Rusted Ruminations

Bespeaking Rungs

2010-07-21T18:44:00.000-07:00

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Better Simulate Than Never

2010-06-20T00:25:00.000-07:00

In the modernistic manifestation of warfare, gaming consumers have taken over the world. Paramount to the gamesmanship is the notion that a person can conquer entire empires in one evening if everything goes right and still be in bed by 1:00 a.m. with nary a scratch to show for the struggle. It’s the stuff dreams are made of. And perhaps it’s just that we’re so fond of dreaming.

People Wii Wii Wii all the way home, and sometimes to enact a representation they may have to bring themselves to sit up in bed when they wake up (raising eyelids optional), but it’s still worth all the extra effort. They pretend they’re walking out to the car. Then they pretend they’re driving to work. Then they pretend they’re doing their job. Then they pretend to get groceries at the store. Then they pretend to eat them for dinner. It’s the diet of the future… Kind of like gum, but we’ll continue acting like it’s a novel thought.

Modern man appears to be over-enjoying his simulated life, beings that regular life plods along agonizingly at a snail’s pace, and he doesn’t have ample time for that. Who would’ve figured that there’s not enough room in your schedule to fit in life. Sorry, too many other things to do. I’ll live when I’m dead. Or I’ll live vicariously. One of those.

Unable to help but ask why humans have such a predilection for simulating. We role-play to the nth degree. Space aliens chronicling our recent history would have a hard time deciphering what was real and what wasn’t. Is that them, or are they just playing one on TV? It’s the perfect cover-up in case of interstellar invasion. We’re nothing if not prescient beings.

Following the humanistic bent, we engage in games that simulate life — board games, video games, even self-admitted role playing games — as well as sports themselves that simulate battles, conquests, attacks, etc. One team must defeat another. In order for one to triumph, there must be another to be triumphed over. We even simulate the simulation with fantasy sports leagues. And somewhere along the way cheerleading became a competition, throwing a wrench into the whole makeup of the cosmos from which we may never recover.

We participate in and watch plays, movies, and television shows. We read stories and fictional novels that transform us into a microcosm of life apart from our real life. We follow celebrities who are said to represent the idyllic life, and often revere them as something otherworldly because of their fictional portrayals, relating more to their characters than their actual selves.

Even our food simulates things — alphabet soup noodles, various breakfast cereals in the shape of a fruit, or a star, or an interballistic missile (it could happen). Any synthetic artificial flavoring or smell meant to remind you of the real thing. And don’t forget that they’re tropical. That little pinch of benzene in your shampoo is surely a true slice of exotic paradise captured in a bottle. It’s from the mountains, the jungles, the islands. It says so right on the label. Candies are often shaped like little animals or cartoon characters. Animal crackers in my soup… And so something tends to symbolize something else. Or in other words, almost nothing is what it really is.

This infernal glut of activities can all take up possibly a third of our leisure time. For teens and those who have been able to matriculate on into their more nocturnal college years, it might even be more than two-thirds. This isn’t much cause for concern, however, as we’re assured people still have to eat and sleep to stay alive, giving them at least some incentive so that they can still be in a breathing state when the time to meet Napoleon’s army at the Alamo with their squadron of F-15’s rolls around again. And the salient point is it could alter the course of someone’s history.

Why don't we just enjoy life itself, but rather many of us feel the need to constantly simulate the real thing? Do we need simulation with a ‘t’ in it for our stimulation? Is simulation the easy and less costly way to do the things that you wish you could do in real life? Are we trying to somehow escape reality because it's either too painful or too difficult to understand? Do we have to project our lives in order to make them seem interesting to us? Are we having a hard time finding our own identities so we have to invent alter egos?

Freud cited our unconscious wish to end the everyday struggles for happiness and survival in a) our desire for peace, and b) attempts to escape reality through fiction, media, and drugs. We seem to need a certain level of unrealism to fight off the realism. But all things in moderation. Sigmund would be going berserk in retrograde if he’d been born a hundred years later.

A rather pertinent question at hand from the psychiatric realm: When was your last virtual reality check?

Children have the creativity to implement the playing of toys all day long in every event they encounter, so it's a streaming video for them. They continue playing at meals, take Spiderman to the bathroom with them, and sleep with the stuffed animal of the month propped up on their pillow. The older we get, we have a harder time hiding our toys because they’ve become bigger and more conspicuous, so we try to be more discreet about it. We leave teddy on the nightstand and telecommunicate with him through the empty darkness until morning finally arrives. Don’t tell me nobody else does that.

What does this have to do with Legos? There’s an interesting phenomenon wherein we make building blocks to simulate real-life things, and then we transfer that simulated effect to areas where the simulation isn’t necessary but we do it anyway because it adds another level of fascination. Computer animation of Lego figures need not contain round nubbies on top of everything, but somehow in our psyche we like them there because it helps us stay in the regimented pretend world of Legorama. Another manifestation for the willing suspension of disbelief, and maybe a place to dream about because we know it’s not real. The emperor wears so many clothes that he’s practically sweating, and yet is still managing to get a healthy tan. Indeed, the best of both worlds. Live in one as is convenient, checking in whenever sustenance gets low, and then hang out in the other to while away the ticks on the clock.

But then what does this all have to do with smileys? The beloved smileys of yore started out as simple round figured faces with charming grins on them, with only minor modifications. They were darling to our way of thinking because they were simplified caricatures of moods. Over time, they became more complex, to the point that they were no longer simplified and in essence lost their innocent nature, thus no longer being cute. They grew appendages and became transmogrified into something more primal, which defeated the original intent. Picture a complex simplicity, and now you see the bi-polar smiley at wit’s end. Somewhere that threshold of innocence into pretentiousness got crossed. Like any virtue, cuteness can’t be forced, but must be nurtured. Less is more. Piling more on just covers up the core elements of the pile.

Also interesting is that so-called reality TV shows are at best untainted simulation (at worst, they’re an indictment against our collective quotient for reasonableness, but we all digress…). The mere fact that the shows are simulating reality doesn’t make them all that different from any other simulation. They are actually less real because they presume a greater reality which they do not possess, carrying a large presumption tax in the whole process. If you’re gonna say you’re real, you darned well better be somewhere in the vicinity of real or you lose extra reality points. Hypocrisy, after all, is worse than claiming nothing. What these shows end up accomplishing is a self-satire, and why people are fixated on their insensibility may not be uncovered for decades by neurosurgeons.

To add another viable element to the equation, regard Erasmus’ writing 501 years ago from The Praise of Folly:

“If a person were to try stripping the disguises from actors while they play a scene upon the stage, showing to the audience their real looks and the faces they were born with, would not such a one spoil the whole play? And would not the spectators think he deserved to be driven out of the theatre with brickbats, as a drunken disturber? ... Now what else is the whole life of mortals but a sort of comedy, in which the various actors, disguised by various costumes and masks, walk on and each play their part, until the manager waves them off the stage? Moreover, this manager frequently bids the same actor to go back in a different costume, so that he who has but lately played the king in scarlet now acts the flunkey in patched clothes. Thus all things are presented by shadows.”

We could thus venture to say that our ultimate role-playing is when we think we’re being ourselves but we’re instead playing to the crowd. Games themselves can be innocent in balance, yet if we view regular life as a game where we’re playing a part, then it’s all simulated. The games might be our attempts to circumvent having to confront the real stage where true-to-life decisions play out with stark consequences. But we fool ourselves thinking we can evade decisions, because indecision is also a decision. Decisions have to be made one way or another, and either we can make them or they’ll get made for us.

What a good life it is which is embraced in genuine fashion. Only if we choose to use that which identifies us individually are we happily avoiding borrowing our essence without giving, and thus freeing ourselves from our masks. What’s most real is rising from the ashes of virtual obscurity and standing out, being your true self and not the reality show version. We’re all survivors, but if our playground is constrained to painting by the numbers, there’s not much sport in that. First and foremost, absolutely accept no imitations of who you are, for you’re the real deal.

Untold Stories

2010-05-31T23:05:00.000-07:00

All I could think of was flipping, over and over in slow motion. There were suddenly a dozen buzzing voices with just one blurry face.

My last normal thought had been of a mysterious-looking woman in my psyche's rearview mirror with long, wavy hair, making her way across the lawn. My eyes must have wandered just long enough to take my focus off where I was riding.

Another female voice seemed to be attached to the face in front of me. "Are you dead or not?" she asked.

I looked at this face containing the soft but purposeful voice, and mustered a few syllables to demonstrate my consciousness, which at the moment was highly overstated. "Send a— to move... and hers," which I think was supposed to mean, "Get a physician... get me up..." followed by now omnipresent thoughts of the wavy woman. I did all I could to hold my hand up to shade the blinding sun, and for some reason this personified voice grabbed my hand and started shaking it back and forth. She mumbled something about my being an imbecile, which I thought was rather odd considering I had absorbed the brunt of the punishment. So I guess no sympathy from that corner.

And then came a masculine voice. I squinted and saw a gentleman bringing me a wheelchair, but then he wouldn't get out of it, and if I had enough energy then I would've said, "What are you doing in my wheelchair? I need it more than you." But instead, I couldn't make my mouth say what I wanted it to. There was a strange sensation that my intentions were not getting across. I tried motioning, but had little mobility and less strength. The man bringing me my wheelchair kept examining me while talking to the others, but he didn't vacate the chair. I was vacillating between being perturbed at him and managing the sharp twinges in my neck.

Would I ever see the wavy woman again? Was she getting away while I lie motionless baking in the afternoon sun? What cruel twist of fate would dance a dream in front of me one moment to but yank it away and taunt me the next? The dichotomies of life are the killers, I thought to myself. Nobody disagreed with me, locked in my cocoon. Then everyone went away. They had to go somewhere, but I couldn't go. I knew they'd be back, because the park would be closing before long.

In one version, I flip over the handle bars and the earth comes up to greet me. This is replayed often. In another version, a hairy beast grabs my bike and throws me to the ground, leaving me for dead. I can't stop the scene from unwinding. My mind races, but it can't get away. The repetition lends itself to full memorization of every detail, from every angle. I soon become a figment of my own imagination.

"You OK?" Now everybody has robes and gowns on. They must've gone away to change their clothes. "Huh?" What do they mean, am I OK? When are they gonna move me — oh, wait, I'm not at the park any more. This is a rather strange dream.

A woman with long, wavy hair is covered by a mask, and I have a mask too, but it's a bigger mask. This isn't right. I have to leave. But I'm not going anywhere. I've been strapped down and gagged. Meanwhile, a bear cub rides around the table on my bike. It looks in good shape. At least all is not lost.

“Sir, you've fallen and sustained significant injuries,” the woman relays. “Get some rest.” And then it was hazy again.

When I awoke, more people were standing around me. They looked at me like they knew me, half-smiling and half-pensive. A woman who looked sad approached me. “It's Gaston, right?” she asked.

“Uhh... I don't know what you mean...” was all I could think of.

The woman came a little closer and leaned over. “You said your name was Gaston after you fell off the bike. I’m Marcelle,” and she winked. And she waited for some validation of her suspicions.

I just stared. I looked around for anyone who was offering clues. However, it was a cadre of empty faces. They were all in this together. It was then I figured that it was me against them. I had nothing to offer them, and they had even less to offer me.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I can't tell you what my name is.” And that was all I said. Minutes passed, but one by one they filed out, in a sorrowful march for the destitute. Heads hung low, casting long, dark shadows. I wondered where they were going. I wondered where they had just been. Everything still had a mysterious odor. Over the intercom, a soft but purposeful voice called out, “Doctor Jekyll to the critical ward.” Only later was I to realize that there was no intercom.

* * * * * * * *

“The gig is up. You heard me, the gig is most assuredly up.” No one moved for what seemed like eight seconds. Gunther, who had been staring at the ground trying to stay inconspicuous, looked up and asked sheepishly, “Just out of curiosity, what exactly can I infer from your declaration of the gig being up? And then later if there’s still time for some idle chit-chat, you could perchance enlighten us as to what all comprises a gig, in your humble lexicon, of course.” Olaf was not impressed. His eyes illuminated like a stoplight that had had one too many, and thick plumes of purple smoke began emanating from his flaring nostrils. “I absolutely hate when I get these sinus infections,” he bellowed. “OK, you — the one who thinks he’s on vaudeville — put down your walking stick and get over here.”

“The name’s P.J., sir,” he intoned.

“Is that capitalized or not?” Olaf inquired.

“No capitalization required, sir.”

“You’re lucky, because I’m a firm believer in capital punishment. It would appear that this is your lucky day.” He motioned for P.J. to stand over by the rest of them.

Meanwhile, Igor was remembering his previous breath like it was just yesterday. “Oh yeah, I forgot about you,” Olaf sarcastically confessed. And he eased up on Igor’s throat enough to let through tiny wisps of oxygen, about one molecule at a time.

“You don’t think I know the match was fixed? Gunther, you were duped.” Gunther, thereby having been duped, dropped his jaw melodramatically for effect. “No way.” “Yep. Tell ‘em, Igor. Oh, you can’t talk, can you? Hmm. That could be a problem...”

Olaf towered over the rest of them. His aura of supreme dominance resonated like a radio station on steroids. “You see, P.J. here was being fed messages via a highly integrated signal containing various Old and New Testament scripture. We at first became suspicious when his knight captured three successive pawns in classic Tiberian strategy. But the clincher when we finally intercepted the messages six moves prior to checkmate came with the striking blow of 1 Peter 2:25: ‘For ye were as sheep going astray, but are now returned unto the shepherd and bishop of your souls,’ which was curiously followed by a bishop’s advance to the left flank, limiting the king to only two possible moves. Yes, it’s true, and—”

A shot rang out from the stolid air, catching Olaf in his only Achilles heel — his Achilles heel. This sent him spinning to the floor, and Igor was released from his grasp.

Ursula sprang down from the rafters with technotronic highbeam maple-powered phaser — complete with gamma ray photon equalizer — in hand, and stood in front of Olaf, who was lying in the fetal position and chanting passages from the Apocrypha.

“So… we’re not so smart any more, are we?” She pointed her weapon at his forehead. “I’ll give you eleven seconds to reveal to me the location of your hideout,” she said.

“Only eleven seconds? I can’t possibly—”

“OK, we’ll make it fourteen seconds, but only because I’m in a good mood. You’re on the clock.” And all eyes were on Olaf.

“Ah— OK, you win. Our operation… is at a concealed location that you can only get to by—”

Bang! And in an instant, Olaf was dead.

“Who did that?” Ursula asked. “Who shot him? That was only twelve seconds by my watch. What did the rest of you have?”

“I had thirteen seconds,” said Gunther.

“I had twelve seconds,” said P.J..

“Me too,” said Igor.

“Well then,” said Ursula, “it appears someone around here has got a bad watch.” And she looked around the room. Everyone was empty-handed.

Ursula crouched down next to Olaf. “Do you have any last words, my friend?”

“He’s dead, Ursula,” reminded Igor.

“Oh, right.” Ursula examined the wound carefully. “It appears that the shot was fired from that direction,” and she pointed toward the doorway. “It came at a 28° angle at a velocity of approximately 1100 feet per second. Based on those factors and the barometric reading on the wall, I’d say there are only two people who could have fired that shot…”

* * * * * * * *

Two years later

Gaston lived out his days in the Rockies, communing with nature and trying desperately to ditch P.J., who in his spare time had started a cult of nomadic paleontologists. One day, P.J. (which stands for "P.J.") set an entire mountainside aflame with a lighter and some aerosol cans. He claimed it was an accident, however 384 aerosol cans were found strewn about within a 5-mile radius. He was to be sentenced to three years in prison, except that there were no police and no legal system, which got him off on a technicality. Gaston eventually decided to change his own name to Charlie Chaplin (no relation to Scott Joplin), citing the cane he was given by P.J. at his 80th birthday party as his inspiration.

Marcelle became a legend that was told throughout generations. Eventually, she reached the stratus of possessing magical qualities. Her modus operandi was to shrink herself so she could fit through keyholes. She was also said throughout the land to have been given wings by the gods, she was so highly regarded.

Ursula started the Church of Rigmarole, revolving around an ancient ritual of sacrifice. Ursula became prophetess and prime henchwoman. This religion splintered out into the Church of Albatross, the Church of the Righteousness in a Bottle, and the wholly unrecognized Wax Museum of Churches. The one common thread in each was the invitation of materialism into their lives in order to fully appreciate its intricacies. The church proper's objectives included the conversion of every monk in the land, and they were quite successful. This also served to deplete the membership of competing religions, thus vaulting the Rigmarole faith to Biblical proportions. Baptisms were prevalent throughout the land, with shrines erected everywhere in honor of the revered Rigmarolio.

Igor went back to his home planet of Cobol, from where he found it safer to observe his creations. Since hardly anyone believed in him, he figured there was no sense hanging planet Earth much longer. His favorite pastime became the smite, which he carried out with reckless abandon, and often with great satisfaction.

Gunther started a ring of organized crime, which he successfully combined with youth soccer leagues — that is, until the Church of Rigmarole infiltrated it and had converted all the soccer moms. But Gunther persevered, personally bussing the children to their games while simultaneously masterminding racketeering schemes.

Ursula and a certain Mr. Hesselman had gotten married years ago, and had sailed eastward never to be heard from again. Rumor had it that they had started a new colony in Antarctica. Ursula called it the new world, though Hesselman had been dubious, leery of their true navigational abilities.

Civilization’s last great hope, Lenny, was one of the few remaining believers, and he grew weary of the ills of society. He wanted to join a monastery, but even those weren't immune anymore. He spent the rest of his days in virtual exile. On his deathbed, as a final protest against the decadence of the world, he shot Gunther and then quickly repented just before taking his last breath. Igor then brought Lenny into his kingdom, where all was glorious to behold. Lenny experienced a peace he had only felt glimpses of before. Igor looked him in the eye and said, "Well, bud, looks like you and I are going to get to know each other pretty well, beings that no one else has bothered to show up, and it doesn't look like we'll have any more good candidates for a while…"

The Vacuous Knowledge Gap Between Us and Us

2010-04-28T21:33:00.000-07:00

Mankind flatters itself that it knows a lot. By assumption, you can comfort yourself in an egocentric way that our understanding is the template for the universe. We compare ourselves to dolphins, the second-smartest living being, and we figure as smart as they are, if that’s our biggest competition then we must be pretty darn smart. By default, we crown ourselves kings of the known universe, and just cross out that nagging ‘known’ part because we should be able to round off, in the absence of other participants who failed to show up when we called roll. We’ll just say whatever we can see is all there is and call it good. It makes for a much tidier equation, and it doesn’t confuse the computer simulations.

One constantly hears in every discipline of study that “we’re just beginning to understand blah-blah-blah…” Oh really? How would we know we’re just beginning to understand a particular thing if we don’t understand it yet? We don’t know how much of it is out there to understand. For all we know, we may be understanding only one one-thousandth of it, but we wouldn’t know how close we really are until there are signs that we’re close, which we might only recognize in retrospect, since we might not know that they’re signs. So to say that we’re just starting to understand a specific thing gives us no context to work with.

I could just be starting to walk over to my neighbor’s house. Or I could be starting to walk from Los Angeles to New York. The fact that a walk is being started tells us nothing about the length or content of the journey. Saying we’re starting to understand something may turn out to mean that we’re still several centuries away from understanding it, or it may mean that we’ll get to the point where we understand about one-tenth of it and then hit a dead end, so it’s a meaningless phrase strangely reminiscent of a sales pitch. And yet it’s so common, because it’s a feel-good phrase. We have this psychological need to desire progress. Whenever we recognize an achievement, it represents progress. Even if we’re moving on a treadmill, at least it feels good to be moving.

It’s curious how mankind always seems to be just on the cusp of these things. How long can you continually be on the cusp before the cusp becomes an illusion?

If we don’t recognize what our current limitations might be as a people, we may think we’ve done more than we actually have and thereby become complacent, settling for something less than we can do. So ironically we have to think less of ourselves so that we can notice that more needs to be done, otherwise we might do less after thinking we’ve done more. Capiche?

We’ve shown a lot of ingenuity, and we continue to amaze ourselves (though if we were smarter we might not be as apt to be amazed?), so it’s evident that people are trying, going in the direction of advancement. But we don’t often take thoughtful looks at the flipside. So I give you…

Things mankind has demonstrated it is lousy at:

Economics
Either we don’t understand global and national economics, or we’re too enticed to ignore what we know in order to apply it honestly. If life were the game of Monopoly, then we’ve lost every time we’ve played it. We ended up mortgaging all the railroads, even though on paper it was a decent strategy, but then where are the hotels? Way to go, people with stratospheric IQs. Economics is tied in to sociology, which is tied in with human psychology, which is where we come in, and there are no signs we’re anywhere near understanding any of these to an appreciable extent enough to where we can say with a straight face and no fingers crossed we have a handle on it.

Government
Why is it that power corrupts? Whatever the reason, we feed the machine by letting money dictate who is in power. We bemoan the lack of rationality in politicians, but most everyone that gets into the more important positions turns into that type of puppet, so it would appear to be the process that is faulty. It seems to be the monster mankind has created. I don’t know if there’s a way to get out of it short of catastrophic occurrences forcing us to, because we don’t seem to be able to change it to any noticeable degree.

Government is a mechanism that grows in a self-serving manner. Rights and property typically aren’t given back to the people once they’re taken away. Once they have a grab, what incentive do they have to give it back if they don’t have to? Altruism? Are you kidding? Government is run like a business and politicians tend to act to keep themselves in office. To stay in business you have to look out for number 1 first and foremost.

So we’re still failing in many respects at having a representative government. Maybe a C- which was saved by the Constitution being handed in as the term paper in the nick of time.

Parking
Before you feel too high and mighty about the intellect of humans, consider how parking has continued to perplex us. Ruminate on that for a moment. Maybe we just got lucky on going to the moon. We invented cars a hundred years ago, and yet we still have nowhere to put them. Wouldn’t solving the mysteries of the universe be at least a few levels above figuring out how to allow enough room for 6x12 hunks of metal?

Of course they say we put a man on the moon and so we should apparently be able to do other things, but it could be that putting a man on the moon was an anomalous accomplishment which makes it appear like we can do most anything. For every great feat such as that, there are hundreds of deficiencies on a lesser scale. Just because you hit a home run doesn’t mean you’re capable of doing it every time you’re up to bat. Just because you had a #1 song doesn’t mean you can do that whenever you go to the recording studio. We reach peaks in all sorts of endeavors. They shouldn’t fool us into thinking that a high level applies across the board.

Social Behavior
While most people behave respectfully and in a non-criminal way, there is enough of a criminal element which is allowed by the law-abiding to greatly impact how society operates.

There’s enough dishonesty to require locks, passwords, barriers, firewalls, computer virus protection, security cameras, barbed wire fences, surveillance operators, security guards, security tags, more highly technical currency bills, receipts, contracts, signatures, attorneys, and his orchestra. We have these things to protect ourselves from ourselves! We’ve gotten to the point that we need more and more to protect us from those of us who can’t be honest. And theft also raises the cost of every item you buy. You’re paying for thieves, because they don’t pay anything for their merchandise.

In my view, the nice people are letting the mean people take advantage of them. The bullies recognize that they can get away with bullying, and so they keep it up. I don’t think punishments for crimes are severe enough, dissuading enough. People who commit major felonies or violent crimes should lose more of their rights. If they can’t be responsible enough to use their rights, then some of them should be taken away. If they can’t live in a free society without willfully sapping its energy, then they should be sent somewhere where such freedoms aren’t available, a la a prison colony, where they can reap the consequences of their acts. As it is, we’re subsidizing them. And they’re using us.

Whatever disincentives are currently in place aren’t dissuading criminals from rampant criminal behavior. As sad as it is, we have to protect ourselves from our own species, because in our existence, it isn’t safe to be out at night in many places, or to go into many neighborhoods. It’s so commonplace that we don’t think much about it. We just accept it as the way it is. We live in two worlds, and we try to forget that one of them wants to eat away at the other.

And while we can’t make people behave well, we can give them consequences to remove their influence from our free society. It’s idealistic to think we should all be able to get along. The reality is there are enough bad influences to make this impossible. Some people have no desire to get along. If we can deal with those influences first, then maybe we can talk about the rest of us getting along.

Time
We’re using a timing system that is impractical. It might have been cutting edge when it was first created, but it’s way behind the advances of the last few centuries. The industrial and technological ages have a lot to be impressed with, but we’ve failed to integrate key elements into them. If we want technology to be successful, then it needs to effect the improvement of other areas as well.

The system of seconds, minutes and hours is cumbersome and impractical. Yet we can’t seem to improve on something that is millennia old. It’s not because we think it’s a great system, but that we don’t have the intelligence yet to improve upon it. All our machines are calibrated to 60, 60, 24, a.m., p.m., so maybe it is the that machines are ruling us already. And only a machine would keep us in the pattern of five weekdays and two weekend days.

Driving
Get in the car for 20 minutes and see how many people have no clue what they’re doing, or many of them who do just don’t have any concept of anyone else on the road. We’re the most advanced species on the planet, and yet we continue to have difficulties negotiating our transportation modules. Chalk it up to impatience and over-emoting. Regardless of the causes, there is a plethora of rotten drivers out there. If Henry Ford had foreseen this day, he might have chosen to invent something a little less self-destructive.

Sitcoms
We’ve tanked. Desperate Housewives notwithstanding.

Health
About 25% of all adults in the U.S. smoke cigarettes. This is an indication that their health is not of utmost concern. About 40% of all traffic fatalities are due to drunk driving, and yet we’re more keyed on whether someone is wearing a seatbelt or not. 15,000 people die a year in the U.S. in auto accidents involving alcohol. That’s about 5,000 more than the number of people who are shot by guns in homicides. We’re gung-ho about regulating weapons because they are so immediate. However, our priorities are clearly not with the health aspect.

Junk food is easier and often cheaper to prepare than nutritious food, so nutrition many times is losing out to convenience. The U.S. in recent generations has become more overweight. Maybe video games, computers and cell phones will reverse this trend. Or not.

Natural Sciences
Not to ignore the achievements of science, but if we’re to be realistically objective about it instead of clouded in a self-congratulatory view, we would also acknowledge the vastness of its deficiencies. It’s true that we know more factually than the people who went before us, but we’re still tomorrow’s fools. It’s hard to acknowledge that, because it’s more comforting to think that we’re at or near the pinnacle, that we’re on that cusp.

Science can’t even accurately forecast tomorrow’s weather. Medicine has made leaps and bounds, although doctors still have to guess a lot and conduct numerous tests.

Religion
We’re not real good at religion either, though religion seems to be the only discipline that doesn’t regard mankind as having superior and authoritative intellect, the only one that doesn’t wield a human arrogance. So in this sense, religion makes fewer presumptions in admitting the deficiencies of humans. This makes it in practice the most realistic and honest approach. Unfortunately, the social aspects of religion have left much to be desired, but doctrinally, religion takes a rather pragmatic outlook.

It’s quite refreshing to have a view which takes a step back and asks more questions without making too many presumptions.

Critics say that religion incorporates all sorts of magical scenarios in its lore, citing claims of miracles being performed, and that such things are outlandish. And yet is the planetary structure of the universe or that of systems within organisms any less ludicrous or far-fetched? Which miracle is more incredible than our immune system, or the digestive system, or the circulatory system, or eyesight?

Conclusion
With increased knowledge should come the recognition of the lack of knowledge present. The funny thing about knowing is that you can only know what you know, but not what you don’t know. So for whatever’s remaining, you can only guess. And we don’t know how much that is. We can paint various scenarios that in theory put us very close to solving the unknown, but there’s nothing that says those scenarios would be any more accurate than the rest.

The fact that we as humans are still collectively incompetent in several key areas would seem to offer a clue that we likely aren’t all that competent in any key area, even the ones where we pour billions of hours of human research. There’s no reason why any discipline should be magically exempt simply due to volume or extra effort. And that’s what religion is doing is making a recognition of this.

For those who would ask regarding the advancements of mankind, “Are we there yet?”, for all we know, we haven’t even gotten out of the garage. But be sure you’re strapped in for when we go over that cusp.

Same Old Similar New

2010-04-20T22:44:00.000-07:00

What at first seemed to be the norm would later turn into the radical abnorm. But then it was time to stop putting off the inevitable, lumber out of bed, and go track down once and for all whoever invented mornings. It was a cruel joke, us being the punchline. They probably thought it a novel idea at the time of its inception, but the sorry morning was destined for failure from the start. Weighing the perks against the drawbacks, it seemed obvious. The time of the day they picked to have it was sorely doomed. And trying to follow the act of sleep is inviting trouble all around. Not to mention that sleep can be narcissistic to the point of asking for multiple encores. Whatever comes after would have to be anticlimactic. Add to that the fact that sleep comes with pillows — anybody just strive to top that, and go down in quicksand trying.

On this day of days, I would take on the role of covert operative, so secret that even I was unsure of my own title, but glad to be doing it. I always got up for those sort of gigs. As a child, I loved being clandestine even though I couldn’t spell the word, and now all that training of sneaking through the cupboards and hiding under beds was paying off. Even years later, it was still difficult to refrain from infiltrating the cupboards in whatever abode I might find myself in. Zorro had his mark, and me, I had to raid the cupboards before I would leave a place. People knew their Nilla Wafers were in jeopardy, and they’d lock them up if they thought I was on their trail. This eventually got me on the outdoor beat, where Nilla Wafers were nearly extinct, if not for picnics, from which I had my pick. Not quite cupboards, but beggars can’t tell people their sob stories when they’re dealing in espionage, and I was wallowing in it.

I was to frequent the midtown park and track down a supposed agent from stealth forces before he could identify his target, promising to be an apt challenge for my acumen. More details than this would complicate the issue past its relevant parts.

All I had or needed to go by was that he/she/it spoke an unusual Pidgin dialect, although since being fluent in four other languages and doing a mean impersonation of Jackie Gleason, it would be difficult to get him/her/it to show the aforementioned shortcoming.

Upon entering the park from the east side, I bumped into a fellow in a Gaelic trenchcoat and immediately asked him what he thought of the local transit system in general, as well as how he would summarize the concept of onomatopoeia. His response, though brusque and uncharacteristically non-committal, suggested a genuine unfamiliarity not replicable by most stealth agents. We exchanged business cards, tipped our caps, and went on our way.

I chose a strategic spot near the playground, since playgrounds are typically frenetic, replete with distractions, thus ripe for producing illusory effects. In short, it would be the ideal environment for my desired cover.

After polishing off three chapters of The Communist Manifesto without incident, I turned my attention to my picnic surroundings, trying to ascertain what, if anything, was out of place. One entity would carry with it unique traits that would differentiate it from the rest of those present. The cumulative flow of the crowd, the billowing leaves on the trees, the rhythm of the playground swings, the yapping of dogs of various and sundry breeds… these all came together into one whole. But one thing would be out of step, if I could just key into it. All that is natural flows, but that which is not natural is intermittent, haphazard, non-random, and thereby artificial, thus giving itself away despite its best efforts, by its very nature.

The best way to “see” is to block out whatever you don’t need to see. There was much around me I didn’t need to see. It was just noise, and I placed it into the backdrop. This left me four points of reference that were competing for most unlike themselves. Now reduced to a simple multiple choice question, the answer would soon become apparent.

A clown juggling on a unicycle thought he had me fooled, but I knew he was a plant. I didn’t know how I knew, but I did. Instinct doesn’t come with explanations, and if you wait for them to come, you’re gonna miss a lot of buses.

I anticipated the patterns to unfold as they always did. To the well-trained observer, these processes can be timed with the precision of a meticulously orchestrated sonata, where each instrument comes in on cue. Life plays in various rhythms, though few notice.

A conspicuously inconspicuous man at 6 o’clock had caught my peripheral attention. His blank stare betrayed his thought processes. He was looking nowhere and looking everywhere. Unlike everyone else, he appeared to be concocting his thoughts rather than merely living them.

I became further suspicious of him when I noticed he was talking intermittently into his umbrella. I thought it a peculiar conversation tool. I thought that, because I would’ve opted for a croquet mallet or an opera ticket. Perhaps it was all a matter of style, but nonetheless I thought it prudent to make a note of it. I regarded him closely from that point on. I made it a point to blink only when he did so that he wouldn’t see my eyes closed. I was in his grill and he didn’t even know it. Or if he did, he didn’t give any indication. He continued his pattern of glancing around at nothing in particular.

I turned slightly in his direction to point my cuff link camera his way. This was going to be my moment in the sun, where all the planets would converge on my behalf, the elements at my behest, the setting to become my stage, where I direct the cast to the finale.

In an instant, he turned into pixie dust, and I thought that was rather inconvenient for him. Only the umbrella remained. But I dare not touch it. After an awkward pause of about 18 minutes, which was followed up by another awkward pause of about 6 hours, and then a comfortable pause of 29 seconds, I walked over to the dust, which had already started forming very tiny dunes reminiscent of a miniature beach possibly frequented by really small people. I regarded him further. Once having been convinced he was no longer staring at me, I scrawled in his aftereffects the words “Lyle Was Here.” I didn’t know his name, but I took him for a Lyle. I thought if he wasn’t, the dunes would have to make the correction, because I wasn’t to be responsible.

Sure enough, the next day when I returned to that same spot, it now said, “Lyle Wasn’t Here.” The dunes had spoken, garnering from me a newfound respect. And the umbrella? It was long gone, possibly opened by a vagrant and caught up into the wind where it would be tossed like an ill-fated Caesar salad and then sold at an auction for a fraction of the original cost. But it was inconsequential. It was so inconsequential that nobody thought about it anymore. They thought instead about the absence of umbrellas. And the fact that anything but umbrellas could be seen. This was all that occupied anyone’s minds. It was as if brainwashing was going on just prior to the rinse cycle.

I wiped away the message, and then carved out, “Then what is his name?” From that point, I could think of little else to do to while away the time for that day, so I called it a day even though it had already been called one on the calendar. Not wishing to be redundant, I deferred to the calendar and thought of other things I could call it instead. Upon further reflection, it seemed rather pointless to be naming it something else, and I had no idea how I had gotten backed into that corner. I called for a recount and pleaded the fifth. And then I punted. To say I was desperate would have been like saying a monk was on fire, because it didn’t adequately describe the situation.

When I came back that next morning, the message had only been updated to say, “What’s whose name?” This was a rather quaint predicament we had here. I wiped it clean again, and scrawled, “Lyle’s. Duh…” I seemed to be dealing with amateurs here, but I stayed patient and focused on the task at hand. This would require perseverance of the most extreme kind.

As fate would have it but par for the course, I wasn’t able to return the next day because of my poorly planned double hernia operation. They were having a two-for-one offer and I couldn’t very well pass it up. So I sent a courier to the park to take a picture of the dirt. While I was reclining in the recovery room, the courier brought me an assortment of color prints to display across the table. Finding the picture I needed, I misread the caption the first time, but then I realized after clearing my eyes that it said, “jk, it actually was Lyle.”

I was growing a tad irritated, so I wrote to whoever it may have concerned, “This is getting somewhat tedious. Can I text you?” And of course, I had to wait until the next day to find out. The suspense was nearly unbearable. Nothing I did for the remainder of the day could compare to my anticipation for what might transpire on the next. Breathing was about all I could handle. I forced myself to breathe just out of curiosity.

So on Thursday, I sojourned down to the park once more, eager for the next revelation, only to find inscribed “Excuse me? You want to text a pile of dirt?” I could tell this was going to be challenging. I checked with my cell phone company, and they didn’t have any plans that seemed to fit my current needs.

I mused at the sudden lack of options I now had. The sands sifted through my fingers and became part of the destiny of the progressing wind. I was a sail being directed by its wiles. I gave it a little time to see if it wanted to change course. It didn’t. So I didn’t ask it to.

With nothing left to do and nowhere to do it in, and having looked around for missing as well as found clues, I decided it would be prudent to pack it all in. My mission had now completed in a most incomplete way, though I had accomplished the primary objective, which was to rid the world of arch enemies while still retaining all the other kinds of enemies.

My report would contain a synopsis of my encounters and the accompanying lessons learned. I would tell of the near fatal mistake of confusing my earpiece with a clam shell. Of the symbolism of the dunes as a horizontal passage through the hourglass, oddly making it more linear than its inherited chronology. Of the pastiche of obligatory dunes-as-life scenarios, of the will of the human spirit to carry on in the face of all obstacle, of the notion that nothing is cut-and-dried with the possible exception of beef jerky, of the simplistic nature of art which parrots an undersimplified lifestock, of how obfuscation keeps a lot of people in business and a lot of other people wondering what they overlooked, of umbrella as metaphor only to the extent that it isn’t already the center of all we attempt and capture within our few decades roaming around the planet like a horde of banshees late for a dinner appointment with the establishment, as if dining somehow had to be rushed into as well as being ubiquitous in the social arena (would you like parsley with that, madam?). Of mice and other minutiae. I would contain my report within those bounds, a soliloquy for half history. And then I would wriggle back into the woodwork, to not be seen, heard, or rumored until the delicate equilibrium of the universe was once again disturbed, for a call to have my services rendered, rescuing the elements back to stasis for a time, while ever-approaching the ideal. Which is why we can never return to a norm that doesn’t exist, the lesson now learned.

If Statements as Experiment

2010-03-30T21:44:00.000-07:00

Well, now that you’ve started reading, I might as well humor you. Isn’t it funny that to humor someone has nothing to do with what’s funny, and to say it’s funny how something is has very little to do with humor. This language was really patched together like forming a castle out of a mudslinging contest. And this is what happens when you have a language by committee. So the fact that these ruminations come in English is a big strike against them. If only this were en Francais… If only.

The other day, I was trying to think of something. Talk about unlofty goals. A person can always think of something, unless your mind is a blank, in which case you’ve just filled your mind with the thought that it’s blank. Oh... the other day. That’s kind of a non-committal reference to a day that is specifically “the other day,” as if there were only one such day. No, not that other day, the other other day. Yeah, that one.

Also, in the interest of full disclosure so that you know where my devotions lie, I’m representing one side in a bitter discrimination suit. In Rodentia vs. Professional Sports Teams, I’m defending those sad little animals who never get used as mascots. Nobody ever calls their team the Rats, the Hamsters, the Varmints, or the Critters, etc. It has caused irreparable emotional harm to my clients. Their friends make fun of them, they can’t get high-profile jobs, and they’re discriminated all the way down to the very bottom of the food chain. If you thought getting picked last for kickball was bad, wait till you get picked last to eat. Slim pickins there at the end of the food chain line. You get morsels, and that’s about it. “But I don’t like morsels, Mommy.” “Tough! You eat your morsels and be grateful, Theodore. Those are delicious morsels.”

I wouldn’t bring this up, but enough people have asked about it to behoove me to comply. For the record, I would actually write on my blog more often, but opposable thumbs are nothing to be flaunting at the rest of the animal kingdom, so I want to be sensitive to that.

We take a lot of things for granted, simply assuming that things had to be a certain way, but not realizing that there could have been many various scenarios. Life doesn’t really have to be as simple and accommodating as it is. For instance, what if we had to relieve our bladder every five minutes? Think how inconvenient that would make living. Don McLean would’ve had to sing part of American Pie from the restroom. All sorts of logistical problems would arise. The next time you feel inconvenienced by something in life, just think how it could be worse. For one, our elbows could be attached to our knees. Think of all the great dance moves that would generate... And it would make it rather problematic to put on a sweater. Picture trying to dress a pretzel without upsetting its ecosystem. No fair pulling limbs off and then putting them back on.

Or what if gravity went away from the Earth instead of toward it? That would make things fun, wouldn’t it? If you dropped something, you’d be in a world of hurt without a paddle. With reverse gravity, things would be cleaner on average, but then if you lost something, it wouldn’t mysteriously pop up again later. I suppose unless you were looking in Aurora Borealis.

Type the word “hyphen” (without the quotes). (And don’t type in parentheses either) Wait a minute, they just used the quotes to tell us what we’re supposed to type, but we’re not allowed to? How exactly is that fair? In other words, do what I do, but just not literally. Only somewhat literally... That’s a direct translation, by the way. And you can quote me on those hyphens.

Or what if all the letters of the alphabet rhymed? Literacy rates in English-speaking countries would plummet. Become very suspicious if there’s a shift in pronunciation toward Farsi, I’m just sayin’. Do I need to wink to get the point across?

The funniest news story of last year was when the media kept pointing out that the people on a certain boat were pirates. They keyed on that word over and over as if it were aired up and being used in a volleyball match. Their fixation on the word was both telling and laughable. They had found a legitimate usage for a dramatic term from lore, and then they drilled it into the ground until it had become a fine dust. It underscores the apoplectic desperation of the media and their lack of shame in glorifying whatever they can find to plaster to the wall. They’re less interested in reporting the conditions than they are in packaging them to sound incredible, amazing, fantastic, wondrous, (insert superlative of choice here and deposit 25 cents).

People will say they’re having problems thinking straight, yet it’s much more interesting to have it meander. I figure why not take the scenic route? After all, the road less travelled has fewer potholes. Ponder that one at your next lemming convention.

Perspective can give you a lot to consider. Dr. Seuss taught us a lot of what-ifs, causing us to think what it might be like to have a stain that somehow transferred to everything throughout the house, and then out into the snow. Nothing could get that stain out. (This was before Tide came out with the new-improved whitening crystals) Frankly, I was a little stunned that Thing V and Thing W had difficulty with it, knowing their background in disaster recovery.

Or what if it took 14 months for the Earth to revolve around the Sun? Calendars would be heavier. That would surely alter everything. Not to mention the calendar industry would be more profitable. Cosmologists take note: there’s a great marketing opportunity here for a little fudging of the numbers after a surprise increase in sunspot activity. And we’d get older slower, so people would welcome the change. How would you like to be 48 instead of 56?

I wonder why is it exactly that people often dislike hypocrites more than those who are brazenly bad? (I ask you that in expectation that you’ll have the solution, even though it may have appeared to be an obvious rhetorical device. But now that I’ve had to explain my intent, it kind of ruins the mood. Next time, you’re on your own.) We don’t seem to like phonies, yet if someone doesn’t pretend to be good, then there’s some level of genuineness which receives acceptance. Hardened criminally defiant mobster? Well, at least you admit it. But claim to have done some magnanimous gesture like visited kids in hospitals, when it turns out you were glamorizing it for a photo op, you should be hanged at the stake and left for dead.

Or what if there was no green? For one thing, golfers would be in a quandary, with nothing to shoot for. But that would be the least of our worries. Vegetables would be any even tougher sell. Rainbows would have an empty spot on them. The flags of Nigeria and Saudi Arabia would be indistinguishable. There’d be little point to Green Tea, now wouldn’t there? All things we shouldn’t take for granted.

As such, I feel bad for the bird called the kite. They can’t be understood except within context. If I didn’t clarify the genus, you wouldn’t know to what I was referring. They have the complex of the bird formerly known as paper on a string. That’s good for two visits a week to a shrink. Although, it’s still probably not as bad as the swallow. Or the gulp. Now, those are birds in identity crisis. We think it’s bad being named Grenelda or Thaddeus, but it’s nothing compared to those inheriting fowl linguas.

Or what if Alex Trebek weren’t the host of Jeopardy! for 53 years running? I wonder what they’re gonna do if/when he retires. They better get somebody else named Alex, otherwise it’s going to sound very weird when a contestant says, “I’ll take Forensic Subterranean Albatross Migration Patterns for 500, Alex.”

Ultimately, as a child I was relieved that pink snow is only pretend, and later learned that green eggs only happen in college dorms, but it’s always fun to mull over how else it might be… with Thing Y and Thing Z.

Things What I Might Be Good at Or Not

2010-03-17T22:54:00.000-07:00

Within the world of employment, there’s a wide array of available occupations to keep a person busy. The options can be dizzying, so narrowing it down seems to be the trick to finding one’s niche.

I’ve taken proficiency tests before, and the tests have strongly indicated that I’m very good at taking proficiency tests. In those, they say you would do well as a stamp collector, the host of Family Feud, lifting semi-heavy boxes without dropping them on your toes, a fedora expert, a welterweight boxing champion, a contestant on Family Feud, a ferris wheel operator, a coconut grower, the guy who waves the checkered flag in stock car races, and a situational ethics committee chairman. Afterward, you’re scratching your head wondering where you should focus your energies. You’re more confused than before you started.

Rather than fog up your mind with things that may or may not pertain to your special abilities, I prefer relying on my intuition to point me to areas I could consider. I’d probably test poorly on some of these things, but the test can’t see the intangibles of a person, or in other words know what rotten work habits and personality quirks you have. “Hey, it says I can be an effective plant manager for a distribution center despite the fact that all my communication is through whistling. Who knew?”

With that in mind, I’ve considered the types of things where I could at least potentially be proficient. If you have any connections in any of these areas, e-mail me with the specifics and I’ll take a look into it.

Consulting
I actually like the idea that people would need to come to another person to consult about something, all because that person knows more about it than they do. They would ask this person, “Am I doing it right?” “How would YOU do it differently?” and “What is your undeniably expert opinion on the subject?” A consultant is in a good position. By the very nature of their situation, people are admitting that they are inferior and the consultant knows more than they do. If there are disagreements, the consultant can say, “Hey, remember you had to come to me to consult about this. That means I’m more important.” If I had to do that, I think I could manage.

Employment Agency
My job would be to help people get jobs. It would be justified if only for the condition that other people didn’t have jobs. If everybody were adept enough at finding their own jobs, then I wouldn’t have this job, and then I’d need to find another job, and possibly have to go to the employment agency. So I guess that means we’ll always need one, thus it’s good job security. But yet I feel like an employment agent is seen as flaunting what they’ve got, i.e. - “So… let’s see if we can find for you what I already have. I don’t need me like you do.”

Woodworking
Hammers are trained to hit nails, and when they see them on a finger or a thumb, they say, “Cool!” If I were a carpenter, I’d have a plethora of bruises on my thumbnails. It’s not that my aim isn’t good with tools, but if I try to talk and think at the same time, for some odd reason my attention gets shifted about 5 degrees one direction or the other, and that’s all it takes. But take note that I don’t cuss when that happens. I go right past cussing and into existential wanderings about the necessity of my existence. After all, as we know, the truly great emotions have no sufficient words to accompany them.

Delivery
I wouldn’t mind being a UPS or FedEx driver. They take people’s autographs all day, engage in smalltalk about the same thing 62 times until they’ve perfected the obligatory snicker, and get to see people react like it’s Christmas again. I wonder how many consecutive times I could stomach “Oh, my package is here!”, but that just comes with the territory. The main reason I’d want to be a delivery driver is that they get to park right in the middle of the street. I wish I could do that whenever I felt like it. “No parking spaces available… No worries, I’ll just stop my truck right where I am. All you people behind me… adapt, okay? We’ve got packages to deliver here.” That is the true definition of power.

Window Washing
Are you kidding me? If all the windows were on the first floor, then fine. But when those guys get out there dangling from a skyscraper like a cheap wind chime, that’s a little post-apocalyptic for me. My heart just wouldn’t be in it to the degree it would need to. Besides, is it really that important to have clean windows anyway, that we need to have people doing high-wire acts with a squeegee to achieve this? I don’t think historians will look back on this period and conclude, “The post-modern homo sapien really kept its buildings looking shiny, a sign of a highly advanced civilization.” I’m just not on board with that. I would certainly be one of those undedicated window washers. I could see me up there, bringing along with me every possible suction cup I could find, and my whole body would resemble the lower left quartile tentacle of an octopus. They’d have to pry me off of that building with a crowbar. But I’d rather be stuck to it than hanging from a line that’s nothing more than a cadre of measly little wires rolled up together.

Dunking
In my prime, I had the qualifications for a top-notch dunker in pools. If not for the knee injury, I could’ve gone pro. It’s probably not something you can teach, because either you’ve got the technique or you don’t. I remember one time we were at a big pool at a youth conference in Monterey, and two of my cousins (who shall remain Ryan and Keith) were trying to dunk me two-on-one, and even together despite all their efforts, they couldn’t get me under. I even dunked them a few times for good measure. You know, it can get a little tedious just standing there loitering in a pool. Then they got the idea to go find a bigger, older teenager to come do it for them, and so they get this guy and he comes over and wrangles me, but he couldn’t get me under, so I dunked him too. They got a big kick out of that.

But my crowning achievement at the discipline was going toe-to-toe with Henry High. (Henry, if you’re still around, I’ll put you on my Christmas list) One day in the pool at P.E., Henry and I somehow got into the pre-dunk grip. Henry was a pretty big kid. It was said he weighed around 300 pounds. Myself, I was tipping the scales at 145 if I had brought enough quarters for lunch money that day, so tipping is a relative term. I could feel Henry’s strength as if it were a solid brick wall. Henry could sense that he had me where he wanted me. But as Henry tried to dunk me, I held my ground, and in one of the most spectacular displays of athleticism and grit, by some stroke of fate I ended up playing Henry to a draw. For weeks to come, I heard kids saying, “He’s the guy that Henry High couldn’t dunk.” And then they’d ‘ooo’ and ‘ahh’ as I sauntered past them in what must’ve seemed like slow motion. That was the period when I grew three inches taller within just a month. So now I’m anticipating eventual induction into the Dunkers Hall of Fame once my steroid scandal clears, but it’s really too bad I never made a career of it.

Beekeeping
I believe it would be enthralling to keep bees. To be the keeper of the bees. Keepers carry with them a lot of authority. Eventually I could work my way up to the keeper of a gate, though in the meantime I could possibly start with a stationary fence until I got more comfortable. Keepers of the fence don’t get a whole lot of credit, but it’s a noble line of work. If it weren’t for keepers of the fence, the gate wouldn’t serve much purpose. At any rate, history is likely going to show that a great deal of the influential people were catapulted to immortality through the prism of beekeeping, so I’m leaving this option open.

Auto Sales
Were I a car salesman, I’d most likely talk people out of buying cars instead of getting them to buy them. I wouldn’t be able to bring myself to talking up something I didn’t really believe in, and cars aren’t something I believe in. It’s just this thing I have about having a conscience. I’d say to the customer, “What do you want a new car for? They depreciate like cement blocks. What’s wrong with your other car anyway?” And on top of that, I’d be bringing seller’s remorse into the psychological spectrum, opening up a whole new field, causing chaos everywhere.

I wouldn’t be comfortable in general being associated with the whole auto salesman shtick. The car dealership hires someone to sell their cars for them. Fine. But then they don’t give them any authority to make the deal. “Let me go ask my mommy. She’ll tell us if it’s OK.” Then they come back and say, “After I told the oracle your offer and he inquired as to what level of gullibility you are, he said we can only go down this far. Remember, I’m only the messenger, and my boss had half his face burned and can’t talk to you face to face. They pay me $70,000 a year (i.e.-you pay me) to tell you which cars you want, and to convey hallowed information coming from on high. It’s a very complex set of skills I went to Harvard Auto School for. But be assured that we value your business, and we thank you for playing our game with us.” Sure, I could say those words, but I wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face, and that would kind of ruin the whole mood thing.

I like to go into car dealerships as the prospective buyer, and when they come back from their little powwow with the powwows that be and present their counter-offer, I tell them that I now need to go consult with my special mentor behind the curtain, who they’re not allowed to see. Then I get out my puppet stage, and have a few conversations between my hands, which are covered with different colored socks. When I’m done, I reveal to them what the other sock advised me to say. “Sock doesn’t like offer. No, no… He says you trying to bamboozle us. We can offer $14,500, but sock go no higher.” After we go back and forth with the whole process, eventually I hand them the sock and say, “Here… can you let my people talk to your people, and get this settled once and for all? Let your boss and the sock work it out. Besides, I’m missing Desperate Housewives as we speak, and it’s really cramping my style.”

Teaching
Being a teacher in grade school would surely be interesting. For a day or so. After that, how do teachers stay motivated? I’d be waiting for the field trips more eagerly than the students. I’d even base 95% of their grade on the field trip.

One thing I’d do to correct a hundred years of improper teaching is to not have a part of the grade based on attendance. As a student, if you know the material, you know the material. Showing up doesn’t really take any special skill related to the subject. Now you have to know it with style? Sure, you aced all the tests, but did you keep your seat warm in the process? That’s what we want to know.

Now, they could have a class just called Attendance 101. And they would see how well each of the students could show up. They’d have class every day, and the object would be to be there. Once they were all there, they would chant the mantra from Horton Hears a Who: “We’re here, we’re here!” As such, 100% of the grade would be based on attendance. They would actually celebrate as each child walked into the classroom, giving each other high fives. “You made it today! You didn’t get lost or abducted by aliens! You’re going places, I tell you.” They would have a big final at the end of the semester, where they would hold the class in some obscure undisclosed location, and the students would have to find it. For the student well-versed in attendance, it would be a piece of cake.

Pilot
I wouldn’t mind being a commercial airline pilot as long as they let me get off the plane before it took off. Other than the flying part, I really do like planes. I especially enjoy the whole integrated instrument panel layout, which is quite impressive. There’s nowhere to even hang an air freshener, because they don’t have rear-view mirrors, plus the cockpit is lined with wall-to-wall gadgets anyway. I wish I had a car that took ten minutes to turn on all the levers needed to start it up. It seems so much more important to commence driving than to simply put it in gear and go. While riding with me, if you hear me say “flaps down,” don’t be alarmed as I monkey a little with the visors. They’re precision instruments that must be accurately calibrated. Rear-view mirror checked, side mirrors checked, defrost on (always start on defrost so as not to upset the cabin pressure), flaps down, brake off, radio set to the proper station for the occasion (94.5 for driving over the Alps, for example), windows up, seatbelts securely buckled (there’s nothing worse than a partially-buckled seatbelt), doors locked, ashtrays in their upright position, and finally ready to leave the driveway. As a side note, I’m late for appointments quite a bit.

Lifeguard
A little too intimidating for me. If they instead called it something like Danger Guard, or Mishap Guard, I think I could handle that. But otherwise, that’s putting a tad too much pressure on someone sitting in his boxers with a whistle getting a tan. Oh, and you are the Saver of Lives, if you don’t mind. Try not to let that get to you. Want some lotion?

Prime Minister of Kyrgyzstan
I would serve the people of Kyrgyzstan well. Following on the policies outlined in my campaign, I’d be able to maintain the aristocracy inherent within the system. I would become beloved throughout the land, and go down in the history books as the impetus for restoring civility to that region. If only I could get the proper financing. Won’t you consider donating $5, $10, even $11,000 to my campaign? Send in unmarked bills to the address at the bottom of the screen. (No, don’t look under your monitor, you dunderhead)

Law Enforcement
I think I could be a police officer. I went on a ride-along a few years back, and you get to zoom 80 miles an hour through the middle of town. I’ve driven through the city of Salem on my own, and normally it takes about 15 minutes from one side to another if you catch the lights right, but on this night we traversed most of it in under 3 minutes. Of course, we had to slow down to 40 at the major intersections. As the police, you can make cars pull over for you just by flashing a light and siren. Still, the biggest draw, of course, is that policemen can park their car in the middle of the street if they want. They’ll even block both lanes if they feel like it. Few things are cooler than that.

Radio Disc Jockey
“Hey there, kids! Welcome to another hour of non-stop music, where you guess the song, and we don’t tell you what it is.” I could do that. Say into the microphone that here comes a song. And then play the song. And then when it’s over, say that was a song. A disc jockey is another way of saying narrator, but narrator doesn’t sound as enticing. I don’t know what the utility of having a narrator for music is, but I guess it can serve like a pep talk, and it’s fun to think that someone else is listening to the music along with you. Although if they would say what the name of the song was, then I might be a little more convinced they were paying attention to it. Here’s what I think happens: They start a string of six uninterrupted songs (besides, I hate those interrupted ones like Lady GaGa’s pre-eminent “Wax On, Wax Off” which comes with a built-in commercial and separate jingle* from the sponsor) (*-isn’t it just a little odd to have a jingle inside of another song? Yeah, I thought so.), and then they take a catnap, setting their alarm for 20 minutes, and then they wake up just in time to say, “Some great stuff there from The Who.” That’s how The Who got their name, incidentally. The DJ’s didn’t know whose songs they were playing, so when a band came along that played right into that, they were an instant hit. They even called their album at the time “Who’s Next,” thus relieving DJ’s everywhere of any responsibility whatsoever, and that’s how Pete Townshend became a legend.

Bus Driver
Even a school bus driver would be quite a good gig. Primarily because of that stop sign on the side of the bus, which you can invoke on a moment’s notice and halt all the traffic in the world behind you. Not only do you block their right of way, but you can command them to stay where they are. That’s something even a FedEx driver can’t do. As a matter of fact, as a school bus driver I would be able to tell those FedEx drivers that they had to stop behind me! Oh, man… That would be several levels beyond awesome. Where do I sign up?

Modeling
It’s the classic case of, “I know he can get the job, but can he do the job? I’m not arguing that with you… I’m not arguing that with you… If I said that, I would be wrong. I know he can get the job, but can he do the job?” But yes, I can pose. I can be robotronic like a mannequin. It’s one of my fortes, in fact. I was born to not move. What’s the big deal?

Spy
Spies are so good as staying under the radar that you never hear about them. How many spies do you know or have you heard of in the news? It’s like they’re invisible. You could have three of them living in your house with you right now and you wouldn’t know it. They’re very careful to clean up their crumbs after meals, and they use hand signals to talk, so you typically wouldn’t notice them. And they’re cool with whatever it is you’re watching on TV too, so they’re adaptable. I think I could do that.

Exterminator
Take out the ‘ex’ part, and I’m there. It’s so close to being the ultimate job title. Or they could also call it “Warlords of the Termite” and get more response. Wouldn’t that be a hip business to have? You get to use flamethrowers, magic potions, hazardous chemicals… What’s not to like? It’s like you’re going to battle every day, to defend humanity against the evil kingdom of critters. You against the smarmy vermin. They may have the advantage of being a stealth operation, but you have all the secret weapons. They can retreat into the walls and under the house, while you have the ability to infiltrate their communities with toxic substances and render them powerless. It’s a very prestigious position, and one that is probably the main target of the insect world. When ants go to take over the world, they’re not going to flood the general theater as we might suspect, but they’re going to go after the exterminators and break down our power base first. When those guys start falling, we know we’re in trouble.

In Conclusion
People ought to put these kinds of things on their resumes. “I possess the necessary skills to be a great engineer, coal miner, stock broker, anthropologist, bartender, marketing representative, shoeshine boy, argyle sock repairman, car parking attendant, or cockroach trainer. This shows how versatile as well as desperate I am.”

Negotiate You For Lunch

2010-02-27T18:24:00.000-08:00

We are philanthropic, humanistic, almost too much altruistic. We nod, shake hands, offer gratitude and bid our fellow citizens the warmest of well-wishes. All is well in urbania when nothing’s at stake, for words are free and we’ve got plenty. Smiles are even on sale while supplies last.

Yet when met with the prospect of transaction, the common man bristles, braces, grimaces, turns into a trace of his former self, a monetized bot ready to pounce on his prey. A veritable cha-ching waiting in the wings.

The rest of the time when out of the grimy clutches of capital gains, we uphold our integrity, look for the overall good, are concerned about otherman’s welfare. Ah, we bring elaborately decorated cookies to mark/mask the festive occasion, bestow cards, hand out compliments, give pats on the back, and tote an array of atta-boys, without a hint of counting the cost.

But lurking under that unassuming persona is another, more disinterested cause. With cold, hard cash on the line, we are no longer the same compassionate soul. We curiously transmogrify into a merchant who can ill afford to show any scintilla of mercy toward what has now become his and/or her inferior opponent. We must give no ground. We must take them for whatever we can, by whatever means necessary, for the greater good of the account de la banke. We must act the bear. We must squeeze out all that is available at our disposal, and wait till the last drop has paid dividends.

For if a bartering is to take place, the much too common man is compelled to make it his own personal triumph. When selling, it is beneficial for the benefactor to get everything it can, even ask a tad higher than comfortable in order to err on the side of swindle, and don’t come down any more than what would turn the sweetest profit for you.

Toy with them, tease them, use psychological warfare against them if necessary. Put on your best emotive suit to utilize those disingenuous aspects of comfort, reassurance, security which will be your allies. Use anything it takes to accomplish your aim of being victorious over your conquest. Morals go out the door whenever one’s treasure is at stake. It changes everything. The rules are now different, and it’s what you get out of it that matters, irrespective of how you got there.

Is it any wonder we put on the guise of magnanimity at gift-giving by removing the price tag? This should tell us something. We instinctively perceive that currency clutters up the social arena, which is kind of where we tend to live. As such, lending to acquaintances is only valuable if you both never expect and never want to see them again. You give a loaner to become one, yet such a strategy works only with enemies but fails with comrades.

Listen closely to the innocuous buzzwords: To achieve an illusory financial success, there must be one you have succeeded over. Money is therefore an achievement. And it denotes the embodiment of success. You have, after all, reached ultimate portfolio. Alas, it sadly tells you what you’ve become.

The brutal economic philosophy does not have to render a particular side in the battle powerless, but only the unsuspecting with a conscience. Indeed, you can parlay the strategy from either vantage point. As buyer, give no ground and provide no reward to the seller, who was once you. Grant no space to your nemesis. Talk them down, then down some more. Don’t be satisfied with anything reasonable to them. The goal, after all, is for you to win. And the bigger you win, all the better. Then later you can boast about how you mercilessly took someone and made a deal that puts others, or even yourself, to shame.

For every “I got a great deal,” there’s a countering inference to “I ripped them off good.” It’s no doubt win-win, because I got what I wanted, and they were tricked into thinking they got what they wanted after realizing, of course, that their wishes were too grandiose in the first place and I generously brought them back to a stark reality and put them in their rightful place. Hey, they didn’t have to agree to it. When you think about it, it’s actually rather incredible how I showed them. And I’d bet if we played Monopoly, I could whup them at that, too. This revenue exchange thing is quite the invigorating game.

The lack of morals from the story is to take no one else’s welfare into account, for as we go about conducting our greetings and salutations, we’re still in a man-eat-man world. The bottom line spells it all out, and defines the true nature of the beast. While everything else in our day merely speaks, it’s only money that so eloquently talks.

The Zen of Zed

2010-01-30T16:06:00.000-08:00

Three lines. Two pianos. One oratory. Three gushes. Two pixels. One alibi.

The writing’s on the wall. It’s written in the stars. And there are yet other things to read between the lines. Your job as reader isn’t all that easy, though I’m not about to enable you. Where would the fun be in that?

I miss philosophy being at the forefront of rational thinking. I like the good ole’ days when Aristotle and Plato would direct traffic while chanting existential mantras to the passers-by. They’d hand out bumper stickers that said “Honk if your cerebral cortex is at least semi-functional.” People weren’t impinged upon at the prospect of hypothesis. Not so anymore.

The trouble today could be that we don’t ask enough questions. Our experience is so immediate that we perceive everything to be no further than our fingertips, and get disinterested when we have to extend a thought anywhere past that. Why would I want to bother when I can get seven camera shots on TV within a 3-second span? I’m getting fed machine gun images, sending a rash of stimuli to the hungered neurons. At that rate, who has time to ponder?

So the questions go unasked, let alone unanswered. This starts early. But let me backtrack before I reminisce. But before I do that, let me write whatever it is that I’m going to write. Thank you for not intervening. You scratch my back, and I agree to not write auto repair manuals in this space. The differential is astounding.

Where was I? Oh, it doesn’t matter. I can edit this later. But anyway, as a culture we should be closely examining what causes things to make sense, so that we can make more sense out of more things. A little utopian, I know.

We should be asking questions like “How many is any?” Well, maybe not start there, but work our way up to it by leaving ourselves breadcrumbs. But questions such as “Does logic solve all the important problems, and can that be answered without the use of logic?” or “Are 1- and 2-dimensional existences imaginary?” or “What’s the statute of limitations on clichés?” or “Why does the origin of species place all its focus on transition?” or “Is the bottom of the barrel all that bad?” or “What color do blue and purple make?” or “When they say a product is back, where did it go?” or “What comes after closure?” or “What does free will entail, and can it be legislated?” or “Are all Mexican dishes just a matter of different packaging?”

They could have at least one TV show about these things on network programming, with various perspectives being discussed. And our attention span changes the channel. OK, maybe throw in some exotic dancing competition, and then at the end, the audience gets to boo them off the stage. But it would need to be set on a remote island where civilization barely exists, and it would be done at night so the host could stand between two flaming torches to add credibility, and he'd speak with the distaste of a malcontent queen bee that's been let down by its underlings. Now I'm seeing real possibilities.

At least Steven Wright is trying. He wonders out loud, “What do batteries run on?” I’ve heard attempts at this before, and it typically spirals into a discourse on cellular activity, networking, and calling plans. And then beyond that, if cells are the building blocks of life, what makes cells operate? Show me the sub-cells. And then show me the sub-cells of those sub-cells. And if there are no more levels of sub-cells, what material makes up the lowest sub-cell? I know — porcelain.

We may need to establish some of the things that don’t exist before we can adequately examine things that do exist. Exhibit A as the most obvious example is the rumored number zero. We spend too much time giving it attention, and it hasn’t earned it yet. Essentially, it’s done nothing. I will argue that zero does not exist, and as such should be exiled into the netherworld. It has no value. It has unvalue. It is the anti-value. You can’t divide by it. The biggest red flag should be that your spreadsheet will snarl at you if you attempt such blasphemy.

With that in mind, my hand sanitizer claims to kill 99.99% of germs. This raises a couple questions that need to be addressed. Firstly, what exactly is that 0.01% of germs that it can’t kill? Should I be afraid of them? I want to know what those germs are that are so incredibly strong they can outmuscle a sanitizer whose sole intent is to kill them. It would also be useful to know precisely the identity of those germs so I can try other tactics to combat them, like Lava™ brand patented heavy duty pumice hand cleaner, or possibly other untested thermonuclear cleansing agents.

And then secondly, if they already know how to kill these 99.99% germs with the sanitizer, why don’t they just kill them before they get to my hands? I mean, think about it… Does it take a blogger to come up with these ideas? Shouldn’t we instead be trying to kill germs in advance of when they make contact with our skin? Why wait till the last possible moment to take action, right before they unleash their toxic damage? That’s a little overly dramatic for me. I like suspense in my movies, but not so much in my daily hygiene itinerary. Give no ground here. Be proactive about this. Go to the source and nip that sucker in the proverbial bud. The bottom line is we need pre-sanitizers, and if none of you invent one, I may give it a go at some point.

For a social application of our modern dilemma, I give you excess. Our mailman probably hates us since we only go to our mailbox about once every ten days. But it’s not really our fault, if you think about it. Who allows all that junk mail to be sent? Did we ask for any of it? No, in fact, we asked for less of it. Do you realize what brought down the Roman Empire? It was junk mail. They smothered themselves out of existence. Their papyrus backfired on them big time. Our governments today complain about garbage disposal problems, but yet they’re allowing the problem to fester with the mass production of flyers, envelopes, inserts, cards, what have you. (The what have you will likely be our downfall) Another question sans an answer.

As I was learning to read, I became rather disenchanted with the English language. After all, what business did Wednesday have being spelled that way? How was I expected to know that intuitively? If you had given me fifty chances, I would have spelled it fifty other ways than that. Wensday. Winsday. Windsday. Winzday. Qualadrapathia. (Every once in a while, it pays to throw in a wild card just in case, because you never know) In short, there was no discernable pattern for that spelling.

Here I am in the 1st grade, and they’re telling me that ‘shoulder’ is pronounced predictably enough — so far so good. That was just to get their foot in the door. But then good luck with ‘should’. Or ‘would’… or ‘could’. All of a sudden, the ‘L’ is now silent, and the ‘u’ acts like it wishes it was an ‘o’. By my way of thinking, if a letter is silent, then it ain’t doin’ anything in the word, so just take it out. Kind of like junk mail. Unless… unless they’re trying to fool us.

In Kindergarten, you start out with numbers on the first day. 1-2-3 is easy enough. Everything is peachy and you’re on top of the world with your newfound numbering system that you’re going to use to confiscate all your older brother’s money. They even make fun little songs about counting to make you feel good about it. But that’s how they indoctrinate you. Once they have you hooked on their numbering scheme, then later you find out that ‘2’ is mysteriously spelled ‘t-w-o’. Where the heck did the ‘w’ come from? That’s what I want to know. The ‘w’ has no right being there any more than an ‘x’ or the international symbol for choking, and as a young grade schooler, I’d like to be given an opportunity to challenge the linguistic establishment on a philosophical matter. That’s what would have expanded my academic horizons more.

But do they ever teach you why the ‘w’ is there, or do they just expect you to accept it at face value without questioning? Learning doesn’t really start until ‘why?’ is asked. (and don’t ask about the ‘h’ in why) You’re not allowed to question, only to answer pre-fabricated questions. Which is what led me to mathematics. It was the least threatening and most antiseptic of the disciplines.

To sum up (without the need to use the hapless zero), numbers have values, so zero, at the very most, is still an abstract concept. You can’t have zero of something. Rather, you simply don’t have it. In no way no how can you expect to be saved by zero. Otherwise, in my hand I’m currently holding zero marbles, zero barnacles, zero bubbles, zero dipsticks, zero Werther’s Originals, zero flashlights, zero pictures of Yeti monsters vacationing in Belize while drinking Mai-Tai’s, zero zeros, zero nothings, zero emptinesses, zero vacuums, zero anti-matters, zero Grey Poupons, zero gravity, zero copies of “My Life in the Bush of Ghosts” in Braille, zero gwoycyx’s, and the list could go on ad infinitum. It still hasn’t described the state of what’s in my hand. Zero lends nil to the equation. The most accurate statement is that I’m not holding anything in my hand. It’s a negative affirmation, if that doesn’t swallow itself in logic.

There are zero pink elephants in my living room. Yeah, so what? Leave me alone, zero. Go bug a quantum physicist.

Three fedoras. Two wallabies. One penchant. Three salutations. Two palindromes. One ricochet. Nope, certainly no room for zeroes here… I now hereby invoke my zero intolerance policy. So let it be spoken, so let it be done.

Cud-Chewing Visionaries

2010-01-25T11:21:00.000-08:00

From the Hindu ritual of the honorable bovine master, a firm representation of the giving nature of life, and lastly a sign of mammalian nirvana, a salute to all the cows of the world. Despite centuries of foreign occupation and imperialistic attempts in India, the sacred cow remains highly venerated. Our lactating leathermaker ultimately represents the hallowed principle of motherhood. She symbolizes venerable charity and generosity due to the way she distributes her veritable dairy qualities, vital to the nourishment of the young.

Cattle are a symbol of the whole Earth, the providers of sustenance. These udder-endowed friends are ever generous, giving endlessly of milk — much as the liberated soul gives of spiritual knowledge — while taking nothing for themselves other than grass, grain, and water. The crucial beefer is thus the virtual life-sustainer, emblematic of abundance, grace, and fire-starting. The sacredness anointed to these beasts within some eastern realms is not without cause.

On the other critical end of the spectrum, the splotchy black-and-white vermin's biggest energy contribution is its holy dung. Livestock produce over a billion tons of righteous manure per year. Dung from mooers is distinctive from all other forms of compost, in that the pink-nosed Gateway model's, while not contaminating, possesses mystical antiseptic qualities. Not only is it devoid of all bacteria, it also acts to kill them.

Dung is thereby used for fertilizer for the farmer, and is also utilized for fuel, though often quite lethal. Unlike your basic load of muck, however, the heifer’s version is odorless and burns without scorching, giving a slow, even heat. Consequently, the primitive housewife can leave her pots unattended, returning to cook on a preheated griddle. This surely trumps the golden arches in a Calcutta world.

The vaunted frisbee indeed originated from the cow chip, and we symbolically toss it upward to the skies as a way to scale new levels of our existence, precariously flirting with our destiny via unassuming recreational pursuits. A continual theme whispering it’s not to be taken lightly.

The likes of Freud may have alluded that man would aspire for mechanical bull sessions in an attempt to attain the heights known only to these worshiped cheeseburgers-in-waiting, for we have to conquer that which we would aspire for, to prove we are its equal... if only for that fleeting eight seconds of glory. The bovine master’s gyrations are emulated, revealing where it is that we need to adjust in order to maintain congruence.

Essentially a crude yet serpentine way of addressing the oft-cited but rarely explored mystery of what constitutes rusted ruminations, and where such things are headed. And while it can’t rightly be conveyed ipso facto, let alone through any other Latin idiom, a continued attempt can be made to demonstrate contextually, because it avoids the paperwork. As we embark on this new decade because years come in tens, we’ll take with confidence the lessons of these moo-cows with us into the vast great unknown of yet more cryptic years beginning with the number ‘2’, and graze on what it is that we know.

As a consequence of said phenomena, every year devotees will drive their sanctified Taurus to the annual bovine rites at San Francisco’s Cow Palace, paying tribute to those splendid cream makers in the sky. And thus for the uninitiated, it bears repeating the posting found herein follows in the cattle-infested philosophies espoused by Mohandas Gandhi, demonstrating that fertilizer can be surprisingly effective when used properly.

Reporting on a Planet

2009-12-31T23:51:00.000-08:00

Grbzak, what to make of this civilization? It’s almost a misnomer, because uncivilization would be more accurate in many cases. One scratches his head over the peculiarities of humanoids. They’re consistently inconsistent.

For one thing, they make animated movies they call PG specifically created for younger children, and then they put warning labels on these movies which say: “Parents strongly cautioned. Some material may be inappropriate for children under 13.” What’s that all about? Are you seeing the disconnect here? Let’s rewind and try again. They make movies expressly for the kids… and then they say be careful letting kids watch them. Where’s a brick wall when you need one, Grbzak?

Likewise, the ‘may’ clause in there is since they don’t want to commit one way or the other, because after all they’re merely monitoring every single frame of the movie and categorizing it all down to the popcorn compatibility factor, and as a result they don’t know the appropriateness of the content other than rating it based on the contents that they don’t know whether they’re appropriate or not due to things they can’t determine while being in the business of recommending, which only makes sense because they’re only human, c’mon!

That explains a lot right there. It would be akin to the census coming to your house and interviewing you in the presence of your family, and then concluding on their report: ‘Someone may or may not be living there, but we don’t want to definitively state one way or the other. Although the content of the home is fundamentally organic in an undetermined manner — and governmental guidance is suggested for minors under 65’.

Grbzak, in case you’re thinking this may only be indicative of a minor defect in the human persona, also take note that they make commercials that ARE LOUDER THAN THE REST OF THE PROGRAMMING TO BE ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN THAT NOBODY MISSES THEM! I don’t know about you, but it sure makes me want to go out and buy their product. The decibel level that they’re able to attain is nothing short of impressive. Give me more decibels, Grbzak! I can’t get enough of ‘em. It somehow hypnotizes me and causes me to walk to the store like a zombie to get their product. “Must… buy… more… Old Spice deodorant… Must fill shopping cart to the brim…”

Another area humans manifest their glaring flawed nature is in the comics page of a newspaper. Curiously, about three-fourths of the so-called comics are rather unfunny, to the point of mysterious bafflement. I’m pretty sure Sally Forth hasn’t had a funny strip since 1964. A more apt term for these offerings of blocked witticism would be the “Huhs.” When you read them, about the extent of what you think afterward is “huh.” And yes, Grbzak, it’s a salient point that a good deal of these comics aren’t trying to be funny in the first place. That’s the whole point! Even when they want to explore a horizon that exudes humor, they can’t usually bring themselves to do it. They’re comics, the funny papers, and yet they function as the opposite. How curious indeed. The advertised product takes a wide detour from its intended purpose, but at least the original intent was there, so they feel like they should be given credit for that. All you have to do is call it a rose and it becomes a rose. I think they have a saying like that, anyway.

What’s more, the truly funny comics are treated as anomalous. One is viewed as being on the far end of comedy, another gives the character a geeky name and draws him as an overly dweebish version of a geek just for grins. And yet another shows a curious child talking incessantly to his imaginary animal friend. And then another one depicts a neurotic adolescent who philosophizes all day with his friends who ridicule him and whose pet is smarter than them all and the adults have been cursed with a speech impediment which allows them to only converse in an ancient Wa-Wa dialect. Yes, these are the ones that are actually funny, but the underlying message is that these are almost too good for consumption and must therefore be packaged as outliers. Does that tell you something about the constituents? They want to have funny, but at the same time they feel obligated to apologize for it. And that’s where Blondie and Cathy and Heathcliff and Mowgli and Samsonite come in. They’re the neutralizers, just in case anyone was threatening something more than a guffaw.

A newspaper is also referred to as a rag. The primary purpose of a newspaper, Grbzak, seems to be that it makes a person look important when holding it, because it requires two hands. Have you ever seen someone holding a newspaper open with only one hand? It doesn’t happen, because that’s not cool. That’s why blogs aren’t really going anywhere, because you can’t hold them. But the newspaper allows you to look busy along with looking important, and you can cover your entire upper half while taking a nap, and no one’s any wiser.

The most observed part of the newspaper is the sports page where the results of simulated rituals are posted, and the human game seems to be that they want to hide the sports page to see if people can find it. Once the readers complete the scavenger hunt, then they can prey on their game and proceed. That’s why the front page has such big headlines. They’re trying to deter people from turning to the sports page. “No, don’t go there! Big monsoon sweeps through the Pyranees! Lots of people died in explosion! Hey, look — Paris Hilton’s kidney on display at museum!”

So Grbzak, the only logical being we’ve detected on this planet seems to be a man who goes by the name ‘Spock’, apparently in the mode of Sting, the two of them obviously not wanting to be known as Leonard or Gordon. We don’t know what to think of the rest who carry on like they purchased their brains with coupons at K-mart. To be truthful, the fact that there are even K-marts at all is an indictment of the entire race, so we’re not really off to a good start.

Speaking of movies, isn’t it interesting that anything at all can be said in a movie — that is, except for a real phone number, of course. We wouldn’t want to violate the sacred area of telecommunication, because it could compromise someone else’s right to caller euphoria. Some lady in Muncie, Indiana might get an overload of calls if they mentioned her number. And they’d confuse her for the psychotic Nicolas Cage character who was using that number in the movie. On a side note, if there’s one word that can be used to describe Nicolas Cage’s many portrayals, it would be ‘consternation’. He can consternate like nobody else. In fact, one might consider him to be the master of consternation. It wouldn’t surprise any of us to know that he has a black belt in it.

But even more peculiar about the hallowed cinematic phone numbers is that the prefixes must be stated succinctly as 555. Apparently we have to reserve 666 for other uses, and 444 might be needed for very important government business — you never know. Otherwise, in the movies anything else besides phone numbers that may resemble actual persons or events is purely coincidental, though it may be based on actual events, but just without resembling them. Thank you, lawyers, for getting your paws in the middle of a creative process to help formalize it. That’s like requiring painters to abstain from using Barbie pink because it’s eminent domain. Next thing you know, Billy Joel’s™ name will become trademarked. Accept no imitations. Only use the authentic Billy Joel™. When I stop and think of all the upstanding Billys, like Billy Ray Cyrus, Billy Bob Thornton, Billy Mays, Billy Martin, Billy Barty, Billy Idol, Billy the Kid, et al, I wonder why Mr. Joel™ would care to be associated with their ilk. There are lots of other names with much better ilk than that. Which makes the humanitarian work done by Billy Crystal and Billy Graham to uphold the integrity of the Billy name even more commendable.

So, what do we make of all of this, Grbzak? Should we just leave them to their own devices? When we really get down to it, I think you may be right — they may be crazy. But then again, it just may be a lunatic we’re looking for.

Ode to Inertia

2009-12-19T14:35:00.000-08:00

Thinking of something. Breaking the ice. Tolerating the air. Sifting through the data. Buttering some toast. Melting into the psyche. Spiking the punch bowl. Pondering the expanse. Taking it all in. Clutching at straws. Making the grade. Living on the inside. Seeing the light. Keeping it under wraps. Speaking in tongues. Waiting on a friend. Smiling up the frown. Thinking outside the box. Lapping it up. Matching the ideas. Dancing madly backwards. Writhing in pain. Fixing the pipes. Beating a dead horse. Standing on the edge. Ringing the bell. Walking in Memphis. Looking for space. Sticking my neck out. Counting blue cars. Talking to the wall. Lifting shadows off dreams. Falling for anything. Walking on the moon. Shaking the tree. Jumping the shark. Swimming against the tide. Running on a treadmill. Crawling in the dark. Waiting for the sun. Jockeying for position. Taking somebody with me. Romancing the stone. Living in the past. Keeping my cool. Watching the wheels. Killing the golden goose. Standing in the light. Hanging by a moment.

Pausing for effect.

Selling the drama. Lamenting the fall. Burning down the house. Working for the weekend. Rolling with the punches. Building a mystery. Hanging by a thread. Racing against time. Staring at the sun. Learning to fly. Leaving on a jet plane. Talking in my sleep. Losing my religion. Playing for keeps. Climbing up the walls. Dragging the line. Moving in stereo. Taking it for granted. Singing the blues. Holding back the years. Picking my poison. Watching paint dry. Calling the shots. Walking the dog. Living in another world. Paying my dues. Gardening at night. Coming up close. Looking over my shoulder. Writing to reach you. Crying over spilled milk. Waiting in the wings. Living for the city. Making plans for Nigel. Going for the one. Genuflecting with style. Waxing wildly nostalgic. Leaving for Rio. Surfing with the alien. Circling the wagons. Hunting high and low. Leaving well enough alone. Gallivanting around town. Standing outside the fire. Raising the bar. Venting my spleen. Watching the detectives. Being alone together. Twisting by the pool. Walking on sunshine. Thinking in reverse. Dancing in Berlin. Expecting to fly. Throwing it all away. Killing yourself to live. Begging for mercy. Pushing up daisies. Cutting my losses. Biting my tongue. Crying in the rain. Running up that hill. Dying to know. Borrowing a line. Grazing in the grass. Leveling the field. Heading for nowhere.

Taking a deep breath.

Coming around the mountain. Mixing it up. Evening the score. Lightening the load. Basking in the limelight. Circumventing the process. Licking my chops. Creating a nuisance. Unearthing the evidence. Getting into trouble. Excavating for a mine. Blaming the system. Choosing style over substance. Testing the hypothesis. Flirting with disaster. Ordering it to go. Chewing the fat. Flavoring with salt. Curbing my appetite. Appeasing the masses. Baking a cake. Living with the law. Caring for the poor. Running on empty. Casting a vote. Supporting my case. Finishing the job. Reacting with fear. Biding my time. Accentuating the positive. Staving off the wolves. Embarking on an odyssey. Maximizing my profits. Throwing in the towel. Wearing out my welcome. Relaxing the rules. Lurking in the shadows. Gritting my teeth. Setting the record straight. Egging them on. Understanding the effects. Allocating the goods. Wasting away in Margaritaville. Following my dreams. Needing a miracle. Working out the kinks. Shooting the messenger. Aiding and abetting. Engaging in dialogue. Slipping on ice. Jumping off a ledge. Trying to love two. Nixing the algorithm. Abandoning all rationale. Turning it upside down. Packing it all in. Faxing my resume’. Striking a chord. Battling the enemy. Arguing a point. Settling for less. Fighting for a cause. Breaking the habit.

Going for popcorn.

Estimating the outcome. Sticking to my guns. Counting the cost. Giving it all away. Sleeping with the enemy. Begging the question. Drowning in my sorrows. Furthering the effort. Needing my space. Swatting at flies. Exposing a flaw. Repeating past mistakes. Leading the witness. Nearing the end. Playing my hand. Bracing for impact. Forgetting the past. Building a portfolio. Harboring restless fugitives. Spending the night. Inciting a riot. Fostering good will. Preaching to the choir. Licking my wounds. Exacerbating the issue. Pounding the pavement. Going for broke. Shouting for joy. Grinning ear to ear. Smelling like roses. Floating on air. Renovating the attic. Granting a wish. Foaming at the mouth. Beating the odds. Thinking out loud. Entertaining the possibility. Bucking the system. Burning the midnight oil. Earning a living. Developing a reputation. Getting my way. Waking the neighbors. Marking my calendar. Burying the hatchet. Missing the point. Staying with it. Playing to win. Reaping the rewards. Enjoying the spoils. Mailing it in. Running in the family. Agreeing to disagree. Sparing the rod. Bursting at the seams. Gearing up for winter. Acting on instinct. Panning for gold. Forging a path. Serving my time. Building the perfect beast. Flying off the handle. Running into the ground. Grinding to a halt. Exorcising my demons. Softening the blow. Garnishing my wages. Saving my face. Wincing the night away. Sifting through the sands.

Stalling for time.

Keeping the faith. Expecting the worst. Clinging to hope. Betting the farm. Holding all the aces. Delivering the goods. Riding the wave. Minding the store. Taking out the garbage. Milking the clock. Sowing the seeds. Wondering what everyone knows. Facing the music. Getting a second wind. Turning the tables. Having a blast. Breaking the law. Reading between the lines. Sleeping like a baby. Hitting the mark. Sailing to paradise. Flying high again. Going down to Liverpool. Fixing the problem. Catching the butterfly. Working in a goldmine. Upping the ante. Living in a box. Praying for time. Running the gauntlet. Waiting for the rapture. Wishing you were here. Living on a thin line. Catching some rays. Barking at the moon. Raining cats and dogs. Getting over it. Counting my blessings. Sweeping under the rug. Looking for clues. Zeroing in on nothing. Reeling in the years. Comparing apples and oranges. Saving the world. Making a statement. Stumbling over terrain. Walking in your footsteps. Living in a fantasy. Coming full circle. Flying without wings. Hitting the ceiling. Crashing by design. Whispering your name. Crossing the Rubicon. Believing in myself. Calling all angels...

Heading To Or From Entropy

2009-12-06T23:06:00.000-08:00

We figure chaos comes into the equation somewhere, even if we can’t tell with precision whether we’re regressing away from it or progressing toward it. But I’d like to think that we’re in the perfect maelstrom for either scenario. What better portal for disorder than the humanistic element?

Insanitize is that process of gradually going bonkers. And if the term is not yet accepted by the linguistic community, it’s just a matter of time. Three million years from now, every possible combination of letters will probably be a word. At that point, playing Scrabble would be rather pointless. In fact, you would have no advantage over a small child wearing blindfolds. This could actually be the juncture where babies finally take over the world and exact their revenge on us after all this time. I think it would be poetic justice, after we’ve been pushing binkies on them and talking to them like they’re imbeciles. Just you wait in another three million years. Another bold prediction you can hold me to.

Shilo Inns trumpets that it offers “free amenities.” But, but… Hmm. OK, well, isn’t it all part of the package? You could call anything free if you wanted to. I suppose I got the steering wheel and rear seat free in my car, even though the overall cost was absorbed exponentially into the windshield wipers. I hate those $14,000 wipers. They’ll get you every time.

Within a 7-year period, all our cells have regenerated and been replaced, so we’re basically a different physical specimen than we were 7 years prior. And yet we still have pretty much all our same traits and features. Plus our memory goes back a lot farther than 7 years. What is it we’re hanging onto apart from our cells? Are cells just passing information on to other cells before moving on? If so, then what pray tell is “information”? Callin’ it your job, ole hoss, sure don’t make it right. As they say on a popular kids show, “A clue! A clue!”

A closet is a place to hide things you don’t want to see. It’s historically been a smaller room that you wouldn’t allow yourself to walk into. More recently, we’ve fudged a little and decided there was a need for us to enter these areas and share that space with our abandoned belongings in an effort to become one with them again. But they are still hidden from view for a reason. What’s in the closet stays in the closet.

Essentially, humans hibernate. But it’s just that we come out of it very quickly. In contrast, when a bear sleeps in, he makes the best of it. “Honey bear, I’m gonna set my alarm clock for February 24th. If I don’t wake to it, let me sleep about another three days.” “Sure thing, honey bunches. You need your beastly rest.” The nature shows never report this, but I’m betting it’s not too far off.

So then what does “all-new” mean? I don’t believe we need that term, because I’ve never come across anything that was only partially new. It’s kind of all-redundant to restate the all-obvious. TV episodes are advertised incessantly in the all-new tack. If they didn’t say that, I would’ve thought the next airing of Desperate Housewives was only 98% new, that the last minute was somehow a rerun which snuck in there by mistake. Knowing that an upcoming episode is going to be completely all-100%-new relieves me of that irksome anxiety. Thank you, media, for assuaging a frail public’s fears.

I’m not sure about this, but I don’t know if I’ve ever been crestfallen or not. It’s never been one of the choices on my mood rings either, so I get no help there. And yes, I’ve used all the toothpaste brands, but to no avail. I’ll bet if you surveyed a thousand people, the better portion of them wouldn’t know whether they’ve ever been crestfallen before or not. And that’s a shame.

The goal of merchants is clearly to obfuscate. I went to a Toyota dealership the other day, and the sticker on a Camry was posted “4 for $93,000.” I had to get out my calculator to see if that was a good deal or not. Turns out it would save me quite a bit, although later I discovered that a dealer across town had a “6 for $127,000” sale going on, but it was too late as I’d already gone for the first one. Live and learn, as they say. And just my luck they don’t take trade-ins, either… Consequently, our driveway is filled to the brim, another two cars are on the curb, and the last two we just keep in constant motion, rotating with the rest. We’ll have to change our strategy before these $7000 a month gas expenses start adding up. I guess that $400 rebate doesn’t sound all that enticing anymore.

This entire notion of getting us in the frame of mind to buy in bulk is a little different from something like, oh, tires. I saw a deal that advertised “Buy 3 tires and get one free.” How fortuitous! My car just so happens to use 4 tires, so this is the perfect deal for me. I feel like Navin Johnson who just got his name in the phone book.

The auto industry itself is slightly off center anyway. Auto parts stores have historically bordered on the pathological, and we’d be wise to keep a close eye on them for any telltale signs that society is on its final gasp. The people who work in these stores have just a little too much fun playing with their merchandise. They systematically line up cans and containers in their windows like they’re peacocks strutting their wares. One has to ask what they are trying to prove or accomplish. (I’d do it, but I have a bout of 24-minute laryngitis) We already know they sell motor oil there. That much has been clearly established. They don’t have to build a virtual fortress to the plastic container gods in order to get that point across. After the third container, I noticed the pattern quite nicely, thank you. That would have sufficed. The rest was just overkill.

It turns out that as kids these auto parts people were the ones who lined up their blocks all in a neat row. And curiously enough, this is the very thing that made them qualified to work at an auto parts store. I’m just shakin’ my head here at the serendipity.

Tire shops do the same thing by stacking their tires. I guess they want us to drive by and say to ourselves, “Wow, look at all those tires! I’m so impressed by this plethora of tires. They’ve probably got 94% of the world’s tires right there, and not only that, but they know how to stack them twelve high, not unlike building blocks. You know, it kind of makes me all nostalgic for my childhood. Marge, we have to go buy some of them and become a part of this tire village.” And why is it that I’ve never actually known a Marge, and yet there are thousands of depictions of such people? Pure deception, I tell you.

And then what does “powered by” mean? It has at least forty-two different meanings on the internet. And none of them involve actual power or energy, interestingly enough. Some are very loose definitions. They’ll say powered by when all it does is borrow some code from another system. And like magic, the site receives power. Our grandkids are going to be all confused with this barrage of power references, and will grow up thinking that electricity is found in everything. As a result, physics in the mid-21st century is going to go right down the tubes. The whole powered-by nonsense will be the primary contributing factor to the downfall of modern society. They won’t be able to trace it back to this concept until it’s way past the point of no return. But they will take note on the hieroglyphics in the cave walls that I foresaw it in my blog on this date, and I’ll win some posthumous Nobel Prize and they’ll make a donation to a literary foundation in my name, so I got that going for me.

If you’re like a lot of people, you probably get gifts on your birthday. But I get free gifts. Mine don’t cost me anything. I don’t even have to pay shipping. I know what you’re saying… Why is he so privileged? Well, it’s because when I was six years old, I got a get out of jail free card in Monopoly and I never used it. If you don’t use those, a Monopoly pixie visits you and exchanges it for a ‘free gift for life’ card. I’ve since learned not to exhaust my resources in Monopoly, by the way. You can get a lot of nifty perks by being frugal in that game. One time I didn’t use any of my 20s all game, and it was good for a three-night stay in Mazatlan. I can’t reveal much more because then my overall strategy for the game would be uncovered, and I’d never be able to defeat any of my kids again. Then it would spiral into losing my parental authority over them, and discipline would go out the door and down the street into the gutter with the rest of society’s pitiful woes.

When someone says they're dating themselves, I can’t decide whether they’re being narcissistic or not. Regardless, if you give indications of your age, why does that need to be softened with a disclaimer? Why apologize for a universal process? “I’m sorry that I’m this old, and I promise not to let it happen again.” You’re as old as you are. Everybody is. All it means is when you showed up for the party. There’s no shame in being at the party for a long time. We should be celebrating that, in fact. “Wow, you’ve been to 53 parties? That’s great!” And this is the extent to which old people get philosophical about it all, when they’re consigned to the reality of their own age. You see, young people don’t really need to get philosophical about it yet.

In any event, happy birthday to us all! We’ll all be back here again in 12 months, and I predict we’ll all add another year. I’m even willing to go out on a limb on this one, although there are lots of other limbs below that one, so it’s not as precarious as it sounds.

I’m afraid of anything in the fridge that I don’t recognize from before yesterday. Having seen fossilized items in there, I’ve become a tad apprehensive. It could be half food storage, half anthropological findings. My first clue that I would need to clean it out is that festering outgrowth of donut-sized mold spores cascading across the crisper. After that, it’s mostly speculation.

Four-color pens are strategically placed throughout the house. It’s a deliberate military deployment exercise to accomplish a specific objective. The rationale is that if I have a four-color pen stolen from me by one of the household approximately every 3.2 days* (*-according to independent tests conducted by House & Driver magazine), I can stay ahead of the curve by having at least 30 of the pens strewn throughout the house where they cannot all remain hidden for any length of time. I bring three of them to church sometimes, because kids like to draw with them, and while they are usually very good at returning them, it’s just that they seem to return them somewhere other than to me.

These have been my pen of choice for well over twenty-three years. Indeed, I consider them no less than the penultimate writing instrument, appreciating the ability to color-code what I’m writing, or even drawing. I like to morph writing and drawing. It worked for the hieroglyphs, and I’m no less demanding.

Ringtones are nature’s way of announcing to the world: “I have no concept of my surroundings and it’s all about me!” That, and neon leotards worn out in public. If each of us thinks about it long enough, it is all about the me — my me, your me, their me, everybody’s me. Admittedly, it has to start with me, although I still don’t see where ringtones helps matters at all. “Everybody, over here! Listen to my cheesy music and behold how I fumble to press two buttons in a feverish attempt to catch that important call that makes me important because an important person considers me important enough to call me and not you. I do this all the time, by the way. The call thing.”

In the NFL last season, only 6 extra points were missed — by all the teams combined. Out of 1,176 snaps. That’s the most efficient process in all of athletics. That’s 99.49%. Those are better odds than shooting a layup. Or even a dunk, for that matter. So then the question is: why even bother with the extra point? It would make more sense to dunk the ball over the crossbars after a touchdown. And let two defenders try to block it. None of this pooch the ball and watch it, oh!, do the same thing every single time. The only thing extra points are good for now is to mention one of the sponsors — who are often very proud to be so. The fact that they are proud to be doing what they’re doing brings much more credibility to their cause. If they were merely pensive sponsors, we wouldn’t be all that impressed.

If I could do something to effect a change on computers, it would be to have them use something other than 0’s and 1’s for the data. None of this primitive binary stuff. 10010111. It’s a little unsettling to me to think that’s all anything on the computer is. 010110101100010. If we’ve encrypted all meaning here, are we sure we’ve sufficiently decrypted it? How would we know? We just accept that however it comes out is the way it must’ve gone in. We sure act a lot on faith, don’t we? Those are the inscriptions leaving other advanced civilizations in a quandary. 1101000101001101100101110. So the challenge is here: you judge which way we’re going…

Lateral Unthinking

2009-11-13T22:39:00.000-08:00

We all think to some degree. We all cogito a little bit. Ergo, we are the sum total of our thoughts, albeit over different things. When one of us talks, it compels those in proximity to refocus on someone else’s thinking. We like when it aligns with ours. We can also be motivated when hearing differences of opinion, challenging our existing notions and stirring up the pot. Other times, we’re threatened by the counterpoint. Many are surprised there’s a variety of opinions and not more that fit their own template. This expectation is unrealistic considering the untamed human condition.

Our thoughts come from many places, though often we presume they just pop out of nowhere, having no connection to anything ensconced in our memory, as if we could have any type of command over the trillions of synapses launches. If you think you’ve got an original thought, there’s also a good chance you’ve already thought it before, but it just hadn’t developed enough to be recognizable, or you were too distracted before to pay it any attention. You can plagiarize yourself, maybe inadvertently or unintentionally, but it still comes back to plagiarism. And if you’re lucky, you’ll drop the charges. Or maybe you’re in just the right mood where you want to teach yourself a lesson. This is why autobiographies are so risky.

The more I learn, the greater realization I have that I know even less. It’s the grand paradox of acquiring knowledge. By pursuing it, it gets farther away. As knowledge expands, unknowledge expands even more. This would suggest that knowledge is not the key to discovery, but rather more of a necessary and persistent diversion. While having its merits, relying on knowledge for ultimate answers is putting eggs in a basket unequipped to handle the weightiness. Why or how would something in the material world tell us what we need to know about meaning? The clues are telling us that solutions down this particular path are ever more elusive. Yet we like to repeat the pattern in hopes that errors will somehow be self-correcting, which is like digging to try to get out of a hole. We can easily become intoxicated by the trivial nature of our perception of facts, as well as the fact that we perceive the abstract. Though self-evident for its own purposes, what passes for factual information perpetuates subjectively. Ever learning…

We compare the human race’s current brand of knowledge with that of the past and pat ourselves on the back for being born later than our predecessors. We ought to likewise compare our knowledge with that of the future to keep us from being arrogantly egocentric. The present doesn’t represent the pinnacle, even though all generations have convinced themselves to believe this. Every era thinks it’s the one that has finally arrived. We never learn, in the midst of learning.

In every non-fiction book I read, the author outlines a master plan for humanity, prescribing what we should do to make it take that big step upward to where we’re coexisting in utopian harmony and fulfillment. They are nice sentiments for those segments who read them and have the discipline to follow them, but are generally too lofty to enact on any grand scale within anyone’s lifetime. There aren’t enough readers for one book to give its innards proper impetus to impact society in the way the author wishes, and even if one-tenth of the industrivialized world found itself motivated in a similar direction, after the book is done everybody would start branching out and the focus would dissipate. The author would need to be able to guide the readers interactively, so something powerful would have to accompany the book. I wonder if this is what the Glenn Becks of the world are doing (is there more than one?). They can attract a considerable audience in spite of being cynical toward both major camps. One need not have matching political leanings to appreciate the social aspects of their crusades. Such stories could play out parallel to our culture’s tendencies, and then historians would agonize over which phenomenon precipitated which.

Parenthetically, what should we make of determinists who choose? While clinging to their claim, they curiously won’t relinquish complete control of their lives over to something or someone else. If you really thought that nothing you did was a choice, why hang onto it? There’s an in-practice reality for some, and then a hypothetical reality that they prefer spending the bulk of their time in. They come back to in-practice reality when it’s time to refuel or shop. Otherwise, they’re subterranean existentialists. You can’t trust their opinions because they can’t either.

As we approach the 23rd century (only 69,445 shopping days left), we find ourselves at another crossroads, just like we do every half generation and in leap years that end with an 8 as well as non-prime numbered years. We have to determine as a society if what benefits us is the path of least resistance or if we want to challenge ourselves to rise above our existence. But it’s not going to develop the way we would hope it would. For one, it’s problematic trying to generate a collective conscience. No one can rally the world by coercion. We’ll have to wait for most of the people to catch the vision in their own way and on their own time. We can facilitate it to some extent, but we probably give ourselves too much credit for globally affecting a moral pulse. Also, we don’t predict so well things that haven’t happened yet, and most of the future is that way.

Alas, Coke and Pepsi can’t even share the same vending machine due to overinflated self-interest. So then how do we ever expect to be a non-territorial society and find common ground? We’ll give an inch, but little more. The inch is barely an empty gesture to fool ourselves into thinking that we’re juiced up on philanthropy. If you go through the emotions enough, you start to convince yourself that they define you.

Have you ever stopped to analyze how a zipper works? Unless you’re a zipper engineer, chances are you haven’t. Something so rudimentary, yet so rarely explored. If we can’t wrap our minds around the simple, everything else is merely simplistic target shooting. Our imaginations are so charged that while we’re letting them go wild, we’re lending a measure of undeserved credence to them on the basis of their fascinating qualities. Just our luck aspects of truth would be found in unassuming corners away from all the glitz, that it would be anticlimactic. We’re wont to spice things with drama for fear that we’ll lose interest and wither into vestiges of ourselves, and therein lies our bias. We have a dog in the fight, and subconsciously we work toward letting that dog win. And yet willing something into being probably doesn’t help the situation — rather allowing it to take its course and find you seems only pragmatic.

As an optimistic skeptic, I have faith in humanity, but even if I didn’t it would behoove me to act as though I did. My optimism isn’t going to cause humankind to turn anything around, just like the universe isn’t waiting for me to discover its truths before it can proceed. People get all caught up in whether they believe in God or not — as if they carried the sway vote — but God’s existence has precious little to do with how well we perceive Him. It’s not like if you decide ‘no’ it’s going to change the nature of how things are. While there is merit to the process of testing beliefs, I think we overdramatize it. We want to find our identity to be in touch with it, and this is laudable. But don’t attach universal importance to your decision, because we’re all spectators as much as we are participants. What we think we have control over laughs in our face and spells control back to us in sixty-eight different languages.

Watching a sporting event, it’s compelling how we think that our mental energies can have an influence on what occurs in the game. We telepathically transport ourselves onto the field and try to will things to happen. The harder we concentrate on a desired outcome, the greater chance it will eventuate. Sounds silly even saying it. Such a thing is outside our realm of influence, even though we strangely get the sense that we guided something to happen. This is probably partly due to the illusion of prediction and the illusion of the law of averages. We sense that things will return back to the norm, and they usually do. And we sense that the faulty knowledge we have about the abilities of a team will be borne out, which they usually don’t. And we mistake our surroundings as catering to us. And we just generally have problems separating our allegiances from our rational thinking. Which all produces one glorious eventful happening in the sports arena, drawing us in and in again. (The female sector, having largely progressed past the need for this type of identity validation, has yet to pass this trait along to the remaining bohemians)

We’re pursuing this thing called knowledge, not knowing why we’re doing it other than it hurts not to. It’s just what people do, in between breathing. The knowledge itself doesn’t bring us the Holy Grail, but instead tides us over in the meantime. We have to know. Do gerbils have to know? We already know a boatload of practical things to enrich our lives, but it’s never good enough for us. With the more we’ve learned, the hungrier we’ve become to increase our learning. Those who at least aren’t lazy are furiously soaking in what’s available to them. We won’t reach a point as a civilization where we’ve discovered everything we want to and will just be happy enjoying the spoils of our accomplishments. That would make us unhuman and put us on a developmental treadmill.

I guess I’m smart enough to know that I’m not that smart. And finding a place in that awareness, I recognize something that reaches beyond knowledge.

There’s something in us that makes the better part of us want to continually strive to answer and uncover whatever’s out there (or in there), and we always need to know more tomorrow than whatever we know today. I doubt we can understand to any significance why we do this. We just take it for granted that that’s the way things are. But if we were honest, we’d say it’s something both powerful and that we can’t see. And that’s always worth pursuing more.

The Trilogy of Me

2009-11-01T21:47:00.000-08:00

My life is an open book. Except pages 473 and 474, which got ripped out somehow. They were lost on the train ride to Nantucket, and may never be recovered. I’ve been looking to see if they’re being pawned on the black market. Not having them there messes up the general flow, with some key information about espionage and reconnaissance getting missed. By page 482, you’re scratching your head, having no idea how each piece of furniture fits into the equation. It's really confusing not knowing what their nicknames are too. Sure, I could rewrite that section, but at what price? It wouldn’t be the original. The mind is funny that way. Trying to reconstruct becomes a contrivance, turning the process into a synthetic gesture, which is something nobody wants and will thank me for avoiding later.

And then chapters 6 through 8 have been listed confidential pending legal action, which was a big fiasco. I could tell you why, of course, except for the fact that it would violate the alleged phantom court order I need to abide by, and then I might sue somebody for breach of author-publisher privilege. So I can’t even tell you why I can’t tell you. (I could nod a little if coaxed enough) Ostensibly, international treaties are dependent on the outcome, so I tend to be partial to them if only for sentimental reasons. I gave my heart to the Russian mafia, and eventually I’d like to have it back. In chapter 9, I make a good case for that factor, so it will make more sense.

Furthermore, my character development overall is admittedly quite sketchy. The protagonist sadly isn’t all that believable, nor very easy to empathize with. By the second chapter, you’ll be rooting for the antagonist to be triumphant. In chapter 4, I take a nap and keep the dialog rolling. I don’t even let you know what I’m dreaming, it’s more like “Breathing in, pause, breathing out... lather, rinse, repeat...” That goes on for 28 pages, as a literary device to lull the reader into a sense of utter stunned bewilderment, which then sets up chapter 7 quite nicely. But I guess you’ll have to wait till later before that one is released to the public.

And then I originally left out important details in scattered critical chapters, which will require rewriting at some point. I forgot to say in a strange twist of serendipity my favorite milk curiously went from 2% to 1%, and then back to 2% again without any apparent cause. I can be unpredictable that way. Consequently, you never know what the hero in the story is going to do. It may alienate some reading faithful, while causing yet others to question why they even bothered getting up that day.

I likewise didn’t mention that at age 26 I spent three days in the Himalayas, where I gained enlightenment and ran up a $4000 debt on my MasterCard. I still think it was worth it, even at 16.9% interest. I probably didn’t mention it because it was blocked out of my mind due to the resulting confrontation on my return trip that I had with a beekeeper in Botswana, and I don’t even remember being in Botswana. Some of these pieces may tend to confuse the reader, but the hope is that they’ll hang on for the ride.

Starting on page 217, I ponder over whether penguins ever lie down or if they’re like Weebles. I bring in a panel of world-renowned experts to pontificate. It turns out to be the core theme of the first book, recurring in several places. I won’t give it away, but I’ll just say you’ll like how it all comes together, and things are not as they seem (wink, wink).

With page 382, I start into a series of philosophical meanderings, such as how any city could really have a population when people are being born and dying all the time, and people moving out and others moving in, and then many of those who live there are gone and many of those who live elsewhere are visiting there. It’s all arbitrary, which then leads right into a discussion of why it’s not safe to estimate anything which could potentially be above the number 4, and how this lends us answers about the nature of the cosmos. This is going to be groundbreaking, at least somewhere.

Right now I’m on page 644, which is probably a good time to bring in the mysterious swami who specializes in the art of lip-syncing to Richard Nixon’s speeches. He comes in very handy when my caravan runs into a troupe in the middle of the Mojave Desert which still thinks it’s the ‘70s. This is where the story really takes off, and works as a great segue to get the reader excited about the second installment.

Otherwise, my life is certainly an open book. I don’t see what the big deal is anyway. Even a closed book isn’t that hard to read. You just pick it up and turn the page. It’s not like books are locked. And they all use the same letters. The only difference is how they’re rearranged. If you can scramble letters good, you can write. I give this secret away in the epilogue. Well, I guess it’s not a secret anymore... but you should be able to still read the book without losing too much of your life in the process. There's your ringing endorsement, boy.

Refuge For the Masses

2009-10-21T10:30:00.001-07:00

A day just like any other day. Except any other day didn’t exist on this planet, in this time warp, on my watch, in retrospect, with bi-focals, as a fossilized public service announcement. Aside from all that, this day was precariously stuck in now, and it was the only one I had.

In my later years, I would marvel at how poignant life was, even when it wasn’t trying to be. Myself unshackled by obligation or direction, each day opened up inordinate possibilities. By the natural order of things, I meandered down to the park to take in the solemnity.

I’ve found that at the park, some come to observe while others come to be the observed. And I suppose we fall at least a little into both categories. It wouldn’t be as fulfilling if we were each only there on our own. Even if no one notices us, the potential is always there. Say if a person happened to break out into something magnificent without warning, he’d have ample witnesses. This can be a great comfort. To be a cog in such a well-oiled — albeit random — machine is invigorating.

The weather, it didn’t matter on this day. Nobody was affected by it, and fewer noticed. The climate was no more than a hazy afterthought. Sometimes things with the capacity of being the most appreciated are the things most overlooked. Their significance is then only realized in their absence. Nothing about the wind was giving any hints. There didn’t have to be clouds if there were, because not a soul cared. I would’ve looked up if I had needed to, but the park was filled with its own atmosphere.

Yes, it’s the scenery, and it’s the scenery within the scenery.

Parks might as well be outdoor libraries. The messages found in sparse crowds as this are silently conveyed. So much is being said in the face of so little being audible. We invite the birds to help ease the awkward hush — being unaccustomed ourselves — and to help us forget that the predominance of definition of the moment is occurring separately within each of our own minds. There are a hundred different stories playing out simultaneously in a hundred different theaters. That I may have cameos in some only makes me feel wanted.

Silence also brings with it an aura of slow motion. Noise speeds things up, and the quiet brings it all back to being suspended in time. Perhaps if we could peer beneath silence, we could go backward in time. Our best chance may be at a park.

A curiosity about observing the park faithful: they all appear to have separate yet important agendas. Even the ones who don’t know what they’re doing seem to be doing it with purpose. In those cases, generally a good idea to bring a dog along, because the dog will gladly plot out your purpose for you. I surmise that people led by dogs are otherwise not self-assured enough to forge a purpose on their own. A dog, whether leashed or not, is an extension of ourselves, representing our ambition in greater energy and pace. It’s not so much that we walk the dogs, but more the other way around. Besides, who’s out in front?

Some in attendance attach wheels to their feet apparently to allow them to progress more steadily along their path, yet it’s often these people who retrace their path instead of lengthening it. As a result, they don’t get anywhere, but they do get there more quickly. Also a wonder is how the wardrobe choices of many park-goers seem to depend on two things: If it’s not an ice age, they’ll wear shorts and sandals. In the event of an ice age, they’ll reluctantly forego the sandals.

Parks can hold a menagerie of before-and-after pictures, with wannabes and already beens. The park discriminates against no one. The thing is, I usually enjoy watching the befores more. They seem to still have a hold on their passion. Maybe some of that preference is pity, maybe some of it’s relating. People trying to get in shape, others trying to stay in shape, others trying to show off their shape. People out for a picnic, or a stroll, or to become one with the ecosystem.

All in all, parks provide a wonderful humanitarium with no admission. You sit in one place, and they all come to you. Parades do happen every day if looking in the right places.

Some lounge on the grass to read or just collect in the sun. Funny how small blades of grass can not only accommodate this phenomenon, but invite it as well. We are drawn to large patches of grass as if it were magnetic. Sand can have similar effects for the loungers, yet it must be accompanied by a considerable amount of adjacent water to offset the connotations of dryness and heat. Grass, meanwhile, is self-contained. It acts as its own blanket, as it provides padding and is not hot to the touch. As a consequence, grass parks are much more popular than rock parks, cement parks, or those of other non-porous substances. Despite squeezing it out, urbania will never be able to replace the grassy oasis with anything more worthy of its expanse.

I presume I’m not the only one present mesmerized by the spectacle of humans in their recreative state, even though at first blush everyone looks to be caught up in their own space. If I looked around ever so unobtrusively, I may be able to see whose observation realm includes me. This is where subtlety works best, for if two people looking through binoculars were to happen to spot one another in unison, it would tend to spoil the moment. The lens you look through can’t be in the picture and retain any objectivity, let alone anonymity. So the best way to enjoy the park experience has to be as an undercover spy.

As I bask in the serenity of my surroundings, I find myself rejuvenated. The simple, uneventful drama of a park fills the lungs with a uniquely passive kinetic air. Watch them unceremoniously recycle as they arrive, take it all in, and then fade away. No announcement, no formality, no structure. People don’t check into a park, nor do they need to arrive on the hour or half hour. These are the ones who came at their leisure, partook, and once sated, floated off to be siphoned back into civilization.

As they say, life surely isn’t a walk in the park… but a walk in the park is.

Taking Sides

2009-10-06T22:39:00.000-07:00

In a contest between a lion and a gazelle, I root for the gazelle. The gazelle looks so good running that it would be a shame to waste all that gracefulness by turning it into lunch. Likewise, in the match between lion and zebra, I root for the maligned zebra. It’s not that I don’t like lions per se, but in this case they aren’t picking on someone their own strength or speed. And further on to lion vs. wildebeest, I side with the wildebeest because the wildebeest has the disadvantage of no claws and an older transmission. Again, the lions aren’t playing fair.

In spider vs. fly, I go with the spider. After building such an elaborate web, they ought to get something out of the deal. See, maybe if lions set traps like that, I could respect them more. But lions just laze around most of the time yawning and stretching. They’re the overpaid professional athletes among the beasts. I suspect they got their vaunted king of the jungle status through purely tyrannical methods, not due to any public veneration.

In cat vs. mouse, I go with the cat, because domesticated cats are one of our few natural allies in the animal world, even if they could be spies, which is for another discussion. What’s apparent is they treat us passively, and they have yet to have their day in court. Add to that the fact that mice are simply up to no good, the cat is doing us a nice favor by eliminating them.

In cat vs. bird, I generally go with the bird, because birds are good singers. For the ones who can’t carry a tune, like a crow, the cat can have at them. I’m sorry, but going “caw-caw-caw!” isn’t singing. You probably weren’t aware that birds had their own version of rappers, but check them for chain necklaces next time.

In bear vs. salmon, I go with the bear, because I admire its tenacity in this situation, and salmon aren’t necessarily that easy to catch. On the salmon’s part, jumping out of the water is frankly just being cocky and setting yourself up for disaster. It’s hard to feel sorry for a species that doesn’t stay within its own natural habitat, that being, uh… what is it again? Oh yeah… water! Note to salmon: You were born to swim. Yes, your Shamu impression, while quite laudable, is highly inadvisable out in the wild. When your paying audience is the bear family, take a tip and stay in the pool.

Cougar vs. rabbit — in the snow, no less. You’ve seen it thirty-seven times during childhood in educational videos from thirty-seven different angles. As public sensitivity waned, eventually we were subjected to seeing a fate considerably less subtle than the distant Bambi gunfire, which allowed us the final perspective from the one being pursued. Yes, the cougar is starving, and it is extremely cold out. Although isn’t that the same reason that the rabbit should eat the cougar? I go with the rabbit here in an upset.

In cobra vs. mongoose, you’ve got to admire anything that’s crazy enough to take on a cobra. The cobra is trying to invoke fear in everyone by deforming its features and painting eyes on its head. So derivative, you cobras. Clear preference for the mongoose.

In wolves vs. anything else, I’d go with anything else. Wolves are dastardly scoundrels, they gang up on things, and then run away if confronted by an equal opponent. And notice how their heads hang down like they think they’re low riders. Give them points for effort, but the choreography is all off. If they were on The Forest’s Got Talent, they’d be summarily booed off the stage.

In hyenas vs. anything, it’s the same deal as with wolves. I’d always vote against hyenas, the quintessential wimps. They couldn’t be uglier if you painted them ugly. In the unlikely event of hyenas facing wolves, I’d want both sides to die from a heart attack. Neither side could rightly win such a confrontation. But at least I would let lions gladly beat either one of them, if only by default.

In cheetah vs. anything else, I’d have to go with the cheetah. They’re not arrogant like lions or tigers (or bears, oh my!). And cheetahs put on a good show for your money. Those 65-mph bursts make for great theater. The only exception where I would not be rooting for a cheetah would be against a starfish. Starfish are my friends. They have nuance to spare, and they’re never in a hurry. Starfish don’t look like they’re moving, yet in high-speed film, they chase after their unsuspecting prey quite methodically, and then otherwise keep to themselves and just hang out. And they’re very decorative. How many animals can say that? So what’s not to like?

Now if lions could go from zero to 65 in 4.8 seconds like the cheetah, then we could talk. But you don’t build up your racing skills lounging around in the brush like a hedonist. I’m thinking lions received their name precisely because they’re always lyin’ around. I mean, if the moniker fits, use it.

In horse vs. penguin, I gotta side with the horse here. The penguin is way out of its element trying to confront the equine family. On the flipside, several penguins postured at the track in racing regalia for the Kentucky Derby would be a sight well worth the price of admission. Yes, horses are gallant, while penguins are pleasantly wonky. Still, that’s not enough. Penguins for the loss…

In ants vs. grasshopper, I’d have to go with the ants. It’s not as if it’s a hundred hyenas picking on a humpback whale or something. Besides, hyenas would never have the requisite chutzpah to even imagine doing that. Ants, however, aren’t intimidated by a bug fifty times their own size. They back up their talk with results and build hills wherever they darn well please.

In elephant vs. scorpion, I think I’d be taking — oops… um, never mind. What’s the next one? Clean-up on aisle four…

In oyster vs. clam, I like the oyster. But then depending on the day, I might be inclined to go with the clam, it all depends. I could easily be talked out of my opinion. This one’s always befuddled me.

In planarian vs. paramecium, I’d definitely be rooting for the planarian, no hesitation. Even though underappreciated among the many micro-organisms, the planaria’s fortitude isn’t lost on me. Planaria are very flexible, reproducing by cutting themselves in two. They can do family planning on a daily basis. But, oh, talk about the headaches in re-zoning their political voting districts…

And here’s another thing… When they say the lamb will lie down with the lion, that’s because that’s what the lion is usually doing on any given afternoon. They don’t say the mountain goat will soar to new heights with the lion, because the lion’s too busy flossing with a blade of grass to be ascending anything higher than a bluff.

In Sumo wrestler vs. gorilla, I’d be pulling for the Sumo wrestler. It takes a great deal of courage to wear a diaper into the ring, and even more self-discipline to do it with a straight face. And while the gorilla is perfectly suited for the three-point stance, that’s not enough to sway me in the other direction.

In chinchilla vs. marmot, my sentiments would tend to lean toward the marmot. Chinchillas move around too fast and give me the willies anyway. If they did it with some form of panache, that would be another thing, but they act like they’ve popped one too many pep pills, and it makes me nervous. I couldn’t in good conscience root for something that makes me nervous.

Starfish vs. snail, for the ultimate duel. Land ho, ye mighty starfish! Chase down thy honorable foe and bring back yer righteous bounty… All hail the inimitable starfish, the pinnacle of all creatures above and below the earth, great and small. I have no compunction in rooting against the snail here. All I know is their S-car better go, or they’re gonna be the main course.

And finally, in shark vs. porcupine… imagine if you will, a dimension of sight and sound… where after all is said and done, we can chow down on shishkabobbed shark meat.

Compared to What?

2009-09-24T22:46:00.001-07:00

The desire to improve is a nagging double-edged sword. It’s good to be always striving and growing, yet at the same time there’s an accompanying human tendency to keep wanting more and never feeling fulfilled. Whatever we have, we want just a little more, often represented by what someone else has. We’re constantly on the lookout for what we’re missing and where our surroundings are surpassing us. Oh, this human is in a curious predicament, for he should be content with what he has but not with what he is. And many times distinguishing the two is like a blind cola taste test where we keep going back and forth before we finally just guess. Such can be our dilemma.

What if somebody has more than you or is currently happier than you? What does that matter? How does that affect you? As long as you have the same fundamental opportunities and freedoms as them, if they happen to be in a situation where they’re enjoying things more, how does that negatively impact you? Why should happiness be on a scale, where if we see something higher than ourselves, then our situation is somehow not good enough? Isn’t that idealistic? Do we always have to have the best? What about second or third best? Are those failures?

When you think about it, what does it matter how happy someone else is? Do other people have to be less happy than you in order for you to be happy? How does their happiness make you any less happy? The only thing along those lines that should make us unhappy is if we don’t reach our own potential, not whether we measure up to what someone else is.

Life can’t be zero-sum. When one person rises, it doesn’t lower someone else. Win-loss is the best model we could come up with through simulation. Win-win, however, is reality.

We earthlings seem to be competitive by nature. We try to defeat someone else in a game. We try to do better than whatever it was that they did. And what does it prove? Certainly, accomplishment is worthy in of itself, as long as we don’t take away from it that it makes us superior.

If our team is better than their team, then what’s the conclusion? Maybe we were both bad. Maybe we were both good. Maybe we won but we were the recipient of a considerable amount of luck. That’s not to detract from the team effort working toward a victory, but it underscores that winning doesn’t elevate you above someone else.

Think of the implications of the whole idea of status symbol. It proclaims that my status can beat up your status. An unnamed SNL alum used to mock the media elite in his newscasts with “I’m Chevy Chase, and you’re not.” There is often wisdom in the underlying messages of comedy, which can reveal elements of life in surprising ways. Here, the astute Chase displayed how people can get caught up in themselves, and even have the gall to take credit for it!

What’s missing is the minor detail of context. Since most anything in our experience is relative, using the average as a standard doesn’t really tell you any more than how many people you’re better than. Maybe the 95th percentile for you is falling short. (By the way, there is no percentile that we have any direct access to)

YARDSTICKS SCHMARDSTICKS
How much does height matter, really? It’s all relative. I heard it said that if it weren’t for short people, tall people wouldn’t know they were tall anyway. Which is true, in a strange sort of way. What if the human species were the size of Barbies, and some of us were 11 inches tall while some of us were 14 inches tall? 14 inches doesn’t seem all that tall to us, but it would then, even though it wouldn’t be. And compared to a giraffe, a 6-foot person is in the same class as a 5-foot person. You’ll notice that people who are 6 feet tall like to mention their height, and people who are “just” 5-11 don’t bring up the subject much. All over one lousy inch!

If your neighbor makes $30,000 more than you, does that make your earnings insufficient? There’s something to be said about being a big fish in a little pond. If you lived in the slums and were the only household in the neighborhood, would you feel richer? The fact that people are so conscientious about how much money they make is a little disconcerting. I make $45,000 a year, which is probably quite a bit less than people my age (47), another area that we don’t like to mention. Are older people less worthy than younger people? Does advancing age make us inferior? The rhetorical nature of many of these questions suggests that they should be no-brainers (wink-wink, nudge-nudge). You’re better off when you realize that social stigmas aren’t worth the computer screens they’re printed on.

The size of the pond you’re in doesn’t define you as much as it defines the pond. A change in environment may make you look good, but appearances depend upon contextual factors to support them. Measuring ourselves by other people is a somewhat lazy way to be analyzing our progress, not to mention unreliable.

There seems to be a psychological urge to want to do better than others so that we have a supposed advantage. Over what though? We seem to believe that if misfortune befalls someone else, then there’s less of it to go around and affect me. The law of averages is therefore on our side, so we think.

Overall, we aren’t made more impressive by trying to make others look bad, though it may be perceived that way in the short-term or by the unsuspecting. We’re actually made better by lifting others up with us. I would hazard a guess that a God wouldn’t be grading on a curve. However many people it is that fail, it still doesn’t make you come out better in the wider scope. We should do more than to just play to not lose.

The message learned is that while I should be grateful for what I have, I shouldn’t be grateful simply due to having more than others. What they have or don’t have ought to have no bearing on how grateful I am.

If the U.S. is 17th in the world in academic success, how bad or good is that? How good is the rest of the world? What do we have to compare it to? Neptune? Or our subjective expectations? You can’t really judge success simply by weighing two apples. Quantitative measurements need a frame of reference, and what authoritative gravity exists in the moral spectrum? While you can get a sense of how you stack up in relation to something else, it doesn’t speak to quality. It’s an indicator and little else. Taking a lot of stock in it is flattering ourselves.

We want to keep up with those elusive Joneses, except that they don’t exist. We create an ideal and then can’t be satisfied with what’s real. There’s no one we need to keep up with. The illusion of a race is the biggest sales pitch of all.

Thoreau adroitly remarked, “Every generation laughs at the old fashions, but follows religiously the new.” Ouch, on several counts. He’s got us pegged from 150 years ago. We were doing that way back then too? That makes us a little predictable. Which then suggests that we’re more creatures of habit than we realize.

Thoreau’s insight conveys various importances: We’re swayed by trends, and our perspective changes as phenomena move along the timeline. We can have an irrational bias for what’s immediate to our experience. We can easily envy whatever’s paraded in front of us. And our vanities can have too much say.

EXTERNAL GAZING
We think to improve ourselves outwardly when it’s the inner man that deserves the main focus. Looks are nice, but how could they ever define who we are? Our outward appearance can only accentuate what’s under the hood, not substitute for it.

The problem with appearances is that they can be deceiving, plus we typically don’t have the wherewithal to verify them. So making cross-judgments between ourselves and others based on what is apparent is a futile game of false readings. Besides, what’s the point in trying to see who’s got the better character anyway? Do you think J.D. Power & Associates is keeping track? Just work on yourself, help those around you, and save the world in another life.

We know within ourselves how hard we’re trying. Sometimes people don’t think we’re trying enough when we really are. You could play to the audience and spend your life attempting to appease them and put on a good show, but there are too many song requests to ever uphold that one. Within your inner circle, those people you love most will tend to be the most understanding, and you won’t have to worry about satisfying the critics.

It can be good to partially compare yourself to someone you aspire to become more like. But it should work to motivate us instead of get us discouraged. And while we can learn from others’ mistakes, we shouldn’t take those as opportunities to build our own self up by comparison.

I can still judge bad behavior. It’s just that I don’t need to place emphasis on personifying it so much. And my conclusion should be that I don’t want to repeat what bad behavior I see, instead of taking away from it that so-and-so is a good-for-nothing ne’er-do-well.

If you have to compare yourself to somebody, compare to what you were yesterday. If yesterday is better, then work on that. If today is better, then build on that. Don’t worry about becoming ten degrees better each day, just incrementally better than what you just were, and keep going. So simple to say and yet not so simple to master. I think a lot of it comes down to the attitude we take toward it, and that’s certainly under our control. If we’re of the frame of mind that we can do a little at a time and hang in there, not give up, persevere, and you know the rest, then we’re already on our way.

Does this mean we shouldn’t compare people with other people? What a great future topic... And preliminarily, I’m inclined to say that we each are compelled to live with our own selves, having no other option there, but we do have options in who else we associate with and on what level, so the logistics seem to dictate the conditions for us.

Ultimately, it should be very comforting to know that we don’t need to compare ourselves to others. That should take a lot of the pressure off and let us just be our best selves. Even if the grass is greener on the other side… so what? Use it as motivation to make your yard better if it needs to be improved. But don’t dwell on what you might be missing across the fence.

The whole moral of the story seems to be “chill out,” “go with the flow,” “take it easy,” “don’t worry, be happy,” “be in your own shell,” and “enjoy the ride”… There’s no need to covet, for if you were that other person, you might very well be coveting you.

An Open Letter to a Higher Power

2009-08-27T21:56:00.000-07:00

To whom it may concern:

Adoring life, it’s fitting to remind oneself that it’s all worth it. As I peruse this big bad beautiful world from my lowly perch, I’m compelled to hand out a heavy dose of grazie. It’s hard to rate life, because it is what it is, yet at the same time it’s more than we have any right to expect.

Thank you for the richness of aesthetics, much of which we take for granted. A simple delicate cloud wisp in the sky, that remarkable canvas that’s painted over daily. Simple, yet divinely awe-inspiring.

Thank you for the world of art, where we explore the outer reaches of our selves and discover more than we presumed.

Thank you for colors themselves. For green in particular, and how comforting it feels to look at lush grass and thick bunches of trees. For the fiery orange horizon at sunset. For dense, shiny brown hair that glistens. For the elegant skin which houses our being, for white on black in the starry night, for light blue frilly dresses. For a gallant purple tint which is somewhat of an afterthought, but pleases in its own way.

Thank you for a wide array of spectacular, blossoming flowers, which would have no earthly business being in a purely naturalistic existence for anyone to enjoy in such a manner.

Grateful for all the times you subtly intervene, and for all the times you don’t. For letting us stumble and meeting pain face to face, and realizing that it’s not permanent. For falling down and being lifted up again. For crying out of agony, and then crying for utter joy. For smiles that brighten all existence and permeate our memories when all else is stripped away.

Thank you for putting me in circumstances you did. Someone knew what was needed better than I, and it couldn’t have been picked out better myself. In fact, I sadly would have missed a lot of unsuspecting pathways. I’ve learned incessantly to defer in these matters. Second-guessing universal authorities is so unbecoming of us, after all.

I’m thankful for doubt and confusion during mortality, to incite me to work harder to find answers, and to also realize that many things aren’t meant to be understood as it’s going on. You better believe that I do, however, want someday to be right on the front row when this is all explained though. And I’m buying that ticket right now.

Thanks for the imperfections, letting us know that life can still be great despite bumps along the way, that a painting can have flaws and still be immaculate. For measuring by effort and desire, instead of by abilities and outcomes.

Thank you for such penetrating music, that winds its way into our very core and speaks to that inner being in its own melodic fashion. Life is a long song, and let’s all join in. Thank you for poetic verse and the people who know how to create it most eloquently. They decorate the language and enrich our communication. Thank you for putting the likes of Shakespeare in a place for him to emerge as he did, and make literature all the better.

Thank you for precious babies, who bring heaven with them down to earth, and emanate this aura so we can’t help but be mesmerized by its effects. Thank you for innocent little children, whose wonder is contagious. For their boundless drive, their striving to learn, their unqualified genuineness, their patently cute faces, their soft cheeks, and for how they look when napping.

Thank you for smells, which bring such pleasing sensations into our minds, developing a mood or triggering our memories in vivid detail.

Thank you for our ability to reason, to analyze, to use intuition, to make judgments, to have preferences and tastes. To be able to process mathematically, logically, intellectually, instinctively, emotionally and spiritually.

Thank you for the vast array of foods, and all the ways they can be prepared. For bacon, no doubt. For succulently ripened summer peaches drenched voluptuously in milk and sugar, just begging to be consumed. For wondrous melted cheese on any respectable entrée. And to the entire delightful realm of cheesedom. For jerky. For smoked salmon. For homemade bread and luscious butter. Ahhhhh! For grilled chicken that sings to our palates. For cashews. For blackberries picked fresh off the bush. For cinnamon rolls. For glorious unnamed spices that make our taste buds dance the marimba. And for chocolate… Mm-mmm. Chocolate, that is the clincher. You really outdid yourself there. Additionally, someone wise once said that ice cream was your apology for cold, and if that’s true, apology accepted.

Thank you for that blissfully refreshing respite known as sleep, at night or as cozy, heavy-breathing napfests. To escape for a time into dreamland and let go, floating in slow motion at the end of a suspended rope where no care can go or wish to subsist, all the while making perfect, lovely sense.

Thank you for sight itself, for which many other things would not be possible. To look even upon a pile of garbage is actually a wonderful thing in its own right.

Thank you for the touch of a hand to heal, the irreplaceable nonverbal tactile assurance that helps you know that everything is going be fine. A stroke on the cheek. A pat on the back. A head on the shoulder.

Thank you for comforting voices, for soft whispers, for soothing laughs. For lilts in speech, for accents, for manners of elocution, for the signature sound left by each individual. For idiosyncrasies, for unique attributes, for personalities.

Thank you for opposites. For coldness so we can appreciate the warmth. For heat so we can appreciate the coolness. For darkness so we can appreciate the light. For anger so we can appreciate the kindness. For sharks so we can appreciate the dolphin, for pigs so we can appreciate the gazelle. For chaos so we can appreciate the calm. For fear so we can appreciate security. For illness so we can appreciate health. For loneliness so we can appreciate companionship. For exhaustion so we can appreciation rest. And for the rascals so we can appreciate the genuine articles.

Thank you for giving me arms and legs to ambulate and let me interact with the world. For being able to move and feel motion, to sense progression and arrival to a goal.

Thank you for the grace of a horse running in a field, for migrating ducks speckled across the vast atmosphere, for the splendor of a sandy beachfront setting with cascading waves kissing the shore, for waterfalls, for sparkling, stunning, scintillating rainbows, for varied gems and precious metals, for water, for air, for breath.

Thank you for the excitement of surprises. For the variety in life. For life’s seasonal miracles… the solemnity of a fall morning, a gentle summer breeze in the shade, or snowflakes silently making their descent to the whitened ground below.

Thank you for giving us each an intricate mind, with the curious potential to ponder past its limits, with the ability to simultaneously consider the cosmos as well as the atomic scale, and then the deep philosophies regarding the very essence of being.

For the mystery of time, of gravity, and of the DNA imprint. For the thousands of ways to have a hobby. For endorphins in copious quantities. For inside jokes and their accompanying smirks. For three-year-olds falling asleep in your arms.

Thank you for the pitter-patter of rain, the most blissful and cleansing of all weather, as a rainy day is that occasion when the soul can expand to join with the sky. To be drenched in the profound ecstasy of wet.

Thank you for the pastoral nature of baseball, the grace of its movements, its majestic parks, for the sound of wood on horsehide, for mammoth drives into the nether regions. For having a catch.

Thank you for chess, which managed to avoid the extraneous human machinations and remain pure.

Thank you for the wonderful aspect of funniness, which can tickle us into submission and help us internalize that in life, though ultimately serious, can be garnered plentiful instances of mirth to temper any festering doldrums through using that glorious sixth sense of humor.

For wiggle room, gray areas, uncertainty, ambiguity, limbo, fogginess, margins, and cushions.

For challenges, for tests of will, for struggles, for hard work, for lofty aims to shoot for. For energy, for inspiration, for motivation, for comfort, for peace.

Thank you for putting me in this time, this place, and amongst all these flawed individuals with whom I fit in so perfectly. Our stewardships are curious things as they all intertwine. Thank you for those you can trust and depend on as if they were your own self. These are without price and defy description, truly encompassing all that is.

Thank you for the strong bonds of family, who bring us greater identity, who can be there when all else is lost, and who can transcend distractions of the world and the bands of death.

Thank you lastly for love, a manifestation of the infinite worth of souls and of the incomprehensible glory of life which you have made and have chosen to share with us.

Miracles? What miracles? This is all commonplace, right? I digress, and look up for direction.

I spell out the words upon each movement. My life — it’s my thanks, and every breath I live it is to further express it.

Don't Knock it Till You've Rung the Bell

2009-08-12T13:56:00.001-07:00

(Disclaimer: I'm not responsible for the content of this blog post. Some guy in New Jersey has graciously taken it upon himself to assume all liabilities and serve prison time for me. In exchange, I housesit his cat every other weekend.)

Digging deep into the recesses of sociological intrigue, a strong argument is made that etiquette is no more than common sense that sometimes gets out of hand. After cutting the cord, we find that we can figure out etiquette on our own. Plus, it's generally advisable not to trust any systems which end in -ette anyway. Wiser people learned that nugget a handful of centuries ago. -ette, coming from the latin root of "to adorn; fabricate," spells trouble for most any word it accentuates.

That is all to say in a most roundabout way that prescribed handbooks written by people named Manners won't add insight to inquiries such as this, and might even bring with them a level bias tinged with excessive sophistication, rendering the effects too great to be meaningful. So, like a good feline knows, it's just better to start from scratch and use the noggin you were entrusted with.

What has piqued my curiosity in this case is the optimal number of knocks at someone's doorstep. Dylan penned his own personal take, and gave it the knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door, although that may have simply been out of convenience for meter and verse. He was known to be a stickler about that too. Some people, what are you going to do with them?

The scholar will take note that Dylan also asked the perennial question of how many times, and like any good poet, he concluded that the answer was blowin' in the wind, so we'll have to look a little harder to uncover something more concise.

At the outset, it's apropos to mention that if you're one of those select people who bangs loudly on a door seven or eight times, you've really got to seek help. You're not the brute squad. It's not necessary to cave in my walls to get me to come to the door. Memo: We hear you. The people down the street hear you. Saskatchewan hears you. Not to mention you woke up all my termites. Ease up a little, eh?

The purpose of the knock is to alert the inhabitants of a home that someone is at the door and wishes to come in. It is not, however, to scare the inhabitants clean out of their scivvies. Highly audible and rapid knocks are rather intimidating to dwellers who otherwise feel safe within the confines of their home. When you go and play the bongos with their front door, you're encroaching on their space, and so any intrusion should be done more respectfully and discreetly.

Naturally, soft taps will not get the job done. And one or two knocks would be too easily confused with other sounds. You can't believe in knock-knock jokes to provide the answers either. Those jokes are so unrealistic to begin with. I'm skeptical that they truly tested the two-knock procedure, and it hasn't been peer reviewed.

Instead, it's the successive distinctive sounds that will announce your arrival. We can find a balance. Too many an eager salesperson ruins the sale before the door is ever opened because their adrenaline taken out on your knobholder makes it sound like there's about to be a drug bust. Anything with more than five knocks should be followed by "You're under arrest."

I think we can narrow it down further and reach an ideal amount of knocks. The question is thus: at what point does the human psyche cross over from "Oh, there's someone here" to "Who's that maniacal banshee on my porch?" I would suggest that even five raps on the door is excessive. That fifth knock sounds too much like you're playing Chicago's 25 Or 6 To 4, at which point it becomes so derivative. A knock that isn't original isn't really a knock.

Perhaps we need to consult the Book of Armaments for further enlightenment...

Armaments, Chapter 2, verses 9 to 21...
‘First shalt thou approach the Holy Door. Then, shalt thou count to three. No more. No less. Three shalt be the number thou shalt count, and the number of the counting shalt be three. Four shalt thou not count, nor either count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three. Five is right out. Once the number three, being the third number, be reached, then waitest thou for thy host to respond.’

So it almost sounds like Armaments is alluding to something somewhere in the realm of three, if I'm not mistaken. It may require a more detailed interpretation before we fully uncover it though. But that would be simple yet effective. A truly minimalist approach. No need to expend more energy than a triad of taps.

I understand there will be many progressives out there who will insist that anything less than four knocks would be insufficient. I'm not here to argue with these people. They have their own radical worldview, and we'll just have to disagree to agree on this matter.

The best salespeople have always realized that a three-knock method causes curiosity in the listener, and then they want to know what comes next. But with four or more knocks, they've already heard everything they need to hear. This lesson has been continually taught in the school of hard knocks, but we find that not everyone learns it.

Even more sadly, many people have taken the big bad wolf story way too seriously, feeling compelled to act out childhood fairy tales. If they would only remember that knocking louder and longer doesn't increase the chances you'll be invited inside. The point of diminishing returns seems to be at about the sixth repetitious knock. And highly audible knocks can make people more fearful of answering the door. Peak performance is a three-pronged approach, though. Four puts an unneeded exclamation on it, and five will get the RIAA lawyers after you for infringement.

The prudent will play it safe and stick to the basics. We complicate so many things in life, and this is just one more indication of that phenomenon. Resist door rage, and go for the trifecta. You'll notice a change in your demeanor, and the people you visit will appreciate you more for it. Be three dimensional for once. You may find it suits you.

James and the Giant Teach

2009-08-05T13:20:00.000-07:00

OBAMA: As each of you are finding your seats, I’d like to welcome you to the first annual Foot-in-Mouth Beer Summit at the White House, because as we know, beer washes away all our troubles, and we’ve got a lot to wash away here. Sgt. Crowley, if you could take this seat on my right and Professor Gates, if you wouldn’t mind sitting across from me so that we don’t get one race all on one side of the table, that would be lovely. Also joining us is my esteemed vice president from the great state of Delaware, the venerable Joseph R. Biden.

BIDEN: Welcome, gentlemen. We’re glad you could join us. There’s nothing too important on the nation’s agenda that can’t be pushed back another day for a friendly photo-op between rivaling colleagues who hate each other’s guts with a passion. Prof. Gates, this strategic move should jettison your publishing career greatly, I would assume. And Sgt. Crowley, at least you get your 15 minutes of fame. Suck it all in, my friend.

CROWLEY: Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best.

OBAMA: I’d like to introduce our two parties… I’m previously acquainted with Prof. Gates from my days at Harvard. Prof. Gates, this is Sgt. Crowley of the Cambridge Police Dept.

GATES: Pleased to make your acquaintance. Hope I’m not causing too much of a commotion for you here. I can whisper if it makes you more comfortable.

CROWLEY: Good to meet you, Mr. Gates. And you look different without the cuffs, I might add.

OBAMA: All right… gentlemen, we’d like each of you to order beers from overseas suppliers, which will hopefully serve to spur foreign trade. Choose very wisely, as this will affect market trends for years to come. No pressure... Mr. Crowley, what can we get you?

CROWLEY: I endorse Blue Moon. I mean, I’ll have a Blue Moon.

OBAMA: Mr. Gates?

GATES: I have a deal with Red Stripe.

OBAMA: Excellent. And Joe?

BIDEN: I don’t want to turn into a Kennedy, so just give me a near beer… you sorry bunch of excuses for alcoholics. I hope your livers rot while you play out your final years in an old folks home regretting you ever imbibed.

OBAMA: OK, and for me, I’d like a Bud Light, so as not to give the impression that I overindulge. As we know, drinking light is drinking responsibly. Mr. Press Secretary, could you get those from the Presidential Wet Bar? Thank you ever so kindly.

OBAMA: Now, there’s been a lot of furor over this incident you two were involved in, and the subsequent comments. It seems we’ve all gotten ourselves in a little bit of a mess here, and coming together will hopefully serve to heal the wounds that it’s opened. Are there any questions up front?

CROWLEY: Mr. President, if I may, why did you say I behaved stupidly, and you haven’t apologized for saying that?

OBAMA: Now, Sgt. Crowley… you must realize that my comments were somehow improperly calibrated.

CROWLEY: Tell me when you’re going to use English here, sir.

BIDEN: Don’t get uptight there, little man. I snuff you under my thumb if I choose to.

GATES: And that’s racist, implying the President doesn’t speak English.

OBAMA: To clarify, I didn’t mean stupidly in the sense of someone being stupid, or even behaving stupid, but of encroaching ever-so-lightly upon the stupid milieu, if you will. Also notice that I said the department ‘acted’ stupidly. I meant they were acting out a role, but it wasn’t in their true character.

CROWLEY: What does any of that mean?

OBAMA: Never you mind. Let’s just absorb the aura of it and not make it any more specific than it needs to be. It was nothing personal against you, James.

CROWLEY: Even though I’m the one who arrested him.

OBAMA: Yes, but it was the police collective who acted within the realm of stupidity, not you in particular. There were a lot of officers involved in the stupidness. I didn’t want to make this about one person. I just wanted to take a jab at law enforcement officials in general. Can’t you see the difference? Maybe if you’d gone to Harvard like us, you’d understand.

CROWLEY: I think I may need another beer.

GATES: Notice who’s drinking the most here. Just an observation.

OBAMA: So James, if I may be so bold to ask, what were you thinking when you arrested this man?

CROWLEY: I was simply going according to standard procedure, sir. It had nothing to do with his race.

OBAMA: Yeah, but don’t you see all the flap this caused? Next time, could you please tone it down? Understand that he’s my friend, sergeant. It makes me look bad when my friends get into trouble all the time. I do have friends who are good citizens, and I’m trying my darnedest to locate them.

CROWLEY: Sir, if I may, the situation was escalated by Mr. Gates’ tirade. Don’t you think he is the one who should have toned it down?

GATES: I’m a Harvard professor, son. I have more citations than you could ever hope to sneeze at.

OBAMA: Now, now, gentlemen... Let’s keep this civil.

GATES: The Civil War was about slavery.

OBAMA: How am I supposed to convince this country that I can bring people together if I can’t smooth over a situation with a couple of chums sharing an adult beverage? Now, to be sure, there were overreactions in this whole incident.

CROWLEY: That’s the closest you’ll come to saying your friend was out of line. For heaven sakes, he said ‘yo mama’ to me... What if I said ‘yo mama’ to you?

OBAMA: Now, Mr. Crowley, don’t irritate me.

BIDEN: We could sweep you across the floor faster than a Swiffer.

OBAMA: All right, the media is watching us closely. Let’s do something cordial, maybe bringing our mugs together for a toast.

BIDEN: To alabaster marigolds in the springtime... May we and they blossom in harmonized convergence... Ah, nothing like marigolds. (sighs)

OBAMA: Joe, don’t you have a briefing to go to, or to get your cholesterol checked?

BIDEN: I don’t think so, why? Is today Thursday again? Dang, I hate when that happens.

OBAMA: All right, everybody chuckle like we’re getting along famously.

ALL: (laughs)

GATES: What a bunch of crock.

OBAMA: Hey, Joe, we look pretty cool with our shirt sleeves rolled up, don’t you think? We look like regular guys...

BIDEN: I like it. We’re real dudes, if you ask me. I think this will help us get the listless barefoot walker on the beach vote in 2012. Brilliant move, sir.

CROWLEY: Hey, did you notice our beers are called different colors?

GATES: That’s racist.

CROWLEY: Oh yeah? Hey, anybody in Cambridge want to break into his home now, he ain’t there, and his keys are under the plant on the porch. Take everything you want. The police will probably show up in, oh, a couple hours or so. No big rush.

GATES: Why, you ignorant...

(The cameras are cut as Gates and Crowley wrestle each other to the ground, their chairs toppling on the White House lawn, a moment to be later characterized as 'agreeing to disagree.')

OBAMA: OK, this is over now. Thank you all for coming, and mending the tension between us all in a truly teaching moment...

We Don't Need No Stinkin' Titles

2009-07-23T20:45:00.000-07:00

This blog is what I call our garden, and this post is what we will find in the garden today. Also, we won’t let any weeds in either. So with those parameters firmly set, an article can proceed forth. However and but, we didn’t quite do that here. As such, there is the outside chance we might get detained or something for stepping outside parliamentary procedure. Don’t laugh — I think that’s what eventually happened to Victor Hugo mid-treatise. Let me go back and check to see if I’m following protocol... Meanwhile, you can chill out and be an innocent bystander if anyone comes along.

You know, in my entire life I’d have to say that I’ve never come across a solitary individual who was guilty while being a bystander. The process of bystanding lends itself perfectly to innocence, and it has a rich and storied history in obeying the law. If you can convince a jury that you were in fact a bystander of some sort, they will have no recourse but to declare you a very innocent one. Lawyers don’t want you to know that precious little tidbit, but under oath they will reluctantly admit to it (providing they haven’t found any of the 412 loopholes first, of course). What? Oh, right, I was going to go check on something.

Just remember while I’m gone, something my uncle used to tell me many years ago as a lad... there’s a fine line between loitering and bystanding. Unquote. Words to live by, no doubt. So what I gather is one would cross such an line at their own peril.

Loitering always seemed to be one of those terms that was simply made up. Kind of like atrophy. What’s even weirder about atrophy is that it’s a verb. I could see it maybe as a process, a la telepathy. But ‘to atrophy’ somehow goes against the grain. I can’t say it without grimacing. So anyway, another thing about loiter is that it’s not something you say that you are or were consciously doing in the first person. “What did you do today?” To which you answer, “Oh, I went uptown and just loitered for a while.” They’d look at you like you just swallowed a Buick. “Nobody says that.” “Well, I do...” It’s the type of phraseology we’d effectively use to differentiate native speakers from those who likely studied English from a Berlitz-sponsored mime in the dark. The dichotomy would be painfully obvious.

I have nothing against those who are learning a second language, but you have to admit the situation opens itself up to myriad possibilities in the area of impractical jokes. The beautiful thing about speaking to someone in their second tongue is that they assume everything you’re saying is legitimate. It’s just like a Japanese person could come up to you and rattle off a bunch of incoherent sounds worthy of a man on fire and not too pleased about it, and you’d just accept that they were speaking the Emperor’s Japanese. So with our Anglofied example, we’re still talking real words... it’s just that there are a lot of words having no mileage for usage. You could say to them, “My prurient avocations of sort, they comprise themselves in aerospace hegemony and grandiloquent loitering.” To which they have nowhere to go with that except, “Ahh.” All the while thinking, “Boy, this language is a lot harder than I had anticipated.” But at least it will make them study harder. I get the strange sense that college professors do this in all subjects, not just languages.

I had a friend one time who reminded me to let past participles be bygones, and to this day I hold that to be a truism. And dangling modifiers be danged. I’m of the opinion that there are too many rules in the areas that are too subjective to have lots of rules. I think of them as shoulds rather than musts. For example, writing has way too many supposed rules. These rules should be prefaced with “If you want to write like everybody else, then...” Innovators were not inspired a great deal by prescribed methods of accomplishment. You can’t break new ground by remaining on the old one. Creativity is all about shunning the standard modus operandi. Spread your wings and fly unlike a condor.

To me, there’s good grammar and then there’s good grief. Put prepositions anywhere you want. Place three in a row at the end of a sentence for all I care. If you get your message across, then you’ve done your job, whether it be literarily or conceptually. Go ahead and mix metaphors. Be the last straw in a haystack that broke the camel’s back.

Remind me to get permission to plagiarize myself on that one. I’ll do that when I finally write an unauthorized autobiography. You may recognize the sources, but individual ideas can originate from multiple points.

I believe that when we read, we can gather not only ideas about what and how to form our thoughts, but also about what and how not to by branching out and diverting from what we read. The reading could’ve sparked something quite unrelated. Just because you read something doesn't mean you have to find a place in your mind that matches that thought. Find one that takes the ball and runs with it somewhere else.

OK, I’m back now... I’ve been granted furlough to meander to my heart’s content. But it didn’t hurt to check. Anyway... what did I miss? I have no planetary idea what the point of all this was — which was precisely the nonpoint. I successfully went themeless, without a net. Random, sometimes intertwined notions can be regarded in their own right. Lucky for me, too.

Wordsmith Hack: Garbanzo

2009-07-19T20:44:00.000-07:00

Our dear words have their own purpose, and too often it seems we get in their way. They need a voice though, and someone needs to hear them. Yet they aren't good at saying much by themselves, and as a constituency they fail miserably. I would proclaim the next minute as National Word Minute, in honor of all words big and small. Let's give it up for our vehicles of lexicon to all that is sublime. They don't exist and then they are all that exists. They set all agendas, and resolve all conflicts. They determine all prescriptions, and weigh all conditions.

Words, they be the arbiters of rousing interjectory ventilation, and then so often the anathema of clear meditative introspection. In a word, they are utterly themselves.

The pen, we later find, isn't mighty at all. It's a weapon, but that weapon is wielded by no less than words. Less and less each day... The fine lost art of conversation took a ride to smallville and resides there in a condo where it will live out its retirement. The pension is good, the weather bearable and the neighbors keep to themselves.

Enter into the mist a syncopated social cyber camp to either raise the bar or put it low enough that no one notices. Moderns are able to distill linguistics down to their bare bones, relegating helpless terms to their lowest common denominators. Approximately 73% of all online jabberwocky bears this out in full felicity. The King's English takes on a beating, while ticking off any who hold in high esteem the finer points of communication.

As dialogue breaks down and turns into a more powdery form, the resulting effect is then a distancing of the participants. The eschewing of topical gum, while a fine shortcut for syllables, comes at a premium. It leads us away from those with whom we converse, providing the opposite of the intended effect. Straying from the substance of words, we in turn understand each other less.

A step above the micro-blog is potentially what you read presently in front of you. The mere fact of reading this extended rhetoric not at gunpoint qualifies you to be held above the fray, at least in theory, and if even temporarily it serves a purpose, as does writing it does for me. With that assumption, we'll be speaking frayless here.

Embodiment of Words
Some will find that running into bots at electronic pubs keeps the wheels turning, if that's really what wheels are to be doing. I like painting the bots so that they bring different meaning to me. One bot on my viewer takes on the characteristics of a fantasy world, to where I'm in the middle of an extended dream which lets me go out for a burger and come back unobtrusive. Other bots are dastardly, but they are only such as long as I want them to be, and then I can make them something else. Bots are servants in your honored kingdom.

Some bots are studies of psychoanalysis and may provide the most introspective of all portraits, reflecting, glowing, alive and performing on stage. I build a little play of miniature bots, which carry out their routines to perfection. Their roles are well-defined — our main objective is to further refine those definitions daily and keep them honed, for one never knows when a bot talent scout will be meandering by and notice.

For those not catching the nuances, we have reminders to scratch each other’s bots and receive credit for it. These bots iconoclastically indeed rule, though I've never determined whether they rule me. The schizophrenic have a field day with so many bots flying about. And those not qualifying can soon reach that pinnacle.

The semi-learned will conclude that the very best thing about bots is they are imaginary. They have real minds and real togas, but we can confine them to the abstract where they can merely brainwash us, so we get the absolute best of both worlds. I'll check in with my joke bot soon to get that much-needed comedic boost. Or should I find a rant bot next... So many decisions and so little bandwidth. So much of a kaleidoscope and so little to regard it in this brave old world.

Thus form follows function. The interaction of bots relies more heavily on verbiage than what history is used to, in part since the substantive has become more an oasis commodity.

The words, they will glorify and condemn us. They'll be the telltale sign of our arrival at the airport terminal, greeting us with a representative handwritten message. May they not skimp on the syllables, and despite all their kinetic energy may they be allowed instead of beating around the proverbial bush to say what they truly, emphatically mean.

Food Directions I Would Modify

2009-07-09T22:51:00.000-07:00

Revised cooking instructions...

Healthy Choice Café Steamers
Place meal in microwave oven. Package self-vents, do not puncture. Microwave on high 4 to 5 minutes. The self-venting steaming film may make a popping sound. This is normal. If you see heavy plumes of smoke like out of the Wizard of Oz, that is not normal. Take out the miniature fire extinguisher supplied in the box, pull the pin and point at a 45° angle (be sure to use either a compass or protractor). Once you’re certain it’s pointed at the proper angle, pull the lever to release the extinguishing foam, fortified with whipped cream and tapioca pudding for a nice complementary dessert.

Generic Microwave Dinner Surprise
Remove wrap from apple dessert. Cut slits in wrap over entree. Stuff the wrap you removed from dessert through one of the slits. Cut a small circle out of the cardboard box. (you can use this as a spoon later, but don't cook it) Heat in microwave for anywhere from 3-17 minutes, depending on the nuclear rating of your microwave. This is calculated by using the following formula: amperes divided by your average daily caloric intake multiplied by the square root of rhubarb pi. Do not vary the time or it may result in damage to all living organisms within a 2000-ft. radius. Not liable for damages. Illegal to eat in most countries.

Flounder Fillets
To thaw: For best results, thaw flounder in a covered pan 4-6 hours in the refrigerator. It makes them think they’re still swimming, and gives them one last hurrah in their natural habitat. For quicker thawing, place flounder in an airtight bag or its original packaging, submerge in a pan of cold water, and heck with the whole habitat thing. Do not thaw fish at room temperature, that is unless you live in an igloo.

To bake: Preheat oven to 425° F. Well, you should’ve done that 10 minutes earlier. What were you thinking? Spray a baking dish lightly with Pam non-stick cooking spray. It doesn’t help at all, but we get paid to say it. Place thawed and thoroughly contented flounder in the pan and sprinkle with your favorite seasonings (as long as you aren’t an eccentric pathological maniac with a curious nagging bent for cayenne pepper). Bake for approximately 8-11 minutes, or until fish flakes easily when mercilessly jabbed in the side with a fork. Although fish has been filleted, small bones may occur. Not responsible for excess bonage and any resulting injuries.

Instant Oatmeal
Empty packet into microwave-safe bowl. Add 2/3 cup water or milk. If you’re cheap, you’ll just choose water, but we don’t want to sway anyone here. Besides, it’s your own decision, cheap-o. Microwave on high 1 to 2 minutes… after all, who’s counting? Stir to your heart’s desire. Let stand one minute before eating. Handle carefully; bowl may be hot. That’s what happens when you heat things up, genius. Use less water or milk for thicker oatmeal or more for thinner oatmeal, use brain for everything else. Butter is optional, depending on your region.

Cheerios
Pour 8 oz. — or approximately 93 Cheerios — into a cereal-safe bowl. Add milk until the Cheerios resemble itty-bitty life preservers floating aimlessly in your virtual oceanic bowl of foodtime fun. (Note that the waves you saw shown on the box were just for effect, and the images were enlarged to show texture — yeah, that’s it) Also, contents may be hot — not sure why they would be, but our lawyers like us to say that so we don’t get sued. Cheerios have, however, been known to spontaneously combust when under extremely intense pressure, like if they’re at a dance recital or studying for a final exam. Should your amalgams be rated higher than a .064 mercuric value, we advise adding guacamole to your cereal to soften the blow. Guacamole is a known nutritional flame retardant.

Apathy Fondue
You’re not going to follow the recipe anyway, so splatter the fondue mix against the wall. See if we care... Use a sponge dipped in grapefruit extract to clean wall. Feeds 8. Big wup-de-fondue.

White Grape Juice
Mix with 37 oz. of cold water (about 3 cans). Stir or shake briskly to make 48 fl. oz. Refrigerate. Well, you can drink some first, and then refrigerate. Oh, we forgot to tell you to pour it in a glass even prior to that. What are you doing drinking straight out of the pitcher? Were you born in a blasted barn? You useless morsel of tripe. You should be ashamed of your shoddy drinking habits, that’s all we have to say.

Lemon Cake Mix
Preheat oven to 350° F for metal or glass pans, 325° F for dark or coated pans, or 60° F for styrofoam pans. Grease sides and bottom of each pan with shortening. (do we need to specify the inside of the pan?) Flour lightly. We don't really know how lightly ‘lightly’ is, but we’re sure you’ll figure something out. Okay, it’s lighter than flouring heavily. It should be kind of like you’re a gentle snowstorm emanating scattered, delicate hints of snowflakes to the waiting fertile ground below. Be the flour. Become one with the flour. It’s all about you and the flour.

Blend dry mix, water, oil, eggs, and anything else you can find into a large bowl at low speed until moistened (about 30 seconds or the time it takes to run through your house screaming “I love my oven mitts!”). Beat at medium speed for 2 minutes. Pour batter in pans and bake immediately. If you wait even one second it will ruin everything.

Cake is done when toothpick inserted in center comes out clean. Do not leave toothpick in cake as it tends to add a woody taste to the cake. Cool in pan on wire rack for 15 minutes. Cool completely before frosting. If you forget, call our customer service line (800-748-3193) so we can laugh at you.

Vanilla Instant Pudding
Take out of box and eat.

Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich
Take two slices of bread. Take the first slice, and place peanut butter on the side facing up. Take the second slice, and spread jelly on the side facing down, and then ever so carefully bring the slices together without upsetting their constitution. Place in a shallow pan and simmer for three minutes. Cut into smaller portions as needed. Serves four.

Gravy Mix
Stir gravy-safe water gradually into mix with whisk in a small saucepan. Stirring frequently, cook on medium heat until gravy-to-be comes to boil. Reduce heat and simmer 1 minute. Gravy will thicken upon standing, providing you’re not a completely incompetent loser. If the gravy comes out too thin, just say it’s a basting sauce and call it good.

Wandering Through the Synapses

2009-07-03T14:48:00.000-07:00

While I was standing in line at the grocery store, contemplating which stars on which covers were having the biggest crises in their lives, I figured I should try to think of something slightly more useful. My resources are worth more than what Jon and Kate are most recently up to. And all I had to do was turn around to find… chocolate. They’ve got the whole gamut covered in the checkout aisle, which is quite thoughtful of them. Oh, dang! I forgot to get toenail clippers. Not to worry. They have my interests at heart. Oh, and I was going to get a lint remover, but now I’m already in line and — hey, whadda ya know? And then now I’m realizing that all this shopping has made my eyes bloodshot. If only — oh, look! They put some eye drops right here for me. Boy, they know me like a pig knows slop.

And by the way, if there were a flowchart showing the progression of every system in life, you’d see on the diagram that it always falls back to chocolate as a last resort. If something fails, the safety net is chocolate. It was in fact given to us to help mask the reality that life isn’t a bowlful of chocolates.

So let’s say there’s a company that underperforms, doesn’t meet your expectations with its product, and otherwise leaves you disappointed. In the grand scheme of things, what are you going to do? You’ll probably stop giving them your business, although they’ll keep on doing the same thing to other people. And if they eventually go out of business, there will be other companies that do just as poorly as them. What will leaving them accomplish in the long run? Possibly some improvements overall, but it won’t exactly eradicate bad companies or products.

Let’s say one credit card company gives you really shoddy service. We’ll call them Citi. Instead of trying to correct a problem that you bring to their attention, they hit the word track express and try to sell you something in the process, pouring more salt on your wound. So you file in the deep recesses of your brain a sticky note associating Citi with bad. And then in your good section, you have good companies, like Jack in the Box or Malt-O-Meal. Have you ever noticed that Malt-O-Meal never offends anyone? Doesn’t make waves, just goes about its business making fine meals out of malted stuff.

Tangentially, I’m never quite sure what the implications are when two companies form a merger. It garners a great deal of news coverage, though I think of the process more as a meld, a gloop, a coagulation… a veritable transmogrification, if you will. Let’s suppose two big entities like Purina Dog Chow and Twitter combined forces, with Purina buying out Twitter. What does it change? It’s just money combining with money. And the result is still money. A rose by any other name is still just a merged rose.

Is the underlying assumption that if two supergiants of an industry were brought together like Microsoft and Google, they might somehow become too powerful and conquer the world? In the end, the names have changed but the players have stayed the same.

When Exxon merged with Mobil, what did it change? Logos, slogans, and window dressing. What’s going on behind the curtain is fairly constant. AOL/Time-Warner was a big merger. What happened because of it? Anyone, anyone? They got to use a different name. It’s all about name recognition. My bank went from Washington Mutual to Chase. They even told us for several months that Wamu was “becoming” Chase, as if a slow morphing was taking place. So the difference is that my checks will look different, my bank statements will be another color, the bank tellers (but not Penn) will wear different uniforms, all the while my money will still go green. They didn’t change the amount of my checking account balance. They didn’t even change the employees working at the local branch. What’s different is the upper management at JP Morgan, but I’ll never meet those people.

There might be an incidental percentage difference here or there, but they’re for the most part indistinguishable. If you have to squint that hard to find a difference in something, then it’s essentially the same. If you have to use surveying equipment to determine whether you’ve lined up a picture frame on the wall perfectly horizontal (or is it vertical?... we’ll leave that one for the aspiring philosophers who aren’t us today), if you have to go to that much trouble and can’t tell with the naked eye, then I’d say it’s probably close enough. If it takes some extra effort to find a defect in something, then the defect, for most intents and purposes, isn’t there.

Now take all this to a personal level. We all know people we care for more than others, and then people we care for less than others. Even if you’re philanthropic and nonjudgmental, there will be people you’ll recognize as carrying traits you would find unappealing. It’s part of life, and we have to make discernments at some level, otherwise it would be anarchy. Anyone who believes in anarchy cares less about people than those who believe in having rules do. See, I’m even forming a view against anarchists, in that I believe they are simply misguided and not necessarily nefarious. As for judging, it’s unavoidable if you want to be part of the loop of a living system. There’s no shame in making such judgments. Judging isn’t bad in itself, neither is discrimination, neither is belief, neither is faith. They can get stigmatized from time to time, which might tell us some things about our sociopolitical (a la sociopathic) climate.

In an effort to keep the thought more concise, we can reduce it to something as simple as ice cream flavors, thereby attempting to remove the emotional aspect. (Well, maybe that won’t work for some people. I did try though, and I figured ice cream would be interesting. For those of you emotionally attached to any flavors of ice cream, you’re already a lost cause, so this isn’t going to reach you anyway.)

So to keep a long story long, there are some flavors you like, and some you don’t. That’s pretty much a given. Which means it’s not really all that noteworthy to be saying that some are substandard in your view, because everyone’s going to have some on that list regardless. (I want to say everyone minus 2, but there isn’t a word for that. I got my license to mercilessly play with words and it doesn’t expire for a few more years.) That some are above water and some below isn’t surprising in the least. What would be surprising is if that weren’t the case.

Within the realm of two standard deviations, things will happen at a fairly consistent rate in most anything we encounter. And within that, there are going to be some positives and some negatives. You can’t escape that without partaking in some form of chemical inspiration, which is only a quick fix and brings you farther back than when you started, so point lost.

The salient point is that the faces of many of those positives and negatives are more mysterious than they are definitive, and probably shouldn’t use of a lot of our attention, because if you remove one bad apple, the reality is that there are still going to be further bad apples. Focusing so much on the personality of that bad apple is going to cause us to become too emotionally invested in the identities, but the individual identities don’t drive the negativity, they just carry it out piecemeal. And the good apples are sometimes fleeting or take turns being bad apples, so it gets truly cumbersome making any serious attempts to keep score. It would work better if we focused on the bigger picture and didn’t let personalities get in our way of our disappointed states.

This is not to say that grassroots activism is futile, but that you can easily get caught up in the grassrootsness of a principle and forget about the wider scope. I think this correlates with the idea of loving the sinner while hating the sin. Of course, sins don’t happen apart from sinners, but the pervasiveness of sin isn’t due to one sinner. If there were only one sinner, we probably wouldn’t be overly concerned about general sin. So then I’m wondering in the case of general sin, why blame one person for the sin conglomerate.

Societal trends are precipitated by a pack mentality, meaning the pack is needed to facilitate it. If we work on developing better interactivity, accountability, unity, compassion, et al, among groups of people, then we may be able to help each one of us rise above the baser tendencies. If, conversely, we all try to solve our problems on our own, then we’re often using the same mindset that engendered the problem in the first place. That lens is going to reflect the light in the same manner in both directions.

This stemmed from ideas about our own individual identities, how we might be able to tell them apart, and how much it matters who the various players are. I could describe it better in ways that would make sense to me, but I don’t like to write for myself in this type of forum. It would prove to be too eclectic, thus reducing my readership from 7 to 3. And I care dearly about those four of you.

This is an unfinished thought. But then aren’t they all? I could pretend to wrap it up in some poetic treatise that gives it a literary stamp of approval, though is that necessary? I could’ve brought more cohesiveness to the presentation, but then when a person is writing and he tries to change the flow, then it upsets the flow. A choppy production reflects a bunch of choppy thoughts, which if they’re genuine, certainly have their own place. And anyway, I have other hobbies besides this to try to solve the world’s problems on my own. Saving society is only #12 on my list of goals. I trust in the reader to fill in the blanks as it pertains to you. I could do more of the work for you and possibly coddle you until you felt comfortable enough to want to come back reading only for the sake of reading, but that’s not me. While I will throw you a bone, you still have to chase it and pick it up, because I’m going to give it a good chuck.