"So listen, I've been thinking, and I think I know what we need."
"What, like a new coffee table? Mine has a lot of stains, since you keep on forgetting to put down a coaster."
"Nah, dude, not like that. I mean what we need as a race! As part of humanity!"
"Ugh, one of these again..."
"I promise that it's really good."
"...fine. Okay, tell me. What do we, as members of the human race, need?"
"We need something to tell us when we're almost there!"
"...what. You mean like GPS?"
"No! Well, kind of. But for tasks! Goals! Achievements in our lives!"
"I'm really feeling lost here."
"Okay, well, think about this. Haven't you ever wanted to become a best-selling author? Or a famous actor? You know, some big dream like that?"
"Of course I have! Everyone has."
"Well, so why'd you give it up?"
"I mean, I dunno. It's tough, isn't it? You try and you try, and you don't seem to be getting anywhere. Eventually, you just stop."
"Yeah, exactly! But don't you wonder sometimes? What if you were almost there?"
"You mean like I was about to make the big time?"
"Yeah, exactly! And maybe you were just one book, one gig away! But you don't know, because you quit before covering that last little step."
"Ah, I see. But if there had been a voice to tell me that I was almost there-"
"Then you would have pushed through, and you might be famous by now! Or rich! Or successful in life!"
"Hey! I think I'm doing okay in life!"
"Oh, okay, sure, but not amazing, right? Because we give up too fast! So we need someone to tell us that we're almost there!"
"Or even better, a progress bar."
"No, not a progress - actually, wait, hold on. That does work better."
"So it's agreed. We need a progress bar for all of our goals in life. I'll draw up the paperwork so that we can submit it to God for his signature."
"Come on, dude, you don't have to be sarcastic about it."
"I'm just saying - it's a cool thought, but it's not just magically gonna happen."
"Whatever. I thought it was creative. Anyway, it's getting chilly out. We should probably turn around."
"But what if we're almost there??"
"Almost where?"
"I dunno. Whatever our walk goal is."
"Just for that, I'm not gonna use a coaster on your coffee table tonight."
Showing posts with label Rants. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rants. Show all posts
Friday, September 12, 2014
Friday, January 3, 2014
The (Lack of) Glamour of Air Travel
Similar to riding horses, shopping in Abercrombie and Fitch, and playing craps at a casino, traveling by air is one of those activities that always seems glamorous and fancy up until you actually do it. Hold on a minute, scratch that. I’ve played craps before and it’s quite enjoyable. Replace that with taking a taxi.
I have performed all of these activities, and one of their most striking qualities is how much less fun they were to do than they seemed from afar. As a graduate student living halfway across the country from the rest of my family, I find myself at the unfortunate intersection of “needing to fly regularly” and “I’m poor and need to take three flights at 1:30 AM”. And this is not a fun intersection to be stranded at.
But traveling via airplane is an interesting combination of wonder and utter frustration. The indignity and bother of removing every single object from my person at security screenings? The incredibly overpriced and meager selection of food for sale in airports? The disturbingly squishy chairs that somehow can never be comfortable for more than five minutes? The stale, dry, dirty air on the planes themselves? All of these little frustrations come together to make traveling by air a rather unpleasant experience.
On the other hand, I can never quite shake that sense of wonder I feel as the plane finally lifts off from the runway. Wilbur and Orville Wright flew for the very first time in 1906 (I know that off the top of my head - be impressed), and now, barely over a hundred years later, we clamber fearlessly into metal tubes that streak across the sky, higher than we can breathe, propelled by the constant combustion of incredibly flammable liquids.
Flight is a marvel, something that humanity has strived to attain for thousands of years. And yet, today we treat it as an inconvenience! What plasticity the human mind possesses, to shift its mindset so radically in just a few generations.
But I’m a scientist, not a philosopher, so I’m going to brainstorm a few ways that we could shake off a few of the annoyances associated about airplanes:
1. Security checkpoints are long and annoying. We may have switched over to millimeter wave detection, but why in the world do we still need to take off our shoes and empty our pockets? Let’s get some automated smart scanners that generate a three-dimensional scan and identify weapons, combined with chemical sniffers that can detect single molecules of explosive. And to be honest, I don’t really care if some balding TSA agent happens to see my outline beneath my clothes - more incentive for me to stay in shape!
2. The single most infuriating thing about air travel, in my opinion, is the waiting. Oh god, so much waiting. I’m sure that most airlines have very complicated computer algorithms to determine when and where flights take off from and are destined to land, but let’s take it a step further. When I check in, I want to be sent an electronic boarding pass with a QR code and a date and time. I want to know that, at that specific time, I can walk straight onto the airplane. We’re already getting close with zone boarding, just put everything on a timetable! You’ll know exactly when you need to be at the airport, and with security automated, you simply walk in, spend 30 seconds being scanned by computer, and then proceed directly to your gate and onto the plane. And if you miss your flight and rant to the gate agent, let them kick you out - there’s a giant time stamp that told you exactly when you had to be there. So sorry you failed to comply with the clearly presented information; better luck next time.
3. A simple request: give us some damn couches in the waiting areas! When my connecting flight lands at 2 AM and I have three hours to kill until my next connection boards, I want someplace where I can actually stretch out without having several metal armrests enthusiastically attempt to mate with my spine.
4. Solving the food issue seems pretty simple if security can be resolved; with rapid, automated security checkpoints, it shouldn’t be hard to walk out, grab a cheap and delicious burrito from someplace like Chipotle, return in through security again, proceed directly to your flight, and then sit there regretting your choice in meal. No more taking advantage of the trapped herd of fliers inside security, tiny and unappealing food kiosks!
5. Comfort on the plane itself is a bit trickier. Sure, we could rip out half the seats on the plane so that we can all enjoy a bit more leg room, but the airlines are already running on pretty razor thin margins, and the more people they can corral onto a plane, the better. So let’s go the other way; instead of removing seats, let’s improve them! I’m thinking that we go the modern route, get Aeron in here to make us something beautiful out of nano-engineered mesh, and then make some cheap ripoffs. These seats are three inches thick and still uncomfortable - shaving off a couple inches would make the seats a bit larger (for the, how shall I say, heftier fliers), add more leg room, and probably also reduce weight, which provides greater savings to the airline!
6. Free wifi on planes. Seriously, why are we still charging for wifi on an airplane? Motel 6 and most strip clubs have free wifi, for god’s sake! (I am strangely proud of getting both god and strip clubs into that last sentence, by the way.) I’m writing this post on an airplane right now, but I won’t be able to post it until we land, as my pride prevents me from spending six whole dollars for internet access. I mean, that six dollars could nearly get me a tiny side salad in the airport.
I have performed all of these activities, and one of their most striking qualities is how much less fun they were to do than they seemed from afar. As a graduate student living halfway across the country from the rest of my family, I find myself at the unfortunate intersection of “needing to fly regularly” and “I’m poor and need to take three flights at 1:30 AM”. And this is not a fun intersection to be stranded at.
But traveling via airplane is an interesting combination of wonder and utter frustration. The indignity and bother of removing every single object from my person at security screenings? The incredibly overpriced and meager selection of food for sale in airports? The disturbingly squishy chairs that somehow can never be comfortable for more than five minutes? The stale, dry, dirty air on the planes themselves? All of these little frustrations come together to make traveling by air a rather unpleasant experience.
On the other hand, I can never quite shake that sense of wonder I feel as the plane finally lifts off from the runway. Wilbur and Orville Wright flew for the very first time in 1906 (I know that off the top of my head - be impressed), and now, barely over a hundred years later, we clamber fearlessly into metal tubes that streak across the sky, higher than we can breathe, propelled by the constant combustion of incredibly flammable liquids.
Flight is a marvel, something that humanity has strived to attain for thousands of years. And yet, today we treat it as an inconvenience! What plasticity the human mind possesses, to shift its mindset so radically in just a few generations.
But I’m a scientist, not a philosopher, so I’m going to brainstorm a few ways that we could shake off a few of the annoyances associated about airplanes:
1. Security checkpoints are long and annoying. We may have switched over to millimeter wave detection, but why in the world do we still need to take off our shoes and empty our pockets? Let’s get some automated smart scanners that generate a three-dimensional scan and identify weapons, combined with chemical sniffers that can detect single molecules of explosive. And to be honest, I don’t really care if some balding TSA agent happens to see my outline beneath my clothes - more incentive for me to stay in shape!
2. The single most infuriating thing about air travel, in my opinion, is the waiting. Oh god, so much waiting. I’m sure that most airlines have very complicated computer algorithms to determine when and where flights take off from and are destined to land, but let’s take it a step further. When I check in, I want to be sent an electronic boarding pass with a QR code and a date and time. I want to know that, at that specific time, I can walk straight onto the airplane. We’re already getting close with zone boarding, just put everything on a timetable! You’ll know exactly when you need to be at the airport, and with security automated, you simply walk in, spend 30 seconds being scanned by computer, and then proceed directly to your gate and onto the plane. And if you miss your flight and rant to the gate agent, let them kick you out - there’s a giant time stamp that told you exactly when you had to be there. So sorry you failed to comply with the clearly presented information; better luck next time.
3. A simple request: give us some damn couches in the waiting areas! When my connecting flight lands at 2 AM and I have three hours to kill until my next connection boards, I want someplace where I can actually stretch out without having several metal armrests enthusiastically attempt to mate with my spine.
4. Solving the food issue seems pretty simple if security can be resolved; with rapid, automated security checkpoints, it shouldn’t be hard to walk out, grab a cheap and delicious burrito from someplace like Chipotle, return in through security again, proceed directly to your flight, and then sit there regretting your choice in meal. No more taking advantage of the trapped herd of fliers inside security, tiny and unappealing food kiosks!
5. Comfort on the plane itself is a bit trickier. Sure, we could rip out half the seats on the plane so that we can all enjoy a bit more leg room, but the airlines are already running on pretty razor thin margins, and the more people they can corral onto a plane, the better. So let’s go the other way; instead of removing seats, let’s improve them! I’m thinking that we go the modern route, get Aeron in here to make us something beautiful out of nano-engineered mesh, and then make some cheap ripoffs. These seats are three inches thick and still uncomfortable - shaving off a couple inches would make the seats a bit larger (for the, how shall I say, heftier fliers), add more leg room, and probably also reduce weight, which provides greater savings to the airline!
