Under a Star

The stars are beautiful in Norwalk. Although an urban area, there must not be as much light pollution (there are more trees here; maybe they block the light?) because the stars are noticeably more visible. OK: they would be of course better in the rural country, but just being able to see them is sufficient. In the city, I'm only able to see a gray mass in the sky, and so going home and actually being able to identify Orion and the Pleiades of Taurus is treat enough for me.

Friday night, in the hot tub, I saw a quick streak of light moving quicker than an airplane. It lasted about five seconds, then stopped. I want to believe it was a shooting star - the first I ever saw. It's plausible - it was moving much quicker and not blinking, unlike the other air traffic in the area. It also disappeared, perhaps as a meteor would, burning in the atmosphere, but perhaps it traveled behind an unseen cloud. To find out it was only a plane would be be depressing - I've never seen a shooting star and want this to be authentic! But because I can't check flightpath, I'll never know (the idea crossed my mind!). So there will always be lingering doubt. It's very religious, in a sense...I'll never know if "it" was true, I certainly want it to be, and hope it is.

Incidentally, I did make a wish, but I can't tell you what it is or it won't come true...


I'll be ending the blog for at least three weeks; school requires my fullest attention. It's been fulfilling to record additional thoughts, stories, and moments. Perhaps I'll continue over winter break.

The Return to Atlanta

Atlanta airport's intra-course hallway features a collection of African art. I was walked through the exhbit this afternoon on my return from Norwalk rather than the tram because (1) I like the walk and (2) I need to work off that pie I've been shoveling the last two days.

As I rode past on the Jetsons-style moving sidewalks, I watched an elderly lady viewing a piece of art while her grandson (I'm assuming) played in back of the sculpture The art itself: some Zimbabwean had carved a marble man complete with marble buttocks in the back where the little boy way playing. While the grandmother was admiring the sculpture from the front, the little boy was in the back fingering the marble man's marble buttcrack, poking at his marble butthole!

That's some pretty fucked up shit. I looked around expecting shocks of horrors or at least disapproving frowns, ideally from a group of nuns. However, the hall was empty - no one saw but me. That's how these things always go.

Sadly, my butt-themed afternoon didn't end there. Upon my return to the house, I found 20% remainder of dried poop on my floor, evidently someone did a halfhearted job of cleaning up. I really hope it was dog-poop but my landlord's sloppy Irish relatives are visiting, so who knows.

More sadly, after I cleaned up the dog poop, I changed into my older sneakers, and instantly felt a cool wet sensation as I put them on my feet. Yes, the dog/drunk relative had also peed in my closet, over my sneakers and bag of dirty laundry. So: Laundry time! I don't know if it's OK to put sneakers in the laundry machine, but I did it anyway.

A Many and Varied Family Tree

Our ancestors number like the stars in the sky, and the grains of sand on the beach...

We have two parents, four grandparents, either great-grandparents, etc. Continue backwards twenty generations and the level is*1 million* people across (Actually, 1,048,576). This is a mathematical fact, 2^20. Assuming each generation is thirty years, this coexistence of T.J.-generators occurred circa 1400 A.D.

I informed a girl friend a small region of medieval Europe existed solely to create her and that it was a lovelier product than any renaissance art. I give you permission to use that one if you want.

I envision this city of 1 million strong, going about, weaving cotton, escaping Black Death, coming together to produce me as some sort of civic project. It really does shrink the world.

Even more mind-blowing: On an educational adventure to The Fernbank Science Museum a month ago, I learned that mammals evolved from reptiles (specifically, "synapsids"). Creationists have enough problems with "Jesus was not a monkey"....but a lizard? It would make their head explode.

I find it fully plausible that humans evolved from an apelike ancestor, but I've always stopped there in my mind. I realized reading that diorama caption that I've never mentally gone further down the evolutionary history trail. We've been shown illustrations of tiny rodents scurrying around in the shadow of dinosaurs, but in childrens' books this is treated as if they sprung from the dirt. It makes sense we'd come from reptiles...what else is there?

The worst movie ever, Super Mario Brothers: The Movie, had it right. Humans evolved from dinosaurs.

Giving Thanks, 2007

This past year, 2007, was likely the worst year of my life, and today I'm asked to give pause and thanks for all that I have received, to recognize how blessed I am. It's like: Thank you sir, may I have another?

Yet I think about the first Thanksgiving, where the Pilgrim fathers were literally thankful just to have survived! Just living another year was cause for celebration.

I am surrounded by everyday conveniences the pilgrims would have considered miracles: grocery stores, central heat, and modern medicine. What was November 22nd, 1657 like for Norwalk's residents? They weren't watching the Macy'd Thanksgiving Day parade, shuffling to the Norwalk High-McMahon football game, or planning tomorrow's shopping spree. They were likely out in the cold, starving and hoping to come across a wild turkey just to be able to eat - nothing was promised to them that evening. Goodman Bettswood was likely stalking game on the very spot I'll sit down to eat my fattened bird, or which disposing of leftovers will be a problem (ha! That's our problem!...leftovers!). I'm not sure if my Bettswood image is accurate, but in my fantasy his hat has a buckle on it. "Pilgrim style".

Perhaps I'm naive for expecting a world where eighteen year-old brothers don't die, girlfriends don't dump you for matters superficial, money never creates a worry, and graduate school studies never get off-track. As bad as this year has been, it has certainty jerked me to reexamine my priorities. And that, perhaps more than anything, is what I should be thankful for. I'm twenty-six now, and the sooner the better I realize what is really important.

Bank Irony

I received a notification from Citibank this afternoon via the United States Postal Service altering me that my paper-less bank statement is available for viewing online.

Let me say that again: I got a letter, a snailmail letter, telling me that I could view my paper-less statement online...the service I requested to cut down on paper!

They might as well have just sent me the fuckin' statement...

My head hurts...

Breaking Rule 1: (Talking about "Fight Club")

Freshman year of college, my homosexual, sandal-and-sock-wearing English course classmate suggested I see Fight Club for an interesting discussion in modern male gender identity. It took eight years, but this morning I finally caught up to the movie.

It started out pretty rockin'. The last half of it was of this weird cult involvement, but I still have it four stars on Netflix.

I especially liked the commentary on how formulaic our lives have become. Go to college. Get a job. Get married. Buy Ikea. Drink Starbucks. None of this has anything to do with hunter gatherer instincts, as the movie points out. Fighting for the disconnected men was a way to reclaim something primal and basic.

Starting a fight club is only one solution; there are others. Much better would be Thoreau's suggestion to simplify our lives. If we no longer believe the advertiser's claim that we need "X", we won't need to work the extra hour required to generate additional wages sufficient to buy "X", and then we have reclaimed that hour's labor time in leisure. With that hour, then, Thoreau would suggest a walk in the woods, but there are other possibilities. Social interaction would be mine (and Epicurius's).

Maybe I was a bit drawn in, though. watching the fighting made me want to knock heads a bit. But my ideal was the safety of a wrestling mat. The movie ultimately made me realize I was a wimp. I'd pull every punch, afraid I'd break my hand. I'd quit as soon as my nose was broken. Could I pull out a tooth and then shrug it off?

I feel like such a momma's boy. But it's the timing: I'm home for holidays and I'm getting a babied-treatment I never had even when I lived here. It's not that I'm feminized: or am I rationalizing?

Pareto's (Term Paper) Principle

Vilfredo Pareto observed that eighty percent of Italy's wealth was owned by twenty percent of the population. Various 80-20 regularities became umbrellaed under what is known as the Pareto Principle. Stew Leonard, Sr. applied business policy: when eighty percent of profits originates from twenty percent of your items, you should only sell those items. Tangentially, let me add that Pareto was a fascist and Stew Leonard was crooked tax cheat.

I can bang out the bulk of a term paper in one day, then I always spend a month tweaking it. This might supersede the Pareto Principle; I think it might actually be closer to a 90-10 ratio (90% of the time on the last 10% of the paper). As I rearrange paragraphs, and move a third page section to page five, suddenly page four doesn't make sense anymore. And so more rearranging is required as the composition dominios into non-chronological nonsense.

Returns are diminishing. I'm at the point of spending an entire afternoon to only accomplish a two paragraphs rewrite . But it has to be done; it's just a slow process to chisel raw conscious thought of the first day's effort into something can can be passed as a graduate school term paper.

Or it could be a matter of work filling time allotted. I should just put the paper down and print it out. Most likely the professor won't marvel at the beauty of my prose, just skim it and give me a B. But I wonder if one day I'll be forced to resurrect the paper, and I won't want to be embarrassed when someone else reads it more carefully - I alone have to answer for what I write.

Yet, there's always time to revise down the road; certainly I'll become a more mature, experienced writer. And so, as I think about getting my papers out to work over the Thanksgiving holiday, I'll be reluctant to give eighty percent of my vacation to something which is ultimately below twenty percent of my life's importance.

Blogging: A Fall First

...And I'm back, by the way. I promised I would be. Let's say yesterday through next Saturday. Unless time is Norwalk strips motivations so much that I don't bother to turn on the computer.

But enough of that, let me catch you up: when I left you it was 75 in Atlanta, tomorrow it will be 72. Not much has changed.

I had visions of having the dissertation drafted by now; I'm still working on ideas. Other professors are always floored to hear I don't have an advisor yet, who they say would help me develop an idea. The problem is I don't have an idea to approach them with - I wouldn't want to go into their office and just sort of stare at them. It's this tricky catch-22 that they haven't thought through: no professor, no idea; no idea, no professor.

