Thursday, December 29, 2005

Isn't "Black (insert day of the week here)" supposed to denote catastrophe, chaos, and confusion.

[This post has been a long time coming. And is now, I suppose, a bit belated. But perhaps now--when we all turn a hesitant, noncommittal eye toward the new year and its inevitable resolutions--is as appropriate a time as any for some holiday excoriation.]

My last post--though, granted, it was a while ago--was about Thanksgiving. The novel notion of taking one day out of the year to simply give thanks. For what we have. And even, I suggested, to embrace that which we have but rarely acknowledge.

A national day of thanksgiving. A great idea, I said. And I still think so.

A day on which even the Native Americans got along with the Pilgrims (or so says the national myth). A day on which families come together (for better or for worse). A day that we all look forward to (though most of us just for the food).

A day followed by its indebted opposite: Black Friday.

Black Friday!? Is this the day when the Native Americans came back to slaughter the Pilgrims in their tryptophan-induced stupor? Or (heaven forbid) when the Pilgrims slaughtered the noble savages? Or, more likely yet, when the Native Americans succumbed to the blight of the disease-ridden food served by the Pilgrims?

No. no. no. Black Friday, we are told, is merely the day--traditionally, and however morbidly named--on which retail establishments start to turn a profit for the year. The huge number of sales on the day after Thanksgiving here in the kindly old U.S. of A. finally puts stores into "the black" in their accounting manifests.

Now. As a teacher of literature, I ask my students to look for the arc of a story. To look for change in a character, progress or regress. To consider order (or disorder), why one event follows another. To consider whether it has to.

Thanksgiving. Black Friday. National holiday of offering thanks and remembering what we have. Day off from work to kick off the holiday shopping "season" during which we all spend a month on an old white man's lap (metaphorically or not) spouting off lists of what we want, what we want to upgrade, or what we want two more of.

This season is not marked by changing weather or the gradual (but always seemingly sudden) blossoming of flora. This season is kicked off by gluttony and marked by greed. And often sloth. And always envy. And it ends with either wrath or pride (depending on Santa's whim or your parents' bosses' reluctant generosity). And, no doubt, lust is in there somewhere.

Those Catholics were (are?) on to something. And yet. Wait a second. Isn't this holiday season (a quick nod and a shuffle of the feet to you 'War on Christmas' folks on both sides of that aisle) ostensibly a celebration of Christ? I can't seem to recall the Beatitude that goes, "Blessed are those who get everything they desire year in and year out, for they are just that deserving dammit."

Now. I can smell your knee-jerk, accusatory defensiveness. And yes, the gifts I got a few days ago are nothing to sneer at. And I will enjoy them. And I'm not returning them all and donating the proceeds (though, as Peter Singer's moral compass kicks in, perhaps I should). And I'm not in money trouble by any but the most perverted North Shore-ian stretch of the imagination.

I'm just saying it's ironic. The juxtaposition. And we don't ever notice the irony. A day of thanksgiving. And then a day of getting out of bed at 4:30am to trample people (literally) at the front door of Best Buy to get the last DVD player that's free after instant savings and instant rebates and mail-in rebates and a coupon from the paper before the guy down the street can get there because he can't get out of the house before 5:15am because he has to walk his dog and the dog won't go before 5 o'clock.

It just seems so wrong. Shouldn't the thanksgiving last a month and the gift-buying and -giving last a day? (And maybe be price-capped at a card?)

Practical? Perhaps not. Not with our current "it's-the-thought-that-counts-(but-only-when-I-don't-like-it)" socialized mentality. But it could be.

It should be the thought that counts, really. Still, I always complain when people plant trees for me in Israel because, well, because I think that's stupid. But I wouldn't mind donations made in my name to charities I support in theory or in reality. And that could be done in one day. And it wouldn't have that seven deadly sin thing hanging around its personified neck.

Am I disallowing holiday gifts for me from now on? I'm not sure. Maybe I am. I like gifts. But there are always others more in need.

Perhaps I'll personalize my altruistic utilitarianism, Professor Singer. Perhaps I'll take a cue from my calendar. (11/7) Accept birthday gifts. (11/25) Offer thanks. (12/25) Request donations/gifts for others more in need.

I'll give it some more thought. And I'll let you know.

But the current order of things has to change.

Sunday, November 27, 2005

Thanks for that.

A national day of thanksgiving. Proclaimed as such by the President. Each year. As per tradition.

And each year this nation of ours is--or at least should be--thankful for different things. And, as per a different sort of tradition, each year--from January to November--too many of us do our best to forget to be thankful. We criticize the abundance of chaff (however rightly), and don't stop to recognize the wheat in our midst.

We offer reprobation for slow governmental response to disaster without recognizing the good fortune of having a government that can respond at all. Or of living in a society that expects help from its government, rather than expecting neglect.