6. Free wifi on planes. Seriously, why are we still charging for wifi on an airplane? Motel 6 and most strip clubs have free wifi, for god’s sake! (I am strangely proud of getting both god and strip clubs into that last sentence, by the way.) I’m writing this post on an airplane right now, but I won’t be able to post it until we land, as my pride prevents me from spending six whole dollars for internet access. I mean, that six dollars could nearly get me a tiny side salad in the airport.
Friday, November 8, 2013
Update and musings!
Hello, random spam and Google indexing bots that are still remaining loyal to my site!
First off, despite what the major media outlets are claiming, I'm not dead. I am alive and well, kept busy by both work, working on my NaNoWriMo novel, and by the fact that Netflix has just released all five seasons of Chuck for online streaming. Damn you, Chuck, and your silly everyman approach to being a super-spy.
If you're wondering about progress on my novel, as I am sure that you all are (thoughts of a search bot: "Yay, he's writing more stuff for me to index in hopes of coming across a tasty nugget of advertising!"), rest assured that I am meeting and exceeding my word targets. It is currently day 8, which means that my novel is supposed to be at 13,333 words by the end of the day.
My novel is 20,000 words. And I'll work on it more this evening.
Thank you, search bots. Please, you can stop your electronic beeping. Is that supposed to be applause? You should work on that.
However, I don't just want to talk about all the congratulations that I'm receiving - no, I currently have a different train of thought passing through my mind-station. And that train is named "The concept of intelligence." Weird name for a train, I know.
If people were given the choice of any three qualities or characteristics for them to wish to possess, their choices would likely be something like "Rich, Popular, and Smart." Actually, for some people they may replace "Smart" with "Beautiful/Handsome". Fine, Smart is in the top four choices.
But saying whether someone is smart or not is quite difficult. And, surprisingly, I feel that, just like wealth, intelligence is a trait that can be changed - unlike looks, you can work on being smart!
In talking to many people, and reading many accounts on the internet ("See, I'm not just on Reddit to goof off - I'm conducting important sociological studies!"), I've seen a tendency for people to consider themselves either "smart" or "dumb", and usually in a pretty static range. They point at things like IQ tests, Mensa memberships, grade point averages, or college/job history to prove their intelligence.
I don't feel that this is a good measure, however, as plenty of Mensa members tend to be arrogant blowhards that could use a couple months with their jaws wired shut. And at the same time, I've heard people who would consider themselves to be "stupid" make surprising flashes of brilliance. Instead, I feel that intelligence should be defined in a couple of different ways:
1. Intelligence should be segregated by area. Knowing about biology, genetics, and biochemistry, while admirable, does not mean that I should let you fix my car.
2. For each and any area, intelligence should be defined as such:
"the amount of factual information known"
multiplied by
"the ability to draw inferences, make connections, and bridge gaps in this knowledge"
multiplied by
"the ability to express ideas clearly, as a percentage"
This formula is simple: there are three ways to increase your intelligence in any area!
Approach 1: learn more. Read books, practice a skill, watch others, ask questions, add to your mental library.
Approach 2: practice making connections. This is probably the toughest to train (and thus, comes the closest to being intelligence that you are born with). But the more knowledge is truly understood, including the reasoning behind it, the more connections can be made.
Approach 3: talk, talk, write, and talk again! I know so many intelligent people that are mind-numbing bores when they speak. If you can't communicate an idea clearly, you may as well not know it at all. It is trapped in your head, unable to get out!
"But, Samwise, why do we even need to redefine intelligence at all?" you ask me.
"Spambots, it is very clear why this is necessary," I reply. "And I shall provide a personal example. I know a person who knows nothing about science, my chosen field. Biology is a mystery to her. I possess years of experience and factual information about things like DNA, RNA, recombination, and genetic analysis that she does not.
"However, when I explain concepts to her, as soon as she has the background, she is able to quickly and intuitively follow my leaps of progression! In her formula, the first value may be low, but the second value is high.
"Does this mean that, even focusing on biology as an area of intelligence, that she is dumber than I am? Well, yes, as a total value at the end of the formula. But that is due not to a lack of brainpower on her part - merely the fact that she doesn't have as many facts as I do! It's easier to win a race in a Lamborghini than in a Volvo, even if the Volvo has a racecar driver behind the wheel. Looking at potential intelligence, the second value, she's just as smart as I am."
Of course, by this point the robots have long since stopped indexing the page, so I'm talking to myself. But my point stands. Our measures of intelligence are shoddy, and they need to be improved.
First off, despite what the major media outlets are claiming, I'm not dead. I am alive and well, kept busy by both work, working on my NaNoWriMo novel, and by the fact that Netflix has just released all five seasons of Chuck for online streaming. Damn you, Chuck, and your silly everyman approach to being a super-spy.
If you're wondering about progress on my novel, as I am sure that you all are (thoughts of a search bot: "Yay, he's writing more stuff for me to index in hopes of coming across a tasty nugget of advertising!"), rest assured that I am meeting and exceeding my word targets. It is currently day 8, which means that my novel is supposed to be at 13,333 words by the end of the day.
My novel is 20,000 words. And I'll work on it more this evening.
Thank you, search bots. Please, you can stop your electronic beeping. Is that supposed to be applause? You should work on that.
However, I don't just want to talk about all the congratulations that I'm receiving - no, I currently have a different train of thought passing through my mind-station. And that train is named "The concept of intelligence." Weird name for a train, I know.
If people were given the choice of any three qualities or characteristics for them to wish to possess, their choices would likely be something like "Rich, Popular, and Smart." Actually, for some people they may replace "Smart" with "Beautiful/Handsome". Fine, Smart is in the top four choices.
But saying whether someone is smart or not is quite difficult. And, surprisingly, I feel that, just like wealth, intelligence is a trait that can be changed - unlike looks, you can work on being smart!
In talking to many people, and reading many accounts on the internet ("See, I'm not just on Reddit to goof off - I'm conducting important sociological studies!"), I've seen a tendency for people to consider themselves either "smart" or "dumb", and usually in a pretty static range. They point at things like IQ tests, Mensa memberships, grade point averages, or college/job history to prove their intelligence.
I don't feel that this is a good measure, however, as plenty of Mensa members tend to be arrogant blowhards that could use a couple months with their jaws wired shut. And at the same time, I've heard people who would consider themselves to be "stupid" make surprising flashes of brilliance. Instead, I feel that intelligence should be defined in a couple of different ways:
1. Intelligence should be segregated by area. Knowing about biology, genetics, and biochemistry, while admirable, does not mean that I should let you fix my car.
2. For each and any area, intelligence should be defined as such:
"the amount of factual information known"
multiplied by
"the ability to draw inferences, make connections, and bridge gaps in this knowledge"
multiplied by
"the ability to express ideas clearly, as a percentage"
This formula is simple: there are three ways to increase your intelligence in any area!
Approach 1: learn more. Read books, practice a skill, watch others, ask questions, add to your mental library.
Approach 2: practice making connections. This is probably the toughest to train (and thus, comes the closest to being intelligence that you are born with). But the more knowledge is truly understood, including the reasoning behind it, the more connections can be made.
Approach 3: talk, talk, write, and talk again! I know so many intelligent people that are mind-numbing bores when they speak. If you can't communicate an idea clearly, you may as well not know it at all. It is trapped in your head, unable to get out!
"But, Samwise, why do we even need to redefine intelligence at all?" you ask me.
"Spambots, it is very clear why this is necessary," I reply. "And I shall provide a personal example. I know a person who knows nothing about science, my chosen field. Biology is a mystery to her. I possess years of experience and factual information about things like DNA, RNA, recombination, and genetic analysis that she does not.
"However, when I explain concepts to her, as soon as she has the background, she is able to quickly and intuitively follow my leaps of progression! In her formula, the first value may be low, but the second value is high.
"Does this mean that, even focusing on biology as an area of intelligence, that she is dumber than I am? Well, yes, as a total value at the end of the formula. But that is due not to a lack of brainpower on her part - merely the fact that she doesn't have as many facts as I do! It's easier to win a race in a Lamborghini than in a Volvo, even if the Volvo has a racecar driver behind the wheel. Looking at potential intelligence, the second value, she's just as smart as I am."
Of course, by this point the robots have long since stopped indexing the page, so I'm talking to myself. But my point stands. Our measures of intelligence are shoddy, and they need to be improved.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
A Word of Advice
Psst! Hey you! Yes, you, right there, looking at the screen. Come in close, would ya? I've got something to tell you.
Look, I know you. No, don't try and shake your head at me. I know you. You seem pretty well put together at first glance, make a pretty decent first impression. Or at least a second impression. You're not a bad person, you've got some natural talents, some gifts, you're not the dullest tool in the shed. And hey, you know this. So then, why are you so... what's the word...
Ordinary?
Yeah, that's it. And I know that, deep down inside, you don't want to be ordinary. You want to excel, be unique, stand out from the crowd, have something about you that no one else has. Because hey, don't we all. Look around. Everyone wanted to be normal as a kid, and now they want to be unique as an adult. Paradoxical, ain't it?
But no, you want to excel. At something. And hey, don't we all. But we've tried, and I can certainly attest to it, it's damn hard. Trying to be good at something takes work. And to be great? Good luck, there's always someone out there who's further ahead, further down the line. And at some point, you stop and say to yourself, might as well give up now, huh? Call it, not waste any more effort?
So here, I'll help you out. Lay a little truth on you. You see everyone else around you, all those people who are better than you, who can somehow always have the right thing to say, to do, for whom everything always seems so damn easy? See them? The people who somehow seem to have it all figured out? See them? Know them?
It's a lie.
Everyone, every single person around you, is scared, paralyzed, in mortal fear that you can see through the chinks in their armor. They're all projecting out shells of knowledge, of confidence, trying to seem impenetrable, while inside they cry and mewl in helpless despair.
That speaker, confidently giving his presentation? He's spent months slaving over this topic, and is scared to death that someone will ask him a question he doesn't know, or he'll blank on the answer and be booed off stage. That guy effortlessly chatting up the babes at the bar? He's been rejected so many times, and he remembers every one of them, each with its own unique, exquisite sting of failure. That girl strutting down the street, dressed in high fashion and making every man's head twist to follow her figure? Just this morning, she stood in the mirror, observing every minuscule flaw and hating herself for them. They all seem so sure of themselves, but inside, they're just as fragile as you or me.
So, what's the difference? If we're all the same inside, why are they able to pull it off? How can they step forward when everyone else hesitates or steps back? What do they have, that you and I lack?
