I spent an hour and a half after mass tonight chatting with an elderly gentleman named Gordon. I met him about three weeks ago and this was our second encounter. He had asked me last time if we could find the time to chat (his wife is working in NYC now and I think he’s a little lonely) so tonight we found a park bench on Pennsylvania Avenue and began chatting. After the conversation had covered the story of how I met my girlfriend, Gordon described to me the circumstances in which he met his wife.
He was living in New York City and wanted to take an art class (art was a minor hobby of his). He found a teacher in Greenwich Village whom agreed to accept him into the water coloring class that he was going to teach. On the first day of class, Gordon saw that the classroom was setup with 8-10 easels in a circle, all facing inward. Whatever the class was painting was in the middle of the circle of easels. Gordon said that as he was painting during the lesson, he at one point looked past the subject from around his watercolor and he noticed directly across from him the face of a beautiful woman peaking out from the side of her canvas and looking back at him. As the lesson progressed he continued to see the attractive face peaking around from her canvas, smiling back and even winking! (I suppose that means he was doing a fair share of peaking and smiling himself! - oh, Gordon, you flirt, you) After the lesson he knew he had to go over and talk to that gorgeous woman. He did, and from brief chatter on walk out he acertained that she was a very nice lady. Rather than split then, he asked her to coffee, and the rest is history (that history being that he married her).
Awwww..... <3 <3 <3 :-)
Later in the conversation he said to me, "T.J., I’m a really sometimes a hard-nosed SOB and indeed many people around the world fear me professionally...but I think I’m really a nice guy deep down. I’m going to give you some advice: stay romantic throughout your life. Keep that part of you going forever." He told me about the time he asked his wife to be back at a certain hour. While she was gone, he attempted to make for her a chocolate soufflé...usually impossible for beginners but by some stroke of luck it came out perfect just as she walked in. He had laid out candles everywhere and they ate the soufflé on a blanket with flowers on the floor that he had also laid out. Afterwards he said they walked out on to the deck and enjoyed the view while embracing each other. Finally, with a chuckle he told me how they then made their way back indoors to the couch, where as he put it they had "dessert". Although it creeped me out that this sixty-something year-old stranger used such a euphemism for sex with me, I must he with his experienced years have left me some sound advice. I shall be a romantic for as long as my heart beats. Cheers, Gordon.
Saturday, July 31, 2004
Friday, July 30, 2004
IMF Weekend ‘00
The International Monetary Fund (IMF)/World Bank protests have become something of an annual tradition in Washington, and the event was known to us at GW as “IMF Weekend”. Protesters from all over the country converged on DC to demonstrate against as what they saw as the World Bank's unfair treatment towards third world countries during an annual meeting of the bank's leaders.
I'm not sure if my freshman year was the first year the protests took place, but I recall a lot of concern on our campus and in the city. Many of the groups that were expected to come to Washington to protest had been involved in violent protests that had done much damage recently in Seattle. In the time leading up to the weekend, GW crews put protective plastic over all the street-level windows. Mailboxes were removed from the area and sewer covers were sealed to eliminate potential bomb drop sites. What I haven’t yet mentioned is that the World Bank headquarters is right next to GW's buildings and even among, as its a very urban campus. E.g., my dorm was on 19th and F...the main World Bank building was also 19th and F, right across the street! We were at ground zero for where the protests would take place. $#%& would be going down outside. My administration-plugged-in roommate told me that if the same damage that was done in Seattle occurred on the Foggy Bottom campus, the school would have to shut down. I'm not sure if that was true or not, but the weekend was late April (16-17) and I didn't want the last three months of the semester to have had been for nothing. Many students were leaving town for that weekend (two out of three of my roommates did, me and my remaining roommate, Joe, promised to try to hold the fort if the protesters stormed our dorm). Some students were planning to get involved in the protest (a *weird* floormate asked me if I would like to join her at the site of an illegal protest - the legal one was too “soft” for her - I declined, also she was later arrested). My American Studies professor said she'd be out there protesting and encouraged us to join the protest as well (the legal one, of course). Finally, some students just saw the whole event as an inconvenience and were planning to protest the protesters for interrupting their weekend. At least one frat draped a huge blanket over their house reading "PROTESTERS GO HOME"!
I woke up that Saturday morning at 8am to the sounds of helicopters and drums. I knew that It had begun.
My roommate was gone; if I remember he had slept in his friends room that overlooked the corner of 19th and F (my room didn't face the street). I got up and flipped on the news. It really had already begun. Protesters had stayed in big abandoned warehouses the night before to organize and get an early start. Police had slipped in spies and were able to know exactly when many illegal activities were to take place. At 8am there had already been hundreds of arrests (by the end of the weekend there would thousands - so many RFK Stadium had to used as a holding area for those arrested). The news showed footage of protesters physically clashing with police: protesters trying to break through the police line, fighting with police, police pushing them back with batons, and there were even a few incidents were the protesters got so out of hand that tear gas had to be fired into the crowd (some protesters had brought gas masks, I guess they were experienced...when that gas went off the footage showed a stampede running the other way, boy). These were mini-confrontations that took place along the long police line in various parts of the city (no footage was shown of what was happening outside my window). We at 19th were very close to the White House (staring at 17th) so for obvious security reasons there was a long police line. Suddenly my roommate burst in with videotape in hand. He had recorded the street scene down below at 19th and F from his friend's room on the 6th floor in the room on that corner with his camcorder. He popped the tape in to show me what was going on. There was huge mob of police and protesters, people deep on each side. There were shouts and chants and I was so surprised how many people there were. We thought, "Hmm, shall we work on our papers or check out a large-with-riot-potential- sized crowd?" We'd never seen anything like that and so it was exciting, I'll admit. We prepared to venture out.
Outside I saw where the drum sound had come from. About 100 people were sitting on the steps and grass of the dorm next to ours banging on buckets or anything that would make a noise. The noise there was intense with all the shouting and chanting. We weren't the only GW students out there and many were taking pictures. We didn't want to get to close to the police line and in possible trouble so we stayed on our side of the street and pushed through the crowd. We were so amazed that in one morning our quiet little corner had become a nexus of activity, the epicenter of this huge occurrence. We wanted to venture out further into the city so we walked down 19th with plans to go to the White House to see the situation there (and make sure that President Clinton didn't need to be saved by us). As we walked past the alley between the two dorms we saw a crowd of protesters in the dumpster doing who knows what (later we heard they overturned that dumpster). Fortunately as we got further away the crowd thinned out and we were able to walk more freely.
The spectacle at our corner was nothing compared to what was at The Ellipse (the park in front of the White House). It was like Woodstock. There was a stage set up by the protesters and what looked like a small fair going on from the booths. We went in to check it out. On the way we walked past the long line of stone-faced police officers who were standing shoulder-to-shoulder around the White House. They wouldn't answer even when some guy asked them where a pay phone might be. They had brought these guys in from all the surrounding counties to have enough manpower.
At The Ellipse, it seemed there was just a miscellaneous protest for various topic. Many other protesters (of other fronts) had latched on with their own causes to the main “event” – the World Bank protest. While the main stage was focusing on the IMF, other booths had messages such as "Legalize Marijuana!". On guy was standing on a soapbox shouting, "Free Political Prisoners!!! Free Mustafa!" I never did find out who Mustafa was and I'm not even sure if he was even in an American prison.
Later that day we overheard some protesters with radios say the police line had moved to encompass all of the GW campus...that meant since we couldn't cross the line we'd be stuck outside of our dorms until whenever the police left...as it was only Saturday that could have been at least two days! We ran back planning to flash our student IDs and to beg to get let through. Back on campus the line-moving rumor turned out to not be true and we were able to get to our dorm, but we acknowledged that the line moving as a very real possibility and decided we'd had enough excitement and to stay inside the rest of the night (our wonderful dorm had a cafeteria in its basement, so we were set!). The situation was tense with the crowd outside, though. Even my own RAs who happened to be standing post inside the doorway demanded I show my photo ID!
The next day was a bust, it rained and no protesters showed up. I finally got to work on my paper, and without the constant beating of plastic drums. Friends returned that night and we were able to tell stories of all that happened. The whole weekend was no Seattle; there really wasn't any damage to the University. Mass arrests seemed to quell all problems. My friend, who was honestly acting innocent, was in the wrong place at the wrong time and was arrested. She had stories of her own with that experience. Since I'd never want to have two police officers watch me while I use the bathroom, I resolved never to be arrested.
The protesters kept coming back each year, but it was never as eventful (for me, anyway) as that first year. By my senior year I was thoroughly sick of all protests.
These memories popped in my head this morning when I read in the paper that Ben & Jerry – yes, *THE* Ben & Jerry - were arrested yesterday while protesting outside the Sudanese embassy. I'll be eating some Chunky Monkey ice cream tonight, thereby doing my own part to help contribute to their bail.
I'm not sure if my freshman year was the first year the protests took place, but I recall a lot of concern on our campus and in the city. Many of the groups that were expected to come to Washington to protest had been involved in violent protests that had done much damage recently in Seattle. In the time leading up to the weekend, GW crews put protective plastic over all the street-level windows. Mailboxes were removed from the area and sewer covers were sealed to eliminate potential bomb drop sites. What I haven’t yet mentioned is that the World Bank headquarters is right next to GW's buildings and even among, as its a very urban campus. E.g., my dorm was on 19th and F...the main World Bank building was also 19th and F, right across the street! We were at ground zero for where the protests would take place. $#%& would be going down outside. My administration-plugged-in roommate told me that if the same damage that was done in Seattle occurred on the Foggy Bottom campus, the school would have to shut down. I'm not sure if that was true or not, but the weekend was late April (16-17) and I didn't want the last three months of the semester to have had been for nothing. Many students were leaving town for that weekend (two out of three of my roommates did, me and my remaining roommate, Joe, promised to try to hold the fort if the protesters stormed our dorm). Some students were planning to get involved in the protest (a *weird* floormate asked me if I would like to join her at the site of an illegal protest - the legal one was too “soft” for her - I declined, also she was later arrested). My American Studies professor said she'd be out there protesting and encouraged us to join the protest as well (the legal one, of course). Finally, some students just saw the whole event as an inconvenience and were planning to protest the protesters for interrupting their weekend. At least one frat draped a huge blanket over their house reading "PROTESTERS GO HOME"!
I woke up that Saturday morning at 8am to the sounds of helicopters and drums. I knew that It had begun.
My roommate was gone; if I remember he had slept in his friends room that overlooked the corner of 19th and F (my room didn't face the street). I got up and flipped on the news. It really had already begun. Protesters had stayed in big abandoned warehouses the night before to organize and get an early start. Police had slipped in spies and were able to know exactly when many illegal activities were to take place. At 8am there had already been hundreds of arrests (by the end of the weekend there would thousands - so many RFK Stadium had to used as a holding area for those arrested). The news showed footage of protesters physically clashing with police: protesters trying to break through the police line, fighting with police, police pushing them back with batons, and there were even a few incidents were the protesters got so out of hand that tear gas had to be fired into the crowd (some protesters had brought gas masks, I guess they were experienced...when that gas went off the footage showed a stampede running the other way, boy). These were mini-confrontations that took place along the long police line in various parts of the city (no footage was shown of what was happening outside my window). We at 19th were very close to the White House (staring at 17th) so for obvious security reasons there was a long police line. Suddenly my roommate burst in with videotape in hand. He had recorded the street scene down below at 19th and F from his friend's room on the 6th floor in the room on that corner with his camcorder. He popped the tape in to show me what was going on. There was huge mob of police and protesters, people deep on each side. There were shouts and chants and I was so surprised how many people there were. We thought, "Hmm, shall we work on our papers or check out a large-with-riot-potential- sized crowd?" We'd never seen anything like that and so it was exciting, I'll admit. We prepared to venture out.
Outside I saw where the drum sound had come from. About 100 people were sitting on the steps and grass of the dorm next to ours banging on buckets or anything that would make a noise. The noise there was intense with all the shouting and chanting. We weren't the only GW students out there and many were taking pictures. We didn't want to get to close to the police line and in possible trouble so we stayed on our side of the street and pushed through the crowd. We were so amazed that in one morning our quiet little corner had become a nexus of activity, the epicenter of this huge occurrence. We wanted to venture out further into the city so we walked down 19th with plans to go to the White House to see the situation there (and make sure that President Clinton didn't need to be saved by us). As we walked past the alley between the two dorms we saw a crowd of protesters in the dumpster doing who knows what (later we heard they overturned that dumpster). Fortunately as we got further away the crowd thinned out and we were able to walk more freely.
The spectacle at our corner was nothing compared to what was at The Ellipse (the park in front of the White House). It was like Woodstock. There was a stage set up by the protesters and what looked like a small fair going on from the booths. We went in to check it out. On the way we walked past the long line of stone-faced police officers who were standing shoulder-to-shoulder around the White House. They wouldn't answer even when some guy asked them where a pay phone might be. They had brought these guys in from all the surrounding counties to have enough manpower.
At The Ellipse, it seemed there was just a miscellaneous protest for various topic. Many other protesters (of other fronts) had latched on with their own causes to the main “event” – the World Bank protest. While the main stage was focusing on the IMF, other booths had messages such as "Legalize Marijuana!". On guy was standing on a soapbox shouting, "Free Political Prisoners!!! Free Mustafa!" I never did find out who Mustafa was and I'm not even sure if he was even in an American prison.
Later that day we overheard some protesters with radios say the police line had moved to encompass all of the GW campus...that meant since we couldn't cross the line we'd be stuck outside of our dorms until whenever the police left...as it was only Saturday that could have been at least two days! We ran back planning to flash our student IDs and to beg to get let through. Back on campus the line-moving rumor turned out to not be true and we were able to get to our dorm, but we acknowledged that the line moving as a very real possibility and decided we'd had enough excitement and to stay inside the rest of the night (our wonderful dorm had a cafeteria in its basement, so we were set!). The situation was tense with the crowd outside, though. Even my own RAs who happened to be standing post inside the doorway demanded I show my photo ID!