We yearn for new national leaders but do little to support local leaders we agree with who may just be the next crop of national leaders.

We complain about the high price of gas without really realizing that we're still able to afford it.

We lament the futility of the "peace process" in the Middle East from the quite-a-bit-more-than-relative safety of water coolers in Morton Grove, IL.

We protest a war without acknowledging the majestic fireworks of our nation's pre-emptive first-strike capable...

Ok...so not that last one. That damned war will be the death of us in one way or another. But the rest of them. I was serious. Too often we criticize without taking time to be thankful.

Thanksgiving. Giving thanks. All at once. In unison. What a concept. It's nice of President Bush to offer us a day to do so.

A national day of peacegiving would be nice too, but...ok...sorry...I'm biting my tongue (or my fingers, as the case may be).

Sunday, November 20, 2005

The revolution will not be televised.

[Disclaimer: "Yesterday" no longer actually refers to yesterday. But it took me a while to figure out where this was headed. But now it looks as though it's here to stay. Oh I believe in...]

Yesterday. My grandfather turned 92. So first: happy birthday, Papa! (Not that you'll ever read this...being 92 and all.)

But moving on.

92 years old. Two years into his tenth decade. Even without the constant clicking of the oxygen tank brazenly announcing the passing of every few seconds, it's enough to get me thinking about time. About time.

He was born in 1913. Born into a world that would erupt--in the first year of his life--into what would come to be known as the First World War (the first of many as it turns out, though only the first of two by name).

Less than a year earlier, the additions of Arizona and New Mexico brought the United States up up to 48 stars on its flag. (Numbers 49 and 50 wouldn't make an appearance for almost 50 more years, until my father was nearing teenager-dom...which is also disconcerting time-wise.)

My grandfather was a teenager during Prohibition and the Roarin' Twenties.

He was in his late twenties when FDR spoke of a day that would live in infamy.

And he was in his late eighties when that sort of language was finally used again. And again. And again. In disingenuous, propagandistic syndication.

He was in his late forties during the Cuban Missile Crisis -- middle-aged when Charles de Gaulle waved away evidentiary photos of missiles in Cuba, saying, "The word of the President of the United States is good enough for me."

Forty-five years later, who would do that today? Who would say that?

He was born with the assembly line; I was born with the personal computer. He was raised amid influenza; I was raised amid AIDS. He was told penicillin would be his life's cure-all; I am told genomics will be mine. He was born ten years after the Wright brothers' first flight; I have already seen the first outer space tourists return from their travels.

He was barely five years old when the following words were heard from the President:

"What we demand in this war...is nothing peculiar to ourselves. It is that the world be made fit and safe to live in; and particularly that it be made safe for every peace-loving nation which, like our own, wishes to live its own life, determine its own institutions, be assured of justice and fair dealing by the other peoples of the world as against force and selfish aggression."

His first President, Woodrow Wilson, set out this "program of the world's peace" while at home he set up the U.S. Committee on Public Information which ordered the Palmer Raids in 1919, he had Eugene V. Debs arrested, he supported the American Protective League, and he pushed the Espionage and Sedition Acts through Congress.

Who would say that today? Who would do that?

He was barely five years old. I am now twenty-three.

92 years. He has seen radios turn to TVs turn to color TVs turn to VCRs turn to DVDs turn to Tivos turn to video iPods.

The Birth of a Nation to Fahrenheit 9/11.

And the more things change.

Thursday, October 13, 2005

Digital audiobooks and other divine gadgetry.

First of all, apologies for what may seem to be shameless plugs throughout this post. But. I don't stand to gain anything from said plugs. So perhaps that takes some of the shame away. Or adds it back in. My cliches are leaving me defenseless -- I hate when that happens.

That said.

First.

I've come across this website called Audible.com that offers digital audiobooks for download. You can stream the files from the internet, listen to them on your computer, transfer them to an iPod, or burn them to cds. Full, unabridged books. Popular books. Fiction, Non-fiction, and everything in between. The service is marketed mostly, much like the books on tape of old, to commuters -- a group I have enthusiastically joined, as it was a requirement of leaving the suburbs. So I'm considering joining up (a proposition made all the more enticing by the free iPod Shuffle offered with a six-month registration). I haven't been able to read much recently--outside of the books I assign for class--and I figure the just under two hours I spend each day driving back and forth to the city could perhaps be better used than they currently are (morning: Howard Stern; afternoon: music).

I foresee only two problems. One: perhaps I need this driving time more than I think I do -- to relax and let my mind wander. In fact, perhaps the fact that I think I might need that time for such reasons means that I definitely do. And two: I'm not sure how I feel about audiobooks. I blame my father for this hesitancy. He has a huge book collection. If I like a book, I like to own it. I love pages. Dust covers. And I don't want to be in a position of feeling obligated (as irrational as it may seem to some of you) to buy a book in hard copy that I've already paid for in digital form. But. Then I think: maybe ethereal pages would be ok for certain books -- especially books my father already owns (a train of thought that comes to its morbid conclusion when, as per his occasional promises, I'll still eventually own the hard copies).

