Scene from a Movie

The Deputy often equates circumstances in his life to a soundtrack or vignette of a popular Blockbuster movie. Usually it turns out to be a coming of age biopic about a young boy making his mark in the world. When these moments occur, the Deputy often steps out of his first-person perspective and experiences this out-of-body sensation of an outsider looking in. It just happened yesterday.

There was a huge storm in London and I was lugging my baggage into the reception desk. After checking in, I had to drag my stuff up three flights of stairs because this place did not have an elevator. It is not the nicest place, but serves its purpose for my means and needs.

A small violin engages the rest of a string quartet...

I pictured this young, 20-something at the curb of finding his success and way in life. He is going through the paces of coming to this success and must first experience what it is like to make it. The saying "to make it" implies a certain amount of effort and due diligence, or else the saying would be "to be made for you". With that said, I pictured myself in this old, wooden London property and a kid bringing his suitcase up a couple flights of stairs getting prepared for his big interview the next day.

They are these moments of which I will remember with fondness in my Park Avenue corner office. I will look down my nose at a 20-something coming into my office, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and account my war stories of what it took to bring me to this stage in my life. For it is a moment where you get dressed in a suit in a shared bathroom with other hostel guests, that really bring to a stage of humility. No one should ever be too satisfied with their place, for stagnate waters go nowhere.

I love it though, I thrive off of this story. It is almost my version of a rags-to-riches, knowing that the story gets better but just not having flipped ahead to that chapter of the book. It is exciting because I do know that there will be an upswing, a change, an improvement. It may be misplaced hope or unfounded confidence, but it is also that hope and gleam in my eye that will catch the attention of some employer. And when the cards fall as they may, I know that I have done my darndest to make them fall in my favor.

Check it

Irving Penn and Lars Tunbjork and Alexis Rockman.

Daily Choices

Everyday I make a series of choices, ones that occur and have formed my daily routine and after pondering the intricacies of its formation, I found it mesmerizing how it detailed so much about me and therefore would like to expound on it for my faithful readers to pontificate.

I wake up with about 45 minutes to get out the door. I set my alarm for a soothing tone that ascends into some crescendo of bells, but in a melodic tone so as not to startle my REMs and gift me into everyday the easiest way possible. I snooze about 3-4 times, of which I have allotted for the night before.

I take my breakfast in the kitchen, something about breakfasting where the food is made is better for me than eating at a table. Plus, considering I shovel my food faster than a hoover on overdrive, I find it will waste time and put me in complacent mood if I choose to sit. I turn on the lights of my closet and stare at my clothes, sometimes I even take a seat. I have been doing that for years. It is something that I do, like an artist who takes a step back at a huge white canvas and allows the canvas to paint itself in some imaginary pattern so that all the artist does is paints by numbers. I don't mean to catastrophically overindulge my view of my own fashion, but the gesture derives from that medium of thought.

As I run out the door, I hit the elevator button even though my shoes are not on. I absolutely detest the morning rush out the door just to sit and wait for the slow elevator to ascend in its routine speed, as though it sensed my rush and decided to taunt my quest. I walk out the door and always wrinkle my nose and squint my eyes. I have no idea why, but it is what I feel I would do if I were an actor in a big blockbuster movie and this was the scene where the ex-football star just exited a strip club after hours of indiscretions. It presents myself as not over-eager for the day, yet with a whiff of perseverance.

I rarely play music on my commute. I find it to disconnect me from my favorite character trait, my ability to observe. If I play music, I engage and sway and even dance micro-choreography so the trained eye would know that I am rocking out some isolations, but unnoticeable to the casual street passer-by. I enter the first subway car, since I know that my final exit to the University is at the near side, so I pre-plan my exit. This is probably paying tribute to my anxiety that my mother so graciously imposed on my at a young age, where a minute late was a minute I felt to be more important than someone else. Considering my life lessons revolved around me becoming more compassionate, I really felt this one.

I switch stations at a station that has an outdoor platform, even in the dead of winter. I find the few minutes with some breaths of fresh air to be perfectly timed and always welcomed. Also, I get a great view of Stockholm at a great sunshine angle. I also take this stop because the doors open at the opposite end of the train from this stop on, so if I am the last to enter the train, I will never be disturbed by boarders and exiters until my stop.

I get off my stop and am immediately confronted by a mountain range of escalators. It is Swedish custom to stand on the right and take that 5 minute ride. But never one to shy away from a 30 second workout, I usually stomp my boots up the left hand side, become a little winded and sore and show everyone that they should have kept to their new years resolution of losing weight.

