AlecTorelli
The world is my book. I wanna write it!
You Got A Fast Car?
I love cars. Ever since I can remember my dream car was a BMW convertible. When I turned 16 and won my first $12 playing poker, I began writing out equations to determine how fast I could win one. Five years, 10,000 dedicated hours and 2,000,000 hands of poker later, I walked out of the dealership with a brand new 2007, M6 convertible. "Black Diamond" ("BD” for short), was perfect. For months, I drove around on cloud nine, helping cops meet their ticket quotas. Like Andy and Woody in Toy Story, we did everything together. When I had a bad day, I took her out and she helped me to forget. If I wanted to run, she was the ideal companion. We’d go for hours with no destination in mind, her top down and the wind in my face. She gave me a feeling like none other. For the first time while driving, I felt alive. In return, I cared for her every need: I cleaned her when she was dirty and fed her when she was hungry. Sure she ate a lot, but I didn't mind. I loved her and she loved me. Life was good.
I recently returned from Italy and like any good toy, "BD" was waiting patiently for me. But just like when Andy returned from college, something was different. "BD" was older now and wanted more attention than ever. Unfortunately, I was getting older and couldn't play her silly games. She needed new tires, an oil change and her alignment adjusted. She constantly needed to go to the dealership to be serviced. I began to suspect that she was more time being driven by someone else. When the mechanic finally dropped her off I couldn't run a bloody errand without stopping for gas. I forgot how much she ate! Furthermore, she's not very practical. What if I wanted to carry luggage? Worst of all, I was nervous leaving her alone. Who in their right mind wouldn't want her? The recent stress of our relationship meant we spent a lot more time “arguing” and a lot less time “playing.” "BD" and I had grown apart.
Lately, I've been driving around in an Expedition that is much more suitable to my needs. She carries everything, loves when I bring friends and because she's so loyal, I never worry about leaving her unattended. And best of all, she never complains. If something grows wrong, she can protect me. But what about "BD?" Some days, I miss her like Romeo does Juliet. That feeling of total freedom that, no matter what, my Expedition cannot provide.
Recently, I've been asking myself: “what do I really want my car to do?” The easy answer is everything, but its just not realistic. Fortunately, I've found a perfectly acceptable solution. I use my Expedition for errands and "BD" for cruising. The real problem comes when I try to apply the same logic toward women.
Over the past few years, I've treated relationships a little bit like cars. You know, a long drive here and quick shiny one there. Some were passionate, others were practical. Eventually I came to realize that life is complicated enough with one car. But just like your car is not going to get 60 miles on the gallon, have a convertible top, outrun a Ferrari and last longer than the Energizer Bunny, it's unlikely that I’m going to find a mate that’s driven, loves backpacking, is passionate about writing and wants a family. She's probably not waiting for me on eHarmony.
It’s heartbreaking but I may never have another "BD." Even if I buy a faster and shinier Lamborghini, she'll never replace the "BD" that opened my eyes to a whole new world of driving. In some way, she will be a part of me, forever. I know “BD” can’t drive around a family. She can’t even carry my luggage. I've considered parting ways with her, but the idea of never taking her for a spin is a sad thought... after all Andy never does get rid of Woody.
Yesterday I went for a drive with my Expedition. I took her to the Top of the World to watch the sunset. I rolled down the window. As I gazed into that blazing sphere, a light breeze flew up from the ocean. I closed my eyes, it kissed my face, and just like with “BD”, I could feel the wind. ♠
“You got a fast car
But is it fast enough so we can fly away
We gotta make a decision
We leave tonight or live and die this way”
- Tracy Chapman
The Moral Code
Some time ago, a friend an I had a misunderstanding; a concoction of ignorance, naiveness and coerciveness brewed a substantial storm. Two sides of a story; one black the other white. When each tells their tale, the shades of grey create a hazy fog. As the masses formulate their thoughts, our minions built like the armies of Saruman and men. Unbiased parties; Hobbits from the Shire and Ents from the forest were called upon to take a stand. Words are thrown like arrows from the Elves, piercing the hearts of our enemies. When the dust settled, I looked in the mirror. Who was this villain staring back at me? "Alec,” I asked myself, “what have you done…"
"For better or for worse, it sounds like they’ve already made up his mind," Luke said to me. "People have an opinion of you and nothing is going to change that."
