Sometimes, what we don't talk about is just as important, if not moreso, than what we do say. I found out that my aunt's cancer has (surprise surprise) made yet another return visit. What was surprising is that I didn't find out from her. She has always been open and honest about her breast cancer. For her to refrain from speaking about it means, well. You tell me what it means if someone suddenly won't talk about something they've always been willing to talk about.
She has lived with this for over ten years now. In a perverse way, at this point, she is like Schrödinger's cat at this point, both alive and dead, at least to me. I've had over ten years to prepare for her passing, and it's still not enough. At the same time, I don't prepare because, well, she's still alive. This superposition of states, this gentle reminder of the fragility and preciousness of life, this questioning, all of it because her body betrays her, as science attempts to sustain her.
I cannot now recall ever asking her about her cancer. I know that we must have. I know that we must have. Strangely, I just remember the good conversations. Not the words themselves, but just the general feeling of happiness. In a way, that's what we never talked about, if I don't remember. What does that say, my selective recall, about what I will and won't say?
As I think about it, this is how I've come to remember people. The ones that I love, I recall nothing but the good times (for the most part. My parents are special, and I recall a lot of the good and bad, but I still love them. I think). The ones that I can't stand, I recall nothing but the negative conversations. It's as if what I cannot recall never happened, went unsaid. What does that silence, what I can't or won't recall saying, tell you?
Monday, November 26, 2007
Emotional Disconnect
I swear, I wasn't always this angry and bitter. There was a period of time in my life when I was still innocent and child-like, probably when I was innocent and child-like. I don't know what the hell happened.
I sort of know. My theory about bitter people, and I can't prove it, is that they just cared too much about something which then betrayed them, leading to them hiding away their heart. The first example I thought of was Captain Mal Reynolds from Firefly. In the pilot episode, during wartime, you see him praying and kissing a crucifix about his neck, asking for salvation. Soon thereafter, the enemy carpet-bombs the area, and he just watches those ships fly by. This results in the captain we see for the rest of the series. And he's not entirely bitter, but he's definitely very pragmatic, very distrusting of religion, and beyond his crew, wary of everything.
My dad is fairly angry, but the Chinese government tried to kill him and his family when he was young. He was raised by his older sister. He endured a divorce. There are more details I won't go into. I never knew my dad as a kid (how could I?), but I'd like to imagine he was happier then, at least before the Chinese government came a-knockin'.
As for me, organized religion betrayed me, stabbed me from behind. People, to a lesser extent, have done the same, time and again. There is a pattern that takes shape. I need to break that pattern, and stop trusting, stop believing.
I am convinced these days that emotion is a weakness, a crutch that we rely on only because evolution has instilled emotion in us. And it's good, like the things that help, hate the things that do not. Keeps you alive when you need to survive. Now, technology has supplanted evolution re: the betterment of humanity. We do not need these emotions. And there are many days where I wish to the blue sky that something could take away these emotions, leave me a soulless automaton that wouldn't give a shit.
No, I don't entirely believe that. I just wish for impossible things.
I sort of know. My theory about bitter people, and I can't prove it, is that they just cared too much about something which then betrayed them, leading to them hiding away their heart. The first example I thought of was Captain Mal Reynolds from Firefly. In the pilot episode, during wartime, you see him praying and kissing a crucifix about his neck, asking for salvation. Soon thereafter, the enemy carpet-bombs the area, and he just watches those ships fly by. This results in the captain we see for the rest of the series. And he's not entirely bitter, but he's definitely very pragmatic, very distrusting of religion, and beyond his crew, wary of everything.
My dad is fairly angry, but the Chinese government tried to kill him and his family when he was young. He was raised by his older sister. He endured a divorce. There are more details I won't go into. I never knew my dad as a kid (how could I?), but I'd like to imagine he was happier then, at least before the Chinese government came a-knockin'.
As for me, organized religion betrayed me, stabbed me from behind. People, to a lesser extent, have done the same, time and again. There is a pattern that takes shape. I need to break that pattern, and stop trusting, stop believing.
I am convinced these days that emotion is a weakness, a crutch that we rely on only because evolution has instilled emotion in us. And it's good, like the things that help, hate the things that do not. Keeps you alive when you need to survive. Now, technology has supplanted evolution re: the betterment of humanity. We do not need these emotions. And there are many days where I wish to the blue sky that something could take away these emotions, leave me a soulless automaton that wouldn't give a shit.
No, I don't entirely believe that. I just wish for impossible things.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
False World
A gracious offer has been extended (and re-extended) to me to rejoin World of Warcraft. Yes, I'd likely start from scratch, though if possible, I'd name the avatar based on my naming convention: P-c. Hence, my main character, a human priest named Prismatic, and my main alternate, a night elf druid named Paramedic. Hell, I'd probably start a night elf druid named Polychromatic, or a hunter of some race named Paraplegic.
And no, this post is not an acceptance of said offer, but just a talking through of it.
The genius in World of Warcraft lies in two things: The quick, early returns, and the perseverance of the world and the game. When you start out, you get so many cool trinkets and skills so quickly, it keeps you coming back for more. Only problem, it gets harder and harder to get these trinkets and skills the longer you play, but you want that high. It really is like crack cocaine. The other thing is that since there's no end, you cannot beat the game. Those obsessive-compulsives needing to beat a game to stop playing will never stop playing this. There is always theoretically new content to digest.