I stop off at my usual coffee spot where I am greeted everyday by Thomas. I hate when you go to a coffee shop and the person taking your order has already drank their coffee and talk to you as if you had as well. Screaming in your face with a beaming smile and disappointed that you don't engage even 50% of what they give out, these employees make me want to shove a mocha in their pie hole and ask for their order. Thomas, oddly enough, is the worst at doing that as I have ever encountered but it doesn't bug me. Probable because I get every other coffee for free and he usually throws in a banana. The Deputy found out, actually, that Thomas is so engaged for his shift that usually runs about 9 hours, that he returns home to his apartment and sits in silence and darkness for a few hours in order to regain balance in his life. Rough gig.

Our choices we make to define who we are should not stop at how we dress ourselves or what music we listen to, we should create a persona so authentic and true that each phase of your life should emulate that person you want to be. Some may criticize the Deputy and say he should relax and hold off on manipulative gestures that place his audience where he wants them, but he disagrees. For these choices are not for others, they are for yourself and every moment should be an opportunity to express yourself and make you feel the most comfortable.

See you on the outdoor platform faithful followers~

Home Is Where The Roots Are

I was on the subway on my way back from an evening soiree at a new friend's place when I was overcome by this sincere weight of displacement and frustration. It was the type of situation where a caricature representation on the silver screen would represent something of a Alice in Wonderland cut-away, with myself as a small figurine amongst flying buffalo or elephant balloons. It had this destabilizing effect where, in a moments notice, I abandoned all plans and jumped out of the next subway stop, which luckily was my own.

In a blind effort to put my finger on this sentiment, I realized this newfound emotion. I have been traveling since I was 17, living abroad, constantly traveled becoming rolling stone of the new century, a caballero andante of sorts. I have never looked back and never, ever looked down. It was my motto to expose myself to as many things as possible, from meager new foods to extravagant parades. I was functioning under some immature infatuation with the ability to recall forlorn adventures to the far east, starring absurd characters in some tangential interference with my life. But, when I return to look at a cast of characters, everyone seems to be guest starring and only I retain the headline as a starring role. So who is there to share in the box-office reviews?

But I digress. I finally find no problem with returning home and guest starring in the role of my family, in growing roots and nourishing the relationships I started with. I always find that I am comparing and contrasting to my roots, so why not just return to the roots and find out for myself.

My new year's resolution has been to become more authentic, in fact it has been for the past two years, in fact it probably has become more of a life goal. But the essence of that goal has been where I had least expected it, at home, with family and old friends. The more I stay out in different countries and meet different people, the most attractive thing about it is what makes me who I am, all things that I have learned growing up. I wore a Lakers jersey the other night to a bar and became a total hit.

It is ironic since the past few years I have tried desperately to fit in and immerse myself in a culture the was never mine, when all along the attractiveness I possessed came from red-white-and-blue self. My ex-pat friends who have lived abroad for years still feel, especially in time of need, that they are never fully embraced. That when a Christmas or New Years comes around, they are always invited under pity votes. So why do we continue to force ourselves? For the story? Who cares? My story is that I am going to have a family and group of friends with deep roots that grow to an unwavering tree.

So let's go back faithful followers, let's venture into known territory, let's stir a home-cooked meal and kick our feet up. Let's take grandma out for dinner and kick the ball around with Uncle, let's get latin on our families and local on our friends.

So school started, AGAIN!

Considering the Deputy's life is filled with closing one book and opening another, why should this year be any different. School started a few weeks ago and, after ogling the beauties that grace my campus in their scandanavian grandeur, I love it. My professor is basically this juggernaut in Swedish arbitration and international arbitration as well. She is attracting some HUGE names to come give guest lectures that is unheard of.

Arbitration is an "I scratch your back, you scratch mine" type of industry. So if I am meandering through Zurich and you are teaching a PhD course in law, and we are friends, why not stop by for a little two hour gab session? That is what the lives of these diesels are like. It was awe-inspiring to have two of the biggest names in the field come into my class of 25 and stretch their synapses right in front of me. Not to mention, my class is comprised of 25 different countries from around the world. So taking comparative education to a whole new level, you talk about the odd witness examinations in Germany and then have my friend Gunnar tell you about his native legal regime first hand. It really puts this entire course into context.