I haven't been mugged yet in my neighborhood. But I'm walking home a new way to aid that.

UConn football is a Top 25 team this year; was a Bottom 25 most previous years. Eric is probably kicking himself for leaving.

A Family Visit and a City Explored

I love my Uncle Jim and Aunt Ann. They came down to visit today on the way to visit Jennifer in Florida. With them today a did bunch of things I might otherwise never would have:

1. Did the CNN Studio Tour - Total rip-off. It was the weekend and no live news was taking place. But at least I can now say I did it.
2. Max Lager's American Grill & Brewery - I'm 26 years old and tonight is the first night I sat down at a bar. I felt so adult to "sit at the bar". They had Budweisers; I had a Coke.
3. Ray's in the City seafood - The Parmesan-crusted scallops are excellent if you ever visit. The dinner was absolutely delicious. Uncle Jim confused mouthwash in the bathroom with hand soap and provided a continually humorous story for the course of the evening (and a minty-fresh smell). In his defense, why the hell was there mouthwash in the bathroom?
4. Hilton Lounge - Provided beautiful views of the city. I asked for a hot chocolate. The waitress asked how old I was. I asked what type of hot chocolate she was serving me (actually, I needed to be 18 to enter the lounge). We talked about their taking me on my first and only casino trip, trips to Riverside (now Six Flags New England), mentioned memories with Scott (although this made me depressed at the loss, rather than joy in recalling a fond memory). Ultimately, it made me understand how important family is to me, how lucky I am to have people in my life so supportive and nonjudgmental (yes, we talked about Becca earlier that afternoon). A lovely end to an amazing day.

It was truly a treat. I strangely feel guilt at having relatives who love me so selflessly. I don't deserve it; I've been so blessed. Thanks, guys.
-Your Nephew.

Another Ending

I'm ending this blog (for a while) as the pace of the semester increases. I think I've written a lot of material that will be enjoyable to revisit in a some decade's time. As I take leave for now, I wanted to leave by recording what I've always considered my most brilliant observation.

Having your shoelaces untied is a lose-lose situation. You look like a dork
continuing to walk with your laces untied, and you look like a dork bending over to tie them.

Until next time, take care of yourselves, and each other. And remember to have your pets spayed and neutered.

(On-)Edge-wood, Hotlanta

I've heard Southern U.S. economic/population boom is primarily the result of affordable air conditioning, making the region livable. Our air conditioner broke down yesterday and I'm ready to leave.

It's on life support. I walked in the house yesterday and felt it was significantly warmer. Nothing that could be characterized as "cold air" was coming out of the AC vents. Shutting it off for a while and turning it back on, cool air came out for long enough to give me false hope. Suddenly, the breeze turned noticeably warmer. Something is wrong. The landlord is still in Ireland until next week. I'll be able to escape to Decatur this weekend, but I feel bad for my roommate.

At college, the cheap bastards turned the central air on about three weeks after it should have been. I remember many a sweaty night. I would spend my free time at the library, which reliably always was the first (and for a time interval only) building to be air conditioned. Unfortunately, the generously air conditioned school buildings aren't across the street where I live now, and I'll have to go home at some point. But I may just be working some long hours the next week.

Inept School Nurses: The Impetigo Incident

For my entire elementary school career, I didn't see the school nurse as a healer or care-taker (entrusted with our physical health), but as a gate-keeper. Her office and a sufficient temperature were enough to grant me a one-way ticket to an afternoon of cartoons and mommying. But by high school the nurses knew better. They pretty much never sent anyone home. Unless you had some exotic disease. And even if you did, they might not recognize it...

I used to wrestle in high school. One of the things that came of that is that I've had all manner of exotic sounding skin diseases, but impetigo, a bacteria-induced rash, was what my coach considered the plague. If anything that might be a rash appeared on any of us, it was usually identified as ringworm (not so bad but much more common), and we got a lecture of the dangers of impetigo and bodily hygiene; the poor soul with the actual rash was shunned like a leper.

One day of sophomore year season my regular sparring partner Andrew came to me with a taped-up knee, telling me he'd be sitting out of practice for a while: "Hey T.J., the doctor told me I have impetigo. I think I got it from the wrestling tournament we went to. Because we've been practicing together so much, you're probably going to get it."

Oh please. With a fifteen year-old's self-assured invincibility, I was utterly confidence in the strength of my immune system. But the next night, while on the telephone with a friend, I realized I was unconsciously scratching my neck...

Impetigo looks worse than it actually is. It itches and all that, but actually looks like scabbed-over mosquito bites. The rash was running all down the right side of my neck. Did Andrew knee me in the artery?

Andrew sat to my right in geometry class. My rash was impossible to hide. He teased me and told me to go to the nurse, which I did. My rash matched his. Without a doubt, I had impetigo.

The nurse took a look at my rash with raised eyebrows and a lowered forehead. "These look like flea bites to me!" No no no!!!! I thought! Logically, I knew it was impetigo, but already a high-schooler's vanity and low self-confidence were taking over my brain. Yes, I did have a cat, maybe it was fleas! I felt so dirty. By that time the first nurse had already called the second nurse over to confirm that, indeed, I was flea-infested. I walked out of the nurse's office in shock...and out of a school of 1,700, Andrew was randomly walking by at that moment. "Hey, what did she say?!", he asked. "Uh, nothing..." I said and walked quickly past him...having impetigo was a battle scar, having fleas placed you in the company of street derelicts.

"Screw that!" I though, "Mom, you have to take me to the doctor!". My doctor walks in the examination room, took one look at me:
"What do you think you have?", asking me to verify my knowledge of medicine, as if I was in residency under him.
"Impetigo?" I answer...
"Yup" was all he said, bored. I was just glad I didn't have fleas.


Epilogue: So, I got some cream and the rash went away in a few days. Andrew had said the school nurse was equally unsure, joking that she likened one patch to poison ivy, one patch to spider bites...by next year I'd graduate beyond the skin diseases, popping my ankle one January evening in an attempted throw (it was a "Hail Mary play" to break a tie I was in...big mistake) which landed me in crutches for a week, a hard ankle brace until March, and a soft one for two years after, any time it rained.

A Tangle of Correlations (or Causations?)

What I Don't Have: A List
(1) Money
(2) Car
(3) Girl

OK, so (1) implies (2), that's for certain. Also, (2) may imply (3). Finally, (1) implies (3), but no (3) means more (1), so there's a circular relationship.

Laugh Lines: David Letterman

From The New York Times "Week in Review"...

Here’s great news: one of the President’s daughters, the lovely Jenna Bush, is getting married. ... It’s going to be an expensive wedding, and I guess this is no surprise: the $3 billion contract is going to Halliburton.

Have you folks been following the Michael Vick story about the dog fighting? ... He pleaded guilty and he faces a year and a half in prison, and I was thinking, now, wait a minute, shouldn’t that be a year and a half times seven, really, when you think about it?

Happy 200th

This is my 200th blog posting. Because I will soon take a blogging hiatus (due to summer's end), to commoreate the occasion (and to regulate traffic after I leave): Google Bomb!

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Stacking the Deck

As The New York Times editorialized today, The Washington Post did a story highlighting The Presidential Advance Manual, which I could not fully do justice, but is essentially a guide for pro-administration organizers to combat protesters.

My view of the current administration is that surrounds itself not only by "yes-men", but in "yes-crowds". Certainly, whoever wins the election next November will do the same, it's less apparent now because the candidates need to talk to anyone whose ear they can grab.

It all just strikes me as so phony. Our elder statesmen should not be surprised at the level of cynicism in my generation, particularly when they've so much contributed to it.

Science and Religion's Common Ground: Incest

The Bible is explicitly incestuous in the story of Lot, whose own daughters slept with him.

The Bible is implicitly incestuous in the creation story. Where did Cain's wife come from? OK fine, so God made more people? Fast forward - the Bible is implicitly incestuous in the deluge story. Afterwards, all that remained on Earth was Noah's family and a bunch of animals. God didn't say He was making any more people, but rather told Noah's family to go forth, "be fruitful and multiply" (Genesis 9:1). After the first generation, incest was inevitable.

Evolution is, I'm guessing, also incestuous...as that little group of primates broke off, I would think there would be substantial re-mating until other members of the group's former species were similar enough as to mate and produce viable offspring.

Science or Religion, whatever story is true, face it: we're all distant cousins. Think about that on your honeymoon.

Cutting the String

Call me sentimental, but I have difficulty pulling loose threads from clothing. The little string appears so pathetic and fragile that I find I just don't have the heart to cut its lifeline and toss it to the cold floor, where I imagine essence of dog feces and dead skin particles remain from others' foot trackings (a cruel fate indeed). Eventually, I develop an emotional attachment to the string, which is, after all, part of the shirt. I can't just abandon it. Eventually, I view it as just part of the shirt - knowing there's a loose thread near the right pocket gives me comfort finding it's still there when I when I next wear the pants. It gives the clothing article "character" and evokes a feeling of comforting familiarity. This coupled with that I'm quite resistant to change.

Such generosity has gotten me into trouble in the past. Once as a young boy playing in a stream, I witnessed a tiny worm on me struggling not to be swept away by the current. Compassionately, I helped the little worm to my thigh, above the water.

However, that worm (and its "friends") turned out to be leeches. I was covered when I emerged from the water. That was my first - and last - episode with these parasites; I haven't gone swimming in steams since.

