It's August 14th, 6 months since Valentine's Day...and six months 'til Valentine's Day!
For those of you playing the field, I offer 20 Beauties of the 2008 Beijing Olympics. I'd give them all a gold...oh yeah!!!
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
What's My Age Again?
Sometimes people lie about their age to make themselves older. 16 year-olds lie to get into R-rated movies. 17 year-olds lie about their age to buy cigarettes, 20 year-olds lie about their age to buy liquor, and 13 year-olds say they’re ten years older when they dial phone sex lines. Many of the living world war veterans are only still alive because they lied about their age to go war in the first place. Half of the Chinese women’s gymnastics team is lying about their age to be eligible to compete (I wonder if down the line there will be a Marion Jones-type exposé where the team is stripped of their gold medals when evidence emerges a number of them were too young – youth is the new steroids).
Sometimes people lie about their age to make themselves younger. Usually this is people who don’t want anyone to know how old they are. This doesn’t make much sense to me, because it should all be about appearance – is anyone ever surprised when a morbidly obese person admits they’re 400 lbs? They weren’t hiding any secret by not giving the weight away. You look how you look, and will disclosing one’s age suddenly make others notice wrinkles they wouldn’t have already seen? Perhaps there’s a biasing effect; maybe getting numerical clue does focus one’s observations.
At what age range are you honest? Maybe you’re never always honest, because age is very relative, and you might want to nudge the number as certain way as company changes. Personally, at 27, I feel very old and out-of-touch around teenagers yet young and naïve around middle-aged people.
Sometimes people lie about their age to make themselves younger. Usually this is people who don’t want anyone to know how old they are. This doesn’t make much sense to me, because it should all be about appearance – is anyone ever surprised when a morbidly obese person admits they’re 400 lbs? They weren’t hiding any secret by not giving the weight away. You look how you look, and will disclosing one’s age suddenly make others notice wrinkles they wouldn’t have already seen? Perhaps there’s a biasing effect; maybe getting numerical clue does focus one’s observations.
At what age range are you honest? Maybe you’re never always honest, because age is very relative, and you might want to nudge the number as certain way as company changes. Personally, at 27, I feel very old and out-of-touch around teenagers yet young and naïve around middle-aged people.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Brown and Rotten Banana, Watching the Olympics
Suddenly I feel old watching the Olympics, because most of the competitors are younger than I am. In 1996 I was younger than everybody. In 2000 and 2004 everyone was about my age, but now in 2008 mostly all athletes are younger than me. My heart is heavy thinking how that boat has sailed.
But maybe there is hope for me. As I mentioned, Dara Torres is setting world records at 41 and over the weekend I saw Soviet-born German gymnast Oksana Chusovitina at 33 competing in a sport dominated by 16 year-olds (and would be dominated by even younger girls without recent restrictions imposing 16 as the minimum age for competition). There’s an article about older Olympians in today’s New York Times: “Age Is Little Match for Money, Science and Effort”. The article cites scientists who argue there’s no scientific basis for athletic peaks having to be in the early 20’s; that mundane time constraints such as employment preventing training requisite to be an Olympian limited potential much more than age-related physical deterioration.
I’m aware that I’m evaluating my Olympic potential based on my age rather than my lack of athletic ability. I think the reason for this is that deep down I don’t really care about being in the Olympics; instead, I’m haunted by the feeling that I missed out on many simple aspects of childhood, adolescence, and teenage years. I’m unable to let go of that loss and seeing 19 year-old gold medalists reminds me of my own unhappiness at 19. Sometimes I worry I will sabotage my own children’s emotions, because else the happier they are the more miserable I will be.
I never really cared about sports, but it’s the social connections I felt I never had that naturally seem to accompany athletic aptitude that I think is at the heart of the matter. Because of risks I never took, all I see are the opportunities I missed and I wonder about what might have been if things were different. Although most of the time I’m cripplingly under-confident, there are other times I think could have had, or might have had, much more to ever offer than I got the chance.
I found my muse yesterday, and if I were to write a poem, the metaphor I would use for myself is fruit that went bad on the grocery stand; something ruined and wasted that never had a chance to be tested (or tasted). A banana or mango that was never picked up or overlooked which would have been fresh produce but instead turned to brown rot and was thrown out by grocery clerks, or what would have been mouth-watering baked bread that ran its expiration date out sitting on the shelf.
