Friday, October 30, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Vows
Here, in the interests of both posterity and sentimentality, are the wedding vows that Sara and I gave to each other on August 8th, 2009. (Both of them are completely sic'd meaning that I didn't edit any mistakes because a mistake on a normal day is just another beautiful thing on your wedding day.)
Sara:
I was never someone who dreamt about what their future spouse would be like, and I certainly was never anyone who dreamt about weddings. And so when I found you that fateful night at that bar in Brooklyn I didn't recognize you as the man I would want to be with forever. But the moment when I did was not long after. Since the beginning of our relationship you have shown me love and committment in a way I didn't even know how to dream about. When trying to think about why I love you and how to articulate it all I can say is that I love you for all the parts of you. I love your patience, your dry humor, your skills in the kitchen, how you take care of things, how you plan everything and how you surprise me every now and then with your spontaneity, your frugality, your intelligence, your interest in numbers and statistics, I love you for all these and all of the other parts of you. It is because of all of these parts of you that I am standing here today.
You are everything to me.
As we move into our next wonderful stage of life together I promise to continue to make you laugh, to try to be patient, to support you and let you support me. I promise to continue to work on our relationship and I promise to wake up every morning grateful that we have made this choice to be committed to each other for the rest of our lives. I promise to love you no matter what challenges the future may hold. I promise to always try and make our life together exciting. You are and always will be my number one.
Josh:
Even though I may now be nervous,
The reason I'm standing here today
Is how peaceful and comfortable
You have always made me feel.
Right from the start
You made my life seem suddenly real.
I love you so much.
Thank you for coming into my life
When I was most ready.
Thank you for opening your life
To me and our future family.
Thank you, Sara, for opening my eyes
To how very easy love can be.
I have always loved you so much.
I love you because you're always happy.
I love you because you're so neat.
I love you because you call me lovey.
I love you because you have pretty feet.
I will always love you
Because you are you
And I am me
And that's all we'll ever need.
I will always love you.
Now, finally:
Thank you so much my baby
For allowing me
To fulfill my destiny
Of becoming myself.
Your husband, with love, forever.
Sara:
I was never someone who dreamt about what their future spouse would be like, and I certainly was never anyone who dreamt about weddings. And so when I found you that fateful night at that bar in Brooklyn I didn't recognize you as the man I would want to be with forever. But the moment when I did was not long after. Since the beginning of our relationship you have shown me love and committment in a way I didn't even know how to dream about. When trying to think about why I love you and how to articulate it all I can say is that I love you for all the parts of you. I love your patience, your dry humor, your skills in the kitchen, how you take care of things, how you plan everything and how you surprise me every now and then with your spontaneity, your frugality, your intelligence, your interest in numbers and statistics, I love you for all these and all of the other parts of you. It is because of all of these parts of you that I am standing here today.
You are everything to me.
As we move into our next wonderful stage of life together I promise to continue to make you laugh, to try to be patient, to support you and let you support me. I promise to continue to work on our relationship and I promise to wake up every morning grateful that we have made this choice to be committed to each other for the rest of our lives. I promise to love you no matter what challenges the future may hold. I promise to always try and make our life together exciting. You are and always will be my number one.
Josh:
Even though I may now be nervous,
The reason I'm standing here today
Is how peaceful and comfortable
You have always made me feel.
Right from the start
You made my life seem suddenly real.
I love you so much.
Thank you for coming into my life
When I was most ready.
Thank you for opening your life
To me and our future family.
Thank you, Sara, for opening my eyes
To how very easy love can be.
I have always loved you so much.
I love you because you're always happy.
I love you because you're so neat.
I love you because you call me lovey.
I love you because you have pretty feet.
I will always love you
Because you are you
And I am me
And that's all we'll ever need.
I will always love you.
Now, finally:
Thank you so much my baby
For allowing me
To fulfill my destiny
Of becoming myself.
Your husband, with love, forever.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
A Lesser, Better Me
But first, a Film Review. It's been over a week now but I saw Synechdoche, New York. This isn't of any consequence, but it actually was the last Netflix I watched before canceling my subscription.
I don't have anything groundbreaking to say about the film, but I was both impressed and disappointed by a few things. First, this being a Charlie Kaufman script, the plot was very complex. The problem with this one is that the oddities and meta-isms didn't really serve to advance the overall story much. The whole didn't equal the sum, that kind of thing. I'm also not really sure how confident I am in this assessment, but I think the almost-beyond-reproach-at-this-point Philip Seymour Hoffman was not very good in this film. He had a tough task in trying to carry this scattered story as a kind of anti-heroic lead, but still he didn't succeed. He's a kind of scumbag, which seems to be more and more revered in artistic pursuits lately, and he never really created much more. I felt sorry for him, but never ultimately cared.
Now, some things that I liked. Since I often watch from the point of view of the writer, Charlie Kaufman's movies are always somewhat personally exciting for me. This one was no different. If not autobiographical it was clearly and fundamentally at least a self-referential story, and the most interesting thing he did was to strip away most of the facade the story, leaving underneath a display of both the simple process of artistic creation and the whims of the author. If 8 1/2 is a masterpiece of directorial metafilm, then this would be it's less focused and, to borrow a usage from the film, less-Karamzov screenwriting counterpart.
Most fascinating is the realization that all the actions around the main character are fantasy, that everyone is acting just as he wants them to. Women plainly ask him if he wants to have sex with them. His side jokes are almost perfectly set up for him by the settings or the other characters. People often tell him exactly what they are thinking, but only in ways that advance our understanding of the main character, not the speaking characters. A character is even created whose sole purpose is to follow him around for 20+ years so he can understand himself better. I'm in real danger of pretension here, but these are all the things you think about when you are living your life if you're also thinking about writing. You see the world as just another character to be crafted and adjusted in the story of your life. You want your attractive young stage talent to be infatuated with you. You want the secretary-type at your office to have seemingly no other interests in the world besides you (she is a mere desired object for you, so why should she have a deeper history?). You want to indulge in your neuroses, be they mortality, sexuality, or whatever. You want to believe that you can encapsulate your whole world in fiction. And all of this is exactly what Kaufman, as a writer, lets himself do in created this film. He took all of this totally went with it. No matter if he fails or creates uncomfortable films, you must always completely respect him when he commits himself to a theme or a concept. He's also starkly in the minority on this, which makes him stand out even more.
Now that I have that out of the way, let me get to the more seriously personal part of this post, an indirect impression I had after watching this film. The main character is, like many characters before him, concerned mightily with death (and of course with it's sister emotions loneliness and longing). In the end he seems to perhaps accept that he does in fact have an interest outside of himself, but that unfortunately for him she has already died. That's classic theatric tragedy.
As I was left with this, my mind, as it will almost always do, turned to thoughts of myself. Through so much of my life, I have had a harsh fundamental pride in being in command of myself, of owning who I am and how I emote. I've never feared events because I have had my shit in order. Why worry about fate if you've taken care of yourself? This is no small thing.
Well I can announce now that things have changed. In the last couple years the solid-fucking-brick walls of me have been slowly and utterly breached. The foundation is still set in granite, but the house is laid open. (Down, metaphor.) I have a wife, and she has made me vulnerable. In almost every possible way, this is a wonderful thing. For one thing, complacency can be dangerous. And in the great flow of humanity, cohabitation and the blending and sharing of two sets of emotions is an exaltant and ultimately necessary advancement.
And yet she will always be my achilles heel. I don't meditate on this with any frequency, but I now fear death. Selfishly, I fear her death. I and we are far too deep into each other. I fear what would become of me without her. It's the only thing in my life that I'm unsure about, that I can't even think to control, that instead owns me.
And still I happily submit. It's more than love. It's biological.
Like I said, this is a new thing for me.
I don't have anything groundbreaking to say about the film, but I was both impressed and disappointed by a few things. First, this being a Charlie Kaufman script, the plot was very complex. The problem with this one is that the oddities and meta-isms didn't really serve to advance the overall story much. The whole didn't equal the sum, that kind of thing. I'm also not really sure how confident I am in this assessment, but I think the almost-beyond-reproach-at-this-point Philip Seymour Hoffman was not very good in this film. He had a tough task in trying to carry this scattered story as a kind of anti-heroic lead, but still he didn't succeed. He's a kind of scumbag, which seems to be more and more revered in artistic pursuits lately, and he never really created much more. I felt sorry for him, but never ultimately cared.
Now, some things that I liked. Since I often watch from the point of view of the writer, Charlie Kaufman's movies are always somewhat personally exciting for me. This one was no different. If not autobiographical it was clearly and fundamentally at least a self-referential story, and the most interesting thing he did was to strip away most of the facade the story, leaving underneath a display of both the simple process of artistic creation and the whims of the author. If 8 1/2 is a masterpiece of directorial metafilm, then this would be it's less focused and, to borrow a usage from the film, less-Karamzov screenwriting counterpart.
Most fascinating is the realization that all the actions around the main character are fantasy, that everyone is acting just as he wants them to. Women plainly ask him if he wants to have sex with them. His side jokes are almost perfectly set up for him by the settings or the other characters. People often tell him exactly what they are thinking, but only in ways that advance our understanding of the main character, not the speaking characters. A character is even created whose sole purpose is to follow him around for 20+ years so he can understand himself better. I'm in real danger of pretension here, but these are all the things you think about when you are living your life if you're also thinking about writing. You see the world as just another character to be crafted and adjusted in the story of your life. You want your attractive young stage talent to be infatuated with you. You want the secretary-type at your office to have seemingly no other interests in the world besides you (she is a mere desired object for you, so why should she have a deeper history?). You want to indulge in your neuroses, be they mortality, sexuality, or whatever. You want to believe that you can encapsulate your whole world in fiction. And all of this is exactly what Kaufman, as a writer, lets himself do in created this film. He took all of this totally went with it. No matter if he fails or creates uncomfortable films, you must always completely respect him when he commits himself to a theme or a concept. He's also starkly in the minority on this, which makes him stand out even more.
Now that I have that out of the way, let me get to the more seriously personal part of this post, an indirect impression I had after watching this film. The main character is, like many characters before him, concerned mightily with death (and of course with it's sister emotions loneliness and longing). In the end he seems to perhaps accept that he does in fact have an interest outside of himself, but that unfortunately for him she has already died. That's classic theatric tragedy.
As I was left with this, my mind, as it will almost always do, turned to thoughts of myself. Through so much of my life, I have had a harsh fundamental pride in being in command of myself, of owning who I am and how I emote. I've never feared events because I have had my shit in order. Why worry about fate if you've taken care of yourself? This is no small thing.
Well I can announce now that things have changed. In the last couple years the solid-fucking-brick walls of me have been slowly and utterly breached. The foundation is still set in granite, but the house is laid open. (Down, metaphor.) I have a wife, and she has made me vulnerable. In almost every possible way, this is a wonderful thing. For one thing, complacency can be dangerous. And in the great flow of humanity, cohabitation and the blending and sharing of two sets of emotions is an exaltant and ultimately necessary advancement.
And yet she will always be my achilles heel. I don't meditate on this with any frequency, but I now fear death. Selfishly, I fear her death. I and we are far too deep into each other. I fear what would become of me without her. It's the only thing in my life that I'm unsure about, that I can't even think to control, that instead owns me.
And still I happily submit. It's more than love. It's biological.
Like I said, this is a new thing for me.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
A Very Short Story
The Flaw
She wasn't sure if she liked him, but still worried about what he thought. She'd learned to be self-conscious about being the kind of person who talks to empty spaces instead of faces.
"I hope he doesn't think I'm not interested," she thought to herself.
He tried to make a real effort to seem a good listener, but still he was distracted.
"I hope I'm not visibly sweating," he thought, "because this pretty girl doesn't seem to want to look at me."
She wasn't sure if she liked him, but still worried about what he thought. She'd learned to be self-conscious about being the kind of person who talks to empty spaces instead of faces.
"I hope he doesn't think I'm not interested," she thought to herself.
He tried to make a real effort to seem a good listener, but still he was distracted.
"I hope I'm not visibly sweating," he thought, "because this pretty girl doesn't seem to want to look at me."
Friday, October 16, 2009
Fuck you, winter. I'm not afraid of you and you can't bully me with this crap. High temps of 40 degrees in mid-October? That's not fair--taunting, 15 yards. I'm taking the kick back past midfield, you son of a bitch.