Back to the clothing: Admittedly, there's also a risk-adverse element to my decision not the pull the string. I imagine (and lesser variations of this have happened in the past) that I would pull the string, but the thread doesn't break, and instead just keeps unraveling, and unraveling, and unraveling, and unraveling...

View from the Wicker Bar

In case you don't live in New York, the Wicker Bar is in this sort of swanky hotel, the Seton Hotel. I used to go there quite a lot, but I don't any more. I gradually cut it out. It's one of those places that are supposed to be very sophisticated and all, and the phonies are coming in the window. They used to have these two French babes, Tina and Janine, come out and play the piano and sing about three times every night. One of them played the piano-strictly lousy-and the other one sang, and most of the songs were either pretty dirty or in French. The one that sang, old Janine, was always whispering into the goddam microphone before she sang. She'd say,

"And now we like to geeve you our impression of Vooly Voo Fransay. Eer ees the story of a leetle Fransh girl who comes to a beeg ceety, just like New York, and falls een love wees a leetle boy from Brookleen. We hope you like eet."

Then, when she was all done whispering and being cute as hell, she'd sing some dopey song, half in English and half in French, and drive all the phonies in the places mad with joy. If you sat around there long enough and heard all the phonies applauding and all, you got to hate everybody in the world. I swear you did.

Beyond "The End of the Universe"

Comedian Lewis Black claims that The End of the Universe is apparent at a street corner in Houston, TX (South Shepard and West Gray, I hear). There, one Starbucks coffee shop sits across the street from another.

But I now know that the true end of the universe is in Atlanta, GA, in the Edgewood Retail District, where there are opportunities to buy Starbucks coffee in not one, not two, but three locations all facing into the same squared off district: the Barnes & Noble, the Target, and the Kroger (not just bags of coffee beans like at the grocery store - I'm talking fresh drinks).

What madness is this?

School's...in...for...Autumn!

Maybe I'm corny in the 6 year-old in a 26 year-old's body sense, but I love the first day of school. There's something special about it. A buzz in the air. All new paper and supplies. The actual moment of first walking into class is like Christmas...it's like coming downstairs to see all your presents, except in the academic sense, your "presents" are your fellow students taking the class with you this semester. What will Santa bring me this year, Mommy?

And so, I'm off to what may could be my last-first day of school ever. Most likely I'll take one more class in the spring semester (which will certainly be it) but Spring semester first classes are not exactly the same as Fall, with that buzz that reminds me of waiting for the school bus in a warm Norwalk morning, bright white new sneakers, fresh haircut, belly full of a special breakfast my dad made for the occasion (most likely Egg McMuffins, scrabbled eggs with bacon/ham/Kielbasa, or Entenmann's Raspberry Danish Twist) thinking the possibilities of what the next year would bring, new friends I'd see, and excitement there'd be. And in a slightly different way, I'll get to capture this again, today, for at least one more time.

I'll miss this when it's gone.

Uncomfortable in my own home...can I yet call it "home"?

I should be unpacking after yesterday's move, but instead I'm procrastinating online. Partly it's because I'm really sore (in the muscles) from yesterday's move, but also party it's because I feel that on some level I won't be staying long.

But that's crazy talk - I was to put as much time as possible between now and the next time I have to move an apartment (although I'll have to help the two girls who helped me yesterday - or at least offer my help - probably in March and then in May). I admit, I worried a bit too much. We finished ahead of schedule so much that I even turned my keys into the leasing office, something I hadn't planned on doing until tomorrow. Driving the truck was OK, at least I didn't break the truck or get into an accident - I can't afford someone else's medical bills. I did almost lose my own finger (twice!) unjamming the back door. It was a bit scary. We were wearing out as the day progressed, but if the move-out took three and a half hours, the move-in was done in maybe thirty minutes...then we spent then next hour and a half unpacking. Not quite done, and I don't even know where my towel is to take a shower tomorrow, but I have all of tonight.

I have all of tonight, because I don't have cable in my room and so have nothing else to do - I'm too uncomfortable still to go out into the common room and spread out. I still feel like I'm in the guest room of some stranger's house (ironically, that's exactly what I am). I still don't know protocol and don't want to come across like I'm taking over the kitchen and more specifically the refrigerator; I can tell right now I cook more than the other two combined, and I don't want to appear like I'm colonizing the food storage areas.

I'm afraid of using spreading my presence too much into common areas, or not keeping the bathroom clean enough, or being too loud, or other things that I'm sure I'll worry about in the upcoming weeks. I certainly won't be free-riding on the public good of cleanliness; the house is so clean now it's obvious who the dirty guy will be pretty soon if I let anything go. I mean, I think I'm pretty clean, but this house is like, museum-clean. Not a crumb on the floor.

I'll just need to get a bit more settled in...Well, school starts tomorrow. At least everything is the same there.

'Le Move'

Today is the move. May God have mercy on my soul...

Fin

Last Days in the Apartment

A couple of my brother's friends from the block stopped by to offer condolences when I was home last, little George, who I didn't even recognize at first, is now going to be a senior. Senior year of high school was a happy time but paradoxically also a sad time - in the back of your mind, everything that happens is your "last". Your "last" first day of school. Your "last" Thanksgiving game. Your "last" concert/wrestling meet. Your "last" 'March 12th' at school. Finally, your last day of school. I shouldn't have used quotes at all...it really is your last.

This has been on my mind since yesterday afternoon, as I continue to pack up the apartment for tomorrow's move. Last night was my last dinner in the apartment, my last night sleeping there (I'm crashing at a friend's tonight), and so this morning was the last time I will wake up in what has been my home for two years. I'm about to go have my last breakfast.

I might post an opinion soon at http://www.blogger.com/www.apartmentratings.com (zip code: 30308). Currently the score is hovering at 22% approval...I'll probably knock it down a bit. The place has a great location - behind the grocery store and down the street from the MARTA station, but that's all it has. For the rent I'm paying, it's certainly overpriced. Oh well, you live and learn, and in the future I'll know better.

I'm nervous and excited as I get ready to begin this next chapter of my life. This is T.J., from the Savannah Midtown, signing off...

Schopenhauer on Self-Image

I intend to spend the bulk of the day packing as much as possible of my apartment for Saturday's move. I was unaware how much stuff I had accumulated over two years until now that I am laying it in front of me. I never liked my boss at the Census, but he often remarked - and was correct - that "moving is hard because 'stuff' just accumulates". All my 'stuff' is at this point more an asset than a liability. I wondered yesterday if my renter's insurance was still valid, if I could burn everything. I wouldn't even have to be compensated; I'd benefit in not having to move it.

Speaking with Anthony, who's renting out the room that I'm moving into, I told him that I didn't have much stuff, that I liked to minimize my life. Actually getting my stuff into boxes, that statement is going to require a revision. He's a foreigner (Ireland), and I worry he's going to think I'm a typical American, naive in what I consider a frugal lifestyle having claimed such. Moreover, will he be a hard-drinking Irishman who thinks I'm an effeminate dandy when I show up with my numerous boxes? I found comfort in Arthur Schopenhaur, who wrote that in regarding others' thoughts towards us:

...[W]e shall gradually become indifferent when we acquire an adequate knowledge of the superficial and futile nature of the thoughts in the heads of most people, of the narrowness of their views, of the paltriness of their sentiments, of the perversity of their opinions, and of the number of their errors. We shall also become indifferent to the opinions of others when from our own experience we learn with what disrespect one man occasionally speaks of another as soon as he no longer has to fear him or thinks that what he says will not come to the ears of the other man; but we shall become indifference especially after we have once heard how half a dozen blockheads speak with disdain about the greatest man. We shall then see that whoever attaches much value to the opinions of others pays them too much honour.

The solution is to repeat this countless times as I pull up the Budget Truck on Saturday, like a Zen mantra.

There's treasure everywhere

There was Married...with Children random almost spin-off episode where a very young Matt LeBlanc likens something good to "being right up there with finding money on the street" (or something to that effect". Man, truer words where never spoken.

I'm not a creep. The best is finding, say, a quarter....good gain for me, no meaningful loss to the guy that lost it. Probably he cared about it less than a poor starving grad student, anyway. Up until I started grad school, my rule was always "bend down for quarters, but nothing less". I had my dignity, after all. But over the last year I've gotten poor enough that I've gotten over my "pride". I'm down to picking up pennies - but only if noone's looking. If insurance doesn't cover my oral surgery I'll probably be at the point while I ask for people's pardon while I pick up the pennies at their feet.

One day I was walking down North Avenue and a guy was frantically walking up and down the street - he had lost his entire ATM withdraw. He didn't know how much he lost, but if he didn't find it, someone had a payday. If I found that money I'd of course want to give it back, but I know most of the North Ave. pedestrians are likely the type that wouldn't.

I got the idea yesterday (while picking two pennies off the ground outside Publix) to start making a log of where I find money on the street, and how much. Google Maps now lets you add your own points, so I could display the data graphically. Maybe I'd see a pattern of where the most bountiful "hunting grounds" are, and I'd be curious to know what makes an area more lucrative for loose change. Could it be the income level of an area? Or the types of stores around which loose change is dropped? Differing levels of foot traffic? Even time of day could matter.

However, as long as it's only me making records, the points in which I find money are probably going to be most strongly related to my regular walking routes rather than any other factors...still, I think it'd be an interesting little side project. I think I'll start when I get to my new place. Unless the cheaper rent frees up enough cash that I don't need to bend down for that penny anymore.