Really, it's rather a chilling answer. They know that they will fail. They have failed before, have taken those wounds, sustained those scars. And they kept on going. It's not natural talent, or trained skill, or confidence, or poise, or ability, luck, happenstance, or fortune.
No, it's raw, bloody, dogged determination. They refuse to hide away, to stay safe from rejection, failure, disappointment and sadness.
It's the reductionist approach to life: if you keep it small, you'll keep it under control. If you don't make any noise, the bogeyman won't find you. But it's all an illusion, because they die too, those people who roll up their spirits into tiny little balls so as to be safe.
Safe?! From what? Life is always on the edge of death; narrow streets lead to the same place as wide avenues, and a little candle burns itself out just like a flaming torch does. I choose my own way to burn.
Look, I know you. No, don't try and shake your head at me. I know you. You seem pretty well put together at first glance, make a pretty decent first impression. Or at least a second impression. You're not a bad person, you've got some natural talents, some gifts, you're not the dullest tool in the shed. And hey, you know this. So then, why are you so... what's the word...
Ordinary?
Yeah, that's it. And I know that, deep down inside, you don't want to be ordinary. You want to excel, be unique, stand out from the crowd, have something about you that no one else has. Because hey, don't we all. Look around. Everyone wanted to be normal as a kid, and now they want to be unique as an adult. Paradoxical, ain't it?
But no, you want to excel. At something. And hey, don't we all. But we've tried, and I can certainly attest to it, it's damn hard. Trying to be good at something takes work. And to be great? Good luck, there's always someone out there who's further ahead, further down the line. And at some point, you stop and say to yourself, might as well give up now, huh? Call it, not waste any more effort?
So here, I'll help you out. Lay a little truth on you. You see everyone else around you, all those people who are better than you, who can somehow always have the right thing to say, to do, for whom everything always seems so damn easy? See them? The people who somehow seem to have it all figured out? See them? Know them?
It's a lie.
Everyone, every single person around you, is scared, paralyzed, in mortal fear that you can see through the chinks in their armor. They're all projecting out shells of knowledge, of confidence, trying to seem impenetrable, while inside they cry and mewl in helpless despair.
That speaker, confidently giving his presentation? He's spent months slaving over this topic, and is scared to death that someone will ask him a question he doesn't know, or he'll blank on the answer and be booed off stage. That guy effortlessly chatting up the babes at the bar? He's been rejected so many times, and he remembers every one of them, each with its own unique, exquisite sting of failure. That girl strutting down the street, dressed in high fashion and making every man's head twist to follow her figure? Just this morning, she stood in the mirror, observing every minuscule flaw and hating herself for them. They all seem so sure of themselves, but inside, they're just as fragile as you or me.
So, what's the difference? If we're all the same inside, why are they able to pull it off? How can they step forward when everyone else hesitates or steps back? What do they have, that you and I lack?
Really, it's rather a chilling answer. They know that they will fail. They have failed before, have taken those wounds, sustained those scars. And they kept on going. It's not natural talent, or trained skill, or confidence, or poise, or ability, luck, happenstance, or fortune.
No, it's raw, bloody, dogged determination. They refuse to hide away, to stay safe from rejection, failure, disappointment and sadness.
It's the reductionist approach to life: if you keep it small, you'll keep it under control. If you don't make any noise, the bogeyman won't find you. But it's all an illusion, because they die too, those people who roll up their spirits into tiny little balls so as to be safe.
Safe?! From what? Life is always on the edge of death; narrow streets lead to the same place as wide avenues, and a little candle burns itself out just like a flaming torch does. I choose my own way to burn.
-Sophie Scholl
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Confused Frustration
Author's note: this was written on September 5th, so information may be slightly out of date. I'm probably still feeling pretty much the same, however, since this is being published a good 6 days before even the first Week of Welcome activity. Eh.
So, for anyone who doesn't read the author bio on this blog, I'm currently a graduate student.
Oh, wait, what's that? My author bio doesn't say anything about that? Well, crap. You're right. And just to prove how much of a liar I am, I'm not even a graduate student. Good lord, I just keep digging myself deeper into this pit of lies.
Let me make an amendment. I'm not a graduate student YET. Not for another 11 days, when my program starts.
And I haven't felt this lost in a while.
Ah, you ask, now hanging on my every word (and probably searching for more opportunities to point out my lies), but why are you lost? The program hasn't even started yet! And you mentioned something about a Welcome Week up there in the italics at the top of this post, so they probably tell you everything you need to know and more!
Yes, oh unseen and mostly imaginary audience, this may be true. And I hope that it's true, as it would mean that many of my fears are unfounded and can vanish back into my closet. But right now, I know next to nothing, and this makes me fear that I'm forgetting about everything.
Case number one: finances. Now, according to some lovely letters on fancy official school stationary, I have been given a stipend of $26k per year. Woo! That's more money than I made at my previous job, by lots! I should be able to afford to cover my bed in money and then roll around in it, without the indignity of finding coins lodged in awkward crevices later!
Now, however, I'm not so sure. From what I seem to be seeing online, that money is given to me before tuition. And I have to pay tuition. Not only do I have to pay tuition, but tuition seems to be somewhere between $20,000 and $48,000 per year.
Wait a minute! How can I be getting 26k but paying out 20k or greater? Given that my rent for the year is 500/month (which appears to be one of the cheaper options in my city of college residence), this means that, even in the best case scenario, I barely have enough to pay for my apartment. And I cannot eat my apartment.
(Other issue: apparently I don't get my financial reimbursements until November. Kind of a long time to wait, don't you think, university? Don't you??)
Even if money was my only concern at the moment, that wouldn't be too bad. Talk to financial office, eat cheap foods, consider second job, consider selling organs, etc. Plenty of solutions. But even that's not my top problem (although it's a close second).
No, as a graduate student, my number one priority is finding a lab to do research with. A lab that preferably A) is aligned with my interests, B) that has funding/space for me, and C) that has a professor I get along with. Mostly in that order. Now, I have a decent idea of what I want to research. But finding a lab that seems to match up with this is already proving to be a nightmare, and this is before I've even tried contacting them to see if they have funding or space.
AARGH.
On one hand, I've been reading online that it's best to try and set up rotations before school starts. On the other hand, there are also plenty of people who did not set up their rotations before school starts. Now, I'm hearing about them on sites where they are lamenting the fact that they didn't do this earlier, but they're still around, right? They made it, didn't they? It can't be that bad.
I'd talk to my graduate mentors about this, but they are out of town for the next week. I'd talk to my assigned professor about this, but I don't have one yet. Internet audience, can you see why I'm stuck?
Right now, I'm just going to try and read as much as I can about graduate school, read up on professors, and hope that some of this gets clearer. Because, sadly, there isn't much that I can do.
And that drives me crazy.
/rant
So, for anyone who doesn't read the author bio on this blog, I'm currently a graduate student.
Oh, wait, what's that? My author bio doesn't say anything about that? Well, crap. You're right. And just to prove how much of a liar I am, I'm not even a graduate student. Good lord, I just keep digging myself deeper into this pit of lies.
Let me make an amendment. I'm not a graduate student YET. Not for another 11 days, when my program starts.
And I haven't felt this lost in a while.
Ah, you ask, now hanging on my every word (and probably searching for more opportunities to point out my lies), but why are you lost? The program hasn't even started yet! And you mentioned something about a Welcome Week up there in the italics at the top of this post, so they probably tell you everything you need to know and more!
Yes, oh unseen and mostly imaginary audience, this may be true. And I hope that it's true, as it would mean that many of my fears are unfounded and can vanish back into my closet. But right now, I know next to nothing, and this makes me fear that I'm forgetting about everything.
Case number one: finances. Now, according to some lovely letters on fancy official school stationary, I have been given a stipend of $26k per year. Woo! That's more money than I made at my previous job, by lots! I should be able to afford to cover my bed in money and then roll around in it, without the indignity of finding coins lodged in awkward crevices later!
Now, however, I'm not so sure. From what I seem to be seeing online, that money is given to me before tuition. And I have to pay tuition. Not only do I have to pay tuition, but tuition seems to be somewhere between $20,000 and $48,000 per year.
Wait a minute! How can I be getting 26k but paying out 20k or greater? Given that my rent for the year is 500/month (which appears to be one of the cheaper options in my city of college residence), this means that, even in the best case scenario, I barely have enough to pay for my apartment. And I cannot eat my apartment.
(Other issue: apparently I don't get my financial reimbursements until November. Kind of a long time to wait, don't you think, university? Don't you??)
Even if money was my only concern at the moment, that wouldn't be too bad. Talk to financial office, eat cheap foods, consider second job, consider selling organs, etc. Plenty of solutions. But even that's not my top problem (although it's a close second).
No, as a graduate student, my number one priority is finding a lab to do research with. A lab that preferably A) is aligned with my interests, B) that has funding/space for me, and C) that has a professor I get along with. Mostly in that order. Now, I have a decent idea of what I want to research. But finding a lab that seems to match up with this is already proving to be a nightmare, and this is before I've even tried contacting them to see if they have funding or space.
AARGH.
On one hand, I've been reading online that it's best to try and set up rotations before school starts. On the other hand, there are also plenty of people who did not set up their rotations before school starts. Now, I'm hearing about them on sites where they are lamenting the fact that they didn't do this earlier, but they're still around, right? They made it, didn't they? It can't be that bad.
I'd talk to my graduate mentors about this, but they are out of town for the next week. I'd talk to my assigned professor about this, but I don't have one yet. Internet audience, can you see why I'm stuck?
Right now, I'm just going to try and read as much as I can about graduate school, read up on professors, and hope that some of this gets clearer. Because, sadly, there isn't much that I can do.
And that drives me crazy.
/rant
Friday, August 23, 2013
On the practical hilarity of poop jokes
Today, I'm going to tackle a treasured trope of many low-budget films and television shows - the poop joke.
This joke has existed since time immemorial, probably even to the point of being scrawled on the walls of caves, down below the actual important artwork that all the museums prefer to focus on. While there is at least one poop joke present in just about every single comedy in existence, and I can guarantee that there isn't a human alive who hasn't laughed at at least one poop joke, they are still considered to be at the ass end of comedy (see what I did there?).
The question is, why?
