anyone who heats up food with no garlic in it, and Dog help you should you even consider saying “A case of the Mondays.” When the rector, vice rector, or president of the school is mentioned in any way, all in the room must stand. I don’t care what they do in their own time, but when at work any other course of action will be deemed offensive.

I have recently finished two books, Beautiful Ruins by Jess Walter and World’s End by T.C. Boyle. I looked forward to reading Beautiful Ruins every day, hated putting it down to teach or eat. World’s End was the exact opposite. While it did capture me enough to finish it, I would look at it across the room and let out a sigh before picking it up.

Even though I enjoyed Walter’s style more, the difference wasn’t the writing. T.C. Boyle is a great writer and a genius at taking unexpected turns in a story. And the stories themselves were roughly about the same thing – ruined people.

The difference was that Walter made unlikable characters into people we rooted for. A movie producer with iffy morals, a wild child ruining his mother’s life, a hired goon. On spec, they seem unlikely to get our sympathy or care. But in Beautiful Ruins they do. Walter shook my distaste with well placed background, a humorous interaction, or sometimes a simple action I could relate to (scratching his calf with his toe). I begrudgingly, and then not so begrudgingly, handed over my care.

Boyle did the opposite. His characters were consistently selfish, awful, mean, and had very few if any redeeming qualities. They didn’t act like humans, so I couldn’t relate to them (enter your own joke here). I am not questioning Boyle’s skill or motivation, he is an immensely talented writer and if those characters came off like that then that is what he intended. But the result was that I did not give a shit about what happened to any of his characters. Not. One. (shit or character).

I grew up watching movies with a clear bad guy and a clear good guy. If you weren’t on Indiana Jones’ side, then you were a bad dude who kicked puppies and had no heart. If Arnie or Sly were against you, then you had no redeeming quality; you were simply evil incarnate. I can’t remember Arnie walking into a room where a drug lord or terrorist was doing a jigsaw puzzle or talking to his mom on the phone getting her recipe for Swedish meatballs. He was raping a pigeon or mutilating a kitty. I learned to hate the bad guys and root for the good guys. I wanted that pigeon molester dead and I knew that Arnie was going to make that happen within the next 65 minutes.

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On Saturday I sat in my office in the flat watching thunderstorms threaten. A blimp was flying around Prague and I was not in the mood to work on my book or any other files I came across. Instead, I opened a blank document and started free writing. A good way to clear the head and get some ideas down.

Burke was in the living room watching the Royal Wedding. Every now and then I’d walk out to check out the famous mechanical waves and outfits which cost more than my college education. What I saw of the occasion did spur some nostalgia for my visits to England, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I sighed, recognized that I already miss Claire Foy and Matt Smith, and went back to work.

As Burke is not one to keep mum on something currently possessing the bulk of her attention, I was the recipient of constant alerts on the action. Oh the Queen doesn’t sing the song because it’s about her! I think they stuck George Clooney behind a pillar. Everyone’s trying not to laugh.

Though I didn’t watch the audience chuckling, I did wonder what would make a bunch of stiff-upper-lipped Brits laugh at a Royal Wedding. Some claim it’s because of Prince Harry, considered to be the more jovial prince. Others suggested it was the gregarious and impassioned sermon by Reverend Curry. I know and work with Brits, I’m B2-C1 in British English, and even love me some British entertainment. Through simple exposure, I have picked up enough about the people and culture to hazard some guesses as to what might make them laugh at such an auspicious occasion.

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Paperfeet the cat

Adulthood happens to most of us. And it really is one of those I just woke up one day and… situations. You don’t plan on it. Nobody I know has ever said “This year, I’m going to start being an adult.”

One day you realize that your decisions are more rational, that instead of frozen pizza and packaged ham, the majority of your groceries consists of vegetables and meat. You pay bills on time and you meet your obligations without resorting to excuses.

There is no doubt that those things carry a sense of stable, comfortable joy. However, if you’re like me, you have little moments that occasionally bring you down a notch on the respectable adult scale. Just to remind you not to get too big for your Buster Browns.

Some of those moments have happened to an unnamed mostly respectable author and adult in the last two weeks. He asks that you add your own moment to the comments below, so as to make him feel better about himself.

You think you’re a grown up, but then…

You spend four hours reading alternate Harry Potter theories.

You reward yourself with a cookie for making your bed.

You catch yourself saying “no, you shut up” and “FML” right in the same day.

You trick someone into smelling your fart.

You eat a bowl of cereal for dinner. And then you eat another one.

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