Second.

You can now text message Google. You've been able to do it for a while. Again, like Audible.com, this isn't news in the "new" sense of the word. But I've only recently discovered it. You can use the service for any number of things -- telephone numbers, driving directions, product pricing comparisons, stock quotes. But I've only ever used it for one thing: movie showtimes. So that's all I can speak to. And this is all I'm going to say about it. It's perfect. I can't think of a way to improve it. You text the name of the movie and a zip code, and within a minute or so you get a response with the closest movie theaters showing that movie (including addresses and phone numbers) and their respective showtimes. Simple. Elegant. Google.

Third.

Again, not news. Public bathrooms have become havens of cleanliness in recent years. Ok. Not really. But they're trying. Especially in nice places. Automatically flushing toilets and urinals. Sensor faucets and hand-dryers. And even, most recently, sensor paper towel dispensers. You still have to touch the soap dispensers, but that's ok with me -- because the soap is still clean, and cleaning. And all that is great. But here's the thing. Why do so many doors to so many public bathrooms open in? When they open in, as though this isn't obvious, you have to touch the door with your hands on the way out. After having, presumably, cleaned your hands. And that's where the problem is. Lots of people (mostly men, but women too, as sophomore year and coed bathrooms taught me firsthand, so to speak) don't wash their hands. And then they leave the bathroom -- touching the same door handle I have to touch with my freshly cleansed hands. All I'm saying is. If you can wave your hand and make the sink turn on, why can't we get those automatic doors they have at the supermarket? Or a garbage can behind the door to throw away the paper towel through which I touch the door handle? Or at least--at the very least--have the door open out?

Finally.

God. These last couple days--as I've been sitting at home, since work is closed for Yom Kippur (no work allowed, of any kind)--I've begun to think that people (some people, mind you, not all people) sort of use god as a gadget. An atonement gadget. Once a year. (Note: I'm writing of Jews here, obviously--and again, some Jews, mind you, not all Jews--but much of this is easily adaptable to other major religions.) The synagogues set up extra chairs. They dust off the extra prayer books. They put a person at the door. And they peddle their wares. And what is it they peddle? Atonement. In the name of god. You pay your money, they check your ticket (no ripping, ripping would be work, work isn't allowed), you go up the stairs into the theater straight ahead, you watch the show, and at the end of the night you leave your year's worth of sins with the indentation of your ass in your rented collective confessional chair. Or with the sweat under your chin, where it gathered beneath your hanging head. Or the scuff marks on the floor left behind by your shuffling feet. Buyer's remorse? God has become another gadget you need to buy an update for each year. It's the spiritual equivalent of Windows XP. Each Yom Kippur is a new "security pack." Put out by Bill Gates to stop the hackers of the world. Uh huh. Caveat emptor.

Sunday, September 18, 2005

Peeling potatoes for god's sake.

[Aside: I haven't posted in a couple weeks in part because I wanted to let my last post sit for a while. I wanted it to be my statement to the world for a bit of time. But also, I wasn't sure how to follow it. Not because it was so great or anything, but because of its subject. It seemed too serious to follow with another silly extended observation about Tivo. So, a compromise. I'll jump back into it. But I'll write about something important. Here goes.]

I cut my thumb today. I was peeling potatoes and I went to wipe an errant bit of potato skin from the paring knife. And instead I sliced through the skin of my thumb. The tip. Right on the pad. A vertical cut, as though my thumb were my wrist and I was trying to kill myself.

So. It hurts a little. And it's difficult to get a bandaid to stay on the tip of your thumb. But that's not why this cut is so important.

Its significance lies in the reminder of how important thumbs really are. The opposable kind. Not just the silly fifth-of-five-index-fingers kind, like the hands on the "people" I used to draw in kindergarten. When moving your thumb and pressing it against anything offers you a sharp pain, when you're trying not to get the bandaid on your thumb wet, when you begin to avoid using your thumb on your dominant hand -- you really start to realize how useful the opposable thumb is. Someday, if you think of it, count how many times a day you do something you simply couldn't do (or, at least, not in the way you normally do it) without the ability to grip something tightly in one hand. You'll lose count. I promise. Some of you more quickly than others.

And if and when you do that little experiment (even if it's just a thought experiment), some of you will begin to think the following innocuous little thought: The opposable thumb is an amazing creation.

And then you'll come to a starkly defined fork in the road of logic. The first path is studded with randomly sprouting flora and punctuated by streams snaking back and forth asymmetrically. The second path is guarded by free-floating fiery swords, lit by burning bushes, and passes unceasing through split seas.