More Dreams...

Much worse than nightmares are really really good dreams. All dreams end, and reality is much longer-lasting than any dream. Nightmares are a relief to wake up from, while it can be emotional devastating to wake up from a really good dream.

I still recall the Christmas I got a Super Nintendo system, and how much fun I had playing it that morning. Then I woke up and in a panic started tearing my room apart looking for some shred of evidence that it wasn't just a dream, as it slowly dawned on me that it was still about two weeks before Christmas.

I remember sitting on the bus that morning, trying to fall back asleep, hoping I could get find my way back to my happy dream world. Unfortunately, you can never return to the dreams you want you. Sometimes, dreams are so much preferable to our reality. By the way, I didn't get the Nintendo for Christmas that year.

Again, last night I dreamt of my brother. In this dream, I was home in Norwalk, and suddenly appeared around the corner. I was initially freaked out, because I understood then that he was dead, but then calmed down a bit. I guess he was a ghost, and was able to be around the house, interacting with my family and me. It was basically as it was before, except now he had the ability to turn invisible (I think I asked him at one point if he was, like, haunting the house, and he sort of just shrugged his shoulders and said he didn't know). No except me, my mom, and Eric could see him; Becca was over at one point and I was trying to explain things to her, but she didn't believe me. For "proof", I called to Scott to bang once on the wall if was there and twice if he wasn't (not the most logical command). Suddenly, the door of the room flew open, and there was a loud bang on the wall. Becca just sat with her jaw open.

Even if he was dead, I was just so happy that we could at least talk and interact, which was the only real important thing, anyway. I asked him what he was thinking doing what he did, and he said he took nine alcoholic drinks so he wasn't really thinking. It was more like an "oops" moment, because with him still around, there weren't really any consequences. I figured I could just live at the house and hang out. I was so happy...in a sense, it was another "second chance" dream. Truly, it was the happiest dream I had in a long time.

And waking up this morning was the hardest wake-up I can remember. Even last summer, when I did my dream journal, there were countless dreams where I was so happy to get second chances because my dad was alive. That was five years after his death. It hasn't even been three weeks after Scott's. Methinks there are lots to come...

And I wonder if Scott has substituted for my father for the moment. I wonder what it would be like if they're both in my dream at once?

Pre-Move Depression

Today I started taking my room down for Saturday's move. The walls are becoming bare and white. The anxiety over the new living situation is being supplanted with a depression.

As it always is. I didn't want to leave home to go to college that summer of '99, until all my trinkets were put away in boxes, so that my room was just bare walls. Then I couldn't wait to get out of there. There was nothing left for me.

Moving is hardest when we have an attachment to a place. Packing up helps to severe the ties; to show us under the comforting decorations we've added it's just four walls and a carpet, cold and uninviting, like a hospital room.

The place we move into is the same, but we think that we will be there a while, so we put a poster on the wall, and suddenly, it's not so bad anymore...

Get off my plane!!!

In boredom, I spent the afternoon watching Air Force One. The movie is unnecessarily nationalistic. Two guys (at least) take a bullet for Harrison Ford; well, one takes a bullet, the other take a missile from an enemy fighter. And they're heroes? Well, Harrison Ford is a good guy, but I think promoting dying for someone just because they're the president of the United States (and literally no other reason) as valor is not a good thing. But I could see why if you're the president you'd want to promote that. I dunno. It's a fun popcorn movie, but a little too rah-rah-rah for "Mr. President" (the office not the man). Gag me.

SICK Syndrome (Stress Induced Comfort-Killing)

In college my long-time roommate remarked to me once that I don't get sick very often, but when I do, I really get sick. This is one of those times.

Since yesterday morning, I've been sick as a dog. Body aches, out of breath feelings (noone seems to understand these things when I say I feel sick...are they exclusive to me?!?), but also runny noses (my grandpa told us we're backwards 'cause our nose runs and our feet smell...). Together, it's only slightly worse than the "stress headaches" I've been experiencing...they were bad when I first went home (the night I first found out about my brother, I could feel my heartbeat throbbing my pillow), then went away but had come back towards the end of my stay in Norwalk, now only supplanted my this illness.

I don't know where it came from...maybe the two plane trips on Tuesday? I think from all the stress I've been under has decimated my immune system...this morning I joked I have developed non-HIV AIDS. Even when I used to get terribly sick, it was just these 'one day' things I'd always bounce back from after a night's sleep...what's wrong with me? Maybe I'm getting old...

When 90 degrees seems cool...

Yesterday it hit 103 Fahrenheit in Atlanta; 110 with the humidity. Today it will be just as bad. I hope to crash with a friend this weekend, for whom utilities (particularly electricity) are included in the rent (i.e., fixed-rate). Turn on that air, baby!

Those global warming induced mild winters don't seem so great now, do they? I see the reinforcing cycle that could play out: global warming makes it hot, we burn out ACs, fossil fuels are used to produce electricity to power the air conditioning, more global warming occurs. They should put me in a documentary.

I walk to the MARTA and am drenched in sweat within two blocks. Vultures are circling by the time I get to the station. I pass the bleached bones of my neighbors, who unluckily had lived only a few blocks further.

I'm dreading the move next week...pushing furniture in this heat will probably be the death of me. *Thankfully*, it will cool ten degrees to a little over 90; I actually am looking forward to the relief.

When I moved into my New York City walkup, it was incidentally in the middle of a heat wave. Moving in and out of the DC dorms was always during the ungodly uncomfortable Washington summers. Because I don't have a fixed lease in the room I'm moving into (it's rather informal), I'd like to exercise a little foresight and see if I can plan my next move (and all future moves given most lease terms are for twelve month terms) for a more agreeable season.

Adam's (and Scott's) Song

I never thought I'd die alone
I laughed the loudest who'd have known
I traced the cord back to the wall
No wonder it was never plugged in at all
I took my time, I hurried up
The choice was mine, I didn't think enough
I'm too depressed, to go on
You'll be sorry when I'm gone

I never conquered, rarely came
Sixteen just held such better days
Days when I still felt alive
We couldn't wait to get outside
The world was wide, too late to try
The tour was over we'd survived
I couldn't wait till I got home
To pass the time in my room alone

I never thought I'd die alone
Another six months I'll be unknown
Give all my things to all my friends
You'll never set foot in my room again
You'll close it off, board it up
Remember the time that I spilled the cup
Of apple juice in the hall
Please tell mom this is not her fault

I never conquered, rarely came
Sixteen just held such better days
Days when I still felt alive
We couldn't wait to get outside
The world was wide, too late to try
The tour was over we'd survived
I couldn't wait till I got home
To pass the time in my room alone

I never conquered, rarely came
Tomorrow holds such better days
Days when I can still feel alive
When I can't wait to get outside
The world is wide, the time goes by
The tour is over, I'd survived
I can't wait till I get home
To pass the time in my room alone

- blink-182

First Dream...

And the dreams have started....This morning, I had the first with my deceased brother in it. It wasn't quite as freaky as that of my first dream of my father after he died...when he came in with blood-red eyes, sat us down in the living room and short of shrugged his shoulders at us asking how he was. There have been many since. At less than two weeks since my brother died, it's starting much sooner (and incidentally, the ones of my father have never stopped...).

In high school, doing a Columbine-style shooting, but I'm one of the accomplices...the other two are the killers from Gus Van Zant's Elephant (a movie I wanted to show to Scott)...I didn't really kill any students, but because I had seen the movie and already knew what was "supposed" to happen, I was pointing out to the other two what they were "supposed" to do (I was directing them in a way). Eventually, the police and SWAT team showed up and I knew I was dead (i.e., they'd gun me down)...I shot at them from the windows with my assault rifle to stall them. Suddenly, the blond killer shows up like at the end (and I knew the other was "supposed" to surprisingly kill him then) but, I shot him first (multiple times as he was thrown against the wall) although after about three shots the dark-haired killer joined in. I then told the the dark-haired killer to go tothe couple hiding in the kitchen (eenie, meenie, minie, moe). I later heard two gun shots, confirming how I suspected that movie would have played out. Suddenly the SWAT team was about to break through...I lost my weapon and convinced the (gullible) SWAT leader I was an innocent student, but knew they'd figure out sooner or later the truth of my involvement. They left me to attack the dark-haired killer, and I then stepped into a side gym and plotted my escape....perhaps knowing it was a dream, I got the idea I had the ability to will myself wherever I wanted to be...I thought about home, and my brother...the room got dark, I saw myself falling into a black hole, and found myself at the corner of Ambler and George in Norwalk. Instantly, Scott in his Jeep turned the corner.

Scott drove me to the house, we went upstairs into his room. He looked maybe five years younger than when I saw him last. I somehow became convinced all this was the product of time travel, that I really had gotten a second chance to save him (sort of like a reverse The Terminator or in Back to the Future where Marty wants to warn Doc about getting killed) because it was really several years in the past (prior to today). But, I was so overwhelmed with emotion, I just began to cry, balling my eyes out, and grabbing his legs (he was sitting) not wanting to let him go. I think he was a bit freaked out by my reaction. At some point, I became aware that he had been time traveling, too, and was aware of many parts of his life, including the future (it was all very Slaughterhouse Five). So, with choked voice I asked him if he knew what would happen to him in July, 2007, but he said he didn't know, and I was unable to tell him...I was just too choked up. I just tried to beg him to take care of himself, but he slowly and increasingly became distracted in playing Super Mario Brothers 3 on his Gameboy (I also was momentarily distracted when I saw how fun the game was). I became worried (and then convinced) that is death would be inevitable, as I just couldn't get through to him. I then woke up to a sense of increasing dread as I realized it was all a dream, and he was gone forever - and I really didn't have my one chance to save him.