Why do we consider poop jokes to be such shit? I think that the first and foremost reason is that they are clinically overdone. One of the best ways to ruin any joke, no matter how hilarious, is to overuse it. The first time a monkey hits a man in the genitalia with a softball, it's hilarious. It will leave people literally rolling on the floor laughing (or ROTFL, for short). However, after they've seen this on a commercial fifty times in the last three days while they want to just keep on watching Castle without such interruptions blocking Nathan Fillion's sexy face, such antics aren't nearly as funny.
So, overuse. But that can't be the only reason that film critics bite their pencils in half when confronted by a toilet joke. Which is ironic, because those pencils are a great source of fiber. But why else are poop jokes considered to be the lowest common denominator of humor?
Perhaps it is exactly because these jokes are so easy to relate to. From the top-paid CEO to the janitorial worker in his employ, everyone laughed at a poop joke at some point in their life. To a thirteen year old, the latest Adam Sandler comedy is hilarious. But to the rest of us, these jokes are a symbol of how low we once sat, how we once considered such jokes to be the pinnacle of humor.
We may have moved on. We may have evolved. Over the course of our lives, we may have dragged ourselves up into the peaks of high society, raised ourselves out of the coffee and into the cream. We have no inclination to look back, and don't want to see our roots. When such a simple joke is able to pull at our strings, to remind us of how we once started off among the shit, we groan, forcing it out of our consciousness to avoid such frustrating realizations.
Finally, perhaps because of how we dislike poop jokes, we have imposed a stigma upon them. No matter how many times you attend the White House Correspondents' dinner, you aren't likely to hear a lot of comments on the brown stuff. Why is that? Because we have decreed that such jokes are the products of low class, and should not be associated with the upper class. They have risen above such vulgar and derisive forms of humor!
Allow me to draw a parallel to horse meat. Recently, there was a scandal over the discovery of horse meat in beef sold in Europe. Horse meat, by the way, happens to be healthier in just about every way versus beef. It's lower in calories, less fat, more lean, cheaper to produce, less cholesterol, and is overall assumed to taste better. However, because we have imposed such stigma on the act of eating horse, horse meat is considered to be vulgar and not worth consuming.
So not to beat a dead horse, but I have a reason for trying to avoid poop jokes. Despite the fact that just about every human being, alive or dead, will get a poop joke, they tend to signal to the reader that the subject matter is low-grade, inferior, not valuable. Much like poop.
And that's too bad, because such jokes are literally dropping out of me on a daily basis!
This joke has existed since time immemorial, probably even to the point of being scrawled on the walls of caves, down below the actual important artwork that all the museums prefer to focus on. While there is at least one poop joke present in just about every single comedy in existence, and I can guarantee that there isn't a human alive who hasn't laughed at at least one poop joke, they are still considered to be at the ass end of comedy (see what I did there?).
The question is, why?
Why do we consider poop jokes to be such shit? I think that the first and foremost reason is that they are clinically overdone. One of the best ways to ruin any joke, no matter how hilarious, is to overuse it. The first time a monkey hits a man in the genitalia with a softball, it's hilarious. It will leave people literally rolling on the floor laughing (or ROTFL, for short). However, after they've seen this on a commercial fifty times in the last three days while they want to just keep on watching Castle without such interruptions blocking Nathan Fillion's sexy face, such antics aren't nearly as funny.
So, overuse. But that can't be the only reason that film critics bite their pencils in half when confronted by a toilet joke. Which is ironic, because those pencils are a great source of fiber. But why else are poop jokes considered to be the lowest common denominator of humor?
Perhaps it is exactly because these jokes are so easy to relate to. From the top-paid CEO to the janitorial worker in his employ, everyone laughed at a poop joke at some point in their life. To a thirteen year old, the latest Adam Sandler comedy is hilarious. But to the rest of us, these jokes are a symbol of how low we once sat, how we once considered such jokes to be the pinnacle of humor.
We may have moved on. We may have evolved. Over the course of our lives, we may have dragged ourselves up into the peaks of high society, raised ourselves out of the coffee and into the cream. We have no inclination to look back, and don't want to see our roots. When such a simple joke is able to pull at our strings, to remind us of how we once started off among the shit, we groan, forcing it out of our consciousness to avoid such frustrating realizations.
Finally, perhaps because of how we dislike poop jokes, we have imposed a stigma upon them. No matter how many times you attend the White House Correspondents' dinner, you aren't likely to hear a lot of comments on the brown stuff. Why is that? Because we have decreed that such jokes are the products of low class, and should not be associated with the upper class. They have risen above such vulgar and derisive forms of humor!
Allow me to draw a parallel to horse meat. Recently, there was a scandal over the discovery of horse meat in beef sold in Europe. Horse meat, by the way, happens to be healthier in just about every way versus beef. It's lower in calories, less fat, more lean, cheaper to produce, less cholesterol, and is overall assumed to taste better. However, because we have imposed such stigma on the act of eating horse, horse meat is considered to be vulgar and not worth consuming.
So not to beat a dead horse, but I have a reason for trying to avoid poop jokes. Despite the fact that just about every human being, alive or dead, will get a poop joke, they tend to signal to the reader that the subject matter is low-grade, inferior, not valuable. Much like poop.
And that's too bad, because such jokes are literally dropping out of me on a daily basis!
Monday, August 19, 2013
First World Problems
One of the most bothersome issues I find in my writing is a lack of internal motivation.
Now, I feel that I need to clarify this statement. I have plenty of ideas, and I certainly have a powerful drive to succeed. My parents raised me with the core idea that I could succeed at whatever I put my mind to, as long as I was willing to devote the time and energy into improving my ability and making the necessary investments.
And you know what, random strangers of the internet? Things have worked out fairly well. I got into college on my first shot, plus a very nice package of perks. I'm soon headed off to graduate school (admitted on the first round of applications). I score at the top percentiles for most exams. I am financially stable and secure. I have a wonderful social life, companionship, and pretty much every basic need is filled. I can manage my money, have a medley of hobbies to pursue, am a decent cook, and am doing fairly well in just about every aspect of my life.
Please note, before taking too much offense at this preceding paragraph, that I am not bragging. No, quite the opposite - this is my issue! I have no trauma in my past, no tragic flaw, no corruption or demons within that I must battle, no haunted face staring back at me from my mirror. I am, to summarize, doing very well.
This really shouldn't irk me. Success, which is truly what I have achieved, shouldn't be a drawback. It should be something to celebrate, something to rejoice in and enjoy!
And yet, I occasionally find myself wishing that I did have some flaw, some character defect that I must strive every day to overcome. And my motivation for such a flaw is nearly farce. Curious yet? Think you've guessed the reason? Here it is:
I see other writers, other people in all different areas and fields, who can draw strength and inner focus from the challenges they have overcome. Through their conquering of their inner demons, they find motivation, courage, and remarkable insight into the human condition that allows them to insert depth and emotion into whatever they pursue.
For me, on the other hand, a spoiled upper-middle-class white kid, born an American citizen, raised in a loving two-parent family, gifted with a good education, and with plenty of career opportunities in my field - what insight do I have? I have not had any experiences with the rougher side of life. The closest I have come to tragedy is on the cinema screen. Knowing this, how can I hope to convey such depth and strength of feeling in my work?
I hope that, by now, you are actively cursing me. Much like a spoiled, petulant teenage girl, I am complaining because my life is "too good." What arrogance! How dare I mock my success, spit in the face of the great sacrifices that others have made to raise me to this position? And I know, deep inside, that I am happy to not be fighting demons. I am happy that I have not had to endure tragedy, that my life is a cakewalk.
Yet still, sometimes before I drift off to sleep (in my own apartment, paid for in full, without debt, what a stuck-up ass), I wonder whether I have not yet truly lived.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Go Clean Your Room
Author's note: this is not a short story, but merely a personal rant. I'm not feeling creative today. Sue me.
(Author's note: please don't sue me.)
This past weekend, I visited the apartment of one of my cousins, who is married, living in New York, owns an adorable little dog, wears hats and somehow manages to look incredibly fashionable in them, and is, in general, doing much better at life than I am. Upon entering his apartment, I was struck by one single question, powerful and overriding all others.
How in the world does he keep his apartment so clean??
Yes, that question deserved the double question marks. Now that I am back home in my own apartment, I look around and see that I am surrounded by filth. How does he do it?
I have cleaned before. And I have even gotten my room to look spotless and amazing, similar to how his apartment seems. However, even a day or two later, things have begun to decline, to go downhill. First, it's a shirt that I only wore for half a day, and isn't ready for the laundry bin yet. I can't fold up this shirt, so I merely set it on a chair, ready to be worn again. One shirt sitting out isn't so bad.
After that comes a book or two. Well, I just got back from the library with a half dozen books, but I don't want to put them on my bookshelf, or I will forget them forever and won't get around to reading them. I know! I'll make a nice, neat little stack here on the floor. That way they are visible and I will definitely get around to reading them.
Oh, look, some papers that I was working on! Those are important. I'm not done editing those. I will set them right next to my bed, so that when I go back to editing them, I can reach over and pick them right up. Yes, that is a good spot.
Next thing I know, my room is filled with random items, and I need to play a complicated game of hopscotch in order to get to my dresser in the morning. I don't think of myself as a messy person, but it seems that my living space is determined to prove me wrong. Even more annoying is the fact that, whenever I go to clean my room, I realize that there are many other, more important things that I should be doing. Like looking at pictures of cats on the internet.
Every now and then, when I do realize that there are only two square feet of carpet still visible in my room, I will go on a cleaning binge. Away go the clothes! Begone, stray dishes! Back to the shelves, you books! Hiyah! I really ought to be using a pitchfork. An hour later, my room is spotless, and I can lie back in contentment.
Of course, this lasts for a good day or so before I'm leaving out an article of clothing again, thinking that "just one won't hurt."
And, as may be obvious by the subject of this post, I am writing this in an attempt to procrastinate instead of cleaning my room.
(Author's note: please don't sue me.)
This past weekend, I visited the apartment of one of my cousins, who is married, living in New York, owns an adorable little dog, wears hats and somehow manages to look incredibly fashionable in them, and is, in general, doing much better at life than I am. Upon entering his apartment, I was struck by one single question, powerful and overriding all others.
How in the world does he keep his apartment so clean??
Yes, that question deserved the double question marks. Now that I am back home in my own apartment, I look around and see that I am surrounded by filth. How does he do it?
I have cleaned before. And I have even gotten my room to look spotless and amazing, similar to how his apartment seems. However, even a day or two later, things have begun to decline, to go downhill. First, it's a shirt that I only wore for half a day, and isn't ready for the laundry bin yet. I can't fold up this shirt, so I merely set it on a chair, ready to be worn again. One shirt sitting out isn't so bad.