The next day was a bust, it rained and no protesters showed up. I finally got to work on my paper, and without the constant beating of plastic drums. Friends returned that night and we were able to tell stories of all that happened. The whole weekend was no Seattle; there really wasn't any damage to the University. Mass arrests seemed to quell all problems. My friend, who was honestly acting innocent, was in the wrong place at the wrong time and was arrested. She had stories of her own with that experience. Since I'd never want to have two police officers watch me while I use the bathroom, I resolved never to be arrested.
The protesters kept coming back each year, but it was never as eventful (for me, anyway) as that first year. By my senior year I was thoroughly sick of all protests.
These memories popped in my head this morning when I read in the paper that Ben & Jerry – yes, *THE* Ben & Jerry - were arrested yesterday while protesting outside the Sudanese embassy. I'll be eating some Chunky Monkey ice cream tonight, thereby doing my own part to help contribute to their bail.
Thursday, July 29, 2004
Dirty pants of my dirty past
Here's the story of the most dirt I ever had inside my pants:
My Pop Warner football practice was cancelled early due to a sudden, torrential downpour. Since it was early and a bunch of us were left waiting for our rides home, we headed over to a nearby baseball field that had since become flooded in the rain. It was raining so hard that in parts of the field the water was actually a couple of inches deep. The situation there soon became a group of pre-teens sliding/swimming in the mud/mini-lake. That was my second favorite (if not first) time in a rainstorm. We didn't want our parents to show up and take us away from the excitement. The thunder was booming, the rain was pouring, and I guess there might have even been some lighting as we played in that slightly open-field while in a huge pool of water. We didn't care because we were young and stupid, and also wet, muddy, and happy.
When my dad finally did show up he almost $#%& a cupcake when we saw the two mud-covered boys he had to take home. My brother and I were ordered straight down to the basement to take off our football gear, the easiest place to contain/deal with the mess. From sliding around in the muddy water, our tight football pants had become full of mud (and muddy water), and as the water had evaporated we were left with just clothes full of dirt. As we took off our padded football pants the soil came out in clumps. It was pretty bad. My cup had become filled with a solid ball of earth. I was laughing the whole time.
My Pop Warner football practice was cancelled early due to a sudden, torrential downpour. Since it was early and a bunch of us were left waiting for our rides home, we headed over to a nearby baseball field that had since become flooded in the rain. It was raining so hard that in parts of the field the water was actually a couple of inches deep. The situation there soon became a group of pre-teens sliding/swimming in the mud/mini-lake. That was my second favorite (if not first) time in a rainstorm. We didn't want our parents to show up and take us away from the excitement. The thunder was booming, the rain was pouring, and I guess there might have even been some lighting as we played in that slightly open-field while in a huge pool of water. We didn't care because we were young and stupid, and also wet, muddy, and happy.
When my dad finally did show up he almost $#%& a cupcake when we saw the two mud-covered boys he had to take home. My brother and I were ordered straight down to the basement to take off our football gear, the easiest place to contain/deal with the mess. From sliding around in the muddy water, our tight football pants had become full of mud (and muddy water), and as the water had evaporated we were left with just clothes full of dirt. As we took off our padded football pants the soil came out in clumps. It was pretty bad. My cup had become filled with a solid ball of earth. I was laughing the whole time.
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
A world less beautiful than it looks
After I graduated from "Choose your own Adventure" books, my primary literary involvement was with comic books. I mainly read Marvel, so “Spider-Man”, “X-Men”, etc. I think I bought a "Batman" once, just to say I owned one. They were fun and brainless reads. A part of me even saw comics as an investment; that in thirty years or so I'd be able to sell them all and retire early, assuming the 3000% appreciation of value of the some older comics (I check ebay every once in a while and all those comics now are not even worth the paper they're printed on...but I still have twenty years to go for the price to shoot up!).
I can remember the exact moment when I realized the fallaciousness of what I was reading. It was an issue of X-Men, and I turned to a page featuring a large drawing of Professor X. Professor X is the X-Men's leader...he is an older man who is without the use of his legs and so confined to a wheelchair. The image was of him sitting in some lab wearing a tight shirt. I was immediately struck by the fact that this crippled man had the body of an Olympian. The guy could have modeled for Abercrombie. I find it inspirational that in his immobilized condition he was able to do daily crunches. You could have scrubbed your laundry on those abs. I thought, "Give me a break!" The comic book world with its idealized human bodies was then shattered by the ridiculousness of what I saw. I stopped reading comic books shortly after (though for multiple reasons).
Comic books are an extreme in distorting reality. In superhero comic books, every female has Barbie's measurements and, as I've mentioned, even a cripple could model briefs. Other forms of media are less cartoonish in their exaggerations yet are still deceptive, and the subtlety makes them even more dangerous. Friends of mine pointed out a bad airbrushing job on a Britney Spears poster that, uh, someone must have placed on my dorm wall because it certainly wasn't mine...right, so anyway…that airbrushing was evident, most other paint work isn't, and there’s a lot out there. We're constantly bombarded with images of beautiful people and now it isn't even enough to have the one-in-a-million genes; you'll never be able to compete with a treated/enhanced photo of a swimsuit model. I can understand the pressure on young girls and how they’ve suffered due to their perception of how they believe society wants them to look. Furthermore, I argue that females are not the only victims of this. The effects of males bombarded with images of these Adonises are increasingly being talked about. Guys are relatively more reluctant to discuss their feelings so in that way I think their concerns have taken a back seat to the girls’. I can't say who deserves more sympathy. As time goes on I think more consequences to both sexes will be brought forth, such as the "reverse anorexia" guys are now diagnosed with (obsessively working out because they think they're too skinny). Advertisers have deep pockets, and I'm sure the pictures of the beautiful people will inundate us even more just so we buy a car or some drink. The prudent course of action, in my opinion, is to recognize that many of these images are not even reality, and that even the untouched ones feature people who are the products of genetic miracles. Documentaries on airbrushing I've heard are also very informative. The image facilities that are presented to us everyday are very real and many of us have been dealing with it our whole lives. Remember He-Man? That guy was jacked.
I can remember the exact moment when I realized the fallaciousness of what I was reading. It was an issue of X-Men, and I turned to a page featuring a large drawing of Professor X. Professor X is the X-Men's leader...he is an older man who is without the use of his legs and so confined to a wheelchair. The image was of him sitting in some lab wearing a tight shirt. I was immediately struck by the fact that this crippled man had the body of an Olympian. The guy could have modeled for Abercrombie. I find it inspirational that in his immobilized condition he was able to do daily crunches. You could have scrubbed your laundry on those abs. I thought, "Give me a break!" The comic book world with its idealized human bodies was then shattered by the ridiculousness of what I saw. I stopped reading comic books shortly after (though for multiple reasons).
Comic books are an extreme in distorting reality. In superhero comic books, every female has Barbie's measurements and, as I've mentioned, even a cripple could model briefs. Other forms of media are less cartoonish in their exaggerations yet are still deceptive, and the subtlety makes them even more dangerous. Friends of mine pointed out a bad airbrushing job on a Britney Spears poster that, uh, someone must have placed on my dorm wall because it certainly wasn't mine...right, so anyway…that airbrushing was evident, most other paint work isn't, and there’s a lot out there. We're constantly bombarded with images of beautiful people and now it isn't even enough to have the one-in-a-million genes; you'll never be able to compete with a treated/enhanced photo of a swimsuit model. I can understand the pressure on young girls and how they’ve suffered due to their perception of how they believe society wants them to look. Furthermore, I argue that females are not the only victims of this. The effects of males bombarded with images of these Adonises are increasingly being talked about. Guys are relatively more reluctant to discuss their feelings so in that way I think their concerns have taken a back seat to the girls’. I can't say who deserves more sympathy. As time goes on I think more consequences to both sexes will be brought forth, such as the "reverse anorexia" guys are now diagnosed with (obsessively working out because they think they're too skinny). Advertisers have deep pockets, and I'm sure the pictures of the beautiful people will inundate us even more just so we buy a car or some drink. The prudent course of action, in my opinion, is to recognize that many of these images are not even reality, and that even the untouched ones feature people who are the products of genetic miracles. Documentaries on airbrushing I've heard are also very informative. The image facilities that are presented to us everyday are very real and many of us have been dealing with it our whole lives. Remember He-Man? That guy was jacked.
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
Professional Athletes
Stan Taylor (football star): … Ned Flanders saved me. I used to party all night and sleep with lingerie models until Ned and his bible group showed me that I could have more.
Homer: [murmuring] Professional athletes, always wantin' more...
-The Simpsons
We hate professional athletes because of their greed, but really we all want to be them. Who wouldn't? They get paid to play a game. They make far more than most Harvard graduates who studied every Saturday night for doing basically what elementary schoolers do at recess. Then, while they argue $19 vs. $20 million on their contract we're hating our job pushing papers of sweeping buses or whatever and would kill to just sit the bench for even a tenth of what they make (though we still go back and watch them week after week).
I've heard theories explaining the phenomena of wanting the extra million when you're already set up for fifty as that the athletes are different people than us. For most of us there's a diminishing marginal return of utility on each extra dollar of income. Athletes (and people like them) actually instead get increasingly excited with each dollar. Maybe that's just fancy talk for "greedy". It’s a pretty abstract theory and I don't know if I should believe it. What I do doubt is if their value to society is reflected in their paychecks. I don't see anything inherent in sports as a profession that would mean the athlete deserves millions of dollars. On a side-rant, the same goes with pop music-stars...I be crying for anyone who can't buy ten cars or a phat crib because CD sales are lagging. Aren't artists supposed to be stereotypically starving, anyway? Oh well, with music and sports I suppose this is the wage our market economy has settled on, and far be from me to argue a better way of determining wages. And hey, this society really likes its sports.
Now let me defend the athletes on, although a trivial point, a pet peeve of mine none the less. I hate it when somebody says, "That guy/team sucks!" No, they don't suck. They're actually very good. Maybe they're “relatively less gifted” than those that win the Super Bowl, or even those that have winning records, but they're still good enough to get paid millions just to play a game. Tens of thousands come to see them play and millions watch them on TV. No one cares about you sitting in your living room eating Fritos in your dirty t-shirt, and with your beer belly who are you to talk anyway? Growing up back in their hometown they undoubtedly dominated the field and were the MVP every year and dated all the pretty cheerleaders. Honor students moved out of their way in the halls. All the middle-aged men who peaked in high school would stand around at their games drinking coffee and cheering loudly for them. All the old men townies would say to each other "There's never been one like him in Podunk". Now, you don't become suckier going from Nowhere-ville jock-god to the NFL. OK, they don't suck. What if you found yourself against someone you called “sucky” at a pickup game down at the park? Dude, they'd walk all over you.
Homer: [murmuring] Professional athletes, always wantin' more...
-The Simpsons
We hate professional athletes because of their greed, but really we all want to be them. Who wouldn't? They get paid to play a game. They make far more than most Harvard graduates who studied every Saturday night for doing basically what elementary schoolers do at recess. Then, while they argue $19 vs. $20 million on their contract we're hating our job pushing papers of sweeping buses or whatever and would kill to just sit the bench for even a tenth of what they make (though we still go back and watch them week after week).
I've heard theories explaining the phenomena of wanting the extra million when you're already set up for fifty as that the athletes are different people than us. For most of us there's a diminishing marginal return of utility on each extra dollar of income. Athletes (and people like them) actually instead get increasingly excited with each dollar. Maybe that's just fancy talk for "greedy". It’s a pretty abstract theory and I don't know if I should believe it. What I do doubt is if their value to society is reflected in their paychecks. I don't see anything inherent in sports as a profession that would mean the athlete deserves millions of dollars. On a side-rant, the same goes with pop music-stars...I be crying for anyone who can't buy ten cars or a phat crib because CD sales are lagging. Aren't artists supposed to be stereotypically starving, anyway? Oh well, with music and sports I suppose this is the wage our market economy has settled on, and far be from me to argue a better way of determining wages. And hey, this society really likes its sports.
Now let me defend the athletes on, although a trivial point, a pet peeve of mine none the less. I hate it when somebody says, "That guy/team sucks!" No, they don't suck. They're actually very good. Maybe they're “relatively less gifted” than those that win the Super Bowl, or even those that have winning records, but they're still good enough to get paid millions just to play a game. Tens of thousands come to see them play and millions watch them on TV. No one cares about you sitting in your living room eating Fritos in your dirty t-shirt, and with your beer belly who are you to talk anyway? Growing up back in their hometown they undoubtedly dominated the field and were the MVP every year and dated all the pretty cheerleaders. Honor students moved out of their way in the halls. All the middle-aged men who peaked in high school would stand around at their games drinking coffee and cheering loudly for them. All the old men townies would say to each other "There's never been one like him in Podunk". Now, you don't become suckier going from Nowhere-ville jock-god to the NFL. OK, they don't suck. What if you found yourself against someone you called “sucky” at a pickup game down at the park? Dude, they'd walk all over you.
Monday, July 26, 2004
Age & Weight Disclosure
Why are people so hesitant to divulge their age or weight (by ‘people’, of course, I mean ‘women’)? I could understand for example if the person not wanting to name their age or weight was a pen pal, but when admitting your age/weight to someone who has seen you there is rarely a surprise. If a morbidly obese woman told me that she was in the upper 300’s, I’d think, "Yeah, OK, I expected that." It wouldn’t be a shocker.
Age and weight are simply numbers. I would think for most people appearance would be important than whatever the person weighted or their age. OK, I’ll make it personal. On paper, I’m fat - that is, my weight is high. Though cooking for myself has caused me to waste away over the last year, at my peak the year before I was 190lbs. (and 5’10"). Considering only my height and weight, I’m obese. However, I wasn’t (and am not) really fat. I had a high muscle mass, and since muscle weighs more than fat, it put my weight up past what looks "normal" on charts. People trying to peg my weight would always guess at least thirty pounds too low. I told them my weight and no one believed me! In my case my weight (the number of pounds) was meaningless. Rather, it was my appearance that spoke. Actually I just got my body tested about two months ago and I was under the ideal my males my age...yikes! I need more ice cream in the diet!!!