But maybe there is hope for me. As I mentioned, Dara Torres is setting world records at 41 and over the weekend I saw Soviet-born German gymnast Oksana Chusovitina at 33 competing in a sport dominated by 16 year-olds (and would be dominated by even younger girls without recent restrictions imposing 16 as the minimum age for competition). There’s an article about older Olympians in today’s New York Times: “Age Is Little Match for Money, Science and Effort”. The article cites scientists who argue there’s no scientific basis for athletic peaks having to be in the early 20’s; that mundane time constraints such as employment preventing training requisite to be an Olympian limited potential much more than age-related physical deterioration.
I’m aware that I’m evaluating my Olympic potential based on my age rather than my lack of athletic ability. I think the reason for this is that deep down I don’t really care about being in the Olympics; instead, I’m haunted by the feeling that I missed out on many simple aspects of childhood, adolescence, and teenage years. I’m unable to let go of that loss and seeing 19 year-old gold medalists reminds me of my own unhappiness at 19. Sometimes I worry I will sabotage my own children’s emotions, because else the happier they are the more miserable I will be.
I never really cared about sports, but it’s the social connections I felt I never had that naturally seem to accompany athletic aptitude that I think is at the heart of the matter. Because of risks I never took, all I see are the opportunities I missed and I wonder about what might have been if things were different. Although most of the time I’m cripplingly under-confident, there are other times I think could have had, or might have had, much more to ever offer than I got the chance.
I found my muse yesterday, and if I were to write a poem, the metaphor I would use for myself is fruit that went bad on the grocery stand; something ruined and wasted that never had a chance to be tested (or tasted). A banana or mango that was never picked up or overlooked which would have been fresh produce but instead turned to brown rot and was thrown out by grocery clerks, or what would have been mouth-watering baked bread that ran its expiration date out sitting on the shelf.
Monday, August 11, 2008
National Heros
I think the there's disease of irrational nationalism; countries designate granfalloons only...
- But - I have to admit, I felt the pride swell last night when our boys in Beijing laid the smackdown on a trash-talking Frenchman
Jason Lezak took Alain Bernard to school...
USA!!! USA!!!
- But - I have to admit, I felt the pride swell last night when our boys in Beijing laid the smackdown on a trash-talking Frenchman
Jason Lezak took Alain Bernard to school...
USA!!! USA!!!
Sunday, August 10, 2008
An update (in case you missed me)
I’m back, by the way. Let me update you on the priorities (God, country, family, school, and wrestling):
I found a church close enough to me to attend on Sundays: Our Lady of Lourdes. I had known about it but didn’t think I was welcome (I’m sorta shy and create nonexistent obstacles for myself) because it is an African-American Catholic church – whatever that means – which precludes me. It turns out that I certainly am welcome (it’s the most welcoming parish I’ve ever been to) and if it’s African-American that’s in name only; the priest and probably over 50% of the congregation are white.
Barack Obama is the presumptive democratic candidate for president. Whoever was nominated was probably always going to win, solely by virtue of being a democrat. I like him better than John McCain – so I’ll vote for him – but I like him less than I did in November. I got really jaded and disillusioned during his campaign against Hillary Clinton and continue to become even more apathetic during his adjustments to intended policy in the campaign against McCain. Unfortunately, I am voting for him now more as an alternative than as an ideal. I think he’ll be good for the country, but I’m a little cautious and wary. As I should be – he’s a politician.
My grandmother and (mom’s brother) Uncle Jim have died. My grandmother died just at the end of December, fittingly ending the crappiest year ever. Uncle Jim died unexpectedly of a stroke in April. When my mother was in Maryland for the funeral, my brother stole thousands and thousands from her, then tried to take out a car – a Lexus(!) – in my name. Police were called and he’s fighting a felony, and I still don’t know where that money was used for. Mom is being a mom and wavering on her anger towards her, and he’s mooching off her concern. I won’t trust him again until I learn exactly what was going on; he says it won’t happen again and that I should believe him – that request insults my intelligence.
I found a dissertation topic. It involves health economics, which I randomly fell into and now must learn; but it does also involve urban. If the poor are spatially mismatched from jobs, are they similarly mismatched from consumption opportunities? And what’s the most common consumption trip?...probably grocery shopping. Access to healthy foods as a problem is understood in the public health literature but not examined in economics. I’m also examining broader sprawl-obesity links: my hypothesis is that sprawl increases requisite travel time, reducing leisure time available for exercising or eating healthily.
My one disappointment (and only failed New Year’s Resolution) is that I didn’t sign up for the July 4th 10K. But…it’s never too late. Dara Torres is setting world records when she’s 41, and I won’t be too old at 28 to run for under an hour…
The plan is to keep the posting up for the duration of the Olympics. First post was opening ceremonies, last will be – yes – closing ceremonies.