"Right, but I want to say something at least," I protested. "I don't want people to hate me.”
"People are going to hate you," he interrupted, pissed that I diverted his attention from the football game. "People hate the President. I'm sure someone hates Mother Teresa. Spending your time and energy trying to change them is fleeting."
Not convinced, I persevered, fending off allegations like Eragon to an army of orcs.
"You just have to let it go," Luke reminded me.
"I think you're right," I conceded. "The more I say the louder they yell."
"You're still not there yet," he told me. "You have to stop caring what they think.”
“How?”
“You know the truth, that's all that matters."
"But…"
His look cut me off. His index and thumb brushed against his chin. "When you accept what they think and it no longer bothers you, then you've won."
The ones who point fingers are always the most vocal. Somewhere deep down in the Mordor infested swamps of our hearts, we like to see others fall. Whether or not Kobe Bryant was guilty of rape became lost in theories and speculation. Everyone has an opinion but few are looking to change. It's easy to seek evidence that supports our case. It’s scary to challenge the Evil Eye of ego. When a pastor gets diagnosed with cancer, it's not a statistical anomaly or advancement in medical science that saved his life, but an indisputable fact that God exists; a sign from the divine.
Life is full of color. Certain things are black. Others are white. Most are somewhere in-between and not everyone reads from the same bible. Certain actions that we find intolerable others will find acceptable. When we hold others to our standard, we set ourselves up for disappointment. In order to ensure our happiness, we cannot begrudge others for not adhering to our code, nor should we bother changing them. Instead, we must surround ourselves with those who share our values. ♠
“We all have to decide for ourselves how much sin we can live with.”
- Nucky Thompson, Boardwalk Empire
Fear Challenge - Week One: Pilates
Last week, my friend Adam and I decided to undertake a series of Fear Challenges. We each wrote down a list of things we didn't want to do: sing karaoke, sign up for a class alone, write an apology letter, etc. Each week, one of us chooses an activity which we both have to complete. Following that, we write a blog post summarizing our experience. Here lies my tales...
I took a mat pilates class this morning. After doing yoga for a few years, I expected it to be a breeze. I arrived a few minutes before 8:00 am to ensure myself a spot. When I showed up, I was greeted by Marc, my regular yoga instructor. "You're taking this class," he giggled. After a quizzical look, he introduced me to the teacher Lizzy.
"Welcome," she said. "Have you done pilates before?"
"No," I replied. "But I've heard good things."
"You've come to the right place. Take a seat on the floor."
I laid on my back and began to stretch. She walked by me on the way to the front. "Don't let these old geese give you trouble," she whispered. "Oh, and you're going to need these."
She handed me a blue elastic strap that was roughly four feet long, a bendable circular piece of plastic with a large hole in the center that looked like a donut, and a tiny inflatable ball, no longer than one foot across. What had I signed up for?
In the class were six other women, most in their fifties. "Hello ladies," Lizzy began, drawing their attention to the front. The chatter amongst them ceased. "We have a new student today." A few of the women chuckled and six pairs of eyes immediately turned to me. I pulled my lips together and nodded my head slowly, slightly embarrassed. "Is this your first class?" one of them asked.
"Yes."
"Oh, don't worry," the lady in front of me said, her arm pawing at me, "we love men."
So this must be what an attractive women feels like when she walks into a night club, I thought. No wonder they're always packed.
We began on our backs with the ball underneath our tail bone and feet placed firmly on the ground. "Now roll lightly back and forth," she said. "We're just warming up here." I played along from the back of the class. To my right, a lady struggled to balance the ball. As she swayed, the pressure from her hips shot the ball forward and hit the woman in front of her. I began to relax.