Now, I respond to returns for my effort a little too much, and I absolutely must beat a game once I start. This would tend to bode unwell for the entirety of my life were I to delve back into it. One of the reasons why I quit in the first place was because it was becoming my life. Another was that it was an unhealthy escape, but I'd like to think I resolved the situation I was escaping from.
On the other hand, there is the allure of playing with people I knew, as I did before. Hell, I actually met someone in real life through World of Warcraft, and he turned out not to be a complete jackass (my greatest fear for meeting people through the internet. You clothe yourself in distance, anonymity, the perfect phrase, the perfect picture, perfection which is you, just through an imperfect prism reflecting all the best and filtering all the worst. I do it all the time). Presumably, I'd be playing with a goodly amount of people that I know, and there would be enough to avoid the anonymous jackasses.
Still, I have things to do in my life, goals to achieve, and a waxing/waning addiction to Halo 3 that is not helping matters. I sort of need to stop playing Halo 3 also, but that's another story for another day.
What makes it difficult is that I would still be escaping my life, because it's not perfect. Granted, it's a lot better than it could be; this fact I am cognizant of every time I drive to work and look inside the cars of others, look at the cars of others, when I stop at McDonald's for a greasy breakfast, when I pass a car wreck that caused me a minor discomfort, but probably changed several lives for the worse. These things I know. Yet, there is so much more that I want out of life, and am not entirely sure how to go about getting these things. A sense of fulfillment, a life partner, a published novel. Well, I know how to at least get the novel, but getting published is another matter entirely.
There is only so much time, and I waste so much of it in any given day. If I were to play World of Warcraft, well. It is fun, no doubt. Never question that. Sucks you in and never lets you go. Same time, it becomes a grind. It isn't that I want to snub people in saying I don't want to play. On the contrary, I wish I could play. I just don't know if I can handle all of the consequences of that choice.
And no, this post is not an acceptance of said offer, but just a talking through of it.
The genius in World of Warcraft lies in two things: The quick, early returns, and the perseverance of the world and the game. When you start out, you get so many cool trinkets and skills so quickly, it keeps you coming back for more. Only problem, it gets harder and harder to get these trinkets and skills the longer you play, but you want that high. It really is like crack cocaine. The other thing is that since there's no end, you cannot beat the game. Those obsessive-compulsives needing to beat a game to stop playing will never stop playing this. There is always theoretically new content to digest.
Now, I respond to returns for my effort a little too much, and I absolutely must beat a game once I start. This would tend to bode unwell for the entirety of my life were I to delve back into it. One of the reasons why I quit in the first place was because it was becoming my life. Another was that it was an unhealthy escape, but I'd like to think I resolved the situation I was escaping from.
On the other hand, there is the allure of playing with people I knew, as I did before. Hell, I actually met someone in real life through World of Warcraft, and he turned out not to be a complete jackass (my greatest fear for meeting people through the internet. You clothe yourself in distance, anonymity, the perfect phrase, the perfect picture, perfection which is you, just through an imperfect prism reflecting all the best and filtering all the worst. I do it all the time). Presumably, I'd be playing with a goodly amount of people that I know, and there would be enough to avoid the anonymous jackasses.
Still, I have things to do in my life, goals to achieve, and a waxing/waning addiction to Halo 3 that is not helping matters. I sort of need to stop playing Halo 3 also, but that's another story for another day.
What makes it difficult is that I would still be escaping my life, because it's not perfect. Granted, it's a lot better than it could be; this fact I am cognizant of every time I drive to work and look inside the cars of others, look at the cars of others, when I stop at McDonald's for a greasy breakfast, when I pass a car wreck that caused me a minor discomfort, but probably changed several lives for the worse. These things I know. Yet, there is so much more that I want out of life, and am not entirely sure how to go about getting these things. A sense of fulfillment, a life partner, a published novel. Well, I know how to at least get the novel, but getting published is another matter entirely.
There is only so much time, and I waste so much of it in any given day. If I were to play World of Warcraft, well. It is fun, no doubt. Never question that. Sucks you in and never lets you go. Same time, it becomes a grind. It isn't that I want to snub people in saying I don't want to play. On the contrary, I wish I could play. I just don't know if I can handle all of the consequences of that choice.
Flight/Class
About once a day, I have a daydream of flying. I just see these pearlescent wings pop out of my back, feathered and gigantic and smelling faintly of grass after the rains have dissipated. Then, I just alight from wherever it is I am sitting or standing, and just soar into the atmosphere, completely gone from my life, ready to forge a new trail. My glasses fall off, and the wind stings and dries my eyes, streaks the tears away that I'm trying to cry, but can't because it's so cold and windy, but so strangely wonderful. And then, I'm back in my seat, and it was all just a pitiful dream, one that I can never escape.
Once, one brilliant time long ago, I dreamt that I could actually fly, though telekinetically and not via wing. If I crossed my arms and concentrated, I could levitate off of the ground, and then land gently again. In this dream, I recall that I lost that ability to do so, and I was standing there for minutes trying to levitate again. Had I not awakened, I would have continued to try to fly. And when I was actually in the air, my heart was filled with such an overwhelming mix of wonder, delight and fear. There are few dreams I remember upon waking up, and very few I remember for more than a day after the dream. This one has stuck with me for years now.