Enjoy me until the 24th…
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Mausolevm Dentvm
I didn’t make it through the Parade of Nations during last night’s (Olympic) Opening Ceremonies. The dances and fireworks prior to the procession were very cool, but once you’ve seen half the countries you’ve seen the other half. I (correctly) guessed I’d see the torch lighting eight times before I left the apartment this morning, so there was no need to stay up.
Early to bed, early to rise, and being up early enough allowed me the wonders of local news. I’m sure I could find more hick-ish even further out, but prior to the 8 o’clock hour I chanced upon a crusty lady detailing her local shopping experiences with show and tell. She began expounding the cuteness of a baby tooth holder – let me go over this, I’m talking about a baby bone holder! What the body naturally sheds to be worshipped like some relics of a saint?
I think it’s disgusting. Though, I hear parents get excited over their infant’s poop.
But baby teeth bring up unresolved emotional issues for me; I never lost all my teeth – naturally. I was 13 and had only lost the upper-two on top – I had to get four pulled in one session to get braces. If I didn’t look like a beaver with two big front teeth and all baby teeth on top before, I certainly looked like a freakish beaver afterwards with two big front teeth and nothing else. I remember sitting in the cafeteria that next day, probably alone (middle-schoolers are not kind to those with physical “defects”), gumming my pizza.
My real point is that I really got screwed* by the Tooth Fairy. How often friends would shove dollars into my face, bragging about their earnings. Just a dollar is a lot when you’re 10. Comfort that my babies would one day fall out sustained me through those episodes. Instead, I ultimately lost only those few naturally – plus you have to consider the natural losses that I swallowed. Did I look to see if the teeth had come out? {well, I won’t tell…}
*Instead of “screwed” I wanted to say “gypped”, but then reflected on how that would be insensitive to gypsies.
Early to bed, early to rise, and being up early enough allowed me the wonders of local news. I’m sure I could find more hick-ish even further out, but prior to the 8 o’clock hour I chanced upon a crusty lady detailing her local shopping experiences with show and tell. She began expounding the cuteness of a baby tooth holder – let me go over this, I’m talking about a baby bone holder! What the body naturally sheds to be worshipped like some relics of a saint?
I think it’s disgusting. Though, I hear parents get excited over their infant’s poop.
But baby teeth bring up unresolved emotional issues for me; I never lost all my teeth – naturally. I was 13 and had only lost the upper-two on top – I had to get four pulled in one session to get braces. If I didn’t look like a beaver with two big front teeth and all baby teeth on top before, I certainly looked like a freakish beaver afterwards with two big front teeth and nothing else. I remember sitting in the cafeteria that next day, probably alone (middle-schoolers are not kind to those with physical “defects”), gumming my pizza.
My real point is that I really got screwed* by the Tooth Fairy. How often friends would shove dollars into my face, bragging about their earnings. Just a dollar is a lot when you’re 10. Comfort that my babies would one day fall out sustained me through those episodes. Instead, I ultimately lost only those few naturally – plus you have to consider the natural losses that I swallowed. Did I look to see if the teeth had come out? {well, I won’t tell…}
*Instead of “screwed” I wanted to say “gypped”, but then reflected on how that would be insensitive to gypsies.
Friday, August 08, 2008
One World, One Dream
Today – and currently taking place – are opening ceremonies of the 29th Olympiad. For reflection, I offer a cynical Greek’s perspective on athletes’ societal worthiness – from the opening of Isocrates’ Panegyricus:
Many times I have wondered at those who first convokes the national assemblies and established the athletic games, amazed that they should have thought the prowess of human bodies to be deserving of so great bounties, while those who had toiled in private for the public good and trained their own minds so as to be able to help also their fellow humans when the apportioned no reward whatsoever, when, in all reason, they ought rather to have made provision for the latter; for if all the athletes should acquire twice the strength which they now possess, the rest of the world would be no better off; but let a single man attain to wisdom, and all men will reap the benefit who are willing to share his insight. Yet I have no on this account lost heart nor chosen to abate my labors; on the contrary, believing that I shall have a sufficient reward in the approbation which my discourse will itself command, I have come before you to give my counsels…
Sunday, November 25, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, November 23, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
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...
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...
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
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?
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?
Monday, November 19, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
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:
-Your Nephew.
- 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.
- 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.
- 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?
- 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.
-Your Nephew.
Friday, August 31, 2007
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.
Until next time, take care of yourselves, and each other. And remember to have your pets spayed and neutered.
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.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
(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.
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.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
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.
(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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)