Abrupt Ending

My mother found my brother dead in his bed this morning. I'll be discontinuing this blog indefinitely.

I'm really mad at him for leaving me, and myself for reasons I'm unable to explain.

This is a dream I want to wake up from.

The Reasons I view Puberty as a Disease

I'll pick up where I digressed yesterday. I hold that several aspects of my life were better before puberty. I remember That Day in fifth grade when all the little boys went into one room and all the little girls went into another. We received a run-down of the little joys that awaited us: cracking voices, sweat-induced BO (body odor), sweat in it's own nasty sake, body hair in embarrassing places (like your armpits), wet dreams (whatever the hell those were supposed to be...I just understood I'd be wetting the bed, and had convinced myself that random misfires would occur at many random points of my waking hours), acne, etc. There was much to fear. I lived the remainder of my prepubescent time in a state of constant dread.

Even now, much of the changes that took place leave ongoing minor agonies. Two-thirds of my morning hygienic routine is devoted to "fixing" some "symptom" of puberty. The problem isn't just time-cost: Mach 3 razors are damned expensive, and all those Old Spice High Endurance Fresh sticks add up.

Have there been some perks? I look OK to get into any movie I want but that came much after the awkwardness (being carded at 21 is one thing...if its for drinks, not movies with lots of explosions and words like "&%#@"). I'm also much stronger than at ten, which carries many a daily convenience such as the joys of being able to open a a lidded jar, but it's as much a gift as a curse: the guy strong enough to carry the heavy load is always the one asked to carry the heavy load.

Of course, I can only speak for boys, and I'm sure girls could come up with their own list of grievances.

Stealing Innocence

I don't know where the "Christmas in July" concept originates from, but today would be the six-month mark until the next Christmas (I already know what I'm getting my mom!).

While brushing my teeth last night, I thought of the jerk 3rd grader who told me at seven that Santa didn't exist, that it was really my parents leaving presents out for me. I wish I could find him now, and beat the living shit of out him. That little tidbit served no purpose but to ruin the fun and take away a large part of Christmas's magic.

Economists studying social interactions literally model knowledge flows like a disease spreading. Of course, some knowledge could be "bad", catching like a virus and "scarring" a childhood. I'm not trying to be overly dramatic, comparing growing up with catching a disfiguring disease (although I found puberty in general was very much a disease to me - but that's another post...). To me, it's something more than taking away a blissful ignorance. I see the beautiful, pristine, fresh-fallen snow of childhood, and then one asshole coming to trample over everything, then undoing his zipper and turning the remaining untouched snow yellow.

There is a scene sequence in The Catcher in the Rye where Holden sees something "unpleasant" written in several very public places. He worries about the effect it will have on who might see it, as well as experiences a sunken heart as he feels the graffiti ruins the tranquility of the place it was written. I've always related completely with his thoughts:

While I was walking up the stairs, though, all of a sudden I thought I was going to puke again. Only, I didn't. I sat down for a second, and then I felt better. But while I was sitting down, I saw something that drove me crazy. Somebody'd written "Fuck you" on the wall. It drove me damn near crazy. I thought how Phoebe and all the other little kids would see it, and how they'd wonder what the hell it meant, and then finally some dirty kid would tell them — all cockeyed, naturally — what it meant, and how they'd all think about it and maybe even worry about it for a couple of days. I kept wanting to kill whoever'd written it. I figured it was some perverty bum that'd sneaked in the school late at night to take a leak or something and then wrote it on the wall. I kept picturing myself catching him at it, and how I'd smash his head on the stone steps till he was good and goddam dead and bloody. But I knew, too, I wouldn't have the guts to do it. I knew that. That made me even more depressed. I hardly even had the guts to rub it off the wall with my hand, if you want to know the truth. I was afraid some teacher would catch me rubbing it off and would think I'd written it. But I rubbed it out anyway, finally...

I went down by a different staircase, and I saw another "Fuck you" on the wall. I tried to rub it off with my hand again, but this one was scratched on, with a knife or something. It wouldn't come off. It's hopeless, anyway. If you had a million years to do it in, you couldn't rub out even half the "Fuck you" signs in the world. It's impossible...

I was the only one left in the tomb then. I sort of liked it, in a way. It was so nice and peaceful. Then, all of a sudden, you'd never guess what I saw on the wall. Another "Fuck you." It was written with a red crayon or something, right under the glass part of the wall, under the stones.That's the whole trouble. You can't ever find a place that's nice and peaceful, because there isn't any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you're not looking, somebody'll sneak up and write "Fuck you" right under your nose. Try it sometime. I think, even, if I ever die, and they tick me in a cemetery, and I have a tombstone and all, it'll say "Holden Caulfield" on it, and then what year I was born and what year I died, and then right under that it'll say "Fuck you." I'm positive, in fact.

Some months ago, Leslie Stahl (if I recall) did a story on 60 Minutes which profiled a memory pill - or rather, a "forgetting pill" - that eases reoccurring flashbacks among individuals suffering from post-traumatic events. E.g., one lady, a subway operator, was haunted by the memory of the man she watched commit suicide by jumping on the tracks underneath her subway car. I wish there was something we could give to children to help them forget all the crap in the world they've inadvertently witnessed when they were still too young to have deserved to.

Yet, this very morning, I saw posted on CNN.com an Associated Press story with the headline "'Potter' fans keeping the secrets". Although revealing the ending of the Harry Potter saga would not ruin the innocence of one's childhood, the restraint by those who have read it is promising in that a small joy could easily be ruined for others. So I'll still retain some faith in humanity.

Things that Stay with You

You know, it's funny how somethings you remember and somethings you can't. Forrest Gump couldn't remember being born, or what he got for his first Christmas, or going on his very first picnic. But he did remember meeting Jenny on that first bus ride to school.

Now, I don't remember learning how to wipe myself after going to the bathroom, the first time feigning illness to stay home from school actually worked, or how it was like to be so accepting of plot jumps and nonsensical quick actions cuts in The Transformers and other 80s cartoons, but I do remember being in my preschool's unisex bathroom, seeing for a the first time a pantless girl walk in, and me exclaiming:

"Someone cut your penis off!"

Without saying a word, she turned around and walked out.


Author's Note: I intended to tell of how I still remember the Mortal Kombat blood code for Sega Genesis (ABACABB), but I decided this was a better story....

A bad, bad man...

Finally saw Pulp Fiction yesterday; it's been on my list for years. My favorite line in the movie was Samuel L. Jackson's:

"English, Motherfucker; do you speak it?"

I think he was nominated for that performance. It certainly must be where his rep came from, and soon we had "Get these motherfucking snakes of my motherfucking plane!!" Before that Dave Chappelle did, instead of Sam Adams Beer, Samuel L. Jackson Beer, and he showed up in the jheri curls: "Drink my beer, motherfuckers!"

As a whole the movie was OK. I must have already seen like ten parodies of the John Travolta and Uma Thurman dance scene. Quentin Tarantino should stick to being a behind the camera director. Whenever he shows up onscreen in his movie I can't help but think was a tool he is.

My Namesake

I've been corresponding a lot these past weeks with strangers I've met online as I've been searching for housing. For the sake of Internet privacy, I've been signing my letters "Thomas" instead of "T.J.", and then introducing myself as Thomas when I go to places to actually take a look (as if the name makes a difference...I think I'm more worried about someone I know finding me...).

I've been signing off "Thomas" so much in e-mails, I've caught myself doing it in personal e-mails (to friends). I don't like that. "T.J." is unique and I always want it to be "T.J." I used to worry that as an adult I'd be forced to go by "Thomas" instead of "T.J."; it's more "grown-up" sounding. So I'm a little sensitive right now that I could acidentally be doing this, like it's an unavoidable fate that I slip into adulthood - that I cannot run from my destiny as a "Thomas".

Never!!!!

If I never write a will, I want this to be said now: make sure it says "T.J." on my tombstone. At a high school friend's college graduation party, after saying "Hello, T.J." her mom asked me, "Is it still T.J.?" That freaked me out, as if using intials as a name was just some childish foolishness that a stint at university would cure me of.

It's almost wasn't T.J....my mother's first choice was "Peter", but my father objected because I guess especially at the time "Peter" was a slang term for penis (e.g., "peter puller"). I'd be like naming a kid "Dick" today. You'd ruin him for life.

Also, as fate would have it, I was born on the day that the pope was shot, and my aunts were pushing hard for me to be named "John Paul" in commemoration. So, I was almost J.P....

But in the end my father won out; I was named "Thomas" after him and "James" after...I don't know, actually. It could be coincidence but his only brother's name is "Jim", probably from James. In my babybook, under the entry for the origion of my name, my mother wrote, "because daddy got his way."

I'm not sure if this story is true but my dad told me he lied to his father (my grandfather) on his deathbed by telling him that he would have be named "Edward" (my grandfather's name). So maybe I was almost Edward. Again, I'm not sure if that story was true, or if my dad was just screwing with my head. Probably both.

I been everywhere, man...

