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.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
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:
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
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:
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....
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....
Monday, July 23, 2007
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:
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.
"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.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
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'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.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
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...
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...
Friday, July 20, 2007
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?
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?
Thursday, July 19, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, July 16, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, July 13, 2007
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?
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?
Thursday, July 12, 2007
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!
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!
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
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:
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?
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?
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, July 09, 2007
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...
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...
Sunday, July 08, 2007
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?
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?
Saturday, July 07, 2007
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:
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).
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:
- Apollo Program
- Cure for Cancer
- Hoover Dam
- Manhattan Project
- SETI Program
- United Nations
- Woman's Suffrage
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).
Friday, July 06, 2007
Thursday, July 05, 2007
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?
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?
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Cynical On July 4th
On today, the 231st anniversary of the founding of our country, I am filled with cynicism.
In a blatant display of cronyism, President Bush recently commuted jail time for former Vice Presidential Aide Scooter Libby, a perjurer convicted by a jury of his peers. The president's approval ratings are presently so low that he probably figured it didn't matter anymore, so just help out this friend of a friend, or more likely he didn't even care what the general public thought. By the way, when Bill Clinton gave out his pardons, I thought it was equally sleazy. If the government really wants to be serious reducing corruption, the pardon power needs to have some checks attached, because it is clear to me the pardons are not used for justice but rather to help out friends, in most unjust ways.
However, filling me with a deeper cynicism today are memories of the the original Transformers movie, on my mind because the new one opens today.
It's hard to not be cynical when your childhood hero was killed off in an effort to promote new merchandise. Optimus Prime, Ironhide, Prowl, and many more, all victims of the pursuit of profit. What does it matter if you break a 5-year old's heart? You use your two-hour commercial to introduce new characters that will become new toys. I grew up fast in 1986.
John Swansburg wrote a piece in Slate, entitled "Why the original Transformers movie is better than the new one", and alt Here in an excerpt:
I think of the boardroom meeting that must have went down with the idea to kill off a bunch of characters, and I want to spit. Presidential pardons really don't affect my life; at most I'll scream at the TV. But at the time of the original Transformers movie, I really loved those Autobots, and it's disgusting that the Hasbro executives did not give two shits about me or my friends. I truly believe this is one of the purest forms of corporate greed: causing millions of children tears just to make more money. The powers that be didn't care about the general public, either. They probably never saw the crying or probably never thought about it. I'll never forget that.
Finally, as I think every year, "thank you" to the people of Morocco for being the first nation to recognize the independence of the United States.
In a blatant display of cronyism, President Bush recently commuted jail time for former Vice Presidential Aide Scooter Libby, a perjurer convicted by a jury of his peers. The president's approval ratings are presently so low that he probably figured it didn't matter anymore, so just help out this friend of a friend, or more likely he didn't even care what the general public thought. By the way, when Bill Clinton gave out his pardons, I thought it was equally sleazy. If the government really wants to be serious reducing corruption, the pardon power needs to have some checks attached, because it is clear to me the pardons are not used for justice but rather to help out friends, in most unjust ways.
However, filling me with a deeper cynicism today are memories of the the original Transformers movie, on my mind because the new one opens today.
It's hard to not be cynical when your childhood hero was killed off in an effort to promote new merchandise. Optimus Prime, Ironhide, Prowl, and many more, all victims of the pursuit of profit. What does it matter if you break a 5-year old's heart? You use your two-hour commercial to introduce new characters that will become new toys. I grew up fast in 1986.
John Swansburg wrote a piece in Slate, entitled "Why the original Transformers movie is better than the new one", and alt Here in an excerpt:
To use a phrase I learned the day I saw Transformers, "Oh Shit!" No one ever died in these shows. Even in G.I. Joe, a cartoon about a special U.S. Army strike force, no Rattler was ever shot down without the pilot first safely ejecting. But in the Transformers movie, the death toll was jaw-dropping. More than a dozen marquee characters are dispatched in the film, among them one of my personal favorites, Starscream, the Decepticon malcontent always scheming to relieve Megatron of his command.
Of course, all of this bloodshed had a specific purpose—to move toys. In the commentary track on the 20th-anniversary edition of the movie, Flint Dille, one of the writers, explains he was instructed to eliminate much of the existing product line to make room for the new characters Hasbro was planning to sell me. I already owned Optimus Prime, after all.
As a 9-year-old, it hardly occurred to me that this robot bloodbath was a marketing ploy. It just blew me away. Witnessing death on that scale was shocking to a sensibility that had been nurtured on white-knuckled but always successful repair operations by the trusty Autobot mechanic-medic, Rachet.
I think of the boardroom meeting that must have went down with the idea to kill off a bunch of characters, and I want to spit. Presidential pardons really don't affect my life; at most I'll scream at the TV. But at the time of the original Transformers movie, I really loved those Autobots, and it's disgusting that the Hasbro executives did not give two shits about me or my friends. I truly believe this is one of the purest forms of corporate greed: causing millions of children tears just to make more money. The powers that be didn't care about the general public, either. They probably never saw the crying or probably never thought about it. I'll never forget that.