After that comes a book or two. Well, I just got back from the library with a half dozen books, but I don't want to put them on my bookshelf, or I will forget them forever and won't get around to reading them. I know! I'll make a nice, neat little stack here on the floor. That way they are visible and I will definitely get around to reading them.
Oh, look, some papers that I was working on! Those are important. I'm not done editing those. I will set them right next to my bed, so that when I go back to editing them, I can reach over and pick them right up. Yes, that is a good spot.
Next thing I know, my room is filled with random items, and I need to play a complicated game of hopscotch in order to get to my dresser in the morning. I don't think of myself as a messy person, but it seems that my living space is determined to prove me wrong. Even more annoying is the fact that, whenever I go to clean my room, I realize that there are many other, more important things that I should be doing. Like looking at pictures of cats on the internet.
Every now and then, when I do realize that there are only two square feet of carpet still visible in my room, I will go on a cleaning binge. Away go the clothes! Begone, stray dishes! Back to the shelves, you books! Hiyah! I really ought to be using a pitchfork. An hour later, my room is spotless, and I can lie back in contentment.
Of course, this lasts for a good day or so before I'm leaving out an article of clothing again, thinking that "just one won't hurt."
And, as may be obvious by the subject of this post, I am writing this in an attempt to procrastinate instead of cleaning my room.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Mental Depths and Shallows
In science, there's a concept of buoyancy. Things are buoyant if they float, that is, if their average density is less than water. On the other hand, if this average density is greater than water, they sink. If the density is equal to water, they stay wherever they're placed, and are considered at "neutral buoyancy."
Now, what's the buoyancy of your thoughts?
No, I don't mean the buoyancy of the brain. Although, if you're curious, the brain is actually at relatively neutral buoyancy, which is how it floats inside our heads without hitting the bottom of our skulls.
(Take a moment to consider this. If your brain was to somehow come out of your body underwater, it wouldn't bob to the top, like the rest of your body. Instead, it would just hang there in the water, drifting back and forth along the currents . . . )
(Now imagine a whole school (flock? Shoal?) of brains, roaming in the depths of the ocean. Existing without bodies, they drain the mental energies of their prey, dragging down sailors from capsized ships into the depths, where the brains will feed off the dying thoughts . . . )
But I'm getting off topic. No, think about thoughts. That's right, meta-thinking.
There are definitely shallow thoughts:
- "Oh my god, look at her dress. It totally does not look good with her body."
- "How many of these could I fit in my mouth at once?"
- "I'm sleepy."
- "I think I should watch Keeping Up With The Kardashians."
- "Is this Justin Bieber? I love this song!"
Yep. Pretty shallow. Splashing around on the edge of the mental pool.
On the other hand, there are certainly deep thoughts as well:
- "What is my purpose in life?"
- "What will happen to the universe, in the end?"
- "How will I be remembered, after I'm gone?"
- "If I eat myself, will I weigh twice as much, or nothing at all?"
Now, take a moment and reflect. Do your day-to-day thoughts tend to be towards the shallow end, or the deeper end?
Personally, I have noticed that, like a joyful minnow, my thoughts seem to enjoy alternating between surfacing and diving. While sitting or trying in vain to fall asleep, I will find myself pondering the deepest questions in life, when all of a sudden, my deep thoughts are interrupted by an idle wondering about when the next episode of Top Gear will be on. Bam, back in shallow territory.
Going a step further, do different people have different mental buoyancies? Does my friend, who watches nothing but reality television, have a brain that moors in shallower waters than mine? Does another friend, who insists on reading dry and musty poets, have a brain hiding deeper in the depths?
And now, for the scientific part of my brain: how could this be measured?
Friday, June 28, 2013
Money is weird.
Money is weird.
The whole concept is strange to think about, especially with the emphasis that is so often placed upon it. Basically, money is simply a method for trading the work that you put in, for goods and services that you can enjoy. It's just the reward that's earned. You help out society by doing work that betters the world, or at least the immediate community, and in exchange, you can pick out food, toys, and keep your home warm at night.
And yet, money has grown into so much more than that. So many items in our world serve solely as status symbols, indicators of how much extra money is available to burn. Nobody actually needs to drive an Italian sports car, or encrust their watch in diamonds. The only purpose of these items is to brag about how much money is coming in.
Now, this wouldn't be such a bad thing, if the amount of money earned was directly proportional to the amount of good done for society. It makes sense that inventing a medical cure that saves millions of lives should be worth more, financially, than restocking a crate of apples at a grocery store. But so much money seems to go to managers, financiers, lawyers, people who don't actually solve any problem. Indeed, some of the highest salaries go to people that do nothing more than play with the money, swapping it back and forth to get rich off the pennies that slip through the cracks.
Like I said, money is weird. It also seems especially strange when I am at work, when I talk with the homeowners I work with every day.
In many neighborhoods, I see homeless people pass by, see people driving five-hundred-dollar cars, see people where the Gap is high fashion and who will most likely never see their bank account hit six figures. For these people, making forty or fifty thousand dollars a year is a huge accomplishment, and watching the reality TV stars parade around in their designer clothes and spend their days shopping and lounging by pools is a glimpse into another world, a world in which they will never be a member.
I like learning about finance. I enjoy reading books about the stock market (yes, in my free time! Shocking.) and make investments. But so many people I know don't have stocks, don't think about money, don't have much going for them financially besides a vague IRA into which they put the minimum. Even though these people are just as talented as I am, if not more so, they are being handicapped by their lack of financial devotion!
I am not rich. At least, not by my idea of rich. I recently read that most Americans would consider "rich" to be approximately 10 million dollars. Invested in a balanced portfolio, this would generate roughly $600,000 per year, which is enough to live in any city, pursue almost any hobby, and never have to work again for the rest of one's life.
I don't have 10 million dollars. I can't even imagine 10 million dollars.
But does this make me poor? I'm debt free, on a career track, have a car, and have money in the bank. I have a plan, I'm well educated on investments, and I don't live beyond my means. I certainly consider myself well off.
It's hard for me to wrap my head around the idea that I am incredibly rich and radically poor, all at the same time. In so many ways, I am so well off, and yet I have so much more to work for. Perhaps it is even stranger for me, since I can see the hint of light at the top of the tower, just well enough to show me how far I still have to ascend. I can see a path, can set financial goals, but have a long and strenuous climb ahead.
Money is weird.
The whole concept is strange to think about, especially with the emphasis that is so often placed upon it. Basically, money is simply a method for trading the work that you put in, for goods and services that you can enjoy. It's just the reward that's earned. You help out society by doing work that betters the world, or at least the immediate community, and in exchange, you can pick out food, toys, and keep your home warm at night.
And yet, money has grown into so much more than that. So many items in our world serve solely as status symbols, indicators of how much extra money is available to burn. Nobody actually needs to drive an Italian sports car, or encrust their watch in diamonds. The only purpose of these items is to brag about how much money is coming in.
Now, this wouldn't be such a bad thing, if the amount of money earned was directly proportional to the amount of good done for society. It makes sense that inventing a medical cure that saves millions of lives should be worth more, financially, than restocking a crate of apples at a grocery store. But so much money seems to go to managers, financiers, lawyers, people who don't actually solve any problem. Indeed, some of the highest salaries go to people that do nothing more than play with the money, swapping it back and forth to get rich off the pennies that slip through the cracks.
Like I said, money is weird. It also seems especially strange when I am at work, when I talk with the homeowners I work with every day.
In many neighborhoods, I see homeless people pass by, see people driving five-hundred-dollar cars, see people where the Gap is high fashion and who will most likely never see their bank account hit six figures. For these people, making forty or fifty thousand dollars a year is a huge accomplishment, and watching the reality TV stars parade around in their designer clothes and spend their days shopping and lounging by pools is a glimpse into another world, a world in which they will never be a member.
I like learning about finance. I enjoy reading books about the stock market (yes, in my free time! Shocking.) and make investments. But so many people I know don't have stocks, don't think about money, don't have much going for them financially besides a vague IRA into which they put the minimum. Even though these people are just as talented as I am, if not more so, they are being handicapped by their lack of financial devotion!
I am not rich. At least, not by my idea of rich. I recently read that most Americans would consider "rich" to be approximately 10 million dollars. Invested in a balanced portfolio, this would generate roughly $600,000 per year, which is enough to live in any city, pursue almost any hobby, and never have to work again for the rest of one's life.
I don't have 10 million dollars. I can't even imagine 10 million dollars.
But does this make me poor? I'm debt free, on a career track, have a car, and have money in the bank. I have a plan, I'm well educated on investments, and I don't live beyond my means. I certainly consider myself well off.
It's hard for me to wrap my head around the idea that I am incredibly rich and radically poor, all at the same time. In so many ways, I am so well off, and yet I have so much more to work for. Perhaps it is even stranger for me, since I can see the hint of light at the top of the tower, just well enough to show me how far I still have to ascend. I can see a path, can set financial goals, but have a long and strenuous climb ahead.
Money is weird.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Times When You Don't Want "Cheap"
In this uncertain economy, there are many places where the cheap option is the best. Generic brand food bakes just as well as name brands - your kids can't really tell if those nuggets are Tyson or not. Nobody cares how much you paid for the all-leather trim on your steering wheel. In many areas, cutting back is a wise decision.
However, there are still some purchases where the cheap option really is the worst choice. Places where you should be willing, even happy, to pay top dollar. Here are a few:
And finally...
However, there are still some purchases where the cheap option really is the worst choice. Places where you should be willing, even happy, to pay top dollar. Here are a few:
- LASIK. "Oh, you don't want to spend over $400? Tell ya what, we'll let our med student take a crack at this one. This will give him a chance to try the controls of the machine for the first time!"
- Auto repairs. A good repair uses dealer-issued replacement parts. A bad repair uses bubble gum and cardboard. And no, you can't "cobble a transmission together with old parts sitting around".
- Fire extinguishers. You know what happened to the last guy who thought he could save a few bucks by buying "gently used" extinguishers? Here's a hint, he didn't freeze to death.
- Guns. No matter what that guy in the back alley tells you, guns do not "mellow with time like fine wines." You know what they do? They explode.
- Plumbing. I don't know about you, but I think plumbing was an amazing invention. The less time I spend in contact with human waste, the better. And I am willing to pay top dollar to make sure that those pipes won't suddenly put me in immediate, intimate contact with it.
