Persuing An Idenity Crisis.

"I've got all these thoughts just floating through my brain.
They bump and they collide and cause a flurry of confusion.
And it's getting on my nerves...
...What's going on? Is this where I belong tonight?"
- Motion City Soundtrack - "Where I Belong"

Moving to Los Angeles was partly inspired by a desire to grow as a person and find myself. Instead, I seem to have completely lost myself. Or at least, I think that’s the case. I can’t seem to locate myself entirely so I’m guessing that I’m lost. I sense this because the question that has been running through my head evermore is “when people think of me, Jacob William Trowbridge, what do they think of?”

One particular article in the recent LA Times Magazine struck a cord with my current identity crisis. The article centered around the idea that purchasing a new car can cause the buyer to ask a lot of questions about the type of person that they are, as well as what type of person they want to be. I, for one, would have no clue where to start with a new car, in part because I have no passion for automobiles. They are silly and overrated. But this begs the question: what do I have a passion for?

The obvious first choice in passion-picking is the almighty word. Writing is what I do the most of in my spare time. (In fact, it happens to be what I’m doing right now.) Putting pen to paper—or rather, fingers to keypad–provides a great release for me. You could say that it’s a cathartic joy. But even this, my most enjoyable of hobbies, is still just that: a hobby. I don’t carry notebooks with me everywhere I go in case of sudden inspiration. I write when I think I need to, not when I feel inspired to.

The more general question to ask might be: what type of person am I? I’m certainly not much of a man’s man. Though I’ve come to appreciate a good brew, I’m far from a beer snob. I’m no hop head. I don’t have a strong case of lager lust and I’ve never gone on a quest for the Holy Grail of pale ales. Besides, I much prefer fruity-flavored rums to any dark beer you’d put in front of me. I like to cook on the grill, but no one’s lining up to taste my man meat. (...) I know diddly about fixing cars and even less about household appliances. I also don’t “do” sports. I don’t watch them and I don’t play them. The last time I swung a bat was when I found one sleeping in my closet. (But boy did I make that bastard pay.)

I’m not an artist, per se. Sure, I love music or, more specifically, finding new music and categorizing it into play lists. (You’d think this would make me an organized person, but that character trait still avoids me.) I own three guitars and haven’t played one of them in the last year, which goes to show the dedication I bring to my art. Even when I do pluck around, I always play other people’s songs. I’ve only written two songs in my life; both of them were for my girlfriend...and both of them were terrible. I also doodle the same picture of a stereotypical black man (with Afro) from the 1970's over and over.

I am a dork, but I can’t quite call myself a full-on nerd. I know a little about computers, a little less about programming, and I’ve never played World of Warcraft or Halo. So, I’m really more of a doofus than a geek, I guess.

I’m not strikingly handsome. I resemble a cross between Zach Braff and David Archuleta, which is to say that I’m “interesting looking.” I’m not bound for Muscle Town, but I like to workout occasionally. I’m not much for fashion, though I believe I rate higher than the average Midwesterner. (No offense, Iowa, but c’mon. We both know it’s true.) I don’t have strong opinions about things–specifically political things. I can rattle off my Top 5 list for everything ever but would never be able to pick an absolute favorite from any category.

I have what the French call a certain “meh-ness” about me. I’m a dabbler.

If this spewing of thoughts has taught me anything, it’s that I have many likes and dislikes, but no passions. I’m a hobbyist. I do a little bit of this and (if I’m feeling extra spiffy) a little bit of that. I am, by all means, a man without a country. I am mediocre, bland, average, banal, and ultimately middle-of-the-road. I am completely and disappointingly normal.

The good thing is that it's apparently never too late to change. So maybe moving back to Iowa is a better path than I originally thought. Maybe I'll find what I left back there.


This Entry In Song:
Guster - "Manifest Destiny"
The Pixies - "Where Is My Mind?"
Novel - "I Am..."

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

A New Year. A New Face.

"Get 'em up, put 'em up. Get your dukes up now."
- Modest Mouse, "Dukes Up"

It’s story time, readers. So make sure you’re sitting in a comfy chair and have plenty of fluids on hand. You're about to hear how this blogger's face became the target of hillbilly hatred on New Year's Eve.

After returning to the grand state of Iowa for Christmas after having been a few hundred miles away for about 3 months, I realized why I only keep in contact with family and a few select friends. This realization struck me like a fist to the face. Why? Because I realized it after I had received a fist to the face. Allow me to set up the scenario.