(ps- nice touch with the barely-above-freezing rain. Some sadists might throw some horrible unseasonable cold at an unsuspecting region, but you finish the job with a nice cold rain.)
You know what else is agitating? I went into the McDonalds near my workplace yesterday for the first time in a long while, and discovered that McChicken sandwiches are now priced at $2.29. $2.29! It's just a skinny piece of breaded chicken between two pieces of white bread. Only two or three years ago at this same location, the McChicken cost $1.00. So apparently McDonalds' Madison Street manager doesn't understand the concept of a recession.
I used to go to this McDonalds regularly when I first moved here and didn't have a lot of money. Back then, it was a legitimate deal. They had a real value menu which I ordered from exclusively: 5 McNuggets, Small Fries, the aforementioned McChicken, and even a double cheeseburger for $1 each. That last one was the real steal. I don't think they were making too much profit selling double cheeses for $1. And so of course I exploited that inefficiency. I was (still am, but less so) a big lunch eater and so a standard order would be one of each of the items I listed, but when I was particularly hungry, I'd go with two or three doubles plus a nuggets and maybe a McChicken. I weaned myself off the fries after a while. The McChicken to me was always the luxury item of the four, the one I'd order with a hint of frivolity, mostly because it was so much less of a deal than the double cheese, or even the five nuggets.
So imagine my surprise yesterday when I instinctively ordered one McChicken and one double cheeseburger (see, more responsible eater now), only to afterward look up at the board and see that the double now costs $1.99 and the McChicken $2.29. There are 360 calories in the McChicken and 440 in the double cheeseburger. Either there has been a global fowl shortage that I don't know about, or El Diario recently ran some articles about hombres finding twenty-dollar bills in their chicken sandwiches at McDs.
Paying more for a McChicken in this case actually offends me. There must be a reason for it, but knowing that only makes it worse. $1.99 is still not a bad price for a double cheeseburger; I will pay that now and still feel ok about it. If I had to put a fair price on the McChicken it would be maybe $1.49. Where does the extra 80 cents come from? This is McDonalds for crying out loud. There is transparency. I can literally see all the ingredients being piled on the sandwich while it's being made.
Anyhow, I shouldn't care so much what the fair price of a McChicken is. I shouldn't be eating them often enough for it to matter. Just this once, in fact. Even when making a late drunk-stop, you'll never see me with a McChicken again.
(ps- nice touch with the barely-above-freezing rain. Some sadists might throw some horrible unseasonable cold at an unsuspecting region, but you finish the job with a nice cold rain.)
You know what else is agitating? I went into the McDonalds near my workplace yesterday for the first time in a long while, and discovered that McChicken sandwiches are now priced at $2.29. $2.29! It's just a skinny piece of breaded chicken between two pieces of white bread. Only two or three years ago at this same location, the McChicken cost $1.00. So apparently McDonalds' Madison Street manager doesn't understand the concept of a recession.
I used to go to this McDonalds regularly when I first moved here and didn't have a lot of money. Back then, it was a legitimate deal. They had a real value menu which I ordered from exclusively: 5 McNuggets, Small Fries, the aforementioned McChicken, and even a double cheeseburger for $1 each. That last one was the real steal. I don't think they were making too much profit selling double cheeses for $1. And so of course I exploited that inefficiency. I was (still am, but less so) a big lunch eater and so a standard order would be one of each of the items I listed, but when I was particularly hungry, I'd go with two or three doubles plus a nuggets and maybe a McChicken. I weaned myself off the fries after a while. The McChicken to me was always the luxury item of the four, the one I'd order with a hint of frivolity, mostly because it was so much less of a deal than the double cheese, or even the five nuggets.
So imagine my surprise yesterday when I instinctively ordered one McChicken and one double cheeseburger (see, more responsible eater now), only to afterward look up at the board and see that the double now costs $1.99 and the McChicken $2.29. There are 360 calories in the McChicken and 440 in the double cheeseburger. Either there has been a global fowl shortage that I don't know about, or El Diario recently ran some articles about hombres finding twenty-dollar bills in their chicken sandwiches at McDs.
Paying more for a McChicken in this case actually offends me. There must be a reason for it, but knowing that only makes it worse. $1.99 is still not a bad price for a double cheeseburger; I will pay that now and still feel ok about it. If I had to put a fair price on the McChicken it would be maybe $1.49. Where does the extra 80 cents come from? This is McDonalds for crying out loud. There is transparency. I can literally see all the ingredients being piled on the sandwich while it's being made.
Anyhow, I shouldn't care so much what the fair price of a McChicken is. I shouldn't be eating them often enough for it to matter. Just this once, in fact. Even when making a late drunk-stop, you'll never see me with a McChicken again.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Cleveland Is the Worst
Totally Pathetic. I mean in the nice way. The dictionary way: evoking strong pity and compassion. Pathos.
I was watching a documentary the other night about the Colts moving away from Baltimore in 1984, and naturally about how tragic that was for Baltimore.(1) It was a good documentary in that I related to the story and it caused me to think. Though the first thing I thought was: this still pales in comparison to when the Browns moved out of Cleveland. So I stewed on that for a second and the next thing I thought was: good lord, Cleveland is by far the saddest sports city there ever was, and people have never come close to appreciating the depth of that fact.
Chronicling the woe and frustration of cities and their sports teams is a favorite pastime of sportswriters. A couple generations of Boston writers made their careers off the "cursed" Red Sox, and with the recent proliferation of endless lists in various journalistic mediums, there have been plenty of efforts to capture the futility and the tragedy of certain cities (ESPN actually had one recently that ranked Cleveland #1). Still, none of these has ever given Cleveland its due, so to speak.
Let's get right to the facts, then. Cleveland has three major pro sports teams. The Browns debuted in 1946 and joined the NFL in 1950, the Cavaliers in 1970-71, and the Indians in 1901 along with the rest of the brand new American League. Through 2008, in 203 seasons,(2) these teams won six championships: the Browns in 1950, 1954, 1955, and 1964, and the Indians in 1920 and 1948. You may notice that the most recent of these occurred 45 years ago. If you (unfairly, but it helps the theme here) throw out the Browns' four titles because they came before the Super Bowl era and therefore before the modern era (really no one ever counts pre-Super Bowl titles when listing football championships), then you are left with the Indians' mere two wins in 187 team seasons. That's epic. 185 times out of 187, Cleveland fans have had their hopes crushed. That has got to wear on you.
But it gets better (worse). Since 1965, Cleveland has won zero titles in 128 seasons. They have played in exactly three championship finals, losing each of course. If you assume that the average league size in those 128 seasons is roughly 25 teams, then simple randomness would dictate five titles won and 11 top-2 finishes. For comparison, let's use Boston, another well-known (formerly) tragic city. Even if you subtract the last ten years of huge success, plus the dynasty 1960s Celtics from the equation, Boston still racked up seven titles and nine runner-ups since 1965. How about another city? Minneapolis: since 1965, two titles and seven runner-ups. Seattle: one title and three runner-ups, but in only 108 team seasons. Finally, Houston has just two titles and three runner-ups in 122 seasons, something that surprised me because you don't hear much moaning about poor Houston team performances. No one else really comes close for both longevity and futility.
So we've established that Cleveland sports teams have the worst record of success in the country, but it's not just failure to win titles that tears at the soul of the Cleveland sports fan. It's the thing which originally spurred this post: relocation.
The way Cleveland connects with its Browns may not be the strongest bond between fans and team across the four major sports, but if not, it's certainly in the discussion.(3) A real description of what I'm talking about might be difficult, but one way to look at it is to consider which teams' potential moves would be most devastating for their fans. Of all of the 15 teams I listed below in #3, as far as I know, none have ever come even remotely close to moving in the last half-century, with one exception. The Browns moved and then didn't exist for three years. After that they were replaced with an expansion team that won just 54 games in its first ten seasons, including a 3-18 record against their main rivals. In just the fifth season after the team moved, it won the Super Bowl for Baltimore. The man who moved the team, Art Modell, has almost been voted into the Hall of Fame on a couple of occasions. Any one of these facts is just impossible. The Browns are the ultimate star-crossed football franchise. And they just up and left the city. Unbelievable. Unconscionable.
And that's just the Browns. For anyone under the age of about 50, the main identifiable thing about the Indians is the movie Major League, which used the omnipresent culture of Indians losing and their general status as a joke as an essential plot detail. No one really complained about this. In fact, of the Indians fans I know, most actually took the fictional Indians' success in that movie as a point of pride. In 1997, the Indians went into the bottom on the ninth inning in Game 7 of the World Series with a lead. They were two outs away from winning it, and ended up losing, to a team in just its fifth year of existence. Only the 1986 Red Sox have ever come closer to winning a World Series and lost.
The Indians have the second-longest current title drought in baseball.
The Browns have the second-longest current title drought in football, and are one of only two teams (Detroit Lions are the other) to have been in existence for every Super Bowl year yet never participate in one.
The Cavaliers have the fourth-longest current title drought in basketball, and trail only the Suns by two years in terms of longevity amongst teams who have never won a title.
This is serious futility, people. I haven't even mentioned Ernest Byner, Jose Mesa, Craig Ehlo, or any of the endless string of terrible Browns first-round draft picks.(5) You add all of this to what is by far the most tragic franchise relocation ever, and no other city should even be in the discussion. Cleveland fans at this point are almost beyond reproach. They've suffered enough, so that it's just not funny anymore.
(Two caveats to this whole thing: 1) Lebron James. If he stays with the Cavs and wins about 5 titles, then that will make up for a lot of things and change the discussion completely. If they lose again this year and he leaves, then you can just chalk up another big notch in Cleveland's sorrow belt. 2) The Ohio State Buckeyes football team. They've won two titles since 1965, have been wildly successful for many years, and are currently sporting a five-game winning streak over their desperate rival. I mention this because most Cleveland fans also root for OSU. Takes a tiny bit of the edge off.)
1. The documentary about how good a business decision it was to move the team because Indianapolis gave the Colts a great stadium deal and the metro area was better positioned to financially support them would never get made, even though it's almost always true.
(Two caveats to this whole thing: 1) Lebron James. If he stays with the Cavs and wins about 5 titles, then that will make up for a lot of things and change the discussion completely. If they lose again this year and he leaves, then you can just chalk up another big notch in Cleveland's sorrow belt. 2) The Ohio State Buckeyes football team. They've won two titles since 1965, have been wildly successful for many years, and are currently sporting a five-game winning streak over their desperate rival. I mention this because most Cleveland fans also root for OSU. Takes a tiny bit of the edge off.)
1. The documentary about how good a business decision it was to move the team because Indianapolis gave the Colts a great stadium deal and the metro area was better positioned to financially support them would never get made, even though it's almost always true.
2. I'm not counting the Browns first four years as members of the All-America Football Conference, because it disbanded after four years and the competition was subpar (though they did win the title all four years, for what it's worth). I also didn't count the 1901, 1902, 1902, and 1994 baseball seasons, because there was no World Series played in those years.
3. Here would be the list of what I think are the top fan-team bonds, in no order: Browns, Steelers, Packers, Red Sox, Yankees, St Louis Cardinals, Canadiens, Maple Leafs, and Celtics, with the Cubs, Bears, Knicks, and maybe the Eagles and Red Wings forming a close second level.
4. I just learned via wikipedia that Dan Rooney was one of only two owners to oppose the Browns' move to Baltimore, and that, during the last Steelers home game of the Browns last original season, Pittsburgh fans wore orange armbands to a game against the Browns as a show of solidarity with their tragic brethren, and finally that during that year, protests were held in Pittsburgh by Pittsburghers against the move of the franchise. That's at least mildly impressive. No matter what kind of horrible things rival fans say to each other, when it comes down to it, they need and respect each other.
5. Let's step away from the theme of sympathy for a sec and have some fun at Cleveland's expense. Here in order are the Browns first round draft picks starting with 1999: Tim Couch, Courtney Brown, Gerard Warren, William Green, Jeff Faine, Kellen Winslow, Braylon Edwards, Kameron Wimbley, Joe Thomas, and Brady Quinn. That's ten players. To date, they've accounted for a total of four Pro Bowls, and played just 39 seasons with Cleveland. Only three are still with the Browns, and three are out of the league entirely. Basically you have one good player (Thomas), 3 or 4 servicable starters (Winslow, Wimbley, Edwards, and Faine) and crap.
Now here are the Steelers first-rounders over the same time span: Troy Edwards, Plaxico Burress, Casey Hampton, Kendall Simmons, Troy Polamalu, Ben Roethlisberger, Heath Miller, Santonio Holmes, Lawrence Timmons, and Rashard Mendenhall. Also ten players. To date, they've accounted for one Super Bowl MVP, 11 Pro Bowls* and played 51 seasons with Pittsburgh. Seven are still with the team, and just one is out of the league.* All but two are currently starters.
*Burress got his Pro Bowl with the Giants, and I'm assuming he'll come back to the NFL, post-jail.
4. I just learned via wikipedia that Dan Rooney was one of only two owners to oppose the Browns' move to Baltimore, and that, during the last Steelers home game of the Browns last original season, Pittsburgh fans wore orange armbands to a game against the Browns as a show of solidarity with their tragic brethren, and finally that during that year, protests were held in Pittsburgh by Pittsburghers against the move of the franchise. That's at least mildly impressive. No matter what kind of horrible things rival fans say to each other, when it comes down to it, they need and respect each other.
5. Let's step away from the theme of sympathy for a sec and have some fun at Cleveland's expense. Here in order are the Browns first round draft picks starting with 1999: Tim Couch, Courtney Brown, Gerard Warren, William Green, Jeff Faine, Kellen Winslow, Braylon Edwards, Kameron Wimbley, Joe Thomas, and Brady Quinn. That's ten players. To date, they've accounted for a total of four Pro Bowls, and played just 39 seasons with Cleveland. Only three are still with the Browns, and three are out of the league entirely. Basically you have one good player (Thomas), 3 or 4 servicable starters (Winslow, Wimbley, Edwards, and Faine) and crap.
Now here are the Steelers first-rounders over the same time span: Troy Edwards, Plaxico Burress, Casey Hampton, Kendall Simmons, Troy Polamalu, Ben Roethlisberger, Heath Miller, Santonio Holmes, Lawrence Timmons, and Rashard Mendenhall. Also ten players. To date, they've accounted for one Super Bowl MVP, 11 Pro Bowls* and played 51 seasons with Pittsburgh. Seven are still with the team, and just one is out of the league.* All but two are currently starters.
*Burress got his Pro Bowl with the Giants, and I'm assuming he'll come back to the NFL, post-jail.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Citizen Hero: Blue Suit Man
I'm heading to work this morning standing waiting to cross Livingston Street. I'm up on the edge of the curb and to my left is a nerdish little man pulling a rolling suitcase and wearing a blue faintly-striped suit. A youngish woman is walking holding hands with her perhaps 4 year old son, and has done a terrible job of judging the light change, so that the green for oncoming traffic hits as she's only barely just crossed the middle double yellow line. First in line on both lanes of held-up traffic are city buses. Blue Suit Man sees the woman (blatant and harmful jaywalker at this point, inconveniencing scores of people, but let's not focus on that cold fact) and child and defiantly reaches forward toward the nearest bus and outstretches his hand, exhorting it to stop ("remain stopped," I should say, since naturally it was motionless to begin with) with unflinching seriousness. He doesn't move his body, however, and so during his moment of chivalry the woman and child are always nearer the danger of the bus than he is. The stopped bus driver never acknowledges Blue Suit Man, probably because he never saw him. Neither does the woman once she makes it onto the sidwalk, as it's likely she didn't either.
I saw you, though, Blue Suit Man. I know what a true gallant you are, you feebly aggrandist dickbag.
I saw you, though, Blue Suit Man. I know what a true gallant you are, you feebly aggrandist dickbag.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
I'm More of an Addict
Yesterday I had an odd run. I didn't feel all that well and the knee that I stupidly smashed up this summer was feeling a little tighter than it has in the last few weeks. I wasn't going more than five miles and I was on one of my stock runs (from work up into Central Park, turning around at the garbage pickup spot along the bridle path). The weather wasn't even very notable: just a nearly setting sun and cool but not cool enough to be invigorating. I consciously started out slower to try to let the knee loosen naturally, I don't very much like to run slow. It was one of those runs that seemed to exist solely to provide me and excuse to write down "4.5" and "C-" on my paper.(1)
But then about a mile into the run something happened. My legs started behaving as though they belonged to someone else. They just loosened up and felt instantly more powerful. I was running high and picking up my feet with no effort. I honestly had to deliberately slow myself down because I didn't trust this sudden feeling of power.
It doesn't happen often but it happens often enough. The sensation of your brain being disconnected from your legs, of your legs taking over and dominating, dragging you along for the ride, is completely sublime. I won't say it's why I run in the first place, but it is definitely one of the reasons I run now as a 28 year old likely past the point of ever seriously racing again. It's maybe the one thing more than any other that addicts me to running.
I saw Chariots of Fire for the first time maybe a little more than a year ago. It was an ok movie but nothing really special and nothing that terribly inspired me to want to run any more than another movie. But it did have the single best explanation of running that I've ever heard. A woman (she's a singer) is talking about how she loves singing, and asks her companion, one of the main protagonists of the film, if he also loves running. He responds: "I'm more of an addict."
This is it. This strikes to the very heart of the relationship a runner has with his avocation.
Sure I like running a lot, but I'm more of an addict. I don't love it. There are those primal physical responses my body gives me that force me back to the sidewalks and the dirt paths, cause me to cross through levels of pain and discomfort in a curious but faithful attempt to reproduce the magic. Not to aggrandize the effect, but it can't be altogether different from a coke-head's mindless pursuit of another snort; no matter how many bad hits he suffers, he keeps clawing back.
I suppose there are some people who love running, that not everyone must be like me. But I have known enough over the years to suspect that in fact the connection many have is less emotional and more psychological and of course physical.
1. Yes, I keep a log. No, it is not much at all like the kind you see a recreational marathoner or a serious collegian keeping. I used Excel to print out three months' worth of calendar per printed page. Each day's box is just big enough to fit in a notation for the run's length, the letter grade I give to it, whether I worked out at all that day, whether I did leg exercises, and whether I did abdominal exercises. The best day possible, would contain these notes started from the top left and going clockwise around the square (assuming a six mile run): 6, A, A, L, W. It's a quick way for me to keep track of my fitness and of course an easy way to stay focused on being fit. I devised this system back at the turn of the year and made up calendar blocks for the whole year, but only followed along for about the first four months, before restarting with it in September.In five-plus months of logging runs, I've never given a run a grade of A. I've only ever given made two or three A minuses. I've also never given any Fs either. Until I get into better shape, the good- or badness of my runs is still rather limited.
But then about a mile into the run something happened. My legs started behaving as though they belonged to someone else. They just loosened up and felt instantly more powerful. I was running high and picking up my feet with no effort. I honestly had to deliberately slow myself down because I didn't trust this sudden feeling of power.
It doesn't happen often but it happens often enough. The sensation of your brain being disconnected from your legs, of your legs taking over and dominating, dragging you along for the ride, is completely sublime. I won't say it's why I run in the first place, but it is definitely one of the reasons I run now as a 28 year old likely past the point of ever seriously racing again. It's maybe the one thing more than any other that addicts me to running.
I saw Chariots of Fire for the first time maybe a little more than a year ago. It was an ok movie but nothing really special and nothing that terribly inspired me to want to run any more than another movie. But it did have the single best explanation of running that I've ever heard. A woman (she's a singer) is talking about how she loves singing, and asks her companion, one of the main protagonists of the film, if he also loves running. He responds: "I'm more of an addict."
This is it. This strikes to the very heart of the relationship a runner has with his avocation.
Sure I like running a lot, but I'm more of an addict. I don't love it. There are those primal physical responses my body gives me that force me back to the sidewalks and the dirt paths, cause me to cross through levels of pain and discomfort in a curious but faithful attempt to reproduce the magic. Not to aggrandize the effect, but it can't be altogether different from a coke-head's mindless pursuit of another snort; no matter how many bad hits he suffers, he keeps clawing back.
I suppose there are some people who love running, that not everyone must be like me. But I have known enough over the years to suspect that in fact the connection many have is less emotional and more psychological and of course physical.
1. Yes, I keep a log. No, it is not much at all like the kind you see a recreational marathoner or a serious collegian keeping. I used Excel to print out three months' worth of calendar per printed page. Each day's box is just big enough to fit in a notation for the run's length, the letter grade I give to it, whether I worked out at all that day, whether I did leg exercises, and whether I did abdominal exercises. The best day possible, would contain these notes started from the top left and going clockwise around the square (assuming a six mile run): 6, A, A, L, W. It's a quick way for me to keep track of my fitness and of course an easy way to stay focused on being fit. I devised this system back at the turn of the year and made up calendar blocks for the whole year, but only followed along for about the first four months, before restarting with it in September.In five-plus months of logging runs, I've never given a run a grade of A. I've only ever given made two or three A minuses. I've also never given any Fs either. Until I get into better shape, the good- or badness of my runs is still rather limited.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
There I Go
I guess this is the first time I've mentioned it. Had my ten-year high school reunion last Saturday and myself and the wife(1) made the trip back to Steubenville for it.
I'm not much for reunions, obviously. I sometimes don't even enjoy spending time with my current friends, let alone my rarely-spoken-to friends of over ten years ago, let further alone my don't-now-care-for-nor-did-I-even-ten-plus-years-ago classmates. Two things caused me to buy the plane tickets, though: Sara was curious, and one particular legit friend from that time requested the presence of a few people cause her parents moved out of the area and doesn't ever see anyone during the inevitable holiday meet-ups. Mostly, I wanted Sara to whet her appetite for all things relating to my stunning history, and especially I thought it would be hilarious for her to see a real live Ohio high school football Friday night.(2)
Once the plans were made I developed my own sense of curiosity and hope. Curious about how this very specific almost-right-of-passage experience would measure up to all the stereotypes, and hope that I'd walk away with a funny story or two.
I ended up rather disappointed, in a sorta comprehensive sense. Sure, I got to spend some time over two nights with the few people I actually enjoy seeing now. And any brief trip to my hometown is nice on its own. But the reunion itself was anticlimactic, subdued, overpriced, and just plain boring. Not boring in that I got bored, because I entertained myself, but boring on its own.
A small part of this might be my fault: I joked with a friend that we'd compete to see who could talk to the smallest amount of people, and to a large extent, upheld this goal. Only a couple times did I make a point of walking up and saying hello to someone, and even in most group settings I didn't bother to engage everyone there. But what was weird to me is that lots of other people there were doing barely more. Most everyone just kinda stayed in their groups. No one got obnoxiously drunk that I could tell. No one made a scene, no one chucked a drink in someone's face, no one let loose with any pent-up angst like the ex-girlfriend of Jerry's in that Seinfeld episode about George's chocolate-stained shirt. No one seemed intent on making up for lost slut time. No one was embarrassingly fat. No one was embarrassingly bald.(3) No one was walking around trying to brag about owning a yacht or inventing the E-ZPass. Everyone just sorta minded their business, like good midwesterners.
The food was bad but that was no surprise. The drinks were only free for the first two, then average-priced. The music was set to play nothing but late-90s hits, which was novel for about four songs but then got real old, especially when I heard the same song twice.(4,5) This cost me and the wife $75. Maybe I've got too much uppity NYC in me now, I don't know.
I did experience a moment of serious fascination after the official reunion ended. Most people decided to follow each other to a nearby bar called the Triple Play Cafe, located in the middle of a strip mall, just a couple doors down from K-Mart. The Triple Play Cafe is everything you might imagine, right down to the Guinness in a plastic cup and amazingly the same DJ working as handled the reunion, saying things like this before songs: "This one goes out to Indian Creek's class of '99." Anyhow, the fascinating aspect was that lots of people showed up at the bar who weren't at the reunion. At first I thought, well that's odd. Then I naively wondered why they come back into town just to go to a bar? Then I realized, shit, some of these people probably were embarrassed about going alone and so didn't, or, worse, simply couldn't afford the $75. Then it occurred to me that most of them were still locals and were just doing what they'd normally do on a Saturday night. A couple may have even turned around on their bar stools and wondered why in hell so many of their damn former classmates were there. Once my thoughts on the subject had come full circle, I came to somewhat envy those people, because here they were enjoying themselves on their own terms in a bar without having to go through the motions of a reunion and it's un-free-ness; but also to pity them because perhaps this amount of old classmates being back in town would represent a high point for them.
I can't decide if that thought is hugely condescending and presumptuous of me. I don't know the facts of their lives now anymore than I did a month or a decade ago. I didn't change much at all as a person from spending 12 years with them as a youth or spending a couple hours with them as an adult. I think that's the main thing I'll take away from the reunion experience.
Also, don't expect to see me at the 20, 30, 40 or 50th ones.
1. This might be the first time I've ever used the phrase "the wife" in print, or whatever this typed medium would be called. I'll let you decide and prepare accordingly, but I'm pretty sure I'm the type of guy to use that phrase a lot.
2. I was told my school would be playing at home last weekend. I was either lied to, or the AD selfishly switched up the schedule and left me with nothing. The only HS football tidbit I got was looking out over the outskirts of Pittsburgh as we descended below the clouds and toward the airport at about 7:00pm, seeing the little oases of lights denoting a football stadium in the throes of local pride. I spotted at least five or six.
3. You know my take on this, that "embarrassingly bald" is an oxymoron. I mean in the eyes of society.
4. Seriously, DJ-dude? The same song twice in a three-hour gig? On a related note, why in the hell do people still pay DJs to work events like this? Pay someone a small fee to rent and set up some speakers/amps and make a simple playlist. It's 2009, why do we need a live body pressing play or flipping records? These guys should go the way of typewriters.
5. I had no idea, but apperently my class song was/is "Turn the Page" by Bob Seger. Yeah. How would you feel if these were the same people that voted you Most Likely to Succeed? It's not even a big-fish-little-pond situation, more like sorta-average-sized-fish-little-pond.
I'm not much for reunions, obviously. I sometimes don't even enjoy spending time with my current friends, let alone my rarely-spoken-to friends of over ten years ago, let further alone my don't-now-care-for-nor-did-I-even-ten-plus-years-ago classmates. Two things caused me to buy the plane tickets, though: Sara was curious, and one particular legit friend from that time requested the presence of a few people cause her parents moved out of the area and doesn't ever see anyone during the inevitable holiday meet-ups. Mostly, I wanted Sara to whet her appetite for all things relating to my stunning history, and especially I thought it would be hilarious for her to see a real live Ohio high school football Friday night.(2)
Once the plans were made I developed my own sense of curiosity and hope. Curious about how this very specific almost-right-of-passage experience would measure up to all the stereotypes, and hope that I'd walk away with a funny story or two.
I ended up rather disappointed, in a sorta comprehensive sense. Sure, I got to spend some time over two nights with the few people I actually enjoy seeing now. And any brief trip to my hometown is nice on its own. But the reunion itself was anticlimactic, subdued, overpriced, and just plain boring. Not boring in that I got bored, because I entertained myself, but boring on its own.
A small part of this might be my fault: I joked with a friend that we'd compete to see who could talk to the smallest amount of people, and to a large extent, upheld this goal. Only a couple times did I make a point of walking up and saying hello to someone, and even in most group settings I didn't bother to engage everyone there. But what was weird to me is that lots of other people there were doing barely more. Most everyone just kinda stayed in their groups. No one got obnoxiously drunk that I could tell. No one made a scene, no one chucked a drink in someone's face, no one let loose with any pent-up angst like the ex-girlfriend of Jerry's in that Seinfeld episode about George's chocolate-stained shirt. No one seemed intent on making up for lost slut time. No one was embarrassingly fat. No one was embarrassingly bald.(3) No one was walking around trying to brag about owning a yacht or inventing the E-ZPass. Everyone just sorta minded their business, like good midwesterners.
The food was bad but that was no surprise. The drinks were only free for the first two, then average-priced. The music was set to play nothing but late-90s hits, which was novel for about four songs but then got real old, especially when I heard the same song twice.(4,5) This cost me and the wife $75. Maybe I've got too much uppity NYC in me now, I don't know.
I did experience a moment of serious fascination after the official reunion ended. Most people decided to follow each other to a nearby bar called the Triple Play Cafe, located in the middle of a strip mall, just a couple doors down from K-Mart. The Triple Play Cafe is everything you might imagine, right down to the Guinness in a plastic cup and amazingly the same DJ working as handled the reunion, saying things like this before songs: "This one goes out to Indian Creek's class of '99." Anyhow, the fascinating aspect was that lots of people showed up at the bar who weren't at the reunion. At first I thought, well that's odd. Then I naively wondered why they come back into town just to go to a bar? Then I realized, shit, some of these people probably were embarrassed about going alone and so didn't, or, worse, simply couldn't afford the $75. Then it occurred to me that most of them were still locals and were just doing what they'd normally do on a Saturday night. A couple may have even turned around on their bar stools and wondered why in hell so many of their damn former classmates were there. Once my thoughts on the subject had come full circle, I came to somewhat envy those people, because here they were enjoying themselves on their own terms in a bar without having to go through the motions of a reunion and it's un-free-ness; but also to pity them because perhaps this amount of old classmates being back in town would represent a high point for them.
I can't decide if that thought is hugely condescending and presumptuous of me. I don't know the facts of their lives now anymore than I did a month or a decade ago. I didn't change much at all as a person from spending 12 years with them as a youth or spending a couple hours with them as an adult. I think that's the main thing I'll take away from the reunion experience.
Also, don't expect to see me at the 20, 30, 40 or 50th ones.
1. This might be the first time I've ever used the phrase "the wife" in print, or whatever this typed medium would be called. I'll let you decide and prepare accordingly, but I'm pretty sure I'm the type of guy to use that phrase a lot.
2. I was told my school would be playing at home last weekend. I was either lied to, or the AD selfishly switched up the schedule and left me with nothing. The only HS football tidbit I got was looking out over the outskirts of Pittsburgh as we descended below the clouds and toward the airport at about 7:00pm, seeing the little oases of lights denoting a football stadium in the throes of local pride. I spotted at least five or six.
3. You know my take on this, that "embarrassingly bald" is an oxymoron. I mean in the eyes of society.
4. Seriously, DJ-dude? The same song twice in a three-hour gig? On a related note, why in the hell do people still pay DJs to work events like this? Pay someone a small fee to rent and set up some speakers/amps and make a simple playlist. It's 2009, why do we need a live body pressing play or flipping records? These guys should go the way of typewriters.
5. I had no idea, but apperently my class song was/is "Turn the Page" by Bob Seger. Yeah. How would you feel if these were the same people that voted you Most Likely to Succeed? It's not even a big-fish-little-pond situation, more like sorta-average-sized-fish-little-pond.
Friday, October 2, 2009
No Dress Codes Allowed
I'm probably treading into unwelcome waters now but fuck it. I'll keep it confidentially vague. I have access to Outlook calendars for several of the higher-level guys at my office (it helps me to know when they are around the office and therefore what needs they will have that I should look out for, not just for the voyeur/hackeryness of it). On the calender for a guy tonight is a personal dinner appointment where his secretary has written in "business casual attire." This notation about proper/expected clothing appears in most of his dinner engagements, and please remember that these are personal dinners, not business or client related.
What I'd like to say relating to this bit of knowledge is: I sincerely hope that at no point in my life--no matter how flukishly wealthy or important I may ever become--will I ever require someone to consistently inform me what the proper attire is for my personal dinner appointments. First, I hope never to have another person subjected to scheduling my dinner-dates with my wife. Second, I hope never to frequent establishments often enough that expect me to be specificly nicely dressed. And finally, I hope that, even if I find myself regularly in nicer places, I will not ever be worried about how my dress will compare to those around me.
What I'd like to say relating to this bit of knowledge is: I sincerely hope that at no point in my life--no matter how flukishly wealthy or important I may ever become--will I ever require someone to consistently inform me what the proper attire is for my personal dinner appointments. First, I hope never to have another person subjected to scheduling my dinner-dates with my wife. Second, I hope never to frequent establishments often enough that expect me to be specificly nicely dressed. And finally, I hope that, even if I find myself regularly in nicer places, I will not ever be worried about how my dress will compare to those around me.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
One More
I heard something on the radio this morning that's inspired me to make a notable addition to the list from yesterday. Notable enough that it gets its own post, and not just an editing addition to yesterday.
Captain Sully.
The radio blurb this morning was about how today will be his first flight (piloting, lord knows he traveled via plane since the incident for media engagements and what not) since the famous landing on the Hudson River in January.(1) Of course they carried on the tradition of liberally using the word "hero" in describing the man.
Now let's get this straight. What he did was impressive and admirable but not heroic. He was just doing his job, for chrissakes. I checked his bio and he joined the Air Force in 1969, so he's been piloting planes for at least 40 years. I'm pretty confident that any person licensed to fly commercial airplanes has the expertise to successfully land a plane on a smooth body of water, let alone one with 40 years of experience.
The act of flying is inherently dangerous.(2) People have constantly claimed that he saved the lives of the 155 people on board in January. If you accept that as truth you must also accept that every single pilot who ever captains a plane and lands it successfully then saves the lives of all passengers. This is not heroic, this is what these people do for a living. They take off, they usually kick it into autopilot for several hundred miles, then they land. Over and over. Oh, sometimes there is turbulence and they have to take it off autopilot.
Let me step back and say that clearly it's tougher to land a plane on water with no wheels than on land with wheels, but again, I'm sure all pilots are put through in-case-of-emergency training so that they know how to land on water and on non-runway land. I'm also not going out on a limb by saying that landing a plane with no engine power must be tougher than with, but then of course I'm sure they are all trained at that too.
And now a sidebar complaint about "heroes." A man doing his job is not by itself heroic, no matter what that job is. If heroism enters the equation (debatable but acceptable), then it exists only when the man decides to embark upon a career such as aviation, or firefighting, another profession that is constantly called heroic. It's a noble pursuit. It is admirable. It is not heroic.
Maybe my definition is just a bit stricter than others.
1. The radio blurb finished up mentioning that if anyone wanted to take his first flight back, you are out of luck because the flight is sold out. If there was any earnestness in that statement, then I really don't know what to think of our human society. To think someone would take a flight from NYC to Charlotte purely because it's the first one for the pilot after an eight-and-a-half-month layoff is beyond ridiculous.
2. Dangerous, meaning there is always a chance of death, not dangerous because death is likely. Sorta like walking on the yellow part of the subway platform while a train is coming into the station. But not dangerous like walking through a minefield.
Captain Sully.
The radio blurb this morning was about how today will be his first flight (piloting, lord knows he traveled via plane since the incident for media engagements and what not) since the famous landing on the Hudson River in January.(1) Of course they carried on the tradition of liberally using the word "hero" in describing the man.
Now let's get this straight. What he did was impressive and admirable but not heroic. He was just doing his job, for chrissakes. I checked his bio and he joined the Air Force in 1969, so he's been piloting planes for at least 40 years. I'm pretty confident that any person licensed to fly commercial airplanes has the expertise to successfully land a plane on a smooth body of water, let alone one with 40 years of experience.
The act of flying is inherently dangerous.(2) People have constantly claimed that he saved the lives of the 155 people on board in January. If you accept that as truth you must also accept that every single pilot who ever captains a plane and lands it successfully then saves the lives of all passengers. This is not heroic, this is what these people do for a living. They take off, they usually kick it into autopilot for several hundred miles, then they land. Over and over. Oh, sometimes there is turbulence and they have to take it off autopilot.
Let me step back and say that clearly it's tougher to land a plane on water with no wheels than on land with wheels, but again, I'm sure all pilots are put through in-case-of-emergency training so that they know how to land on water and on non-runway land. I'm also not going out on a limb by saying that landing a plane with no engine power must be tougher than with, but then of course I'm sure they are all trained at that too.
And now a sidebar complaint about "heroes." A man doing his job is not by itself heroic, no matter what that job is. If heroism enters the equation (debatable but acceptable), then it exists only when the man decides to embark upon a career such as aviation, or firefighting, another profession that is constantly called heroic. It's a noble pursuit. It is admirable. It is not heroic.
Maybe my definition is just a bit stricter than others.
1. The radio blurb finished up mentioning that if anyone wanted to take his first flight back, you are out of luck because the flight is sold out. If there was any earnestness in that statement, then I really don't know what to think of our human society. To think someone would take a flight from NYC to Charlotte purely because it's the first one for the pilot after an eight-and-a-half-month layoff is beyond ridiculous.
2. Dangerous, meaning there is always a chance of death, not dangerous because death is likely. Sorta like walking on the yellow part of the subway platform while a train is coming into the station. But not dangerous like walking through a minefield.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Understanding Island
I have opinions like everyone. I don't think I get any more passionate about my opinions than a normal person. But I do tend to judge others based off of my opinions, and probably do that more than a normal person. This is likely due to the fact that I can be rather arrogant about things, that I'm very sure of myself.
In my own defense, I will not lapse into true arrogance about something unless I've gone over it in my head a few times and come to the conclusion that I'm just right, damnit, more right than you at least.
But lots of times these arrogant judgments aren't fair, or they are simply hurtful. Even in some very rare instances they may actually be wrong. Gasp. Sometimes I introduce an objective opinion into a subjective field. Sometimes I judge someone/something when it's not needed or welcome. Sometimes my opinions might just innocently diverge from another's, in which case a judgment(1) is both unnecessary and unwelcome.
The reason I'm thinking about this now is that I was reading something I think yesterday and John Cusack was mentioned in terms of how everyone like him. Well, I can't stand John Cusack. I don't like really any of his movies (particularly the 80s ones that he might be most famous for), and I don't really like any of his roles. People seem to think that he would be a nice guy in real life based on his acting. Setting aside for a second that that's a pretty stupid assumption to make, I feel like he'd be insufferable based on the same thing. It seems my personal opinion just severely differs from that of the general population. I might be tempted to make a judgment about the general population because of this (and have done similar things in the past, to be sure), but really why? It's ok for me to hate John Cusack and for everyone else to love him. Lots of times, there may be a subliminal explanation for this divergence, but not always.
On a vaguely similar note, I had an argument with Sara a week or two ago about the movie I Heart Huckabees. It seems she is a big fan, and she made me watch it when it was randomly on TV. I was less than impressed. Actually, I thought it was pretentious garbage, and offered this opinion to Sara, who naturally took some offense.
I say "naturally" because, while it's perfectly ok--actually very healthy--to engage in dissenting conversation about one of the arts, it's usually(2) not ok to do so as arrogantly as I did in this case. I led off with the judgment and never really backed off to the opinion, and that's an important distinction to make in a lot of cases.
Anyway, in the spirit of all of this, I thought I'd come up with a small list of topics in which my strong opinion/belief/judgment differs strongly with most people. I do this as a way of highlighting that yes it is ok to have differing viewpoints and not have anyone be "wrong," but also as reinforcement to myself to be more forgiving and benevolent.
So here, in no particular order, are some things I (sometimes improbably) have a strong but very minority opinion about, and where there is nothing wrong with that.(C) I only make a note where necessary:
1. John Cusack
2. Coffee -- don't drink it, can't stand it.
3. Music -- I've talked about this before, and I guess I'm still not completely ready to give up the idea that my viewpoint isn't a little more enlightened than others, but I include it here in a spasm of benevolence. To recap: hearing other people talk about music is utterly noxious to me. I appreciate it only for its innateness.
4. Tabasco sauce -- I love spicy things, but think the flavor of this is repulsive.
5. Sketch comedy.
6. Doctors -- not impressed.
7. Champagne.
--I just now realized that all of these so far are things I don't like--
9. Tofu -- no, really, it's not too bad.
10. Facebook/Twitter -- no.
11. Guinness -- if this is in fact an acquired taste, then I am in complete ownership of it.
A. You can't tell because this thing automatically highlights spelling errors and therefore notified me of the problem, but right here I spelled that word wrong for the second time in the same paragraph. That's almost unforgivable.
B. I don't care, if you try to claim that Ron Howard is as good a director as someone like Kubrick, then yes I am fully permitted to humiliate you. There is a line below which vaguaries don't exist. But then, I don't usually waste time in engage people making such dumb claims, so maybe this is moot.
C. Here is a list of things where my minority opinion is correct and the popular one is just flat wrong, and yes there is something wrong with the populous:
1a. Ron Howard -- hack.
1b. Tom Hanks -- overrated, very. Also frequent collaborator with 1a, which is a black mark.
2. American Idol/Reality TV in general
3. Celebrity worship -- I would say "obviously," but the fact that I think I fall in the minority about this rather amazingly means maybe not so obvious.
In my own defense, I will not lapse into true arrogance about something unless I've gone over it in my head a few times and come to the conclusion that I'm just right, damnit, more right than you at least.
But lots of times these arrogant judgments aren't fair, or they are simply hurtful. Even in some very rare instances they may actually be wrong. Gasp. Sometimes I introduce an objective opinion into a subjective field. Sometimes I judge someone/something when it's not needed or welcome. Sometimes my opinions might just innocently diverge from another's, in which case a judgment(1) is both unnecessary and unwelcome.
The reason I'm thinking about this now is that I was reading something I think yesterday and John Cusack was mentioned in terms of how everyone like him. Well, I can't stand John Cusack. I don't like really any of his movies (particularly the 80s ones that he might be most famous for), and I don't really like any of his roles. People seem to think that he would be a nice guy in real life based on his acting. Setting aside for a second that that's a pretty stupid assumption to make, I feel like he'd be insufferable based on the same thing. It seems my personal opinion just severely differs from that of the general population. I might be tempted to make a judgment about the general population because of this (and have done similar things in the past, to be sure), but really why? It's ok for me to hate John Cusack and for everyone else to love him. Lots of times, there may be a subliminal explanation for this divergence, but not always.
On a vaguely similar note, I had an argument with Sara a week or two ago about the movie I Heart Huckabees. It seems she is a big fan, and she made me watch it when it was randomly on TV. I was less than impressed. Actually, I thought it was pretentious garbage, and offered this opinion to Sara, who naturally took some offense.
I say "naturally" because, while it's perfectly ok--actually very healthy--to engage in dissenting conversation about one of the arts, it's usually(2) not ok to do so as arrogantly as I did in this case. I led off with the judgment and never really backed off to the opinion, and that's an important distinction to make in a lot of cases.
Anyway, in the spirit of all of this, I thought I'd come up with a small list of topics in which my strong opinion/belief/judgment differs strongly with most people. I do this as a way of highlighting that yes it is ok to have differing viewpoints and not have anyone be "wrong," but also as reinforcement to myself to be more forgiving and benevolent.
So here, in no particular order, are some things I (sometimes improbably) have a strong but very minority opinion about, and where there is nothing wrong with that.(C) I only make a note where necessary:
1. John Cusack
2. Coffee -- don't drink it, can't stand it.
3. Music -- I've talked about this before, and I guess I'm still not completely ready to give up the idea that my viewpoint isn't a little more enlightened than others, but I include it here in a spasm of benevolence. To recap: hearing other people talk about music is utterly noxious to me. I appreciate it only for its innateness.
4. Tabasco sauce -- I love spicy things, but think the flavor of this is repulsive.
5. Sketch comedy.
6. Doctors -- not impressed.
7. Champagne.
--I just now realized that all of these so far are things I don't like--
9. Tofu -- no, really, it's not too bad.
10. Facebook/Twitter -- no.
11. Guinness -- if this is in fact an acquired taste, then I am in complete ownership of it.
A. You can't tell because this thing automatically highlights spelling errors and therefore notified me of the problem, but right here I spelled that word wrong for the second time in the same paragraph. That's almost unforgivable.
B. I don't care, if you try to claim that Ron Howard is as good a director as someone like Kubrick, then yes I am fully permitted to humiliate you. There is a line below which vaguaries don't exist. But then, I don't usually waste time in engage people making such dumb claims, so maybe this is moot.
C. Here is a list of things where my minority opinion is correct and the popular one is just flat wrong, and yes there is something wrong with the populous:
1a. Ron Howard -- hack.
1b. Tom Hanks -- overrated, very. Also frequent collaborator with 1a, which is a black mark.
2. American Idol/Reality TV in general
3. Celebrity worship -- I would say "obviously," but the fact that I think I fall in the minority about this rather amazingly means maybe not so obvious.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Meek New World
In a second, I'm going to be the five-billionth person to talk about technology and how it's changed our lives. So, you know, brace yourselves for innovation.
As has slowly become more and more apparent, my natural inclination is to introversion. This is only fractionally surprising because I had about a 6-7 year run starting in college during which time I was pretty legitimately extroverted. Basically all my life before and after this sustained bout of openness has been what I now clearly deem to be my true state of being.
It's not that I don't like people or that I don't enjoy being around them, it's just that usually I don't need other people, and in fact I not-infrequently prefer to be totally alone. Additionally, in most instances when a decision could be made to do something either more or less socially, I will almost always choose the "less."
Anyhow, this fancy thing called the text message just happens to allow me to much more easily be myself.
People surely remember what it was like to communicate without text messages. You actually had to speak to someone else, like verbally. And you had to listen at the same time. It was weird. And awkwardly intimate. If someone was your friend, you had to call him on the phone to make plans to see him, plus you'd inevitably have to exchange pleasantries while doing so. There would be no sports or asinine commercials on the TV to use as a social crutch. And assuming you were trying to get together more than just one other person (again, the group setting to be used as a social crutch), you'd have to repeat this verbal conversation several times, likely even more than once for a couple of individuals. The horror, indeed.
My own personal timeline with this is a little bit undescriptive because wholesale texting started not too long after I left college and clearly my social dynamic was changing a lot at that time anyway, but I can pretty easily say that I communicate directly with far more people now than I did pre-text.
As long as you don't engage in many one-on-one dinners or conversations with people, it's much easier to maintain seemingly meaningful friendships in the texting world. I'm probably a little outside the meaty part of the bell curve on this, but think about your own list of regular communicators. I dare you to tell me that you would talk all of those people as regularly if you actually had to talk to them every time. No chance.
When you are in college, you have lots of "friends" who are such largely because of ease and proximity. They aren't actually your friends, because as soon as you or they move away you stop talking to them. Sure, it's easy to reconnect every once in a while and you would probably still get along fine, but they aren't on your speed dial. There are certain people who are your friends in college who truly are your friends and you in fact do keep in at least semi-regular contact with them afterwards, but there are more who you don't.
The text message allows a lot of those people who are fringe friends to stay in your inner circle. They aren't simply proximate friends like in college but their existence is your life is just as lazy for you. Because you don't have to really invest or engage or share those awkwardly intimate moments of direct one-on-one verbal communication, your dissimilarity or true standing with each other never has to be confronted. The text message lets us all be cowards. Which is fine with me, as long as I don't have to tell you that to your face, with actual spoken words.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Value: The Other Fat Gene
I have some kind of an imbalance that predisposes me to gaining weight, at least later in life. No I am not talking about genetics and my dad's 5'9" 225lb frame. I'm talking about my neverending desire for efficiency, in any situation.
I've been trying to eat a little healthier and get in better general shape lately. The workouts and such have been a slight success so far, and I've managed to cut down on the bad foods a little bit, but the problem I continue to unconsciously have is portion size. I eat like an orphan, like I don't know when my next meal will be. When I'm standing over the stove, looking into a pot of boiling water, mentally deciding how much pasta to put in, the only thing I'm thinking is: don't have not enough. Too much is ok, but for some reason I feel like it would be a grave tragedy to have just a little bit less than I need, that the missing 150 calories would kill me. And then after I've invariably made too much (but not quite enough to set aside a full leftover portion I could take to work for lunch), instead of saving the remainder for a side to eat the next day, I will pile it on my plate just to ensure nothing goes to waste.(1)
So anyway, I was sitting at a diner on Saturday afternoon looking through the wondrously massive menu and facing a quandry. The breadth of options and combinations was making it very difficult for me to decide just what was the most amount of food I could get for the least amount of money.(2)
When I'm at a diner I've never been to before, I like to order a turkey club with fries, and if I'm feeling frisky a bowl of soup, just to see what kind of establishment I'm dealing with, and also because I like all of those things. Well, since my trip to Baltimore/Philadelphia, this time I was guaranteed to get the mozzarella sticks,(3) but in addition to that, the Apollo Diner on Livingston Street had a turkey club with fries, pickle, and slaw for I think $9.69. So I was all set to get those two things, but then I noticed that they also have a philly cheesesteak with fries and a cup of soup for $10. I'd sacrifice the pickle and slaw but also get a cup of soup for just a small amount more. So then I started thinking I ought to get the turkey club as planned and then just add a whole bowl of soup, because a cup of soup is really small and you need a bowl if you really give a damn about value. In rationalizing this decision I reminded myself that while a cheesesteak is certainly delicious, it's actually a little smaller than the turkey clubs you get at diners, and my wife interrupted by being reasonable and reminding me I'd have plenty of cheese in the mozzarella sticks. True enough. I'd have plenty of everything, in fact, and that's the whole point of this. What kind of a human being ever needs to come close to clearing his plate of turkey club and fries, let alone a whole order of cheese sticks, to say nothing of an entire bowl of soup? At 2:00 in the afternoon, probably half of the turkey club and just a handful of fries would be appropriate. But then you'd have half a sandwich of waste, and not get the goodness of the cheese sticks.
My brain looks at a restaurant menu like it would a Sam's Club store. It's rarely ever taste or desire that guides my order, but the opportunity for a deal. Why buy three 24oz bottles of ketchup for the same price as one 128oz tub? Why buy two six-piece chicken mcnuggets for the same price as one 20-piece? The 500+ calories contained in the extra eight nuggets is just the delicious side effect of my successful efficiency, at least until I get on the wrong side of 30, when it will become a delicious fat effect.
1. I remember my dad used to be the same way about not letting food go to waste, and I used to passively fight him on it all the time. I hated leftovers, and I had an irrational fear of food being spoiled. But most of all I had (and of course still have) a literally unhealthy love of potato chips. I loved them so much that I hated to eat even remotely stale or smashed up or otherwise imperfect chips. And so I was always opening a new bag before the old bag was totally empty. This drove him nuts, naturally. The point is, I better start pre-conditioning myself toward compassion and understanding right now because I will probably end up seriously abusing any wasteful kids I'm destined to have.
2. This little game leads me to mistakes like the one I committed Friday night on the way home, when I ordered both a large fry and two Big Bufords, because the Bufords were 2 for $6, or something like $4 for one. For just $2 extra I could have a whole extra sandwich? Yes. But not so good directly before sleeping.
3. Seriously, how good are mozzarella sticks? Does it count as a guilty pleasure, just eating fried cheese? And am I wrong, or does it seem that this mighty appetizer has unfairly gotten labeled as a mere kid food?
Friday, September 18, 2009
A Very Short Story
She was tall and lean with a wide sweep of hair falling obediently across the left side of her face. In the mirror she observed it as her right side. She dressed quickly but thoughtfully. When all else was done she slipped on her green flip flops matching her large green straw handbag. Her long unpainted toes hung just barely over the front of the too-small shoes. She didn't want anyone to notice her imperfectly long feet.
A Nice Run
(As promised, here I am going to talk briefly about something nice.)
A city as big and populated and well-known as New York, so much so that a lot of its imagery is little more than cliche at this point, can still amaze. I'm going to say thank you now to Red Hook for giving me something different to see, and doing it so close by.
Yesterday I started a run near dusk, planning to head toward the harbor waterfront and then south into Red Hook for a little bit, then return home. I did this, sorta, only my mind was in just the right place so I got swept up in the sights and I went farther than expected. A lot of times when running I glaze over and simply cover the appointed ground, but sometimes my eyes are wide and my course is spontaneous and any turn can be exploratory.
I ran south as close as you can get to the water (which, until you've gotten through Cobble Hill and Carroll Gardens and into Red Hook, is not that close. Good-sized chunks of land that look no better than parking lots separate the road from the water) until starting to zig-zag westward until coming onto Imlay Street. This is a very unattractive street but in my state it was so barren and desolate that it became fascinating. The very long continuous warehouse running along the west side of the street for a while impressed me. In my horribly gentrified way, I wondered what it would be like to live there, turning one of the upper floors into a huge flat. Think of the sunsets, at least.
Continuing south and west as the darkness started to come in earnest, I think I had a little sense of freedom, the kind a city-dweller gets when confronted with openness or aloneness for the first time in a long while, just running along the blocks, seeing no one, warehouse after factory passing empty and quiet, the sidewalks getting rougher, Brooklyn seeming to keep jutting farther and farther into the still-unseen water. What must it be like to spend parts of your day or even your life in that corner of the borough, so obviously unlike so much that surrounds it (what's the antonym of aloof?). Does any of that industrial footprint see honest use anymore? I finally took a right turn on Wolcott Street and got very near to the water next to what might be a Snapple factory. There was a chain link fence that I stopped and stared through just about 15 feet from the powerful water. I was standing just across a narrow channel of harbor from the bottom end of Governor's Island, so the currents were fairly imposing, almost as much as the large sharp rocks lining both shores. This is not some place I'd want to take a swim. And yet the scene was at the same time very peaceful, and the view was certainly stunning. Straight north up the channel was a perfectly framed image of the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges. And out across the harbor, with little Governor's Island acting as a shield, whatever quicker pace might be represented by downtown Manhattan was totally drowned out and spread thin and wide across the entire harbor, absorbing itself into the shores of Jersey and Staten Island.
Finally I turned from my trance and for the first time on the run, headed away from the water. I was close to the bottom of Red Hook and decided to keep following the curve of land, into more and more desolate surroundings, which is why it was so odd to see, on Van Dyke Street, a very small sign and driveway (yes, a driveway) leading off to a place selling key lime pies. Maybe they're imported pies from Europe, I don't know. Straight off the boat, you know.
A few blocks further, near the corner of Conover and Reed, after having not seen another human for probably ten minutes, I improbably came upon a youngish woman carrying grocery bags. To my shock, I discovered a full-size Fairway market around the corner of Reed Street. With a full-sized suburban parking lot and everything.
Just a block or more away from the Fairway, on the other side of yet another big long warehouse on a pier, there was an inlet coming right up to an open chain-link fence that offered me a clear view of the waterfront scene. In the deepening dark and stagnant water it was entirely decrepit except for the odd sight of perhaps ten large and expensive-looking private boats. Like a marina in Connecticut, only amidst the Red Hook wasteland.
At this point, I was just a block or two away from having the whole scene open up thanks to the brightness of Ikea. Here though I made yet another surprising discovery: Ikea did an amazing job of revitalizing the waterfront behind their massive store. There is grass and a little waterfront parkways for walking or biking or whatever. They even left the massive docking machinery on the long skinny piers (hell, it may even still be in use). I ran and weaved my way along the water all the way to Columbia Street, stopping once to be almost confused by the low buildings out a few hundred meters across the water. I knew it was too close to be the rest of Brooklyn, but it seemed way too far away to be a pier. Lo and behold, after I got home and checked a map, but there is a huge hook-shaped pier at the bottom of Red Hook. It was too dark for me to tell if the pier was itself red, but I'd like to think that it must be.
Anyhow, I meandered home along a more familiar route, enjoying the cool air of early fall, even if that air conspired with my warm sweaty body to chafe my nipples. The point is that I spent maybe 45 minutes and traveled no farther than about 1.5 miles (as the crow flies) from my apartment, and yet I was able to feel like a little kid exploring new places.
This is a thing that I'm sure most New Yorkers take for granted. Our city houses 8 million people, and has been crowded for many many years. So there are experiences--both to be had to be remembered--all around in every corner of every neighborhood on every foot of land. You just can't get that in many places.
So thanks New York, thanks Brooklyn, thanks Red Hook.
A city as big and populated and well-known as New York, so much so that a lot of its imagery is little more than cliche at this point, can still amaze. I'm going to say thank you now to Red Hook for giving me something different to see, and doing it so close by.
Yesterday I started a run near dusk, planning to head toward the harbor waterfront and then south into Red Hook for a little bit, then return home. I did this, sorta, only my mind was in just the right place so I got swept up in the sights and I went farther than expected. A lot of times when running I glaze over and simply cover the appointed ground, but sometimes my eyes are wide and my course is spontaneous and any turn can be exploratory.
I ran south as close as you can get to the water (which, until you've gotten through Cobble Hill and Carroll Gardens and into Red Hook, is not that close. Good-sized chunks of land that look no better than parking lots separate the road from the water) until starting to zig-zag westward until coming onto Imlay Street. This is a very unattractive street but in my state it was so barren and desolate that it became fascinating. The very long continuous warehouse running along the west side of the street for a while impressed me. In my horribly gentrified way, I wondered what it would be like to live there, turning one of the upper floors into a huge flat. Think of the sunsets, at least.
Continuing south and west as the darkness started to come in earnest, I think I had a little sense of freedom, the kind a city-dweller gets when confronted with openness or aloneness for the first time in a long while, just running along the blocks, seeing no one, warehouse after factory passing empty and quiet, the sidewalks getting rougher, Brooklyn seeming to keep jutting farther and farther into the still-unseen water. What must it be like to spend parts of your day or even your life in that corner of the borough, so obviously unlike so much that surrounds it (what's the antonym of aloof?). Does any of that industrial footprint see honest use anymore? I finally took a right turn on Wolcott Street and got very near to the water next to what might be a Snapple factory. There was a chain link fence that I stopped and stared through just about 15 feet from the powerful water. I was standing just across a narrow channel of harbor from the bottom end of Governor's Island, so the currents were fairly imposing, almost as much as the large sharp rocks lining both shores. This is not some place I'd want to take a swim. And yet the scene was at the same time very peaceful, and the view was certainly stunning. Straight north up the channel was a perfectly framed image of the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges. And out across the harbor, with little Governor's Island acting as a shield, whatever quicker pace might be represented by downtown Manhattan was totally drowned out and spread thin and wide across the entire harbor, absorbing itself into the shores of Jersey and Staten Island.
Finally I turned from my trance and for the first time on the run, headed away from the water. I was close to the bottom of Red Hook and decided to keep following the curve of land, into more and more desolate surroundings, which is why it was so odd to see, on Van Dyke Street, a very small sign and driveway (yes, a driveway) leading off to a place selling key lime pies. Maybe they're imported pies from Europe, I don't know. Straight off the boat, you know.
A few blocks further, near the corner of Conover and Reed, after having not seen another human for probably ten minutes, I improbably came upon a youngish woman carrying grocery bags. To my shock, I discovered a full-size Fairway market around the corner of Reed Street. With a full-sized suburban parking lot and everything.
Just a block or more away from the Fairway, on the other side of yet another big long warehouse on a pier, there was an inlet coming right up to an open chain-link fence that offered me a clear view of the waterfront scene. In the deepening dark and stagnant water it was entirely decrepit except for the odd sight of perhaps ten large and expensive-looking private boats. Like a marina in Connecticut, only amidst the Red Hook wasteland.
At this point, I was just a block or two away from having the whole scene open up thanks to the brightness of Ikea. Here though I made yet another surprising discovery: Ikea did an amazing job of revitalizing the waterfront behind their massive store. There is grass and a little waterfront parkways for walking or biking or whatever. They even left the massive docking machinery on the long skinny piers (hell, it may even still be in use). I ran and weaved my way along the water all the way to Columbia Street, stopping once to be almost confused by the low buildings out a few hundred meters across the water. I knew it was too close to be the rest of Brooklyn, but it seemed way too far away to be a pier. Lo and behold, after I got home and checked a map, but there is a huge hook-shaped pier at the bottom of Red Hook. It was too dark for me to tell if the pier was itself red, but I'd like to think that it must be.
Anyhow, I meandered home along a more familiar route, enjoying the cool air of early fall, even if that air conspired with my warm sweaty body to chafe my nipples. The point is that I spent maybe 45 minutes and traveled no farther than about 1.5 miles (as the crow flies) from my apartment, and yet I was able to feel like a little kid exploring new places.
This is a thing that I'm sure most New Yorkers take for granted. Our city houses 8 million people, and has been crowded for many many years. So there are experiences--both to be had to be remembered--all around in every corner of every neighborhood on every foot of land. You just can't get that in many places.
So thanks New York, thanks Brooklyn, thanks Red Hook.
A Very Short Story
He shot himself through the head a week ago. He was 25 and had his heart broken a few months before.
She didn't take it well, but she knew it wasn't her fault.
The mother was a different story. "He belonged to me," she strained weakly through the embrace of her consoling husband.
Everybody belongs to someone.
She didn't take it well, but she knew it wasn't her fault.
The mother was a different story. "He belonged to me," she strained weakly through the embrace of her consoling husband.
Everybody belongs to someone.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
The Worse and Worst
How horrible are people?
How much more horrible are we now than we were before?
How much of a reinforcing factor is the media in reporting horribleness?
Does this reinforcement work more strongly for negative stories than positive ones?
Is the media responsible for horribleness, if even slightly?
My kneejerk answers to these questions would be: pretty horrible, noticeably so, a lot, yes, and yes.
I'm not going to link it because the contextual facts of the story are irrelevant, but what got me thinking about this is that I stumbled onto a story about a 35 year old woman who had given up her child for adoption about fifteen years ago. It seems she tracked down this biological son via the internet, befriended/manipulated him, and actually had sex with him.
This story is so absurdly horrible that I at first have a hard time believing that a human being is possible of that kind of depravity all on his/her own, that some vile stew of contemporary evils must have swirled around in this woman's conscious and unconscious beings to create the possibility for her actions.(1)
My next thought was about the old cliche how the major news outlets only report on negative stories and not positive ones. I also thought about how the still-adolescent internet media seems to cycle through stories in an exponential desire to find the most extraordinary or most amazing or most horrible one, as though the hyper-competitive nature of internet news forces that media to deliver greater and greater shock value to slice off whatever attention it can from its overstimulated audience. And how could this constant yearning for extremes, coupled with the clear and longstanding negative focus of these news stories, not lead a consuming humanity into at least unconsciously worse and worse behavior.
It's like the psychology behind copy-cat crimes, only with a baser, least-common-denominator competitive streak.
I think this effect does exist. I think this is a form of radical social evolution that is sped along by the brute power and speed of worldwide web connectedness.
I think as a general rule that the media is definitely complicit in this, but on a macro level and not a micro one. I don't specifically dislike media outlets or forms or any people associated with or responsible for them, but I do with some consistency dislike the observable effects of "media." In a way, you could say that not everyone is prepared to be exposed to infinite information.(2) You could definitely say that not everyone producing media is prepared for the responsibility of infinite information.
It's nice to know things. It's nicer to know that you can know something if only you decide to. But the near-infinite experiences of the world population are too much for any one person, especially when being handily distilled by media into only the wildest and most unbelievable.
I guess in a secondary and indirect way I'm saying to you not to leave out the banality of the world. Indeed, if media only to focus more on the amazingly positive stories that abound in the world, then that would only partly remedy the situation.
Nonetheless, as a consequence of this strain of thought, here in this blog I'm going to try to consciously make note of the wonderful things that I see, both inherent in the world and of course those which come from people.
1. Big time disclaimer here. I'm in no way excusing this woman from blame here. I'm also not saying she did what she did as part of some natural escalation of society. Every crime is unique because every criminal is unique. What I'm saying is that the maybe 0.01% of crazy that got into this woman thanks to her absorption of other negative media stories might be enough to push her ever slightly to ever-worse acts. And if lots and lots of people are absorbing the same tiny sliver of acceptance of depravity, then eventually dominoes will start to fall. It's like the parable if you put a million monkeys in front of a million typewriters and give them a million years, eventually one would produce Hamlet. But if they were all watching a continuous loop of Shakespearean tragedies while sitting in front of the typewriters, you can be very sure that it would take a lot less longer.
2. Naturally, no one could ever be prepared for infinite information, though the thought, as mere theory to consider, is an interesting one.
How much more horrible are we now than we were before?
How much of a reinforcing factor is the media in reporting horribleness?
Does this reinforcement work more strongly for negative stories than positive ones?
Is the media responsible for horribleness, if even slightly?
My kneejerk answers to these questions would be: pretty horrible, noticeably so, a lot, yes, and yes.
I'm not going to link it because the contextual facts of the story are irrelevant, but what got me thinking about this is that I stumbled onto a story about a 35 year old woman who had given up her child for adoption about fifteen years ago. It seems she tracked down this biological son via the internet, befriended/manipulated him, and actually had sex with him.
This story is so absurdly horrible that I at first have a hard time believing that a human being is possible of that kind of depravity all on his/her own, that some vile stew of contemporary evils must have swirled around in this woman's conscious and unconscious beings to create the possibility for her actions.(1)
My next thought was about the old cliche how the major news outlets only report on negative stories and not positive ones. I also thought about how the still-adolescent internet media seems to cycle through stories in an exponential desire to find the most extraordinary or most amazing or most horrible one, as though the hyper-competitive nature of internet news forces that media to deliver greater and greater shock value to slice off whatever attention it can from its overstimulated audience. And how could this constant yearning for extremes, coupled with the clear and longstanding negative focus of these news stories, not lead a consuming humanity into at least unconsciously worse and worse behavior.
It's like the psychology behind copy-cat crimes, only with a baser, least-common-denominator competitive streak.
I think this effect does exist. I think this is a form of radical social evolution that is sped along by the brute power and speed of worldwide web connectedness.
I think as a general rule that the media is definitely complicit in this, but on a macro level and not a micro one. I don't specifically dislike media outlets or forms or any people associated with or responsible for them, but I do with some consistency dislike the observable effects of "media." In a way, you could say that not everyone is prepared to be exposed to infinite information.(2) You could definitely say that not everyone producing media is prepared for the responsibility of infinite information.
It's nice to know things. It's nicer to know that you can know something if only you decide to. But the near-infinite experiences of the world population are too much for any one person, especially when being handily distilled by media into only the wildest and most unbelievable.
I guess in a secondary and indirect way I'm saying to you not to leave out the banality of the world. Indeed, if media only to focus more on the amazingly positive stories that abound in the world, then that would only partly remedy the situation.
Nonetheless, as a consequence of this strain of thought, here in this blog I'm going to try to consciously make note of the wonderful things that I see, both inherent in the world and of course those which come from people.
1. Big time disclaimer here. I'm in no way excusing this woman from blame here. I'm also not saying she did what she did as part of some natural escalation of society. Every crime is unique because every criminal is unique. What I'm saying is that the maybe 0.01% of crazy that got into this woman thanks to her absorption of other negative media stories might be enough to push her ever slightly to ever-worse acts. And if lots and lots of people are absorbing the same tiny sliver of acceptance of depravity, then eventually dominoes will start to fall. It's like the parable if you put a million monkeys in front of a million typewriters and give them a million years, eventually one would produce Hamlet. But if they were all watching a continuous loop of Shakespearean tragedies while sitting in front of the typewriters, you can be very sure that it would take a lot less longer.
2. Naturally, no one could ever be prepared for infinite information, though the thought, as mere theory to consider, is an interesting one.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Our Honeymoon Journal
Monday, August 10th
Sara:
Honeymoon Day 1 ~ Luna de Miel ~
Oh flying! You delay us so, but even with my Xanax we booked it and made our connecting flight.
Grand Palladium Royal Suites
+ Food at El Jardin
- Little booze in fruity drinks
- Wine was mediocre
+ Lots of beautiful walkways
+ Big plans for tomorrow: free, fancy dinner and lots of swimming
+ Service was "forced but friendly" (Josh's words)
+ At El Jardin: tortilla diablo soup was excellent!
+ Room is Huge and has a hot tub on deck. It's fabulous.
+ Lots of extra special things, as we are "Royal"
Tuesday, August 11th
Josh:
We discovered the private "Royal" beach area today and although I've had some slight bourgie disdain for our own special "Royal" status, the private beach spot was wonderful. Big padded wooden shade beds with pillows and fine loose drapes, all encircled by spectacular tiny sand grains and authentic (looking at least) foliage.
The water is super clear and greenish. In many spots there is flora growth on the seabed, even right up at the shore, and in some spots there is scattered coral.
Enjoyed the buffets today and actually didn't over-eat at either. Morning fare was mostly average, I'd rate it a 7 in a vacuum but only a 4-5 because we are in Mexico and the Mexican stuff could probably be better. A real treat was the beautiful quesadilla filled only with ham and cheese. The red and green sauces were very good and same with the bean mixes. I love Mexican style beans. Lunch was similar. Good chips and sauces (excellent salmon ceviche) but surprisingly tame jalapenos. I couldn't tell if the fish was really really good or just water-soaked so as to seem perfectly fresh and moist. Sara's fish last night (a la carte) was truly good while my spaghetti bolognese (I know) was expectedly average. I did have a soup--tortilla diablo--that was superb. This slices of chips with chunks of guacamole and cheese plus this odd spinach-looking substance were all piled salad-ish in the bottom of the bowl then the waiter ladeled on the thick broth over the top. Awesome. Chips stayed chippy, other ingredients weren't faded, and the broth was delightfully spicy. I will recreate this at home.
Also at lunch I dropped Sara's wedding ring in a pile of beans. Afterward we excitedly went to play mini golf but disappointment isn't nearly strong enough a word to describe the terrible conditions or the mosquito nest in which the holes were located.
I did experience my first swim-up bar and while I can say it was exciting in the same way a grilled cheese sandwich would be if the added peanut butter to it, by the third time I wanted s drink I was wishing there were a terra firma bar option at the pool because wading around a kid's water volleyball game while holding bloody marys at eye-level is just non-sensical.
The drinks are horribly weak. Tasty, I mean, but light on the hooch. Each 8oz plastic cup full of concoction contains about one shot's worth of booze. It's only about 7:00pm right now and I've had maybe four frozen drinks plus six or more beers lus one shot of tequila and I'm nowhere near drunk, or buzzed. You really do just sweat it out. Oh, and I had two mimosas with breakfast. A real treat that was to serve myself. Two bottles of champagne were available with myriad juices and I think Sara and I were the only two smart enough to put two and two together. A number of fools were sitting and drinking plain flutes of champagne at 10am.
Friday, August 14th
Sara:
I want to paint our bedroom the colors of Tulum. The sand is so light, almost white and the ocean ranges from bright blue to green to a dark almost purple. The furniture on the beach is brown and natural. The sort of furniture we could build. The palm trees look like paintings with their gray trunks and dark green leaves that stick straight out from the lime green spine of each one. No blues are the same here and the grey is a pale harmless shade. Today there are scattered clouds, maybe ten. The are puffy and perfect.
From the hammock on our porch we can see all of these colors. I want to wake up every morning to all of this.
Josh:
Today is Friday morning in Tulum but I'm returning to our stay at the Palladium for a minute. Tuesday evening we had our "luna de miel" dinner, in which we shared a table with another honeymooning couple--the woman from Pittsburgh actually. While it was fun to be served a five-course meal, the food was underwhelming. That's a theme from the all-inclusive experience: average-at-best food. The buffet quality was good for a buffet but the a la carte restaurants were not as good. Wednesday night we ate at a Brazilian-style place which means the waiter comes around and serves you meat directly off a large skewer. Unfortunatley almost every meat I had was overcooked, though the breadth of this carnivore experience was hamsgiving-esque.
We figured out how to properly expose ourselves to the sun and so are not much burned (though my lips are in tough shape). Maybe 20-30 minutes on one side, turn and get 15-20 more on the other, then a 10+ minute dip in the pool and then pause for shade for at least 30 minutes. This will be toughe
r to adhere to (I mean in the self-discipline sense) here in Tulum because it's all beach all the time.The pools at the Palladium were spectacular: ridiculously clean and with these built-in lounge chair things that Sara took a serious liking to (see left).
Interestingly, it was the pools that tipped us off to the sad truth (for them--it was great news for us) of the resort: that it was very empty. In our 40ish capacity building, there were not more than 10 residents. And yet everything was open all the time. This created a surreal ability to get anything I wanted whenever I wanted, the ideal of an all-inclusive resort. We were even served fresh fruit skewers by the pool totally unsolicited.
Finally, on Wednesday evening I had my first ever spa experience, including a 50 minute Swedish massage (masaje suecos). This was very nice in parts but all in all nothing to write home about (Yes I get it. Thanks). I guess I'm just not a massage guy. I even tried deep breathing during, to what I think was moderate success.
Friday, August 14th - still pre-noon
Josh:
Went into Tulum pueblo last night and although it's strewn with little knick-knack stores for tourists, it had a good authentic feel. One main street and no building taller than 3-4 stories. Lots of locals, especially couples riding together on little motorbikes. Pretty sure we were the only Americans eating at the very full restaurant: Don Cafeto's. This place is
well known and was even recommended to us by a taxi driver who claimed to eat there himself "every time I stop through Tulum." Food was fairly good, maybe 7 out of 10. Almost perfect fish ceviche, nice crisp chips, this odd bowl full of spicy pickled carrots/onions/garlic/peppers (see pic). Sara ate too much of one of the peppers (a habanero?) and was inpain for five minutes. I found it largely agreeable. Sara had a dish of whitefish heavily seasoned with a kind of garlic breading. I got the "Plato Mexicano," which may have been a mistake, but was exactly like what you'd get in the sampler dish at any crappy Mexican place in the U.S., except mine was for real for once. It was more food than I could eat and not as spicy as I'd have liked but otherwise good. Had that odd almost blandness of mostly authentic Mexican cooking.We were going to go to the ruins today but were told to go very early to beat the crowds and the heat, so tomorrow first thing we will try our luck with some of the bikes.