About once a month, I have a dream of an inescapable situation, where I'm in some classroom-type environment with too much work and no way to escape. It is never law school (anymore), but the dream persists. I'm always quite thankful to awaken, slight sweat across my forehead, heart beating just a little faster than it should. I may never escape these dreams of pseudo-law school.
I don't know about any of you, but I am in constant denial of how the forces surrounding me have shaped me and my perception of the world. My mind is fully formed, and at this point, it's just slight massaging and tweaking that leads to changes, one of which was law school. But my subconscious fights back. It will not let me give in, as I probably should have by this point. I don't know why, but flight (and the inability to do so) is the constant in my life, in my head, in my heart. At this point in my life, I don't care how it happens, but I want to meet someone, anyone, that makes me feel the way I did in that dream, when I thought I could fly. I don't know how the hell it will happen, but I hope desperately it will. On the flip side, everyone that makes me feel like I'm in an inescapable morass, sinking deeper into the muck, I want to avoid.
Once, one brilliant time long ago, I dreamt that I could actually fly, though telekinetically and not via wing. If I crossed my arms and concentrated, I could levitate off of the ground, and then land gently again. In this dream, I recall that I lost that ability to do so, and I was standing there for minutes trying to levitate again. Had I not awakened, I would have continued to try to fly. And when I was actually in the air, my heart was filled with such an overwhelming mix of wonder, delight and fear. There are few dreams I remember upon waking up, and very few I remember for more than a day after the dream. This one has stuck with me for years now.
About once a month, I have a dream of an inescapable situation, where I'm in some classroom-type environment with too much work and no way to escape. It is never law school (anymore), but the dream persists. I'm always quite thankful to awaken, slight sweat across my forehead, heart beating just a little faster than it should. I may never escape these dreams of pseudo-law school.
I don't know about any of you, but I am in constant denial of how the forces surrounding me have shaped me and my perception of the world. My mind is fully formed, and at this point, it's just slight massaging and tweaking that leads to changes, one of which was law school. But my subconscious fights back. It will not let me give in, as I probably should have by this point. I don't know why, but flight (and the inability to do so) is the constant in my life, in my head, in my heart. At this point in my life, I don't care how it happens, but I want to meet someone, anyone, that makes me feel the way I did in that dream, when I thought I could fly. I don't know how the hell it will happen, but I hope desperately it will. On the flip side, everyone that makes me feel like I'm in an inescapable morass, sinking deeper into the muck, I want to avoid.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Lost Respect
You teach people how they should treat you. Teach them to treat you with respect and they treat you with respect. Teach them to disrespect you and they walk all over you. It isn't a one-time thing, but a continued habit.
It takes me a while to realize this, but there are some people to which I have debased myself. There was one occasion a while back when I was walking in D.C. with someone when their phone rang. The person answered it without even an "Excuse me" and just kept on talking for the next five or ten minutes while we kept on walking. I didn't call them out on it. Instead, I proceeded to treat them like shit, mocking them mercilessly for the rest of the night.
The problem was that I let myself be walked all over previously, and that led to the current state of affairs. I now know that this person has no respect for me, and sadly, it goes both ways at this point. To be (un)fair, my current viewpoint was more reactionary to them than an independent assessment. Still, that is how it stands now. It's too late to change their mindset, and so I question whether it's even worth it to keep interacting with this person. Theoretically, I am deserving of respect, but to this particular person, I am not. Why should I continue smiling and laughing and playing the fool when they're laughing at me, and not with me?
Another person, I now have trouble talking to. The relationship we established in the past involved me swallowing my pride and grinning at their comments directed towards me, sometimes throwing back similar. I wasn't entirely comfortable with it, but decided it would be easier to just keep my mouth shut.
That person has stayed the same, making the same comments, but I've changed. I'm no longer so willing to accept it, and have made this known, but to no avail. They continue to make the comments. Again, there's no respect there, and I question why I even try to deal with it. It's a fight that I'm no longer willing to raise arms for. Some people lower their shoulders right before a collision. Here, I've lowered my expectations and decided to just give up.
It hurts, because at one point, I liked both of them. I tried to be their friend, but more and more, it seems like a one-sided friendship. Maybe a loving slave type of relationship. It's frustrating. It's a waste of their time, because they could just as easily get a dog, and it's a waste of my time, because I could go hang out with peers, not superiors.
On the flip side, I was joke-lamenting how no one respected me one day. The other person just looked at me and said "I don't know why you keep saying no one respects you." Didn't believe it then, but I do realize that there are people that respect me. For whatever reason, I have taught them to treat me as a fellow human being, and it turns out that they still do. For this I am thankful. Though it is a small thing, these interactions with others, it is strangely reassuring and reaffirming to me, this respect.
I haven't watched too much Scarface. It's not like I'm all of a sudden going to demand you respect me. There's no point to that. Just going to try to teach people from here on out to respect me. If that's not possible for them, for whatever reason, they can keep on going on their path, and leave me to mine. I already have low-enough self-esteem, and don't need them pushing it even lower.
On the brighter side, all this has taught me to, in the future, demand more from others. Set the baseline to be treatment as an equal, and at least if it is impossible to start from there, I can stop wasting effort, energy and emotion on these people.
It takes me a while to realize this, but there are some people to which I have debased myself. There was one occasion a while back when I was walking in D.C. with someone when their phone rang. The person answered it without even an "Excuse me" and just kept on talking for the next five or ten minutes while we kept on walking. I didn't call them out on it. Instead, I proceeded to treat them like shit, mocking them mercilessly for the rest of the night.