Finally, as I think every year, "thank you" to the people of Morocco for being the first nation to recognize the independence of the United States.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Heat of the Moment
I had written a couple times previously last week about a girl I'd met. Well, that's been dead for a week now. I blew it. Well, also, she blew it. We blew it. It got blown.
The night of "Ye olde fight that blewe It", I started drafting an e-mail...that was a week ago, and I haven't touched it since, and thought maybe I could post whatever I had written as a heart-pouring letter that would never be read, sort of like the jilted ex-lover throwing a message in a bottle out to sea. I opened the draft this morning (a virtual time-capsule of my feelings) and...holy %&#@!!!!! It's really graphic. And personal. And often comes across as pathetic. If I posted it I'd have to restrict access to this website and hit myself on the head so even I forgot the password.
Basically it was a lot of "yada yada yada...so you're used to something 'different'?...yada yada yada...call me clueless, but...yada yada yada...you don't know what the word 'explicit' means...yada yada yada...I hope it's not weird now...yada yada yada...you talk too much about ex-boyfriend...". Etc., etc., or as she spelled it ect, ect. She often liked to pat herself on the back for being so blunt, yet it was only gentlemanly restraint that kept me from writing "E-T-C...it's three fuckin' letters, it that too hard to get right?", even before the fight.
Clearly, it was weird now.
I'm not the smoothest guy, and the beauty of e-mail in talking to girls is that there's no pressure to think on your feet (not my forte). E-mail allows one to craft, compose, revise....and as apparently can be best, never hit the send button.
The night of "Ye olde fight that blewe It", I started drafting an e-mail...that was a week ago, and I haven't touched it since, and thought maybe I could post whatever I had written as a heart-pouring letter that would never be read, sort of like the jilted ex-lover throwing a message in a bottle out to sea. I opened the draft this morning (a virtual time-capsule of my feelings) and...holy %&#@!!!!! It's really graphic. And personal. And often comes across as pathetic. If I posted it I'd have to restrict access to this website and hit myself on the head so even I forgot the password.
Basically it was a lot of "yada yada yada...so you're used to something 'different'?...yada yada yada...call me clueless, but...yada yada yada...you don't know what the word 'explicit' means...yada yada yada...I hope it's not weird now...yada yada yada...you talk too much about ex-boyfriend...". Etc., etc., or as she spelled it ect, ect. She often liked to pat herself on the back for being so blunt, yet it was only gentlemanly restraint that kept me from writing "E-T-C...it's three fuckin' letters, it that too hard to get right?", even before the fight.
Clearly, it was weird now.
I'm not the smoothest guy, and the beauty of e-mail in talking to girls is that there's no pressure to think on your feet (not my forte). E-mail allows one to craft, compose, revise....and as apparently can be best, never hit the send button.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Francis Bacon on Philosophers
He wrote:
Would the same be true for economists? The "imaginary laws" phrase is what struck me particularly. I've learned it's increasingly important to keep our heads on the ground and not lose touch with reality.
Philosophers make imaginary laws for imaginary commonwealths, and their
discourses are as the stars, which give little light because they are so high.
Would the same be true for economists? The "imaginary laws" phrase is what struck me particularly. I've learned it's increasingly important to keep our heads on the ground and not lose touch with reality.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Let Our Powers Combine...
Earth!...Fire!...Wind!...Water!...Heart!...
What was disheartening for me about Captain Planet and the Planeteers was that the creators oversimplified the problems by displaying exaggerations of cartoonish super-villainy: "I've created a machine the chops down the Amazon rainforest and turns the trees into toxic waste...mwuhahahahahahahaha!!!...." So it teaches kids that the planet would be safe if only a blue-skinned, green-mulleted depiction of what a committee lamely decided "cool" would look like showed up and used his Superman-breath (or whatever).
Much better (and accurately more morally complex) would be if you turned on the for 30 minutes the cartoon was just a headshot of Captain Planet's head, saying "Hey kids at home...your watching TV right now is contributing to the planet's ill-health. You're burning fossil fuels. Want to make a difference? Turn the the TV off. Go outside. Now. Turn the TV off. Turn it off. Go outside. Turn it off....."
What was disheartening for me about Captain Planet and the Planeteers was that the creators oversimplified the problems by displaying exaggerations of cartoonish super-villainy: "I've created a machine the chops down the Amazon rainforest and turns the trees into toxic waste...mwuhahahahahahahaha!!!...." So it teaches kids that the planet would be safe if only a blue-skinned, green-mulleted depiction of what a committee lamely decided "cool" would look like showed up and used his Superman-breath (or whatever).
Much better (and accurately more morally complex) would be if you turned on the for 30 minutes the cartoon was just a headshot of Captain Planet's head, saying "Hey kids at home...your watching TV right now is contributing to the planet's ill-health. You're burning fossil fuels. Want to make a difference? Turn the the TV off. Go outside. Now. Turn the TV off. Turn it off. Go outside. Turn it off....."
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