My point is that if you lie about your age and/or weight (or just won’t say) it’s not going to change what your appearance is. If a non-fat person gives a high weight, it’s not like everyone’s opinion of their appearance will suddenly change to think, "Oh, there goes Bob the chunk-monster." Likewise with a heavy person...if a heavier person drastically lies about their weight, well, no one is going to believe them anyway. If they won’t say, people are still going to think they have a high weight, because they’re not blind. Appearance is what matters. This is why they tell dieters to look in the mirror and not the number on their scale. It’s just a number.
Of course, there’s a politeness factor. Asking age and weight is a rather rude question. Even if we could make a good guess, I suppose it’s proper that uncertainty is left. The Census deals with confidential economic data, and there are people working there whose sole jobs are the make sure that confidentiality is kept. People are very careful in dealing with disclosure, even to the point of checking that all the ways a single company’s information that could be systematically determined in other ways are prevented. Everyone in America could guess that the big companies make gajillions, but no one knows precisely how much an individual company makes, at least from Census data. With companies or people, sensitive information might be better left to the individual. We know Miss Daisy is old, but never precisely how old, and if that leaves Miss Daisy at easy, we should leave it was such.
I suppose there are some surprises. With the plastic surgery wave that’s sweeping the nation I imagine there will be more and more people who are actually much older than they look, and I would guess it would be embarrassing to admit that you’re "fake" when your age and appearance don’t match-up. Likewise with weight a person might wear baggier clothing, and so it would be harder to truly know the person’s body type. In these situations since the outside world is prevented from surmising the situation I could see how the person would be even against saying their age or weight.
So, for the sake of politeness, let’s keep it "don’t ask, don’t tell". But please understand that most people already know. I’m sure we all have more skeletons in our closet than that what would just confirm what anyone with two eyes could plainly see, and I suggest focusing our energies on keeping those secrets under-wraps.
Age and weight are simply numbers. I would think for most people appearance would be important than whatever the person weighted or their age. OK, I’ll make it personal. On paper, I’m fat - that is, my weight is high. Though cooking for myself has caused me to waste away over the last year, at my peak the year before I was 190lbs. (and 5’10"). Considering only my height and weight, I’m obese. However, I wasn’t (and am not) really fat. I had a high muscle mass, and since muscle weighs more than fat, it put my weight up past what looks "normal" on charts. People trying to peg my weight would always guess at least thirty pounds too low. I told them my weight and no one believed me! In my case my weight (the number of pounds) was meaningless. Rather, it was my appearance that spoke. Actually I just got my body tested about two months ago and I was under the ideal my males my age...yikes! I need more ice cream in the diet!!!
My point is that if you lie about your age and/or weight (or just won’t say) it’s not going to change what your appearance is. If a non-fat person gives a high weight, it’s not like everyone’s opinion of their appearance will suddenly change to think, "Oh, there goes Bob the chunk-monster." Likewise with a heavy person...if a heavier person drastically lies about their weight, well, no one is going to believe them anyway. If they won’t say, people are still going to think they have a high weight, because they’re not blind. Appearance is what matters. This is why they tell dieters to look in the mirror and not the number on their scale. It’s just a number.
Of course, there’s a politeness factor. Asking age and weight is a rather rude question. Even if we could make a good guess, I suppose it’s proper that uncertainty is left. The Census deals with confidential economic data, and there are people working there whose sole jobs are the make sure that confidentiality is kept. People are very careful in dealing with disclosure, even to the point of checking that all the ways a single company’s information that could be systematically determined in other ways are prevented. Everyone in America could guess that the big companies make gajillions, but no one knows precisely how much an individual company makes, at least from Census data. With companies or people, sensitive information might be better left to the individual. We know Miss Daisy is old, but never precisely how old, and if that leaves Miss Daisy at easy, we should leave it was such.
I suppose there are some surprises. With the plastic surgery wave that’s sweeping the nation I imagine there will be more and more people who are actually much older than they look, and I would guess it would be embarrassing to admit that you’re "fake" when your age and appearance don’t match-up. Likewise with weight a person might wear baggier clothing, and so it would be harder to truly know the person’s body type. In these situations since the outside world is prevented from surmising the situation I could see how the person would be even against saying their age or weight.
So, for the sake of politeness, let’s keep it "don’t ask, don’t tell". But please understand that most people already know. I’m sure we all have more skeletons in our closet than that what would just confirm what anyone with two eyes could plainly see, and I suggest focusing our energies on keeping those secrets under-wraps.
Sunday, July 25, 2004
Conversion
Stories of people whom had converted to their religion has always interested me. Let’s face it: most of us are the religion we are because we were born that way. We didn’t "shop around" for our religions. We accept the faith we were raised, often blindly. Converters, on the other hand, also believe in their faith, but their distinction is that they had previously rejected another religion. Given two options (in reality much more) to believe in which nothing can be proven as the ‘true’ selection, the choice seems arbitrary. Yet, it is captivating to hear the stories and reasons explaining the reason the converted chose the way they did.
A large part of the ‘credibility’ a person has for their religion is that it has been handed to them; they were raised up from childhood with that religious instruction. I don’t know enough theology to know if any religion can be logically proven to be correct, but I doubt there is or the matter would be settled and we could all flock to the correct one. There is no ‘proof’ in religion, that’s why it’s often referred to as ‘faith’. It’s just that: ‘faith’.
With all the religions in the world, I don’t think that more than one can be right. I suppose one tops, and more probably none of them. For all we know some undiscovered native tribe could possess the "real" religion, and we spend the afterlife holding up the sky with the giant Turtle-god, As-k’in-aron.
As I rationally find it so easy to be wrong, I suppose after my own religion Agnostism would come as the next best choice (Atheism is just a blind faith in itself). If my religion is true, is it 100% true? Maybe we got most of it right but are off on a few points, due to human error. I’m not sure. I believe it’s all true, but fmy aith is the spackle plaster in the holes of reason of my belief.
Where I’m going with all of this I can see how it’s easy to lose one’s faith, yet difficult to gain another (or even grow deeper in your own) as the growth of faith takes place in the absence of proof. This is what makes the story of conversion to another faith all the more fascinating to me. Why do people choose religions other than what’s been given to them? Are they more appealing? Does the new religion and associated moral code allow more "Thou shall not"s? Is it rebellion against...whatever? I’ve heard of visions that appear to individuals that are the cause of their conversion. Be it apparition or not, I imagine that all conversion stories stem from an interesting cause.
A large part of the ‘credibility’ a person has for their religion is that it has been handed to them; they were raised up from childhood with that religious instruction. I don’t know enough theology to know if any religion can be logically proven to be correct, but I doubt there is or the matter would be settled and we could all flock to the correct one. There is no ‘proof’ in religion, that’s why it’s often referred to as ‘faith’. It’s just that: ‘faith’.
With all the religions in the world, I don’t think that more than one can be right. I suppose one tops, and more probably none of them. For all we know some undiscovered native tribe could possess the "real" religion, and we spend the afterlife holding up the sky with the giant Turtle-god, As-k’in-aron.
As I rationally find it so easy to be wrong, I suppose after my own religion Agnostism would come as the next best choice (Atheism is just a blind faith in itself). If my religion is true, is it 100% true? Maybe we got most of it right but are off on a few points, due to human error. I’m not sure. I believe it’s all true, but fmy aith is the spackle plaster in the holes of reason of my belief.
Where I’m going with all of this I can see how it’s easy to lose one’s faith, yet difficult to gain another (or even grow deeper in your own) as the growth of faith takes place in the absence of proof. This is what makes the story of conversion to another faith all the more fascinating to me. Why do people choose religions other than what’s been given to them? Are they more appealing? Does the new religion and associated moral code allow more "Thou shall not"s? Is it rebellion against...whatever? I’ve heard of visions that appear to individuals that are the cause of their conversion. Be it apparition or not, I imagine that all conversion stories stem from an interesting cause.
Saturday, July 24, 2004
Shoe Laces
Walking down the street with your shoelaces untied is truly a double-edged sword. You look like a dork walking with your shoelaces untied and you also look like a dork bending over to tie them.
Friday, July 23, 2004
Pay Phones
Yesterday I was repaying someone the cost of my lunch; she had put our office luncheon on her credit card. When I paid her she (to my surprise) gave me back change, even though it was very little. I joked that now I’d have enough to make a pay call.
Or would I? We couldn’t decide what that cost of a call is anymore. I want to say I feel like it’s up to fifty cents...I’m pretty sure it was thirty-five cents around the time I stopped using them, as I recall the inconvenience of not being able to use just a quarter anymore (as I had for most of my use of pay phones). I bet our grandpas will tell us that they cost a dime or even a nickel even way back when. I would research how much a pay phone call is but I don’t even know where one is around here to look up the price on...and I live downtown!
I’m not all that sure anyone even uses pay phones anymore. Cell phones are killing them off. The lady from my office’s theory is that now pay phones are only used by those with bad credit. I’m sure some people do use them in places like airports and such, and also of course times they’ve forgotten their cell phones at home.
I think pay phones had a "golden age" in the pre-cell phone days of The Beeper. I never had a beeper (or even a cell phone until two years ago) but I remember being out with friends when suddenly they’d jump up saying, "Oh, I just got beeped! We have to go find a pay phone!!!" What was happening is that as people were getting pages (as they hadn’t before the beepers were around), they were now specifically seeking out pay phones in order to purchase a call when they got their beeper they wouldn’t have because they wouldn’t have known anyone was trying to call them without the beeper; there were now just more reasons to make a call. On a side note, that’s one of the things I found rude about beepers: if you were out with friends you would stop what you were doing to get in touch with other friends (which never was for anything important)....little did I know the inconsiderateness that would come about with cell phones...but I digress. Anyway, there must have been big pay days for the pay phone companies back then. When cell phones came about they eliminated the need to find those pay phones, or use of them at all. Cell phones killed beepers as well.
I remember my own uses for pay phones. As caller IDs were getting more popular, if for whatever reason I didn’t want a person to know it was me that was calling (I’m very sneaky), I would go get in my car and drive to a nearby pay phone and make the call from there. That way it wouldn’t be my last name showing up in the caller ID.
My most popular use for pay phones would simply be calling home if I needed a ride. I get nostalgia everytime I drive past the certain rest stop on the highway that the wrestling team bus would stop at on the way to the high school to call home and tell our parents that we were now at the fifteen minute point from the high school and to come pick us up. (On another side note, there was a McDonald’s in that rest stop and once in a while some fat kid would buy the forbidden fast food and *try* to sneak it past Coach - always with humorous results!) One time instead of stopping coach let us all use his cell phone...it was the first time I had ever used a cell phone...I thought it was broke; God, I didn’t know you had to hit "Send"!
For the most part we stopped at that rest stop to make calls. I had my own little method with my mom (and I know I’m not the only one). I’d call 1-800-Collect, and when it came time to say my name, my name was "mompickmeup". Or, I would say my name but when she heard "T.J." she would just reject charges and know to come get me. With tactics like these, 1-800-collect, and not just cell phones, contributed (or should I say are contributing...there are still some) to the demise of the pay phone. Blame Carrot Top.
Or would I? We couldn’t decide what that cost of a call is anymore. I want to say I feel like it’s up to fifty cents...I’m pretty sure it was thirty-five cents around the time I stopped using them, as I recall the inconvenience of not being able to use just a quarter anymore (as I had for most of my use of pay phones). I bet our grandpas will tell us that they cost a dime or even a nickel even way back when. I would research how much a pay phone call is but I don’t even know where one is around here to look up the price on...and I live downtown!
I’m not all that sure anyone even uses pay phones anymore. Cell phones are killing them off. The lady from my office’s theory is that now pay phones are only used by those with bad credit. I’m sure some people do use them in places like airports and such, and also of course times they’ve forgotten their cell phones at home.
I think pay phones had a "golden age" in the pre-cell phone days of The Beeper. I never had a beeper (or even a cell phone until two years ago) but I remember being out with friends when suddenly they’d jump up saying, "Oh, I just got beeped! We have to go find a pay phone!!!" What was happening is that as people were getting pages (as they hadn’t before the beepers were around), they were now specifically seeking out pay phones in order to purchase a call when they got their beeper they wouldn’t have because they wouldn’t have known anyone was trying to call them without the beeper; there were now just more reasons to make a call. On a side note, that’s one of the things I found rude about beepers: if you were out with friends you would stop what you were doing to get in touch with other friends (which never was for anything important)....little did I know the inconsiderateness that would come about with cell phones...but I digress. Anyway, there must have been big pay days for the pay phone companies back then. When cell phones came about they eliminated the need to find those pay phones, or use of them at all. Cell phones killed beepers as well.
I remember my own uses for pay phones. As caller IDs were getting more popular, if for whatever reason I didn’t want a person to know it was me that was calling (I’m very sneaky), I would go get in my car and drive to a nearby pay phone and make the call from there. That way it wouldn’t be my last name showing up in the caller ID.
My most popular use for pay phones would simply be calling home if I needed a ride. I get nostalgia everytime I drive past the certain rest stop on the highway that the wrestling team bus would stop at on the way to the high school to call home and tell our parents that we were now at the fifteen minute point from the high school and to come pick us up. (On another side note, there was a McDonald’s in that rest stop and once in a while some fat kid would buy the forbidden fast food and *try* to sneak it past Coach - always with humorous results!) One time instead of stopping coach let us all use his cell phone...it was the first time I had ever used a cell phone...I thought it was broke; God, I didn’t know you had to hit "Send"!