The problem was that I let myself be walked all over previously, and that led to the current state of affairs. I now know that this person has no respect for me, and sadly, it goes both ways at this point. To be (un)fair, my current viewpoint was more reactionary to them than an independent assessment. Still, that is how it stands now. It's too late to change their mindset, and so I question whether it's even worth it to keep interacting with this person. Theoretically, I am deserving of respect, but to this particular person, I am not. Why should I continue smiling and laughing and playing the fool when they're laughing at me, and not with me?
Another person, I now have trouble talking to. The relationship we established in the past involved me swallowing my pride and grinning at their comments directed towards me, sometimes throwing back similar. I wasn't entirely comfortable with it, but decided it would be easier to just keep my mouth shut.
That person has stayed the same, making the same comments, but I've changed. I'm no longer so willing to accept it, and have made this known, but to no avail. They continue to make the comments. Again, there's no respect there, and I question why I even try to deal with it. It's a fight that I'm no longer willing to raise arms for. Some people lower their shoulders right before a collision. Here, I've lowered my expectations and decided to just give up.
It hurts, because at one point, I liked both of them. I tried to be their friend, but more and more, it seems like a one-sided friendship. Maybe a loving slave type of relationship. It's frustrating. It's a waste of their time, because they could just as easily get a dog, and it's a waste of my time, because I could go hang out with peers, not superiors.
On the flip side, I was joke-lamenting how no one respected me one day. The other person just looked at me and said "I don't know why you keep saying no one respects you." Didn't believe it then, but I do realize that there are people that respect me. For whatever reason, I have taught them to treat me as a fellow human being, and it turns out that they still do. For this I am thankful. Though it is a small thing, these interactions with others, it is strangely reassuring and reaffirming to me, this respect.
I haven't watched too much Scarface. It's not like I'm all of a sudden going to demand you respect me. There's no point to that. Just going to try to teach people from here on out to respect me. If that's not possible for them, for whatever reason, they can keep on going on their path, and leave me to mine. I already have low-enough self-esteem, and don't need them pushing it even lower.
On the brighter side, all this has taught me to, in the future, demand more from others. Set the baseline to be treatment as an equal, and at least if it is impossible to start from there, I can stop wasting effort, energy and emotion on these people.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Primal Urges
In less than two hours, I will once again don my football raiment, step out onto the field, and play yet another game of pickup football. I will be hurt. This is not even up for debate. I will take chances that I should not take, for a game that is essentially meaningless (though, on the cosmic scale, all we do is meaningless). There will be triumphs, as I probably score a touchdown, and tragedies, as I probably fumble the ball and it is returned for a football. I will launch myself full speed at people I should not (everyone else on the field). There may be pictures of my embarrassment (witness the last time when I went shoulder to shoulder with J.G. and came away wondering why the sky was full of grass).
Why do I do this? Because evolution has designed me to respond well to physical activity and minor pain. No doubt one of these days I will break a limb, and I will no longer play. But until then, playing football satisfies some primal urge within me. Plus, it helps me to bond with people. I mean, really, talking? You can talk and talk and talk with people, but what do you really learn? Well, OK, you learn quite a bit, but none of the truly important stuff. Actions do not speak louder than words, for they have no mouths, but they reveal a great deal about a person. There are things I will pick up about people on the field that would take me months, years to learn through conversation.
This is not something I need. People call me a fool for doing this, though they have called me a fool for doing many things. On the list of idiotic things I have tried, this is fairly low. And yet, when I go out and play football, it makes me feel like a little bit more of a complete human being. Maybe it's a reaction to being one of the smallest kids and physically inept? I'm still physically inept, but at least I can get out there and get hurt. I don't know, and maybe I can't put it into words (what? K.T. unable to use words? Preposterous!), but there's something special when I go out there on the initial kickoff, and the ball is flying in my direction, and my two thoughts are "Don't drop the ball" and "Don't get badly hurt."
Why do I do this? Because evolution has designed me to respond well to physical activity and minor pain. No doubt one of these days I will break a limb, and I will no longer play. But until then, playing football satisfies some primal urge within me. Plus, it helps me to bond with people. I mean, really, talking? You can talk and talk and talk with people, but what do you really learn? Well, OK, you learn quite a bit, but none of the truly important stuff. Actions do not speak louder than words, for they have no mouths, but they reveal a great deal about a person. There are things I will pick up about people on the field that would take me months, years to learn through conversation.
This is not something I need. People call me a fool for doing this, though they have called me a fool for doing many things. On the list of idiotic things I have tried, this is fairly low. And yet, when I go out and play football, it makes me feel like a little bit more of a complete human being. Maybe it's a reaction to being one of the smallest kids and physically inept? I'm still physically inept, but at least I can get out there and get hurt. I don't know, and maybe I can't put it into words (what? K.T. unable to use words? Preposterous!), but there's something special when I go out there on the initial kickoff, and the ball is flying in my direction, and my two thoughts are "Don't drop the ball" and "Don't get badly hurt."
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
mobile post
This is just a proof of concept. I bought a new cell phone with web capability and am posting from it. Typing takes forever.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Cheating Ways
Bill Belichick, coach of the New England Patriots, got caught cheating. His coaches and subordinates were caught recording the defensive signals from the New York Jets. Now, if you have been following the NFL in any fashion, you know that the Patriots are en route to at least a playoff berth, if not a bye in the playoffs, if not the first 16-0 regular season. They didn't even need the edge, and there are hints that many in the NFL engage in the same types of behavior.