And finally...
- Donating to online blogs. Those writers work hard to provide you with your daily reading material, and they should be compensated. Preaching? Me? Nahhh.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Rant: What we wish for.
Unfortunately, today I do not have any great inspiration for writing a story (although I do have a great concept of a rusting robot walking around post-apocalyptic Earth floating in the back of my mind, although the idea hasn't solidified into a working plot yet), so I am instead going to rant. Feel free to ignore this, and check back in another two days for, hopefully, a wonderful little short tale instead.
One of the biggest disappointments that I have found so far in life is this: I wish for things, because I believe they will make my life easier. In my experience, however, this is completely and categorically untrue.
Perhaps this would be more accurate if it was rephrased: I wish for things, because I believe they will make my life different in a way I prefer to its current state.
Are you lost yet? I am, after reading those last couple sentences, and I'm the one who's writing them. Let me explain a little.
Often, especially on the Internet, I see people complaining that they don't have a boyfriend/girlfriend/pansexual lover/empathizing robot. These people earnestly believe that their lives would be easier if they could find a significant other.
This is untrue.
Having a significant other does not make life easier; if anything, it makes things harder, because now you are being forced to consider someone else's feelings as well as your own. (If you aren't considering the other person's feelings, by the way, this may be a clue into why you are alone right now.) You might not have to deal with feeling lonely on Friday nights any longer, but now you have to plan evenings out, pay the bill for multiple people, come up with witty banter, raise yourself to a minimal level of physical attractiveness, shower more often, and overall put a lot more exertion into your social life than was necessary when you were single and lonely. Life hasn't gotten any easier.
On the other hand, has life gotten better? This could be true, since "better" is an entirely subjective term. If a warm body in bed next to you has a greater intrinsic value than the stress of planning "date nights", then yes, your life is better off. If that stress is making your heart fail and giving you panic attacks, then gaining a significant other didn't make you any better off; in fact, it made you worse off. That's a devil's bargain, right there.
Still not with me yet? Here's another example. Many people wish that they were rich. "If only I had a million dollars, all my problems would be solved!" they proclaim dramatically.
Once again, say it with me, not true.
Sure, a huge payday will solve a lot of problems (pay off credit cards, student loans, rent payments, eat at fancy restaurants, full tanks of gas, repaired car, etc.). But that fat bank account brings a whole new host of problems, as well. Do you know how to invest your money? Will you keep your job? Will that money last until your retirement? How will your lifestyle change, and can you afford the changes, even with the increased income? Are newfound friends only after you for your money? Is that cute girl just a gold digger? Life has changed, in new and exciting ways, but it certainly hasn't gotten any easier.
Dishwashers were introduced to make life easier, to save time on having to hand-wash dishes. I know some people, however, who are so frustrated with loading, unloading, and running the dishwasher that they still prefer to clean by hand. That dishwasher solved one problem, but added five more, to the point where it didn't make their lives any better.
Cars let us get around much faster than horses or walking. But they are smelly, pollute the environment, require us to find parking spaces, drain our bank accounts through their guzzling of gasoline, and have an unfortunate tendency to break down just when they are most needed. They are not making our lives easier. Different, and possibly better, but not easier.
For this reason, I have come to treat "easy solutions" with a very healthy measure of distrust. If something makes a blase promise to make my life easier, my BS detectors go off, and I look very carefully before continuing. There might be a free lunch out there, somewhere, but I'm sure it will exact its price somewhere in the digestive process.
One of the biggest disappointments that I have found so far in life is this: I wish for things, because I believe they will make my life easier. In my experience, however, this is completely and categorically untrue.
Perhaps this would be more accurate if it was rephrased: I wish for things, because I believe they will make my life different in a way I prefer to its current state.
Are you lost yet? I am, after reading those last couple sentences, and I'm the one who's writing them. Let me explain a little.
Often, especially on the Internet, I see people complaining that they don't have a boyfriend/girlfriend/pansexual lover/empathizing robot. These people earnestly believe that their lives would be easier if they could find a significant other.
This is untrue.
Having a significant other does not make life easier; if anything, it makes things harder, because now you are being forced to consider someone else's feelings as well as your own. (If you aren't considering the other person's feelings, by the way, this may be a clue into why you are alone right now.) You might not have to deal with feeling lonely on Friday nights any longer, but now you have to plan evenings out, pay the bill for multiple people, come up with witty banter, raise yourself to a minimal level of physical attractiveness, shower more often, and overall put a lot more exertion into your social life than was necessary when you were single and lonely. Life hasn't gotten any easier.
On the other hand, has life gotten better? This could be true, since "better" is an entirely subjective term. If a warm body in bed next to you has a greater intrinsic value than the stress of planning "date nights", then yes, your life is better off. If that stress is making your heart fail and giving you panic attacks, then gaining a significant other didn't make you any better off; in fact, it made you worse off. That's a devil's bargain, right there.
Still not with me yet? Here's another example. Many people wish that they were rich. "If only I had a million dollars, all my problems would be solved!" they proclaim dramatically.
Once again, say it with me, not true.
Sure, a huge payday will solve a lot of problems (pay off credit cards, student loans, rent payments, eat at fancy restaurants, full tanks of gas, repaired car, etc.). But that fat bank account brings a whole new host of problems, as well. Do you know how to invest your money? Will you keep your job? Will that money last until your retirement? How will your lifestyle change, and can you afford the changes, even with the increased income? Are newfound friends only after you for your money? Is that cute girl just a gold digger? Life has changed, in new and exciting ways, but it certainly hasn't gotten any easier.
Dishwashers were introduced to make life easier, to save time on having to hand-wash dishes. I know some people, however, who are so frustrated with loading, unloading, and running the dishwasher that they still prefer to clean by hand. That dishwasher solved one problem, but added five more, to the point where it didn't make their lives any better.
Cars let us get around much faster than horses or walking. But they are smelly, pollute the environment, require us to find parking spaces, drain our bank accounts through their guzzling of gasoline, and have an unfortunate tendency to break down just when they are most needed. They are not making our lives easier. Different, and possibly better, but not easier.
For this reason, I have come to treat "easy solutions" with a very healthy measure of distrust. If something makes a blase promise to make my life easier, my BS detectors go off, and I look very carefully before continuing. There might be a free lunch out there, somewhere, but I'm sure it will exact its price somewhere in the digestive process.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
On Date Anxiety
Ever been super excited for a date, because you simply can't wait to see that person again, and every second between now and that date seems to last for an eternity? But with other dates, you don't feel nearly as passionate about it? That, my friend, is because there are different levels of dates.
Three different levels, to be precise.
Now, please, contain your cries of amazement. That such an incredibly complex idea such as a meeting between two adults can be condensed down to such a reductionistic list of a mere three levels is truly mind-boggling. And yet, despite all odds, I have accomplished such a wondrous task.
So, without any further ado, here are the three levels of dates:
1. The Stereotypical "First Date" Date
This is the typical first date, the one that most people approach with cautious optimism. Maybe a friend is setting the two of you up, and although you haven't met this other person yet, they are being described in glowing terms and this isn't one of your asshole friends that lies about these things or just wants to watch you have the worst date of your life.
Maybe the two of you met briefly at another event, and they seemed nice enough to be worth a few hours of your Friday night. Maybe you found their online dating profile, and even though everyone exaggerates on those and picks out their absolute best pictures, they are still witty/pretty/grammatically correct enough for you to think this might go well.
In any case, you go into this date at about a 7/10 for both anxiety and expectations. You're hoping things will go well, and you'll probably feel a little bad if the whole thing flops and ends up going down in flames.
Occurrence rate: 50%, depending on your social anxiety level.
2. The "Ugh, fine, I'll Get Out of the House" Date
Ever decided to go on a date solely to temporarily alleviate that feeling of dread and existential horror that you'll be alone for the rest of your life? That's this date.
This is the date that you have to put a reminder on your calendar for, because otherwise, there's a good chance you'll forget about it completely. Maybe things will go great, everything will be better than expected, and this date will end up being quite pleasant and enjoyable. It's probably not likely, though.
So why are you going on this date? Sadly, it's more about you than it is about them. They're probably a very nice person. Although not to you, since otherwise you'd be more excited. But you've been single for months, and at this point you fear you may be becoming asexual. So, to make yourself feel better, you're going to go out and spend money on an evening with somebody you don't really care about, just for the change of pace and to delude yourself that you're getting somewhere in your love life.
Occurrence rate: 35%, but it goes up as you get lonelier.
3. OH MY GOD SHE SAID YES I'VE GOT A DATE I'M GOING TO PASS OUT NOW
These are the best dates. On the other hand, these are the worst dates. This is when that angel at the club, dancing in the spotlight above everyone else, passes you her number and tells you to give her a call. This is when that drop-dead-gorgeous coworker, the one that every single guy at work drools over, laughs at your joke, touches your arm, and tells you that she'd love to get coffee sometime. This is when that perfect barista at the coffee shop you stop every day mentions that she's single to you with a knowing wink, and then hands you a coffee with her number written on the cup. This is that moment when you have to do a double take, to make sure you're not dreaming or caught in some alternative romantic-comedy universe.
In the lead up to these dates, you're caught in a spider's web of ecstatic delight that you've got this date, and gut-wrenching horror that you're going to somehow mess it all up. One wrong word, one off-color joke, one forgotten detail, and this beautiful woman is going to come to her senses and realize that you're a lot less like Ryan Reynolds than she first believed. This could go wrong so easily, so many ways.
On the other hand, what if it doesn't?
This could be your future wife, right here. And if the date falls through, then it probably wasn't meant to be. But if things work out . . . you may have the "early relationship" blinders on right now, but this woman seems flawless. And you can't wait to verify that, again and again and again...
Occurrence rate: 15%, although that depends a lot on your confidence and standards. Gotta get out there to get there, you know.
On the other hand, what if it doesn't?
This could be your future wife, right here. And if the date falls through, then it probably wasn't meant to be. But if things work out . . . you may have the "early relationship" blinders on right now, but this woman seems flawless. And you can't wait to verify that, again and again and again...
Occurrence rate: 15%, although that depends a lot on your confidence and standards. Gotta get out there to get there, you know.
Friday, April 19, 2013
On the Frustration of Mistimed Inspiration
Fortunately for me, my personal muse is both prolific and diverse, gracing me with a wonderfully varied flow of story ideas. Unfortunately, she hasn't quite got her timing down right.