The last lecturer, Johnny Veeder, ended the class by talking about the importance of arbitration. Granted he started his speech by saying that this was going to be severe propaganda, but color me group-think because I was sold. It all came in order to promote international trade, and talk to anyone in world who knows a thing or two about anything, and trading is what makes the world go round. It all started with bartering systems of the ancient tribes of the globe, and now there is just a suit on it. People need passion to become successful or else it isn't going to happen, to a degree for which I wish to strive. And for me, it comes with the fact that I need to do something that makes a difference. To be a part of a bigger machine that actually provides a fundamental screw to the overall production, that is what makes me life the comforter and run water on my face in the morning instead of moaning and hitting snooze 10 times.

I have met some great people in the class already. Some fast friends have formed and I am very excited to see it all evolve. Establishing these connections is crucial, since who knows who you are going to sit across from at the arbitration table. I love that I am making my world smaller, placing social nodes at different points of the globe in hopes that there will be some magnetic attraction, pulling to towards some center sphere from some centrical force of light and love.

Thoughts?

Where is the CONTROVERSY!?

You know how the characters in Stepford Wives go loco when they realize that when everything is perfect, it sometimes sucks the big one? Well, that is kind of the situation in Sweden. Everything is so....right.

For example, to say hello to someone is "Hej" or "Hej, hey". And for those that do not speak this Scandanavian tongue and/or know how to pronounce a word that ends in a "j", you pronounce it as if you were saying "Hey!". Not that I am a cunning linguist or anything, but the US uses such salutations as a greeting between friends, often after a brief term of absence. It demonstrates longing, surprise and genuine glee. Well that is how everyone greets everyone here. Imagine walking around and the grumpy plumber walks up to the disgruntled motorcycle gang and they say, "HEY!". That would be weird right? You would say, "how are they such fast friends? and why are they saying something so un-masculine is hey?". It's like the joke we have,

"What does a gay horse eat?..

...Hayyyyyy".

So that is just a teaser of what it is like. Everyone is equal here, egalitarianism is public frenemy #1. Cross the street only when it shows green, take a number at the electronics store so everyone is served in the exact order they came into the store, only buy alcohol at government regulated stores, only rent your apartment if you have authorization from the housing authority. These are the rules they live by. And sure, it is nice to walk around at 3a.m. with the only fear of crime is that someone might j-walk, but in the end the Deputy often finds his inner monologue screaming, WHERE IS THE CONTROVERSY!

Where is the black market? Where are the secret sales? Where's the cheap mexican taco stand that doesn't have a permit, ergo is CHEAP? Where are these things? Not here.

But oh the deputy may complain, but only for as long as it takes a beautiful Swede to pass him by. I'm talking beautiful, like models. Tall, blonde, in shape, tan (but like pale people that actually can tan, see it's perfect here). They are all fashionable and care about their appearance. You have to wear a blazer to go to the grocery store or else people are going to be wondering what welfare plan you are on. But in actuality they won't! I could walk past a Swede with a giant sex toy taped to my forehead screaming, "Macaroni and cheese ate my grandmother's pet eel!" and no one would even blink. It is because, along the same vein as this egalitarian mantra, nothing phases a Swede because they don't care. They don't care about differences because they don't care about differences. SO PERFECT! Ugh.

I feel like the Deputy needs to pollute some waters a la Reese Witherspoon in Pleasantville, turning the blonde masses into horrifically tainted zombies. Thoughts?

Dystopia to Utopia

THE DEPUTY IS BACK! I had no idea that I would have the distinct pleasure to be able to blog again from a different country and with a different experience before me. I write you from my new, slightly quirky apartment in downtown Stockholm, specifically Soldermalm, after a plethora of problems and a slew of solutions.

I arrived in Arlanda airport early in the morning with the all-to-common realization of how ill-prepared I was to start this experience. Dragging 20 kilograms too much of luggage, an extra carry-on, without any clue, I pushed a cart outside of the airport to meet the cabs that would take me to a hotel. One bag short, because I guess Delta really wanted to try on all of my clothes for a couple of days until they relinquished my belongings, I made my way to the airport. I arrived at a hotel that was way too far outside of the city, not to mention the airport I landed in was way too far outside the city. Great start. Bagless and city-less, I checked in and got settled. I decided that the only way to get this out of my system was to be productive.

I got a phone, went to school, saw the grounds, met my professors and aids, registered and did a walking tour of Gamla Stan, the old city. I decided to wait to look for an apartment until the next day since I was exhausted and knew that I would not be able to perform an efficient search in such a state. That night I met a friend of a friend who lives in Stockholm and we went out for a welcome beverage. Fighting off sleep and stress of my homeless state, I called it a night early and tried to regroup for the oh-so-famous search the next day.