We went into our first core exercise, keeping the ball on our tail bone and crunching upwards while scissoring our legs. I can't believe I'm doing this, I thought to myself. I did my best to work up a sweat, but to no avail. Each time I came up to crunch, the women in front of me came into view. They breezed through it, making small talk as they went.
While working my abs, I learned about Betty's fifteen year old daughter who just pierced her belly button without her mothers permission. "What do you think of that Alec?" Betty asked. "Yea we need a male opinion!" another one shouted.
"It's that age," I said struggling for breath between sit ups. "Don't be too hard on her."
While working arms, we discussed Julie's plans for Thanksgiving, particularly that she dreaded dining with her sister in law, who brought a terrible broccoli quiche, got obnoxiously drunk and inevitably told the same story about the glory days of being a ballerina.
After three rotations, I was fatigued. "You know what time it is," Lizzy announced.
"Rest?" I wanted to say. I bit my tongue.
"Hundreds!" the class shouted like a group of fifth graders. We laid on our backs, again, and lifted up to our highest possible "V" position, with our core pressed firmly on the ground, legs bent in a table top position and arms forward alongside them. Then, we pulsed our arms up and down a hundred times.
"Five pulses of inhalations followed by five pulses of exhalations. Ready, go!" Lizzy said.
"So what good movies are out?" said the girl in the front. "I just saw In Time," with Justin Timberlake," another responded. "Which one is that?" Julie asked.
"It's set in a futuristic society where people stop aging at 25," she answered.
"Oh how was it?"
"It was pretty good. I'd give it a 6.5." What the hell was going on? I wondered.
I just saw, "The Women on the 6th Floor," Julie said. "It's a French film but it was amazing."
"Is it a chic flick?" retorted Betty. "You know how I hate those."
"Oh, no, no," defended Julie. "It's about a spanish maid who falls in love with a French aristocrat in the 1960's."
"Sounds like a chic flick to me," Lizzy chimed. "98, 99, 100! Good job class," she said. "Your finished!"
"Goodbye ladies," I said as I left. "Come back next week!" Julie said. "We loved having you," said Betty. "Your a good sport," Lizzy commented. "Thanks for coming."
"Thanks for having me. I worked muscles I didn't even know I had," I joked.
"By the way," Lizzy said, "Hundreds is when we discuss movies. Next week, bring a review." ♠
For more content, updated daily, check out www.alectorelli.com
Quick Fix
You want a 2 second cure to dramatically relieve stress and increase productivity? Filter your email.
If you're a gmail user, they make it easy. Simply go to "more" on the left hand side > manage labels > filters > create new filter. Now copy paste the unwanted email address and click "next step" Chose your selected preference (I prefer to simply "delete it). Check the box "also apply filter to conversations below. and you're done.
If you use yahoo or hotmail, switch to gmail. Otherwise, the process is relatively the same.
In five minutes, I saved myself upwards of 20 spam emails per day. That's not only a lot of time saved, but more mental energy I can spend to writing quirky blogs like these! ♠
I have just finished redesigning my website. For more content, updated daily, check out www.alectorelli.com
No Day But Today
"Hey Redline, can you pass me the sweet potato fries?" she said with a sheepish smile. She had grown quite familiar with the crew. It seemed like forever since she used first names when referring to any of the boys. We sat comfortably around the terrace of StripBurger, admiring the tourists as they walked the Las Vegas strip. We indulged in one of our favorite social activities by playing "Lodden Thinks" (a game that involves betting on what people think of an arbitrary topic).
"How much would you have to be paid to permanently change your name?" I asked Cassie. The group erupted as everyone fought to speak their mind.
"Who gets to chose her new name?" clarified Redline.
"Hmmm. Me!"
"Jesus, that's crazy" retorted Robls.