For the most part we stopped at that rest stop to make calls. I had my own little method with my mom (and I know I’m not the only one). I’d call 1-800-Collect, and when it came time to say my name, my name was "mompickmeup". Or, I would say my name but when she heard "T.J." she would just reject charges and know to come get me. With tactics like these, 1-800-collect, and not just cell phones, contributed (or should I say are contributing...there are still some) to the demise of the pay phone. Blame Carrot Top.
Thursday, July 22, 2004
Blackheart's Deal
I'd be able to devote everyday to "The Simpsons" if I wanted. No other cultural phenomenon has given so much to my life; nothing else would be referenced in conversation with friends with such frequency. I wish they'd never stop making episodes, but I know that day is coming.
The middle-old episodes are clearly the best. Say, seasons 4-5ish. Those are the classics, and contain so many beloved scenes. One of my all-time favorite images is Homer shouting out the open window, "That wasn't part!!!" outwards to the open air. Ring a bell? Here are the scenes leading up to it (in case you've been living under a rock): Bart had won an elephant, Stampy, in a contest. The family, unable to afford care for the animal, had been looking for someone to give Stampy away to and finally found a buyer...
Man: Mr. Simpson, I think you'll find this amount more than fair.
Lisa: Dad, I think he's an ivory dealer! His boots are ivory, his hat is ivory, and I'm pretty sure that check is ivory.
Homer: Lisa, a guy who's got lots of ivory is _less_ likely to hurt Stampy than a guy whose ivory supplies are low.
Lisa: Mr. Blackheart?
Blackheart: Yes, my pretty?
Lisa: Are you an ivory dealer?
Blackheart: [laughs] Well, little girl, I've had lots of jobs in my day: whale-hunter, seal-clubber, president of the Fox network, and, like most people, yeah, I've dealt a little ivory.
Bart: Dad, you can't do this. Stampy is my friend.
Homer: Don't worry, son. I'll get you a new elephant.
Blackheart: I'll take that one too.
Homer: Done!
Blackheart: All right, I'll be back in the morning to pick up Stampy.
Homer: Here's the keys.
Blackheart: Elephants don't have keys.
Homer: Well, I'll just keep these then.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Bart: Don't worry, Stampy. I won't let Homer sell you to that ivory dealer. You and I are going to run away together. We'll keep to he back roads and make our way south. Then, if I know my geography, it's just twelve miles to Africa. OK, bud, very quietly: let's just sneak through --
[Stampy brushes him off and tromps off]
Stampy! [walks through the Flanders' yard]
Ned: [gasps] It's the four elephants of the apocalypse!
Maude: That's horsemen, Ned.
Ned: Well, getting closer.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
[Lisa runs into her parents' bedroom, clearly distraught]
Lisa: Mom! Dad! Bart and Stampy are gone!
Marge: Oh my Lord!
Lisa: I bet it's 'cause of that horrible ivory dealer, [accusingly] Dad.
Homer: He took Bart, too?!? That wasn't part of our deal, Blackheart. [yelling out the window] That wasn't part!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The middle-old episodes are clearly the best. Say, seasons 4-5ish. Those are the classics, and contain so many beloved scenes. One of my all-time favorite images is Homer shouting out the open window, "That wasn't part!!!" outwards to the open air. Ring a bell? Here are the scenes leading up to it (in case you've been living under a rock): Bart had won an elephant, Stampy, in a contest. The family, unable to afford care for the animal, had been looking for someone to give Stampy away to and finally found a buyer...
Man: Mr. Simpson, I think you'll find this amount more than fair.
Lisa: Dad, I think he's an ivory dealer! His boots are ivory, his hat is ivory, and I'm pretty sure that check is ivory.
Homer: Lisa, a guy who's got lots of ivory is _less_ likely to hurt Stampy than a guy whose ivory supplies are low.
Lisa: Mr. Blackheart?
Blackheart: Yes, my pretty?
Lisa: Are you an ivory dealer?
Blackheart: [laughs] Well, little girl, I've had lots of jobs in my day: whale-hunter, seal-clubber, president of the Fox network, and, like most people, yeah, I've dealt a little ivory.
Bart: Dad, you can't do this. Stampy is my friend.
Homer: Don't worry, son. I'll get you a new elephant.
Blackheart: I'll take that one too.
Homer: Done!
Blackheart: All right, I'll be back in the morning to pick up Stampy.
Homer: Here's the keys.
Blackheart: Elephants don't have keys.
Homer: Well, I'll just keep these then.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Bart: Don't worry, Stampy. I won't let Homer sell you to that ivory dealer. You and I are going to run away together. We'll keep to he back roads and make our way south. Then, if I know my geography, it's just twelve miles to Africa. OK, bud, very quietly: let's just sneak through --
[Stampy brushes him off and tromps off]
Stampy! [walks through the Flanders' yard]
Ned: [gasps] It's the four elephants of the apocalypse!
Maude: That's horsemen, Ned.
Ned: Well, getting closer.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
[Lisa runs into her parents' bedroom, clearly distraught]
Lisa: Mom! Dad! Bart and Stampy are gone!
Marge: Oh my Lord!
Lisa: I bet it's 'cause of that horrible ivory dealer, [accusingly] Dad.
Homer: He took Bart, too?!? That wasn't part of our deal, Blackheart. [yelling out the window] That wasn't part!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
Why is it better to be worse off?
Everyone likes to think they have it worse than everyone else (many like to say it out loud even more than they like to think it). There are those who think they have the hardest teachers, classes, or major. There are those who think their sports team trains harder with practices more physically demanding than any other team or sport. Everyone seems to think his or her own race or ethnic group went through the cruelest oppression throughout history.
I suppose success may be measured by the obstacles that one has overcome. I'm assuming that this belief is at least loosely held with the masses. Those that are lamenting about their hardships are actually attempting to assert their success as defined by their difficulties. I've often seen students in different classes after discussing grades received fall into an argument with each other about whose teacher was harder. I believe the general attempt is to raise oneself by recalling how hard their road has been, or how many hindrances life has thrown at them. It even gets so absurd as to be taken to the point of bragging rights? “Look how far Coach pushes my team in practice, but you wusses on the track team have it so easy!” That's another thing, it comes as an insult to say, "your _____ is easy." I feel very few of those that live on Easy Street would like to admit they do.
This mentality is all a bit narrow-minded. The first line in the above paragraph is itself a paraphrase of a quotation by Booker T. Washington, who was born into slavery. Slavery was pretty tough, or so I'm assuming. No one currently living in this country has ever been an institutionalized slave. I think Booker might have been a tad bit worse off at one point than most of us are today. I think slaves have legitimate clout to gripe.
Those who truly have it bad don't have school courses at all; they're not able to complain which one is tougher and would likely be happy with any education. Those who truly have it tough don't have sports teams that are difficult; they also don't have good health at all. In regards to race and ethnicity, the groups who have truly had it the worse aren't around anymore to complain that they have had it so awful, be it any of tribes and people on at least five continents of which I'm not educated enough to name (and in some cases written history itself has forgotten about). The people who have truly had it bad are now extinct.
Maybe it's all relative. Yes, I know: "We're not under the slave-driver's whip anymore but the Joneses are still much richer than me." It really is all relative, however, and we should consider the bigger picture, as we possibly have imperfect information. For example, why do many view themselves as middle class? They likely are the middle class, given their immediate geographical area. If you widen that area to include outside of what is immediately visible, that might not be the case anymore. Look, the median income of Beverly Hills is a bit higher than Mississippi's, but chances are a family in either location is just an average family, however of two very different areas (with a big difference in averages). Go further still and look outside the U.S. borders. Just by being in this country the odds are you are in fact fairly well-off. There are people in other countries that would commit crimes to possess the standard of living of even the poorest American has.
Let's really put things in perspective. We have it pretty good, just given the technology of age in which we exist. Even the richest kings of medieval Europe didn't have flush toilets, and the Emperors of Rome didn't have air conditioning. Those men were the rulers of the civilized world. I've been to Rome in July...it gets pretty hot.
I propose we stop being drama queens, whiners, and complainers. I’ll admit I am guilty of the same, though I will resolve to quit as well. It’s important to recall from where you may have come (figuratively speaking) to keep things in perspective, but immature to throw a pity party with woes and absolutely ridiculous to brag about them.
I suppose success may be measured by the obstacles that one has overcome. I'm assuming that this belief is at least loosely held with the masses. Those that are lamenting about their hardships are actually attempting to assert their success as defined by their difficulties. I've often seen students in different classes after discussing grades received fall into an argument with each other about whose teacher was harder. I believe the general attempt is to raise oneself by recalling how hard their road has been, or how many hindrances life has thrown at them. It even gets so absurd as to be taken to the point of bragging rights? “Look how far Coach pushes my team in practice, but you wusses on the track team have it so easy!” That's another thing, it comes as an insult to say, "your _____ is easy." I feel very few of those that live on Easy Street would like to admit they do.
This mentality is all a bit narrow-minded. The first line in the above paragraph is itself a paraphrase of a quotation by Booker T. Washington, who was born into slavery. Slavery was pretty tough, or so I'm assuming. No one currently living in this country has ever been an institutionalized slave. I think Booker might have been a tad bit worse off at one point than most of us are today. I think slaves have legitimate clout to gripe.
Those who truly have it bad don't have school courses at all; they're not able to complain which one is tougher and would likely be happy with any education. Those who truly have it tough don't have sports teams that are difficult; they also don't have good health at all. In regards to race and ethnicity, the groups who have truly had it the worse aren't around anymore to complain that they have had it so awful, be it any of tribes and people on at least five continents of which I'm not educated enough to name (and in some cases written history itself has forgotten about). The people who have truly had it bad are now extinct.
Maybe it's all relative. Yes, I know: "We're not under the slave-driver's whip anymore but the Joneses are still much richer than me." It really is all relative, however, and we should consider the bigger picture, as we possibly have imperfect information. For example, why do many view themselves as middle class? They likely are the middle class, given their immediate geographical area. If you widen that area to include outside of what is immediately visible, that might not be the case anymore. Look, the median income of Beverly Hills is a bit higher than Mississippi's, but chances are a family in either location is just an average family, however of two very different areas (with a big difference in averages). Go further still and look outside the U.S. borders. Just by being in this country the odds are you are in fact fairly well-off. There are people in other countries that would commit crimes to possess the standard of living of even the poorest American has.
Let's really put things in perspective. We have it pretty good, just given the technology of age in which we exist. Even the richest kings of medieval Europe didn't have flush toilets, and the Emperors of Rome didn't have air conditioning. Those men were the rulers of the civilized world. I've been to Rome in July...it gets pretty hot.
I propose we stop being drama queens, whiners, and complainers. I’ll admit I am guilty of the same, though I will resolve to quit as well. It’s important to recall from where you may have come (figuratively speaking) to keep things in perspective, but immature to throw a pity party with woes and absolutely ridiculous to brag about them.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
"COPS": Live and in-studio version
This morning I stood as usual at the platform level of the Foggy Bottom metro station waiting for my train. As I was waiting, a train going in the opposite direction stopped and riders began to get off drearily, a routine scene in my morning commute. Suddenly, from the other side of the upward-bound escalator, I heard a voice yelling, "Stop!" A man about in his later 20's came running around and escalator and started heading up the escalator, knocking people on the escalator every which way as he passed them. A policeman was on his heels the whole time. He tripped him once on the escalator by grabbing his ankle, and finally caught up to him and tackled him at the top, where the policeman worked to wrestle the man to the ground. It looked to be quite a struggle from where I was standing. Eventually, the policeman gained the upper hand and as he was still working the guy to the ground the guy the guy started bawling "Give me my shoes, man, I need my shoes!" I'm guessing his shoes must have come off. The cop clearly didn't care and expressed that with "F*ck your shoes! Get down!" Their “conversation” continued in that manner for the next moment. What glimpses I saw as they moved into view in the escalator staircase was the policeman forcing the guy's head down and shouting "Get down! Get on the ground!" Other metro riders were on the upper level and it looked like one rider even taunted the guy on the ground before he turned and walked away. I wonder if there had been some type of altercation between the two at the start of all this. My train arrived shortly thereafter and I tried to get what last glimpses I could. At this point it looked like the station manager was looking on, at least one new policeman had arrived, and the original policeman looked like he was punching the guy hard, possibly in the head. I also looked around in the station and saw that all eyes were on the event. As it was all taking place right at the top of the escalator, I wonder how riders disembarking from the train I got on managed to get up. If I wanted to really be nosy I could have let a few trains passed and stayed to watch the way this little drama played out.
I had never seen that type of police action in real life before. Most "live" police work that I had seen was the sort of directing traffic or writing traffic tickets. The most "exciting" thing I had ever previously seen was at Veteran's Park, where a car was being searched, some illegal drugs already having been found. OK, there was the time where a much younger me was yelled at for being too close to the railroad tracks, which was "exciting" for me in a more embarrassing sense, so we're just going to forget about that. I'm not going to count GW's UPD ganging up to beat up homeless people many times my freshman year. Playing on the Raider's for Norwalk's Pop Warner, all my coaches were by coincidence police officers, either local or state. The difficulty of practice each day depended on how tough the previous night had been for them (they all worked the night shifts so our late afternoons were their mornings). For example, one day we showed up and Assistant Coach Whiterben was looking mean and had a busted-up hand. "Some punk-@ass motherf*cker thought he could take my head off last night, but I put him on his f*cking back! Now start running!!!" And we ran.
Anyway, back to this morning. What stuck me was the robotic, glazed of stare I observed on everyone in the metro station during the struggle. I found it odd because to me, they all seemed emotionless. There wasn't any concern on anyone's face, just passive attention to what was happening on the top of the stairs. I'm going to say "pod-people-like". Why is this? Has the violence in our culture, especially on TV and movies, numbed us to sights like this? I could flip on a DVD and easily see something even more graphic.