Today I saw the sun rise and out of a sense of obligation and to tease others with two mere dimensions of image, snapped a few photos.
Our room is lovely with a captial L. (Hmm. Smirking.) There is a mosquito net around the bed that is vaguely magical.
No AC so it's pretty hot but still a little breezy. The breeze during the afternoon and evening is almost miraculous though. Reduces the temp by maybe 20 degrees.The water is quite warm but if you go out about chest-high there are scattered swirls of quite cool streams.
I ran 2-3 miles down the beach today and we might have nicest rooms on the whole beach. You'll see the pics but we are literally on the sand facing the water about 150ft away. It's exactly what I wanted, and quite perfect. (Ok, me being me, even when on vacation, I just stepped off the distance and it's 55 steps from door to water, so 150-175ft probably.)
Friday, August 14th - after 7:00pm
Josh:
I just saw a couple--honeymooners, perhaps--get up and walk off the beach back toward their bungalow set a little bit back from the beach. (I was reclining in the hammock, reading on our porch. Note: I now love hammocks, took a 30 minute nap in it earlier this afternoon. Impromptu, it was that comfy.) So, watching this guy go off toward his less-nice room than ours, I had a feeling rather opposite from my bourgie-reticence of earlier this week. I felt proudly superior to this man, reclining on my perfect porch perfectly located on the perfect beach, thinking what a shame it was for this man that he wasn't able to provide for his wife in quite the same wonderful way as I was for mine.
Yes I felt better than him. Yes it felt good. I will just keep telling myself this emotion is related to pleasing Sara, and not my ego.
Also, the sun is setting as I write (no I can't see it, the beach faces East) and there is a marvelous wind blowing in my face. It's stronger than yesterday. There is barely a cloud in the sky. A gray cloud drifted over us in the pueblo last night for maybe 20 minutes: that was the only moment of non-perfect weather in the five days so far. I know I'm jinxing us by writing that. It has been idyllic. This hotel is totally idyllic.
Since I'm waiting for Sara to return from sunset yoga to eat dinner at the hotel's restaurant and have food on the brain, I'll mention lunch. We took two bikes out for a ride today and ended up at what my trip research told me is a very good spot: Zamas. I can now confirm this. Naturally, I got the seafood tacos, and they were excellent. Spicy and totally delicious. I hate to keep using this word again, but perfect, in a way. They reminded me of the best tacos I've ever had before: Mercadito in the East Village. Since today I only had the seafood variety, I must give Zamas the nominal edge now, but still it's pretty amazing what great and authentic food of all sorts you can get in NYC.
Sara:
My experience with Yoga: It was hard. It made me want to do more because it feels so good.
Other things that feel so good:
Great ceviche
Blue water and clear water
Being married
Honeymooning
Wine with a good meal
Expansive showers with dual showerheads
Jacuzzis on a balcony - used in the AM
Pizza at Om (Tulum)
Saturday, August 15th - noonish
Josh:
Last night we ate here at Ocho's restuarant and it was the best food all-around so far. Everything was easily above-average. Sara said the fish tacos were better than yesterday, the ceviche was easily the best so far (and bonus points for a great presentation), and my roasted shrimp was amazing. Delicious and yet somewhat subtle, that's what I like.
The ceviche (sara diving into at right), by the way, brags of containing "just eight ingredients." I looked at the menu again this morning; they are: shrimp, grouper, octopus, avocado, onion, corn, ginger, and coriander.
Sunday, August 16th - 4:00pm
Yesterday in Tulum we also got around to checking out the "ancient" Mayan ruins. The experience was neither good nor bad
. It just was what it was. We had to guide and so may have missed some of the detail, but I would not have been totally distraught to have missed it completely, knowing then what I know now.A problem might be that as you walk around, the remnants of buildings are just there, so close and tempting, and yet you can't go up close and explore or intimately experience them. This was especially pronounced with the Castle, the area's centerpiece. There was a wonderful little beach immediately below this Castle, maybe 75 feet down some craggy rocks. It was very nice and the photos we took may end doing it some justice. Another note: because the ruins are raised and sheltered by rocks, there is almost no wind, and therefore the area, in August, is a huge sweatbox.
Monday, August 17th - something AM
Josh:
Hotel La Palapa, our domicile here in Isla Holbox, is not even close to as nice as our first two places. Maybe I should remark that those two did set the bar pretty high. It's not as perfect when I see numerous tiny ants in various corners of the room, or I lay down on a bed that's equal parts hard, lumpy, and crooked, or I notice that the seeming cleanliness is sortof an illusion caused by the white paint and if I look closer I can easily see evidence of disattention, or finally if my room's AC doesn't work on the first night. This last difficulty proved not to be an issue, remarkably enough, as yesterday and last night stayed somewhat cool. A fellow and many times more numerous traveler mentioned that yesterday it was the coolest she's ever experienced it in Mexico.
Now let me tell you why, as I sit on the beach amidst one or two too many flies but in a rather pretty setting of gentle water lapping and slowly departing fishing boats.
There was a large downpour here yesterday, lasting maybe 45 minutes and timed to coincide exactly with our arrival here. I could guess that as much as 2-3 inches of rain fell in just 20-30 minutes. The streets on this island are all sand, and since it looked like it may have rained recently as well, they were waterlogged with over six inches of standing water. Because of this, our golf cart driver had to move at a snail's pace through the town, further ensuring that our bags, and mostly just us, got fully soaked. And so we did. At the time, I was agitated for numerous reasons, but now I have no ill thoughts. It's what happens in places like these. There was still multiple inches of standing water on most of the streets as of 10pm last night, too.
Two striking things about the Holbox beach: long and shallow, and little wind. The former will provide a pleasant wading experience while the latter I fear will encourage bugs. Now, around 8am and so still coolish, there a lots of flies in my vicinity but I can't tell how many mosquitos. The flies are simply annoying. Also the beach here is more what I'm used to in terms of consistency and shell presence, so it's a bit rougher. Tulum's beach was a remarkable softness and not disturbed at all by shells. I can't believe but it seems I managed to take it for granted while there.
Our meal last night was very satisfying. It started with a chorizo queso that used this mozzarella-like cheese that was goupy and oily. Needless to say, it was delicious. (I think this is the oaxaca cheese, very prevalent on every stop so far, Wikipedia will confirm this in a few days, I'm sure.) Then Sara and I both got a fish dish, purportedly different but they looked pretty similar. Both excellent and quite large--my portion was about triple what you'd get in NYC. We also had a tequila with the meal: Don Julio, which was very smooth, not requiring the salt/lime routine. And I've finally made a firm decision on which Mexican beer I like best: Sol, by a lot.
Monday, August 17th - 1:00pm
Josh:
I can't believe I haven't yet mentioned my rash. I've had it since I woke up on Saturday morning and it's worried me on and off at various intensities since. At first I was a little terrified that perhaps somehow I'd improbably gotten poison ivy on my honeymoon on the beach in Mexico. Then I was sure the rash on the insides of both forearms was from scratching my arms on the bed frame when I was tucking in the mosquito netting in Tulum (not a simple task when done alone). Then a local told me in very slight English that it was some kind of sun or sand rash that he's seen before, that I only needed to put a "cream" (I think he meant lotion) on it and keep it out of the sun. That was Sunday afternoon. Since then it hasn't gotten worse but also not better. I've put plenty of sunscreen on it when going out in the sun. His diagnosis makes some sense because that's about the only exposed part of my body that I haven't been lotioning. So I'm going to live with the itch and keep it from sun as much as is possible and hope it goes away. It's spread up my forearm toward my elbow just a little bit but the first spots near my wrists are faded so I'm not yet alarmed. One thing I am is very slightly looking forward to be back in the sheltered safety of NYC so this can pass in peace. And that is kindof a sad commentary from a man on his honeymoon.
This is day 8, and I'm still definitely enjoying myself. Holbox today in the sun has revealed itself to be a lovely little town. Sara and I walked a mile or more down the beac
h to the West to one end of the island and there was the most beautiful beach there. The beach along the main coast is only average and mostly occupied with small fishing boats. On this far end there were no boats and only one house/hotel/structure set a ways off the water. The currents were sheltered from the main waveline and so the water was remarkably still. The most still I have or likely ever will see for open sea, in fact. The bottom was also very shallow pretty far out. I was lying down in calm clear water less than two feet deep easily more than 50 feet from shore. The fact that we just stumbled onto this little haven made the experience exponentially more enjoyable. The way traveling is meant to be, I suppose.Sara:
Time for a reflection on why we are here. As much time as we spend together in NYC, and have spent together on various travels to the Midwest, Josh and I have never been alone together for this amount of time.
(Of course we are coming off our wedding, so this may be colored by newlywed bliss.)
It has been gr
eat. We love eating, drinking, sleeping together, but we also have the same idea about how we want to spend our time (eating, drinking, sleeping together). Neither of us are extreme thrill seekers and so we have done things such as taken walks, played in the water, and befriended local dogs (that's Paco to the left). All this while just having fun being together. There have been some tense moments such as when we debated if it was appropriate for Josh's dad to have brought up God in our ceremony after strict directions not to (I said "no way," he said "if it makes him happy"). This conversation led into a talk about religion and our family. The end of it was extremely positive even if the middle was tough. We talked about how we make the rules for our family and how now we have to look to each other first and foremost. This was a big and wonderful conclusion to draw. How exciting to be in a place and with the person that you get to establish and define this next part of our lives.We had another uncomfortable conversation when Josh said some things that sound sexist AND racist to me. (Josh editing note: come one thing we can agree on is that Frida Kahlo is overrated. The cause of that overrating is certainly up for debate.) Although it heated me up it allowed us to talk about our differences and how we might have those differences play out in our family. (Yes, I can expose our children to the terrible inequalities and injustices out there but no I cannot force them to be activists. The verdict is still out on if I can ensure they vote Democratic--I come from a long line of families who won't support conservative bullshit especially in regards to social programs. To be honest, there are some definite socialists on my maternal side. This is of course the antithesis of Josh's family.) So we are learning to talk like husband and wife. This is especially important as we are talking about having a little Folger sooner than later. Everyday we are growing closer and becoming a better pair. As fabulous as the sunshine and beautiful surroundings are, maybe this is what the honeymoon is all about.
A list of our most used phrases:
1. Dos cervesas por favor. Con limon.
2. La cuenta por favor.
3. Cuanto cuesta? (Or: Cuantos pesos?)
4. Hay uno pato del mar!
Other important phrases:
1. Tengo hombre.
2. Anything with "esposo" or "esposa"
Tuesday, August 18th
Sara:
Holbox gets better with time. Josh and I have been steadily falling in love with the town, the stillness of the ocean, the restaurants, and the local animals (dogs!).
Last night we ate at a terrific place (something with Pirates in the name). The pasta was made fresh and the seafood was excellent. The meal started with a shrimp-mayo to dip our bread in. Excellent! This morning we set outside at a restaurant and had eggs. Josh had huevos rancheros and they were unlike what we are used to. The tomatoes are incredibly sweet and the tortillas we had to accompany our meals were fresh, as is they were just made. We drank beer, played cards, ate great food, and marveled at our surrounding. There is something very intimate and immediate about this town. It feels like a "no-pretense" town. Often beautiful beach towns have really decrepit interiors where the locals live. In Holbox you see it all. By that I mean that you even see the interiors of the houses.
The temperature has probably hit 100degrees every day we have been here so windows and doors are always open. From what i can gleam, people live in hammocks here. They are used as beds and as seats. It makes me want to chuck all the unnecessary things we have--wait, we have none.
Which reminds me: today we bought ART! The nesting part of me went crazy. Finally! We have items that have artistic and sentimental value (not prints in frames--such as how our current home is decorated). And I bought bowls yesterday. I looove them.
Wednesday, August 19th - 7:00am
Josh:
Terms to wikipedia: sun rash, Roberto Borge, whale shark, oaxaca cheese, camaron ya'ax, pescado a la veracruxana, Isla Holbox, Tulum ruins, sol beer. And I know I'm forgetting a ton. Will try to remember on the way to the airport. Also, I want to go back and re-read descriptions of places on sites like Trip Advisor. And I definitely definitely want to go to Google Earth and have a field day with 9+ days of new locations to orient myself with.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