I've seen five housing options in a 24-hour period beginning yesterday afternoon. Yeah, I know, that's not that many, but the point is I walked. At least 10.79 miles, according to Google Maps, but probably closer to 12 when you factor in what I didn't calculate. After the 7 miles I did yesterday, I physically hurt when I got up this morning. And they say it (the pain) is even worse the second day. I am giddy at the thought that I will sleep late tomorrow and not leave the room.

Starting yesterday:

#1 (1:30pm) - Duplex in Midtown. With three Georgia Tech PhD students. Good in being located in a familiar and liked location. Place is nice, although filled with windows with high ceilings. Potential roommates estimate summer electricity bill of $100 per person (I think about other utilities besides water). Potentials generally surprise me throughout my visit with a vast array of mathematical calculations. Money-wise, I realize they are just as greedy as me. Potentials would want a person to move in by August 1st to cover rent of vacant room; I want to stay in present room until 20th to avoid paying rent in vacant room.

#2 (8:30pm) - Apartment in Decatur. At a base rent of $285, and right near the Clairmont/North Decatur Publix great location, was perfect on paper...too perfect. Room is a vacancy in one room of a 3br. The place not so great, but expectations were low given rent. Guy takes me in the kitchen (again not much), and while talking about how he doesn't often cook, opens the cabinets to more crawling roaches than I can count. He lets out a scream like a schoolgirl, then closed the cabinets and told me he'd show me the room, maybe thinking I didn't see them or hear him. Upstairs met the friendliest, softest cat in the world, I reconsider the roaches in fleeting thought. Guy takes me downstairs to get to know me. Talks about himself, he was a theater major in college but now is a server at Einstein Bagels. I think of the lesson in that. Later says: "I have an alter ego" with a smile that lets me know he was about to drop some freaky shit on me. Tells me said alter ego is Fufu Gabore, (not really but something similar), that he is a drag queen performing in shows in Midtown and Buckhead. I become concerned alter ego may emerge, but leave respecting guy for putting all his cards on the table. Guy also asks me about friends, girlfriends, and as I try to speak cuts me off saying he would never bring a "person" home at night, believes it inappropriate to other roommates - quarters too close. I think that good Catholic boys do not have loud midnight sex in roach infested apartments. He seems concerned for my welfare on going home. Tells me he will put all my info into my file (each "applicant" for the vacancy gets a file) and will share with his roommate. I am amazed at thought of his pile of files; I think that he is an organized little SOB.

#3 (9:40pm) - House in Decatur. Am worried it's too late, walked two miles to get there by 7:30 to avoid late showing (post-8:30 appointment). Contact had assured she'd be there by 7:00, I find out she wasn't there yet after all. At 9:40pm, is too dark to read house numbers. I'm concerned neighbors will see me apparently "casing the joint" and call police. Finally call house, woman not home, deep-voiced man picks up, says lady not home, but gives directions to house and lets me in. Husband is man of few words. Shows me to room, which is disappointingly furnished. Husband leaves me alone in room. Middle School-aged girl walks by, gives look of unease at having stranger in house. I meet and share her look, think that situation would essentially means I join the family, integration so complete. Am not ready for spot at dinner table. Husband returns, tells me room is son's room, who is away at college. I have flash of son coming home to a room given away to a stranger, per A Clockwork Orange. Awkwardness sets in already. As I leave, am unsure if I am just weak from the walking but husband gives a shake that crushes my hand.

#4 (10:05am) - House in...Doraville? On walk from train station think that I will arrive at school each day with a sweat soaked shirt from the walk. Find house. House is being remodeled; guy says will be done for renters by next week, I would still be dubious if he said two years from now. House smells like wet dog. No carpeting anywhere; floor does not look level. Owner is 26 year-old male, has baseball trophies everywhere and a beer tap on the kitchen counter. Convinced he is type that peaks in high school.

#5 (12:05pm) - House in Decatur. With two Emory MA girls that will graduate in 2008. I love the kitchen. Girl says that they'll need to get washer/dryer, but generally seems clueless about furnishing a house. Potential's expression changes from smiling face to look of discuss at regular intervals as I talk to her; I become concerned I am saying the wrong thing or she is insane. Potential wants someone to move in my August 1st. House generally nice and walking distance to downtown, but at $575, is most expensive housing option I saw. Concerned that utilities will be a lot with only three-way split.

I have one more to see on Monday, a duplex that requires a bus to get to. Besides that, I think it has some promise (in terms of price - $525 for everything). On Monday there will be only four weeks until my lease expires (in practical terms, until I am forced to vacate). There are still vacancies at 710 Peachtree, but I'd like to avoid those crappy kitchens. Ironically, this is the place I visited June 30th, and I may end up there after so many other visits. I have an application saying the price is $550, but I recently called to confirm there were still vacancies and I heard the price went to $575.

Plus utilities. Sigh...

Reading...or Reading Harry Potter?

Tonight is the end of an era; Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (the final in the series) is being released at midnight tonight. It's the afternoon of Friday, July 20th and and right now nothing is hotter than Potter...

I saw a report that although Israeli law requires businesses to be closed on a Saturday in observance of the Sabbath, booksellers over there are saying to hell with the law. There's a Barnes and Noble pretty close to me; I've never been to a midnight Harry Potter release party and I should try and get over there because it'll be my last chance...

People give J.K. Rowling credit for getting children to read again. I think she deserves lots of praise for creating engaging and imaginative stories which are incredibly smart. It's formulaic that there be a plot twist at the end of each one, and knowing this each time as I go through a part of the series, thinking all the while I am a pretty smart guy reading a book I took from the children's literature section, I've never, ever been able to correctly figure out what the ending would be, and certainly have fallen for all the red herrings brilliantly woven in.

Anyway, I'm not sure it's totally accurate to claim J.K. Rowling has gotten children to read generally; rather, she's gotten them to read Harry Potter. How much of it has spilt over to inducing consumption of other literature? Now that the series is over, will children continue to read?

In 4th grade, I brought out the original 400-page version of of Bram Stoker's Dracula when at least some of my classmates were probably struggling with Red Fish Blue Fish. Observing this, my teacher wanted me to start reading only high school books, to encourage what she saw as an advanced reading ability (I'm trying to be modest). Clearly she didn't get it: I didn't want to read high school level books, I just wanted to read Dracula. Ms. Rowling certainly has created an explosion of reading, but is the situation similar? Is it that these young muggles have been introduced to literature and adopted a general joy of reading, or is it that they just want to read Harry Potter?

A Silent Scream

When I got my braces on in October, my orthodontist told me I would really be "feeling it" on top given the thickness of the upper wire. I ended up feeling nothing what-so-ever, and was actually worried that maybe the brackets had come unattached or something. Well, maybe the top was dulled by what I was feeling on my bottom jaw; a pain like I've never experienced before. I remember sitting with a dull throbbing in night class, somewhere in the back of my mind I could hear the professor was speaking, but it was sort of a hushed whisper under the beating of each heartbeat I felt in my jaw.

So I sat there in silence with my eyes closed. Who would know that I was feeling what I was feeling? Although we often see a football injury and cringe, on MTV's Scarred helmet-less boys make a potentially brain-damage inducing crash without noise. Much more invisible is emotional pain; who out there is (silently) suffering from depression, unknown to us?

Don't we ever want just want to scream? An Edvard Munch's The Scream type of scream. Like when David in Six Feet Under's pilot learns his father died, but still must stand composed for another family's funeral, and imagines screaming loudly in the middle of it? I think I've forgotten the number of times I must have mentally screamed. I think I can scream louder in my head; I'm not sure my vocal cords could take what I'd want to let out sometimes.

Really Random

I read yesterday that when asked to select a random number (of ten), people say "7" with the most frequency; it seems to conform to what people believe is a "random" number. The point is, then, our choice is not really random. People will probably say "7".

In a quick experiment, I typed 100 numbers (0-9) in Excel. If I did it randomly like I tried, it should be about 10 each:

0 - 14
1 - 8
2 - 6
3 - 6
4 - 8
5 - 15
6 - 13
7 - 8
8 - 8
9 - 11

So "5" wins for me (maybe because it's in the middle of the keypad?). As n, the numbers generated increases by a random generator, it probably will converge to 10% each. What about for a human? Probably it would diverge to way way off 10% for some numbers as n increases. I could test it at n=1000 but I don't have that much time on my hands.

Us human beings are not random, I'm learning, so much of our choices are shaped by past experiences, in that our choice of a random number is likely colored by what we think a random color "should" be. We often say "7", as does everyone else. What does this say for free will vs. determinism?

This posting, I now think, was really random, though in a different sense of the word.

Vote Obama

I probably should do my one political post before the summer's end, because voting will probably already have occurred before I start up doing posts again. I'm fairly concerned with early opinion polling regarding Democratic Party candidates (I am a registered Democrat) in that Hillary Clinton is ahead in receiving support. I want to urge a plea: Please, please, do not vote for Hillary Clinton.

My argument is simple. Since 1988, we've had a Bush or Clinton as president - the better part of my life - and if you count Bush Sr.'s stint as Vice President, there's been a Bush or Clinton in the White House my entire life...

...and I'm twenty-six. What if Hillary wins? What if she wins re-election? I'll be thirty-five before a non-Bush or non-Clinton got a chance to get in. Unless Jeb or Chelsea runs (and what if they win? What if they win re-election?).

Maybe this isn't fair to Hillary, but it's how I feel. And I feel strongly about it. This two-family dominance is unacceptable to me in a nation of 300 million. Are we that unimaginative? Are we really unable to come up with anyone else?