For example, the other day I was sitting around, minding my own business, when she gifted me with a brilliant idea. Of course, I don't remember the idea now, but I know it involved time travel and was a wonderfully complex and interwoven plotline. Unfortunately, I was in the middle of driving out to a job site, and by the time I finished work, my muse had given up on me and taken off, probably for someplace sandy and warmer. Deserted for a desert.
On the other hand, after I've gotten home from work, when my laptop is close at hand and I am completely ready to write, my muse is usually off gallivanting, nowhere to be found. "I am an open book, ready for inspiration!", I will yell, but my muse is far from earshot. I will stare at a blank page, struggling for a story to write, until I eventually give up and watch television.
On one hand, maybe I can trap my muse the next time she shows her face. Handcuff her to a radiator, or lock her in the basement. Of course, I don't have any radiators in my apartment and the basement lock is on the inside, so I am ill-prepared for her capture. Even if I make the necessary preparations, though, I doubt that a captured muse would yield the same level of inspiration as one that is permitted to run wild.
So to my muse, my inspiration, who is generous with her gifts but awful with her timing, I say this: thank you for the ideas. Your stories range from intimate and funny to grand and far-reaching, and you refuse to limit me to a single genre. Your ideas are sometimes serious, sometimes funny, and sometimes a perfect blend of the two. Keep on providing me with this same level of brilliance, and we will go far together.
Just please, o muse, try to share your gift with me in the late afternoon, when I can take the time to write it down.
For example, the other day I was sitting around, minding my own business, when she gifted me with a brilliant idea. Of course, I don't remember the idea now, but I know it involved time travel and was a wonderfully complex and interwoven plotline. Unfortunately, I was in the middle of driving out to a job site, and by the time I finished work, my muse had given up on me and taken off, probably for someplace sandy and warmer. Deserted for a desert.
On the other hand, after I've gotten home from work, when my laptop is close at hand and I am completely ready to write, my muse is usually off gallivanting, nowhere to be found. "I am an open book, ready for inspiration!", I will yell, but my muse is far from earshot. I will stare at a blank page, struggling for a story to write, until I eventually give up and watch television.
On one hand, maybe I can trap my muse the next time she shows her face. Handcuff her to a radiator, or lock her in the basement. Of course, I don't have any radiators in my apartment and the basement lock is on the inside, so I am ill-prepared for her capture. Even if I make the necessary preparations, though, I doubt that a captured muse would yield the same level of inspiration as one that is permitted to run wild.
So to my muse, my inspiration, who is generous with her gifts but awful with her timing, I say this: thank you for the ideas. Your stories range from intimate and funny to grand and far-reaching, and you refuse to limit me to a single genre. Your ideas are sometimes serious, sometimes funny, and sometimes a perfect blend of the two. Keep on providing me with this same level of brilliance, and we will go far together.
Just please, o muse, try to share your gift with me in the late afternoon, when I can take the time to write it down.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Internal Dialogue 2: Free Time
Author's note: As in my previous internal dialogue, I'm spicing this one up by making it a conversation between me and good ol' Honest Abe. Please note that I do not actually believe I am talking to Abraham Lincoln.
When I got to the bar, our sixteenth president was already sitting at the bar, nose buried in a large mug of beer. I flop down heavily on the stool next to him. "Ugh," I announce loudly, voicing my opinion of the world in general with a single snort.
Lincoln glances over at me. "Oh, it's just you again," he comments without rancor. "You know, you seem to imagine me up a lot for these sorts of things."
"So?" I shoot back. "What's wrong with conversing with an imaginary version of the Great Emancipator?"
Abe shrugs back, taking a pull of beer. "Nothing, as long as you pay my bar tab." He sets the glass down and turns to face me. "So, what's up, holmes?"
"Holmes?"
"I'm trying something new," he says. "Just because I've been dead for a hundred and fifty years doesn't mean I can't learn the new words all the kids are using!"
I decide not to correct him. "Okay, you know all about my work, right?" I begin.
"Sure," he responds. "You work for Habitat for Humanity, rebuilding peoples' homes, fixing them up when the residents aren't able to afford it. Noble stuff. Could have used a few of you back after the whole war thing was finished, going around fixing up the South. Might have alleviated a little tension, now that I think about it."
"Yeah, exactly," I say. "Noble stuff. Helping out people in need. Except that's the problem."
"They aren't in need?" Abe guesses shrewdly.
"Exactly!" I exclaim, thumping the top of the bar for emphasis. The bartender glances down at me. I wasn't originally trying to attract his attention, but I figure I shouldn't waste it, and order a beer. Next to me, Lincoln holds up his empty glass, waving it back and forth in the universal gesture for a refill.
After I've taken a long swig of alcohol, I resume my complaint. "Most of the time, these people that we help are at the house while we're working," I explain. "But they aren't usually doing much! I'd expect them to try to help us, you know, since we're doing all of this work for them for free, basically no strings attached. But instead, we get nothing from them!"
"Maybe they don't know how to help, though?" Abe guesses.
"Then they should ask! It's really not hard, in most cases - if you can move a paintbrush back and forth, you can help out! But instead, they just sit around like lumps, eyes glued to Maury on the television! They literally just sit there, watching TV, for the entire day!" I slump back in my seat, frustrated.
The President considers this for a minute as he sucks the foamy head off his beer. "So you're frustrated that they're just sitting back and not working for themselves," he clarifies.
"That's pretty much my complaint, yeah."
Lincoln sets down his drink, already nearly halfway empty. "But hold on for a moment. What do you do when you get home from work?"
"Well, I relax," I respond, taken aback slightly by the question out of left field. "You know, take off my socks, recline, catch up on my TV shows-"
"Aha!" Abe cuts me off. "So you also spend your free time lazing about and watching television!"
"It's not the same!" I protest. "I'm doing it after a long day of work! I've been productive already!"
Abe waggles a finger at me, in what I find to be a rather insulting manner. "It's very similar, though. We all need to take time to relax, and most of us choose to immerse ourselves in TV to serve as a distraction from the real world, a place where things really do work out at the end of the half hour." He pauses for a second. "Well, almost everyone does this. I don't, first because television wasn't around back in my time, and secondly because I'm a figment of your imagination. But you get the idea."
I finish off my drink. "I still disagree. I've earned my time of zoning out. People need to work harder!" Lincoln starts to wave the bartender over once again, but I hold up a hand in protest. "No more for me. I'm headed home."
"To do what?" he asks.
I shout back over my shoulder, "To relax!"
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Hope.
It's funny how hope works. It always seems to arise in the least likely times.
Hope comes when I glance at my email, and see that someone has replied to me, someone I recognize. I don't have time to read the entire message; I'm dashing out the door, late to work or a meeting. But I know that there's a little message, a sign of caring, waiting for me when I return. The promise of a wonderful message gives me hope.
Hope comes when my eyes are following a pretty girl who's walked into the room, and she looks back at me with a smile. Sometimes, that smile is a playful grin, as if she can read my thoughts and is enticing me on. Sometimes, it's a shy acknowledgement of my interest, yet still mixed with surprise that someone finds her beautiful. Sometimes it's a beaming flash of teeth, simple joy from experiencing the world. But that smile says that there is hope.
Hope comes from a single, lingering kiss good night. That kiss will be followed by a parting, by a pulling away. That magical night of late night talking, kissing, coupling? That won't happen tonight. But that last kiss says that it could come, that it isn't off the table, that it might be just around the corner. That kiss says that there is the potential for more, that this relationship is worth continuing, has a deeper, innate value. That kiss, hauntingly bittersweet, gives me hope.
Hope can appear at the brightest of times or the darkest of times. Hope can strike while on vacation, loving every minute of life and already riding high and happy. But hope can also help salvage a horrible day, when the rain falls on a silenced alarm clock, on lost keys, on angry retorts and foul moods. Hope is unpredictable, but always welcomed and wonderful.
No one can seek out hope. Instead, we must wait for hope to find us.
Hope comes when I glance at my email, and see that someone has replied to me, someone I recognize. I don't have time to read the entire message; I'm dashing out the door, late to work or a meeting. But I know that there's a little message, a sign of caring, waiting for me when I return. The promise of a wonderful message gives me hope.
Hope comes when my eyes are following a pretty girl who's walked into the room, and she looks back at me with a smile. Sometimes, that smile is a playful grin, as if she can read my thoughts and is enticing me on. Sometimes, it's a shy acknowledgement of my interest, yet still mixed with surprise that someone finds her beautiful. Sometimes it's a beaming flash of teeth, simple joy from experiencing the world. But that smile says that there is hope.
Hope comes from a single, lingering kiss good night. That kiss will be followed by a parting, by a pulling away. That magical night of late night talking, kissing, coupling? That won't happen tonight. But that last kiss says that it could come, that it isn't off the table, that it might be just around the corner. That kiss says that there is the potential for more, that this relationship is worth continuing, has a deeper, innate value. That kiss, hauntingly bittersweet, gives me hope.
Hope can appear at the brightest of times or the darkest of times. Hope can strike while on vacation, loving every minute of life and already riding high and happy. But hope can also help salvage a horrible day, when the rain falls on a silenced alarm clock, on lost keys, on angry retorts and foul moods. Hope is unpredictable, but always welcomed and wonderful.
No one can seek out hope. Instead, we must wait for hope to find us.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Planes suck
No story today, just a rant.
Plane travel is amazing. It allows us to travel thousands of miles, as far as halfway around the globe, in a matter of hours. Our ancestors wouldn't even be able to fathom such accomplishments. Not only can we travel at over five hundred miles per hour, for a sustained period, but we are able to do so as the crow flies, surmounting all obstacles in our way.
And yet, despite this, it really, really, sucks.
How does flight lose its magic? For centuries, man has dreamed of flight, of being able to shed his earthly shackles and take to the sky. From Icarus to Superman, flight is one of the most common wishes. We all dream of flight.
Despite this, I dread heading to the airport. Why? Let's look at how we humans undertake the majesty of flight; let's outline the steps of this incredible journey.
First, we'll head to a large building in the middle of nowhere, where the air conditioning is always on high and there are never any comfortable seats. After being segregated and sorted by monkeys dressed in uniforms, we must stand in lines. After shuffling through these agonizingly slow lines, dragging along our belongings in canvas sacks, we are submitted to a humiliating series of poking and prodding and scanning examinations. Our belongings are also thoroughly searched. We must be stripped, x-rayed, and felt down by very unattractive people.