Do motorists on the highway who slow down for accidents share the same dull stare with those in the station this morning today? Were those in the station merely calm externally, acting their age and keeping in decorum, whereas they in their younger years would have gone running to witness a schoolyard brawl? I suppose internally we are all wired a bloodthirsty species. We love those fights at school, the WWF, and action movies. For whatever reason the scuffle in the station this morning did not cause the spike in excitement it once might have in our lives, but it commanded everyone's attention and is likely going to be the most exciting thing in the workweek of us desk-jobbers. I’m not sure if I’m making the police takedown of that man a bigger deal than it was, or if I’m correct in saying that the incident was of greater significance than to be relinquished to mere water-cooler banter in the upcoming day of those who witnessed it.
I had never seen that type of police action in real life before. Most "live" police work that I had seen was the sort of directing traffic or writing traffic tickets. The most "exciting" thing I had ever previously seen was at Veteran's Park, where a car was being searched, some illegal drugs already having been found. OK, there was the time where a much younger me was yelled at for being too close to the railroad tracks, which was "exciting" for me in a more embarrassing sense, so we're just going to forget about that. I'm not going to count GW's UPD ganging up to beat up homeless people many times my freshman year. Playing on the Raider's for Norwalk's Pop Warner, all my coaches were by coincidence police officers, either local or state. The difficulty of practice each day depended on how tough the previous night had been for them (they all worked the night shifts so our late afternoons were their mornings). For example, one day we showed up and Assistant Coach Whiterben was looking mean and had a busted-up hand. "Some punk-@ass motherf*cker thought he could take my head off last night, but I put him on his f*cking back! Now start running!!!" And we ran.
Anyway, back to this morning. What stuck me was the robotic, glazed of stare I observed on everyone in the metro station during the struggle. I found it odd because to me, they all seemed emotionless. There wasn't any concern on anyone's face, just passive attention to what was happening on the top of the stairs. I'm going to say "pod-people-like". Why is this? Has the violence in our culture, especially on TV and movies, numbed us to sights like this? I could flip on a DVD and easily see something even more graphic.
Do motorists on the highway who slow down for accidents share the same dull stare with those in the station this morning today? Were those in the station merely calm externally, acting their age and keeping in decorum, whereas they in their younger years would have gone running to witness a schoolyard brawl? I suppose internally we are all wired a bloodthirsty species. We love those fights at school, the WWF, and action movies. For whatever reason the scuffle in the station this morning did not cause the spike in excitement it once might have in our lives, but it commanded everyone's attention and is likely going to be the most exciting thing in the workweek of us desk-jobbers. I’m not sure if I’m making the police takedown of that man a bigger deal than it was, or if I’m correct in saying that the incident was of greater significance than to be relinquished to mere water-cooler banter in the upcoming day of those who witnessed it.
Monday, July 19, 2004
The results are in
I just might have a place to live next year. Apparently Catholicism is a religion that pays off.
None of the things I worried about in Saturday’s post happened, and I’ve concluded I worry too much.
With last night’s two dinners/two desserts, I have become filled with nostalgia for the days of yore when I would have two dinners/two desserts. I think it would be proper to institute a second Golden Period where I dine with said schedule.
None of the things I worried about in Saturday’s post happened, and I’ve concluded I worry too much.
With last night’s two dinners/two desserts, I have become filled with nostalgia for the days of yore when I would have two dinners/two desserts. I think it would be proper to institute a second Golden Period where I dine with said schedule.
Sunday, July 18, 2004
My two good deeds
I'd like to say I do a good deed every day. Sometimes I don't get the opportunity to, though the right thing to do is probably to seek them out. Anyway, I might not get the chance today with my trip to NYC, but to make up for it I did two good deeds yesterday, so on average that works:
- On noticing that our home computer was running very slowly while online, with popups regularly, um, popping up, I downloaded and installed Lavasoft's Ad-Aware program. I think the most recognized malicious objects a run has ever detected for me has been like eighty-something. The computer here had 1969. I can attest, the Internet has been running much smoother. I did a good thing.
- The push-out window in the bathroom does not want to seem to close. It causes the house to heat in the winter and cool air in the summer (well, definitely cool air in the summer, I'm not sure that it had been broken in the winter). So, I went outside, braved wild spiders in getting the ladder (which involved stuntman-like maneuvers), and managed to position the ladder in the difficult space between our deck and bathroom window. I then plopped myself off the deck into the former garden there (now a barren plot of terrain) and began the grueling climb to the window. On reaching the ladders end and fortunately the window, I determined that the window was broken and couldn't be pushed in. Although I didn't fix the window, I did try, and the thought should count.
Saturday, July 17, 2004
Pessimism
The weather forecast for tomorrow gives a 90% chance of rain, so it’s going to rain all day tomorrow as I wander the streets of New York City. I have no place to go and my plan was to wander, so as I walk the streets with a poor umbrella my clothes and all my belongings will likely get soaked. Because I’m dripping wet I’ll likely make a poor first impression on people I’m trying to impress for housing.
I’ll get on the wrong train again and end up on the wrong side of Manhattan like the last trip to New York, or I’ll miscalculate the time it takes to walk to where I’m going from the train station, so I’ll end up late for my meeting with the chaplain.
His accent will be too thick for me to understand him and it will be an awkward conversation. He will finish the interview quick and I will be bored and also wet for the next three hours. If I bring a change of clothes that will also become wet. Reading books I bring to pass the time will become ruined.
The graduate housing director will be late and I’ll have nowhere to go. Her lateness will also worry me because I will be worried about going home. Throughout dinner I will checking my clock as I will be worried the whole time about getting a return train home. Dinner will be bad but I will have to choke it down to not be rude.
The house/rooms will be in poor condition or the rent will be out of my budget. The people will be weird.
I will leave the house far later than I wanted to and have to walk in the dark back to the train station. Walking through south Harlem I will get mugged in left in a gutter. If it’s still raining I won’t get mugged but I’ll get soaked again and have to ride the train home in misery. If I take the subway to the train station I will get lost and end up in the Bronx. If I take a cab it will be more expensive than I can afford.
I will mope on the ride home about living in sub-satisfactory conditions or realizing I’ll have a three-hour round trip commute every day I need to go to class and will have to suck up the lesser evil. I will get home too late for anyone to pick me up and will have to walk home from the East Norwalk train station – assuming I even get on the right line. When I get home I will see than Kobe peed on my bed and Mikey on my pillow.
I will not get the sleep I need because I got home so late. I will not have time to do the things I need to do in the morning, like collect my weather data. I will sit next to a smelly person on the plane. When I get back to my room it will be too hot and also all the posters will have fallen off the wall.
I will have forgotten something important at home in my sleepy-eyed rush to leave early Monday morning.
Finally, around Tuesday, a mango reaction-rash from mangos that were in my kitchen and whose oil may have rubbed on something I touched will appear on my hands, and every part of my body that my hands had touched.
I’ll get on the wrong train again and end up on the wrong side of Manhattan like the last trip to New York, or I’ll miscalculate the time it takes to walk to where I’m going from the train station, so I’ll end up late for my meeting with the chaplain.
His accent will be too thick for me to understand him and it will be an awkward conversation. He will finish the interview quick and I will be bored and also wet for the next three hours. If I bring a change of clothes that will also become wet. Reading books I bring to pass the time will become ruined.
The graduate housing director will be late and I’ll have nowhere to go. Her lateness will also worry me because I will be worried about going home. Throughout dinner I will checking my clock as I will be worried the whole time about getting a return train home. Dinner will be bad but I will have to choke it down to not be rude.
The house/rooms will be in poor condition or the rent will be out of my budget. The people will be weird.
I will leave the house far later than I wanted to and have to walk in the dark back to the train station. Walking through south Harlem I will get mugged in left in a gutter. If it’s still raining I won’t get mugged but I’ll get soaked again and have to ride the train home in misery. If I take the subway to the train station I will get lost and end up in the Bronx. If I take a cab it will be more expensive than I can afford.
I will mope on the ride home about living in sub-satisfactory conditions or realizing I’ll have a three-hour round trip commute every day I need to go to class and will have to suck up the lesser evil. I will get home too late for anyone to pick me up and will have to walk home from the East Norwalk train station – assuming I even get on the right line. When I get home I will see than Kobe peed on my bed and Mikey on my pillow.
I will not get the sleep I need because I got home so late. I will not have time to do the things I need to do in the morning, like collect my weather data. I will sit next to a smelly person on the plane. When I get back to my room it will be too hot and also all the posters will have fallen off the wall.
I will have forgotten something important at home in my sleepy-eyed rush to leave early Monday morning.
Finally, around Tuesday, a mango reaction-rash from mangos that were in my kitchen and whose oil may have rubbed on something I touched will appear on my hands, and every part of my body that my hands had touched.
Friday, July 16, 2004
A stranger in my own land
I'm going home tonight, “home” as in Norwalk. “Home” as in the place that actually hasn't been my home in the last five years. However, there is the potential that I may be moving back there. While the possibility of living in Manhattan is, um, somewhat more appealing, I can't rule out that I won't be moving back to the place which I was born. It's heads or tails and the events of this weekend are going to determine where I'll call home for at least the next year. I should know by next week.
That being said, in many ways I don't feel that moving back to Norwalk would be coming home to the same place I left. While there has been new development, it's not like the area is recognizable. Far from it. It still looks the same place. What I am talking about are the people who inhabit the town. In many ways I suppose anything other than a BIG city is defined by the people who live in it. Most of the people I grew up with aren't there anymore. Most of my neighborhood as I grew up consisted of elderly people; most of them have sadly passed away or moved to Florida. A few of my friends growing up never left my street but only because they're losers and never left my street. If they're still there I don't see myself hooking up with them. I've gone a very different road compared to them since I phased them out about a decade ago, and we're very different people now. I suppose we always were, but now we don't have touch football or kill-the-carrier as a common bond anymore.
Friends I would like to see again, unfortunately, I won't necessarily be able to, as they may have left Norwalk themselves. Friends of mine are actually today moving out of Norwalk down to the D.C. area, ironically. I'm sure that of the people who didn't leave during or immediately after graduating college, there has been a slow drain away from the city, if anyone was even left. As I continued to go back there it was always rarer to see a familiar face. Still, I do know for a fact there are several friends of mine still in Norwalk. It would be fun to rekindle those old friendships and also to explorer who is still around that I'm not aware of. Perhaps I'll even meet new people, though I'm not so sure Norwalk is a draw of people my age to move into.
Although I can't meet old friends at the Wesporter Diner anymore, both because the friends and the diner are now gone, there are some old constants; I can still get that ice cream cone at Stew's. My family is there, and I'm certain old friends and acquaintances to have an occasional social outing. Norwalk will always hold memories for me. I am somewhat branded with its mark, as my biography will always read, "Born in Norwalk, graduated NHS 1999, etc." I fully understand that the crowd I left for D.C. will never all be there again, and even in some ways that's good. I've learned in the last five years who my real friends are, and I will be staying in touch with them regardless of distance in case they have moved, just as they have stayed in touch with me when I moved. I can't really be truly sad anyone has left, as I can't blame them - I myself had left. Through my travels and with the vast number of people I've met, I'm better off in that I can choose my friends based on their qualities rather than geographical convenience as I may have before I left home. So, although I may not see all the same friends I had known in Norwalk, or Washington D.C., for that matter, it's nice to know my friends are still out there. It's also nice to know that even if no one else I knew is left in Norwalk, Kobe will always be waiting for me at home.
That being said, in many ways I don't feel that moving back to Norwalk would be coming home to the same place I left. While there has been new development, it's not like the area is recognizable. Far from it. It still looks the same place. What I am talking about are the people who inhabit the town. In many ways I suppose anything other than a BIG city is defined by the people who live in it. Most of the people I grew up with aren't there anymore. Most of my neighborhood as I grew up consisted of elderly people; most of them have sadly passed away or moved to Florida. A few of my friends growing up never left my street but only because they're losers and never left my street. If they're still there I don't see myself hooking up with them. I've gone a very different road compared to them since I phased them out about a decade ago, and we're very different people now. I suppose we always were, but now we don't have touch football or kill-the-carrier as a common bond anymore.
Friends I would like to see again, unfortunately, I won't necessarily be able to, as they may have left Norwalk themselves. Friends of mine are actually today moving out of Norwalk down to the D.C. area, ironically. I'm sure that of the people who didn't leave during or immediately after graduating college, there has been a slow drain away from the city, if anyone was even left. As I continued to go back there it was always rarer to see a familiar face. Still, I do know for a fact there are several friends of mine still in Norwalk. It would be fun to rekindle those old friendships and also to explorer who is still around that I'm not aware of. Perhaps I'll even meet new people, though I'm not so sure Norwalk is a draw of people my age to move into.
Although I can't meet old friends at the Wesporter Diner anymore, both because the friends and the diner are now gone, there are some old constants; I can still get that ice cream cone at Stew's. My family is there, and I'm certain old friends and acquaintances to have an occasional social outing. Norwalk will always hold memories for me. I am somewhat branded with its mark, as my biography will always read, "Born in Norwalk, graduated NHS 1999, etc." I fully understand that the crowd I left for D.C. will never all be there again, and even in some ways that's good. I've learned in the last five years who my real friends are, and I will be staying in touch with them regardless of distance in case they have moved, just as they have stayed in touch with me when I moved. I can't really be truly sad anyone has left, as I can't blame them - I myself had left. Through my travels and with the vast number of people I've met, I'm better off in that I can choose my friends based on their qualities rather than geographical convenience as I may have before I left home. So, although I may not see all the same friends I had known in Norwalk, or Washington D.C., for that matter, it's nice to know my friends are still out there. It's also nice to know that even if no one else I knew is left in Norwalk, Kobe will always be waiting for me at home.
Thursday, July 15, 2004
Alphabet Soup
“The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dogs” is the shortest sentence in the English language, to my knowledge, that contains every letter. In my second grade class, we were introduced with this famous sentence and then given the assignment to create a sentence of our own that contains every letter. This is what I came up with:
“When I went to the Bronx Zoo one day and saw the ducks, I went quackers!”