"Lock it in," I told Cassie. She paused for a moment to think. The sun made her hair glisten, brightening her golidlocks. A smile crept over her face, like a little kid who saw Disneyland for the first time. She scribbled something on the paper white napkin before looking up; "I've got it," she exclaimed! We bid furiously on her answer, insulting each other jovially in the process. When it was all said and done, the line was set at "$47,600." Redline took the over while Robl and I took under. We wagered $100 on her answer. She turned the napkin over apologetically. On it were three numbers scribbled down.
$200 was crossed out at the top. Below it, $300 was blurred in similar fashion. At the bottom of the napkin read $500 in bold blue ink, circled several times. "Wait so you'd would literally change your name legally for $500?" Redline protested as he passed Robl and I each $100 bill.
"Ummm, yea," she said.
I pulled out $500 and placed it on the table in front of her. "When we get back to Orange County, I'm going to give you this and we're gonna make it happen. I'm going to give you some ridiculous name," I joked.
"At least you'll have a good story," said Robls.
"What, like Bambi?" she said with a giggle. If she wanted to see me smile, all it took was her laugh. Her face lit up as she made a high pitched two syllable sound. Something between a hiccup and a giggle.
"Bambi!" I said excitedly. "Its perfect." And it was. Just as a dear prances around her environment, there was Bambi, bouncing through life. The group burst out laughing.
"Bambi," we said in unison.
"What is it you guys say?" She said with a smile. She was always smiling.
"What do you mean?"
She paused..."Booked," she said.
*******
We sat around the terrace of the Wynn's renowned restaurant "Bartolotta." The cushioned seats of our booth better felt more like a couch than a dinner table. Our friend and waiter Alessandro (aka "Chef Bean"
brought out our first course consisting of fresh oysters paired with Muscato. The moon shined off the restaurants built in lake, illuminating the patio. Several hours later, empty white plates and wine corks littered the table. Antonio suggested we all take a much needed double shot of espresso in anticipation for the night ahead. "Guys, tonight is going to be epic," he said as he put down his glass. He was usually right.
We followed our hostess as she led through the madness of the Encore's premier night club, XS. Positioned outside, away from the chaos of the dance floor, we could talk freely while enjoying the surrounding decadence. We made conversation with passing drunkards, making silly bets such as who will be the first to fall in the pool. The consequence for being wrong; Patron with lime. I looked across the booth to Antonio. His right leg was crossed perfectly over his left, forming a square. His right arm contained a glass of Patron and pineapple and was spread proudly across the top of the cushion behind him. He shot up. "To you, Torelli!" he said with an endearing smile. "Ahhhh C'mon. How about to Bambi!" She blushed. We raised our glasses. The sound of clanking was lost to the music thumping in the background. Distant shouts could be heard from the madness that surrounded us. Bambi turned to me. "This is one of the best weekends I've ever had. I'll never forget this."
June 12, 2009. Las Vegas, Nevada
===========
I logged onto twitter to see the following message. "Hey you! I've missed you too! I'm sorry that I was being a flakey friend. I was going through a really rough time but I'm doing a whole lot better now. How are you? How's italy? Call me on this number."
- Bambi
I called her over Skype. It had been over six months since we've last talked.
"Hollaaaaaaaaaaaaa Bambi!" "How you been?"
"Hollaaaaaaaaaaaaaa." I missed her voice. "Gooooood, I've been doing much better. I'm living with my parents now. Been distancing myself from people back home cause I got into some trouble. But I moved up north, finished rehab and things are looking good."
"Good I'm proud of you!"
"How's Italy? Tell me everything! I've always wanted to visit there," she remarked. "I'm thinking of coming in spring!"
"I'd love show you around. Besides you'll be the only American blonde; they boys are going to love you!"
"I like the sound of that," she joked. "Alright well I have to run, I'm driving and I'm lost right now, but can I call you later?"
"Yea sure do you have Skype?"
"No but send me your info and I'll make an account tonight."
"You got it, talk in a few. Ciao Bambi!" "Miss you."
"Ditto, ciao!"