So, why do we even have rules, if people don't follow them? In the NFL, there are series of rules that are routinely contravened, covertly or overtly. There are rules not always enforced on the field. Watch for holding, offensive and defensive. It occurs on every single play at the line. The issue is that these players are incredible at hiding what they do from the referees, or the referees cannot call every single instance, for fear of slogging down the game and making it unwatchable.
What is the point of these rules? We have to try to impose some order on the game, else it would devolve into a fist fight. Hell, we even have rules for fist fights. No "cheap shots" like kidney punches, crotch punches, neck punches. But really, who made up that rule, that if you fight with those, you fight without honor? When your life is at stake, the rules sort of go out the window. You can always get more honor, but how can you get a life back?
At least in the context of a sporting match, we need an equal playing ground. Think about how easy soccer would be if you could pick up the ball and run with it. Baseball, if you replace the ball on random pitches with a lead shotput. NASCAR with rockets. I could be the greatest quarterback in the NFL with an assault rifle in my back pocket. Without these rules, the game becomes meaningless. These rules, more than just order, they offer a chance at substance.
Then why break them? Why make irrelevant our attempt to make it fair? If you want to win a game, you do it within the context of the game, or you do it outside that context. Going back to my earlier example, I could be the greatest quarterback, but only if I shot everyone. As it stands, I am not even the greatest quarterback in this seat right now. Even if I practiced as a child, I do not possess the physical attributes inherent within the new quarterback prototype. Right there, at those upper echelons, the game is limited to those blessed with that little extra, and we reward them with our money and our love.
If you add new ways to succeed, ways that fall outside of the rules, it definitely opens it up to more people. That sense of privilege dissipates. Let's take steroids. They definitely enable more people to play sports at a professional level. In a way, they also expand the group of elites. They remove it from the realm of fantasy, and shove professional sports a little closer to the realm of possibility.
The NFL institutes a salary cap. No team is allowed to spend more than the salary cap on their entire roster (and, of course, there are ways around that also). The theory behind that is that no team will be able to become that much better than all the rest, because they can all only spend so much. That the Patriots this year are excelling is a testament to Bill Belichick and Scott Pioli's personnel decisions. But, still, imagine a scenario wherein there is an utterly average offense given the defense's signals. That offense would perform at a much higher level. When Belichick won his first Super Bowl, he screamed something to the effect of "Can you believe we won with this bunch of guys?" At the time, the Patriots offense was being run by a 6th round draft pick, taken over for an injured and aging Drew Bledsoe. Not the most imposing of situations.
I cannot speak for anyone else, but I know that, in my life, no matter how confident I am about something, anything, there will always be at least a seed of doubt. Granted, I don't have the greatest self-esteem, but even if I did, that kernel would still be there. Couldn't you imagine a scenario where Bill Belichick, working with lesser-skilled players, learning at the foot of others, started capturing defensive signals, and just got used to it? A safety blanket, too hard to shed, even at this point with an offense potentially for the ages. Who would notice? Just keep your eyes open, take some quick picks, and we'll decipher them during halftime.
Do I defend him? I'm not sure. I just offer one possible interpretation. After all, in addition to having rules, we have penalties, and the Patriots were penalized. However, did they really learn anything? The ultimate penalty, $750,000 and a first-round pick, are like a slap on the wrist. Consider that the salary cap is in the multi-million range, and that the Patriots have so much skill/luck in picking later round draft picks, that this penalty is only punitive/retributive to the average person, removed from the realities of the NFL. Hell, I'm not even sure if the penalty is more oppressive than I thought, because I have no experience in the NFL.
That is how far removed I am from the realities of the NFL. The rules serve to create a situation I cannot understand, the playing field is such I cannot compete, and the attempt to break those rules was an attempt for people still much better than me but much worse than the top tier to compete. In a way, it was all just another attempt to level the playing field, but if you level too much, you dilute, you remove what was special. Why was the cheating wrong? In the end, because if left unchecked, it would allow every last one of us to do what these people do. It would rob their actions of any semblance of uniqueness, of specialty. And that is why we must try and prevent these rules from being broken, so that we cannot participate, so we are forced to watch and appreciate the NFL.
***
May or may not extend these ideas to the law at large, but I would need a bit of time to think about it. It definitely ties into my theory that people see laws as a limbo bar to walk under, and not a hurdle to leap over.
So, why do we even have rules, if people don't follow them? In the NFL, there are series of rules that are routinely contravened, covertly or overtly. There are rules not always enforced on the field. Watch for holding, offensive and defensive. It occurs on every single play at the line. The issue is that these players are incredible at hiding what they do from the referees, or the referees cannot call every single instance, for fear of slogging down the game and making it unwatchable.
What is the point of these rules? We have to try to impose some order on the game, else it would devolve into a fist fight. Hell, we even have rules for fist fights. No "cheap shots" like kidney punches, crotch punches, neck punches. But really, who made up that rule, that if you fight with those, you fight without honor? When your life is at stake, the rules sort of go out the window. You can always get more honor, but how can you get a life back?
At least in the context of a sporting match, we need an equal playing ground. Think about how easy soccer would be if you could pick up the ball and run with it. Baseball, if you replace the ball on random pitches with a lead shotput. NASCAR with rockets. I could be the greatest quarterback in the NFL with an assault rifle in my back pocket. Without these rules, the game becomes meaningless. These rules, more than just order, they offer a chance at substance.
Then why break them? Why make irrelevant our attempt to make it fair? If you want to win a game, you do it within the context of the game, or you do it outside that context. Going back to my earlier example, I could be the greatest quarterback, but only if I shot everyone. As it stands, I am not even the greatest quarterback in this seat right now. Even if I practiced as a child, I do not possess the physical attributes inherent within the new quarterback prototype. Right there, at those upper echelons, the game is limited to those blessed with that little extra, and we reward them with our money and our love.
If you add new ways to succeed, ways that fall outside of the rules, it definitely opens it up to more people. That sense of privilege dissipates. Let's take steroids. They definitely enable more people to play sports at a professional level. In a way, they also expand the group of elites. They remove it from the realm of fantasy, and shove professional sports a little closer to the realm of possibility.
The NFL institutes a salary cap. No team is allowed to spend more than the salary cap on their entire roster (and, of course, there are ways around that also). The theory behind that is that no team will be able to become that much better than all the rest, because they can all only spend so much. That the Patriots this year are excelling is a testament to Bill Belichick and Scott Pioli's personnel decisions. But, still, imagine a scenario wherein there is an utterly average offense given the defense's signals. That offense would perform at a much higher level. When Belichick won his first Super Bowl, he screamed something to the effect of "Can you believe we won with this bunch of guys?" At the time, the Patriots offense was being run by a 6th round draft pick, taken over for an injured and aging Drew Bledsoe. Not the most imposing of situations.
I cannot speak for anyone else, but I know that, in my life, no matter how confident I am about something, anything, there will always be at least a seed of doubt. Granted, I don't have the greatest self-esteem, but even if I did, that kernel would still be there. Couldn't you imagine a scenario where Bill Belichick, working with lesser-skilled players, learning at the foot of others, started capturing defensive signals, and just got used to it? A safety blanket, too hard to shed, even at this point with an offense potentially for the ages. Who would notice? Just keep your eyes open, take some quick picks, and we'll decipher them during halftime.
Do I defend him? I'm not sure. I just offer one possible interpretation. After all, in addition to having rules, we have penalties, and the Patriots were penalized. However, did they really learn anything? The ultimate penalty, $750,000 and a first-round pick, are like a slap on the wrist. Consider that the salary cap is in the multi-million range, and that the Patriots have so much skill/luck in picking later round draft picks, that this penalty is only punitive/retributive to the average person, removed from the realities of the NFL. Hell, I'm not even sure if the penalty is more oppressive than I thought, because I have no experience in the NFL.
That is how far removed I am from the realities of the NFL. The rules serve to create a situation I cannot understand, the playing field is such I cannot compete, and the attempt to break those rules was an attempt for people still much better than me but much worse than the top tier to compete. In a way, it was all just another attempt to level the playing field, but if you level too much, you dilute, you remove what was special. Why was the cheating wrong? In the end, because if left unchecked, it would allow every last one of us to do what these people do. It would rob their actions of any semblance of uniqueness, of specialty. And that is why we must try and prevent these rules from being broken, so that we cannot participate, so we are forced to watch and appreciate the NFL.
***
May or may not extend these ideas to the law at large, but I would need a bit of time to think about it. It definitely ties into my theory that people see laws as a limbo bar to walk under, and not a hurdle to leap over.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Darting Away
Happy birthday M.C.!
***
D.C., M.C., congrats on your imminent human-spawn!
***
I'm going to start wearing suits all the live long day. This will perhaps be the only way I can manage to look older than "twelve". Yeah, it happened again, another stranger accused me of looking like I'm just a little kid. And it's crazy, this is in a bar. I obviously have to be above the age of twelve if I'm in there, right?
If I didn't own a car, I'd love the rain. There's something soothing about the constant pitter-patter, walking through the precipitation, surrounded by what is essentially the essence of life. However, when you unify rain with the rush hour traffic, it all goes downhill. "Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream."
I agreed to meet J.L. at a bar for darts after work, then we'd go into D.C. to meet G.B. and S.B. Ah, the best-laid plans of mice and men. It took me a good-lovin' hour of fording through the urban rivers and causeways to make it there, and I was kind of burnt out by that time. Still, darts!
For those of you uninitiated into the ways of cricket, know that it is a hard game, but it is a fun game. J.L. and I have been playing on a semi-regular basis once every week or couple of weeks, kill some time and some brain cells (with beer, not by throwing the darts at each others' heads. That will come at a later date).
It was pretty packed, and at one point, two people came and took the dart board next to us. One was a large African-American, mid-forties, at least six-foot-three, thin, calm, composed, opening a box labeled "Python." He removed three darts, sleek, black, dangerous. The other was an average height Caucasian-American, late-twenties, smartly dressed, with a Blackberry.
I'd just like to note that more things need names that evoke images of violence. If ever Honda created the "Marauder" or the "Bonecrusher" or the "Eviscerator" I would buy it in a heartbeat. Same with body armor. If there's fury-style kevlar, I'd go all fury-style on it. Lord, I've problems.
J.L. and I shot for first (what we later learned was called "diddle for the middle"), and the woman just turned after we shot and said "Poor shot." I wasn't looking at her, so I wasn't sure if she was serious or sarcastic. I thought serious. Once again, first impression not entirely correct.
After a while, it was obvious they knew what they were doing, as he was hitting whatever he aimed for. He just didn't know the rules of the game. She was doing much the same, and instructing him on how to play and the finer strategic points. Meanwhile, J.L. is using his athletic ability and superior hand-eye coordination to destroy me.
At some point, the woman asks if we want to play versus them partner-style, and we agree. We should leave soon to go to D.C., so we figure there's enough time for one game. Really, we ended up playing about eight or nine.
The woman's name was J., man's name was L. For some reason, I'm meeting a lot of people with the same first name as the woman. At any rate, J. is a sarcastic smartass, though it was probably because she essentially lost her job with a lot of advance notice earlier that day. So, anger plus beer plus darts equals fun for the whole family!
Of course, the traditional mocking. They thought I was twelve, but knew I had to be twenty-one, or have a real good ID. When i told them I was twenty-seven, they just shook their heads. At least J.L. they gave credit, figured he was eighteen.
It was plenty obvious from pretty early on that the only reason we weren't being hustled was because there was no money on the line. It wasn't that they were good, but that they were great. Plus, it never helps whenever your somewhat attractive female opponent starts touching you and grinding against you. It's a miracle I hit the board.
For J., each dart throw slammed into the board. Was it a reaction to her suffering a fairly large loss in life, that she had to summon a win in a realm she could control? Was it fury at having been betrayed by her boss-slash-friend? Was it just nothing more than how she played darts? I don't know, and I'm no certified psychoanalyst.
We played game after game, and J.2, J.'s boyfriend, replaced L. after four or five games. Eventually, J. got to the point of "choice quotes."
J.: The board moves when I aim at it. Is it moving for you?
J.: Let me see your booty shake.
[K.T. shakes his booty]
J.: That was a pretty sad booty shake.
K.T.: I have white man's rhythm.
[J. shakes her booty]
J.: You shouldn't feel bad, I've played darts competitively off and on for over ten years.
J.L.: That makes me feel better.
J.: On the other hand, I was drunk, so you should've been able to beat me.
J.: Remember when I said there was a point I shouldn't have passed? I think that last beer made me pass it.
J.L.: You two should bump uglies.
J.: Oh, mine isn't ugly.
K.T.: Yeah, mine is.
J.: Then it should be singular. We should bump ugly.
J.: If you tickle me, I'll kick you in the crotch.
K.T.: Is that a punishment or a reward?
J. There's only one way to find out.
K.T.: Maybe we should wait until later.
It's fun to screw with drunk people. It's fun when drunk people screw with me. Targets, all of us, for the various darts and barbs flying our way.
***
D.C., M.C., congrats on your imminent human-spawn!
***
I'm going to start wearing suits all the live long day. This will perhaps be the only way I can manage to look older than "twelve". Yeah, it happened again, another stranger accused me of looking like I'm just a little kid. And it's crazy, this is in a bar. I obviously have to be above the age of twelve if I'm in there, right?
If I didn't own a car, I'd love the rain. There's something soothing about the constant pitter-patter, walking through the precipitation, surrounded by what is essentially the essence of life. However, when you unify rain with the rush hour traffic, it all goes downhill. "Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream."
I agreed to meet J.L. at a bar for darts after work, then we'd go into D.C. to meet G.B. and S.B. Ah, the best-laid plans of mice and men. It took me a good-lovin' hour of fording through the urban rivers and causeways to make it there, and I was kind of burnt out by that time. Still, darts!
For those of you uninitiated into the ways of cricket, know that it is a hard game, but it is a fun game. J.L. and I have been playing on a semi-regular basis once every week or couple of weeks, kill some time and some brain cells (with beer, not by throwing the darts at each others' heads. That will come at a later date).
It was pretty packed, and at one point, two people came and took the dart board next to us. One was a large African-American, mid-forties, at least six-foot-three, thin, calm, composed, opening a box labeled "Python." He removed three darts, sleek, black, dangerous. The other was an average height Caucasian-American, late-twenties, smartly dressed, with a Blackberry.
I'd just like to note that more things need names that evoke images of violence. If ever Honda created the "Marauder" or the "Bonecrusher" or the "Eviscerator" I would buy it in a heartbeat. Same with body armor. If there's fury-style kevlar, I'd go all fury-style on it. Lord, I've problems.
J.L. and I shot for first (what we later learned was called "diddle for the middle"), and the woman just turned after we shot and said "Poor shot." I wasn't looking at her, so I wasn't sure if she was serious or sarcastic. I thought serious. Once again, first impression not entirely correct.
After a while, it was obvious they knew what they were doing, as he was hitting whatever he aimed for. He just didn't know the rules of the game. She was doing much the same, and instructing him on how to play and the finer strategic points. Meanwhile, J.L. is using his athletic ability and superior hand-eye coordination to destroy me.
At some point, the woman asks if we want to play versus them partner-style, and we agree. We should leave soon to go to D.C., so we figure there's enough time for one game. Really, we ended up playing about eight or nine.
The woman's name was J., man's name was L. For some reason, I'm meeting a lot of people with the same first name as the woman. At any rate, J. is a sarcastic smartass, though it was probably because she essentially lost her job with a lot of advance notice earlier that day. So, anger plus beer plus darts equals fun for the whole family!
Of course, the traditional mocking. They thought I was twelve, but knew I had to be twenty-one, or have a real good ID. When i told them I was twenty-seven, they just shook their heads. At least J.L. they gave credit, figured he was eighteen.