Science and religion, folks. Evolution and creationism. Natural selection and intelligent design. More similar than some of you may think (a nod to Blake, and a paper she seemed to always be writing for four years). But, ultimately, different.

Now. I'm not going to run through all the tired arguments. Ok. I am. But quickly.

Yes, the opposable thumb is awesome. That's why it's still around. And that's why it's around on the hands of the dominant species on the planet. The wondrous utility of the opposable thumb is a testament to millenia devoted to weeding out those without them. And the fossil record, along with the so-called living fossil record, offers plenty of evidence in that regard.

Or maybe god sat down (that's a funny image to me), took out a pencil, sharpened it (another funny image), and drew up a schematic for the human hand. And it had five index fingers. He set it down on a cloud and floated around it in a circle (again, funny), considering it from all angles. And he was about ready to go ahead and say, "Let there be hands with five index fingers!" when he had a second thought: How about an opposable thumb? He weighed the various pros against the obvious con of increased masturbation, and decided to go ahead with it. And thus came about the opposable thumb.

Well. Maybe. But there's no fossil record of that (no doubt because god, in his infinite wisdom, threw that original schematic into a burning bush). And like I said above -- it's a series of funny images to me.

But. Here's the main point.

Those of you who see the opposable thumb and exclaim, "Perfection! See! How could that be random!" You're the same sort of people who long ago saw a burning bush and exclaimed, "God is here!" rather than, "Lightning was here!"

And that's great. Whatever. I don't care. You're free to find god in whatever you like. The Bible, the Koran, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (another nod to Blake). I don't care.

But at least have the decency to acknowledge that it's belief.

And it's your belief. Not mine. So don't force it on my kids.

Keep your god in your special schools on Saturdays and Sundays.

During the school week--as I'm constantly telling my students--you need evidence for your arguments.

Sunday, September 04, 2005

The Sound of a Clown Who Cried in the Alley.

Politics is important. The downward cycles of morality, of truth, of integrity, of true patriotism, and of true freedom spiralled fatally out of control this week and descended on the hurricane-ravaged Gulf Coast. Lack of preparedness, negligent planning, insufficient troop strength, communication breakdowns, inability to keep order -- this same dirty laundry we've all heard listed ad nauseum since March of 2003 has finally erupted violently out of our hamper here at home.

What is perhaps most interesting to me intellectually about this disaster is the quickness with which Americans--anonymous individuals, celebrities, journalists, politicians--have begun to criticize our government's response to this disaster. I remember writing, in September of 2001, the following byline for a column I titled "Another Side of a Devastating Coin":

by J_____ B_________ ’04 who has only now begun to be able to go beyond pure feeling and to intellectualize about this tragedy.

I wrote that on 9.19.01. And it wasn't a criticism of the government. It was a column mourning the global community I feared would lose several significant ties in the months to follow. The spirits of patriotism and unity overwhelmed criticism in the weeks immediately following 9/11. But in the wake of Katrina, Americans were beginning to place blame while the winds could still be felt. And no doubt something more could have been done. No doubt too much money was diverted away from the Army Corps of Engineers to support wars and tax cuts. No doubt there was a now-starkly-apparent underlying racism (and classism) that allowed those too poor to evacuate to be forgotten or ignored. No doubt our government failed us this last week.

And eventually we will have to address these monumental government failures. That time is now for some among us. Campaigns to effect changes in the bigger picture are ultimately perhaps even more important than monetary, in-kind, or volunteer contributions to the relief efforts.

But for most of us, the immediate picture won't get much bigger than New Orleans, Biloxi, Gulfport, and now Houston and other cities that have accepted evacuees. And so, for now, we must do what we can.

In 1971 Peter Singer--now Ira W. DeCamp Professor of Bioethics at the University Center for Human Values of Princeton University--wrote an essay, entitled "Famine, Affluence, and Morality" (widely available on the web), in which he set forth the following argument:

"[I]f it is in our power to prevent something very bad from happening, without thereby sacrificing anything morally significant, we ought, morally, to do it. An application of this principle would be as follows: if I am walking past a shallow pond and see a child drowning in it, I ought to wade in and pull the child out. This will mean getting my clothes muddy, but this is insignificant, while the death of the child would presumably be a very bad thing."

It's time we all got our clothes muddy.

If you've read a newspaper, watched cable news, or checked google news in the last six days, you've heard the stories. Young girls raped in the Superdome. Corpses floating down Canal Street. An elderly woman in a wheelchair, draped with a sheet, in the sun, dead. A child screaming until he vomited as he was forced to leave behind his cherished dog. Two New Orleans police officers taking their own lives.

You've seen the airlift rescues and the helicopters dropping bottled water into flooded streets for those now homeless to collect. You've seen local officials breaking down during press conferences. And federal officials, as stoic as possible, providing what information they have.

You've also seen cities and states, schools and universities, individuals and corporations and foreign nations opening their doors and wallets. You've heard people placing blame and people pleading for assistance. You've heard the estimated death toll gradually rise into the thousands.

All manner of people and organizations have offered aid. In a matter of hours a few days ago, I received three emails: one from the iTunes Music Store requesting donations to the Red Cross; one from the Dave Matthews Band about a benefit concert in Colorado; and one from the people at MoveOn.org about the grassroots temporary housing program they're facilitating.

It's time we all got our clothes muddy.

One in five evacuees left their homes without shoes on their feet. People now housed in the Houston Astrodome are wearing pajamas and hospital gowns because they have no clean clothes. Children who have been promised placement in Texas schools will quickly deplete the supplies of those districts. Diabetics are without insulin; asthmatics are without inhalers. Employees are without jobs. Students are without teachers. Parishes are without priests. Children are without parents. And they are all without their homes.

These people need everything.

It's time we all got our clothes muddy.


And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin',
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world,
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin',
Heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin',
Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin',
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter,
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
-Bob Dylan

Saturday, August 27, 2005

(Hot times.) Oprah is a fish. (Summer in the city.)

(I've encountered a blogging dilemma: I have three things to write about, but there's not much of a connection between them. Actually. There's a connection between two of them. But not the third. I've decided to solve this dilemma very simply -- with the elegant use of parentheses. Now. Stop. Don't judge what you can't understand.)

(So the other night, I was making something to eat in the kitchen when I heard, from the street below outside my seventh story window, I heard a noise. A noise that could only be described as a scuffle. A bit of shrieking. A yelp or two. I hear my roommate get up from the couch and walk to the window. "Oh my god," she exclaims, "you've got to come over here. There's girls fighting in the street down there." Not uninterested, but not that interested, I finish what I'm doing and then casually approach the viewing post. The scene: directly below our balcony, but across the street, there are two groups of girls moving in packs eastward down Division. They are yelling at each other, things I can imagine quite clearly, but couldn't actually hear. They are each individually gesticulating quite wildly. But the strangest thing, from my god's-eye vantage point, was the seemingly choreographed staging. The girls periodically lunged at one another -- but not each on their own terms. The groups appeared to lunge, each girl a mere limb of a larger menace. On occasion this ballet would break down and a fist (or an open hand, or a two-handed shove) would breach the approximately two-foot gap regularly separating the groups. This went on for what was probably only about 25 seconds or so. At which point, my roommate (not me, I was watching the show, and waiting for them to break into song) thought aloud, "Maybe we should call the police?" And just then, Officer Krupke showed up and arrested one of the girls, which effectively shut up the rest of them. The show over, I went back to my food. Nothing like dinner theater. A true experience in this cosmopolitan city.)

I'm having this dilemma. I've always had a healthy disdain for Oprah's Book Club -- a disdain nurtured through the early years of contemporary novels-turned-bestsellers, and cultivated into a disgust with the Club's more recent reincarnation as a pusher of classics onto the unsuspecting hordes. In its original form, the Book Club annoyed me because She always seemed to point her all-powerful Midas finger at what appeared (judging by their covers, at least) to be romantic novels focused on strong central heroines -- books that would encourage battered (or bored) wives to leave their husbands and "find themselves." Silliness. And now, my disgust stems from the fact that all these wonderful classics of literature can no longer be found without an obnoxious "Oprah's Book Club" seal on it -- as though the author has posthumously won a Fulitzer Prize (yeah, the F is on purpose...think about it...little more...ok...good...now you get it).

So, most recently, She assigned the world "summer reading" -- three Faulkner novels (which come in a repulsively convenient OBC set now): As I Lay Dying, The Sound and the Fury, and Light In August. Now. Setting aside the fact that these happen to be some of my all-time favorite novels, including at least one top-fiver, that She has branded as the Israel of the summer of 2005 (chosen people and all...get it?). Setting that aside. She has also created a rather disturbing dilemma for me.

To guide the masses through Faulkner's masterful tangles of language, She has set up a website (or, more accurately, her people called some people who did lunch with other people, who paid some other people to set it up). Included on this website are several quite helpful and interesting items. Including: video lectures for each novel from various distinguished professors from various prestigious universities, interactive questions and answers with said professors (and not just short replies, but quite thoughtful responses), character descriptions, glossaries, biographical information on Faulkner...and the list goes on. There is, quite honestly, a wealth of information.

And. To further compound my dilemma. One of the professors featured (for Light in August) is one of my favorite professors from Brown, Professor Arnold Weinstein. This is awesome for two reasons: (1) he's wildly amazing, and I relish the opportunity to read more of his thoughts on literature; and (2) I took his class on Faulkner at Brown--the first time he ever taught it--and we read Light In August, and it's very cool to see lectures on the web that pretty clearly grew out of lectures I experienced in person (you know, cool in the "I knew him way back when..." kind of way).

Finally. Necessary background information. Last spring I taught As I Lay Dying to my junior English class. And this coming spring I will teach it again.

So now you understand my dilemma. You don't? Well, you should, but I'll spell it out. I really really want to use some of the resources on this website for my class. But it's Oprah's! Can I? Do I dare? Am I selling out? (A question that implies its own answer, and my already-made decision on the dilemma at hand.)

A good friend, when I accepted my current job over a year ago, suggested that I was selling out. My thoughts on religion. To Judaism. For money. I agreed.

So. If Adonai, for cash. Why not Oprah, for the education of my students. Seems fair.

(As my "life in the big city" bookend, I wanted to mention the following. Today, on a relatively innocuous trip to Osco for Polysporin and de-wrinkle laundry spray, I passed an equally innocuous Dunkin' Donuts. I paused for a red light outside said Dunkin' Donuts, and during this respite from walking I was approached by a shuffling man in a White Sox hat. He hadn't been speaking to anyone else, and after he said his bit to me, he went back to the wall of the Dunkin' Donuts, still without talking to anyone else. Meanwhile, there were plenty of people walking by, and plenty of people waiting with me for the light to change. Plenty of people, I should add, who were much the same age as me and with much the same look as I offer to the world. This is what he said to me, and only to me: "Hey man...want some weed? I got some good weed." To which I replied: "No thanks."

Now. I've been told by several people that there is nothing about me that proclaims: HE SMOKES WEED. And I've believed them -- not without a little sadness, I'll be honest, as I harbor a certain romanticism in my heart for hippies. So I ask you. All of you. And please comment. Was this just a random occurrence? Or is there something about me after all -- something that whispers some coded language leftover from the 1960s and adapted to this new millenium? I ask you.)

Sunday, August 21, 2005

Update: Perhaps this is the year.

Going to that party with the colleagues after all.

But I'm bringing a book, god dammit.

Inside a dog, it's too dark to read.

First of all, a special prize to anyone who knows the first line that completes the quotation I've used for my witty quip of a post title. And an extra special something to anyone who knows where I first came across this lovely little witticism.

Now then. This post should be read in conjunction with the previous post about Tivo. (Actually, you really should be reading all of them in order. I know it's a complicated scroll-bar process, but it's worth it. Trust me.) Because I ended that post saying that while I should have been reading, I was clearly going to watch the Gilmore Girls. (By the way -- interestingly, to me at least, the aspect of this blog that has gotten the most attention has by far been the references to the Gilmore Girls.) That statement, though true, was -- unbeknownst to you all, which isn't your fault, but mine -- slightly ironic. Because over the last few weeks I have gradually rediscovered my love for reading. I have been able, on several occasions during these weeks, to sit down and read for several hours at a time -- something my relatively-addled mind has prohibited for quite some time. And all without the added comfort of Adderall! (Disclaimer: I've never actually used Adderall or other such drugs, though I have considered it, and at times it has been suggested -- not by anyone with letters after their name though.)

I've rediscovered the worlds you can enter through the pages of a book! I've even found myself thinking, while watching -- on separate occasions -- tv and a movie (in a theater, no less!), and I quote, "Books are so much better than this." Books! Better than movies! Just imagine. If you can. All the people. Living for today! Now. You may say I'm a dreamer. But I'm not the only one! People are still reading! (Mostly self-help books, books for Dummies and Idiots, and the latest installment of "when will the little wizard get body hair in new places?" -- but still!) And I have re-entered this brotherhood of man. And I hope someday you'll join us.

Now. While this may not seem earth-shattering to you -- the huddled masses avoiding the storms of your lives beneath the rain-soaked pages of my humble blog -- there's another layer of this onion yet to be peeled away. The reading I have been so diligently set upon completing has been (drumroll?)...for work! Now then. Talk about earth-shattering! This revelation may mark a new epoch of light in an otherwise procrastination-darkened worldview. Perhaps this will be the year that I don't fall behind in my work. (Or at least not more than most people.) Perhaps this will be the year that work comes first. (Or at least close to the top of the list.) Perhaps this is the year.

I gotta say. It would be most excellent timing. What with work. And applying to school. And then school. And such.

Perhaps this is the year.

And with that, I'm going to go read. To avoid going to a school year kickoff party with colleagues that I really don't feel like attending. It doesn't start till Tuesday. You can't cheat and start it on Sunday just because it's a party. That's not fair. Give me a break. I've got reading to do.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

Too weak for Tivo.

Tivo should be a life-altering acquisition (ok, so I don't have Tivo...I have a DVR from Comcast...but DVR is an awful all-purpose word, whereas Tivo makes a wonderful noun and verb). Anyway. Life-altering, Tivo should be. Because it should free us from the schedules set up for us by corporate executives at the "Big 4" networks (FOX gets included now, right? I think so...though I'm not positive it gets caps-locked -- another good verb). Because now we can watch whatever we want whenever we want with just a few simple clicks on a remote control. And yes, all you naysayers out there will say, "But you could always do that. Ever heard of a VCR? Welcome to...whenever the hell VCRs came out."

Ok. First of all. VCR -- much like DVR -- makes an awful verb. Should have seen the demise of that machine from the beginning. Interesting sidenote: Beta -- much like Tivo -- would have made a much better all-purpose word. So perhaps Tivo will indeed, as the pundits and such have been saying for a year or two now, go the way of the dodo bird. If so, I only hope the name for the ill-fated machine remains in the common lexicon this time. Anyway.

Second. None of you people ever actually regularly recorded a tv show using a VCR. The only person I've ever known to do this consistently is my sister, who has stacks of video tapes somewhere that house a decade's worth of General Hospital. (Sorry if this outs you to anyone, sis.) Each morning before school she diligently made sure the tape was cued to the proper place and the program timer was set (two minutes before the scheduled start and two minutes after, to account for any errors in the tv's internal clock, and SLP mode, to allow for the least tape-consuming and shittiest recording possible -- fitting, actually, for this particular program).

Anyway. None of you ever did that. Only her. And even if you did, you know what a huge hassle it was. Tivo frees you from all that, sis. And to the rest of you, you can now avoid both the corporate programmers' schedules and the pain of forgetting to record the final episode of Friends where everyone realizes that Joey cannot possibly have actually gotten stupider over the course of ten years and they all sit down and cry because their crappy primetime paycheck has come to an overdue end. Who would want to miss that? Now you don't have to! Tivo to the rescue! With its wildly amazing "create a series recording" feature.

That, and the ability to pause and rewind and rewatch Janet Jackson's star-gilded right breast as many times as your nasty little heart desires.

It should be life-altering. In a good way. Freedom. Self-programming. What you want when you want it.

But in my experience, it's been more like: more than I've ever wanted, all the time. No. Wait. That still sounds good. Try again: a repulsive amount of crappy tv that I've never before felt compelled to watch and now can't seem to stop watching...like heroin after you've decided you want to quit, but can't quite bring yourself to get off the couch, undo that dirty yellow hose (why are these things always that dirty yellow color?) from your bicep, and walk down to the local methodone clinic. Yeah. That's more like it. They've made it too easy. I'm weak. My will to work cannot sustain itself in the face of this monster.

I should go read. But the Gilmore Girls are calling to me from 4pm yesterday. I could watch them whenever I want. But I will watch them now. As it records today's episode. So I don't fall behind.

Monday, August 15, 2005

New Study: Being poor sucks.

So I know I posted during the wee hours of this morning. But. I saw this and it sort of fit sort of a little sort of with the wee-hours post. So. An addendum. Here goes.

A study out of Pennsylvania State University (a study that spanned three decades and 20,000 people) has "discovered" that wealth does in fact make people happy. But not just wealth. Amassing more of it than your friends. That's apparently the key.

First of all. Duh. We should fund a study to "discover" whether pot-smokers giggle more often than sober people.

Secondly. Professor Glenn Firebaugh (sociologist at Penn State) and Laura Tach (graduate student at Harvard) also suggest that one strategy for attaining greater happiness -- rather than continually increasing your income -- would be to "hang out" with poor people. Yes. That's right. No. I'm not kidding. Poorer friends. That's what they suggest.

Apparently it's not so much about keeping up with the Joneses. It's about finding less well-off Joneses to begin with.

Maybe this whole "war on poverty" thing is misguided. What we should really have is a buddy program. Instead of "big brothers" we could have "rich brothers." At least half of us would be happy. We've made the rich richer for 6 years. Now let's introduce them to the poor people and make them happier too.

Again. All I'm saying is. There's toads invading Montana, guys. And storms move across this country from West to East.

Apocalypse this.

For the last year and a half or so, every couple of months I suddenly remember that CNN.com has an Odd News section. It's great. I recommend checking it out. But anyway. I've actually developed a fun little self-contained two or three day lesson (for a high school English class...the older the better) out of this news section and a book by Thomas Bernhard called The Voice Imitator. It's a creative writing lesson, writing short shorts -- helps kids discover rhetorical devices via imitation of Bernhard's style.

Anyway.

All that is to say: these are some news stories I've come across recently that are disturbing for various reasons.