1:00 am, February 18th. Parma, Italy
*****
I scrambled to get to the computer in time to answer the incessant of my Skype phone. "Ciao," I said jovially. "Hello?" "Hey." "Yes, this is Cassie's mom." "Hi, how are you?" I asked as I sat up straight. "I don't know if you heard. I'm just calling everyone in Cassie's phone." "Heard?" "I found Cassie in her bed this morning. She overdosed." I was speechless. "Wait that's impossible, we talked less than 24 hours ago." I composed myself. "Jesus, I'm so sorry," I said. "It's okay. She mentioned something about you being in Italy, I just thought you should know." "Thanks for calling." I didn't know what to say. What could I say?
11:00 pm, February 18th. Parma, Italy
*****
I've been extremely fortunate thus far to have only lost my grandma. However, one anticipates an 87 year old woman to die and I had plenty of time to say my goodbyes. I could only imagine how her mom must have felt walking into that room and finding her helpless daughter laying there. I wish there was something I could do to make it change. I couldn't help but wonder if there was something I could have said on the phone the night before to perhaps alter the decisions she made that night. Sometimes however, we are left helpless. Like in poker, you can't change the past, only how you react to them.
Through every tragedy, there is room for learning and growth. Her death was presumably unintentional but regardless of the cause, it begs the question; in a world of uncertainty, what can I count on? We all indulge in risky situations from time to time and the potential consequences can be higher than we anticipate. Like most people, I've always maintained the ideology that I'm somehow exempt from the harsh realities that life can bring. Sadly, it often takes an event of this stature for us to reflect on what's really important and to reconnect with the people that are close to us. Life is like a poker tournament, one minute you're chip leader, the next you're out. And all it takes is one little mistake. Sometimes, you can do everything perfectly and still lose. Such is life. No amount of insurance can save us from catastrophic accidents. We drift through life with the expectation that tomorrow will greet us with open arms and unwavering certainty. Yet we have no guarantee. One of my favorite quotes provides some further insight.
"The clock is running. Make the most of today. Time waits for no man. Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift. That's why it is called the present." - Alice Morse Earle
I wish I had the chance to go back to that moment we were together in the booth and tell her, "Bambi, I'll never forget this either." Let's not wait until someone dies to tell them the things we should while they're alive. And let's not wait until we die to do the things we want to do while we're alive. I've said it before and I'll say it again, the only thing we can't get more of, is time.
There is no future,
There is no past.
Thank God this moments not the last
There's only us
There's only this
Forget regret
Or life is yours to miss
No other road
No other day
No day but today
Finale, Rent
(Please insert the following image into the blog. Not in link form. The image is here. www.traheho.ws/bambi.jpg )
Feel free to email me at alectorelli@gmail.com with thoughts!
Cheers,
Trah
Breaking the Rules
I peered out the window as the pilot made the final announcements. Small white pellets fell from the sky like bullet shells from a helicopters machine gun. I hadn't seen it physically snow in four years. As we touched down the pilot came on the intercom, Välkommen till Göteborg. I felt the snowflakes kiss my face as I stepped off the plane as if to say, "we missed you." I paused for a moment to inhale the fresh Swedish air. After a wedding in Atlanta for New Years, a weekend in Amsterdam and a layover in Munich, "I made it." I let myself say it out loud to make sure it was real...
I counted the bags on the conveyer belt as I waited in anticipation for my backpack. When it finally arrived, I walked through the large double doors toward the passenger pickup area. She would be there waiting. What seemed like a distant fantasy for months was becoming a reality. My heart raced. I felt the butterflies begin to race up from my stomach. I sped up. I felt her presence like a magnet searching for its opposite. Time slowed as I approached the final turn. "Excuse me," I heard out of the corner of my ear. They might as well have been a grasshopper as I ignored them completely. My disregard proved unsatisfactory. "Excuse me sir," they pestered. "This way please. We need to check your bags."
"Ahhh I'm sorry," I said. "No problem."
Some confusion arose when they came across several unmarked pill cases. "Can you please explain?" asked the guard politely. His accent was heavy and his equipment consisted of a handgun, club, Leatherman knife, flashlight and a wide array of other gadgets. He was roughly 45, balding and carried a gentle demeanor.