It was plenty obvious from pretty early on that the only reason we weren't being hustled was because there was no money on the line. It wasn't that they were good, but that they were great. Plus, it never helps whenever your somewhat attractive female opponent starts touching you and grinding against you. It's a miracle I hit the board.
For J., each dart throw slammed into the board. Was it a reaction to her suffering a fairly large loss in life, that she had to summon a win in a realm she could control? Was it fury at having been betrayed by her boss-slash-friend? Was it just nothing more than how she played darts? I don't know, and I'm no certified psychoanalyst.
We played game after game, and J.2, J.'s boyfriend, replaced L. after four or five games. Eventually, J. got to the point of "choice quotes."
J.: The board moves when I aim at it. Is it moving for you?
J.: Let me see your booty shake.
[K.T. shakes his booty]
J.: That was a pretty sad booty shake.
K.T.: I have white man's rhythm.
[J. shakes her booty]
J.: You shouldn't feel bad, I've played darts competitively off and on for over ten years.
J.L.: That makes me feel better.
J.: On the other hand, I was drunk, so you should've been able to beat me.
J.: Remember when I said there was a point I shouldn't have passed? I think that last beer made me pass it.
J.L.: You two should bump uglies.
J.: Oh, mine isn't ugly.
K.T.: Yeah, mine is.
J.: Then it should be singular. We should bump ugly.
J.: If you tickle me, I'll kick you in the crotch.
K.T.: Is that a punishment or a reward?
J. There's only one way to find out.
K.T.: Maybe we should wait until later.
It's fun to screw with drunk people. It's fun when drunk people screw with me. Targets, all of us, for the various darts and barbs flying our way.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Chicken Run
It's not that I'm funny, but that I'm more willing to do ridiculous things. Witness yesterday at work, which resulted in me making another Popeye's fried chicken run. I've become the "chicken guy," though that name is just a placeholder until we come up with another name. Thus, that means that I will be known as the "chicken guy" for a while. I left an away message up which stated that I was on a chicken run for the office. M.C. saw it and accused me of slowly killing off the office. I do not deny this, but at least it wasn't done out of spite. (And the road to hell is paved with good intentions).
Somehow this lead to me remarking that I was widely perceived at work as being rather off kilter. Somehow, that lead to her telling me to go around the office whistling "Killing Me Softly," originally by Roberta Flack, redone by the Fugees. After all, I am killing everyone with chicken and grease. I told her I'd think about it.
And think about it I did on the long, slow drive home. Coming up with alternate lyrics, practicing in my car, making preparations. Like I said, I'm not funny, just more willing to do ridiculous things.
My biggest issue with the entire venture was that I wasn't prepared to walk around the office floor singing, and I didn’t really want to make myself the focus when everyone was on the floor. The great thing about coming into work before most everyone else is that you can get work done without being interrupted, and you can do things when only a few people are there. Case in point, when D.R. got to work, I decided that was the time.
Around 0910, I saunter over to her office, note that the new secretary (whose name I still do not know) is there, and decide to run and gun with it.
[K.T. knocks]
D.R.: Morning.
K.T.: Hey, so, you know how [M.C.] has a high threshold for entertainment slash low threshold for boredom?
D.R.: Yeah.
K.T.: Well. OK.
[K.T. breathes deep]
[K.T. sings to the tune of "Killing Me Softly"]
K.T.: Strumming my pain with its feather
[D.R. laughs]
K.T.: Singing my life with its grease
D.R.: I don't have a lighter. This is great.
K.T.: Killing me softly with chicken
[D.R. breaks down laughing]
K.T.: Killing me softly with chicken
[D.R. breaks down laughing]
K.T.: Shortening my whole life with Popeye's
D.R.: My side hurts, this is great.
K.T.: Killing me softly with chicken
Note that I was leaning with my back against the wall, my arms crossed, not really looking directly at D.R. As soon as I finished singing, I immediately left her office, just as G.H. was entering. He just looked up at me, looked at D.R. laughing, and asked me what was going on.
K.T.: I don't know. I think [D.R.]'s laughing.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
We're Back?
You can't do things for other people, and you can't save other people. This is what I learned in the two-plus months I went on hiatus from Writ. It got to the point where I was updating Writ solely for other people, and that was tedious. Same thing with a lot of other things in my life. I was doing them just for other people. I've cut a lot of those things out of my life (I think, I pray, I hope, I fear). Lot more things I do because I want to do them. Sure, there are still things that I'll bite the bullet for, but they don't take up the majority of my time now.
Not much has happened in the interim. Somehow I've become the chicken guy at work. Whenever people get a jones for Popeye's chicken, I'm the one that gets it. I'm also becoming known as the slightly off kilter one. I guess it was somewhat inevitable, that seems to be the arc of my life.
I don't know, there's not much I have to say right now, but I was reminded I had this blog, and felt like I wanted to update. Not anyone else, just me. Screw the regular updating, I'm going to update when I feel like it.
Not much has happened in the interim. Somehow I've become the chicken guy at work. Whenever people get a jones for Popeye's chicken, I'm the one that gets it. I'm also becoming known as the slightly off kilter one. I guess it was somewhat inevitable, that seems to be the arc of my life.
I don't know, there's not much I have to say right now, but I was reminded I had this blog, and felt like I wanted to update. Not anyone else, just me. Screw the regular updating, I'm going to update when I feel like it.
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