Balltown, Iowa. You might say that it’s the epicenter of drunken hillbillies and warm beer. (And you’d be correct.) This is not exactly the type of place you would want to be on New Year’s Eve, when the warm Busch Light is flowing like tap water and every walking heap of cow dung is trying their hardest to start a brawl. I know this now. The intent was to stop in and say a few quick hellos to a few distant-but-not-forgotten friends. A short, 30-minute detour. Well, 45 minutes later I was walking to the car with a wad of tissue paper stuffed up my nose to stop the bleeding while my glasses lay helpless somewhere on the moonlit gravel.

I was dressed in a snazzy pair of dark blue jeans, a black button-up shirt, and a pair of black leather shoes that might as well have said “come hump my leg.” In short, I was looking good. The rest of the basement-dwelling chug-a-lugs were outfitted in shit-kickers and old-pig smell. So, yes, I stood out from the pack. On the way up the stairs and out of the party, one rosey-faced intoxicant grabbed me by the collar (presumably to make me one of his own kind…a redneck) and insisted that I was looking for a fight. Now, being in the martial arts for nearly 10 years has taught me how to handle just about any situation that a guy could throw himself into. And it’s because of that decade of hand-to-hand combat training that I was able to freeze up and yelp that I was, in fact, not looking to engage in fisticuffs.

Not Pictured: An Opponent.

But, when that didn’t work, I reciprocated this kind man’s gesture and grabbed him by the throat. Knowing that there were several of this pit stain’s buddies within a few feet of our scuffle waiting to knock me into a hay bale somewhere, I didn’t throw a punch or lift a leg—partly because I was smart, and mostly because I was terrified.

When I was finally able to shove this scrawny tobacco spit of a human being away, I grabbed my girlfriend, Emily, and headed out the door. The problem was, a few of my more inebriated friends from inside had witnessed my scuffle and there was now a full-scale riot erupting in the garage from which I had emerged. But it was hard to thank them for their loyalty because I was too concerned about finding my best friend—and my ride—Tony, who was lost somewhere inside the mutiny.

If I had walked back to his car, right then and there, a beautiful face would have been salvaged that night. Instead…

By this time I was shouting for Tony at the top of my lungs in some twisted game of Marco Polo…a game he didn’t know we were playing. At this point, I stood more than 50 feet away from the Balltown Massacre taking place inside the garage and it would seem that I made it out of the scuffle unharmed. But wouldn’t you know it, another partygoer noticed this too and decided that just wouldn’t do.

WHAM!

I was sucker-punched by “some fat, pansy a--hole” (Emily’s description, not mine). When you’re punched in the face, not much goes through your head except a lot of question marks. That considered, I believe the first words out of my mouth were “what the f--k just happened!?” Tears came to my eyes but surprisingly, I was still on my feet. Since I saw no blurry figure standing in front of me, I assumed that the portly coward had run back to join the brawl. Perfect. Not even a chance for redemption?

The rush of adrenaline I felt at that moment is probably comparable to being shoved out of a plane or chugging a few pints of Red Bull. I wanted someone else’s blood on my knuckles. It was at this moment that my inner macho man took over and I turned from a lover to a fighter. Rational thought was fleeting at a rapid pace and if it hadn’t been for my wonderfully sensible woman pulling me away, my feet would have surely led me back into the hillbilly tussle because…let’s face it…men are stupid. We are crotch-grabbing cavemen with something to prove. When we get dethroned (a.k.a. face-punched) we want to forcibly take our crown back (a.k.a. kick the other guy right in the balls). Even me, a generally sensitive type of fellow, can fall victim to those super-masculine, my-dong’s-bigger-than-yours urges. And while I’m not necessarily ashamed of it, I’m not all that pleased with it, either.

Eventually, we found Tony (granted, a little later than one would hope) and we scurried off to his car and, later on, to a hospital. Tony felt bad because he was the one who suggested leaving an earlier party to pass through this one. Emily felt sick because she heard the crunch the fat guy’s knuckles made with my nose. I felt shaky because…well…I still wanted to kick some hillbilly ass.

Needless to say, that night didn’t end well for any of us.

The epilogue goes something like this: I visited a doctor who told me my nose wasn’t broken. For the next few days, I spent most of my time recounting that story for family and friends. I initially lied to my worry-wart of a mother about what happened to my face but eventually spilled the beans. I got a new pair of glasses. I had to catch a plane back to California a couple days later, where I chugged Sudafed and Ginger Ale to stop my sinuses from screaming at me. And now, I sit feeling the bridge of my nose and realizing the doctor I visited is probably incompetent and my nose is most likely broken.

What did I learn from this experience? Cowboys don’t like suave men. So next time I should dress down and bring several of my largest friends with me. Or perhaps just stay away from Balltown, Iowa.

New Year's Resolution: Don't get punched in the face again. It hurts.

This Entry In Song:
Reel Big Fish - "Beer"
Modest Mouse - "Dukes Up"
The Pixies - "Broken Face"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake