Writ

Hiatus Now

2010-04-01T20:41:00.000-04:00

I know I didn't do much for this blog, but with the other, I can't keep updating both. I never really knew what to write for this, but for that one, I have a direction, and as of right now, five months' worth of M-F updates. I'll come back to this eventually, maybe, perhaps, but for right now, email me if you want to read the other blog. I would recommend that only if you like pulp fiction.

Pulped Fiction

2010-03-15T19:51:00.004-04:00

I like pulp detective fiction. There's no wasted words in pulp fiction, just wasted people. Everything means something. Not that much rambling, unless it means something to the story. It's black and white terms, but grey areas abound. The world's not fair, but the protagonist has to go along with it to get through another day. Not everyone survives. Sometimes, it feels like if you made it through that day without dying, it was a good day. No wonder it speaks to me.

It really started with a pic M.N. snapped and photoshopped. I'm in a tie and an overcoat, fedora hiding half my face. I'm looking down at the ground and slightly frowning. There's a greenish tint to it, as if it came from years back. Yeah, it's me as a pulp detective. Couldn't you see me in California back in the 30s, watching the rain fall, holding a highball glass in my hand, waiting for the next case to come in the door?

That thing became my Gtalk icon, and as an exercise, because I get easily bored and my imagination doesn't really stop, I decided to start posting status messages with a pulp fiction bent. Some nameless detective, really a full-blown alcoholic, trying not to get busted for good by the cops, muddling through his life, takes what jobs he can just to make it another day. I'd like to think he's successful, because he's got enough money to keep buying bourbon and whiskey, but he's on a cold streak now.

This concerned some people that thought I'd lost my mind. Which is fine, as long as you're concerned I've lost it, you're still concerned about my well-being. I'm still sane, by most objective measures.

I've been waiting for some people to finish reading the would-be novel, and found myself backed up mentally, no outlet for my creativity. It really was starting to wear on me. But in the end, T.G. convinced me I should start a blog based on this detective's life, my status messages writ larger. The past few nights, I've been writing up some potential posts to create a backlog of material. If I push myself, and post every weekday, I want two months of backlog, or forty posts, before I start posting.

The basic idea behind it is this luddite detective's secretary wants him to start posting his stories to a blog. He, being a hard-nosed ex-boxer, does it because she keeps insisting, but he makes her type up what he hand writes. As he recalls his stories, she chimes in in the posts, either with technical explanations of her data mining/online research, guesses at what his malapropisms mean, or just general comments. Between the two, he gets drunk, gets in fights, and pounds the streets to find information, while she surfs Myspace and Facebook. Thus far, I've got posts about his naming the blog, hunting a contract killer for the mob, a side story about boxing and MMA, and working on an investigation about the theft of a garden gnome. Further ideas include going to the opera, finding stolen baby formula, process service in the woods on Halloween, getting stuck in a drunk tank and being hired by a five-year old to get a cat out of a tree.

So much for keeping it constantly dark and gritty. Maybe this is postmodern pulp fiction.

Over the past few nights, I've got twenty-two posts written. Once I finish with this, I will generate a few more before bedtime. If tomorrow goes according to plan, I will have my forty. I think this is a perfect example of why you need to do what you love for a living. Right now, I'm not even getting paid for this. Just think what would happen if someone were to sponsor me.

***

I've noticed that my journal and this blog (my pseudo-journal) go through various peaks of activity, followed by troughs of inactivity. You can map it to how much I write elsewhere. There seems to be some level at which I write, and once that is achieved, I don't need to write as much for other things. If I drop below that level, I get depressed, and I usually need to ramp back up. Generally, the journal is that outlet.

But then, I can hear you asking, why don't you just write all the time? Skip the inactivity and the depression. What it boils down to is that I'm lazy. I wish it were something as romantic and straightforward as writer's block, but that's usually not a problem, not anymore. I don't say much, but apparently I have a lot to say, and that comes out through my pen. I'm like a junkie in rehab. The methadone's starting to work, so I figure I'm good, and I stop taking it. Next thing you know, I need more smack because I fell back in my old habits.

Gotta wonder, will I ever hit Malcolm Gladwell's estimated ten thousand hours of practice to become good at this craft? Not for a long while. I have always written, but never obsessively. Then again, I am only counting straight fiction. I have written a lot for school and for work. Roll all that in, and I come closer. If you count all the time I've spent reading (an entire cop-out), then I've probably exceeded it. But really, from that perspective, I'm a master of reading. Can't really get paid doing that, unless I get more creative, and I'm kind of tired, seeing as how I've been up at around 5 AM every morning for the past few weeks.

Our Obligations

2010-03-01T11:06:00.002-05:00

I learned a few things in law school, believe it or not. However, most of the lessons never stuck, at least not consciously. A lot of it wormed its way into my unconscious, and pops out when I least expect it. There are a few things that I do recall, that made an impact. One of these things was during Torts, with Professor D.G. It had to have been near the beginning of the semester, when we talked about duty. The example he gave was one man drowning, while another man saw the first man drowning. The question he posed, did the second man have a legal obligation to save the drowning man?

Hint: No.

He then told us that not even Michael Phelps had a legal obligation to save the drowning man. The law can't force people to do the right thing. It's all about the minimum to get by. That drives me crazy, because it also shows how little people will do if you leave them to their own pursuits. You can't legislate compliance with morality under our legal system, beyond a basic level. (You could in a dictatorship or similarly oppressive governmental system, but that raises new issues. I'm not advocating this course, it's like killing a fly with an elephant gun.) Then again, look at the series finale of Seinfeld, and you see how ridiculous it would get.

It's up to us to do right. And it's hard. And we fail. I went grocery shopping, and as I parked, I noticed a guy with a bottle of orange fluid trying to get the hood on his car open. I own the same make and model of car, I could have walked over and popped it in a few seconds. Didn't, because I didn't feel like it, but it stuck with me as I went shopping. I told myself if he was still out there when I was done, I would help. He wasn't, but I should have helped in the first place. How hard would it have been to take fifteen seconds out of my day?

This was a small thing, but: "Our character is what we do when we think no one is looking." - H. Jackson Brown

What does this say about me, that I should have helped a stranger, and did not? And am I going too far? Wouldn't I help my friends? Probably, but again, we can't legislate people to do the right thing. Maybe I would've had a trickle down effect if I did help? Who can say? The moment has passed, and I have to move on. However, I did donate some money to a charity outside the grocery store to assuage my guilt over that situation. Now, what does that say that I think I can buy peace of mind with money?

***

Good gravy, that was a frustrating weekend. I went out every few hours to shovel the snow off my car, because it wouldn't stop, and I didn't want to spend three hours straight moving snow. As it turns out, when you calculate it, I did spend three hours shoveling, just spread out. At least it broke up the monotony of watching the snow drifts build, and the sad trees with their drooping branches laden with snow.

(If you haven't figured out, I am writing these in advance, and then scheduling a post for the future.)

I know a little better what Sisyphus felt like, rolling that damned boulder every day, only to watch it roll back down the hill every day. Every couple hour I went outside, only to see the same levels of snow all over my poor car. Still I persisted, having remembered how bad the shoveling was last time back in December.

I wandered outside Sunday morning, having not gotten much sleep due to not being able to sleep, as per usual. It looked like a post-apocalyptic wasteland, the area covered in snow after the nuclear blasts blotted out the sun. An inch-thick rind coating the streets, feet-deep snow drifts abutting road sides. Cars buried everywhere, and nary a soul to come out and witness the whiteness. Foul cold, the kind that threatens to frostbite your skin, flay it off in large frozen chunks.

On the flip side, it was reassuring, even peaceful. Lot of quiet, which is par for a Sunday morning, but even more so this morning. What few people I did see, they greeted me with a shake of their shovel, or a nod of their head, and I returned it in kind. I got to imagine a world abandoned by man, on its way to reverting to nature's control. A few more months like this, you'd hardly be able to imagine anyone colonized it, called it home.

I wonder if that wouldn't be such a bad thing. They have television shows that play the ultimate what if, at least from our perspective. That mainstay of historians, the game of what if asks "what if", and then extrapolates outward. Alternate and speculative fiction derives wholly from this basic question. Traditionally, it refers to past events, and then flips them on their head. For this what if, we ask what if everyone disappeared. Game changer, if I ever heard one.

There are a few ways this could go. Some people say that we need to head into space to discover new worlds, especially new worlds that could support human life. Unspoken in their hopes and dreams is that we, as a species, are ruining this world for our continued existence, as well as that of other species on the planet. The planet itself will find a way to continue, with or without us. When we speak of ruining the world, it's only from the perspective that we need it as is to continue living. Then, we can go and start over fresh, then ruin more worlds.

Or, maybe we kill each other, via WWIII. Nuclear, chemical, biological agents, all of them are in play. It's brinksmanship and bluster and pride that push us all towards the edge, and unlike a video game, you can't reboot to the prior save point if you make a big mistake. We're playing for keeps. Everyone realizes that, but it only takes one person to go too far, before we can't go back.

Maybe the new ice age comes and buries all of us. The earth doesn't possess a soul, far as we know. It's just a giant rock with a liquid-hot iron/nickel core. But what if it did, and it got tired of what we were doing, and decided to snow us all over? First, it tried to heat us off with global warming, and that failed. Maybe we go in the opposite direction. After all, some believe hell is cold, not hot. How well could we do amidst conditions constantly like what we just experienced?

Any way it goes, I walked through the snow, and felt a bit at peace. Then I slipped and almost busted my head open.

Self Medication

2010-02-15T16:57:00.004-05:00

Non-drowsy cold medicine is a lie. Less-drowsy is more appropriate. It hasn’t completely shut down my higher faculties, but I am lackadaisical, and a bit slower. If you came at me with an attack, it would take me a second longer to register and react, by which point you probably would have disabled me.

The medicine has kept me from coughing up a lung, which is kind of useful when you’re trying not to infect others with the latest and greatest nature has to offer. It also helps when you’re working in an open room around others that have no desire to be laid low by whatever it is you’re carrying.

I never really took sick days as a kid in school, because my parents instilled in me that learning was so important. There was one occasion where I almost passed out and fell down a flight of stairs, I was so light headed. Even growing up, I am loathe to take sick days unless it is bad. Like the time I caught the flu and had trouble sitting up without falling back down, that forced me to take sick days.

This sickness makes me wonder about the state of my immune system, that I have one to begin with. Without it, this cold would ravage my body, until I could no longer sustain myself, at which point I would die. Hopefully, the cold virus would have found a chance at some point to jump to another host, at which point it would then reproduce and thrive again.

I get sick once or twice a year, probably about average. Can’t remember how often I got sick as a kid, but I have to imagine that it was fairly often, because my immune system is fairly strong now. Had to be exposed to all that crap as a kid to learn what was good and what was not, develop a response, and go from there.

Even as I type this, I want to pass out and sleep for a while. would much really change, aside from me getting a deserved nap? not really.

***

I love callback humor. Watch Arrested Development for a great example, constant callbacks to earlier conversations and episodes. We're all guilty of callback humor in our own way, like when you're joking with someone, and reference it fifteen minutes later. Of course, the only problem with callback humor is that you have to be paying attention.

Whenever I have to introduce myself, I tend to be very much the smartass when I do so. If nothing else, it lets people know that I am not always serious, that I don't take myself seriously. The last time I did so, I introduced myself as an alcoholic, also mentioning it was three hundred days since my last drink. Also asked if Irish coffee counted, since I had a cup of tea from Starbucks in front of me.

Then, I promptly forgot about this. This was a problem, as when all anyone knows about you are the few words you say, such as being an alcoholic, that's all they have to go on. R.L. kept making repeated references to me drinking heavily, which I completely missed as I was tired and not paying attention. That was embarrassing to me afterwards, when I had some time to think.

High humor is hard. I started with fairly low humor, sarcasm, and R.L. took it to a higher level, making callbacks. I couldn't even remember my own words, which was quite sad. Of course, that also means that, for all that to have worked, I would have needed to be paying attention and concentrating on the funny.

It's so hard to focus on the funny, especially when you're thinking about it. In my life, I've found you can either be funny, or pay attention, so long as you're actively trying one or the other. If you don't try, it turns out you can do both. Unfortunately, I try way too hard, and things fail. And maybe that is the key, making it seem effortless, by not expending effort. It's hard to break the ice, and sometimes, maybe I should just let it happen naturally.

Or, you know, I could probably drink more. I am an alcoholic, after all.

Solo Creepy

2010-02-01T22:46:00.001-05:00

The Starbucks men's bathroom door displayed an "Out of Order" sign, so the barista handed me the women's bathroom key. That alone does not make me a pervert, though the rest of this story might.

After I urinated, I moved to the trash can to toss out my water bottle. A swinging metal plate covered the trash. I pushed the bottle through the door, and noticed a white box. Curious, I held the door open with the bottle and looked inside.

It's a bathroom trash can. I expected all the used tissues. What I didn't expect was the Victoria's Secret bag, and the EPT box. Of course, when I saw this, my first thought was "Why haven't I been going into women's bathrooms before now?"

Flash back to a couple hours ago. I saw the woman with the Victoria's Secret bag earlier, and she had spent fifteen minutes in the bathroom. I know this because I had to go, and she was inside.

This is pure conjecture, but I think she took the early pregnancy test in the Starbucks bathroom. There was also a stick that was probably the used test, but I didn't want to dig down and retrieve it.

Who is she, that she had to go to the Starbucks bathroom and take the test? Z.M. theorized she had to hide something from her boyfriend. I felt she couldn't wait to get home; there was a CVS pharmacy nearby.

It's cruelly hilarious and compellingly sad. My twisted mind came up with the following: After some clothes shopping, she admits that she hasn't had her period, and had to get the test, but she's not ready for a lifetime devoted to parenthood. It's something that she's scared of, but has to know now. Of course, she can't pee, so she decides to stop in a Starbucks and slam some coffee to get ready. After a venti, she sneaks the VS bag with the EPT test inside into the bathroom. She takes the test, and it's positive. Somewhat stunned and in denial, she puts on the sexy new lingerie for her boyfriend in the bathroom, swearing that after tonight, the one last night where he will still think she's sexy, she will tell him the truth. She dumps the box and bag, and walks out to a strange guy standing there dancing back and forth, looking like he's ready to piss himself. She hands him the key and walks into the rest of her life.

***

I am a member of the Fellowship of Solo Diners. We are a soft-spoken group. Armed with our thick novels, our newspapers, our Kindles, we go into restaurants with our heads held high. When the waiter asks "Two?" we respond "One." The smile on the waiter's face wanes a little, pity enters their voice, they show us (as individuals) to the table made for many. After all, breaking bread should be a communal activity. The ancient tribes bonded over food. Everyone did their part, small or large, and everyone reaped the benefits. Now, our food gathering efforts are distributed, and we no longer need to break bread as a group.

It depresses me.

Not that I'm social or anything. I have lived my life as a loner, for better or worse. (And for whatever reason, that's changing, and I no longer want to be the loner. I just have no clue how to do that.) I still remain a member. Travel often finds me alone, and I have to eat. Most of the time, I either stop by Walgreens for Lunchables and soda, or get room service. However, every so often, I feel a need to venture out into the world, so as not to become a complete shut-in. I find a restaurant, we dance the dance, and I sit there with my book, ready to order my food, scarf it down, and get the hell out. What need have I to linger? You linger over company, good or bad. You plow through food if you're just there to push it down your gullet.

Of course, I feel like everyone is staring at me. I say that because I stare at the solo diners when I see them, and I wonder what their story is. Like the other day, I was having dinner with Z.M., and sitting a table over was another solo diner. I recognized all the traits, the barren look on her face, the crossword puzzle she was working on, getting through her meal ASAP and trying to get out ASAP. We almost collided going to the bathroom, and I wanted to give her a high five and say "I'm with you." Of course, after 1995, I learned you can't do that to strangers the hard way. The restraining order should have expired by now; I don't want another.

It's not as if there's anything wrong with eating alone in public. Except there is something wrong with eating alone in public. More than anything, it's a subtle reminder that, well, you're alone. Again, nothing wrong with being alone. It's just kind of sad. Eating is one of our fundamental survival activities. You eat with others, on a very basic level, you're saying "I am existing next to you." It's different than sitting next to them on the metro, when you're forced together. Generally, you choose the people you eat with, and even if not, at least there's still that social component to it. In some ways, maybe eating with others is a subtle form of acceptance and love.

Think about how vulnerable we are when we're eating. Seated, hands full, mouths full, not really in any position to defend ourselves. Eating with someone is also a very basic show of trust. "I trust you not to stab me while I eat this potato." I'm trying now to remember a meal I've had with someone I don't trust, and I really can't. But, as is my right as a writer, I am imagining eating lunch with someone I don't trust. I'm baring my teeth a lot, and not at ease.

I just found http://www.solodining.com/ after a quick Google search. I want to go the opposite route and set up a website specifically to find the fellowship members a dining companion for a couple hours on short notice. Some auto-match criteria based on day/time, you put in your preferences and locations, and are told to meet somewhere at somewhen with someone you don't know. And why do I feel like I'm reinventing online dating?

But really, not as such, except exactly so. Still, at least for someone that travels, this would be a surprisingly useful tool. Hell, for anyone that doesn't want to eat alone, this could be useful. Maybe this is my destiny, to unite people for the purposes of eating a meal that wouldn't be so solitary.

Hm. Solo diner that goes through a trash can in a women's restroom at Starbucks. I am a pervert, apparently.

All Good

2010-01-15T16:36:00.004-05:00

I wished A.A. a happy birthday, as his upcoming birthday looms near. He expressed mild displeasure at having to witness yet another birthday, to which I responded he'd done some great things, and he would continue to great things even after the passage of this day, and that everything would turn out OK. It helped him deal with the birthday.

Ultimately, people want me to tell them that "everything will be OK." I didn't learn this lesson for a long time. Growing up, I thought they wanted me to tell them what to do, or how to resolve their problems. And still, some people want that, but mostly, they turn to me because they want to know they're not alone, and that they'll get past X, where X equals whatever their problem is. And a lot of people would get mad at me for "not listening" to them, to the point where it became obvious it didn't matter what I said, so long as it was "everything will be OK."

This was not an easy lesson to learn. I am like a mule, stubborn as all hell. It goes against my natural instinct to solve a problem. My legal training taught me to apply the law to a fact pattern, i.e. solving a problem. My job requires me often to solve problems. I played a lot of Tetris growing, up, i.e. solving a problem. See a problem, solve a problem. That works for objects and situations. It generally fails with people. As I've learned, you can't help people unless they want help. Why fix what's working? Accept it for what it is, accept them for who they are, help only when they need it, not when you think they need it.

That is part of why you cannot solve people's problems for them. Oftentimes, they don't want you to solve the problem. They may know what the solution is already, in which case they wouldn't need your help in implementing, or they are denying what they need to do, and just want some reassurance that (all together now) everything will be OK. It can be rough watching people make their mistakes on their own, or so I have been told when people watch me stumble and fall all too often. However, you need to let them make a lot of mistakes, learn from them, become better people. Otherwise, you get this current generation of entitlement and expectation the world is handed to you on a platter.

It isn't difficult to listen to people. There's a very simple list of requirements that works for me. Sit down next to them, or stand if they prefer. Look them in the eye every once in a while, if they're not crying. If they are, put your hand on their shoulder. Shut your mouth. Make them believe that, at that moment, they are the most important person in the world. Fake it if you don't believe it. Stop thinking about what you're going to say when they stop talking. Listen to them. Listen to them some more. Listen to them until the silence becomes too unbearable for them after they stop talking. Listen to what they're not saying, as well as what they're saying. Remember what they said. Make them believe that what they're saying is important. Fake it if you don't believe it. Don't tell them what you'd do, unless they explicitly ask it, and then make sure they want to hear it. Finally, tell them you're sorry to hear it, that the situation sucks, and that eventually, everything will be OK. Simple, right?

Oftentimes, it's the same thing with people that have legal questions. The answer can almost be secondary. The basic point, that everything will be OK, that there is a course of action sustainable under the law that won't result in a judgment posted against them, or a prison term. Note that this applies more to civil questions than criminal questions, but can be applied to both in certain situations. It is just law, but because it's the law, people tend to get frightened, because of everything that can go wrong. I'm a wizened shaman, sans beard, and I know the magic incantation (all together now): everything will be OK.

You can get a sense of a person, and who they are, just be what they do when you talk to them. Take my aunt and uncle, very different people. She was trained as a teacher, he is a computer developer. She hears what I have to say. He hears I'm not doing the right thing. For him, it goes back to the issue of problem solving. Here's a problem. Solve it. For her, it's a case of teaching. Listen and hear, suggest if you need to, otherwise just listen. I like them both, but guess to which I respond more favorably.

***

I love telling stories. Two thousand years ago, I would have been the tribe's scribe or oral historian. Nowadays, I'm just a compulsive liar because I need to tell people stories. I love storytelling so much I have been working on a novel that, chances are, no one will really ever see because I just had to tell the story. Of course, every story needs at minimum one to tell it, and one to hear it, and for right now, I fulfill both roles. But still, I want someday for someone not me to hear the story.

All at once, storytelling is both wildly important and simply frivolous. Let's start with the latter. Few people make their livings off storytelling. Ours is not a society that can sustain that. With the ever-increasing role technology plays, needs must reward those that can advance our technology, or better weave it into our lives. Storytelling becomes a diversion, but does not truly make our lives better.

Yet stories fuel our dreams, and it is through our dreams that we make the world a better place. By imagining what might become, we're all forced to explore those possibilities, somehow make the intangible tangible. I think of it as the father's role in the son's accomplishments. The son did all the grunt work, but who nurtured the son in the first place?

Withholding Information

2010-01-03T15:45:00.000-05:00

Writing comprises a significant aspect of my job (and my life), but if I had lived six hundred years ago, it is possible that I would not have been allowed the privilege of learning to write. Before Gutenberg's printing press, books were rare and limited to the upper classes. Once printing made books widely accessible, more people were able to learn to read and write. Resistance arose from those who had that privilege, trying to keep the information from spreading to those without that privilege. The haves wanted to keep the have nots down. Ultimately, the fact that I can type this, post this freely to the web, and others can read it without a second thought shows who won.

At work, we had a discussion about writing technical documentation, one that reoccurs. Some feel that my job is extraneous, as the computer code is self-documenting. If you want to know what it does, you should be able to open the files and read it yourself. Though this is not necessarily a case of rarity, it is a case of the haves against the haves not. However, now the disparity results from knowledge scarcity, not necessarily resource scarcity. Also, reading code is not as important as reading a written language. Code is a much more limited subset of language, and some would even argue that code doesn't convey information in the same way that a language does.

The base issue remains, that people don't want to share. Not a blanket statement, but true more often than not. Look at toddlers playing. Up until they were playing together, they were the focus of their worlds, and when their worlds collide, they are forced to learn how to share. They resist, and many will do it because they have to get along, but given the choice, they will not share. Hell, I hate sharing my food. L.C. one time forked some food off my plate, and I almost flipped out because she did it without asking. I am highly territorial with my food, for some unknown reason. Probably a dirty residual effect of being an only child.

Barter systems and monetary systems only work because the two parties (in the simplest example) require more than they can generate on their own. If one party could grow the wheat and raise the goat, they wouldn't need to trade for either, they could be self-sufficient and live on their own. What it boils down to, that need forces us to live as a social species, even though our technological innovations are making it more and more possible (though not entirely likely) to live a solitary life. As we go on, and we are raised more and more with technology as the intermediary for our interaction with others, we come more and more to shun that human interaction, in favor of the technological.

My hatred of how pervasive technology has become is more because of how it is changing our society, not necessarily for the better. However, am I no better than all those nobles that argued the common man should not be allowed to read, because it would irrevocably change our society? I can't predict the future, and oftentimes I feel like I'm trapped between two worlds, the humane and the technical. The world keeps moving towards the technical, we are integrating it more into our lives, and I am part of a rapidly falling group of holdouts. All this coming from someone who couldn't go through a day without touching a computer.

***

The large-scale and small-scale can be in opposition to each other. Let me give you an example. I think that in the long term, "everything will be OK." However, in the short term, everything sucks. Similarly, I do not believe in the goodness of humanity at large, but I do believe in individuals being good. It's just that the mass of humanity drowns out those good people.

I also believe that we don't have a set identity, that our surroundings are just an important factor as to who we are as much as our personality. You act slightly differently around your family, your friends, your coworkers, your acquaintances, strangers, etc. I don't know how much variation is possible, but I think it could be very significant.

What does this all mean? I think people can be good, on the whole, yet be bad on the small scale, to certain individuals. Which is fine, unless you happen to be on the receiving end of the badness. Thanks much, E.S., if nothing else, you've reinforced that I need to be ever vigilant in my life against mean people, and that I need to really stop being so trusting and accepting of people.

For a fair amount of people, I am more valuable to them based on what I can do, as opposed to who I am. I mistake their overtures of friendship, take them at face value, and invariably get hurt when I realize the truth. Don't get me wrong, I'll still help my friends. The difference there is that they're, you know, friends. We don't interact only when they want to. There's a baseline level of respect, and all that jazz.

Thankfully, I never told E.S. about this blog. That would be fun, and I say that in a sarcastic manner. I have to wonder if people realize what they're doing, and if they rationalize it by saying it's OK because I either don't realize it, or haven't called them out on it. Or, even worse, I wonder if they just don't care, and want to see how far they can take it.

It's strange, I have met enough people that have used me that you would think it would sour my outlook on people, and that's not really the case at all. Despite me saying I don't believe in the goodness of humanity at large, I secretly do, deep down, and just don't want to admit it. Part of my problem is that I hope for the best, that people really are my friend, and these rose-colored glasses keep dooming me.

Yet I keep on meeting people, and I don't keep my guard up around them, and I end up going out of my way to do something to make their lives better and mine worse. If any of you wonder why I loathe giving out my perspective on a legal situation, this is the reason. Don't get me wrong, when it's important, I'll do it. That's the other secret, I'll help when it's important. It's just that most of the problems people throw at me are ridiculous and selfish. I make it clear it's not something I want to do, but if you come to me and ask about the nature of your non-compete agreement with your workplace because you want to quit your job, then you're not a friend, you just want free legal advice.

I suppose that it's a bit of a compliment, in a way. That I am a good enough human that you want my help. You just also happen to want nothing else to do with me, and that's fine, you could just tell me up front and we could keep things on a solely business level. I would prefer this. There are a lot of assholes I know that I like because they don't try to hide it. They're comfortable enough with who they are that they can be free to be it, and I respect that. Tell me what you want, and I'll assist you as best I can. But, please, don't keep up the pretense of trying to be friendly with me to make yourself feel better. Just take what you want, and then leave me alone. Let me spend my time and energy on the people that are actually important to me.

Of course, it suddenly occurs to me that it's necessary to keep up that pretense if you want to keep coming back to the well to get more water. If you have to resort to that, I guess I can only feel bad for you, after feeling bad for myself. You need to go meet more people.

Movies, Letters

2009-12-21T20:20:00.001-05:00

A list of bad movie taglines, or really awful inspirational sayings. I've done my best to be original and cringe-inducing. However, if any of these mimic actual taglines, it's a case of cryptomnesia.

-Tomorrow begins, today. (Or, really, any variation on the past, present and future all colliding at once. Yesterday begets tomorrow. Tomorrow's yesterday is today. Forever started yesterday. Tomorrow remembers the past. Today, we find tomorrow. Today, we remember yesterday. Yesterday's dream is tomorrow's nightmare.)
-Fight the good fight. (Or any variation on X the good X. Eat the good eat. Sex the good sex. Break the good break. Drink the good drink. I feel like a warped five-year old. Do the good do. Believe the good belief.)
-The battle starts now.
-Give thanks. (Or any tie-in to a major holiday. Fall in love all over again. Celebrate Xmas/Kwanzaa/Hanukkah. The movie rises on Easter day. Bring in the new year. Discover Columbus' new world. Call off work on Labor Day.)
-The countdown begins on 10/09/08... (Or anything that "cleverly" references the date. Remember, remember the fifth of November [and I wouldn't be surprised if that was an actual tagline for V for Vendetta]. The anti-Christ is born on 06/06/06. Get baked on 04/20. Believe in the new millennium on 01/01/01. Get primed on 02/03/05. The thousandth is revealed on 09/09/09.)
-Who is the Candlestick Maker? (Or any question purportedly answered by watching the movie. What is drama? Where is Paradise? Why can't we all just get along? When is the salvation? How badly did you want to watch this movie?)

***

I recently wrote a physical letter for a care package. That is not so unusual. People generally include some form of correspondence with the items therein, so as to nourish the recipient's soul as well as their body.

What took me aback was how much I liked the act of (legibly) writing a letter. Most of my correspondence includes a keyboard as the writing tool. When I do write long hand, it is either in my journal, or for a first draft of a story. Very rarely do I find myself in a position to write to another individual. It felt sort of right.

Don't get me wrong. I do appreciate the convenience and immediacy email affords us. However, I think that we sacrifice a certain amount of intimacy for the alacrity. And I do not refer to bawdiness. Heaven knows so many have been brought down by lewd emails and texts. No, I refer to the fact that you are given something tangible, that sort of intimacy.

Think of the last time you received a note or letter, something handwritten. You had the paper itself, something to hold. You had their handwriting, unique and part of them. The imperfections that come with a handwritten note, maybe an erasure or two, a strike out, misspelled words.

Yeah, Luddism forever.

That sentiment makes the following more understandable, but not any more timely. I want a pen pal. Not a complete stranger, mind you, but someone I already know, and want to converse with in extended fashion. Yes, by modern standards, this is quite insane.

Realistically, there aren't many people I talk to to begin with, and most of them, I already have regular communication with them in some form. Besides, how do you explain this to someone? "Yeah, I know I could email you or text you or call you, but can I start writing you letters?" People already consider me a bit off, but even I consider this off-the-wall, even for me.

High Hurdles

2009-12-01T19:00:00.003-05:00

I dreamt last night. Well, that's deceptive. I dream every night. Last night, however, I remembered my dream.

I was in a race, probably one hundred and ten meter hurdles. I have never run the hurdles in my life, too short for them. I'd have to plant my hand on the hurdles and kick myself over, or do a slide beneath them and run a penalty, not to mention killing my hips against the track. Still, it was a race, and I was the only participant.

The first hurdle was your traditional hurdle, and I made it over just fine, slowing down only to make it over. The next one was higher, maybe at chest level, and this one I really did have to plant my hands on it and kick myself over. The third was probably around neck level, and this one I actually had to hoist myself up.

Each hurdle rose higher and higher. Soon they were multi level affairs and took longer and longer to get up, but I eventually hurdled each of them. Then the tenth and final hurdle. It was on a campus-like setting, the hurdle was a building that had been constructed around a tree, it rose several stories high, and the finish line was on top of that building. People were milling around the ground, and everyone was waiting for me to go up.

Didn't even hesitate. I started climbing.

It was pretty damned rough, I'm not a climber, and there weren't many hand holds. The higher I went, the harder it was to find purchase against the building or tree. About halfway up, I wrapped my arm around a branch loop and hung there, trying to figure out where my next handhold was. I had a few stories to go, but there was no way to go. And then, it started raining. Not a light drizzle, it was a serious downpour.

I could feel my arm slipping, losing my grip, and I had to cry down to the fire department waiting below for help, because I wasn't going to survive much longer. It felt so awful, I started crying out, because I'd come so close, and I couldn't go any further. That was when I woke up screaming.

Despite all that, I find some solace in this dream. Yeah, it was kind of crappy, and it would seem to imply that I feel like events in my life outside my control are keeping me from succeeding, but that's the wrong message to take from it (although that is a message, and I need to think about that).

First, I ran the race, even though I've never done hurdles, even though it was getting ridiculous in terms of height, and only gave in when death was imminent. I'm trying my best.

Second, I didn't hesitate at any point, except when I couldn't find a handhold on the last hurdle. I just dived right in and kept on going.

Third, and perhaps most important, I remembered this dream. I haven't remembered many dreams over the past few months, due to the insomnia, but this one I recalled right after I woke up, after my eighth hour of sleep that night. Were they all consecutive? No, but I was able to get eight hours of sleep over eleven hours. This definitely beats two hours of sleep a night. Is everything in my life resolved? No, I've hit that point where nothing will ever be resolved, but I think I've finally found a bit of peace in my life. Work is not as ridiculous as it once was. Well, it is, but I've learned that it's not as important, and I shouldn't obsess. If things work out at work, they work out. If not, I fix the mistake, pick up, move on.

Unwanted Attention

2009-11-21T22:33:00.004-05:00

In high school, I worked at a research laboratory. One day, perhaps almost at random, K.C. told me that gay men would find me attractive. He then said that I should take it as a compliment. I am unsure as to what K.C. was trying to tell me. Was he gay? Was A.T., his fiancee, just a beard? I lost touch with them after I left for college, and still don't know what he was trying to say.

***

A lot of men can't read social cues, or are stubborn. Witness the last time you've been in a bar, a guy keeps talking to some woman at the bar looking in the opposite direction, her body closed off, looking everywhere but at him. Yet, he still keeps talking because she accepted the drink he bought her. You wonder why he can't realize what's going wrong, if he figures that if he tries long enough, something good will happen.

I don't get hit on much. When it does happen, I usually don't even recognize it, because it's such a rare occasion. Even if I do recognize it, it's a welcome surprise. I want it to keep going, and I have almost never been the woman looking away, until today.

***

Fast forward to the grocery store. I was about to buy some groceries, when I noticed a plate of baked goods by the bakery entrance. Having never successfully shed my obsession with taking free food when offered (thank you college), I figured that I would grab a snack and go straight to the checkout. Very straightforward.

When I grabbed a piece, the store employee gave his spiel for me to buy more food. I stood there politely and nodded my head as he continued talking. He was an older gentleman, starved for attention based on the fact that he wouldn't stop talking, and wore a plain gold band on his right ring finger, beneath the latex glove (he was serving food, after all). Short cropped hair, thinning. Bit of a paunch. Perfectly average.

Now, if I had to remind you, I don't like talking to strangers. I still think that I do need to stretch my boundaries, so I have decided that if strangers engage me, I will try to engage them back. If nothing else, it makes for a mildly interesting story. Also, I'd just gotten a haircut, had gelled hair, and a few days worth of stubble. Why do I mention that? When I looked in the mirror, it made me look just young and scruffy enough to pass for a college aged student. The importance of this detail will come a little later.

For whatever reason, whether it's a vibe I give off, or the strangers that feel comfortable engaging me, a fair amount of people have no problem with telling me their life stories. He started talking about his next door neighbors, and then a strange exchange:

Store Baker: So, do you have any kids?
K.T.: No.
S.B.: Oh. So, how old are you?
K.T.: Twenty-nine.
S.B.: Really? I thought you were eighteen or nineteen.
K.T.: Thank you. (But I thought to myself, why in blue heaven would you ask if I had kids? The answer became obvious in hindsight.)
S.B.: You know, you are gorgeous.
K.T.: Oh, uh, thanks.
S.B.: Twenty-nine. Amazing.
K.T.: Yeah, I've always looked young.

Needless to say, my gay-dar was going off the charts. Only much later did I realize that he was trying to ascertain my sexual orientation by inquiring about the kids. He then said that the women must be falling all over me. I did not realize this was further him trying to figure out which team I batted for. He then asked if I had a girlfriend, and I hemmed and hawed for a second, because I am not good at lying once I am thrown off. Looking back, this probably encouraged him more than anything.

I made up a story and he was very excited, repeating that women would be crazy not to be my girlfriend. This started to make me want to back away, but I couldn't figure out a good way to run without being outright rude. I didn't grow up a pretty female. I've not been in that many situations where a guy was hitting on me and I didn't want to be hit on; as I recall, it's only happened two or three times in my life. I don't have that skill set, to make a graceful exit. Every time I mentioned the grocery basket, he kept talking, kept telling me about his life.

Turns out he bakes as a side job. Brownies and what not. Gave me his business card, kept talking about all the places where he delivered, then asked me where I lived. I told him the truth, and he mentioned how his route took him past there.

Anonymous ladies, on the rare few occasions that I have approached you and attempted to hit on you, and you were trying to make it obvious you did not want to talk to me, and I couldn't pick up on your cues, please let me apologize. I know it doesn't make it any better, but I now understand what you felt like, I respect you all as actual people, and thank you for trying to be polite and respectful and spare my feelings. I don't know how you do it.

You know how when you corner a wild animal, it bares its teeth? I started smiling, although I felt like it was the fake artifice resembling a smile, more just an awkward move which I had hoped would repel him. No, he said I had a wonderful smile, and lovely dimples. At this point, he leaned in and just told me straight out that he was gay. I told him there was nothing wrong with that. Of course, this stranger giving away baked goods just told me that he was gay. What was I supposed to do, drop the basket, curse at him, and run? No, at the time, I figured that he was lonely and looking for attention. I was correct, just not in the matter of degree.

Bolstered by my statement, he then told me that there was something about Asians and Hispanics he loved. Yes, their black hair. He then told me that from a distance, I looked Hispanic, but up close, he saw I was Asian.

Ladies, from now on, I'm just going to say outright "Hi, I'm [K.T.]. Would you like to go on a date and get to know each other better? No? Well, thank you for your time." And then I am going to walk away and not keep trying.

It kept getting worse. The more nervous I got, the more I bared my teeth, which only led him to make more comments about my smile. I could feel myself blush, so I mentioned that, unable to think of anything else to say. He took this as an extraordinarily good sign. I mentioned that I had to go for the fifteenth time or so, and he started mentioning that his contact information was on his card, and that I should come on over. Maybe I could help him with his computer (why did I mention that I worked with computers?). He also told me that he lived with his friend (which explained the ring). Did this mean they had an open relationship? I'm not sure I want to find out. He also talked about the brownies that he baked. At this point, I got a very weird, very strong To Catch a Predator vibe. He thought I was eighteen or nineteen, pretty close to seventeen, and was inviting me to his house to play with his computer and eat brownies.

I told him I'd do my best, and that I had to really go (which was true, because I'd been holding the basket so long my fingers went long. I didn't want to set it down because that would have really screwed me over). In an extremely stilted motion, he then leant over and placed his left hand on my shoulder, let it linger there a little longer than he should have. He also told me his work schedule, and when he was free. I just nodded and kept walking. One of the last things he mentioned was that I was going to tell everyone I was talking to a gay man today. The other was that he wasn't going to forget my name. (Yeah, I gave him my real name, instead of my go-to alias.)

This marks the second time someone has hit on me in that grocery store, and the second time I didn't realize it until later. Thankfully, the first time was a female. This also makes me a tease twice, and encourages me that I can attract the older homosexual baker demographic if need be. To both of you, I am so sorry, I didn't mean to lead you on or not pick up on the cues, I just haven't been in that situation that often. I am so sorry.

Not that I approve of the normal female response, but I definitely understand it much better. You're in a public forum, and a random stranger starts talking. You were raised to be polite, you don't want to cause a scene, so you stop and listen. You figure that it's just going to be a quick conversation, and it will pass quickly. Then it starts getting really awkward, someone you have no interest in is viewing you almost as a piece of meat instead of an actual human. They want to do things to you, you know what they want to do to you, but you don't have a say in turning them away. At the same time, it's unwanted attention, but they're not trying to be jackasses, and it's flattering in a weird way. So you try to be nice, try to extricate yourself, drop subtle hints so as not to hurt them, and they misinterpret that as interest. You try stronger and stronger hints, and it's not taking, until finally you just have to be clear and walk away. So be it if they get hurt, you didn't ask to talk to them. I will definitely keep this in mind the next time I talk to a stranger, male or female (these days, apparently you can't tell who's interested in you).

So, let's recap today's events: Woke up, did laundry, cleaned apartment, got lunch, got haircut, got hit on by old man, went for run, cleaned apartment further, edited novel. Which one of these is not like the others?

I really liked that store. I may now have to find a new go-to store.

Remaindered Information

2009-11-08T01:28:00.003-05:00

Found some old posts I never published, so we're going to knock them out of the way.

***

I used to be obsessed with office supplies. Still have a storage cube in the corner of my apartment filled with pens, binder clips, key rings, batteries, folders, legal pads, heaven knows what else. I touch it maybe once every three to four months, usually for a pen. Note that I have pens everywhere. Sometimes I just feel the urge to get up and walk over to it. I could probably trash, mulch, or place into storage most of it, seeing as how it's become yet another piece of dead weight in my life. Still, there's something about the order in it, having office supplies, that is reassuring.

This contrasts with my natural packrat tendencies, and my general lack of ordering in my apartment. If you look at my desk, either in the office or at home, you'd be surprised at how much crap I keep on a desk, and how little of it I actually use. The toy factor is pretty high, as is the Boy Scout motto always whispering in the back of my minds: "Be Prepared." Life is random, chaos rules, etc. We cannot predict what may come. All we can do is make preparations and await the unknown. Is it to level of obsession? Probably not, but I feel very deeply the need to save everything, on the off chance that it comes in handy.

It represents a different type of order to me, not the kind that actually has everything in its own place, but that everything has a solution. Yes, I know intimately that insoluble problems taunt humanity on the large scale, and me on the small scale. Still, with enough resources, I can combat the disorder of a problem, I can fix it. Through the wild and crazy mess shall emerge a neat and ordered solution. It is much the reason Tetris appeals to me. You cannot beat Tetris, you can only hold back the disorder for a time, until it overwhelms you. But, oh, how beautiful the empty screen when you complete line after line.

One of my new idle obsessions is organizing and running a double-elimination tournament bracket. Likely, we would have to organize it for Street Fighter IV, as the fighting game "scene" is established and widespread and there have been many prior efforts to run tournaments, many of which ended successfully. It would be fun to watch players of different skills and perspectives come together to beat each other. However, even more fundamentally, from a pool of players, we create a mechanism through which they expose themselves, until we are left with one, the best today.

The other, strange as it sounds, is to study databases, maybe get some certification in database administration. Not that I ever thought about it much before, but the concept of a database appeals to me on some primal level. Everything in its place, a place for everything, a proper database keeps information organized. Further, you can delve into it and retrieve said information. A brilliant concept, and really, one that, had you told me about it earlier on in my life, I would've tried to pursue it as a living.

You would think that it's only information that I like ordered, but think again. I tell a story, it jumps all over the place. It follows no pattern up close, as the details and descriptions jump from place to place. If anything, sometimes it reads like a crack addict was observing the world. There is a broad order, but sometimes, you just need stuff out of place, because you're telling a story. Narrative perfection and chronological order don't necessarily track with each other. If I did write with perfect order, it would probably read a little robotic, a little artificial.

***

I received a call from a private/blocked number, which freaks me out because you need to have taken steps to purposely block your incoming number. Even if I see a number that I don't recognize, it's fine, because I can still answer with at least some idea that there's a person on the other side. Here, I got a little worried.

Turned out it was the fraud department for my credit card company, asking me about several suspicious purchases made in the United Kingdom and California. The nice lady answered my bewildered questions, keeping a calm voice and answer my questions no matter how redundant or ridiculous they were. At least I am not being charged, but I do need to cancel the card, and will be without a functioning card for a few days. This should make my flight check-in interesting next week.

What got me was that several charges were placed with non-profit organizations and charitable organizations. I do not remember what they were called, only that they were part of the list of charges made. In addition, small amounts, less than ten dollars, were charged to each, but the charges were made.

In effect, I got ripped off by a modern day Robin Hood and his band of merry hackers.

What most took the sting out of this was that I am not going to be charged for the roughly two thousand dollars. However, I take some miniscule solace from the fact that they tried to donate to charity. Granted, due to the small amounts, it seems that they were merely testing the waters, seeing what they could get away with as a small test before moving on to bigger and better. Does this make them better people? Probably not, but it's a start. Maybe if they hadn't spent more than a thousand dollars with travel companies and the like, I would be more sympathetic.

***

I told R.Y. in a sleep-deprivation-induced haze that "My life is all about running. I am constantly running away from something, running towards something, or just literally running." I suppose to some extent, this applies to all of us, though his response was "Why don't you just wait for once?"

Inaction too often feels like the sin of omission to me. I cannot entirely content myself with just waiting, even though patience constitutes a virtue which I cannot live my life without. More often, I feel the need to flip a pen, sway to and fro, do something, anything, to get past the moment.

Even right now, I am staying awake because I cannot stand the thought of going to bed, only to wake up a scant few hours later. If I burn myself out for long enough, I will have no choice but to sleep longer in order to get through a few sleep cycles. At the same time, I could just stop this generalized worry, and let myself sleep.

That I am running implies that I am not content with the given situation. However, that I am running also raises the question whether or not I will stop running once I find contentment. Then that raises the question of whether or not I will know what contentment is once I find it, and even more, have I already found contentment, and passed it up?

Running and waiting exist in a perpetual tension. One is concerned with striking forward as you can, pushing through it all to get to point B. One is concerned with being where you are. (Is it obvious that I'm having trouble staying up and being coherent? I have no idea what the hell I'm trying to write about now, or what I'm trying to say.)

Little Naps

2009-10-31T15:01:00.002-04:00

Free time and sleep are the two most valuable commodities I have. Free time and sleep also happen to be the two commodities on which I am constantly running short. As a child, I hated to sleep, and I hated too much free time, because it meant I was bored, and didn't know how to respond correctly. Now, when I have free time, I don't know how to react, generally because it has been way too long since I last enjoyed more than a few minutes of free time. Also, I have sleep time, but I keep waking up in the middle of the night. I know people sleep less as they get older, but I had hoped that I would be able to sleep in more than four hour bursts.

A few years back, A.A., J.H. and myself were discussing how much we would pay for a good night's sleep. J.H. went up to eighty dollars, and I remember thinking that was foolish. At the time, of course, I was getting more than enough sleep every night. I would now step it up to one hundred dollars, just to be able to sleep the sleep of the just. It doesn't seem like there's anything that's driving me particularly crazy, to the point that I would lose sleep. Then again, it is possible that everything is driving me particularly crazy, and the union of all that is causing me to wake up and worry.

Based on various research, sleep medication is not a long-term answer. It can get to the point where you become dependent on the medication just to fall asleep. This causes a whole new set of issues, making you worse off than you were. In the short term, however, it can get you to sleep, while you work out your issues. And for someone in my spot, it has generally been a matter of issues. It may even be as simple as figuring out what the issue is. I can't deal with it until I figure it out. Once that happens, I should be good. Maybe even able to sleep once again.

Informative Collation

2009-10-07T21:27:00.002-04:00

The other day, my mother called me up saying that I'd received a thick packet from some legitimate sounding organization. I asked her to open it, and she said there were a bunch of booklets and four sheets describing what was going on. I asked her to try to read it to me, but the only words she could discern were "United States District Court of Delaware". I looked up the organization on the internet. They specialized in bankruptcy. Since someone committed credit card fraud using my card a few months ago, I immediately worried someone had stolen my identity, bought a house, then went into bankruptcy, and I was liable. What followed was some frantic credit checks and preparing to drive up there, until I asked her to just photograph the papers, then send me the images. It turned out that I can be part of a class action suit, and could recover (maybe even thirty dollars!). But, naturally, it freaked me out.

I live in a different state from my parents. My father receives a lot of spam mailings about his Medicare. The problem is that occasionally, there is legitimate mail that goes to him that he needs to fill out. He worries about it a lot, and I can't always be there to read it the day he gets it, so he stresses about it until I take a look. Strange how these worry habits are passed from parent to child. For the past few years, I've taken regular trips up to review the piles of mail and sift through what was junk and what was not. He had to wait for a while for me to review some of these at times. Why we didn't hit on this solution before, I don't know.

Technology is a wonderful thing. It enables my parents to transmit images of letters within minutes, allows me to review them, then lets me send back comments and completed forms, sans signature, which my dad needs to provide. Cars have enabled me to travel from one state to another, to move more than fifty miles beyond where I was born. Scientific progress allows me to learn about more in a day than people could have learned in a lifetime three hundred years ago. Information has become cheap and plentiful, and we are all enriched for it.

Or are we? My parents could email the images, but if I lived a few blocks away, unable to move further, I could just walk over and check. I can learn so much in a day, but how much is actually useful, and perhaps more important, how much do I actually apply to life? William Kamkwamba built windmills out of junk. I read about humor and go on about my daily life. This is the problem with plenty, you no longer desire it as fully as you might if you had to work for it. People that download an inordinate amount of material tend not to use it, because there's no need to use it. It was too easy to get.

We do not respond well to being given everything, because there needs to be some sort of struggle in our daily lives in order for us to feel complete. This is why people manufacture drama, because without actual struggle, they need some sort of conflict to feel real, and alive. Buy a pot pie, it tastes OK, you forget about it. Make a pot pie (Correctly), and you remember it, and you cherish it, because you put in real work. I have handheld devices that could play music nonstop for a week. Don't really care, it's almost worthless with all that music.

With all this information, ignoring the issue of labor required to keep the physical society going, it almost gets to the point where it's not necessarily the person with the most information, but the person with the best ability to organize and sift through it. Mycroft Holmes is the person we need. Somewhere out there is an individual that doesn't even realize that all the information they're collating and storing away could be key to helping society.

***

That rambled much more than what I normally write for this blog. I think the issue is that due to various changes, I'm no longer as stressed about the things in my life that stress me. As the depression disappears, so does the edge to my writing. I am always torn when an author I like finds happiness. The quality of their work drops, but on the personal level, they're happy. It's something of a push, but I guess the tie goes to the happy person. Not that there was much quality to my writing to begin with, so when I get happy, it really becomes crap.

Long story short? Expect somewhat bland and meandering posts until things go to hell in my life again.

Sleepless Dreaming

2009-09-28T23:08:00.002-04:00

It strikes me that around this time last year, I was losing sleep due to stress. Well, it is happening again. I have been waking up at five in the morning, then four, then three thirty. Last night, I went to sleep around ten thirty, woke up around three or so. Tossed and turned for several hours, then managed to get in a dream-filled hour of sleep from six to seven. The only reason I know that I was dreaming was because my dream was drastically different from what I was thinking about for the three prior hours, surreal, almost intangible.

This concerns me. Last year, I lost sleep because of worry over work. I could not believe how poorly I was doing (so I thought). It turned out that I was doing alright for the most part, and that I just had to learn from my one error. It also was necessary for me to get away from myself, if you will. I let the client take advantage of the situation, and should not have done so, not without taking a stand.

Now that a year has passed, I have learned, but I also am in a somewhat similar situation, and have to rise to the occasion. Like bread. Delicious banana bread. Mmmm. Maybe I should eat before typing these blog posts. At any rate, most of my life has been lived in the shadows of others, peeking out from behind the curtain, and so on. Now, events are conspiring to force me into a more active role. I have to be bold. I have to be a leader.

It is no secret that I am shy, or at least that I think I am shy. It is no secret that I am perfectly content to let others lead the way, and for me to follow. I follow, that is what I do. But, apparently, I cannot abide by that forever. Well, I could, if this life were to remain static, if I continued to be the same person that I have been. And I cannot. Not good enough for everyone else, and not good enough for me. R.Y. probably put it best when he told me, "Be yourself. Just be a better yourself."

I am now fully three years removed from my post-graduate education. "They" say that when you get out of a long-term relationship, you need at least the same amount of time to get over it. Am I ever going to forget it? No, no matter how much I drink. Maybe it is time to move on, however. That part of my life is done, it has shaped me. I still don't like it, but I accept that I went, and I grudgingly accept that I am qualified to be a lawyer. It closed off a lot of opportunities, but it also, in its way, made my life better (though incredibly indirectly).

With that in mind, it is probably also time to step up and take on this responsibility. I may always hear the taunting voices in the back of my head saying that I cannot, but then, why can't I just listen to the voice next to me saying that I can? Those voices are from the past, more things I need to believe behind. What I need to listen to is the voice from here and now.

Still going to lose sleep over it.

How? Why?

2009-09-08T21:12:00.002-04:00

Hm. I got the comments back for my novel, and I'm too scared to read them. This was not entirely unexpected. I feel like it's more than just a story being critiqued. It's a part of me that's being critiqued, more than just my sense of style, grasp of grammar, pick of punctuation. No, more than that, it's my sense of wonder, and my imagination, those essential qualities that make me what I am, that are isolated under the spotlight, exposed for the world.

If it comes down to the choice between learning how something works, and learning why it works, I think I am the kind of person that would rather know why. The first example that popped in my head, a car. You can tell me the basics (if I recall this correctly), that gasoline fills the fuel tank, which is then somehow combusted by spark plugs, which explosion pushes twinned pistons back and forth, which transfers power from the engine block to the axle, which spins the wheels, which makes it go. That's all good and well, but I would rather know why we have cars, what situation led to us having them. Tell me about Henry Ford, his quest to make cars affordable to the modern man. Tell me how our sense of exploration and curiosity could not continue to outstrip our technology, how we would eventually come up with a way to make travel more convenient. It's human ingenuity creating the products, not necessarily the products, that tickle my fancy.

That question, "Why?", impels my story. The simple question take Rollie on his mad quest, and though I eventually reveal some of the "How?", that "How?" serves two purposes. It is a payoff to everyone wondering about the nuts and bolts of the story, revealing some more background, but sets up an even bigger "Why?" in the end. The answer he comes up with is less than satisfactory, but it is still an answer. What matters more is his journey to get there, and how he attempts to answer "Why?", and how he gets his answer, that make the story (I hope) intriguing.

It's funny, that's almost turned on its head with these comments. I have yet to see them, I'm so freaked out. But I think they're going to be a lot of "How?" (How does this work within the story construct, how this fails the story construct), and I'm going to have to figure out the "Why?" (Why did I include it in the first place), then rework the "How?" (How can I make this work with that original intent). The "Why?" is usually simple; the story is as intimate to me as a first kiss (that lasts for over two years...). The "How?" is where it all goes awry.

I write a fair amount by "feel", whether or not the sentence feels right. The more esoteric rules of sentence and paragraph construction have long since been remanded to some dark corner of my mind, but the basics are as readily remembered as an old song. It's when I'm forced to open the hood and look at the engine more carefully where the problems arise. I sort of know how it works, but not to a great degree. Thus, the reworking becomes trial and error, half-hearted stabs at success and failure. It isn't the writing that makes you great, it's the editing.

These comments show me just how far I have come, but also show me how far I have to go. Think of a solitary wanderer walking down a path where the waypoints are twice as far as before, and the sun continues to set over an endless horizon. He continues to trudge on, though the road curve on into nothingness, and he will get discouraged, but still he walks. Why? Because he must, because he cannot turn back now, because he has come too far, because somewhere in the future, down the road, lies something great.

How does he do it? One step at a time.

Better Place

2009-09-07T22:07:00.004-04:00

There's so much that I couldn't tell you about the year previous. I couldn't tell you about my triumphs and tragedies because, quite honestly, I don't remember much of the past year. It was a rut, well-worn and deepening.

I finished several drafts of my novel, and have sent it out for editing, and now await (patiently) it's return, dripping with red ink and thoughtful comments. I settled into work, and traveled a fair amount for it. That pretty much describes most of the past year.

Several people I know say they're just killing time until they die, and I think last year might have been one of those. Not a waste, because I did finish and edit the novel, but everything else muddled into a status quo.

However, the last few weeks showed great promise for the upcoming year. If, fifteen years ago, you took me aside and told me it would take another fifteen years for my life to start making sense, I would've laughed at you. Now I'm just thankful that it's happening a little.

So, what happened? First new car, 2009 metallic grey Honda Civic I've named Julia. Another bill means more responsibility, but it isn't like I've been shirking responsibility. Helped meet a deadline or two at work, which finally convinced me that maybe I can be a helpful, contributing member of the team. Got to spend quality time with people, which reminded me how much they matter to me, even if I didn't think of it at the time. Also, met some new people, and they responded well, which means that the self-image I carry really is outdated and incorrect, and that I'm finally starting to pull it all together.

It has been an eternity since I've been able to look forward to tomorrow, but I really do. These last few weeks renewed my wellspring of hope, which as of late had been running dry. It scares me that I might once again let myself revel in my emotions, rather than push them beneath the surface and try to pretend they didn't exist, throwing out a snarky joke in their stead.

Maybe these past few weeks were just a blip on the radar, and things will regress to the mean again. And I've weighed that possibility, and that's fine. Maybe this upcoming year will dig a deeper rut. But what if it doesn't? What if things actually continue to get better?

People fear being sad because of how it makes them feel. But people also fear being happy because of the chance it might be ripped away and leave you even sadder. Five minutes of sunshine before a three day thunderstorm. At least if you're sad all the time, you can accept that you will always have that baseline to rely upon. It is an acceptable way to live, people do it all the time, but it gets tiresome. I am tired of being sad, and I am tired of people making me sad. We all have choices, we all have chances. I'm going to take a chance for once, I'm going to make the choice I normally wouldn't. I'm going to try to be happy.

This may be for naught. The wax on Icarus' wings melted, and he tumbled down to earth. I might plummet back down to the hoary depths, which is fine, because I know them. But, what if, and bear with me for a second, what if I fly? What if I jump at the precipice, and somehow keep soaring? What happens then?

Pretty early on, I knew that I wanted to make the world a better place, and I knew that "the world" consisted of my friends and family. Unfortunately, that definition doesn't encompass me. So, we're going to amend that world to include me.

For my twenty-ninth year, I hope to make the world, my world, a better place.

Forget That

2009-08-10T22:51:00.002-04:00

My dad's primary care physician suspected my dad was developing Alzheimer's Disease. This he told my mom because my dad was forgetting very simple things. Every time he went for a checkup, he'd keep asking for the same medical prescriptions that he'd asked for the time before, and the time before, and the time before. Naturally, repetitive behavior like this is an early indicator of the onset of this crippling disease, and especially for someone in his seventies like my dad, something to monitor. I'm not sure why he didn't tell my dad, other than it can be disturbing to tell someone that they're losing their coherence, getting unstuck in time, becoming disconnected with reality.

Naturally, my mom, in her straightforward fashion, asks my dad what's going on, if he's really not remembering that he's already got his prescriptions for several months out. She's one of those people that won't pussyfoot around a problem. She'll take a bat to it and walk right through it. My dad, on the other hand, he's got his reasons for everything, they make sense, he just doesn't ever tell anyone why. Turns out he knew exactly what he was doing, he was just scared of the prescription expiring and not having any of his medications in reserve. Thus, he wanted to stockpile several of the doctor's scrips just in case. And you wonder where I got my packrat mentality from.

It freaked me out when my mom first told me about this, because my father's memory isn't that great to begin with. Even when I was a kid, he'd forget a lot of things (like picking me up for school one afternoon). Me, I have a great memory, when I want to remember something. I'd forget a lot of the smaller things, to the point where my mom was convinced that when I got old, I'd have Alzheimer's, and that my dad would get Alzheimer's also. So far, so good, for the both of us. I still worry about him, partially because I'm worried about him, partially because through him lies my future (we're all selfish. Stop looking at me like that.).

He's retired, he's been retired for several years now. He gardens, he fishes when the weather is warm, though less and less the past few years. Mostly these days, he reads the newspaper in Chinese and watches Chinese television and movies. As far as I can tell, and my mom confirms, he doesn't do much that will engage his mind. I sort of understand his perspective. It's harder to get around, there's nothing to do after working for forty-some years, sometimes it takes effort to stay up during the day. Might as well go for the easy, mind-numbing option. He's seen his three kids grow up and go out on their own, sees his granddaughter once a year. His wife, just like him, has been independent, is independent, will be independent for years to come. In a way, I think he feels his job is done. Even if Alzheimer's creeps up on him, it's been a long run, a good run.

On the other hand, I really fear Alzheimer's, especially the early-onset version. I stopped using deodorant that applies aluminum, as one study showed a causal link between aluminum in the body and Alzheimer's. One of the reasons why I run is to help keep blood flowing to my brain, hopefully to keep it fresher and less likely to succumb to Alzheimer's. I am constantly daydreaming and writing for the main reasons, but also because I think that as long as I can flex my imagination, my brain is still working. Ever since outside forces kept me studying constantly in school, I have felt myself start an inevitable mental decline, age-related and lack-of-activity-related. See, five years ago, I'm sure I would've found a word that meant "lack-of-activity-related" immediately. Perhaps sloth or laziness, but as I typed that, "lackadaisical" kept popping into my head.

My dad and I are very similar, and because of that, we have never been very close. It's not that we don't love each other, it's just that we were never the kind of person that readily opens up and talks. Our conversations these days follow the same arc. I ask him about his Medicare and his medications that I don't understand, make sure he's OK. He asks about my job and my responsibilities that he doesn't understand, makes sure I'm OK. Once in a while, we bridge the gap, but for the most part, we stand opposite each other across a metaphorical chasm and wave. When you get down to it, though, we share Alzheimer's. I don't think he'd ever tell me that he might be afraid that it will happen to him. I won't ever tell him I'm afraid it will happen to me. I could be wrong about his fear; we're both pretty inscrutable in our own ways. But for now, I'm going to pretend that he is, just a little, and through that, we'll at least share something.

Starbucks Staycation

2009-07-28T21:28:00.003-04:00

One of the interesting side effects of traveling for work is that it has numbed my desire to travel outside of a fifty mile radius of my home (though, of course, how I define my home is something completely fluid and different each day). Hence, my staycation for the past two weeks. My time is almost up, but thus far, it has been incredibly relaxing and productive outside the context of work.

My daily schedule, which I could definitely get used to, involved waking up around eight, going to Starbucks, getting a hot chocolate or green tea, and then writing until noon. Once noon came around, it was time to go get lunch, either a sandwich or hamburger. Then, go to a bookstore coffee shop, and write for at least two hours. Rinse and repeat. If I got bored, people watch or play with the iPhone. There was a fair amount of people watching. At one point, I saw a moderately attractive blonde sitting in front of a series of textbooks and yellow-highlighted handwritten notes, talking on a phone, and decided to play the Sherlock Holmes game.

It started out that she was listening on her phone and saying nothing, while sitting in front of the books. At first, I had it narrowed down to studying for the bar exam or for medical school. It was definitely some sort of school, because she carried a bit of extra poundage on her frame, not so much as to be considered obese, but just enough to have been in a sorority in college, and have been put under extra stress. Part of me wanted to go with nursing school, but I didn't want to unfairly pigeonhole a moderately attractive blonde studying.

It turned out that the book she was studying was "Maternal-Child Nursing." I need to listen to my instincts more.

She had her hair pulled back in a ponytail. I don't know what that meant. A bandaid on her left heel, which means that she was wearing tight, potentially uncomfortable shoes, which means that she liked to look good, even to the detriment of her feet. Her toenails were painted bright red, and she had a toe ring on the second toe of her right foot, which backed it up. However, she was wearing comfortable clothing while studying, which meant she didn't have to look good all the time. When distracted, she would either touch the area between her breasts, pull at her bra cup, or bite her nails obsessively. Either she was studying intently, or flirting with the seventy-year old man two tables opposite. I am going to go with A. She covered her mouth at certain points in her constant phone conversations (bored out of her mind), which meant that she was saying something she did not want anyone to hear. I think it was at that point that she realized that I was staring, and was telling her friend, so I went back to the writing.

For the first day, it was almost entirely sitting and thinking and watching. I decided to set the next story six months after the end of the last one, and it has taken me a while to work out what happened in the interim. Over the past couple of weeks, the events have changed and been added onto, and a sickening amount of legality started working its way into the backstory, both for logic's sake, and for comedic relief.

I had always wondered what Starbucks looked like in mid-morning, once everyone had gone to work. At least for the summer time, the main groups that frequented were, in order from most common to least common: the elderly, mothers with young children and/or babies, driver's education classes that had let out, businessmen and businesswomen getting mid-day coffee, businessmen and businesswomen having meetings, duos working on their religious faith (mentor/mentee relationship), and on two occasions that I noticed, dates. And those were kind of sweet, they seemed to be having a good time, and they were on a date in the middle of a weekday.

On the individuals side, there were fewer patterns to notice, not to mention that they would come in, grab their coffee, and leave. The only patterns I could discern would be that anyone grabbing four or more coffees was young and looked a little stressed. One man cam in almost as often as I did, clad in a filthy t-shirt, stained and torn jeans, and a surprisingly well kept blazer. His salt-and-pepper beard and wild look made me wonder if he was mentally stable. I did take note of one individual wearing cowboy boots with his suit. Perhaps because the heels were low and his suit well-cut, he managed to pull it off without looking flamboyant.

While waiting in line for my hot chocolate or tea, I also heard the ridiculous orders people would throw out. The conclusions I could draw: those that said "small" instead of "tall" were making an active effort to not buy in to Starbucks, becoming semi-pretentious in the process (me). The longer and more difficult your order, the more likely you were also playing with your smartphone, had clean, well-groomed nails, and tended not to get it. If you held up the line because you had multiple orders, we didn't care. Once you tried apologizing, that just made all of us want to smack you.

There's a strong possibility that, whether intentionally or unintentionally, these people have in some form made their way into my writing. At least for me, character building is a matter of keeping a list of personality archetypes and personality traits/quirks in my head, then mashing them together in new patterns to come up with people. Generally, I fail at this remix, mostly because the people remain very familiar if you know the person on which I based them. Not to mention that for my writing during this staycation, I tended to use characters from the prior novel that I had already fleshed out. The one new character that I did create, now that I think about it, really had very little to do with any person that I had seen. It is one of those people that wants to be funny, tries their damnedest to be funny, and is only funny to themselves. They're the kind of person that wake up in the middle of the night, not to come up with the perfect retort, but because they just got the joke told five minutes before that retort was necessary.

Nowadays, when I write in a coffee shop or book store, I have a medium-sized Moleskine notebook and my pen. I used to take my laptop, but it became a ridiculous hassle to set up, and I could not go to the bathroom without risking losing my laptop to some quick-footed thief. Plus, I became "that tool." When I write, it forces me to go slower, because I do not write as fast as I type, and I have some more time to think. Plus, random notes and diagrams and lists are easier to insert.

And, what exactly is it that I have written? The beginning to book 2, six months out from the end of book 1, our protagonist now a glorified babysitter, a brutal murder by drowning drawing him back to the fold. A lot of plotting out what might happen over the arc of this novel, and that has already changed, but it was good to get a basic idea of what I wanted to happen, even if I do not get there.

But more important, the writing passed quickly. These two weeks have come and gone just like that. For a while, work was getting me down. I stepped away from it, refocused and remembered what was actually important, and it really helped. This writing thing is still not an easy thing, and it will never get easy, but at least I am starting to get there.

Personal Vignettes

2009-07-09T22:27:00.002-04:00

The mall Spencer Gifts stores always confuse me. Such a mish-mash amalgamation of the most random gag prizes and questionable tchotchkes. I am not confused by their continued ability to profit, just that they are able to stock their shelves with the oddest assortment of items. While inside, I came upon a bucket of canes, sitting in front of a series of gag sex toys (furry handcuffs, whips, chains: the good stuff). These were the canes you would only ever see on Halloween, the heads either human skulls or dragon skulls or medieval torture devices or, on the one that caught my eye, a stack of skulls growing larger.

That headpiece had to have weighed a good five pounds. I swung it experimentally through the air, exposing to the light that ridiculous male fantasy of being dropped into a one-on-ten fight situation and fighting your way out. (Though, really, don't call me Bruce Lee, call me Bruce Leave Me Alone. Those of you that saw me in a fight, your recollections are far different from the reality). The cane itself felt light, hollow, plastic, a good sign that with one solid strike, the cylinder would shatter, leaving me with a bit of bent plastic, and an awkward smile on my face.

One of the store's employees saw me, sidled on over, the chain extending from his pocket and down his leg a good foot and a half. He tried striking up a conversation, something to do with getting in a fight. We were on the same wavelength. I just wanted to be left alone and look around. Thinking I would try to freak him out, I said that if I had to get in a fight, I would smack someone in the foot as hard as I could, then when doubled over, I would swing the club up to smash their face in.

Pause with me for a second as we slow down time and examine my thought process, which flashed by in half a second, and where I went wrong. I assumed that an ultra-violent response would repulse him, as it would most strangers, and thus, by giving that response, there would be no need for him to continue. I also left it as brief a statement as possible, so as not to allow for any openings. The problem here, I should have analyzed the whole situation. He came over and talked about swinging the cane in battle. To such a person, my response is just an extension of the olive branch, an invite to further query.

So, his next question was "What do you take?" I had to shake my head and grunt. At first, it seemed like an illicit drug question, until I saw his smile and his slight lean forward, as if we were sharing some state of being that only he and I were privy to. I sort of knew he was not discussing drugs, but had no idea what he meant.

"Martial arts, MMA, do you do any of that, what do you take?" Ah, yes. I had to shake my head and say that I did not take anything, that I was merely an avid fan of martial arts movies, and spent entirely too much time with them. He kept trying to extend the conversation, and I kept repeating that I watched too many movies, and would be of no help to him. Soon thereafter, a physical opening presented itself, and I walked forward, and walked out.

***

While in Florida, I would run up and down the same two mile stretch of sidewalk every day. It turned out that on Google Maps, when I measured the distance to the nearest stop light from my hotel, it was almost exactly two miles.

Heading out from the hotel, the movie theater would be on my right. You cannot buy tickets online, but you can get a five dollar ticket all day every Tuesday. When I detoured one day to watch "The Hangover" in there, the audience was almost two-thirds the elderly. Then again, only seven people sat in the theater.

From there, a 7-11 on my left, then a Circle K. I have not seen a Circle K since Taiwan. They are just as you would expect for any convenience store. One night, after a run, I walked in to buy some Gatorade. When I went in to purchase it, and kept panting at the doorway, the clerk asked me if I was alright, and if someone was chasing me. Given that it was Florida, I wonder if she meant I was in an abusive relationship.

A little ways past the Saturn dealership was a large furniture store with a giant LCD display out front. Right next to it, sharing a parking lot, was a nightclub, which I believe was somehow affiliated with the furniture store. After doing some research, it seems as cheesy as I thought when I would run past. Then again, I was the fool running past at nine at night.

A small antiques store followed at some point, but it was always closed when I ran past. There were a couple more furniture/mattress stores nearby. Also a tractor supply shop.

At one point would be a strip club, where the marquee advertised "Fifty pretty girls and two ugly ones". That was almost enough to get me to go inside to see the two ugly ones. Then again, a guy with two bucks in his pocket for a drink probably would get rebuffed, without even enough to pay the cover.

It turns out the strip club sign further down the street next to all the winnebagos did lead to an actual club. However, doing research on the internet, it turns out that place, which I could never see from the street, was a brothel. Stay classy, Florida.

The wild west arcade, next to the laundromat, is actually just a slot gambling place. There is nothing inside except old people and video poker. No Street Fighter IV machines. None. It was most depressing.

Just past that were a succession of fireworks stores. One edifice loomed thirty feet tall, free standing, with a buy-one-get-one-free deal leading up to the Fourth of July. Miraculous, and a little scary that so many fireworks stores could stay in business.

At this point, I would turn around. Just reread all the above paragraphs in reverse order. Pour some water on your head, maybe start panting. That's my return trip.

Florida Lessons

2009-06-21T19:48:00.003-04:00

The parking spots down in Florida are enormous. I could easily fit a Hummer in one with room to spare. It may well be a concession to the elderly. They remind me of kudzu, at least in their strength in numbers, as well as their omnipresence. Also, I have been eating lunch around five in the afternoon, and the restaurants stuffed with the aged and their families. On the beach, the elderly comprise a significant portion of the beachgoers. In the theater, they come in relative droves to watch "The Hangover." And yes, they carded me, though she said they card anyone under thirty. Small solace.

***

Having felt more comfortable with listening rather than speaking all my life, I have come to know what constitutes a normal response , and when a person is at ease or nervous. Pseudo-empathy and all that jazz. I also know how painfully shy I am. So, understand that when I say the hotel concierge is one of the most painfully awkward people I have ever met, "I ain't just whistlin' Dixie." After letting my raven tresses grow far too luxuriously, I needed a haircut, especially due to the baking Florida weather.

Hers is a fairly unremarkable face, square-jawed, wide face, off-green eyes, hair the color of dirty sand, braces capping nubbins of teeth. I asked her where I could get a haircut, and she told me there was a place down the street, and if I saw the Popeyes, that was too far. After confirming, then she told me the Red Lobster was too soon. There are a lot of chain restaurants down here. I spoke back what she just told
me, and she gave this loud and clipped horse whinny. When I turned to walk away, she called after that the mall was much too far.

In this moment, I could almost smell how desperate she was for me to stay. Awkward cocked smile, toothy grin, her voice quavering. I had to go. Was it cruel? A bit, considering that I could read her so easily. But I'm no saint, and (all together now) I don't like people. The fun part now is seeing her every couple of days, and seeing the washed-out loneliness in her eyes.

Wow, that was depressing.

***

Hangovers, as I understand them, are caused by dehydration shrinking the membrane surrounding the brain. Even if that is not the case, I gave myself a hangover or heat exhaustion on Saturday, evidenced by the headaches.

The bridge was a mile and a half over sapphire-blue water, and it was early. I ran, ran back, simple. Then, I walked to the beach, saw people in the distance, started hiking towards them. Hour later, I am busted. They seemed so much closer. I get a Gatorade and start heading back, ready to pass out. This is why you should think through your actions, kids.

So thirsty. I was out for almost four hours, sunburned the back of my neck, y'all, and had some nice migraine-esque headachery yesterday and today. Damnation.

Losing Grace

2009-06-09T21:04:00.002-04:00

I have sent my prior novel out to the masses for commentary and ranting. Whilst I await its (bruised, bloody) return, I find myself needing to keep on writing, if for no other reason than to stave off the peculiar dreams I have when I do not write. Yes, when I forego writing for extended periods, my dreams take on a surreal (more-so), disturbing flavor. I think it is my subconscious trying to write. So, really, for me, writing protects me from my hopes and fears.

Strange, I know.

I have no idea when I figured that I wanted to write a trilogy of books, but at some point while writing "Saving Grace"/"Officer Redacted," I knew there would be enough for at least a few novels. Plus, it is easier to write another story using the same characters and setting, rather than create an all new world. Hence, the book I have tentatively titled "Losing Grace." By this, the third novel will be tentatively titled "Finding Grace."

Much as how "The Sound and the Fury" was all about Caddie without her being directly in the novel, I like to envision "Saving Grace" as being all about John Roland, though the connection is much more direct. After all, Rollie's entire motivation for investigating is ultimately John Roland. John Roland crops up constantly as Rollie refuses to allow everyone in the novel to let him go, because he cannot let Roland go. On its face, the story is about this dual investigation, both Masker's and Roland's murder, but both lead back to the same man, Robin Flaherty. That is not even an issue, it is evident fairly early on that the murderer is obvious. Once the story concludes, Rollie has purchased peace for John Roland, but only at the cost of upheaving his own world.

The main themes of "Officer Redacted" are duality of nature, and the effect of memory on identity. The duality is throughout, as most of the locations, and many of the people/cartoons, have been repurposed from their original role. A hotel becomes a mental asylum, a theater a police headquarters, an abandoned subway actually an extensive slum for second class citizens. Cartoon characters become mobsters, a children's show host a private investigator, a brilliant cop now a base criminal.

The memory theme is probably more subtle, maybe to the point of not being noticeable. However, what Rollie remembers, he feels makes him what he is. Since no one shares his memories, no one is willing to share in his delusion? belief? that he is Roland reincarnated. Indeed, memories throughout of John Roland paint a faint picture of this man, one that everyone is willing to believe more so than proof in front of them. In the end, I like to think that I hint at the possibility that it is the memories you make, not the ones you inherit, that contribute to who and what you are. In effect, All the characters are responsible for their identities, they shape their own destinies, even Rollie.

Things change between "Officer Redacted" and "Losing Grace." Six months elapse, Rollie takes on a new profession, and a minor character dies due to foul play. It starts at a funeral, very near where "Officer Redacted" began, as they eulogize their fallen comrade, friend, family member. Captain Rackers is that much closer to death, the cancer taking its toll, as cancer tends to do. And she feels the need to find Detective White's murderer, avenge him. And so it is that with a somewhat rude trick, and a bit of guilt, Rackers convinces Rollie to take up his trench coat and gun, and help with the investigation.

"Losing Grace" will be about Captain Rackers, just as "Officer Redacted" concerned itself with John Roland. A middle-aged women in a male-dominated profession, sacrificing the external trappings of femininity to become head of a department of men, now stricken with breast cancer, losing even more of her traditional feminine characteristics, and becoming even colder and withdrawn in an attempt to deal with it. She knows that death will come soon for her, and her last act before she passes on will be to find the cop killer. At the same time, in doing this, she will have been revealed to be all alone, giving up so much to try to do this.

I originally wanted to follow her instead of Rollie throughout the novel, make it even more of a police procedural, the good captain running the department, dealing with bureaucracy and fellow counterparts in different aspects of the city. However, I do not think I could do her justice. I am not a good enough writer to follow from her perspective, in a real manner, and/or I am afraid to try because there are aspects of her that ring too true to events in my life, and I would rather not confront them. Besides, observing at a distance can sometimes reveal so much more, right? Right?

Captain Rackers' journey, and I believe one of the main themes of this story, will be letting go. In her case, it will be letting go of her fear of hurting others, learning to lean on others, learning that it is OK to be strong all the time, but it is also OK to fall into someone's shoulder in the dead of night and whisper all the words you could not say during the day, for fear of exposing them to daylight. It will be letting go of her need to be better, at the cost of who she is. People are not necessarily born cold, they become that way, and it is what Rackers has had to do in order to be respected. In the end, it will be letting go of life, and embracing her mortality. After all, people do not live forever, and sometimes that is a simple, painful lesson to swallow.

For right now, I cannot envision one off the top of my head, but if there is to be a second theme, it would have to be hope. Hope that you can enforce the laws to bring a tenuous peace to the populace, hope that everyone can work together, hope that tomorrow will be a little better than today, which was a little better than yesterday. Hoping that the good in others triumphs over the long term, even should it stumble in the short term. Hope that there will be some sort of resolution.

I have a few pages in a journal, and a head full of ideas. I do not know where I want, or need, this story to go, aside from the fact that I know the man that killed Detective White is a serial killer, starting a string of murders, and that in the end, Rackers will die. And this story could go anywhere from this point. "Officer Redacted" started out as a daydream I had of two men fighting in the belly of a whale, the story of Jonah as reimagined by Michael Bay. The image that inspires this coming story is that of Rollie speaking at Captain Rackers' funeral, dead and dying leaves blowing in the chill winter air.

Maybe "Losing Grace" is a more appropriate title for this story than I initially imagined. After all, just because you lose grace, suffer a loss of faith, does not mean you cannot find it again. Oftentime, I struggle with the concept of K. T. the writer, and wonder why I even try. Then, I sit down and do something like this, and it makes me believe that I might be good enough to pull this off. Who knows? I've had a lot of fun doing this, and hopefully you will have a lot of fun reading it after you buy it in a store.

Fire Alarm

2009-05-17T06:11:00.002-04:00

It is just after six in the morning, on a Sunday morning, no less. A fire alarm has just gone off in the building, probably twenty minutes prior. My mind is somewhat shot and disoriented, but for you, fearless reader, my need to go back to bed has been trumped by my desire to commemorate this occasion.

I was sleeping, as is my habit at times like these. The building's "fire alert annunciator" blasted three peals, followed by a long whoop. Then, this helpful message from a calm female voice (and my own thoughts at the time in parentheses):

"May I have your attention? (We don't have a choice, get on with it.) A fire has been reported in the building. (My ass, I don't smell anything.) Please proceed to the nearest exit. (There better be a fire, at this rate.)"

I sat up to look at the clock, which probably said ten before six. Note that I have a clock with a gigantic display so I do not need my glasses, but even so, it is still kind of blurry. After a few more moments of debate, and wanting to wring the neck of whomever flipped the switch, I get out of bed.

Darkness reigns in my apartment, as I am sure it must in most of the apartments. I cast about trying to remember where my wallet and keys are, before noting I probably need pants to go outside. Since I am next to the hamper, my cigar-smelling jeans are the closest. On they go, along with a cigar-smelling long sleeved shirt.

I spare a moment to urinate, and also hope I left my glasses in the bathroom. It is always a crapshoot as to where my glasses are these days. I have left them near the kitchen sink, on top of the television, near my laptop, near my work laptop, in the bathtub, in the soap dish, on the toilet, on my nightstand, on the floor in the middle of the living room, in a book, on the dining room table, underneath a pillow. Today, they were on the keyboard, but right next to wallet and keys.

I think that I should probably also grab my phone, but I cannot figure out where it is. Not tethered to the charger, not with wallet and keys. Ah, well, let it burn. At this point, perhaps I should also have grabbed anything else that was irreplaceable. For better or worse, there is really nothing in my apartment that I could not live without. It would suck, but is not a dealbreaker of any sort.

In the stairwell, I feel myself listing to the right. I almost fall into the wall at each flight of stairs. I am exhausted and kind of desperate not to fall down and cause an awful comedy sequence where everyone also falls down the stairs.

Outside, I go to my car and toy with going to the International House of Pancakes. Strangely, the mere thought of going to the International House of Pancakes makes my stomach turn, and I decide to wait and watch the building burn.

There are several people walking their pets, a good a time as any to do so. One young couple has two red and white pet carriers, and no children. At what point do they become the crazy cat couple without kids?

One woman is wrapped in a giant crocheted blanket. (as I typed that, I typed "crotcheted". What the hell kind of blanket is that, a merkin? Could you even wear one of those out in public? Well, you could, but I guess I meant by itself.)

There is a fire truck outside, and another. The firemen stumble out of the truck as if this were any other day on the job, which it probably is. There are no visible flames licking at the building, no smoke coming from anywhere.

A lot of people have gone directly to their cars. Maybe they are going to International House of Pancakes. I wish them well in their endeavor.

A slight drizzle of rain starts soaking us. I am very thankful I put on clothes before coming outside.

People make awkward small talk, made worse by the fact that no one should be woken up on a Sunday morning by alarm klaxons. I stand in the grass and cross my arms, unwilling to say anything to anyone, somewhat afraid that I will flip out on people if they try to talk to me.

The firemen are in their full firefighting regalia. I wonder what their bonus is to fire fighting by wearing the thick cloth. They come out one by one. That is our sign that we can come in.

I get in line. We shuffle back inside. Coherence missed everyone here, at least this early in the morning.

April Fooled

2009-04-22T22:18:00.003-04:00

The joke is on me, when I think about it. I got everyone, but most of all, I got myself.

For April first, I posted a simple statement to my Gtalk status message and on Twitter. I would be doing pro bono work in Maryland during weekends for the next few months. I had multiple people congratulating me and asking me what exactly I would be doing. To date, only W.T. has not questioned it, but he is so filled with cynicism, I am hardly surprised. Even C.S. a few weeks later asked me what was up with that message, and expressed hopefulness I would be practicing law.

And therein lies the joke, not that I fooled people, but that they were utterly willing to believe that I would practice law. I have failed. Despite my best efforts to convince the masses I will never do this, as soon as I give a hint that I would practice law, they believe me.

(This is an appropriate time to digress and mention that, for all that people disbelieve me, this they accept? Tarnation.)

And maybe it is because I keep doing the unexpected, or at least go against the norm, and I've had such a strange arc to my life, that makes me think it would make a good situation comedy. I could redeem the mass of Asian-America and hopefully scrub the memory of All-American Girl from our collective memory, or fuck it up even more and completely guarantee no Asian-American will ever have a starring role on a situation comedy in America, ever again.

That April Fool's joke, plus a fair amount of contemplation, reminded me of who I was supposed to be at this point. It is half past ten at night as I type this, and I am just randomly typing on this blog. I often swear that I was supposed to be working on my second novel, teaching at a third-rate college during the day, raising a family, at this point in my life. At the same time, I could be toiling away at some mid-sized firm, wallowing in tedium and motions, writing memoranda to partners that I easily could have reduced to a page, but have to make fifteen pages in case someone has the foresight to check, which they will not.

I sport salt and pepper hair, going prematurely grey at twenty-eight. My stress tic is in full swing, sometimes going for thirty, forty seconds at a time. I probably look even younger, though more haunted, due to the poor eating habits, lack of sleep, and lack of laugh lines around my eyes.

I gave up video games a long time ago. Same with reading for leisure. The last thing I would want to do is more reading. I get enough of that at work. Besides, I am too busy trying desperately to keep my relationship with one of my fellow associates from going down the toilet. After all, we are both stressed, and what with the way the economy is going, all it would take is for one of us to get laid off. The other would probably cut ties pretty quickly, just to keep sanity afloat.

I work in a nice enough building in Baltimore. There's a guy on the street I see every morning on the way into the office. I used to throw him some change. Now I just don't care. I keep my head down, and my earphones loud. Probably Linkin Park.

It is not all bad. The support staff are remarkably understanding. They tolerate me because I still know enough to not piss them off. The partners treat me as fungible. My work is acceptable, or so they tell me, regardless of whether it is or not. To them, I could be one of any of the associates, and really, all they see me as now is ballast, ready to cast off to keep the rest of the firm above water.

About the only thing I take joy in is getting published in legal periodicals. Somehow, I've hit a nice streak and have been published in some minor journals over the past year. Maybe that, more than anything, keeps me employed. At the same time, I throw myself into these articles, researching them mercilessly, touching them up constantly, pondering the correct wording of a phrase. It is not much, but for now, it is what I have, and really, since I will be published again within the next couple of weeks, it will be something I have to look forward to. One of the few things.

I imagine him, right now, verging near eleven at night, still in the office, staring into his monitor, putting together the last few cites for another article, or wrapping up a memo, re-reading a case to make sure it applies. Maybe he is answering partner and client emails that he did not have time to get to during the day. Whatever he is going, I see him reaching into his drawer, taking a sip of bourbon, and smiling as he thinks about his April Fool's joke, where he posted that he had accepted a position as a technical writer, effective immediately, and everyone believed that he was quitting.

Priority One

2009-03-30T21:56:00.003-04:00

It's been about a month, so I guess that means it's time for another blog post.

As I read that statement, it strikes me just how half-assed the following words will be. I'll type for about fifteen minutes or so, give it a semi-glance for typographical errors, then hit the "Publish Post" button and be done with it. It'll be good enough, but it won't be mind-blowingly great.

Because, for this effort, for this forum, "good enough" really is just good enough. I don't want to spend hours upon hours agonizing over the format and context and substance and all that. Not even if this blog were my job would I do that (well, in that case, maybe). The amount of effort I am willing to expend to get this down on paper is not that much.

It's a matter of prioritizing, which is why I shifted to the once a month schedule. The format, substance, etc. of this blog just don't rank as high on my list as they once did. I sometimes question if it ever ranked very highly on the list, and it must have, because for about a six month period, I had a hell of a lot of posts.

You look at what people spend time on, and it's almost crazy. Some people spend hours putting together the perfect outfit that they're going to wear out, because they want to look just perfect, they want to convey an image, a persona, of perfection. Some people like me throw on some clothes and try not to put the underwear outside of the pants.

We constantly complain that we never have enough time to do everything that we want to, and a big part of that is just priorities, though no small part is the stresses of our society. Think about all the time you waste watching television. I'm guilty, I'm probably upwards of twenty-hours a week. Considering that the week is one hundred and sixty-eight hours, that twenty hours is a hell of a time commitment to something that is not necessarily so worthwhile. For me, that twenty hours is probably three or four more books a week.

I probably need fifty-six hours of sleep a week, and probably get forty to forty-five hours in. That's a whole extra night's worth of sleep that I'm missing out on, which could be covered if I watched that much less television. I always wonder why the going is so slow with my novel, and I could easily apply some of that time to that.

Of course, in order to live "a better life", other sacrifices must be made. Having one less avenue of conversation with Society At Large. Not knowing what's going on with the stories. Justifying the monthly expenditure for television if it isn't being watched. And so on and so forth.

Television's apparently a very high priority in my life, intentionally or unintentionally, mostly because in primal terms, it maximizes return for minimal effort. I sit there and flick a switch, and mind is entertained for hours. Even reading requires that you move your eyes across the page. Sleeping means you actually have to listen to your body and go to sleep when you're tired. I sort of wish I could cut all the stuff out of my life that doesn't benefit it, reprioritize in order to make myself "A Better Person". but again, that reeks of effort, and effort is hard.

Even right now, as I'm nodding off typing this, I think about how much I got done today, even though I was on vacation, just by stepping away from my apartment, i.e. my television, and not hooking my computer up to the internet (and the internet itself is a deadlier time sink, even as we're all so much more reliant on it than ever, but that's probably best saved for another discussion.). I set my priorities for the day, and I got so much done, it was ridiculous.

I guess there is one useful thing about television, in that it lets my mind shut off. No need to think or concentrate or worry or feel or anything. Just watch the pretty little people on the screen do their pretty little dances, and wait for the credits to roll. Plain and simple. Still, I hear tell meditation accomplishes much the same effect, and lets you grow cool facial hair in the process, so.

Thematic Discussion

2009-02-25T23:17:00.003-05:00

When people ask me what my novel's about, I tell them to think of Who Framed Roger Rabbit crossed with The Big Sleep. This is pretty accurate, seeing as how noir inspiration surges throughout Who Framed Roger Rabbit, and I'm writing a noir-inspired story about a cartoon detective come to life and investigating a murder. And, generally, when people hear it, they nod and say "OK," and we move on. I think that there's something about the way I dismiss it that almost forces the other person to move on. Not that I don't want to talk about it, it's just that I don't know how to talk about it.

"Let me tell you about this crazy dream I had, except I have been awake, it has lasted for over two years, and it's not a dream. But, boy, is it crazy." It definitely feels very related to unconscious hallucinations, except I control it. Every once in a while, I get completely lost in it. I'm sure if I'm still writing when my mind starts to go, it will be very horrifying.

But what, really, is this story about? Ultimately, it's the story of me trying to write a story, except you're seeing the highly polished end version, in the end. Seeing as how I've been working on it for so long, I do have a few ideas about it, and I'm not sure whether these would come across better than my pat response.

It's about memory and identity, and how the two are intertwined, yet separate. It's how our souls are like birds nests, all similar, yet strikingly different, our memories the twigs and leaves that go into the nest, the occasional eggs those brilliant dreams that we try to hold onto, and just can't. We are who we are because of what we remember, so what happens when we start losing our memory? Do we consequently fade away, or do we persist in the face of an eroding life?

It's about self-discovery, about finding yourself by not trying to find yourself (very zen, I know). The protagonist is investigating a murder, this much is true, and the story leads up to the resolution of this act, but that is not the main point of the story. The murder is just a vehicle to carry the reader through the protagonist's realization of himself, as he shifts from belief to ignorance and belief again, and how he decides to react to finding himself.

It's about acceptance, acceptance of who you are, and who everyone thinks you are. You can deny it, but in the end, you are who you are. No matter how you try to couch it, you can't outrun your own skin.

It's about standing up for what you believe in, doing what you need to, even if no one else wants you to. The story leads our protagonist into very compromising positions just because he's trying to uphold the law and find justice, even when those two are at cross-purposes.

It's about duality, how there are at least two sides to every story, every person, everything. How nothing is ever as it seems, and no one single viewpoint is ever correct. It feels like almost every major character in this story, every major location, every major anecdote, comes out differently to different people, and neither is correct, and both are correct. Negative capability, baby.

It's about irrational bias, and how we can't escape it, no matter what we try. Even with enlightenment, people will find a way to hate each other. That's just the way we are. Of course, on the flip side, it implies that people will find a way to love each other, though I'm not sure that actually comes out in the story.

It's about eighty thousand words.

And, in the end, it's about hope. You hold out hope because there's going to be an answer. You hold out hope because you believe what you're doing is right, even when everyone knows it's wrong, and tells you so. You hold out hope because you will be happy again. You hold out hope because if you give up, that's boring, and we need more excitement. You hold out hope.

Infrequent Communication

2009-02-08T00:38:00.003-05:00

As of late, to assist with my general writing endeavor (endeavour?), I've taken on the burden of a journal. Please note that I call it a journal because diary is far too sissy, even though the thing is probably much closer to a diary than a journal. You know what they say, that if it quacks like a duck and walks like a duck, it's a diary.

Every so often, before I write another entry or two, I'll flip through and attempt to read some of the earlier entries. This is quite difficult, as my handwriting has declined over the years. In addition, sometimes I'll make entries when I'm falling asleep. Thus, my thought process, which seemed clear and logical while caught in the throes of impending slumber, are actually nonsensical and confusing upon second look. Still, many of the entries are things that I probably could/should put on this blog.

And herein lies the problem. I value my privacy, and I am somewhat loathe to share myself with the anonymous internet masses, even though I've hewed towards anonymity here. Just thinking about some of the more personal things I've written about makes me cringe, not necessarily that I wrote them, but more that they're out there for anyone to read, and anyone that has enough brain power and pencil lead to connect the dots would be able to trace it back to me.

As our networking technologies grow ever more advanced and our web of communication is drawn tighter, it is both easier and harder to not only preserve our identity, but also to keep our personal information from becoming public. Note that we all have to be ever-vigilant should the too-real specter of identity fraud spirit away our virtual/banking self. Also, we have to (though we often don't) operate under the simple assumption that if we put it on the internet, it is going to get out. At the same time, I have relative freedom to write whatever I want under this pseudonym, and so long as no one posts a comment that will trace it back to me, I'm OK.

(This is where some smartass posts personal information in a comment.)

Technology has always driven our society. Train schedules forcing people into a more regimented schedule. The printing press and the Gutenberg Bible spreading literacy to the masses. Metal smelting making more feasible a quick and bloody death for your neighbor. So it is with the internet and cell phones, where now we are no longer ever out of touch with anyone for too long. It makes the concept of pen pals almost laughable. Why wait for weeks for a several page response, when you can e-mail them a few paragraphs, text them, reply on Twitter?

It all continues to cheapen information. Not that more accessible, cheaper information is a bad thing. Perhaps I should count myself among the Luddites infesting every generation, swearing that new technological discovery X will ruin society. Humanity adapts. It's what we do. As transmission of information gets cheaper and quicker, we have less need to spend vast amounts of time in a block in order to communicate. I can break out the phone and text someone a couple of sentences just like that.

Of course, the flip side is that, as our communicae become shorter, more electronic, more divorced from personal interaction, we actually do convey less information. Could we be at the point where an innovation actually makes it harder to really communicate? Telegraphs convey words without inflection, or even punctuation, though they weren't the primary form of interaction. Phones at least carried inflection and intonation, and when tethered to the wall, were only usable when at home. You still had to leave the phone behind. There are probably people now for whom the predominant communication method doesn't allow for body language. They may type and convey more than previous generations, but do they actually say more, do they express more?

To sort of bring the jagged circle all the way round, I do not update this blog very often. If I did, most of the entries would consist of pap and fluff, space fillers just to prove that I could post something. My mind doesn't work that way. I work more long form, getting semi-obsessed over an idea, worming it around in my brain until it burrows out in some fashion. It's why I prefer writing novels to more short-form writing. It's why when I finally do post these days, it comes spewing forth instead of trickling out. It also allows me to resume my emotional distance, to ponder carefully and let an overall mood command, rather than the tempestuous fluctuations of the day-to-day living (and good lord, am I wearing black makeup and cutting myself so I can feel something? That was pretty melodramatic).

Sudden Victory

2009-01-03T23:45:00.002-05:00

The National Football League's overtime rules strike many as antiquated, ridiculous, unfair. Currently, after four quarters, if both teams are tied, the game moves to sudden death (though our politically correct society amends it to sudden victory). After an initial coin toss, where the visiting team calls while in mid-air, the first score wins the game. Note that both teams are not guaranteed a chance to go on offense. Also, note that a field goal is enough to guarantee a victory.

This has the effect of shrinking the field for overtime. Assume that the team starts on their own twenty-yard line. Rather than having to drive eighty yards for a touchdown, they only need fifty or so to have a fair chance at kicking a field goal, converting, and winning. There are plenty of teams that move the ball well in the middle of the field, then bog down in the red zone. Whether it is an anemic offense, or a defense that grows stouter the closer you get to the end zone, this changes your strategy, removes some pressure from the offense, increases it from the defense.

Contrast with the college football overtime rules (of which I am not so intimately familiar with). Each team will get at least one offensive possession. You start at the opponent's twenty-five yard line and have four downs to score. It is possible to pick up first downs. After each pair of offensive possessions, if the score is still tied, you move on to another overtime period. After two such overtime periods, if a team scores a touchdown, it is forced to attempt a two point conversion after a touchdown, as opposed to the traditional kick/point after touchdown. It creates some interesting wrinkles, but the most important part to everyone is that both teams get a chance to get the ball on offense.

I just watched the overtime period of the Colts and Chargers wild card playoff game, and the Chargers won on a touchdown by Darren Sproles. The Colts called the coin flip incorrectly, the Chargers took the ball on offense, and proceeded to score. In this case, they went for the touchdown, and they were also aided by a Colts defensive meltdown, as well as the referees being somewhat penalty flag happy. Still, you wonder what would have happened if the Colts could have gone back on offense. Peyton Manning had his helmet on during the latter half of the drive, as if anticipating the opportunity to carve up the Chargers defense. Alas, it was not meant to be.

The theory is that no one will change the overtime rules until an overtime game occurs during the AFC Championship game, NFC Championship game, or Super Bowl, and a team wins on their first offensive possession. As it stands, we have (relatively) plenty of overtime games that end on that first offensive possession, and oftentime, what really peeves people is that the game is won on the field goal. There are several popular ideas for amending overtime, such as forcing each team to get an offensive possession.

Looking at it, and especially after that game, I didn't have a problem so much with the Chargers winning on a touchdown; they at least went the length of the field. However, I could see that causing problems for others. An idea I've not read/heard before is a minimum required score for overtime. Therefore, I would like to propose (because I am so close with the rulesmakers in the National Football League) the following:

1. Each team gets at least one overtime possession.

2. In order to win, a team must have scored at least seven points in overtime.

3. If after the initial overtime possessions, if neither team has won, continue play until one team has scored seven points.

4. If the first overtime quarter expires, take an intermission and continue with a second overtime quarter. Repeat as necessary.

Is it perfect? No, but I've been thinking about this for a while now. Seven points is almost a given if you score a touchdown, and also requires that you score three field goals if you go that route. If a team gets the ball first, and kicks the field goal, the opposing team gets the ball, and they can go for a tie, or get the touchdown and end the game right there. There are still situations where teams would potentially trade field goals until the team that had first offensive overtime possession would win. However, both teams had plenty of chances to score touchdowns.

The advantage of this, it removes the increased power conferred upon field goals in overtime. I'm not disrespecting the kicking game, just noting that kicking to score is vastly different in nature from scoring via run/pass. It more closely reflects the game itself, even though there is now a new point total that must be met. Also, it would force a resolution on regular season games. There's nothing wrong with ties when your sample set is big, but we are talking about sixteen games per team per regular season here. Let them play it out, let them do their thing.

In the end, none of this will happen. The NFL is partly successful because of its conservatism. If you know what to expect, it's easier to accept. Note that this doesn't take into account the fact that many players don't know the minutiae of the rule book, but that's somewhat off topic. The key is to add some fairness to games, and the method I write about seems as close as any other to doing so.

Deconstructing Mork

2008-11-29T10:11:00.002-05:00

The Sci-Fi Channel aired a Mork and Mindy marathon on Friday, and seeing as how I spent most of the day catching up on lost sleep and eating Thanksgiving leftovers, I left the television tuned to that and spent most of the day drifting in and out of a tryptophan-induced semi-coma. So, please take everything I'm about to write with a grain of salt.

I'd forgotten how much I liked the show as a kid. Since my memories are hazy, and since it aired around the time I was born, either I watched it as a babe, or viewed recently aired reruns. There was something that I probably couldn't understand back then, about how Mork was so manic, so crazy, and everyone else around him more or less took it in stride. Still, it was hilarious, and even though I probably didn't get most of the jokes, it was still worth watching.

Of course, this show could never happen today. One episode revolved around a kidnapper trying to sell Mork a baby. After seeing him go gaga over another woman's child, this kidnapper, smooth enough to cross interstate boundaries with a stolen child, proceeds to follow Mork all over the place, then try to traffic a human child for ten thousand dollars, to a man who appears to be at least mildly mentally incapacitated. The late seventies/early eighties were such an innocent time.

I think that's the key to when someone eventually remakes Mork and Mindy. You can leave Mork as almost exactly the same naive, ridiculous character, but everyone around him has to more reflect our darker, post-modern times. Thus, I've spent much of the past day pondering this.

We'd call it "Melinda", I'm thinking, to distinguish it from its forebear, yet leave enough of a connection to the original. Hire an up-and-coming improv comedian with a slight drug problem as Mork. For the female lead, I'd like to see a goth-type girl, early twenties, heroin-chic, with a haunted look in her eyes. The character, Melinda McConnell, would have already had a psychotic break or two in her life. She hates the name "Mindy", but everyone calls her that, especially the new guy in the halfway house, whom she only knows as "Mark" initially.

Mark, who prefers "Mork", has been in and out of halfway houses and mental asylums for the past few years, and now he's in the room above Melinda. At first, she's just trying to get through a day, when she notices abnormally strange behavior (even for the home) from Mark, including talking to eggs, resuscitating ants, and other behavior that doesn't track with normal human behavior. Everyone else sees a man with the mental capacity of a child, but only she sees someone with the curiosity of a child.

Over time, as she gets to know Mork, Melinda starts to question whether or not he really is of this world. At the same time, she starts to wonder if she's having another break. The bulk of the show would involve her trying not only to help Mork assimilate into society, to become accepted, but also herself trying to readjust and find her way again. Further complicating matters, everyone perceives Mork to be "off", and it wears on Melinda, having to deal with this child in a grown man's body.

(It is strange watching all those shows, especially with multiple references to Peter Pan. Keep in mind that Williams starred in "Hook", a deconstruction of the Peter Pan mythos, and "Jack", a movie about a boy with some derivative of progeria, a ten-year old in a forty-year old's body. Robin Williams either never grew up, or cocaine really is a hell of a drug.)

As a dark throwback, and this would have to be done carefully, or scrapped altogether, Mindy would be sitting in a metal chair, in an empty room, talking to the camera. Mork's voice, or that of an invisible psychiatrist, would be asking her questions about her latest memories, and she would be desperately trying to figure out whether or not it was real, or worthwhile. Hell, as long as we're dreaming, let's get Pam Dawber and Robin Williams to do these scenes, as a sort of "twenty years into the future" deal.

The first season would culminate with a visit from Mork to the sanitarium where Melinda's now kept. It would be either a finale or a segue into the next season, where the two of them start reminiscing about the good times, and where it all went wrong.

Birthday Boy

2008-06-15T19:15:00.001-04:00

About that hiatus? I half-lied.

Congrats D.C. and M.C., and happy birthday to S.C., June 13, 2008!

Random Scribbling

2008-06-05T20:00:00.003-04:00

Things are about to get busy at work, so I'm going on hiatus again. Well, that and I've been half-assing this for the longest time.

***

Some leftover text from my novel that didn't fit in anywhere right now. Some of it is good, some of it is not. Most of it doesn't even really apply to the story proper. Maybe it will fit somewhere later.

***

sometimes, when you’re about to pass out, you just gotta hold on to something familiar.

***

When you wake up and you haven’t opened your eyes, everything seems that dark grey, even during the brightest day.

***

The problem with answers was that he wanted the solid, unambiguous answers, like what you’d get with a mathematical equation. And though our universe is based on these mathematical equations, there’s an emergent diversity that leads to complexity. As a result, there are few, if any, simple answers. Thus, none of the answers he would get would satisfy his craving.

***

“We have to become greater than the sum of our parts.”
“Seven, then.”
“What?”
“Two arms, two legs, one head, one torso, that’s six. So, we have to become seven.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I guess you’re right. We have fingers and toes, ears and noses. Give me a second while I count.”

***

You have to hurt before you can empathize. That’s why children are so cruel. They’re the prize of their parents, and now little, if any, pain. That’s why rich kids are such pains in the ass, because the’ve never hurt. Of course, you go too far, and people just hurt too much, and don’t care about how other people feel, they’ve hurt too much themselves.

***

remember when you fought because you thought you were right? Because you thought you were doing good? Then you got older, and realized you were fighting more to prevent yourself from going crazy, by realizing there was nothing special about your life.

Mecha Approach

2008-06-04T20:00:00.002-04:00

Let's say walking robots did ... walk ... the earth. What would I pilot? I'd need a "light" mech (if such a thing can be classified as light), under forty tons. It would need a lot of speed, and modified jump jets to act as a speed boost while running.

I'd need an advanced sensor suite and electronic countermeasures, as well as chaff and flares, so I'd have a better idea of what was coming, and be able to dodge it. The cockpit would also be kitted out with some truly advanced targeting systems and information layouts.

Weapon-wise, I'd need mostly long-range weapons. Twin light missile racks, to explode on impact, in case I needed a close range desperation attack. As for pecking, either some sort of sniper rifle/rail gun, or twinned long distance lasers if I needed to engage.

Melee Approach

2008-06-03T20:00:00.002-04:00

In a pinch, if I ever needed it, my weapons of choice would be a short crowbar and a hammer, with a Leatherman tool as the backup. The main reason for this is because I actually own all three of these things, and they are all within arm's reach as I type this.

K.C. gave me a great idea for the approach: tear out the throat with the crowbar, then smash the head with the hammer. Or, in the alternative, I could bust out with mad carpentry skills. Who doesn't need a credenza in eight hours?

Of course, note this is all moot should mecha combat take over our society. In such an event, I become a mechanic, and carry around a pipe wrench and screwdriver. I stay in the repair bays and become the crotchety, well-respected mechanic who alternates between trash talk and subtle advice.

Picture Time

2008-06-02T20:00:00.002-04:00

L.C. mentioned that my Gtalk icon needs to be changed, because I've never been that happy. And maybe this is true for the most part, but when that pic was taken, I was having a great time.

What does it say about me that I don't often have a big goofy grin on my face like that (which some people have interpreted as maniacal)? What does it say that I was playing football, and probably getting knocked around?

I probably am lying a bit, and need a new pic, but I also subscribe to the Amish (Pennsylvania Dutch?) belief that pictures steal your soul. There really aren't that many pics of me, though maybe I should throw up the pic of myself when I graduated from school?

Random Running

2008-06-01T20:00:00.003-04:00

Twenty-two minutes, forty-nine seconds for three miles. I think I ran each mile at the following: seven minutes, twenty seconds; seven minutes, fifty seconds; seven minutes, forty seconds. Yay incremental progress.

I need a rabbit when I run. There's just something about being able to chase someone down from behind that does it for me. Whenever there's a lot of people, I find myself just chasing down the next, and the next, and the next.

Just got a new pair of shoes because I'd worn a hole through the canvas of my old shoes with my toes. It was getting kind of uncomfortable when I'd start running on the balls of my feet, and my toes would slam against that hole.

Book Burned

2008-05-29T20:00:00.002-04:00

Z.M. asked me about my novel, and internally I started freaking out. Didn't realize I'd feel that way, but I did. It's still like me baring my soul, even though it's just a story. It's just a story, it's just a story.

It's not just a story. It's potentially a validation of my existence. It's a tangible reminder of all my dreams, and a bulwark against the culmination of all my fears. It's a focus for my creativity. It's right now one of the few things, living and not, I actually give a damn about.

Damn it, I think it's a great story, I really do. I'm not going to pretend to be modest, it does have it's flaws, but I think it's an engaging world, interesting premise, and "realistic" characters (yes, they need to be more consistent in their motivations and mannerisms, but I'm getting there). Still, sometimes (most of the time) I'm not sure how to react, or if I can relate how I feel about it to other people. It makes me want to get another undergrad degree in English, just so I can be around people again that understand this, how it drives you crazy, how it consumes your waking moments, how you think it's crap, but keep doing it because else-wise, you'd die.

Scattered Rambling

2008-05-28T20:00:00.002-04:00

Lie to me, tell me it's all gonna be OK. Sing those stupid nonsense songs that came out of nowhere in your mind. Hold me till the sun rises.

***

You have to hurt before you can empathize. Otherwise, you're just going through the motions without the underlying feeling.

***

People that bike in the middle of the street, I should just run over them. No, it doesn't matter if you pull your shirt down or not, I'm staring at your ass because your spandex shorts are old and ripped because your ass is too fat, not because you're sexually enrapturing.

***

I went clothes shopping on my own because I had to. This growing up shit is weird.

***

I expect too much of people. The standards need to be lowered.

Warcraft Addiction

2008-05-27T20:00:00.000-04:00

It feels like much of my life is going to involve the struggle against starting World of Warcraft, again. It's such a time commitment. If I could get by on four hours of sleep a night, I would devote the extra four hours to World of Warcraft. But as it stands, I just don't have that sort of time. Would that there was a way to play the game without sinking so much time and energy into it, or if I could directly translate my efforts into something tangible.

It's not like I don't want to play. I do, badly sometimes. It's fairly simple, fairly straightforward. I know the basics, and I can play it fairly well. K.C. told me that J.L. recommended that I get back in, get power-leveled to maximum level, and go nuts. I actually toyed with talent builds for a little while, dreaming of What Might Be.

Of course, Wrath of the Lich King has to come out soon, and spell inscription is going to be one of the new features. That excites me, the ability to mod your spells. Damn, that is outright enticing. But, I just can't do it. I dare not do it, do I. Argh. Rest assured, if I did do it, I would not mention it in this space.

Animal Run

2008-05-26T20:00:00.000-04:00

Yes. One is correct. I've also rocked number fifteen enough times that if you didn't realize I do that, you've probably been on the receiving end of it.

***

I went running, and there was a dead trout in the middle of the trail today. Yes, a fish. It couldn't have dropped from a great height, because it was still intact. So, the next question, who would drop a fish on a trail? Or, even worse, are the fish coming out of the water and coming for us? Damn them.

A few days past, a ladybug attached itself to my shirt while I was running. The thing just would not come off, no matter how fast I ran, though I didn't try to flick it. A good fifteen minutes it stuck to me. Why? I don't know. Maybe it liked me?

Japanese Television

2008-05-25T20:00:00.000-04:00

Human Tetris. There's a version of this coming to America. Brilliant.

Ninja Warrior. This is so hard, every time someone beats the entire course, they remake it even harder. You have to watch people keep failing to get how hard this is.

Start a laugh, get a paddlin'. From the Simpsons, not entirely accurate, but from a Japanese game show host: "In the West, gameshows reward knowledge. Ours punish ignorance."

K-TV Song

2008-05-22T20:00:00.000-04:00

I sang karaoke in a non-college, public setting for the first time in my life. We went to the bar to play pool and drink, but it so happened they'd set up for karaoke night. B.F. and myself decided to give it a go. He sang this, after five minutes of arguing with me as to the lyrics and tune. He did a bang-up job, it was pretty fucking impressive, and I must say he melted all of our panties. Yes, mine included, he was that sexy.

In between our goes, there was a man who requested a song, and I thought he sounded very strange, his voice halting and stuttery. At first, I thought he was deaf, and thought that it was pretty impressive. Well, when he started singing, it turned out he was actually mentally challenged. I feel kind of bad, but we all turned to each other, trying to repress laughter, not knowing how to react. I kept trying to pretend he was deaf, while someone else was insisting (correctly) that he was mentally challenged. Another little failure.

Then was my shot. This was the song. Remember, I hate people, so I stood there, arms crossed across my chest ("the best Russian karaoke singer in history"), my back leg shaking after about thirty seconds. Let me tell you, you can't really whisper a song and be heard. I had to belt that out, and did the best I could, given that I was also trying not to wet myself. In retrospect, I shouldn't have been that nervous, no one was really paying attention, or if they were, they weren't showing it. Well, personal growth and all that jazz, right?

Baby Talk

2008-05-21T20:00:00.000-04:00

It's strange that there was a discussion about newborns and babies at lunch, though not entirely surprising. C.E. and C.L. are parents of relative newborns, while D.R. is expecting (which, by the way, we have several pools for, contact me at my work account if you want in on that action and you work with me). As with much of my life, I listen to what is important to everyone else, and feel disconnected from it. Someday, I'll want to raise two kids (single child is too lonely, which I learned the hard way, while three outnumbers the parents). However, best case scenario, it would be at least nine months and one day from now, and seeing as how I'm currently alone in my apartment, maybe nine months and two days is more realistic.

How do I relate? I've not had a pet since I was four. When I'm drinking with others, I'm usually keeping tabs on the drunkest, belligerent, "olympic champion" drunks, so it's sort of like taking care of a baby, but you can't leave a baby near a toilet and hope everything will be OK in the morning. I do what I can to make sure everyone, if not happy, is at least not outright dissatisfied with matters. I have no frame of reference.

This is what is referred to as an Outside Context Problem, though I exaggerate, as is my tendency. What should I do, aside from nod my head and say OK? Who knows? On a somewhat unrelated note, why would M.B. suggest that J.R. and Z.M. (now roommates) have a child together (keeping in mind they're both females and not lesbians)? That was quite possibly the most insane thing I've heard all week, and I live in my own mind.

Breast Fed

2008-05-20T20:00:00.000-04:00

I was on the metro, and a mother tried to keep her crying baby quiet. After a little while, she laid the child down on her lap. I thought to myself that this would be a weird place to put a child to sleep, but whatever. Then, I saw her take out a blanket, and I thought, OK, she's going to cover the child to keep it warm. A little unusual, but whatever. Then, she started lifting up her shirt, and I go, what the f*ck?

On the jackass note, I think it's unfair that there's no drinking on the metro, yet the kid can drink to her heart's content. On the flipside, I understand what they're going for, and it's fine to breastfeed a child on the train. At the same time, damn, can you give more warning? My head hasn't swiveled that much since I was sitting on that nude beach.

Again, the metro's another place where you have to deal with strangers, for the most part. It's hard to ignore people, but when I looked around, maybe a third to a half of the riders had some form of earphone or headphone, trying to carve out their own private world in the midst of that cramped public space. Wish I had some video glasses, so I could watch something, anything else.

Sub Twenty-four

2008-05-19T20:00:00.000-04:00

I ran three miles in twenty-three minutes, twenty-eight seconds. This breaks down to roughly a seven minute fifty second pace. At the same time, My first half mile split time was eight minutes, twenty seconds, so I was picking it up for the rest of the run. I do believe that's an all-time new record, running wise.

It turns out that running fills the void that video games filled, namely, the need to beat some challenge that involves numbers. This is somewhat scary, because it implies that if I became a mathematician, I'd be as happy as a duck in heat, getting it on with another duck. It also doesn't jibe with the whole writing thing, seeing as how that's as divorced from numbers as you can get.

Still, I'm now two minutes, twenty-nine seconds away from breaking a seven minute pace over three miles. Every so often, I'll throw up numbers here, partly (mostly) to brag, partly to remind myself that I am making some sort of progress. It's strange, I could easily go play a massively multiplayer online role-playing game and get obsessed over the numbers. Here, I get too tired to play for hours on end, but it's also keeping me from sitting around. Strange how that works.

Story Time

2008-05-18T20:00:00.004-04:00

All my abortive attempts at writing a novel have finally led me somewhere. Despite what Stephen King says, I've got a basic outline for the story, because I just can't keep it all in my head and keep working. I know where this is going to go, and what's at stake. I don't know the exacts of it, but there is enough of a basic framework to hang the characters upon. I basically know who they are, what they want, and all I have to do is get them to clash.

This is one of those things where I need to take a two week vacation to make some inroads on this thing, though, realistically, if I took a two week vacation, I'd sleep the entire time. Still, there's a lot that needs to be put down, but it feels like a real story, a complete story. I can write this, yes I can.

Of course, there's that fear that I may get this done, get this done great, and no one will publish it. You think you've seen me flip out? You ain't seen nothing yet.

Away Messages

2008-05-15T20:00:00.000-04:00

I've become known at work not for the quality of my work, nor for my personality, but for my Gtalk away messages. It started, as so many traditions do, as a joke. I put a lot of people on my Gtalk list and realized they didn't know who I was, so I had to put up an away message stating I was a newhire. Then, I realized that was boring, so I got the "jeenius" idea to put up movie quotes and replace one word with the name of my company.

That was around 9 months ago.

Every single work day, unless I can't get access to the intarwebs, I post a new quote. People are kind of amazed, wonder where I get them from. It's really just whatever the first movie is that comes to mind when I hit www.imdb.com. Not that hard, and apparently it brings a lot of people fifteen seconds of joy every day. That's a lot more than I was able to give my last girlfriend, but I digress.

There are a few people that complain, but they're outnumbered by the silent majority, whom I follow. If nothing else, it's also a way to ensure tha tI haven't been fired, and my job is safe for another day. Kind of a code, or a secret message. Which is amusing, because T.F. remarked to me the other day when I made an offhand comment that he'd been wondering for the better part of a year what it meant. He just didn't want to appear stupid for asking.

Waiting Around

2008-05-14T20:00:00.002-04:00

Elevators are fun. You're trapped for about thirty seconds with complete strangers. I've been on both sides, trying to completely ignore them, and interacting as if they were old friends. It's strange how some people are able to put you at ease immediately, while other people make you wish you'd never had to stand around them.

I wonder what's the greatest amount of time you're surrounded by strangers and doing your best to ignore them. It's probably the waiting room at the doctor's, or the emergency room. Suffering people, ailing people, you're probably ailing also. When I had the flu this winter, and I went to the doctor because I was coughing up blood, there was an overwhelming imperative in my mind: Just survive. Didn't feel like talking to anyone.

What is the greatest amount of time you could be around a stranger, and still not know them? Some argue there are marriages that operate in that fashion. How much would it suck to devote your life to a complete stranger? And I don't mean in the charitable fashion, there's something honest, noble, meet, right in that. I mean devoting yourself, your soul, to a complete stranger. That would suck.

Less Gaming

2008-05-13T20:00:00.000-04:00

I now no longer play video games unless in the presence of others. This is a disturbing turn of events. This is maturity? Couldn't it have manifested in any other fashion? Why couldn't I have just developed a desire to donate blood, or plant a tree, or something else, and held on to my game-playing ways?

There's no desire whatsoever. Maybe if another game comes out that really entrances me, I might be enticed to stumble back into the game playing. Maybe the Star Wars game coming out for the Wii in September. Maybe not. Right now, I'm going to pretend I still play video games, so my coworker won't keep asking to borrow my Xbox. Or, I could just say that there's no reason I don't want to loan him the console, aside from the simple reason that I don't want to.

Social video games are great. I think I could play video games multiplayer in the same room or rooms all the freaking time, but it's just so sterile over the internet, or by myself. Digital masturbation at its finest.

Serious Dickism

2008-05-12T20:00:00.000-04:00

If you have to keep saying "I'm really not an asshole" over and over again, are you trying to convince us, or yourself? I got to play poker with seven really nice people, and one complete dick. From the start, he was trying to lord both his extensive knowledge of the rules and his superior skill over us. Only problems were that some of his statements weren't necessarily true, and yours truly knocked his ass out of the game in sixth place.

One of my favorite moments was when I'd folded a hand to him, and he showed me what he had. Then, he told me I had him beat preflop, but he had me beat after the flop. The dick asked me what I had, in order to confirm his suspicion. I didn't ask to see his cards, so I certainly wasn't going to tell him what I had.

K.T.: Five kings.
The Dick (T.D.): What?
K.T.: I had five kings.
T.D.: There are only four in the deck.
K.T.: Yeah, I had five.
T.D.: You can't have five cards.
K.T.: Five on the table, I had five kings.

I'd forgotten that when I have my serious face on, people take me absolutely seriously. He then told me he felt sorry for me, and wasn't going to show me any more of his cards. Thanks, jackass.

Sweetest moment of the night, I had a king and a jack, and two jacks fell on the flop. I went all in, he called. He flipped a jack and a three. A king fell to give me a full house, but more importantly, that king shut him up. Five minutes later, when he left the table, I traded fist pounds and hand slaps with everyone. From that point on, the game got fun, because nobody was a dick. Kids, let that be a lesson.

Fantastic Football

2008-05-11T20:00:00.003-04:00

For those of you that are following this and care about the football: damn, it was fun. For those of you following this that don't care about the football, you might wanna go elsewhere today.

We've all gotten really out of shape, as evidenced by T.F. walking down to the field with a cigarette in his mouth and a Rockstar energy drink in his hand. Yes, this clearly is the choice of champions.

Thus, it was pretty funny that T.F. served as all-time offense, since we had seven people, and he was getting run all over the field. S.F., B.F. and D.F. comprised one team, whereas T.G., E.B. (yeah, he's still alive) and myself comprised the other.

It wasn't even close. We blew them out six touchdowns to two. We would have made it seven, but T.F. had to go collapse. The basic strategy? Short pass to T.G. and massive yards after carry for a touchdown, short pass to K.T. and massive yards after carry for a touchdown. all around short passes in a no-huddle offense. Contrast this with S.F.'s elaborate schemes which more often than not ended in failure (but when they worked, ooh, baby, were the completions pretty).

My personal bragging moment for this game came when I'd caught a short pass, then proceeded to pinball back and forth across the field three times in succession to get open. The blocks that my teammates laid down were sick. Honestly, I was so freaked out and afraid of getting hurt, it was like everything was standing still, and I was ready to avoid everything. Soon as I broke the third time, I made a beeline for the end zone, having seen sunlight.

The second game shifted me onto all-time offense, and put T.F. in my place on the team. This was actually kind of fun because I could either catch the short passes, or burn the person defending me, but me catching the long bombs was hopeless. Stone hands, fleshy heart. Thankfully, this cost both teams, and this game ended on a sweet S.F. to B.F. pass when the game was tied up. One turnover on each team kept things lively.

My personal "Oh, snap" moment in this game came when I had caught a pass and juked around T.F. I'm barreling towards the left cone, and E.B. is fading in my sights. All of a sudden, T.G. is on a direct intercept course, and I see he's going to catch me. Just before the out of bounds line, I stop, and he slams into me with a forearm shiver against my back. In the span of half a second, I think the following: "Crap, [T.G.] caught me. E.B. is going to kill me. Wait, there's room between them. T.G. didn't close his arms around me." Bam, I pull off a spin move, slip between them, touchdown.

T.F. became so demoralized, later in the game, I caught a short pass, ran towards him, and he just looked at me and said "I'm not going to even try to stop you." This actually threw me off, as I was planning to jump around him when he closed. Thus, I had to rejigger my gait and barely slid in for the tee-dee.

Things got a little awkward when some middle and high schoolers wanted to play. The middle schoolers especially had filthy mouths, and the high schoolers were a lot shorter than I remembered (though they may have been freshmen). We had to shift to two-hand touch, despite their pleas to play tackle (E.B. would have destroyed them). Then, several cars honked, and they all left. Ah, memories.

Final injury count: sore neck, sore right hand, aching left knee, fat lip. Apparently, when my teeth were coated in blood, I looked quite dangerous, as there was also salivary foam around my mouth at the time.

Hummingbird Heartbeat

2008-05-08T20:00:00.000-04:00

Today was my caffeine overload day. It happens every so often, I get on a run, and need caffeine desperately. Hence, eight o'clock, and I'm at Starbucks buying a venti caramel frappucino. Then, at work, two cokes. It was strange how I felt like the caffeine had changed my world, how the mental fuzz just dissolved. There is a strong possibility that I will not be sleeping for a while.

***

I've learned that I'm fairly good at observing details, and absolutely awful at interpreting them.

***

If you hadn't figured out, I'm doing a lot more extracurricular writing, and the blog was the first thing to lose time.

Morning Insomnia

2008-05-07T20:00:00.001-04:00

I've been up since four this morning, because I scraped the back of my hand earlier yesterday. Rather than coat it antiseptic and bandage it, I figured a few germs are good for my immune system. Well, it also turns out that my hand moves in the night at random, and a simple move would hit that scrape. At four, I couldn't ignore it, and got up.

There's something about being up that early, and that something is called stupidity. I kept trying to go back to sleep, and finally managed for about an hour, but it was one of those sequences where I was dreaming, but still awake. Almost went to get a giant frappucino from Starbucks, but that probably would've wreaked havoc for my sleep tonight.

Aside from being cranky all day, it didn't have too many deleterious effects on me. They say you can train yourself to sleep less, within reason. I'm not sure I could get by on five hours a night, without going kind of insane.

Capes Abound

2008-05-06T20:00:00.002-04:00

We're defined by our enemies. Look at superheroes from the four-colors. To have them apply their powers towards the everyday mundane is ridiculous. No, they need a threat worthy of their elevated skills. Otherwise, Batman is just some random jackass in tights. All of the educational superheroes came off as lame, because fighting illiteracy, while incredibly important, is just not that cool. Look at the fools Reader-Man might have had to combat. High School Dropout, you never learned how to read because the system used you for your athletic ability until you blew your knee out? Horrors!

We've all, at one time or another, wanted to be more. The problem is doing so in a fashion that highlights the depths of your neediness. You're in a costume, and you're telling people, on the Metro, to use the Metro? Shouldn't you be locked up in an asylum of some sort? It's not a matter of where the heroes went, but more why we don't recognize the people trying to make a difference. And part of the problem is using the word "hero" so freely. The definition is watered down and meaningless.

What is it these people want? A little glamour, the chance to make a difference, a little attention. But then, look at the things they're doing. You're cutting the wheel clamps off cars. That's useful, I suppose. In terms of impact, you can look at it from a quality or a quantity standpoint. Most of these people are doing neither, because this alter-ego they assume is a stand-in for their daily self, the one they felt was not strong enough to carry this message of theirs. The true heroes go unmasked, unrecognized by the masses, and woefully underappreciated. Theirs are the stories that fade away from the hearts and minds of most, and shimmer for a select few. People may think that what's going on is that becoming one of these costumed crimefighters makes them a better person, forgetting that in the comics, these people were already strong individuals.

Omitted Guilt

2008-05-05T20:00:00.002-04:00

I saw an elderly woman crossing into a grocery store, and rather than help her, I just walked faster and pretended not to notice. It's not my duty to help her get inside, and people will stop for her. After talking to A.A. about the legalities of proffering help as a licensed physician at an accident, he and I came to the conclusion that he was better off not saying anything, due to the possibility of getting sued. The long and short? It's safer and easier to omit an action, to do nothing.

Legally, you can't get in trouble for doing nothing in many cases. Tort law, at it's cold, dark heart, is based on negligence, which relies heavily on causation. If you weren't the cause, you can't be at fault. Morally, you can get in trouble, but morality only ever cost people their souls. The law costs people money, and you can't make more of that. It's a finite quantity.

Think about how much better the world would be if we didn't have to do things for each other, if we could all live in our own little bubbles. This is sort of what happens in New York City, anyway, or on the internet. Our society is gearing up towards severe isolation. Soon as reproduction without contact between the parents becomes a reality, we're all screwed.

Iron Man

2008-05-04T17:10:00.002-04:00

Iron Man is the greatest movie in the history of ever. Well, no, it isn't. It is a very good movie, on par with Batman Begins and the original Spider-Man, in terms of superhero goodness. Sets a good tone for the rest of the summer movies.

The great thing about the movie, Tony Stark is a flawed man, and we can identify with him. Hell, we might even become him, if given enough money and intelligence and time (so, not even really becoming him). Same thing with Batman, the need for vengeance drove an ordinary human to become extraordinary. That's what makes Superman hard to make into a movie. We can't identify. It's Clark Kent that we identify with.

Of course, the other thing we must remember is that Iron Man = kaboom, and that's what we're all about: big explosions.

Magnetic Fields

2008-05-01T21:02:00.002-04:00

I have two meetings a week for my project. These meetings, as with all meetings, sometimes get tedious. One of my interim solutions is to bring some of my office toys into the meeting. (I suppose that I should mention that my tendency to keep stuff in my office has resulted in me filling my office with so many knick knacks and "flair" that I've had to start moving some of it out to the lobby because it was getting to the point where people would come into my office and just play. All day long.)

Perhaps the most fun everyone had was with Magnetix, a series of ball bearings and magnetic tubes which can be settled into different shapes. I brought them into today's meeting, and P.G., almost upon sitting down, immediately snatched some up and started playing. The things he made were so abstract. I've never seen one man giggle so much at watching magnets hang over the side of a desk.

The best moment? We were on a conference call, and A.M. asked a question. P.G. rolled a few magnets past the phone, and M.M. was forced to respond "I'm sorry [A.M.], I can't hear you when [P.G.] and [K.T.] are rolling magnets past the phone." Yes, these magnets were strong enough to kill the speaker from six inches away. Or, to put it in an old-school fashion, I HAVE THE POWER!

Bland Boredom

2008-04-30T21:27:00.002-04:00

I have a feeling that I'm just going through the motions for this blog, yet again. There are five things I could have written about, but just didn't feel like writing about. Not necessarily were they private or embarrassing, I just don't feel like writing about those things. It's like I'm living a less-monotonous version of Groundhog Day. Same Shit, Different Day (SSDD). I joke about it, but that's actually what it's become.

Right now, it's virtual autopilot. I need something drastic to break me out of the groove. Positive or negative, don't really care. Drop a car on me. Let me win the lottery. I don't know, and it doesn't matter. Just let something happen.

Grander Theft

2008-04-29T21:48:00.003-04:00

Grand Theft Auto 4 has been getting such ridiculous reviews, I feel compelled to buy the game and play it. However, I've never been wholly enamored by the series. The first and second were never that much fun to me. It just seemed like a top-down game solely on the radar because of all the violence. The third and onward were OK, but what really frustrated me was that the controls were never as tight as I would have hoped. The style of game just never appealed to me.

Still, it's been touted as a wonderful sandbox game (go anywhere, do anything), as well as a compelling single player game. Plus, everyone's calling it the greatest game in history. I have to try it on that basis alone. Still, there's not enough time to try it. Given the breadth and depth of the game, and how I only really play video games about five hours a week, it'll be something of a waste. On top of that, I still have Super Mario Galaxy, Metroid Prime 3 and Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess to get through.

There would be enough time (there used to be enough time) if I would give up a lot of the things, such as sleep. I don't know where all the time went. Even worse, I don't really mind not being able to play video games every day, all the time. This can only mean one thing; tertiary syphilis causing insanity. Damnation.

Car Trouble

2008-04-28T21:34:00.002-04:00

I saw a Lexus today. However, it was not one tone, it was not two tone, it was three toned. The top and roof was black, the bottom was green, and the rear bumper was yellow. Yes, I have to assume the mockery of a car was a Lexus, due to the insignia centered on the back of the trunk, the encircled L.

Now, I'm no car buff. If cars were giant mecha, I'd be all about them (and would probably have become a mechanical engineer to fix them). But wheeled conveyances just don't do it for me. This means there are one of two main possibilities. First, this was a Lexus, and he (had to be a he, no woman is this stupid) actually went ahead and modified it with all sorts of colors and mistakes. If you're going to mod a car, you better be doing some sort of performance mod. I respect performance mods, you're trying to make a better machine. I can accept if you're adding performance plus aesthetic mods. But this is a Lexus, and there's not much reason for modding it. You want to do that? Buy a cheaper car and use the money you saved for additions. No, these aesthetic mods were ridiculous.

But in a way, it's almost understandable. No, I take that back. I cannot defend this, except in light of situation two. If the man purchased a Lexus insignia and slapped it on the back of a different make of car, I must castrate him, for he is far too stupid to procreate. It's one thing to badge non-R-type cars with the red R. It's another thing to horrendously mod a car and make people think it is a Lexus. Who are you trying to fool, and why couldn't you have figured out a better way to do this? Freaking idiot.

Minor Tweaks

2008-04-27T01:28:00.002-04:00

I minorly tweaked my ankle while running. Oddly, it happened when I slowed down to walk it off. The pain appears to have gone away for a while, but it's a strange twinge that keeps reoccurring. Add this to all the minor scrapes and bruises on my body, and it's like I'm taking the first tentative steps towards body modification/mutilation.

And whenever I think about piercings and body mods, I think back to the waiter at the pho restaurant who'd pierced his fingernail. Not the pink, the white. He'd drilled or carved a hole through the tip of his nail, probably three-fourths of an inch long (the nail, not the hole). Through this hole, he threaded a simple gold ring, very thin, probably light. But, he'd pierced his fingernail.

People mod their cars, their computers, their personal belongings. It's all an extension of the body mods humans have been performing since forever. External mods are just an outgrowth of internal mods, making yourself "harder, better, faster, stronger" (Thank you, Daft Punk). Sort of want to figure out a way to mod my ankle to be stronger. Maybe some subdermal rods, or a titanium cage. At what point can I apply to become a cyborg?

Excess Love

2008-04-24T22:28:00.003-04:00

I keep thinking about going to Speaker's Corner in Hyde Park and giving a speech. It's been one of my life's goals. There's just something about me, absolutely hating public speaking, going to the most famed forum for public speaking and giving a speech to the completely random assemblage. Of course, I'd record it, at least on tape.

One of the biggest problems will be traveling so that I end up there during the local daytime, so I don't get shanked at midnight giving a ridiculous speech. That's just a matter of timing and planning, so that's not so big. Another is the price, but again, timing and planning. It's definitely something that will require a fair bit of advance planning.

The biggest problem is the speech to give. I can't go without a topic, at the least, and maybe I should go with a speech prepared. And therein lies the rub. It would have been easy to write on the trip over, but I think I'll have to sleep on that plane ride. No, I have to write it first, then travel over there, give my two minute speech, and roll out. What's the topic? I've labored over this for a while, and my best thought: There is too much love in this world. Something in the vein of Swift's "A Modest Proposal." We'll see how I handle that so as not to come off like a jackass. Ah, dreams.

Oh, by the way, three hundredth post, and it only took three years. Woo, I guess.

Argumentative Bastard

2008-04-23T19:58:00.002-04:00

I'd held the impression that my postgraduate education had instilled in me my analytical thinking when it came to rhetoric or questioning. That was what led to me automatically arguing with people. I also thought that it was a horrifying offshoot of that education. J.E. and J.S. suggested that this was not the case, that I might have always been argumentative.

I don't actually know the answer to this one. Part of the way my mind works (has it always worked this way?) is that I don't really recall the past, except as disjointed flashes. The only thing I can truly remember about my childhood was that I was happy more often than not. The only thing I really remember about my recent adult life is that I was happy less often than not.

The obvious thing would be to ask people that knew me before my postgraduate education. Then again, the answer may frighten me. Is it right to delve into the person I was? Should I just step away and forget the throwaway thought? Am I going to go write something else right now?

Damnable Rocks

2008-04-22T22:25:00.003-04:00

I guess in line with my declining video gaming skillz, I have to contend with my never-quite there rock climbing skills. It's fun (except for the looking down and dropping), but for me it's fairly frustrating. I can see in my mind how to do it, but my body just won't quite do the things my mind deems necessary. Right now, I can barely type correctly; it's a struggle to get my fingers into the right places.

Right now, I'm too stubborn to give up. I'm going to learn how to do this to some greater-than-current level of proficiency. I'm never going to get over the fear of heights, but it's not debilitating. At the same time, I need to build up more strength/lose some weight so I can support myself on these crags. If nothing else, it's something drastically different from everything else I'm doing in my life.

There could be a third paragraph, but I want to rest my forearms.

Eroding Skillz

2008-04-21T19:25:00.002-04:00

More and more, I'm finding myself having to accept my gradual, but noticeable, decline with regards to video games. It'll be good preparation for when the rest of me falls apart (or continues its slow decline). I can still play a game somewhat competitively, but no longer can I go buckwild at a moment's notice.

Part of this is a function of no longer having the time or the patience to play games as much as I used to. Less practice means less ability to play a game at a high level. The other part, my reflexes are just slowing down. K.C. spilled a glass of water on the table towards me, and rather than react, I just watched the water splash down and dribble onto the seat, thinking to myself "Boy, I should move."

This hasn't stopped me from playing games, it's merely made me have to adjust to compensate. No longer do I play on Hard by default, but Normal, or in the case of games like Devil May Cry and Ninja Gaiden, Easy. I play much more defensively/"cheap" in order to get any advantage that I can, because I'm certainly not going to outreflex everyone. I've even thought about getting subdermal implants, once available, to enhance the waning skills.

Lost Voice

2008-04-20T20:49:00.002-04:00

I had the weirdest dreams while reading American Psycho. Many of them tracked what Pat Bateman was doing in the novel. I do not think I'll be re-reading it any time soon.

***

So it didn't hit me how badly I'd lost my voice until I tried to make a phone call and it sounded like I was going through puberty again. The voice was just so scratchy and whiny, cracking at every moment.

I've tried on several occasions living as a mute, or just not talking to people. It was fun, but today, when it was frustrating to even speak, I learned just how much agony it would actually entail. The level of comprehension would be much the same, but at least when I speak, I can make my thoughts known, and make an attempt to convey ideas and messages.

It did, however, make for several interesting moments when at the restaurant, when I would say thank you to females refilling my water, and my voice would crack. When I would try to rant about something, and it came out mostly as a few disconnected squirts and whines. When people kept making me say stuff just to make me say stuff. Whee.

Hate People

2008-04-17T18:49:00.005-04:00

If you have a weak stomach, check back in on Monday when I regale you with the normal random crap I do. Otherwise, get ready for ranty K.T.

***

"The morning after"... Thank blue heaven the article below was a hoax, at least, according to this article. Still, it's ranty enough that I'm gonna keep the below.

***

I just read this article. I may need to reread it.

For the record, I'm pro abortions, and I'm pro life. Hypocritical? Perhaps, but I think it's almost crueler to force a woman to birth a child, then abandon it to the streets or the broken foster care system. A life lived without love, when you need it the most? In "a perfect world" we would be able to forego abortions. People wouldn't make mistakes, people wouldn't commit sexual violence against one another, etc. But we don't, and there's no catch-all solution. I wish people weren't dumbasses, but they are, and something tells me I have to love them, flaws and all. And that means letting them wipe out their mistake the easy way.

That said, you get an abortion because it was a mistake, because it was the product of sexual violence, because it's threatening the mother's health, because you can't raise a child. Something has gone wrong, and you are taking steps to make it right, as best you can. Ms. Shvartz, she mocks us all. She had these abortions for the purpose of art. There was nothing wrong, and she's gone and made it wrong, then rectified that situation, just for "art."

From the article: "But Shvarts said the goal of the project is to encourage debate and discussion about the connection between art and the human body." Fine, where does art come into the argument? People throughout history use complex, vaguely defined, overbroad words to justify their actions. Religion is another popular example, but here we're dealing with "art." This is just shock value.

This is one of those situations where I can't really say exactly what's wrong. From a legal standpoint, the article is correct. She's done nothing wrong, legally. And so many people have used a fine twist on the law in order to reinterpret what it was intended to do, and slip yet something else past. Meanwhile innocent men and women suffer due to the law (and I digress).But just because you do something legal doesn't mean that what you've done is right. I can't break down why it's wrong in any normal terms. All I can tell you is that this is one of those things where my gut tells me that she's wrong, and I have to trust it.

(A few years back, in a fantasy football league, people were trading players on bye weeks for top-tier players, only to trade back when the bye had passed. There was nothing in the rules that said that was wrong, but I knew deep-down that it was wrong, that it was unfair. I was in the minority, and those trades persisted. Now I know what was wrong, even though I couldn't craft a legal argument: simple unsportsmanlike conduct. Screw game theory here, I should've stuck by my principles, rather than let it get to the point where I hate playing in that league.)

What burns me is her primary aim, this "art" of hers. On one level, it's more noble than aborting the unintended product of a one night stand, because it's so much more noble and true. On another level, the couple was just trying to have sex, have a little fun, whereas she is trying to make this right by justifying via art. The couple knows they fucked up, and maybe they're not taking responsibility, but they're doing something to make it better. She just says she wants to open a discourse. It's the real-world equivalent of unsportsmanlike conduct.

If I ever met her, I'd probably start screaming. She'd probably take a long drag on her cigarette and calmly tell me that it wasn't worth having a discourse with me if I wasn't calm and collected, and unless I was going to bring a logical argument why it was wrong, I should go away. I would then proceed to slap the ever-loving shit out of her. She would make some remark about me being a troglodyte, having to resort to physical violence because my mind wasn't formed enough to understand the import of what she'd done.

You know what? I know exactly what she's done, I know full well the import, and that's why I wouldn't stop slapping her.

***

Five minutes later ... Yeah, I'm probably being irrational, and illogical, and from a cold, neutral, inhuman standpoint, you are correct. I would make a lousy debater, lawyer, anything that requires cold, unfeeling logic. I'm a poor excuse for a robot.

Guess what? I'm still human.

Climb What?

2008-04-16T23:23:00.002-04:00

I think J.L. put it best. I had just detached from the wall after getting three-fourths of the way up, and my forearms weren't willing to keep going. He said I did a triple take when staring down. I do remember crying out "Holy crap!" Yeah, the fear of falling is a wonderful thing. I even had trouble letting go when I was four feet off the ground in training. I could barely let go of my right arm, swung with my left hand and feet still on the wall, grudgingly let go, and whimpered a bit while I was lowered. Four friggin feet. What a mighty feat.

There were more than a few "Oh crap" moments for me, but I did manage to reach the top of the wall on some shorter fifteen foot structures. I also attempted several leaps of faith to reach a handhold, after watching J.L. rather effortlessly reach them. Needless to say, it was like a dog pawing at the top of the fridge.

My forearms ache, and I'm wired. I could go for a run if I had to, but can barely lift a bottle of water using only my elbow. I guess all this is an attempt at saying that I'm going again. Why do people climb a mountain? Because it's there. I understand this a little more now. Just have to make sure not to look down.

Whiny, Sick

2008-04-15T21:27:00.001-04:00

Woo, I'm sick, and I'm going rock climbing tomorrow. This is going to end poorly.

So Cold

2008-04-14T20:28:00.002-04:00

The past few days I've been freezing, because of the refusal to wear appropriate clothing. It is April, I should be able to wear shorts and a t-shirt without freezing. So, the stubborn streak forces me to do so, even though I'm tremendously uncomfortable.

Why can't I just accept that there are things in this world beyond my control, like the weather? Because technology has given us the capacity to change, no, to master, so many things about our lives. It's no longer us versus environment.

It also makes those things which we can't change that much more difficult to accept. So, what happens when we finally get to the point when weather is perfect, and we can control it? Hell, China is attempting to seed clouds with silver in order to get them to rain early, so the Olympic opening ceremonies aren't dripped on. When does technology go too far? Has it already gone too far?

Mario Party

2008-04-13T22:21:00.002-04:00

Wii games are usually only fun when played multiplayer. Take, for example, Mario Party 8, which I have played single and multi. It is the multi which caused me to play for way too long today, keeping me from getting stuff done. Hence, obligatory short post.

***

I came in just under thirty-one minutes. Not exactly the time I was hoping for, but K.Q. was hungover, and R.L. wanted more just to finish, so we ran as a pack. Ah, well, next race. At least I finished.

***

"I guess we found out his weakness - bullets!" -LL Cool J, Mindhunters. I must now A) abuse this quote for GTalk, and B) watch this movie, just for this quote.

Right Brain

2008-04-10T23:34:00.003-04:00

I've been taking a few tests to determine whether I'm right brained or left brained, after this article. There are other tests I've taken, one said I was left brained, most say I'm right brained, though I'm fairly in balance, at least according to how close these tests are. Here's a table that lists some of the characteristics of both sides. You can google for a lot of tests.

It seems like in my life, I tend towards many more left brained individuals than right brained. This may go part way towards explaining why, well, I can't explain myself to others. Then again, it just might be a personal failing. It does help to explain why I'm so random at times.

Here's a relatively fruity article that makes me think that, to some extent, the author is trying to make himself feel better about something, but it's worth a read. This is a fun test describing the Stroop effect. Yeah, this is just me helping people waste time, but at least it teaches you a little about yourself. After all, according to Lyall Watson, "If the brain were so simple we could understand it, we would be so simple we couldn't."

All-season Greeting

2008-04-09T19:27:00.004-04:00

As I'm running down the street, about three hundred feet downhill, a woman is getting out of her car, and she's looking back at me. Even though I've my contacts in, my eyes have gotten worse since I got the scrip, so the vision, she ain't crystal clear. I'm right now guessing she was wearing a red top and a black skirt, but I barely remember stumbling back from my run. She stares at me for about five seconds, as I measure two steps to be a second in my oxygen-deprived mind. I'm in a t-shirt and black shorts, just running. The most threatening thing about me might be that I'm hispanic to white people, and the hair is unkempt and shaggy. Beyond that, I'm not a threat.

The weird thing is that as she's climbing the stairs to her house, as I draw closer, she turns back and stares at me as I'm running past. I'm trying not to stare up at her, but this is kind of freaking me out. As a runner, I've grown accustomed to being a ghost, running past as people turn their heads away and pretend I don't exist. When I breach someone's personal space and line of sight, then they acknowledge me, but only then. No one sees me from a distance, and no one turns to stare at me.

The key? I need more automatic scripts. You know what I'm talking about. "Hi." "How are you?" "Good, you?" "Good." I just need to make a comprehensive list of what might happen to me in any given day, and then create an auto-script to deal with the initial exchange. Then, it gets impossible to predict. Some football coaches and chess players script their initial exchange; it must have some merit. Then again, they may have generic scripts, so I may actually need a catch-all script that covers around seventy to eighty-five percent of all situations.

Here's the problem: the only auto-script that could possibly cover all that is:

"Hi." *nod head and smile*

I already do that. Am I reduced to this genericism for the rest of my life? There's got to be a better script...

"Fuck off." *nod head and smile* - Too antagonistic.
"I love you." *nod head and smile* - Too protagonistic.
*punch other person/s in face* - May fight back.
*punch self in face until blood pours out of nose* - Takes too long.
"Sing opening refrain of "It's a Small World"* - Song stuck in head.
"Can you identify this rash?" - Too much potential to be registered as sex offender and/or too cool for this world.
*Execute the running man* - Too 80s.
*turn head away and keep walking* - Too damned effective.
*leaping hip check, like in NBA* - Too much potential to hip check short people in the head.
*Pound chest* - Too hurty.
*Waggle eyebrows* - Too ambiguous.
*Flash gang signs* - Don't know any.
"Goodbye." *nod head and smile* - Too perfect to pull off without looking like a jackass.
"Can you dig it?" - Too obscure a reference to The Warriors.
"Do you have the time?" - Too ridiculous if I am wearing a watch.
"Caw, caw, caw!" - Too plagiaristic of ravens, raptors and D.C.
*smooth eyebrows using index and pinky fingers simultaneously* - Requires far too much coordination and spittle.
*Pull out Nintendo DS, activate Pictochat, text "hello"* - Requires other person to have a DS.

I'll find a better auto-script, somehow. Damn it.

Smash Tactics

2008-04-08T21:17:00.003-04:00

I was checking out the internet for some advice on how to improve my Super Smash Brothers: Brawl skills. What I've found horrifies me. The competitive scene plays about twenty layers above my skill level. It's like we didn't even buy the same game. The basic tenets are the same. I base my game around the same basic principles I play almost every single fighting game.

Faster, weaker characters that can capitalize on mistakes
Play a more patient, defense-oriented game
Block often, then counter
Attack when they can't fight back

There are exceptions, but it mostly boils down to block their attack, hit back.

In contrast, here's a sample tactical sentence based on what I learned: "Zelda's Usmash can be comboed twice on the ground when at low percentages, but the opponent can DI out of it." Here's another, describing how to do a move that is legal within the physics system of the game, jumping while facing backwards: "To execute a RAR, dash, tap backwards, then forwards and jump. This way, you can lead with the Bair, which for most characters is their best approach."

My favorite example of how crazy fighting games can get? This is from a national championship for Street Fighter III, 3rd Strike. The repeated timing needed to execute the repeated parries is within fractions of a second, and it's almost robotic the way he executes. That, plus the way the crowd goes apeshit, makes me realize... I need a new hobby.

Hair Cut

2008-04-08T19:54:00.004-04:00

I made a vow that I wouldn't cut my hair until after this freaking race, and I've got less than a week to go. It's starting to get really long, though not as long as during my school days. Still, it's getting there. I could slick it all back given enough gel, but that seems a bit too ridiculous. The temptation to dress up goes hand in hand. Then I'd just look some wannabe 80s corporate raider fresh out of B-school, or whatever cute abbreviation they give business school.

Way I see it, I can shave my head bald, get a crew cut, or just get it cut a little shorter and continue to part it. Or, of course, slick it all back. Why is this so difficult? I don't know. For someone that tries not to give a damn about what other people think, this is certainly causing me a lot more grief than I'd anticipated.

At this rate, there's not going to be any resolution. I may well just stop a stranger and ask them before going into the barber's. Then again, I also have to find a barber. Stupid freaking barbers. I hate the barbers. I hate hair cuts. Shazbot.

Complaining Incessantly

2008-04-07T20:21:00.002-04:00

With one exception, I really enjoy my coworkers. They're all incredibly capable people, easy to be around and work with, always helpful when I need assistance (and I need a lot). I'd also like to think they find me easy to get along with, not necessarily helpful, but also not a hindrance to their own work.

There's just one that frustrates me to no end. Sometimes, I need to marshal up the strength to interact with that coworker, before actually having to deal with the coworker. I've not had to do that in a very long time. It's not that this coworker is a bad person, I just can't reconcile the implicit arrogance and the air of superiority that make me feel like a second- or third-class citizen. (No, it's neither D.C. nor C.E.)

I think what hit home on this one was a meeting behind held in the lobby. This coworker was sitting on the two person couch, and rather than sit down next to them, I plopped down on the floor directly next to the couch. What made this worse was that a fellow coworker had also foregone the couchable seating. I made up some bullshit story about needing to sit on the floor after spending all day in a chair.

There have been times where he'll walk into my office, and almost immediately upon entry, I'll get so mad that I'll start to reverse his comments and throw everything right back at him that he says. Or when he's trying to make a joke, I'll either ignore him or say "Fuck you." I've even had to rant to officemates about him. Lord help me if we get posted to the same project.

This is probably a life lesson here. There are going to be people that rub you the wrong way. You just have to try not to flip out on them. I haven't been entirely successful, but I think I can do better, at least on the not flipping out. We'll see.

Foolish Children

2008-04-06T10:10:00.002-04:00

I was researching MA, MFA, and PhD programs in (surprise, surprise) English the other day and night. What few I found made me realize I'd have to get the MA first, or at least enroll in a combo MA/PhD program. It hurts sometimes to look at these things, because it makes me realize how different my life could be. J.L. did make a good point that, even though I'd dreamt up some idealized version of what I'd be, there would still be that nagging pressure that something was missing in my life. And this is true, but at the same time, that choice would have been one I made.

My alter ego, J.C. (he of the thousands of credit card applications in college) is now teaching English at a third-rate college. He's had a book published to moderate success, both critical and commercial. He's now expecting his first child, and freaking out about what to read to it, what to sing to it, will he be a good father, etc. J.C. gave up video games a long time ago, because he couldn't find the time to play them anymore. He's also become a bit of a chain smoker, something that he's vowing to give up after the child's born.

Really, though, how different would it be if I'd gone to the Peace Corps for 2 years, then returned to pursue my Ph.D.? Well, I'd still now be in school, for one thing. I wouldn't be able to pay the bills, any of them. My hair would be thinning from the stress of thesis defense. I'd be having strange, unidentifiable stomach pains which happened to be the start of an ulcer. I'd probably be in a relationship with a fellow Ph.D. candidate, which would probably just make me want to strangle her and/or myself.

The big question is, how do I reconcile all of this, and move on? The simple answer is, I do not. It's nice to dream, and I may end up being the oldest person in my family to enter a Ph.D. program (72? Will I have enough left in my head to pull it off?), but at least it's something I can look forward to. And, for now, I guess I go to the bank and the grocery store and run some errands.

Eight Minute

2008-04-03T21:00:00.002-04:00

I know for sure that yesterday, I averaged an eight minute mile over two and a half miles. This I know because I passed each half mile marker in four minutes. Of course, because of that, plus the day before, my legs are done. I had to take a break today. Still, a break is good. Plus, I'm doing a lot better than I'd hoped.

It's all a matter of relativity. Originally, I picked an eight minute mile as my goal because I just wanted to get into average shape. Around ten years ago, I'd read the average human could run a mile in eight minutes. Now, it turns out, due to America's sloth, I'm doing much, much better than the mass of humanity.

Next goal? Six minute mile, with a seven minute mile as an interim goal. After that, We'll start shaving down in fifteen second increments. Pie-in-the-sky goal? Sub-four minute mile. I think I can sprint at a four minute mile pace right now, but only for short distances, so at least I can hit the speed (maybe?). Realistically, it's not going to happen, but I need some goal that's not quite so isolationist. Although, to be fair, even when I'm running outside, I'm still running by myself, so...

Brawl Fantasia

2008-04-02T23:05:00.002-04:00

It turns out that you shouldn't play Super Smash Brothers: Brawl right before bedtime, as this will wire you to no end. Even as you close your eyes, the theme song races through your mind, you see Peach flying through the air (Ha-Cha! Who, me?), there are radishes tossed left and right. And, it was against good old G.B., my college nemesis in Super Smash Brothers: Melee. Now we have to get C.T. in one of these matches and make him lose his mind.

Superpositive Idiocy

2008-04-02T19:14:00.002-04:00

You know Bubble Tape? There's now several photos of me with an entire roll jammed in my mouth attempting to blow a bubble. I apparently sounded like I was born with developmental issues. The things you do to cheer people up. I guess I should be glad it wasn't a mouthful of caltrops.

Boy, I hope I can trust everyone involved to not start sending those around.

Run Lost

2008-04-01T21:29:00.003-04:00

I went running after work. Dropped my stuff off, went outside, walked through the parking lot, and started running. In unfamiliar environs, one of my primary rules from now on has to be to only follow streets, and to not deviate onto trails unless I am sure I can find my way back. Yeah, K.T. got his ass lost.

This, despite purchasing a GPS yesterday. Problem is that it was designed for cars, not for running. I'm awful glad that I didn't carry it with me. It doesn't cradle well in the hand, and I have no pockets in my shorts. All I can take, realistically, is the keys. From now on, I must also find a way to take water.

After a few minutes of running down main streets, I find a trail, and decide to give that a go. One thing leads to another, and I see a sign for a four mile run. A bit more than I'd planned, but it's probably a loop, right? This I follow, all the bikes passing me in both directions. Finally, I come out of the woods and onto a main street, one I've never seen before.

Now, this would be the perfect time to turn back, but this is not the K.T. option. I pick "left" and go. And go, and go, and go. At one point, I have to stop in 7-11, and find a clerk that has no grasp of English or directions. She tells me what I finally discover is the proper way to run, but pointed me in the exact opposite direction. I run perhaps half a mile down the street, then find several police officers waiting outside a motel.

I ask two for directions, and one tells me I won't be running to my destination. The other tells me the information I need. I'd like to use this opportunity to have proven the first officer wrong. He said I wouldn't be running two miles. Not only did I run two miles, I probably ran more because I got lost several more times.

Did I mention I started running near sunset?

Somehow I found my way to an armed forces recruitment center, and the lights were all on. Now, I'm what you would call a wartime pacifist, in that I believe in violence until it's my ass on the line. Still, Directions are directions. In I go asking for directions, and they're amazed at just how far/how lost I am. One man, with a particularly deep voice, asks if I'm trying to get any smaller. Another asks me what school I go to, and I realize he thinks I must be around 20. I tell him I've graduated for a while.

Later, after giving some convoluted directions, he asks what school I graduated from, and I loathingly admit UMDLaw. He sits back a little and asks if I'm a lawyer. I give him the auto-spiel, that I'm barred to practice law in Maryland, but am not currently doing so. This impresses him enough to try to recruit me, this kid who is a lawyer and has run three miles or so and gotten lost. Me, I'm not one to spit in the face of someone that's just given me directions, so I listen to a bit of his spiel, then give the phone number for a call back tomorrow. Hey, options are good, and I just got recruited for the army.

On my way back, I had to stop someone to confirm I was going in the right direction. She spoke in an accent I can't place, some British, maybe Australian accent? She also had some of the most jagged teeth I've ever seen in a person, but not shaved down. More organic, like stalactites (ceiling) and stalagmites (ground). Apparently, I scare people when running, because she wouldn't really look me in the eyes, or even look at me. Well, either that or she was shy about talking to strangers, which is entirely possible, as she said she'd just moved there.

Another twenty minutes, bringing my total up to an hour, and I find my way home, stumbling the rest of the way. There's a car parked in front of the door, so I walk around and go to another door, constantly checking reflective surfaces to see if that guy's following.

No doubt, I need to get lost more and see what else happens.

Silicon Suffering

2008-03-31T21:22:00.002-04:00

And now, I have joined the ranks of the technologically addicted. Despite my distrust of technology, and the fear that it pervades our lives, I've purchased a Global Positioning System. This is in reaction to the piles of printed Google maps in my car, somewhere around eighty or so. There's also a good chance that this will help me from getting physically lost. No, this is an incredibly inaccurate statement. When I get lost, this will help me get found.

Ultimately, this will serve to make me a weaker human being, though more on time. Look at cell phones. I used to be able to remember phone numbers after a couple of repetitions. Now, I just guess blindly, and would be absolutely lost without my cell phone. It also lets me communicate with anyone at any time, at all times. Convenient? Yes. A crutch? Yes.

There is a certain part of me that has been struggling with directionality (physically, not morally). I was getting better, mildly, with knowing where things were, only because I was forced to drive everywhere, and maps can only take you so far. There was some sort of map overlaying itself upon my neurons, an almost instinctual sense of locale (re-)emerging recently.

Now, if I need go anywhere, or if I need find any location, out comes the device, in goes the address, and directions emerge, like some sort of tiny god. Six months, and I will be completely lost without it. It even has a walking mode, which I could probably use to determine how far I've run in a given day. Increased reliance makes me weaker.

Technology had, has, so much potential to improve our lives, but does it really serve to improve us? No doubt that all the tech in my life is nothing short of miraculous, but it also makes me unable to function without it. There is probably no time during the day spent without electronic technology. Hell, look at me typing on this laptop.

This is the root of my technophobia. The inventors, the innovators, they're applying their skills and talents, and thus improving themselves. These advancements get duplicated, and the rest of us leech off these benefits. My job is worthless in terms of human development. My education is worthless in terms of human development. My drive to create, as I find it hard to admit, is fairly worthless in terms of human development.

That is perhaps the only good thing about technology, that it was supposed to give us the time, the energy, the freedom to develop within, rather than struggle just to survive. Well, the struggle is gone, and many of us waste our inherited freedom. It's depressing to have to accept, and hard to follow. But, hey, at least I'll know exactly where I'm going.

Assorted Thoughts

2008-03-30T21:51:00.002-04:00

I think (I know) I have a soft spot in my heart (my head) for people that are different, because that's been the basis for my entire life. However, this doesn't extend to people that piss me off. If you're overtly disdainful towards me, or you take advantage of my good nature, yet you're still different, this creates a slight internal conflict, in that I hate you. Oh, wait, that's not a conflict at all, I just end up hating you.

***

I went to La Madeleine to get some food, and ordered a tart (which, at first, I thought said tort. Those of you that are familiar with my hatred of torts will understand). While sitting in front of the fireplace, I looked up at the ancient books on the shelves, all in French. Most were bolted somehow to the shelving, but I happened to pick up one. Though in French, it didn't take too long to figure out that it was a legal dictionary. Fuck you, universe, fuck you.

***

People themselves are willing to do a lot of things, provided they don't have to plan. This has borne itself out through repeated anecdotes. The half-baked corollary is that, if you want something done, do it yourself. Planning is a bitch, because it's extra work, and it's just easier to let "the other guy" do it. Unfortunately, you can't keep expecting "the other guy" to do anything. Look at Kitty Genovese. An entire apartment complex refrained from contacting the police, either assuming someone else would do it, or not wanting to get involved. Take a stand, damn it.

***

Singulair has been linked to an increase in suicide. I took Singulair for about a year. When the inevitable class action lawsuit drops, I'm gonna get paid. Granted, I'm only gonna get paid about $10, but still. Best part? The Singulair didn't really even work on my asthma.

***

People drop hints all the time. You notice little details, the out of the ordinary or what have you. It's all just a matter of pattern recognition, one of the basic human skills. The key is higher level critical/analytical thinking, putting together all those disconnected details into something more concrete, drawing conclusions, making educated assumptions. Continually, over the past few weeks, I've been picking up on information, but then filing it away and doing nothing with it. Then, someone mentions something, and everything falls into place. However, I could have easily figured it out myself had I just made that leap and interweaved everything.

Oh, also, people pick the strangest times to reveal dark secrets. I'm trying to eat, damn it.

Moving On

2008-03-27T22:42:00.002-04:00

It's strange, attempting to leave as few traces of myself in this apartment as I possibly can. I will inevitably fail, and not just because there's a smell I can't identify. No, it's more that, much as with every person I have ever met, I change them in some fashion. Many, it happens in an imperceptible fashion, some, more deeply. Here, I have lived for a year. If nothing more than skin flakes, or my scent, or the holes in the wall where I nailed a white board, part of me remains (and no, I don't feel like spackling).

I know this is the rule for nature, that you leave it as you found it. Problem is, you can't always remove yourself. You're part of the environment. We all come from the earth, just as we all return to the earth. To attempt to disappear is just impossible. We are tangible, we are real, we are more than what just ghosts. Impossible to be forgotten. Even the homeless people we pass on the street, when they disappear, someone knows about them, they leave a mark. Even just a stain, it's still a mark.

Yet, here I am, scrubbing away, burning candles, trying to evanesce, because I must. Household ninja. Know that I would not do this, if I did not have to. But in four days, it will be complete, and I will have disappeared from here, moved on to a different place. A better place? Blue heaven only knows.

***

So, I didn't quite work things out, and will be living out of the office for a bit. I've rented out a storage space, crammed as many of my boxes and bags in there as I can, locked it up, and now I've just kept some essentials, which I've now ensconced in my office.

It'll be interesting. How long can I possibly live out of a place of work before someone notices, and tells me to leave? I don't know, but if I have to, I'll just go to a Motel 6.

Here's the tentative plan for the next four to six weeks. Shower in the gym across the way lets me keep myself somehwat clean. There are only so many clothes one person can wear, which I've hidden in my desk, and a few cardboard boxes around my office. I'll just keep small supplies of food in my office and the fridge. Probably also leave for a few hours after work, then return later at night, once most everyone has left. Then, since I normally get to work pretty early, no one will notice when I roll out of the office in yesterday's clothes.

I think the worst part of all this is that I'm forgetting something very important, but don't know what that is. As usual in my life, when I do remember, it'll be too late to make a difference. Wish me luck. I'm now an itinerant worker.

Puzzle Ball

2008-03-26T22:17:00.002-04:00

I have a puzzle ball on my desk. It's composed of six of whatever the shape is if you take the cover off a baseball. It cost me two quarters from a vending machine. Here it sat on my desk for weeks, until I shook it, and heard something rattle inside.

Well, I had to have that, whatever it was.

There is probably an elegant solution to disassemble the thing, some sleight of hand, perhaps a twist of fate. Maybe a bed of nails is involved. Would it make me wait? I don't know, and I still don't know. After five minutes of trying to slide every piece every which way, I found out by squeezing in on a panel, several other panels would almost peel back from the main structure. At this point, I could wedge my finger under, and eventually brute forced it open. The entire structure collapsed on cue, leaving me with six almost identical pieces, and the directions. Yes, the directions. For assembling it.

There are a few things I have to say here. One, at least it wasn't the instructions to disassemble it. Two, you sick bastards are going to tell me how to put it back together? Three, that was my prize?

At least I didn't resort to the hammer on my desk, as was the original plan. Alexander the Great, meet Gordian knot. But what does it say about us, about how we approach this, how we approach anything? Have I really become (was I always) a person that brute forces a solution, rather than finesse it? Is this going to be a detriment to my way of life?

The damned thing is no longer as strong as it was when I first got it. After a few seconds of pressing on it, it bent inward and collapsed.

The other question this raises, why do I see everything as a puzzle that can be solved? I know that there are lots of things that can't be solved, and some things that shouldn't. Well, I know this in my head. In my heart, I see things that are broken, and try to fix them. Note this is akin to shaving the corners off a sphere. What part of me is so insistent on order? Probably the same part of me that is obsessed with Tetris. But Tetris is so simple, so intricate. I brute forced the hell out of that sphere.

Don't know why this concerns me so. I'm too damned close to it. Someone needs to stare at me for a few days and "Tell me what the fuck is wrong with meeeeeeee...."

Under Advisement

2008-03-25T20:04:00.003-04:00

People don't want legal advice, they want peace of mind.

One of the images from The Time Traveler's Wife is that of Henry always running, literally and figuratively.

[Spoilers ahead]

When he loses his feet to frostbite, that's the beginning of the end. Still he travels, though it is but a matter of time before it's all over. His physical inability to run mirrors his inability to escape his destiny.

[Spoilers behind]

After my heavyweight bout with the flu, where it went Mike Tyson, bit my throat, then collapsed in the fifth round, I've resumed the running. However, I can't run from the law. Today I got a completely random phone call from someone asking for legal advice. It was probably a good thing, because the call demonstrated that I still understand Mandarin Chinese, and I still remember enough of the law to fake an answer.

I've had to answer enough of these random calls/emails/questions/prayers to know that, ultimately, what people want is not the legal advice. They want peace of mind. They want a shield. They want for the law to not stave in their heads with obscure mumbo-jumbo.

I'm a little torn about the entire process. There are those people that will find me when they suspect I've value to them, then forget me until the next time I've value to them. Of course, I think I can save the world, even though I no longer have the inner drive/desire to do so. So, I'll keep helping. But, really, what's the point? More and more, I'm just offering security. Especially talking to someone, I'll tell them a) to calm (the fuck) down and b) that everything will be OK.

It still bothers me that our legal system no longer protects the innocent, just the person with the best stand-in. Our trial by jury may as well have remained a trial by ordeal. Everyone in that courtroom suffers. Was there a point where it all went wrong? Money? Fame? Power? I recall an episode of Justice League (yes, the cartoon) where they mentioned that the lawyers shared the punishment given to their client. This helped solve the problems of their legal system. If you follow the rules as a lawyer, you're never in trouble. The client shoulders the burden. Big business could give a crap, but what about the normal person?

Percussive Heartbeat

2008-03-24T21:27:00.002-04:00

Log out. Sign off. Turn off. Tune in. Escape all the technology, the electrical trappings that ensnare us within an open prison. We've become so reliant on it that any strong EMP blast would utterly destroy us, not because we couldn't survive, but because we wouldn't know how to survive.

But, I digress. Flick off everything that tethers you to modern society. Close your eyes, take a breath, and cover your ears with your hands. Hear that? That womb-like onrush that's somehow strangely soothing, even though you might not be able to place why? That's your heartbeat. That's the drumbeat to the theme song of your life.

Ever had one of those moments where you wished that you had a song, your song, that would play whenever you entered a room? Mine is BLUE from the Cowboy Bebop anime series. Well, that's what I always wished it was. Turns out, my true theme song is just my simple heartbeat. And yours is, too.

It almost never stops, save ever-brief moments of suspense-ridden torment/peace. It's amorphous, everchanging to reflect whatever's occurring around you. It's versatile enough to fit any main song that you want, though you might have to fiddle (hah hah) with it to get it to fit just right. But most of all, it's unique, and it's your own beat, and though someone, or something, will eventually take it from you, they'll never possess it. It's as unique and essential to you as anything there is in this world.

The Doctors, and I capitalize it for they are the closest things atheists have to gods these days, the Doctors would have us refer to these heart beats as "lub-dubs". Valve open, valve close. Valve open, valve close. This basic mechanism for sustaining life, and I can ascribe to it so much more, if only because I have learned to see everything as a product of everything else (this also explains why it is so easy for me to explain strange and/or difficult concepts, yet so hard for me to fully grasp something).

What does it mean? We all search for meaning in our lives, whether we realize it or not. As part of that, just as we see faces in anything vaguely reminiscent of two eyes, a nose and mouth, we tend to look towards something, anything, in order to find, discover, realize, understand. Have I answers? Nay. All I ask is that, maybe, just maybe, the answers might be closer than you hope. Listen, listen deep within yourself, and maybe you won't hear anything. Maybe there aren't answers.

And maybe there are.

Emo Post

2008-03-12T21:33:00.003-04:00

So the way writing works in my life is in cycles. I get depressed, and keep sinking until I start writing. It lifts me up until I stop being depressed, at which point I stop writing. Once I stop writing, I slip back into depression. Had I more insight and more perspective, I would just write every single day and avoid the mass of depression. Granted, people get depressed on a regular basis, and you can't dodge it. Still, the writing might stave off so much of it.

I will say, more often than not, Writ isn't enough. A lot of the time, it's just a half-assed diary that I put up because I feel compelled to. Except, lately, I haven't felt compelled. Right now, there's nothing new I can add here that's of any worth. Will that stop me from posting? No, but it severely curtails the frequency of posts.

I think I want to tell a story. That's all I ever really wanted to do. Realistically, it's not something I'll ever be able to make a living off of. Probabilistically, what'll end up happening is that someday (somehow, someway, somehope), I'll get married, and have kids, and they'll be the ones I tell my stories. And they won't laugh. Well, they will, but they won't laugh at me.

Compulsory Post

2008-03-05T18:24:00.003-05:00

Q.L. gave me the influenza, complete was a one-oh-two point seven fever at one point. That temperature was a new record in my lifetime, and I will say I am not that ashamed that I couldn't immediately convert thirty-nine point four Celsius into Fahrenheit, mostly because at the moment, I was sweating and freezing. If you have never had the chills and sweated simultaneously, I would recommend you do so.

This was easily the sickest I have been in over ten years. I felt the following at various points over the past several days:

-sweating and chilly
-mild shaking
-body-wide pain, like I had pestles grinding me from the inside
-inability to concentrate, not even on video games (yeah, that's how bad it got)
-exhaustion
-sharp muscle pain
-sore throat
-bloody phlegm (what ultimately sent me to the doctor, a little delirious in the process)
-runny nose
-stuffy nose
-sharp hatred for all sick children (Q.L. caught the influenza from her kids)
-coughing

Often times I've wanted to take sick leave in the past, but just because I didn't feel like getting up. This has been the only time in recent memory I was entirely worthless.

It's also amazing how being sick for about a week can set you back for the month. Expect even fewer posts (right...) while I play catch-up for the next six to fourteen weeks.

Anonymous Confession

2008-02-27T20:39:00.002-05:00

Group Hug allows people to make anonymous online confessions. Post Secret lets you mail in anonymous postcard confessions. Kleenex's new ad campaign allows you to post anonymously your confessions. I know that the internet is just a tool, neither good nor bad, and its up to us to determine what we do with it. Still, why are these here, and why are these necessary?

I'm not going to pretend to be above it. Part of the reason I go by my initials is so I don't get anyone in trouble, but part of it is so I can confess, and to most of the world, it's anonymous. Some of you know me, and thankfully, none of you have ever really confronted me on the more serious confessions.

What does it say about the state of our society that (ostensibly) these confessions are made online, as opposed to people you trust? I think it sticks with me, mostly because I'd like to think that people aren't truly that isolated, that there are people there for them, and that fairies really do exist, and we need to clap to give them their wings.

***

On a related note, my stress tic returned for about a week. I have a few theories: people, places, things. More to the point, I think it returned because I had to go deal with a lot of strangers, and wasn't reacting well to it in the leadup. It went fine, in the end, not nearly as bad as I'd feared. However, it's kind of funny that such a simple thing as strangers make me twitch, isn't it?

Race Update

2008-02-20T22:32:00.001-05:00

Wednesday, February 20, 2008. 2213 EST. Apartment in Virginia. Cold, cloudy, can't find the lunar eclipse.

Training for the five kilometer race continues. If I have not mentioned it here, I have been training for a five kilometer race. This week, I've started the interval training, a hellish concept of sprinting as fast as I can for short bursts. I don't remember the theory, but this continued sprinting actually makes you faster overall, thereby allowing you to run further in the same amount of time, or something. Its asinine.

What is my goal for this race? I don't know. In high school, when I ran cross country, my best ever time for a race was around twenty-nine minutes. It was roughly an average nine minute mile. For this race, under twenty-five minutes would be amazing, seeing as how that would be a (roughly) eight minute average mile. If training continues at this rate, twenty-five minutes is entirely possible. I just need the internal fortitude to keep up.

Too Early

2008-02-17T05:13:00.001-05:00

Sunday, February 17, 2008. 0514 EST. Apartment in Virginia. Dark, cold.

I can either go to sleep and automatically wake up in a couple of hours or stay up. Haven't decided yet, but boy do I hate my circadian rhythms.

***

An ice storm travailed through Virginia, coating everything in a cold-shiny rind. This happened to also shut down the Mixing Bowl for seven hours (the intersection between Interstates 95, 395 and 495). It made my personal travels hell. At a slight dip in the road, two cars had spun out at least 180 degrees, as both were facing me. Another car spun out towards the median and ended up backwards. A fourth car tripped right into the grassy median, speckled with snow and ice. I slowed down to about five miles per hour and made it through straight. The sports utility vehicle behind me also spun out onto the median. Behind that, the sedan dropped to five miles an hour. Since I was just half a mile from my apartment, I went five miles per hour for the rest of the trip. Not a single car attempted to pass me.

***

"Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?" Heaven only knows. Dick's famous story served as the basis for Blade Runner, a movie I have yet to see. It's not bad, but not great, this story. His prose is fairly utilitarian, doesn't detract, but doesn't really add to the story either. The dialogue is clunky at times, with a lot of repetition being more annoying than emphatic. His ideas are unique, especially for the time, and the theme of artifice versus realism really strikes at you from several angles, especially with the empathy boxes and dialing up emotions that, though the humans feel, are nothing more than a fake. Meanwhile, the androids that cannot use these empathy boxes actually show some emotion (and some sociopathic behavior). Raises a lot of questions about what really is human. There were a couple of plot points that, at first, seemed to raise the question about whether Deckard, the android bounty hunter, was himself an android. Upon second thought, they were just absurd plot points, and even within the context of the story, unbelievable. Would probably not read again.

***

If this link http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pw4Bhmm22xo is correct… Go watch it. It's plausible and compelling, though the sample size is admittedly tiny. We're inundated with the current state of matters, but if we had more samples from ten years ago, and all were of similar quality as that displayed in the video, well.

***

One of the side effects of being in Law School was that it shot my professional self-confidence all to hell. I stopped caring, and my work suffered. I probably could've cared, and it wouldn't have made a difference, I don't think. It was never the right fit.

I got a couple of compliments on my work at work, and didn't know how to take it. It's been a long time since I felt competent in a work setting. I did feel that way occasionally at L.M., but how hard is it to take notes, something I've been doing for ever and ever?

***

I have to read this article http://www.cracked.com/article_15231_7-reasons-21st-century-making-you-miserable.html once every few weeks to keep myself grounded and remind myself that some misery is good.

Random Note

2008-02-14T00:14:00.001-05:00

I dream of flying.

Mercurial Mood

2008-02-11T20:04:00.000-05:00

Monday, February 11, 2008. 2022 EST. Apartment in Virginia. Dark, cold enough to raise goosepimples on my legs as I walked inside in shorts and a t-shirt.

I've been tetchy all day long. I cursed every single driver on the road to and from work for being on the road. I've been coughing all day due to my allergies hitting hard. Q.L. stole my whoopie cushion at work (though I deserved it because I left it inflated on her chair). I ate too much for lunch and felt really sick for most of the afternoon. The drive home took almost an hour because of a car accident. I came back to a five-day warning/eviction notice, even though I paid my rent five days before the due date, and have the bank statement online showing the check cancelled by my apartment complex.

At the same time, I had a great morning. Nice bowl of cereal and yogurt for breakfast. Calm morning, calm day really. Met the deadline and submitted something for the client at work. Started organizing an impending Popeye's fried chicken eating contest. I ran four miles for the first time in a very long time. Made it home safe, and was able to prove that I paid the rent bill. And now, I get to watch the train wreck embarrassment that is American Gladiators. There's even a preliminary plan for me to start a work-only blog, which would let me separate Writ in twain.

How much of our perception of the events around us is colored by our moods? Probably significantly. This day had its up and downs, just like any other day. I made it home safe, and I'm healthy for another day, and I want to see tomorrow.

Wow, it's been a long time since I could say that, honestly. I want to see tomorrow.

Weird. Is my life where I thought it would be ten years ago? No. Is it where I'd love it to be right now? No. Am I good to go for at least one more day? Yes. Well, this has been a hell of a day. Ah, to be bi-polar.

Book Nook

2008-02-10T18:58:00.001-05:00

Sunday, February 10, 2008. 1659 EST. Apartment in Virginia. Sunny, chilly but bearable.

Inspired by my semi-annual living space cleaning, a book check:

Currently reading: A Feast for Crows by George R.R. Martin

Books on the shelf not yet read (by myself, at least)*:

Code Complete by Steve McConnell
Next by Michael Crichton
Unconventional Success by David F. Swensen
Philip K. Dick: Four Novels of the 1960s (The Man in the High Castle, The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, Ubik)
The Bridge by Iain Banks
Beyond Tells by James A. McKenna
Escape from China by Zhang Boli
Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy by John LeCarre
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien
The Road by Cormac McCarthy
Atonement by Ian McEwen
American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis
Century Rain by Alastair Reynolds
Redemption Ark by Alastair Reynolds
Absolution Gap by Alastair Reynolds
One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert M. Pirsig
Foucault's Pendulum by Umberto Eco
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

*This list is probably not complete. There are likely books hiding somewhere in the piles that I have yet to unearth.

I'll be done with A Feast for Crows in a few days, week tops. Then, the problem is which book do I want to read the most. These all are interesting me, now that I look at the list, and have them on my shelf lined up in a row according to height, more or less.

Heavens, I'm such a geek. I'd go join a monastery and cloister myself away from humanity, but for the fact that I couldn't own books. Everything else, I would be OK with giving up.

***

Good heaven, was last week busy. At the company meeting, I actually broke out my laptop, not to dick around, but to continue working. There's something wrong with that, but I'm not sure what.

I've already left my mark on T.S., if the meeting was any indicator. As the "[T.S.] Awards for Outstanding Achievement in the Field of Excellence" were handed out, we saw a parade of the usual suspects in the Info-tech discipline. Best project management, best developer, best business analyst, best salesperson, general excellence. And then, the ultimate award, entitled "Work Hard Eat Harder." Yes, gentle folk, the founders of T.S. created an award lauding the gustatory efforts of A.C. He even received the actual plaque, crystal slab supported in wooden frame. Yes, it said "2007 Work Hard Eat Harder."

This has two ramifications for me. One, I have to get off my ass and start planning more eating contests. But two, perhaps more important, despite my unintentional efforts to murder my coworkers with elevated cholesterol counts, I have actually had a tangible effect on team morale. Now, if only I could make such an effect with my work, but I guess we'll have to give that more time.

***

I broke my only cereal bowl a while back (OK, months back). It didn't stop me from eating cereal, but I was eating it out of a lot of Tupperware. That was kind of sad, so today, while procuring cleaning supplies, I went to the food storage section. Almost picked up a Tupperware bowl (again), when I looked over to the pyrex section, and picked up a pyrex bowl.

Form follows function. F*ck traditional dinnerware. I'm going to now assemble a plate/bowl set of nothing but pyrex. Doubles as food storage, hard to break (already dropped it once), but still an understated effect. This stuff will match pretty much anything I ever get, because it's clear. As you all know, I've got zero style, so need as much help as possible, or the opportunity to minimize style choices.

A quick search on the internets reveals it will be harder than I thought to purchase. Damn you, porcelain. Damn you.

***

Finally had time to decompress. Much needed; I slept so, so much. It makes me want to organize another tackle football game, or go back to sleep.

Midweek Recap

2008-02-06T23:29:00.000-05:00

Wednesday, February 6, 2008. 2332. Back in the apartment in Virginia. Dark, but I'm guessing it is surprisingly warm outside, as it was the entirety of today.

I got to listen to 107.5, The River, while en route to the client site. One morning, they went absolutely nuts that someone cursed on the air, which finally justified their time-delay airing. On and on they bragged about having to use the bleeper, and this was only the second time in ten years they'd been given the chance to do so. Twice in ten years. In the D.C. metro area, we're lucky it's not more frequent than twice an hour that someone gets bleeped.

***

The struggle for a project name continues. Since it incorporates Queues, several client employees refer to the project as the "Queue Thang." Not "Queue Thing," "Queue Thang." This may stick, but boy, I hope it don't. Have you heard me affect a southern accent? It not pretty.

***

I'd always considered myself fairly easy to comprehend, accent-wise. Yes, this despite most peoples' inability to comprehend me because I mumble, talk really fast, and use language on occasion which was a better fit for the sixteenth century (but I'm getting better on that last one, I swear). Then, I get down to Tennessee.

There's just something about my Yankee accent that was off-putting. At the same time, I think I mentioned it before, I couldn't understand their Southern drawl unless I was looking directly at them and concentrating. It's basically all the same, and apparently, it's not at all the same. I wonder what this says about our brains and our pattern recognition? A big part of language is just pattern recognition, hearing what someone said before, linking it up to a meaning. It's also why language falls apart when I talk to little kids and animals. They don't understand what the hell I'm saying at some times. The patterns are unfamiliar.

Despite my horrendous ability to adopt an accent, I had toyed with trying to make myself more a southerner. Given that most people took me for Hispanic, wouldn't a Spanish accent have been more appropriate? Damned if I know. Still, perhaps there's a need to watch more reruns of Hee-Haw before I take this on.

***

For the women out there: During one meeting, we were talking with a vendor. T.K., a woman, and J.M., another woman, and the vendor representative, discussed about ninety percent of all the relevant issues, while the rest of us (men) sat there like lumps on a log, with nothing relevant to add. Boy, the world has changed.