Because I'm so disenchanted with the process, with all the reciprocity of favors of the elites amongst themselves, I've determined that in this election it be crucial that we elect an outsider. Especially someone that hasn't been in Washington for the last fifteen (or more) years, or whose last name is Clinton (or Bush, or Adams, or Roosevelt). For this reason, I'm endorsing Barack Obama for the Democratic Party nomination.

To be fair, hopefully by the end of the summer I will e-mail my concerns to the Clinton campaign to hear if they have any response that would satisfy me. In the "PS", I will specifically write that claiming having your husband as president give you "experience" will be an unsatisfactory answer. I can't think of what else they would say, and because it's probably a touchy issue I'm not expecting a response, but I'll post whatever they send back. It should be rich.

Please vote Obama in 2008. Thank you.

You never know who's watching

I'm off to an unusually crappy Monday. I signed into to my e-mail to accept an offer to to live in a really great housing situation, but there was an e-mail waiting for me entitled "Last Minute Update"...basically it was a "nevermind", that the roommate moving out decided to stay and so there is no vacancy, but nice to meet you, yada yada yada. Did you hear a loud scream of anguish outside today? That was me.

I think I know someone who's having an equally bad Monday. Yesterday towards the end of the soccer game I watched, there was a good five-second shot into the crowd prominently displaying a woman picking her nose. This was the finals of the Copa America, most likely everyone in South America saw her. Well, on the other hand, we were watching the Spanish station, and she was a Brazil fan, so her dirty little secret is probably still unknown to her Brazilian friends, family, and coworkers.

My only similar experience was in college, where I played with the Pep Band, hating it all the while my first year (that year I only did it for the scholarship). I probably have told this story before but here goes again: We were often told we were paid to be "cheery", so I usually had to put up this act of wanting to be there. Supposedly, during the televised BB&T tournament at the MCI center, there was a close-up of me "looking bored" on the big-screen monitor as my friends told me when I got back to the dorm. I was so afraid to go back to practice, thinking I'd be reamed out for having disgraced the name of the school, my money taken away - surely people had passed notes to the director. But no one said anything. Again, as with my nose-picking counterpart, I believe lack of viewership saved me, in conjunction with the general malaise of that point in GW Basketball history.

Goooooal!

On my second quarter-century, today will I will watch my second soccer game (ever!). I have some Brazilian classmates and one of them invited me to watch the Brazil vs. Argentina match today. I've learned it's the finals of the South American cup. Very big deal. As just an American, I'll probably choose to remain the neutral party. I was considering innocently wearing Argentina's colors and then feigning ignorance (which would probably be believed) just to see what happened with regards to reaction on behalf of my hosts.

My first match ever that I watched was last year's FIFA cup of France vs. Italy. Becca's thankless brother's whined that we pull over from our road trip to Atlanta to find a sports bar to watch it. So we did, munching on appetizers for four hours. I actually enjoyed the game; all my international classmates had been talking about the tournament throughout summer session and finally I got to see what the fuss was about. It moreover turned out to be a quite scandalous occasion: French player Zinedine Zidane headbutted an Italian player; dropping him.

Those guys I see are wizards with the ball; Harlem Globetrotters with their feet, each one of them. I wish I could do the twirly-whirly.

Maybe soccer will slowly catch on in the states. Not to the point where we call it "football"; that name has already been taken. There's a a mass generating: David Beckham just this week just this week has showed up and been getting a lot of press, but more likely because Posh has come in tow. The guy's getting a little old, anyway. Maybe his legacy could be to provide the critical mass so that soccer would really take off in America.

Lazy Afternoon

Didn't really do much of anything productive today. Read a bad book (The Perks of Being a Wallflower -avoid it), went shopping, and uh...that's it. The bad thing is, it was supposed to be a fun day.

There was going to be a pool party at another student's condo starting at noon. At 11:15, I stuck my head out and it was cold, gray, and drizzling. So I sent my regrets via e-mail. When I went to Publix at 12:30, I saw blue sky. Now that I really thought I'd make a late appearance, I looked at the radar and it really *is* going to rain within the half hour. Just as I'd be showing up. Good grief.

I imagine the four hours of fun I could have had. :'(

I wish I got out or things worked out better. I don't mind spending time by myself, but I didn't really do anything today. I have this need to be productive, or I feel like I'm wasting my life. As if leisure doesn't have it's own value. My problem is I can't relax. But the cure, to "just relax", is one thing you can't do: making an effort (to relax) is by definition not relaxing.

Local Lore

My 7th grade year I played for the Raiders in the Norwalk Pop Warner Leauge. As it was, our coaching staff was comprised entirely of policemen (both state and City of Norwalk). Their other common trait was that they all worked the night shift so our afternoon practices were effectively their morning routines. How our practice was to be that day depended on how rough their prior night was...I remember one of the more brutal practices was when an assistant coach (and Norwalk police officer) showed up to start practice with a busted hand and a mean scowl: "Some motherfucker thought he could take my head off last night...but I put him on his back...now fuckin' start running!!!!!!"

One evening, that same coach pointed pointed to an older man who sometimes came to the field to walk his dog. "That's One-Nut Willy. He's a child-molester that I've arrested eight times". Forever after that, if we saw the man after practice while waiting for our rides home, we circled in a defensive position like Wildebeest calling our to those that strayed from the herd, lest they fall prey to the voracious predator circling about.

It was of course probably entirely a crock or at the least an exaggeration. However, us being twelve-year-olds, we invented an entire backstory for the guy. My own personal telling was that he indeed only did have one "nut", but that he was something like the Headless Horseman, haunting the night to seek out young boys with whose genitalia he might replace his missing testicle.

Once a while on Peachtree here in Atlanta I see what I thought was a a flamboyantly gay/crazy homeless guy, who walks - nay, struts - around in hot shorts and a top hat, twirling a baton. Recently, a girl I met (and an Atlantan of eleven years) told me his name was Baton Bob and he too had a local lore. Supposedly, he was a successful Fortune 500 executive here in Atlanta. Then September 11th happened and he just wanted people to be happy so he walks around like that to cheer them up.

Holy shit. I was double-checking if I spelled "baton" correctly and Google spit out a Wikipedia article for Baton Bob. It's pretty close to the story I was told (except the executive part isn't true). He even has a website: http://www.batonbob.com/. So, it's only on Wikipedia, but supposedly even CNN interviewed him. I checked and One-Nut Willy does not have a webpage.

Certainly the stories told to me were embellished, but the embroidered versions are so much more fun. The enjoyment comes from our affinity as humans for storytelling. Stories are fun to tell, then embellish, and tell again. Local urban legends and perhaps even religions most likely get their start this way. Because the truth is probably much more banal, wouldn't we rather believe the sensationalism of the stories we invent for ourselves? Aren't they so much more interesting?

Where do (Cartoon) Babies come from?

Cartoons' family trees must be diagonal, not vertical. Everyone had nieces or nephews, never daughters or sons.

Inspector Gadget had Penny, Scooby-Doo had Scrappy Doo (da da da da daaaa...Pupppy Powwwer!!!). Huey, Dewey, Louie were Donald's nephews, who in turn was Uncle Scrooge's nephew. Et cetera.

It's too much of a pattern to be a coincidence. Was the idea to avoid the suggestion that cartoons have sex? It couldn't be to avoid to burden of having in addition to invent a mate. Donald and Daisy were eternally courting, for example, she was already available to become a wife. But maybe that change had to be avoided. Cartoons are sort of stuck in time - dating when first drawn, dating forever. Statuses can't change. Bringing a nephew out from somewhere is a convenient want to introduce a character.

Also, maybe there's something about a parent-less child that has a Dickens-like appeal. Yet, the uncle still provides a loving and comforting home life, the happy ending of every orphan story.

The movies got a late start: Snow White didn't have a parent, and Geppetto wasn't exactly Pinnochio's dad. Finally came Dumbo's mom (very touching) and then Bambi's mom (I think I'm going to cry). Curiously, these predate the nieces and nephews era, so cartoon baby-making had already been established. Perhaps America went through some sort of moral reform?

Later on, Goofy got a son, Max...geez, the one person least capable of child-rearing. Currently, there's a reversal of trends. Homer Simpson has three children, but (yikes!) no nephews...and no uncles!

Roommate Reconciliation

I roomed with the same guy in college for four years...during senior year, it went a little sour. I had just started a relationship (and so was in the lovey-dovey phase) whereas he was breaking up with his girlfriend. He acted obviously jealous, and later admitted it. Bigger problems were that at no fault of my own, he began to talk about me behind my back to my other roommates, even after I went to sit with him in the emergency room after he got hit in the crotch with a hockey puck. The betrayal really hurt me. Painfully, after four years and countless good times, it began with something so petty and at no fault of my own.

Perhaps the seeds were always there; he was sort of a narcissistic, self-absorbed guy. I recognized it at the end: before we were to move out, he came up to me in the street asking to be friends again. I suspected (and still strongly believe) that he wasn't interested in forgiveness for its own sake but rather to let his own conscious be at peace. I'm proud of myself for not letting him off the hook: I told him after graduation I didn't plan on ever seeing him again.

The question is, do people change? We wouldn't hold it against someone now if they had called us a mean name on the kindergarten playground. No adult is the same person they were as a child...but do adults change? Sometimes we don't think so. Politicians are asked all the time to defend a position taken 10...20...perhaps even 30 years prior (a span longer than my entire life). When we stop to think about it, why would we expect them to not be the same people? After literally years of learning and life experience? It makes sense they would. I'm hopeful (and Catholic) enough to believe people can change. So the question becomes, how long does it take for people to change?

