That Guy

I don’t want to be That Guy.

Every so often, I come across a blog entry from a woman talking about That Guy.

That Guy is the guy who messages on you on MySpace, saying the same thing over and over again: “Wazzup? Holla back! lol” "Baby, you looking HOT! hahaha" "I ain't infected, swear to God!". This the guy who pokes you incessantly on MySpace, hoping that you'll find it cute and poke him back. You don't poke him, but you do write about him on your blog.

That Guy is the dude at the club who tried to sneak up behind you and “dance”. By "dance", I mean "dry-hump". Usually he reeks of cigarette smoke and fruity drinks that he bought for other girls, only to have them thrown back at his face. He's loud. He's pushy. He persistent. And he ends up on your blog.

That Guy is the friend of another friend who may or may not be interested in you. You have no idea. And the both of you stay in this ambiguity for...ever. He annoys you. And you write about it on your xanga.
That Guy is the guy you went on a date with, and the whole time, he had a full-on booger creeping in and out of his nose. It was all you could think about. And you put it on your blog. With pics from your camera phone that you took when he wasn't looking.

You get the idea.

So what am I saying? Do all women bloggers complain about That Guy? Hey, I'm not saying it bothers me. I encourage it. The more I hear about That Guy, the more I know how NOT to be like That Guy. I don't ever wanna be the guy that draws a woman's ire and annoyance, so much so that she posts it all for the world to see. That's why I try to live the most inoffensive life possible, never stepping on anyone's toes, never saying the wrong things, never doing anything remotely heebie-ish.

But of course, the extreme form of this is a man that essentially does nothing; A man who takes no action, chooses passiveness over action, and lives his whole life taking no risks. And as much as I don't be That Guy, I really really don't wanna be THIS Guy.

I'd rather just be a man. And do the right thing.

What the right thing is, that's for another entry...

The Other Half

In the midst of writing a scene, it's only inevitable that I create a female character. Meaning, I have to give her words, thoughts, feelings, etc. Of course, I could always make my stories have all male characters. That might be fun for some, but not for all.

So I did create a female character for my little project, and she's awesome. She's also infuriating. She's impulsive. She's moody. She confuses my protagonist. But underneath it all, she has resolve. She's tough. She has to be, given her past. And of course, the protagonist has feelings for her, but they've been building up for years. Yes, writing can be so much fun...

It's been tough writing a woman's part. It's not impossible. It's just tough. But then again, there are thousands of male writers the world over, and they too must write female characters. And there are female writers who must write male roles, and the best writers of each gender give their characters enough depth that you forget who's writing the story to begin with. And these writers have my highest regard.

Because writing the other half is hard.

One more thing. It's fun talking about my characters. It's like they're friends of mine and they shared all the dirt in their lives. All the junk, all the joy. And only I know about it.

Yes, writing can be much fun...

Stories

Originally published on January 9, 2006.

While the day my father passed away remains the hardest day of my life, the days leading to the funeral stick with me. More specifically the stories.

My dad never talked about himself. It took me years to figure out what he actually did for a living. I never asked. It never came up. The closest I got to learning anything about my dad was an 8th grade Family History Project. Sadly, I'd forgotten what he shared with me. I had no idea what he was like growing up. I didn't know what my mom saw in him that made her want to marry him.

My dad left me without telling me about himself. I was hoping that day would come when I'm older with a couple kids, and we'd share a beer, and that would be Sharing Time With Dad. He'd bestow upon me all his wisdom, tell me what he was feeling when he proposed to Mom, what he felt when at the time of my birth.

That will never be.

But the days leading up to the funeral were nervewracking, to say the least. I had to come up with the eulogy. For two days, I drew a complete blank. I went to the beach, with only tears to show for it.

And then stories came.

My family started opening about my dad. Former co-workers came by to pay their respects.Distant relatives and longtime family friends came by. There were tears, hugs, the whole deal. But most importantly, there were the stories.

One after another, people started sharing about my dad, and about the kind of man that he was. While they didn't make an immediate impact on me at the time, now when I look back on those stories, well, it breaks me down.

Here are just few things about my dad:

- When my dad was younger, my grandfather made him sell popsicles around the town. My dad would sit under a shady tree and eat the popsicles himself.

- At a family friend's debutante ball, my dad volunteered to serve punch. According to my auntie, the line for the punch bowl was HUGE. So was the line for women's restroom.

- My dad taught me, my brother and my mom how to drive. I've never been in an accident. *knocks on wood* (EDIT: Sadly, I got into an accident about 6 months after writing this.)

- According to his co-workers, my dad never said anything bad about anyone, and nobody said anything bad about him.

- According to my uncle, my dad was the "backbone" of the family. Never taking sides, my dad would always be in the middle, trying to make peace, where my aunts and uncles couldn't.

Tonight I thought about those stories. I thought about the little things my dad would do to show his love for me, my brother, and my mom. I thought about how I unconsciously strive to emulate my dad's character. And I broke down and wept, probably the hardest I've wept since that spring morning almost two years ago.

Totally didn't see it coming. But that's the grieving process. You weep, you mourn, then life takes over, you move on, and then something will trigger another episode (maybe a movie or a song, or just a thought) and you repeat the cycle.

But if anything, you remember the stories. You remember the awesome times you shared. And the stories become a part of you.

And that's when the tears are part sorrow, part joy.

Another Renewed Purpose

I'm going to try to post more here.