"Yes. These are Guarana and those are Willow Bark. It's a natural caffeine supplement I use for working out."
"And these?"
"Excedrin. It's for headaches."
"This one?"
"Vitamin C."
"Why aren't they in their original containers?"
"Well I'm doing quite a bit of traveling and the pill boxes are quite cumbersome. These are much more portable."
"I see." Said the officer. "Moment." He went into the back room. About a minute later, four officers came out. Apparently they didn't get much action. It reminded me of the police department in my hometown of Irvine. One speeding ticket and three officers show up because it's more exciting than driving in circles.
"We need to search the rest of your bags. Come with us please."
"Whatever you want," I said calmly. After all, I had nothing to hide. A different guard whom looked more Turkish than Swedish, led me to a small, barren room with an uncomfortable metal bench. The door held a tiny glass window which was the only connection to the outside world. We entered together and he shut the door behind us. He said nothing. Time seemed to move as if we were in a dream from the movie "Inception." One minute in the real world was sixty in this cubicle. Only this was no dream.
Just as I felt I was losing what little hair I have left, the former guard came into the room. "What are these?" he inquired as he held up a small pill bottle from my toiletries bag.
"Adderol. It's similar to Ritalin."
"What is it for?"
It's given to people with A.D.D. to calm them down and help them focus. They spoke briefly in Swedish before the balding guard said, "I'll be back. Moment."
The Turkish guard informed me that they had to strip search me. Tilting. He began to inquiring about my travels, as a loose form of interrogation. I explained that I was coming from Amsterdam, visiting a woman in Sweden and moving to Florence. One could see the confusion looming over his head. We sat quietly for thirty seconds and I watched him agonize like a chess player contemplating his next move. "So what do you do? For work? How do you live?" he asked with vigor. Normally, I'd use this as an opportunity to live vicariously through one of my alter egos. They have recently ranged from writer to emerging rockstar but in light of the situation, I decided honesty was best.
"I play poker." His face lit up. He started to pace. Now the real interrogation began. "I love poker!" he began. One thing led to another and thirty minutes later, we were discussing traveling, marriage and family, his dreams to visit America and the political differences between our cultures. I learned about his job in the field (customs agents in Sweden were also trained police officers), his love of tai kwon do and our mutual passion for food. When the other guard finally came back, they spoke briefly in Swedish of which the only word I could understand was "smuggling." Not good.
They led me a different interrogation room, this one equipped with a computer and some grim pictures on the walls. The guards and I discussed the procedure for being caught with an Amphetamine in Sweden without a prescription. In short, he told me I was being convicted of smuggling narcotics. "How do you plea… plead… plea?" I laughed. "Plea." Is this a joke? I thought to myself. Pablo Eskobar was a narcotics smuggler. "Isn't that a little aggressive?" I asked him. I tried to explain the severity (or lack thereof) of this charge in America. After gaining no ground I plead "not guilty." I had a bit of trouble understanding the language barrier, which dragged out the process. During the confusion, several other guards came into the room. I could sense their curiosity of the situation. They would ask several questions about my interrogation before getting to the point; "So I heard you're a poker player…" At one point there were four guards and a first officer in the room with me discussing preflop strategy in Texas Holdem. After a brief lesson, I intervened. "Guys I'd love to talk all day, but can I make a call to my girl really quick? She's been waiting outside for two hours and is probably going to kill me." "I'm sorry, we're not allowed to do that until the interrogation is over."
"Are you married?" I asked the guard intently. "Well yes, he said proudly. We just had our twelve year anniversary last week," he said in his broken english. "Then you know how your wife would feel if you flew across the world to see her and she couldn't get a hold of you. She sat there worrying for your safety, wondering where you were. We had dinner plans tonight as well..." but before I could finish he raised his hand to signify that he understood. "Do you need my cell phone?"