Hmmm, I remember the sentence, but just looking back now I seem to have forgotten the letters f, g, h, i, j, k, l, m, p, and v...D’oh! This topic has backfired on me. I doubt Mrs. Brachio gave me a check with three stars on this assignment. Today and then, however, I still think the use of “Bronx Zoo” showed a genius in me; it took care of ‘x’ and ‘z’, two toughie letters. Those are three-pointers in Scrabble, if I’m not mistaken.
OK, so I may have botched the assignment, but it could be that I had thrown in *many* other clauses that to take care of the letters that I’ve gotten about: “...to the Bronx Zoo, past the fire truck, through the gate, etc.” Not very concise and also poor English, but I was only seven.
“When I went to the Bronx Zoo one day and saw the ducks, I went quackers!”
Hmmm, I remember the sentence, but just looking back now I seem to have forgotten the letters f, g, h, i, j, k, l, m, p, and v...D’oh! This topic has backfired on me. I doubt Mrs. Brachio gave me a check with three stars on this assignment. Today and then, however, I still think the use of “Bronx Zoo” showed a genius in me; it took care of ‘x’ and ‘z’, two toughie letters. Those are three-pointers in Scrabble, if I’m not mistaken.
OK, so I may have botched the assignment, but it could be that I had thrown in *many* other clauses that to take care of the letters that I’ve gotten about: “...to the Bronx Zoo, past the fire truck, through the gate, etc.” Not very concise and also poor English, but I was only seven.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
Unisex
A constitutional amendment proposal intended to define marriage prompted by the current gay marriage issue is expected to die in the Senate today. I really don't have any commentary to offer, though I'd like to post the semi-related following: It's not Nobel Prize-winning poetry, but rather the product of boredom at work, a rhyming dictionary, and a list of neuter first names. Actually, it's far worse than I remember it being, but take it for what you will.
"Unisex"
Blake was Leslie's lover
Mo was Sammie's lust, but then
Sunday Sammie stated kissing
Leslie 'neath the bush
Blake was devestated
Mo was in denial
Blake and Mo tried dating 'til
Blake caught Mo kissing Kyle
Blake then dated Dana
Dana dumped Blake, "Blake was rude"
Dana dated Dusty
(Dana's dad did not not approve)
Dusty'd been with Leslie,
Sammie once and twice with Mo
Even Blake's new next-ex Alex
came and had a go
Blake had had enough
Kelly'd done the same
Blake went and got a sex-change
(but "Blake" chose to keep the name)
6/24/04
"Unisex"
Blake was Leslie's lover
Mo was Sammie's lust, but then
Sunday Sammie stated kissing
Leslie 'neath the bush
Blake was devestated
Mo was in denial
Blake and Mo tried dating 'til
Blake caught Mo kissing Kyle
Blake then dated Dana
Dana dumped Blake, "Blake was rude"
Dana dated Dusty
(Dana's dad did not not approve)
Dusty'd been with Leslie,
Sammie once and twice with Mo
Even Blake's new next-ex Alex
came and had a go
Blake had had enough
Kelly'd done the same
Blake went and got a sex-change
(but "Blake" chose to keep the name)
6/24/04
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
Don't pluck the duck
The news today was that the US duck population has decreased 11% in the last year. I first I thought that was good because then less crap on the football field, but then I realized that was bad because those were actually geese making the crap and after that I trealized it really didn't matter because I haven't played football in years and years.
Ducks are an oppressed species. Of all the persecuted ethnic groups and peoples in our nation's history, did we ever behead them and eat their flesh? (Even if it's all succulent dark meat?) Duck is relatively rare in the grocery store (not that I look…drool). They're soon go the way of their Dodo cousins.
There are a few duck celebrities, however. These are ducks of influence who have “made it” in a world which hates them: Donald, his nephews, Scrooge McDuck (he's Scottish), Daffy, Daisy, Count Duckula...That's about it. There are probably so few because we've decimated their ranks. Yet, these few have sickly only excelled because they have been the poodles-puppets of Hollywood, all the while performing their duck-minstrel shows. These lap-ducks have only prospered themselves because they have sold out. They are the double-crossers of duckdom. They have turned their back on their humble duck roots of the ponds and marshes and in perversion risen to the heights of fame while avariciously making money for the media elite and for themselves, though at the cost of their souls. Recalling Malcolm X they are the “house slaves” of the waterfowl family.
Oh, but remember how Donald got angry used to box with one arm straight and one arm swinging? Then one cartoon this guy put a violin there (as Donald was in perfect playing position/motion) and started dancing a jig...oh man, that's still funny fifteen+ years later.
OK, I like Donald. (Who gets stuck with all the bad luck?…No one but Donald Duck) He’s alright in my book. Don’t worry Donald, I can understand what you’re saying, even if no one else can…you speak to my heart. I also somewhat appreciate newer-Daffy. Old-Daffy was annoying as he was bouncing around the pond and acting crazy and what not. I always wanted him to get killed. He has been doing penance ever since, however, in his newer incarnations. It's never wabbit season for you, buddy…always duck season...
Ducks are an oppressed species. Of all the persecuted ethnic groups and peoples in our nation's history, did we ever behead them and eat their flesh? (Even if it's all succulent dark meat?) Duck is relatively rare in the grocery store (not that I look…drool). They're soon go the way of their Dodo cousins.
There are a few duck celebrities, however. These are ducks of influence who have “made it” in a world which hates them: Donald, his nephews, Scrooge McDuck (he's Scottish), Daffy, Daisy, Count Duckula...That's about it. There are probably so few because we've decimated their ranks. Yet, these few have sickly only excelled because they have been the poodles-puppets of Hollywood, all the while performing their duck-minstrel shows. These lap-ducks have only prospered themselves because they have sold out. They are the double-crossers of duckdom. They have turned their back on their humble duck roots of the ponds and marshes and in perversion risen to the heights of fame while avariciously making money for the media elite and for themselves, though at the cost of their souls. Recalling Malcolm X they are the “house slaves” of the waterfowl family.
Oh, but remember how Donald got angry used to box with one arm straight and one arm swinging? Then one cartoon this guy put a violin there (as Donald was in perfect playing position/motion) and started dancing a jig...oh man, that's still funny fifteen+ years later.
OK, I like Donald. (Who gets stuck with all the bad luck?…No one but Donald Duck) He’s alright in my book. Don’t worry Donald, I can understand what you’re saying, even if no one else can…you speak to my heart. I also somewhat appreciate newer-Daffy. Old-Daffy was annoying as he was bouncing around the pond and acting crazy and what not. I always wanted him to get killed. He has been doing penance ever since, however, in his newer incarnations. It's never wabbit season for you, buddy…always duck season...
Monday, July 12, 2004
Metal Mouth, Railroad Tracks, Tinsel Teeth
I have a dentist appointment scheduled for later this afternoon. I could never top Bill Cosby's bit on a dentist visit, though I'd like to offer my own gripes:
In the oral region in general, I seem to have been cursed with the bad genes. I still wear a permanent retainer (six+ years) and am waiting to continue orthodontic treatment. I had a grueling orthodontic treatment. I think something like four appliances were in my mouth at the height of my treatment...well, three if you count upper and lower braces as one. But I don't. I had bars on the top of my jaw and in other weird places and things that I have to draw pictures to describe... even I don't really know what was going on in there.
That bar across the roof of my mouth was the worst. It ruined my social life because I couldn't pronounce my name. Try saying "T" without touching your tongue to the top of your mouth. If you can't say "T" then you can't say "TJ". This was a large problem in my situation. I first got that bar just as I was entering high school. The embarrassment was inconceivable while meeting all the new people I did as any new high-schooler does and not being able to even introduce myself. All I managed to put out was "Hee Hay" or when I got better "Yee Jay". I became somewhat of a recluse and ended up talking little during my underclassman years.
I didn't and still don't teeth-smile for pictures. Even with just the retainer, the flash is always caught in the metal in my mouth and it looks terrible. I hate my smile.
I think many out there can share the pain of braces. Besides the general uncomfort, they are a burden in other ways. If you've been eating, you don't even have to look, you know there is food stuck in there. That's a big trouble when you're out to eat with a group and there isn't a bathroom to clean your teeth in...so you end up not talking until you can make sure your mouth is clean. That's just an appearance-related braces problem. Playing the trombone - and OH MY GOD wrestling - frequently caused my braces to shred the inside of my lips.
I need braces again. I'm missing teeth. Both jaws are in the wrong place. Why me? Ironically, I've had only a couple cavities in my life. Why have I, with my messed up mouth, only had 2-3 cavities while my brothers, among others who have never needed orthodontics, regularly had about eight cavities per visit? I couldn't help my oral condition. Some people have a thinner tooth lining, I know, but some people just don't brush their teeth.
This is an ongoing problem. I still don't like my smile, and I still need to get this metal out of my mouth. It is going to cost me several thousands of dollars, which I won't have after the many thousands of dollars I go into debt to pay for graduate school. It has to be done, I suppose. Life just isn't fair.
So, orthodontic treatment is big on my to-do list. One thing I've been waiting for is to settle down, so I know I'll be able to stick with just one doctor. I hope New York will provide that for me. For now, it's off to the dentist I go. I just hope I don't have any cavities!
In the oral region in general, I seem to have been cursed with the bad genes. I still wear a permanent retainer (six+ years) and am waiting to continue orthodontic treatment. I had a grueling orthodontic treatment. I think something like four appliances were in my mouth at the height of my treatment...well, three if you count upper and lower braces as one. But I don't. I had bars on the top of my jaw and in other weird places and things that I have to draw pictures to describe... even I don't really know what was going on in there.
That bar across the roof of my mouth was the worst. It ruined my social life because I couldn't pronounce my name. Try saying "T" without touching your tongue to the top of your mouth. If you can't say "T" then you can't say "TJ". This was a large problem in my situation. I first got that bar just as I was entering high school. The embarrassment was inconceivable while meeting all the new people I did as any new high-schooler does and not being able to even introduce myself. All I managed to put out was "Hee Hay" or when I got better "Yee Jay". I became somewhat of a recluse and ended up talking little during my underclassman years.
I didn't and still don't teeth-smile for pictures. Even with just the retainer, the flash is always caught in the metal in my mouth and it looks terrible. I hate my smile.
I think many out there can share the pain of braces. Besides the general uncomfort, they are a burden in other ways. If you've been eating, you don't even have to look, you know there is food stuck in there. That's a big trouble when you're out to eat with a group and there isn't a bathroom to clean your teeth in...so you end up not talking until you can make sure your mouth is clean. That's just an appearance-related braces problem. Playing the trombone - and OH MY GOD wrestling - frequently caused my braces to shred the inside of my lips.
I need braces again. I'm missing teeth. Both jaws are in the wrong place. Why me? Ironically, I've had only a couple cavities in my life. Why have I, with my messed up mouth, only had 2-3 cavities while my brothers, among others who have never needed orthodontics, regularly had about eight cavities per visit? I couldn't help my oral condition. Some people have a thinner tooth lining, I know, but some people just don't brush their teeth.
This is an ongoing problem. I still don't like my smile, and I still need to get this metal out of my mouth. It is going to cost me several thousands of dollars, which I won't have after the many thousands of dollars I go into debt to pay for graduate school. It has to be done, I suppose. Life just isn't fair.
So, orthodontic treatment is big on my to-do list. One thing I've been waiting for is to settle down, so I know I'll be able to stick with just one doctor. I hope New York will provide that for me. For now, it's off to the dentist I go. I just hope I don't have any cavities!
Sunday, July 11, 2004
Big Fish
“But that reminds me – and stop me if you’ve heard this one – of the day Jesus was watching the gates for St. Peter. Anyway, Jesus is giving him a hand one day when a man walks shuffling up to the path of Heaven.
“ ‘What have you done to enter the kingdom of Heaven?’ Jesus asks him.
“And the man says, ‘Well, not much really. I’m just a poor carpenter who led a quiet life. The only remarkable thing about my life was my son.’
“ ‘Your son?’ Jesus asks, getting interested.
“ ‘Yes, he was quite a son,’ the man says. ‘He went through a most unusual birth and later a great transformation. He also became quite well known throughout the world and is still loved by many today.’
“Christ looks at the man, embraces him tightly, and says ‘Father, father!’
“And the old man hugs him back and says, ‘Pinocchio?’ ”
Daniel Wallace, Big Fish
“ ‘What have you done to enter the kingdom of Heaven?’ Jesus asks him.
“And the man says, ‘Well, not much really. I’m just a poor carpenter who led a quiet life. The only remarkable thing about my life was my son.’
“ ‘Your son?’ Jesus asks, getting interested.
“ ‘Yes, he was quite a son,’ the man says. ‘He went through a most unusual birth and later a great transformation. He also became quite well known throughout the world and is still loved by many today.’
“Christ looks at the man, embraces him tightly, and says ‘Father, father!’
“And the old man hugs him back and says, ‘Pinocchio?’ ”
Daniel Wallace, Big Fish
Saturday, July 10, 2004
Lean on Me
I have a checklist in life of things I'd like to do. I wanted to see the Pyramids; I did that. I want to see the Great Wall of China; I've yet to do that. My list, of course, go beyond things I'd like to see, there are also actions I'd like to do. I had an epiphany yesterday for my to-do list. I want to organize a stadium-sized crowd to sing "Lean on Me" together.
Like the auditorium scene in the movie of the same name, I think the song has a bonding effect; it is a song of unity and support. Couldn't we all use somebody to lean on? At times I believe a reminder that we are not alone in life is worthwhile for all of us. What better way than a feel-good campfire song?
On the road to a band competitions my freshman year of high school, there was an instance when the bus I was riding on burst into song. One person began singing "Lean on Me" and the rest of the bus soon followed; almost all of us knew the words. That scene is burned in my head, we were clapping and singing and I just can't forget the smiles on that bus. For that moment we were all so happy.