***

For the developers out there: I hate virtual machines. Instability, thy name is VMWare. Great in theory, questionable in practice. Granted, it might just be about my level of familiarity with technology. If I didn't read all the time, books would probably scare and confuse me in much the same manner. There are so many of them, and all of them so different, but they're useful somehow?

***

So tired.

Travel's End

2008-02-03T04:15:00.000-05:00

For now, my incessant travel cessated (ceased?). So long semi-regular posting, until I travel again. I still have a few leftover points to post, but will do those later. Kind of tired right now, what with it being 0420 and all.

***

Thursday, January 31, 2008. 1815 EST. Nashville International Airport, awaiting flight back to Baltimore. Rainy, dreary. It's sheeting down the window panes, and would be almost beautiful if I didn't have to go out in the middle of it in about an hour.

After two weeks, I don't think I did a great job, but I think I've done a somewhat competent job. Lots of improvement possible. Going to have to work on it in the coming weeks and months.

***

I went and got breakfast at Jack in the Box. The lady actually said "Go ahead and have a seat. I'll bring you your food." She did. That would never happen in Baltimore.

At Chick-fil-A, all of the workers were around sixteen years of age. This makes sense, as I'd gone a few hours after school let out, and you gotta make your money somewhere. Still, that happens more and more where everyone around me is younger than me. I see it at work also, and it sort of makes me feel decrepit. Well, no sort of about it. I do feel decrepit.

I had the opportunity to go to a Sonic fast food restaurant. Near D.C., you see commercials for them all the time. I'd never figured out if there was one nearby, though. Also found out they had tater tots. Tots!

Went to a Thai restaurant, and the woman at the front automatically assumed I'd come there to pick up some food. As she was also Asian, I've determined that I just need to go to the right places to find Asians in Tennessee, such as Asian restaurants.

Had a nice breakfast this morning at Waffle (Awful?) House. Their All-Star Special breakfast consists of a waffle (to which I added butter and syrup), three slices of bacon, two slices of buttered toast (plus multi fruit jelly), scrambled eggs, and hash browns. Washed it down with three diet cokes. Lunch was at Stroud's Restaurant, a barbecue beef sandwich with slaw and pickles, along with a large diet coke.

Yes, I'm not missing the irony of getting diet cokes all day.

I also ended up dragging all day, and felt really stupid and useless.

You'll notice that I ate a hell of a lot of junk food this week, which definitely can't be conducive to mens corpore sans corpora. Now, I think that means "healthy mind in a healthy body", but I'll bet you if you translated that, it probably comes closer to something like "have a mind without the body." The point is it was quick and easy and I think I ended up suffering mentally and physically because of it.

Hence, my wack job idea: from now on, when I travel, I'm going vegetarian. I'm already on the run, in unfamiliar environs, and probably not exercising as much because I'm busy. The temptation, since food is expensed to the client, is too great to get whatever, and so I'll end up getting the worst food known to man. Plus, it'll probably be embarrassing if I have to show up without a belt because I got too fat for my clothing in a week.

***

One morning, as I drove to the client site, I got stuck behind a remarkable individual, weaving in and out of our one lane on a two lane road. At eight in the morning (nine EST). Yes, this individual came within about twenty-five feet of slamming headfirst into an oncoming tractor trailer, or veering off the road into a ditch. I had my phone out, and dialed nine, one, and was waiting on the one.

Drunk at eight in the morning and driving. This is something you also don't see in Baltimore, though it's because people are drunk and inside sleeping it off that early.

***

There was a half-price book store without a science fiction section, though it had several rows chock full of religious texts and devotionals.

***

My conceptualization of time zones are so screwed up. I keep thinking that I'm one hour behind EST (which I am), but I look at my watch and laptop (still on EST) and add one hour to get the current time for CST (when I should be subtracting; this act puts me in the Atlantic Ocean, time wise). This is also why I can't schedule flights correctly, and why I end up flying at screwed up times, because my math was all off.

***

This Wednesday, there was one moment at which I felt like it was law school all over again. There was so much information in such a small amount of time, and my mind felt melted down. The feeling passed in about five minutes, but still. Not a bad thing, but something to watch.

The bad food may also have had something to do with all this. It also contributed to my feeling of ineptitude today, when nothing was sticking in my mind.

***

What we have here is a failure to communicate. My yankee accent confuses them, their southern accent confuses me. It turns out if I'm not actively talking to someone, and they just ask me a question when I'm not paying attention to them, I cannot decipher what they said.

***

Such a culture shock from New York to Tennessee. Everyone is so polite down here. My nonscientific theory on why (which J.L. has backed me up on)? Space. In New York, everyone is crammed together. If you expend the energy to be polite to everyone, it would drive you crazy. You need to carve out some space of your own to survive. In Tennessee, on the other hand, there is space. You can afford to expend the energy to make your life better, by being polite to others. It's all just a matter of space.

Busy Week

2008-01-27T21:33:00.000-05:00

Sunday, January 27, 2008. 1622. Gate A4, Thurgood Marshall Baltimore-Washington Airport, awaiting flight to Tennessee. Sunny, surprisingly warm, though not warm enough to forego the overcoat.

Inertia is ruling my life at this point. An object in motion tends to stay in motion. An object at rest tends to stay at rest. I feel like I am constantly in motion these days, especially on the weekends when I must take care of all the things I let slide during the week. Not that this is a bad thing. I think I'm one of those people that need to be kept busy, or else my mind will start wandering, and I'll start wondering. We all know how dangerous thought can be.

Right now, I'm sitting with my back to the terminal windows, four foot glass panes tiered up six-high. The sun hangs heavy in the sky, ready to bust open and leak light every which way. Oh, wait, it is already doing so. Shine on, blessed sun, shine on.

The carpet below me is new enough that it still retains the distinct aquamarine and teal hues in its abstract thread pattern. (I am apparently comfortable enough with my e-sexuality to use the words "aquamarine" and "teal.") However, the carpet is old enough to see where bits of humanity have started embedding themselves in it. A pulled thread where someone tripped. A few strands of loose thread, trailed away from someone's fraying sock. Some of the carpet panels are starting to peel up at the edges, others have tamped down.

I see a man talking on his iPhone. He's taped several pieces of paper to the back, probably his name and address in case he loses it. This man is not concerned about his iPhone being a consumer gadget; the taping overlaps and was quick enough to have taken five minutes. He wears a black and gray plaid scarf around hid neck, as well as a suit coat, dark gray, that reflects as much light as it absorbs. He keeps taking calls. Grey sweater sleeve, an electronic watch, perhaps Timex, a class ring on his left ring finger. Another businessman on the road. As he talks, his jaw works as he listens. Is it gum? Is he talking?

A nun garbed in all white has sat down next to me, save her hood is all black. She has her left hand to her chin, holding it, presumably thinking? I dare not take too many looks, for fear of having to explain that I'm writing on my blog, and taking in what I see. She seems quite contemplative. I wonder if nuns are not averse to reading over my shoulder either, though with the sunlight and reflection, she might not even be able to read what I’m typing. Hell, I can hardly read what I’m typing.

***

R.Y. and I were having a discussion, as we are wont to do. Somehow, It rolled over to the topic of unconditional love. It was my preposition (supposition?) that unconditional love is idiotic, to which R.Y. expressed some surprise. He asked me if that meant that unconditional love was an idiot's ideal, and only idiots could unconditionally love. As usual, I did not use my words precisely, my eternal failing. Ah, blue heaven, teach me how I can use my words more precisely.

What I meant by my words was that unconditional love is, by logical measures, foolish, of or like an idiot, not that it was what only idiots could do. Unconditional love, love without condition, without asterisk. I used the example of parents. They unconditionally love the screaming wet lump that just came out of one of them, but there's no real logic to that. You know nothing about it, it isn't even a person, yet you'll love it no matter what. Remove emotion, and it makes no sense.

Strange thought coming from a self-styled romantic, but romanticism doesn't have to track with naivete.

***

Eight hours of uninterrupted sleep in a dark, quiet room make me a whole new man. I've average four hours of sleep a night this weekend, and I'm burned out and ready to give up and crawl under this seat I'm sitting on and live in the airport for a couple of days. In contrast, during the week, I had the privilege of sleeping full and sleeping well, and it was a revelation. I swear, we get everyone enough sleep, and this world would be a much better place.

***

Thje rental care I picked up had a whole 500 miles on it. Basically a new silver Pontiac G5. Damn, that was nice, driving a new car. The doors' locks weren't broken (Lady Surfer's rear driver's side lock is starting to malfunction). Acceleration and deceleration don't constitute an exercise in patience. I'm sure this car could pass every emissions test on the first run, and the engine light didn't come on intermittently for weeks at a time. There were no dings that I noticed, and starting the car in the morning didn't bring that little dread-lump to my throat asking whether or not the car was going to start.

When I returned from my trip, damned if I didn't almost decide right then and there to buy a new car. Never had a new car of my own, and yes, it is a luxury, but oh, to luxuriate in My Own New Car.

Then, I took the shuttle to the parking lot, found Lady Surfer, stowed my gear, and hopped in. And I noticed several things about her, things that I never noticed until the drive in the rental car made them more obvious. The seat, for one thing, was configured correctly. I didn't have to keep adjusting it back and forth every day. The wheel also felt just right in my hands, not that chunky wheel with all the ridges and grips that made it hard to let go of. The funny sounds during the drive back to Virginia that I drown out with the FM radio (no CD player). Even the way I had to pull up and brake early in the parking spot because Lady Surfer's getting old, too old, felt right.

I can wait a little while longer.

***

For the entire month of January, I will have spent at least some part of every weekday, if not the entire weekday, in a non-DC metro area state.

***

Why is there MS-13 in Tennessee?

***

At the hotel, I held the door as two men sporting the Bluetooth headsets (a matching pair) stepped on. One was discussing something to either a ghost or a voice in his head (and isn't it wonderful that technology has legitimized schizophrenia by making it OK to talk to yourself in a non-prayerful way?). I asked them "Floor?" He responded "Two, er, dos." Yes, ladies and gentlemen, he thought I was Hispanic. Some people see what they want to see. Next time, I will ask a person, "Hey, mang, what floor joo want?"

***

Highways are all the same: long stretches and expanses of pavement, highlighted with bright green signs emblazoned with large white letters that are supposed to tell us something.

***

On the flight back to BWI from Nashville, the cabin was not sold out to capacity. This meant that all middle seats were left unoccupied, allowing everyone a little space. I turned my head and looked all around, because my group of three had just me. Each other group, save for one or two in the very back, had at least two people. Ah, subtle racism, how you have your slight advantages.

I still stayed in my window seat, and looked out the window when I wasn't asleep. The lights below, they looked like bunches of silk strands stretched out across a black sea, light clinging to each as if they were dewdrops. Was man meant to beat back the night in such a brazen manner? Was man meant to appreciate this attempt to beat back the night? If you took someone from the middle ages into a plane and showed them Baltimore at night, what would their reaction be?

I turned to my right to get someone's attention, but alas, there was no one there.

***

The sun's near the horizon, like a blood orange ready to bust wide open. As it sets, the sky above fades into a powder blue rolling into dusky night. On the wall in front of me, everything is silhouetted against that same orange-redness.

***

Last week at the client site mentally tasked me like I haven't been in a very long time. I didn't realize just how burned out my mind was until I was sitting on Friday listening to someone, concentrating on what they were saying, and none of it stuck. Didn't think it would be that bad. After all, all I'm doing right now is learning business processes and charting workflows on the white board.

Of course, my poor handwriting plagues and curses me. No one has a problem comprehending my Baltimoron accent, but everyone looks at my handwriting and just sort of shakes their head. Hell, when I look at it right after, I shake my head. Even when I transcribe onto paper for future use, when I show it to others, they still shake their heads. It really is a mess. Were the information not proprietary, and were I not afeared of the consequences, I'd snap a camera phone pic and show you just how bad the handwriting is.

This just contributes to my local legend at the client site. They see me as an aberration, though not because I'm Hispanic. T.K., my project manager, sold me out at the kick-off meeting. I forgot to mention to her not to say anything, but I think part of me thought she wouldn't say anything. Instead, when she introduces me, the first thing she says is "[K.T.] is the business analyst, and he's also a lawyer barred to practice in Maryland."

Bloops.

People behold me with wonder and confusion for these things, this strange career path, this illegible handwriting, this childish wit (can wit be childish?). I am really strange, my life is really strange. It's gotten to the point where I don't need to worry about racism, because once people get to know me, they'll find plenty of other reasons to look at me like I've lost my mind. Because I have lost my mind.

***

I really should iron my clothing, but this entire day has been filled with constant transition. Just want to sit here and do nothing.

Wandering Sunday

2008-01-20T19:53:00.000-05:00

Sunday, January 20, 2008. 1349. Thurgood Marshall Baltimore-Washington Airport, waiting for flight to Nashville, Tennessee. Sunny, with a chill that bit right through my running shoes and swiped at my toes.

What is it that I hate about flying? It's no longer the flying itself. I welcome the enforced opportunity to fall asleep for a couple of hours and take a nap that I wouldn't normally be given the opportunity to take. No, it's the constant background chatter. There are just few enough people that I can make out distinct conversations, yet not enough to make them all blend into a cacophonous mix. Either quiet, or indecipherable noise. The inbetween combines the worst of both worlds.

Most of this weekend was spent running errands and catching up on business. Now, I'm right back out into the wilds. It's interesting, though, these past few weeks have taught me that I need to leave Virginia, and likely leave the tri-state area. Again, I am constantly reserving judgment for when this gets old, but so far, it is still kind of nice. Breaking up the monotony, I think, is the key. Video games are a way to change things up, but ultimately, it's more exciting to go out and see different places.

***

I parked my car in the long term lot, with hopes that I would be able to walk to BWI. Ah, naïve me. In the end, it turned out that the airport was a few miles from the parking lot. I could have walked it, yes, and then I'd end up just in time to miss my flight.

Just one of the many signs that I haven't flown enough in this postmodern/terror-driven world. At least it isn't as bad as when there were military with AK-47s at security in the months immediately following 9/11, and I've flown once or twice since then, but the last time was a few years past.

Now, Baltimore-Washington Airport is so much brighter and expansive than I remember. Even though it all remains as an enclosed structure, they've been revising and reconstructing and retconning the 'port. This is the result.

***

This is me en route to the south. The flight will also hit Ontario thereafter. The overwhelming majority of these individuals are white. There are a few African Americans, and I am the only Asian person. Thoughts of ethnicity dance through my head. Where in blue heaven am I going, and what should I expect?

An Indian woman comes up to the gate, with bags under her eyes so deep you'd think she was in the midst of a medical residency. Thank goodness I'm not the only Asian here. That's a big part of the issue, isn't it? That Me versus World attitude that has driven me and held me back.

The cattle call has begun. I guess I'll have more thoughts when I arrive, and once I get situated.

***

One thing I did want to touch upon: How crazy is it that we strap ourselves into giant metal balloons and allow ourselves to be catapulted across the country? Back in the day, when they catapulted people, it was a punishment. Now, it's a tool/reward. This world is kind of crazy, and I'm, as always, kind of a part of it, kind of separated from it.

Happy Trails

2008-01-18T23:51:00.001-05:00

Friday, January 18, 2008. 1830. Train from Penn Station, en route to Union Station. Dark, chilly, but not overly cold.

This is me leaving the client site. This is me wondering if I'll be sent back to the same project in the future.

***

As we were wrapping up this afternoon, R.S. and A.G. asked me where I was going after this project, then asked me on what I would be training the new client. I told them I was actually going down for requirements gathering and design documentation. This surprised them a little. My best guess is they'd assumed I was a dedicated freelance trainer at T.S. In a way, this bodes well, in that I must have performed my training well. Well enough, at least, to have fooled them into thinking I knew what I was doing.

It's also kind of strange, when I asked S.G. how long he'd been on the project, he told me two weeks, the about the same amount of time I've been on the project. He said he was part time, and wasn't ready to train, and didn't know anything about the system. Boy, howdy, did that show when he took over a training session this afternoon. I forgot to tell him about this, but the one thing I hoped he wouldn't say to the session, the one thing that would completely undermine him as a trainer, he said within the first five minutes. "Bear with me, this is my first time doing this."

You never admit you've never taught this class before. They'll pick up on it, especially if they know that training hasn't been going on for too long. You just bite your tongue and go with it. Muddle through, make your mistakes, do it without excuses.

F.G. wasn't much better. Hell, in a way, it was worse, because he'd been on the project for much longer, and tore through it as if it were a hambone and he were a ravenous dog. He finished every slide in a maximum of thirty seconds. Then, today, to show how much he knew, at one point, when a question was asked, he chimed in with an irrelevant point. Useful, yes, covered by the training materials, no, but he threw it in there just to show how smart he was.

Of course, there was also the moment when F.G. gave an answer, L.D. (the project manager) looked up from his book and shook his head no, and F.G. gave a different answer. This answer was even more incorrect, and L.D. was shaking his head wildly.

I'm not worried all that much about R.S. and A.G. They're competent, knowledgeable about the system, and will do fine. It's when S.G. and F.G. are alone (or, even worse, paired together) that things will go downhill quickly.

***

We had some incredible responses and quotes. One guy swore to me that a certain section of the system would never work because it ran counter to all of human evolution. Human beings had been conditioned to accept paper, and thus, would never accept an electronic system. I like to think of him as full of shit.

One kindly gentleman raised his hand at 0930 and told us that they normally took a coffee break at 0940. I only found out later that his coffee break was supposed to be 1000-1015 due to his union contract. It didn't matter for the union guys, they all took their sweet time and came back whenever they felt like it.

I was personally helping a man who was about to celebrate his fiftieth year at the company. He did not use computers at all, and told me that he signed stuff when they gave it to him, and he would send emails every so often. I kept working with him on the system, showing him what and where to go, and he finally asked if he could have me as an assistant over his shoulder to help him use the system. Nice old man, with the hair so white it looked canary yellow, I wish I could help you. You were one of the nicest gentlemen there, even if you'd never really be able to use the system.

One person berated L.D. for not living in the real world, and not knowing how the employees did their work. L.D. took most furious offense at this, but kept his mouth shut. After all, his wife just had a baby, and he needs to be able to help support his family. Still, L.D. got real pissed at that point.

You had your normal assortment of doubters and ne'er-do-wells criticizing the system. Some of them actually had legitimate comments, and I appreciate full well their help in getting this system to where they will ultimately need it to be. Some of them were just making shit up to be difficult (I swear). And some just had no clue about the system whatsoever. One gentleman would disregard my comments, then ask me the question just after I talked about them.

I just fell asleep for ten minutes and woke up to two pages of semi-coherent gibberish. How am I already falling asleep at 1900?

***

I had White Castle, but it wasn't good. No, it was out and out great. 4 burgers, fries and onion rings, plus a large drink, for less than nine dollars. Is it any wonder this trip will make me a giant fat ass?

***

This week has basically compressed itself into a two day period. I trained for most of the week, twice a day, saying the same damned thing over and over, then concluded by commenting and critiquing on other presenters.

It's not a stretch to say that over these past two weeks, I simultaneously said both more and less than I have over the past three months. Many many more words left my mouth; indeed, that was probably the wordiest I have ever been, or ever will be. At the same time, did I say anything of substance? Well, maybe. D.I. expressed surprise/pride that I was able to learn some of the client's business processes after coming in with no knowledge of the project whatsoever. Then again, will it actually make a difference? God only knows. At least I've given them the opportunity to try to learn their system, if they even cared.

There's part of me wondering why the lady next to me is reading this. Yes, lady, this means you.

***

This morning, as I was waiting in the lobby for someone to pick me up, I saw the people coming into the building. About one in twenty, I recognized. Not a clue about their names, but I knew their faces. That's kind of scary. I probably directly trained about one hundred people, and was in the room for one hundred and sixty total. That's kind of horrifying, don't you think?

The question, has this turned me off from teaching? Not at all. It was kind of cool, in a perverted way. Plus, teaching, I'd be able to different things every day. It wouldn't be the same damned thing over and over.

***

I feel like reading for a while. Next up: Tennessee.

Ethically Questionable

2008-01-16T22:25:00.001-05:00

I just agreed to take the Multistate Professional Responsibility Examination for no other reason than C.S. asking me if I would. This has no benefit to me personally as I didn't score high enough on the multiple choice section of the bar exam to waive into the District of Columbia bar (missed it by three points). The only reason I'm going to do this is because my friend asked.

Probably not going to even study that hard for it, as it is an ethics exam, and I'd like to think that I've cultivated a fairly sharp sense of ethics over the years. Really, I'm just going in for firsthand moral support. Is this the essence of friendship? Probably not, but I'm sacrificing a Saturday morning potentially, so maybe it is.

It feels strange, though. It's cracking open long crusted-over wounds, but instead of pain, I just sort of feel neutral. None of the experience ever happened to me. I just went to sleep for three and a half years and awoke with this knowledge. And now, perhaps this coda to the experience. At least, until I am forced to pay dues to renew my Maryland bar membership.

Blog Dump

2008-01-13T23:32:00.000-05:00

Sunday, January 13, 2008. 7:58 P.M. Train en route to NY, stopped at a Delaware train station. Rainy, cold, though I expect it to become snowy and cold the further north I travel.

I went to the front desk of the hotel last week to get their phone number. As usual, hindsight and contemplation make me a genius, but dropped in the middle of a situation, I am naught but baseline idiot.

K.T.: Hi, can I get your number?
Female Concierge (F.C.): Sure.
[PAUSE]
What number did you mean?
K.T.: The hotel's number.
F.C.: Oh.

She actually looked a little depressed when I told her that I meant the hotel's phone number, and I didn't figure it out until a while later.

***

I've been doing some work on the train, and now I'm just going to keep it on for the duration of this trip. The man behind me is yakking away on his phone, and as engrossing as I find his family business, I think I'd rather listen to anything but on the train. The techno music on my laptop isn't perfect, but at least I chose it, as opposed to him yammering on and on about him not getting enough sleep. Don't care.

Have I had a weekend? Sure, there was a period where I wasn't working. If I count from when I got to my apartment on Friday night/Saturday morning to when I reached Union Station today, there was almost a good forty-one hours.

So, what have I done? Got some late night food with J.L. after he was so kind and gracious in picking me up from the metro stop. Slept for a few hours, then woke up to the upstairs neighbor's music. It struck me as a little weird that I slept so well in the hotel rooms over the past few weeks, until I realized that there's no sound, and blackout curtains. That's what's missing from my life, and is probably the only reason I'm going to buy a house eventually (aside from all the logical reasons, such as equity, and having a place to call home). If I can set up a place where I can avoid upstairs neighbors, and put up thick curtains, I may be able to get more sleep.

When I woke, I went straight to the laundry room and ran two full weeks' worth of the good stuff. This is what I get for not returning to Virginia (just typed and deleted "Maryland." Always Maryland.). Then, I ironed my clothes, and watched a great show on the History Channel about samurai. I ended up watching that channel for the next 5 hours, also taking in a special on Hell's Angels, MS 13, and the Latin Kings. Lapsed out from being so tired, then drove up to take my parents out to the dinner.

It turns out that Korean barbecue can be very filling, and each plate of meat serves 2-3 people, not 1. We gorged ourselves. I talked with my parents about the happenstances of the past few weeks, and they seem genuinely happy that I'm fairly happy with what's been going on. Of course, my mom asked if I would talk to her friend this week about a legal issue. I, of course, forgot the damned phone in my apartment.

I finished packing my luggage on Sunday morning, in preparation to go play some football before I had to leave the tri-state area again. Please note here I am not a smart man. Final personal injury tally: elbow to the face while I was on my back, skinned knees (through my sweatpants), knee to the calf resulting in charley horse, strained hamstring when I was pushed from behind and ran forward for another five steps before losing my balance, extension on the coughing/phlegm, constant thirst (Why am I so thirsty???).

As we were waiting for everyone to arrive, a second group congregated. Large men, actual jerseys, throwing a football around. We were thrown off, thought they'd reserved the field. Then, they went over to another field, and about an hour later, we saw them playing flag football. Come on.

Thereafter, Chipotle run, then congregating at G.B.'s place to watch the game. And how did the Chargers win? That was a spectacular fourth quarter, and I can't wait to see which players Peyton Manning throws under the bus after this loss. Alas, I had to leave to catch this train, this train which they've now just informed me is arriving at Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love.

I apologize for being so scatterbrained, but as I look out the train, there are throngs waiting to board coach class, while I sit here in business class taking up two seats and comfortable enough to just fall asleep (we did play football for three hours). From now on, if I have to take the train anywhere, it's going to be business class. I may be sheepish, sheep-like in following the crowd, but I don't want to be treated like steerage.

I rarely drive to the District, because I hate driving in the district. I allotted myself eighty minutes to get to my train, which I figure would be more than enough time, about twice as much as I would need. It turned out this time that I made a very good decision.

So, I didn't get lost, but I did avoid taking a left turn because there was a no left turn sign, along with some words beneath. I think now that those words might have been the times when no left turns were allowed, and I probably fell outside of that range.

I ended up getting on several major freeways and driving all over the damned place, getting later and later, closer and closer to missing my train. Thoughts of just quitting T.S. and going to work as a hot dog vendor run through my head. I wonder if they'll let me exchange a ticket that I didn't use. I roll down the windows, despite the rain, because the windows are starting to fog up. The clock on my dash taunts me.

Finally, I do find the directions I used last time I drove myself to Union Station, and those saved me. With about ten minutes to go, I arrive, and tear through the parking lot to park. I have no idea where I parked, just that it's somewhere in the parking structure. Despite my gimpy legs, I manage to run through to the station itself, tear down several escalators, and just as I make it inside, they announce the final boarding call for my train.

Oh, shit.

I run up to the automatic ticket kiosk. There's no time. I put my credit card in and yank it out. Nothing. I try it again, and it tells me to slowly remove the card. A bit of a rush, I force myself to slide it in and out very slowly, and soon enough, my ticket prints out. I go running down the platform, finally able to get to the car, wherein I get in panting and freaked out. However, I did make it. I did make it.

And now, it is time to nap. I've had a busy weekend, and a good game, and I get to rest for a bit.

I wonder if the Giants beat the Cowboys. [They did, 21-17. Wow. –K]