Three hours passed and I knew more about the guards than I did some of my friends. "You know," I told them during one of our lighter moments, "if I wasn't starving and being convicted of smuggling narcotics, this would actually be quite enjoyable." "We really wish we could let you go," one of them explained. "But if you were my brother, I still have no choice." I laughed. "We're almost done though," he promised. "I'm going to call the prosecutor and inform him of your decision. I'll be right back. Moment."
After four hours passed, the first officer came in and informed me of their final decision.
"We have a second charge for you," he began.
"What is it?"
"Well we don't have an english word for it, but in Swedish its called "something I can't pronounce." "Basically it means that you brought the drugs in without knowing they were wrong."
"Ahhh like ignorance?" I said. More talk in Swedish amongst the guards.
"Yes… we think," he said apprehensively. "How do you plea… plead… plea? Which one is it again?"
I asked him about my options and retributions I could face for each.
"If you plea guilty, you pay fine and it will be wiped from your record. If you not guilty then prosecutor call you in several days with his decision. You have hearing and talk to lawyer. This maybe take several weeks because you have to face trial."
"I'm only here four days."
"It's up to you," he said somberly.
"How much is the fine?" I said with a sigh.
"In Sweden it varies based on income. For you, very expensive."
"Fantastic." He brought out a calculator. That can't be good. He furiously punched in numbers for a minute or so.
"Based on our calculations you owe 33,000 Kroner (roughly $5,000 USD)!
"There's no way." I'd expect that if I had two pounds of marijuana, 1,000 pills of ecstasy or a kilo of cocaine but 30 pills of adderol that I use sparingly for poker? Please.
He looked at me blankly. "Can I talk to the prosecutor?" I begged.
"I'm afraid that's not possible. You can only do that if you have a trial," he admitted. I sighed as I banged my head into the wall behind me, making a loud thud that echoed across the room. Silence followed.
"Do you take American Express?"
"Let me check… Moment."
Another half hour went by in a futile attempt to process the charges. They only took cash and checks which meant I would have to make another trip to Gothenburg to pay the fine on a later date (I left my little 33,00 Kroner back in Amsterdam lol). Before I left, I had to sign something (which was printed in Swedish) that stated I would be contacted in the next few days by a court representative with details regarding my case. I thought back to that movie of the two women convicted of smuggling drugs in Thailand where they signed their life away thinking they were stating their innocence while secretly being tricked into admitting guilt. "You don't have any copies in English?" I inquired. "We ran out, but I'm afraid you cannot leave without signing this." I had been there four and a half hours, was famished and had to pee. I thought for a moment. "Can the rest of you leave the room please?" They were a bit dumbfounded but after the first officer gave the nod, they proceeded. "Can you translate this for me please?" After he finished, I asked to talk to the Turkish guard in private. He came in and translated the exact same thing. I did this with the third guard as well. Everything was copacetic. Either this was the most elaborate hustle ever (in which case they deserved to bust me) or they were telling the truth. Pen in hand, I closed my eyes and moved my hand across the dotted line…
After a week of agony dealing with the aftermath of the case (I called every legal counsel in the US Embassy Registrar but none could help me because it was a Swedish holiday, several phone calls to legal counsel in the US, my CPA and advisors), I finally settled in Gothenburg for 5,500 Kroner ($800 USD) and was convicted of "negligence" (which won't go on my record). In some ways, I'm frustrated because of the amount of time and energy it consumed but also because I feel the punishment was a bit steep. Worst of all, I have no more adderol 
which is tilting to say the least. In America, they'd laugh at this because adderol can be bought anywhere except vending machines. On the other hand, had I been in Thailand or Singapore I could have been caned or possibly given the death penalty. Just like anything in life, it depends on how you see it.
I take adderol an average of once a month, which is obviously not incriminating. Furthermore, I think the drug is absolutely terrible for our health and prescribing it to innocent children is a far worse crime. I clearly had no intention of selling the pills or causing any disruption in Sweden. Customs was fully aware of that, yet punished me anyway simply for possession. But what message does that really send? That I have to follow the system or I'm somehow a criminal? That If I don't do it their way I'm condemned. If I don't let someone else dictate how I will live my life then I'm somehow a worse citizen or I must pay for my actions? Who are they to tell me what I should do in my free time? I don't tell anyone else how to live.