Tell someone in Stockholm that you are looking for an apartment and see what they say. They probably won't say anything, they'll just put on this face and smirk as if they are consoling you because you just soiled yourself in public on a date in the middle of rush hour. "Oh, it's okay, you will only be disgustingly dirty and embarrassed for a little while. Basically it is a city-wide epidemic. There is only so much housing available and the competition is tight. The search must consist of you sitting at your computer clicking refresh on 4 housing websites and a tab for google translate open so that you can jump at any opportunity. Then, on top of that, tell a Swede you are looking for an apartment with a Turk, because then the reaction will just be uproarious laughter.

The Swedes are nice, but just a LITTLE racist. A Russian girl in my program had trouble signing a lease because anybody that did allow her to see the apartment would say, "N0, I don't want someone who is going to be drinking a lot of vodka." So here I am, bags strewn across the floor, money fleeing from my pockets on a hotel and I have no end in sight. I am one bag down, outside of the city and having a wee-bit of a breakdown.

Days pass and I can't even go to lunch without feeling guilty that I am not glued to my computer screen, tormented by the refresh button and stupefied why it can't refresh itself and contact people itself and speak swedish itself and just call me when it's ready. NOT HAPPENING. So as I walked the 15 minutes to take a bus, to get to the subway, to take the subway a handful of stops to finally get off and INTO THE FREAKING CITY CENTER, I decided there needs to be a change.

I went to the gym, I booked another hotel, I took 89 deep breaths and forced some Miss Cleo positive thinking. Luckily it was also the weekend, so I took the Friday and Saturday nights out as "networking events", see if I can find an apartment in the club. You know, bump, grind, "Hey, have an open room", fist pump, twirl, "No anyone that does?, okay cool, have a good night". Seemed possible, right? Well it didn't really work, but I had a really fun time at least? Anyone? Cool. It was a good way to recharge my search. Okay, I need to stop rationalizing. Oh, but Saturday night after one night out, some Swedes said they wanted to show me Stockholm. I thought it was a bad translation, since I obviously had eyes and was currently residing in the aforementioned location. They took me in a cab around the city and up this hill. After crossing my legs to give them an outward manifestation that I was not going to be used a Swedish meatball, they took me through an alley to this park. The park led up this dark hill and BOOM! Skyline. Jawdropping, pantydropping, Skyline. The entire city at our fingertips and you just sat on a bench, on top of the world, absorbing the love. What a great stress reliever.

Luckily there was Sait, my friend of a friend. He was so supportive and understanding and invited me out to get me out of my bed and my head. We went to this bar that is a floating bar on the river outside of the city. It was the most picturesque spot. Imagine: couples, singles, friends and families all sitting on the restaurant/barge that was floating with amazing drinks and food and watching the sunset under the crisp air right outside the monumental City Hall building. But yet, I would look around and see that every other person sitting at the restaurant had a place to go home to after. They sat enjoying the weather and company without any preoccupation of a basic need of accommodations.

To bring the readers out of an ennui of my depressive beginnings in Stockholm, let's just skip to where I write you from. So one day, I literally opened the lid of computer and click the proverbial Refresh button. The first ad was a HUGE apartment in the best area of the city center and it was posted minutes before. I called Anna and told her who I was and that I could be there within the hour. I ran over to the apartment and walked in and it was heavenly. Not that African hodgepodge decor with enough plants to singlehandedly save the rainforest, but the space itself lent the most amazing opportunity for a successful year. I tried my best to lock down the apartment right then and there, but Anna wasn't budging. A short girl, elfish almost, with a jaded sense of consumerist society and an underlying need to hit bongos in a reserve in Namibia with chewing tobacco and Jamison.

I ended up having to stay with Sait for a couple of days, which the invitation in itself was an amazing gift during the process, when I got a call from Anna. She said that I had got the apartment!! She interviewed 10 people and I got it. And why did she choose me? Because it was down to me and a couple that would rent the entire apartment and her Mom, who is a MEDIUM, didn't trust the couple. That's right people. Miss Cleo liked Brian and that is how it all went down.

I write you from my living room, fighting off overgrown plants but listening to The Clash on a record player hooked up to surround sound in DOWNTOWN Stockholm. Deep breaths oh faithful readers, for the Deputy has set up shop and is sittin' pretty.