This episode with my roommate was approximately four years ago. A year after graduation, he IMed me, wishing me luck at Columbia. I ignored him.

This past spring, he contacted me through my new Facebook account:

Hey TJ,

It's been a long time and I understand that things didnt end well between us in college but I hope that now that time has passed, we can put that stuff behind us. It would be good to keep in contact with you and know who things have turned out for you. Are you still with the girl you were dating in college?

Let me know how you've been if you're interested. If not, I can understand that too.

Best, ____

For the second time, he really did put himself out there. Moreover, It had been 3.5 years...maybe he's matured? Adding him as a Facebook friend was not the biggest deal. I was willing to give him that much of a chance.

Since the add, we haven't caught up to much outside of a few back-and-forth e-mails at the beginning. It worries me that he sought contrition only for his consciousness, as he planned to four years ago, and this time I let him get away with it .

Maybe not. We're all busy, and I've certainly been dissing even my closest friends lately. Today is this particular "friend's" birthday, and I think I will put myself out there in the smallest way I possibly could: a "happy birthday" message on his Facebook page. It's time I do something to reciprocate his initial move, anyway. It's not much, but that's the point. Keep my distance and feel him out. We used to be pretty good friends...much better to mend that than totally throw out...and maybe the bone just needed some time to heal before we tried walking on it?

Private Special Moments

There's a scene in the movie Stand by Me where a deer jumps out of the forest mere feet from the main character, alone from his sleeping friends who simply absorbs the moment. When a train whistle scares the deer off and wakes up his companions, his adult-voiced narration says "...it was on the tip of my tongue to tell them about the deer. But I didn't. That was the one thing I kept to myself. I've never spoken or written about it until just now."

While soaping myself in the shower some years ago, a *huge* bubble formed between my arm and my body. I wanted to run out into my dorm's common area (naked) to show the roommates. Although I didn't, and stood staring at the bubble until it burst, I immediately ran and out (clothed) and told everyone about it. I was not like in the movie.

Stand by Me was a coming of age story; so could not having a need to validate our experiences through other's reactions a sign of maturity? I think this might be. Some would call it a pulling inwards if we limit the sharing of our experiences, but I disagree that it has anything to do with anti-socialism. As I often find myself stumbling for words on these pages, I know that it is difficult to capture thoughts on paper. Perhaps some moments are diminished by the translation into words. Telling your friends a deer was right next to you will never be as impressive as actually having it right next to you. Relating to your friends about the big bubble would probably not even cause them to lift their heads, and would mean so much less to than you, who witnessed a fragile display of wonder, displayed in a magnificent spectrum of bubble-oil color most unexpectedly in the middle of the morning routine.

I've become much more content with life over these past years. I see special moments everyday, from innocent babies yawning on the subway to intricate spiderwebs highlighted in dew. Yet these are everyday occurrences, not unique as a deer crossing your path. Perhaps on some level they're all the same - beautiful moments in which us mere mortals could never definitively quantify for comparison. Maybe hushing up is just realizing that there's so much beauty around that and there's no need to tell others, because if that beauty needs to be explained to others, they'll probably not understand it, anyway.

And I pity the ones that don't see it.

Asking for Help

I am almost ready to give up on my apartment searching and sign on for a studio at 710 Peachtree, because it's the cheapest in a good area, and I might be able to get a good, 15th-story view, although bad is that it has a stale gas smell (from the stove) and the AC is worrying me, it's the same model as my Washington, DC conditioner, and each morning I was surprised to find that I had not dehydrated myself to death during the night. And Georgia heat is much suckier than Washington's.

Back to the smell. Gas stoves are better for cooking than the electric I have now, but worst off all is the kitchen...you could reach your arms out and touch all walls. It makes me want to cry.

At a classmate's suggestion, I sent an e-mail to an assistant for the department; it seems she's something of a hub for roommate-seekers. She told me to draft an e-mail and she'd forward it around to the students. Crap, it's really embarrassing having everyone see that I don't have enough friends to find housing. I tried to make my e-mail short - I tried to appear disinterested in the cool loner kind of way - I didn't want to a big deal out of it, but I crossed the line to even send it. I pushed "send" and ran away from the computer. I am not going to check my e-mail until tomorrow morning, maybe then the anxiety will have calmed down, but I hope seeing my begging pleas is not like watching a video tape of yourself when you were ten years younger making an arse of yourself (much in the way I will feel reading these entries in ten years).

Maybe someone will see my e-mail and also be looking for a roommate. We'll find a decent-quality, low rent place, and become best of friends. Life will be beautiful. Or they will see it, read about what a loser I am, and then everyone will know it.

At best I can only hope for pity: "Oh yes, did you see the e-mail? What a pity how far he's fallen..."

I do have a problem asking for help. Maybe this is a baby-step towards getting better about it. It's fairly safe; everyone that reads that e-mail will also be a similarly-broke graduate student. Also it's online, and not an instance where I had to get up, cracking-voice in tow, to open myself up to a large crowd. I get to do it online...sort of like I learned to talk to girls. Hmmm...that didn't prepare me too well...

Rain => Sleep

Empirical Observation: I tend to sleep-in (or oversleep my alarm) on mornings when it's raining; my state of sleep is also deeper.

In fact, if I oversleep my alarm, I can often successfully predict that in fact it is raining outside. This is the usual cause. "Oh, crap, I overslept...well, let's take a look outside the window...and yeah, it's raining." Case in point was this morning. Well, yes, you can't really oversleep on a Sunday, it's sorta the point not to get up early. But it was later than I wanted to get up.

This has been something I've noticed since high school; how many a rainy morning caused a tardy entrance to first period? Of course, in commutation with the rushed start, you're wet walking into school, grumpy because being late you couldn't find a good parking space. It's the start of a sucky day.

Maybe it's all in my head - just a coincidence I mentally invented. Or maybe there is something there. I'll have to poll others regarding this. But there has to be a deeper root cause than just the precipitation itself; it's not like the raindrops ferry tiny sleep pixies to my bedroom. Could it be something to do with the low pressure that accompanies storms? Rainclouds making the mornings darker? Raindrops continuing to soothe me asleep as track number 19 of the easy listening CD selling at Bed Bath and Beyond?

The (New) Seven Wonders of the World

Today is the unveiling of the new seven wonders in the world, which were picked from an Internet vote. I seem to have thought today is when voting closed, when actually it's when the results are announced (7-7-07, get it?). I don't feel too bad that I missed out, because in this much like every other election I ever participated in, I feel that my votes wouldn't matter.

I wonder if we'll see a connection between location of wonders that are chosen and population of the country? Or prevalence of hackers that game the system?

Because everything I learned about history and foreign affairs I learned from Sid Meier's Civilization, I recall that the seven wonders of the Industrial Age are:

1. Apollo Program
2. Cure for Cancer
3. Hoover Dam
4. Manhattan Project
5. SETI Program
6. United Nations
7. Woman's Suffrage

Well, I agree with the Apollo Program and the Manhattan project which were the most important breakthroughs of the 20th century. The cure for cancer never happened, the Hoover Dam is meh, the SETI program is probably a waste of money, the United Nations is a good idea, and Woman's Suffrage is not anything to brag about but actually an inherit conditional for equality that should have always existed, anyway.

Really, this contest is about picking buildings, not concepts (although concepts are scientific achievements are probably more important). What would I have picked? Oh, I dunno...I waited so long anyway because I couldn't make a choice. Um, probably you'd want one of the tallest buildings in the world on it, which will be obsolete as soon at 1,776-foot Freedom Tower is built in Manhattan. I'd want really iconic things, too, like St. Basil's in Moscow or the Taj Mahal. The list will only be up to seven; the 8th Wonder of the World is and forever shall be King Kong.

This posting dedicated to the memory of King Kong (????-1933).

Uniquely Singapore: The Merlion

I chanced upon an enchanting creature like no other...

Burnt

About 24 hours ago I began showing what became the worst sunburn I've had that I can remember. Oh yeah, the pool was a lot of fun, but now I'm seeing repercussions coming down the line. Short-term...I'm feeling fairly uncomfortable in my own skin (har har), and maybe worse, I'll be seeing Becca tonight, and I know that I'm going to get the third degree (har har...as in 3rd degree burn...har har). The reason for her scolding will be what's going to happen long term: higher possibility of skin cancer. When I'm given only six months to live, I'll wish I had just taken the time to put on that sun block.

For more vain reasons, I don't want my skin to make me look twenty years older than I am. I used to be able to get by on my looks. The Mexican lady cashier at Chipotle that had a crush on me used to let me get by with free burritos. I haven't pulled anything like that off since I've moved to Atlanta. :( My youthful beauty is gone; now I am just a sun-dried raisin - nay - a red, sun-dried tomato.

Actually, it might not be that bad. When I was at the Census, I went to the health fair and under a special scanner the guy thought my skin wasn't sun damaged, when my similarly-aged peers got some seriously-toned words. So I at least was doing better than average three years ago, and it's not like I've been hitting the tanning beds since then.

OK, it's not enough to just compare myself to everyone else, and I'd better get serious about this. For my health routine, I've only been concerned about eating right and exercising, but now I'm going to add skin protection as an important habit. OK, I really am serious. I plan on this being the last sunburn I ever get. I bet I can hold that out through this summer, but what will be the challenge is to remember this for next summer. This is why I write these things down...but will I ever read this again?