Bill Capell (52 years old) is a retired grocery store clerk from California. He gets a call early one morning. The voice on the other end (a strange phrase that doesn't really make much sense when you think about it, unless we're talking about those things no one ever really used as a kid with the two cans connected by a long piece of string, but still a phrase I think in common usage) identifies itself as that of a British reporter. This reporter's voice informs Bill Capell that one of his cousins has passed away. Bill goes back to sleep. But should Bill get a similar phone call sometime in the near future (god forbid, if you believe in that sort of thing, Bill), Bill will suddenly be the Right Honorable Lord William Capell, the 12th Earl of Essex. Now that's no duke-dom or marquess-ship, but it's nothing to shake a stick at either, you might say (if, you know, the younguns refer to you as Gramps). Two catches (three if you count the fact that yet another cousin -- the newly-named 11th Essexian Earl -- would have to die for this to occur): (1) there's no money or estate involved, just the title and some symbolic honors; and (2) in order to become Lord William, Bill would have to give up his American citizenship (a powerful testament to the power of words, I should think). Which, of course, immediately brings to mind the following question: where does a grocery store clerk get off retiring at 52? That must be one hell of a retirement plan, Mr. Earl-in-Waiting.
.....
The Harry Potter series of books is apparently quite popular among the 510 prisoners (apologies: detainees) being held by the U.S. at Guantanamo Bay. Several of the detainees (in searching through my mind for an alternate term, I came up with "roommate," which made me think a Real World Gitmo can't be far off) have read the series, and at least one has requested the movies. The 1200-volume Gitmo library, however, does not have the fifth or sixth book in the series (two additions that would no doubt help pass the time three years after having been picked to live in a cellblock, and have their mouths taped). Now, if you;ve been in a bookstore at any point during the last few years, you probably know how I feel about the world-sweeping Harry Potter craze. So it won't surprise some of you that I consider housing these piggy-bank destroying tomes in the prison library an offense that should be on a watch-list somewhere as a form of torture. But. With a less rabble-rousing sentiment, I wonder whether one might be able to garner heretofore withheld information from said Potter-addicts by dangling the Half-Blood Prince in front of them. I also wonder which would have outraged the American public more: (1) a new revelation about unspeakably un-American torture occurring in an U.S. internment camp; or (2) news that Book 6 had been offered to Gitmo detainees prior to the midnight release date last month.
.....
Not that this necessarily follows from either or both of the previous posts (post hoc ergo propter hoc, it's hardly ever true...my fellow West Wing'ers know what I'm sayin). But hardly ever ain't never, you know what I'm sayin? So here it is. Judge for yourselves. Thousands of tiny toads have invaded a small farming community in north-central Montana. There are so many of the toads on the ground that it is difficult at times to walk without stepping on them. So many that some lawns look as though the grass is moving and pulsating. So many that one resident offered the colorful comment that driving is a bit tough because the roads are slick and sticky -- because of what must be thousands of tiny smashed toad bodies that people have been unable to avoid running over with their SUVs. Now. I'm not saying that life is imitating art here (specifically, Magnolia). And I'm not saying that the (or any) apocalypse is coming.

I'm just saying a retired grocery store clerk might soon be in the line of succession for the British throne.
And so-called terror detainees can't wait to find out how Dumbledore dies.

Sunday, August 14, 2005

A shaky beginning.

So my initial post (from several months ago), which was essentially a list of paradoxes, now becomes something less (one thing less, actually). No longer will the first post be the last. A shame, that is. Such a pleasant biblical phrase I, in turn, stole from Dylan.

So.

The sun is streaming through the big picture windows in my living room right now. The soft light turning the eggshell-white walls golden makes me feel as though this moment has been designated as a new beginning. It's also reminding me of the $230 energy bill my roommate opened this morning. It's also apparently freaking out the spider that's been dangling from a thread (literally...how weird) outside the window for about 4 days now. I would knock it down to its seven story plunge of a death (I have no moral compunctions about killing spiders, sorry folks), but I can't reach it from the terrace. And I've sort of become a bit attached to it. Now that the sunlight is freaking it out it has begun to shake back and forth and creep along the glass at a rather incredible speed. I've just now decided to name it Shakes -- like the guy in that movie Sleepers...love that movie. But don't get me wrong, I'd still kill Shakes if I could -- my hypocrisy only goes so far.

Anyway.

I was saying. A new beginning. I think this might be one. I hope so. I need one. Start afresh (I never know if that's a word or not, but I like it). Need to figure out where my life is heading. What my future will look like. More on that later. For now, I think I'll read a book. A literal beginning. If not new, as NBC (I think) used to point out in the summer, at least new to me. And that will have to be enough for now.

May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift.
-Bob Dylan

Sunday, February 06, 2005

The last shall be first.

So this is my first post. It seems fitting that I explain why I set this up. I've recently begun to find other people's blogs interesting, so I decided (gradually) that I'd like to have one of my own. It never occurred to me until just now, however, that there's an inherent paradox involved in blogging. At least in my case. The things I most want to write about, the things I most want people to read, I can't write down in public. Because then those things will be read by everyone, including people that shouldn't read them. Except those people are really the only people that would be interested in reading a blog of mine. And they're also (some of them) the people who supposedly know everything about me. But clearly don't. So really there's apparently more like 3 paradoxes inherent to blogging. At least in my case.
Scratch that. Four: This will, in all likelihood, be my final post.