I confess, that episode was the inspiration for my idea. I'm just trying to expand the happiness that moment brought to a small group of people. It worked in the movie for even a larger group of people. I believe bringing that happiness, even for a moment, to a huge crowd of people, even for a moment, would be a noble endeavor. Perhaps before a sporting game, or a concert, I could start singing the song and hopefully the group of people sitting around me would follow, and the domino effect would I hope ensue so that soon tens of thousands were following, all singing "Lean on Me" together, all singing a simple song and just being happy together, all connected by music with thousands other people. I think that would even be greater than the Great Wall.
Lean on me
when you're not strong
and I'll be your friend (I'll be your friend!)
I'll help you carry on
(lean on me!)
for it won't be long
'til I'm gonna need
somebody to lean on
Like the auditorium scene in the movie of the same name, I think the song has a bonding effect; it is a song of unity and support. Couldn't we all use somebody to lean on? At times I believe a reminder that we are not alone in life is worthwhile for all of us. What better way than a feel-good campfire song?
On the road to a band competitions my freshman year of high school, there was an instance when the bus I was riding on burst into song. One person began singing "Lean on Me" and the rest of the bus soon followed; almost all of us knew the words. That scene is burned in my head, we were clapping and singing and I just can't forget the smiles on that bus. For that moment we were all so happy.
I confess, that episode was the inspiration for my idea. I'm just trying to expand the happiness that moment brought to a small group of people. It worked in the movie for even a larger group of people. I believe bringing that happiness, even for a moment, to a huge crowd of people, even for a moment, would be a noble endeavor. Perhaps before a sporting game, or a concert, I could start singing the song and hopefully the group of people sitting around me would follow, and the domino effect would I hope ensue so that soon tens of thousands were following, all singing "Lean on Me" together, all singing a simple song and just being happy together, all connected by music with thousands other people. I think that would even be greater than the Great Wall.
Lean on me
when you're not strong
and I'll be your friend (I'll be your friend!)
I'll help you carry on
(lean on me!)
for it won't be long
'til I'm gonna need
somebody to lean on
Friday, July 09, 2004
Unknown Caller
Within forty-eight hours I’ve received two phone calls that I’ve missed from the same unfamiliar number. Most unknown numbers I receive are of my own area code and turn out to be misdials. Occasionally it will be a friend calling me from a new cell phone. My guess as to who this particular mystery caller was is that is of the latter case, because these calls were coming in from an area code that I had never seen before.
As an information lover, I love the Internet. You can find anything (almost). So, I set out on a journey to find the land of the “210” area code. That land, faithful reader, was Texas.
Texas?!? Only steers and queers come from Texas, and I don’t think it was a steer that was calling me. No, but really, I don’t know anyone out there in the Lone Star state. Do I? I turned again to the sage I so oft turn to, the Internet (again), and tried to narrow down a location. Area code “210”, prefix “677” is San Antonio. Um, that did nothing to help me.
I suppose I could just call the number and be done with this, but it’s awkward not to know who you’re calling. Why don’t people leave voice mails, anyway? I’ll admit I hate leaving them because I hate the way my voice sounds on recording, but I (and everyone else) should just accept that our voices sound that way off the tape, too! I’m hoping, ultimately, that the mystery caller will just call back today or be a bigger man than I and begin to leave voice mails.
San Antonio, huh? Does my destiny lie there? Ironically, St. Anthony is the patron saint of seekers of lost items. I’m looking for an unknown stranger who is calling me, so I suppose this falls under his jurisdiction…if you’re watching over me, St. Ant., I could use some intercession! Amen.
As an information lover, I love the Internet. You can find anything (almost). So, I set out on a journey to find the land of the “210” area code. That land, faithful reader, was Texas.
Texas?!? Only steers and queers come from Texas, and I don’t think it was a steer that was calling me. No, but really, I don’t know anyone out there in the Lone Star state. Do I? I turned again to the sage I so oft turn to, the Internet (again), and tried to narrow down a location. Area code “210”, prefix “677” is San Antonio. Um, that did nothing to help me.
I suppose I could just call the number and be done with this, but it’s awkward not to know who you’re calling. Why don’t people leave voice mails, anyway? I’ll admit I hate leaving them because I hate the way my voice sounds on recording, but I (and everyone else) should just accept that our voices sound that way off the tape, too! I’m hoping, ultimately, that the mystery caller will just call back today or be a bigger man than I and begin to leave voice mails.
San Antonio, huh? Does my destiny lie there? Ironically, St. Anthony is the patron saint of seekers of lost items. I’m looking for an unknown stranger who is calling me, so I suppose this falls under his jurisdiction…if you’re watching over me, St. Ant., I could use some intercession! Amen.
Thursday, July 08, 2004
Word up
The meaning of words can change over time, while at the same time words can fall into ignorant misusage. How do you make the distinction? How do we decide to correct a person's incorrect word handling or determine if it's time to rewrite the dictionary?
"Feminism" and "Feminist" by the dictionary refer to an equality of the sexes ideology. For many of today, however, the words have lost their original meaning and now carry certain other connotations. It gets somewhat silly when the general populace has to constantly be reminded of the actual meanings of the words. Are they even wrong anymore? The meaning of a word seems to be a somewhat arbitrary thing, fully capable of change. If language is truly about communication, isn’t that the idea is successfully conveyed between persons what matters most? I'm a stickler for using proper word definitions, but I fully accept that the definition of a word is the thought that the word carries rather than what the dictionary says it means. The original meaning of the word can always be noted. If the vulgar crowd is using a word in a manner other than how is "proper", it should be considered that is has become the modern meaning of the word.
While we're on the subject of words I couldn't resist throwing something in: as a young boy I was told that there is no word that rhymes with the "orange". For some reason I don't understand now I found this unsettling, and I suppose in an early act of rebellion I invented the word "borange". Borange rhymes with orange. I from then on was quite happy to be able to inform parents and grandparents that, actually, there was a word that rhymed with "orange" - "borange"! Unfortunately, the original meaning of the word I'd devised has been lost to me over the years...judging from at what I was interested in at the time I created it, it was likely a time machine, or a robot dinosaur, or probably a machine for making orange juice.
"Feminism" and "Feminist" by the dictionary refer to an equality of the sexes ideology. For many of today, however, the words have lost their original meaning and now carry certain other connotations. It gets somewhat silly when the general populace has to constantly be reminded of the actual meanings of the words. Are they even wrong anymore? The meaning of a word seems to be a somewhat arbitrary thing, fully capable of change. If language is truly about communication, isn’t that the idea is successfully conveyed between persons what matters most? I'm a stickler for using proper word definitions, but I fully accept that the definition of a word is the thought that the word carries rather than what the dictionary says it means. The original meaning of the word can always be noted. If the vulgar crowd is using a word in a manner other than how is "proper", it should be considered that is has become the modern meaning of the word.
While we're on the subject of words I couldn't resist throwing something in: as a young boy I was told that there is no word that rhymes with the "orange". For some reason I don't understand now I found this unsettling, and I suppose in an early act of rebellion I invented the word "borange". Borange rhymes with orange. I from then on was quite happy to be able to inform parents and grandparents that, actually, there was a word that rhymed with "orange" - "borange"! Unfortunately, the original meaning of the word I'd devised has been lost to me over the years...judging from at what I was interested in at the time I created it, it was likely a time machine, or a robot dinosaur, or probably a machine for making orange juice.
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
The Last Days
The Metrorail track around the stop (Naylor Road) prior to the one where I get off (Suitland) for work is elevated. As the train leaves it for Suitland, looking out the window I was always able see an IHOP restaurant. IHOP is a heaven for a guy like me, who in terms of food values quantity over quality. I mean, it's good food there...it's not like it's inedible; it's just not filet mignon. What it is, though, is cheap as anything. You get your bill and think there's been a mistake, but then you realize pancakes are cheap to make and you just got a good deal. Oh, but that particular IHOP. How many times did I just want to blow off the morning by getting off at Naylor Road and just running in there for all-you-can-pancakes? Me and a fellow newbie, Jeff, whom I sometimes rode with on the train often talked about ditching work and just running in there. I vowed if not before, then on my last day of work at the Census I would go in to work late after eating breakfast in that IHOP. I'd finally live the dream.
Then came the day when I looked out of my Metrocar window and saw that the IHOP had closed. No!!! My dreams shattered. The thoughts of an un-pancaked last day at once began to torment me. I couldn't even run in with Jeff on some random day...and then I found out Jeff had quit work, too! That didn't hurt as bad because I never really liked him, anyway.
Oh, screw it. I'll just make my own pancakes my last day! I'll do a damn better job, too. I heard that IHOP was greasy, anyway.
During the time I worked at Stew Leonard's Ice Cream Parlor, I also had a dream for my last day. Right before I took off the apron forever, I was to stick my head under the soft ice cream spout with my mouth open, and would just pull that level down hard. Oh man, I would rain sweet paradise down upon myself. That plan backfired because I chickened out with all the people watching. Deep down I knew I might need them to give me a job one day again. Looking back, I choose...wisely.
My last day here, I'm hoping, will be unrecognized as much as I can help it. I plan to say as few goodbyes as possible, and since I sit near the door, duck out without anyone seeing me. And just like that, I'll be gone.
Then came the day when I looked out of my Metrocar window and saw that the IHOP had closed. No!!! My dreams shattered. The thoughts of an un-pancaked last day at once began to torment me. I couldn't even run in with Jeff on some random day...and then I found out Jeff had quit work, too! That didn't hurt as bad because I never really liked him, anyway.
Oh, screw it. I'll just make my own pancakes my last day! I'll do a damn better job, too. I heard that IHOP was greasy, anyway.
During the time I worked at Stew Leonard's Ice Cream Parlor, I also had a dream for my last day. Right before I took off the apron forever, I was to stick my head under the soft ice cream spout with my mouth open, and would just pull that level down hard. Oh man, I would rain sweet paradise down upon myself. That plan backfired because I chickened out with all the people watching. Deep down I knew I might need them to give me a job one day again. Looking back, I choose...wisely.
My last day here, I'm hoping, will be unrecognized as much as I can help it. I plan to say as few goodbyes as possible, and since I sit near the door, duck out without anyone seeing me. And just like that, I'll be gone.
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
Bagpipes
Why are the bagpipes so hated? I think they sound cool. Yet, as they come down the street during a parade, invariably at least some onlookers always give the consequent groan. The comparison(s) I've often heard are that bagpipes sound like "cats being drowned/skinned/strangled/rectal- thermometer -checked/shaved/..." Take your pick. The most un-poetic people never fail to amaze me in invoking great imagery when describing the sounds of the pipes. Why the revulsion? Like I said, I think they sound cool!
Am I the only music lover? A couple years ago on a quiet Sunday around noontime, I was sitting and studying. Suddenly, the Foggy Bottom neighborhood was filled with the melodious tunes of the Highland Bagpipes. Oh, the ecstasy in my heart. Now, some non-music lover chose to begin shouting "stop playing!!!" and "shut the #%&$ up!!!". The pipes were crystal-clear to me on the eighth story, so wherever the shouter was he was likely getting an earful. Now, I couldn't let that tasteless volley go unanswered. So, I ran to my window, slid it open and though I could see neither piper nor shouter, "Keep playing!!!" I answered into the void. The heckler and I continued our urges for a few minutes. Fortunately, the piper listened to me.
Another thing I think would be cool: learning to play the bagpipes. I'd settle just to know "Scotland the Brave", or "Amazing Grace". I could even dress up and march in the parades with the other bagpipers! I think kilts are pretty cool, too. Whoever calls them a skirt should get beat down. Would I ever be able to? I wonder if the other Scottish people wouldn't like me because I'm not Scottish....could they be a xenophobic lot? I've read "MacBeth", watched "Braveheart", and I want to believe in the Loch Ness Monster. Would that be enough to accept me?
Although it may sound it I'm not some kind of Scotophile. I just think bagpipes sound awesome, and furthermore believe the story of myself once in a kilt would be a good story one day. For now, I’m content to be a spectator on the parade sidelines. Hey! If available I'm going to have them played at my funeral...oh, but I'd miss the performance!!!
Am I the only music lover? A couple years ago on a quiet Sunday around noontime, I was sitting and studying. Suddenly, the Foggy Bottom neighborhood was filled with the melodious tunes of the Highland Bagpipes. Oh, the ecstasy in my heart. Now, some non-music lover chose to begin shouting "stop playing!!!" and "shut the #%&$ up!!!". The pipes were crystal-clear to me on the eighth story, so wherever the shouter was he was likely getting an earful. Now, I couldn't let that tasteless volley go unanswered. So, I ran to my window, slid it open and though I could see neither piper nor shouter, "Keep playing!!!" I answered into the void. The heckler and I continued our urges for a few minutes. Fortunately, the piper listened to me.
Another thing I think would be cool: learning to play the bagpipes. I'd settle just to know "Scotland the Brave", or "Amazing Grace". I could even dress up and march in the parades with the other bagpipers! I think kilts are pretty cool, too. Whoever calls them a skirt should get beat down. Would I ever be able to? I wonder if the other Scottish people wouldn't like me because I'm not Scottish....could they be a xenophobic lot? I've read "MacBeth", watched "Braveheart", and I want to believe in the Loch Ness Monster. Would that be enough to accept me?
Although it may sound it I'm not some kind of Scotophile. I just think bagpipes sound awesome, and furthermore believe the story of myself once in a kilt would be a good story one day. For now, I’m content to be a spectator on the parade sidelines. Hey! If available I'm going to have them played at my funeral...oh, but I'd miss the performance!!!
Monday, July 05, 2004
The Rape of Columbus Day
Today, July 5th, is recognized as the 4th of July for federal holiday purposes. Think about it. That’s funny. Now, I’m all for observance today; I would be brooding all day if I was at work because Independence Day and Sunday had “double-counted” yesterday. So all is well, but with this I began to think about federal holidays that are specifically (or should I say “strategically”) placed to give long weekends.