I know you're thinking one of two things?
1) Why not just get a prescription?
I didn't get a prescription for the same reason that you jaywalk; it's entirely too convenient and you're not really harming anyone. Adderol is easier to find than my favorite brand of cereal. I don't follow rules or laws that I don't see fit, simply because it's "the law." Some examples include rolling stop signs at 2:00 am when nobodies around, speeding on an open road because it makes me feel alive, or smoking a joint after a long day of work. Similarly, I don't follow any of societies "unwritten rules." I didn't graduate college, I enjoy a long distance open relationship and I gamble for a living. More importantly, I don't think any of these things are wrong. On the contrary, I wouldn't conceive of committing certain atrocities regardless of their legality, such as murder and rape.
2) How arrogant of you. Who do you think you are? Alec Torelli or something? We all have to follow the rules or face the consequences.
Face the consequences, fine. But follow the rules, never. For its this blind obedience to authority that allowed Hilter and Stalin to massacre millions of innocent people. The Nazi's were just following the rules laid out for them. If it's the law, we must enforce it, right? It's this "negligence" that allows wars to occur and our rights to be seized from our fingertips. It's only for the tenacious work of few brave souls who've stood up to law makers that has resulted in slavery to being abolished, granting women the right to vote and corrupt empires to cease. Hundreds of years later, we've established national holidays such as Martin Luther King Day to commemorate these heros. But how were these revolutionaries perceived during the time which they lived? If they were lucky, these liberators were ridiculed, hated and persecuted. Most of them such as Martin Luther King, Joan of Ark, John the Baptist and John F. Kennedy were assassinated.
These visionaries all had one thing in common. They envisioned a world which had not yet existed. How can one be revolutionary if his ideas are the same as the masses? Yet despite this we still ridicule those who defy the system. We punish them for being out of place and herd them into being sheep. But being a sheep is dangerous. Power corrupted entities can be the shepherd to sheep. But what if you have the courage to think for yourself? They can't control a free thinking individual. They can't control me. While it is true I may not be able to change the rules that others lay down for me, but I can choose which ones I will follow.
"If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun."
- Lina Knuthson, Sweden
How do we change the system? Abraham Lincoln once said, "the only way to change a policy is to enforce it completely." Perhaps if everyone guilty of jay walking in San Francisco and NYC was given a ticket, people would see how silly the law is and change would follow. Perhaps if everyone who "sped" driving 80 mph instead of "following the rules" and going 65 mph were issued speeding tickets, law makers would see the speed limit is symbolic of life in 1970 and increase it.
Here's some food for thought. If marijuana was legalized tomorrow and alcohol made illegal, would you then allow your kids to smoke weed but not drink alcohol? How sad if our morality and actions are based on the rules other people set for our lives. At what point do we draw the line? Is the above really any different than being the defying college student that tells his parents he doesn't want to become a doctor because he is passionate about poker? After all, you're breaking the "rules" set by your parents. Just because there is no legal penalties does that somehow make it okay? Whose rules do we follow and at what cost to our lives? The ambiguity makes it impossible to be consistent, unless we live our lives the way we want to. (Of course this means without imposing on others). Again, this means that we face the consequences. You're going to disappoint people. You're going to deal with morons. They're not going to understand. You know what I say? As long as you're doing you, who cares what they think? The real question is, who are you going to let affect how you live your life? I know my answer. Nobody. I use this quote as a healthy reminder to keep myself focused on what really matter. Doing me.
"50 told me go ahead switch the style up and if they hate then let em hate and watch the money pile up."
- Kanye West
Disagree? Agree? Thoughts? Email me at alectorelli@gmail.com. You can follow me on twitter at www.twitter.com/alectorelli
Cheers,
Alec@justdoingme.com/fromEurop e