Part of me thinks that this practice cheapens the meaning of the day somewhat, as it allows (some of) us to make a selfish use of the time while simultaneously giving us an excuse to do so. Labor Day would be the exception, the essence of the day (to my knowledge) is supposed to be all about vacation. The other federal holidays, I believe, are supposed to be days of recognition, yet I feel that this is lost somewhat when we take and use the time with a self-serving purpose. With Memorial Day, we “remember” those who have fallen by taking a weekend trip to the beach, aided by the fact that we are given a long weekend to do so. We may “celebrate” Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday on days that aren’t even his birthday with a long weekend ski trip. We “observe” holidays on the days we do
to maximize their convenience to us in vacation planning. Does it cause the reason of the day to get lost? I believe so.
I may sound like an old fogey, but many holidays seem to be losing their meaning. In “Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown”, Linus and Charlie Brown talk about the commercialization of Christmas...and that was the 60’s!!! That’s a time period many of today’s adults look back to as traditional. Linus would hang himself with his blue blanket if he saw what the holiday was like now.
St. Patrick’s Day has become an excuse to drink, Mardi Gras has become an excuse to drink, New Year’s Eve has become an excuse to drink; I don’t even know when or fully what Oktoberfest even is but I’m pretty sure deep down it was something more than an excuse to drink.
Valentine’s Day is about showing your love through the purchase of cards and chocolate. The vigil of All Saint’s Day is about bobbing for apples, hoping Carmen Electra is again this year hosting AMC’s Classic Monster Movie Marathon, and making the candy companies rich. If you consider where Halloween came from, it is leaps and bounds from that, at least in this country. I ‘m pretty sure it originally involved praying most of the night. So, we add one part Pagan rituals, 100 parts “spend money to have fun corporate influence”, and you have a holiday that isn’t a holiday unless you buy candy corn, AND YOU’D BETTER!!!!!
OK, I like Halloween. I also like candy corn (and those pumpkins...drool....), and many if not most of the non-traditional “additions” to the holidays we celebrate in America. Are these the “new and improved” version of what were once boring days of observance? Or are they holidays forever warped, the product of a leisurely and selfish, eat-drink-and-be-merry society? I’m not sure. What I do wonder is, as I take my grand-kids hover-biking over the long Columbus Day weekend, will they contemplate, “wasn’t today supposed to be about some guy that discovered something?”
Part of me thinks that this practice cheapens the meaning of the day somewhat, as it allows (some of) us to make a selfish use of the time while simultaneously giving us an excuse to do so. Labor Day would be the exception, the essence of the day (to my knowledge) is supposed to be all about vacation. The other federal holidays, I believe, are supposed to be days of recognition, yet I feel that this is lost somewhat when we take and use the time with a self-serving purpose. With Memorial Day, we “remember” those who have fallen by taking a weekend trip to the beach, aided by the fact that we are given a long weekend to do so. We may “celebrate” Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday on days that aren’t even his birthday with a long weekend ski trip. We “observe” holidays on the days we do
to maximize their convenience to us in vacation planning. Does it cause the reason of the day to get lost? I believe so.
I may sound like an old fogey, but many holidays seem to be losing their meaning. In “Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown”, Linus and Charlie Brown talk about the commercialization of Christmas...and that was the 60’s!!! That’s a time period many of today’s adults look back to as traditional. Linus would hang himself with his blue blanket if he saw what the holiday was like now.
St. Patrick’s Day has become an excuse to drink, Mardi Gras has become an excuse to drink, New Year’s Eve has become an excuse to drink; I don’t even know when or fully what Oktoberfest even is but I’m pretty sure deep down it was something more than an excuse to drink.
Valentine’s Day is about showing your love through the purchase of cards and chocolate. The vigil of All Saint’s Day is about bobbing for apples, hoping Carmen Electra is again this year hosting AMC’s Classic Monster Movie Marathon, and making the candy companies rich. If you consider where Halloween came from, it is leaps and bounds from that, at least in this country. I ‘m pretty sure it originally involved praying most of the night. So, we add one part Pagan rituals, 100 parts “spend money to have fun corporate influence”, and you have a holiday that isn’t a holiday unless you buy candy corn, AND YOU’D BETTER!!!!!
OK, I like Halloween. I also like candy corn (and those pumpkins...drool....), and many if not most of the non-traditional “additions” to the holidays we celebrate in America. Are these the “new and improved” version of what were once boring days of observance? Or are they holidays forever warped, the product of a leisurely and selfish, eat-drink-and-be-merry society? I’m not sure. What I do wonder is, as I take my grand-kids hover-biking over the long Columbus Day weekend, will they contemplate, “wasn’t today supposed to be about some guy that discovered something?”
Sunday, July 04, 2004
What a beautiful day to be free
“We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by the Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British
Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved...And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.”
-Thomas Jefferson (1743 -1826)
"Happy 4th of July!!!"
-Thomas James (1981 - )
Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved...And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.”
-Thomas Jefferson (1743 -1826)
"Happy 4th of July!!!"
-Thomas James (1981 - )
Saturday, July 03, 2004
Bursting in air
I'm going to see the fireworks display on the National Mall tomorrow night. Growing up, I always went July 3rd to see Norwalk's firework display at Calf Pasture beach. The reason the fireworks display is on the 3rd is because the city of Norwalk is cheap and didn't want to pay the fireworks-workers holiday pay for working on the 4th. In honor of my childhood's 3rd of July fireworks displays, I decieded to post this today. Enjoy!
http://www.scottferguson.com/pages/LadyLibertyFireworks/LadyLiberty.html
http://www.scottferguson.com/pages/LadyLibertyFireworks/LadyLiberty.html
Friday, July 02, 2004
Don't trust that yardstick
Here's a talking point. I did a bit of research on Amazon.com, the following are the Average Customer Review ratings in number of stars:
Glitter - 3.5
Gigli - 3
Super Mario Brothers - 3.5
Citizen Kane - 4
Gone with the Wind - 4.5
Something is rotten in Denmark. Is the American consumer is idiot, or simply of poor taste? Maybe both, maybe neither, but I hold that these numbers are the consequence of a biased survey. (I suppose I'm on a statistics kick)
In all fairness, it really is an arbitrary scale. Person A's label of "good" could be three stars, while Person B envisions "good" as three and a half. The two saw the movie as the same, but in analysis it would appear Person B enjoyed the movie a bit more. So, there’s a problem that each person's individual scale isn't calibrated with everyone else's. Also, is the scale even based in ratio to zero? Are four stars twice as good as two? Remember, 60 degrees is not twice as hot as 30 degrees unless there's a "K" after each.
Is "Gone with the Wind" only 30% better than "Glitter"? What's good or bad is a matter of taste, but I will assume that for most people who saw both movies, Rhett and Scarlett's story was, um, maybe a little more than a third better than Mariah Carey's picture...now, I'm just guessing. To make this system fit it could be that being a star better than a movie indicates being, um, "a bazillion" times better.
Or we have bias. My guess of what happened is that a handful of Jennifer Lopez's fans went to Amazon and, in a world of their own, proceeded to rate the movie five stars. Rational people then got on and gave the movie what it really deserved. Most of the people that bothered to see the movie were likely the singer's fans, anyway - who else would have bothered to see the movie?
If you want to know bias, read Amazon.com's review of "Gigli": "Many critics called Gigli one of the worst movies ever made, but their condemnation isn't entirely justified...this character-based vehicle ...is not without its charms..." Well, ya can't blame a guy for trying to make a buck.
In terms of revenue, "Gone with the Wind" was, um (again), slightly more than 30% of the success "Glitter". That's just another measure; I'm not saying money taken in is a meaningful measure, either. I'm just reporting the numbers as they are. Do what you will with them.
*T.J.'s non-objective note: "Super Mario Brothers" got three and half stars? What the hell were you people thinking?
Glitter - 3.5
Gigli - 3
Super Mario Brothers - 3.5
Citizen Kane - 4
Gone with the Wind - 4.5
Something is rotten in Denmark. Is the American consumer is idiot, or simply of poor taste? Maybe both, maybe neither, but I hold that these numbers are the consequence of a biased survey. (I suppose I'm on a statistics kick)
In all fairness, it really is an arbitrary scale. Person A's label of "good" could be three stars, while Person B envisions "good" as three and a half. The two saw the movie as the same, but in analysis it would appear Person B enjoyed the movie a bit more. So, there’s a problem that each person's individual scale isn't calibrated with everyone else's. Also, is the scale even based in ratio to zero? Are four stars twice as good as two? Remember, 60 degrees is not twice as hot as 30 degrees unless there's a "K" after each.
Is "Gone with the Wind" only 30% better than "Glitter"? What's good or bad is a matter of taste, but I will assume that for most people who saw both movies, Rhett and Scarlett's story was, um, maybe a little more than a third better than Mariah Carey's picture...now, I'm just guessing. To make this system fit it could be that being a star better than a movie indicates being, um, "a bazillion" times better.
Or we have bias. My guess of what happened is that a handful of Jennifer Lopez's fans went to Amazon and, in a world of their own, proceeded to rate the movie five stars. Rational people then got on and gave the movie what it really deserved. Most of the people that bothered to see the movie were likely the singer's fans, anyway - who else would have bothered to see the movie?
If you want to know bias, read Amazon.com's review of "Gigli": "Many critics called Gigli one of the worst movies ever made, but their condemnation isn't entirely justified...this character-based vehicle ...is not without its charms..." Well, ya can't blame a guy for trying to make a buck.
In terms of revenue, "Gone with the Wind" was, um (again), slightly more than 30% of the success "Glitter". That's just another measure; I'm not saying money taken in is a meaningful measure, either. I'm just reporting the numbers as they are. Do what you will with them.
*T.J.'s non-objective note: "Super Mario Brothers" got three and half stars? What the hell were you people thinking?
Thursday, July 01, 2004
What a statistics major thinks about
Is anything really random?
Most would claim a dice throw yields a random result, as well a coin toss. Classical physicists instead would argue that a given trial of each is in fact not random. The face that shows on the die after the throw is a function the position of the die at that moment, how hard it is thrown, the angle it is thrown, and the characteristics of the surface to which it is thrown on. Likewise, with a coin toss, you can factor in the starting face, the force of the flip (with degree of flipping), and where the coin is caught - high or low. With this information, what the result will be in every trial can be expressed mathematically and correctly calculated each and every time. There is no uncertainty.
I would agree. Uncertainty, after all, is nothing but a deficiency of information. If we knew everything, there would be nothing we did not know. Well, duh.
Inferential statistics exists as a scientific method towards reaching a rational "best guess". We generalize the coin toss and claim that the coin will more or less land on each side roughly half the time. Moreover, we can survey a sample of just several thousand and with high confidence be able to make statements about millions that are very-probably true. The U.S. Census could survey every single person for each of its surveys and then know the exact answer it is attempting to determine, but with what that would cost it would never be able to afford to pay people like me to sit around and do nothing. Also, sometimes it's just not possible to get information about a whole population. This is why they call it a blood sample. You can't take all of it. A statistics professor once gave my class a sampling example using condoms: a certain number of a batch is selected for wear and tear tests. You can't test all of them or else your entire product is ruined! Anyway, it was funny because he didn't seem like a guy to use the word "condom".
Back to the dice example: growing up and playing Monopoly, we at times would try and give the dice a fixed roll (usually just amounting to a drop). We were, though we did not comprehend it at the time, using physics/mathematics/science. By controlling the variables in the "formula" of the dice roll, we hoped to produce the desired result. Sadly, it rarely worked, and also the roll was always followed with, "That was a cheat throw!!!" WWF-style wrestling ensued.
Many are dubious of statistics. Numbers are often flawed by faulty method in obtaining them, and there is always the possibly of error due to freak coincidence. That being said, inferential statistics can give great insight and be very useful. As measurement technology progresses we will have more exact answers available. Yet, until we have complete information on all phenomena, statistical science can aid us in making rationally sound approximations and predictions.
Most would claim a dice throw yields a random result, as well a coin toss. Classical physicists instead would argue that a given trial of each is in fact not random. The face that shows on the die after the throw is a function the position of the die at that moment, how hard it is thrown, the angle it is thrown, and the characteristics of the surface to which it is thrown on. Likewise, with a coin toss, you can factor in the starting face, the force of the flip (with degree of flipping), and where the coin is caught - high or low. With this information, what the result will be in every trial can be expressed mathematically and correctly calculated each and every time. There is no uncertainty.
I would agree. Uncertainty, after all, is nothing but a deficiency of information. If we knew everything, there would be nothing we did not know. Well, duh.
Inferential statistics exists as a scientific method towards reaching a rational "best guess". We generalize the coin toss and claim that the coin will more or less land on each side roughly half the time. Moreover, we can survey a sample of just several thousand and with high confidence be able to make statements about millions that are very-probably true. The U.S. Census could survey every single person for each of its surveys and then know the exact answer it is attempting to determine, but with what that would cost it would never be able to afford to pay people like me to sit around and do nothing. Also, sometimes it's just not possible to get information about a whole population. This is why they call it a blood sample. You can't take all of it. A statistics professor once gave my class a sampling example using condoms: a certain number of a batch is selected for wear and tear tests. You can't test all of them or else your entire product is ruined! Anyway, it was funny because he didn't seem like a guy to use the word "condom".
Back to the dice example: growing up and playing Monopoly, we at times would try and give the dice a fixed roll (usually just amounting to a drop). We were, though we did not comprehend it at the time, using physics/mathematics/science. By controlling the variables in the "formula" of the dice roll, we hoped to produce the desired result. Sadly, it rarely worked, and also the roll was always followed with, "That was a cheat throw!!!" WWF-style wrestling ensued.
Many are dubious of statistics. Numbers are often flawed by faulty method in obtaining them, and there is always the possibly of error due to freak coincidence. That being said, inferential statistics can give great insight and be very useful. As measurement technology progresses we will have more exact answers available. Yet, until we have complete information on all phenomena, statistical science can aid us in making rationally sound approximations and predictions.
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