But once we've made it through this ordeal, the skies are ours, right? Yes, sort of.
We are crowded and herded into a very cramped metal tube, filled with other disagreeable members of our species. We must squeeze through too-small aisles into too-small seats, where we are basically locked into a single bent position for the duration of our flight. Crammed shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow with our neighbors, whom we often have never met before, we must stare out of tiny portholes as the ground lifts away, while a tin voice blares over speakers about "attaching your own oxygen mask before helping others."
Faced with such a dreary voyage, we are tempted to slip off into the peaceful oblivion of sleep. Yet the wailing baby, the small child who kicks the seat, and the obese man who insists on fully reclining all band together to deny us even that simple pleasure.
Instead, we are forced to remain awake, breathing stale air and attempting to entertain ourselves with in-flight magazines of ridiculous purchasable items until we are finally set blessedly free from the confinement.
When did flying become such a chore? Build us glass planes with oversized windows, with benches and leg room instead of cramped individual seats, with bean-bag chairs, multi-person scanners hooked to supercomputers for ultra-rapid analysis, courteous personnel, and tasty, delicious, freshly cooked snacks for a very minimal fee! Do this, and maybe flying will once again capture our dreams and imaginations.
Plane travel is amazing. It allows us to travel thousands of miles, as far as halfway around the globe, in a matter of hours. Our ancestors wouldn't even be able to fathom such accomplishments. Not only can we travel at over five hundred miles per hour, for a sustained period, but we are able to do so as the crow flies, surmounting all obstacles in our way.
And yet, despite this, it really, really, sucks.
How does flight lose its magic? For centuries, man has dreamed of flight, of being able to shed his earthly shackles and take to the sky. From Icarus to Superman, flight is one of the most common wishes. We all dream of flight.
Despite this, I dread heading to the airport. Why? Let's look at how we humans undertake the majesty of flight; let's outline the steps of this incredible journey.
First, we'll head to a large building in the middle of nowhere, where the air conditioning is always on high and there are never any comfortable seats. After being segregated and sorted by monkeys dressed in uniforms, we must stand in lines. After shuffling through these agonizingly slow lines, dragging along our belongings in canvas sacks, we are submitted to a humiliating series of poking and prodding and scanning examinations. Our belongings are also thoroughly searched. We must be stripped, x-rayed, and felt down by very unattractive people.
But once we've made it through this ordeal, the skies are ours, right? Yes, sort of.
We are crowded and herded into a very cramped metal tube, filled with other disagreeable members of our species. We must squeeze through too-small aisles into too-small seats, where we are basically locked into a single bent position for the duration of our flight. Crammed shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow with our neighbors, whom we often have never met before, we must stare out of tiny portholes as the ground lifts away, while a tin voice blares over speakers about "attaching your own oxygen mask before helping others."
Faced with such a dreary voyage, we are tempted to slip off into the peaceful oblivion of sleep. Yet the wailing baby, the small child who kicks the seat, and the obese man who insists on fully reclining all band together to deny us even that simple pleasure.
Instead, we are forced to remain awake, breathing stale air and attempting to entertain ourselves with in-flight magazines of ridiculous purchasable items until we are finally set blessedly free from the confinement.
When did flying become such a chore? Build us glass planes with oversized windows, with benches and leg room instead of cramped individual seats, with bean-bag chairs, multi-person scanners hooked to supercomputers for ultra-rapid analysis, courteous personnel, and tasty, delicious, freshly cooked snacks for a very minimal fee! Do this, and maybe flying will once again capture our dreams and imaginations.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Dead blogger day #1: no post
Author's note: Today, I have returned from a 10-day expedition to Israel. After a very long flight, I simply need to crash, and have no energy to write a story. So, with much sadness, I'm afraid I must take this day for myself.
Instead of enjoying a story . . .
Gaze at this screen. Squint your eyes slightly, possibly turning on a light in the room or tilting the screen back or to one side, until you can see your own reflection.
Your head should be floating in the middle of the screen, eyes open but focused as you strain to view both your own reflection and this text. Your familiar face greets you, the face that you have seen every day when you look in the mirror.
Can you see it?
This face, this image that you see, is yours alone to behold. No one else has viewed this face. When you venture out into the world, each day, whether it's to a job, to buy groceries, or to simply be immersed in the great sea of humanity, the face that you present to the world is not this face. It is similar, yes, but it is not this face.
Do you know why?
This face is different. This face is ever so slightly off. If you showed this face to your friends, your family, your loved ones, they would recognize it. They would know it is you. But in the back of their minds, a naggling suspicion would tell them that it is not quite right.
But why is this, you wonder?
It's in the details.
You see, this face you see is reversed. This is not your face. The image that greets you in the bathroom, in the mirror, in this screen, is the reversed reflection of your face. What is on the left is on the right. What is on the right is on the left. (The top and bottom are still the same, yes, but then it would just be way too obvious.)
So smile, as you look at yourself. This is a private face, a personal face, a view that is meant for you and only you to enjoy. The strangers of the world will never have a chance to see this aspect. So go ahead. Make a silly face. Smear your makeup. It's okay. This is meant just for you.
Instead of enjoying a story . . .
Gaze at this screen. Squint your eyes slightly, possibly turning on a light in the room or tilting the screen back or to one side, until you can see your own reflection.
Your head should be floating in the middle of the screen, eyes open but focused as you strain to view both your own reflection and this text. Your familiar face greets you, the face that you have seen every day when you look in the mirror.
Can you see it?
This face, this image that you see, is yours alone to behold. No one else has viewed this face. When you venture out into the world, each day, whether it's to a job, to buy groceries, or to simply be immersed in the great sea of humanity, the face that you present to the world is not this face. It is similar, yes, but it is not this face.
Do you know why?
This face is different. This face is ever so slightly off. If you showed this face to your friends, your family, your loved ones, they would recognize it. They would know it is you. But in the back of their minds, a naggling suspicion would tell them that it is not quite right.
But why is this, you wonder?
It's in the details.
You see, this face you see is reversed. This is not your face. The image that greets you in the bathroom, in the mirror, in this screen, is the reversed reflection of your face. What is on the left is on the right. What is on the right is on the left. (The top and bottom are still the same, yes, but then it would just be way too obvious.)
So smile, as you look at yourself. This is a private face, a personal face, a view that is meant for you and only you to enjoy. The strangers of the world will never have a chance to see this aspect. So go ahead. Make a silly face. Smear your makeup. It's okay. This is meant just for you.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
My Understanding of the Web
Websites I ought to
be visiting (but usually aren’t)
www.forbes.com – an
exhaustive source of everything business related, where I could gain savvy and
really come to understand how to operate in the business world – if I ever had
the patience to read the articles. Not
that they aren’t interesting, but for some reason it’s tough to sit down and
learn.
www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/
- The ultimate encyclopedia of articles on anything and everything
science. If a budding scientist read
every research article on his topic on PubMed, he would be a leader in the
field. And yet, the soul-crushing
density of the papers repels me like lipid bubbles repel macromolecular
proteins from entry.
www.wsj.com – The Wall
Street Journal is a reliable and informative news source. Yet somehow, its dry tone makes me certain
that half of one article about controlling my home via my iPad is all the news
I need.
www.gq.com – The upscale
guide to men’s style, GQ makes me wish I could look better, wearing nicer
clothing than my jeans and free tee shirt from Welcome Week. Then I remember that I’m poor and can’t
afford to fill my closet with $500 sport jackets.
Websites I sometimes
visit (and feel good about)
www.cnn.com – News is
always good, and while CNN may have a bit of bias, it’s often great to check up
on for trending topics. If only I didn’t
get bogged down by human interest pieces.
Look, a teenager shot up his family in Alabama! What a totally unexpected surprise!
www.mademan.com – An awesome
guide to everything manly, ranging from style to health to tech to good general
advice to live by. Whenever I read up on
these articles I feel secure and strong in my gender. If only I remembered to visit this site more
often.
www.newsmap.jp – An
interactive map that shows what’s trending in news, presented in beautiful
colors that make me forget how horrible the world is.
www.uncrate.com – The
ultimate guide to cool man’s stuff, which makes me realize how much money I
will need to truly be happy. Just
kidding! But a couple hundred grand to
drop on a luxury car and some fine whiskey wouldn’t go amiss. Just sayin’.
Websites I often
visit (and am ambivalent about)
www.imgur.com – A massive
conglomeration of beautiful pictures, insightful observations, hilarious
captions, and cute cat and dog pictures, I can waste hours browsing picture
after picture. Thank goodness I have
plenty of bandwidth, or I would burn through it all in minutes on this site. I’m glad I don’t live in Canada!
www.fmylife.com –
Sometimes, it’s nice to remember how good I have it. While reading FMLs can become tiresome, they
always remind me that, even though my stubbed toe is aching, at least my parents
haven’t stolen my college fund and I’m not being fired from McDonald’s.
www.notalwaysright.com
– While Imgur gives me my chuckles in picture form, Not Always Right lets me
get my literary jollies on, with (thankfully punctuation-corrected) stories
about the dark side of retail. This also
teaches me what I should NOT yell at the waiter on my next restaurant visit.
www.hulu.com – Being able
to watch all the TV I miss is amazing, until I realize that I’ve spent the
entire afternoon doing nothing but watching television on my computer.
Websites I occasionally
visit (and feel really bad about)
www.facebook.com –
Seriously, it feels like everyone on here is doing better than me – moving to
fantastic places? Getting married? Having children? I’m going back to FML.
www.icanhascheezburger.com
– a time-wasting cesspool of memes and bad Facebook statuses, as well as
awkwardly captioned cat pictures. I can
be sucked in for hours, but always emerge with the feeling that I need a
shower.
www.youtube.com –
Unless I’m listening to music, I try to stay away from YouTube. Most videos aren’t worth the time it takes to
sit through them, and the comments appear to be typed by monkeys addicted to
methamphetamines.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Rant: Email Sorting
So I'm going to take a day off from writing short stories to rant about emails. I tend to sort my emails into general categories, and determine whether to read them based on what category they fall into.
Spam (From: ladksfjadlkfawe69696969@hotmail.com Subject: 3nl4rg3 j00r p3n15)
These are spam messages. They are almost never opened, unless I want to get a good laugh out of how much bigger I could make various body appendages.
Updates and Deals/Advertisements (From: Cheap-4-U Deals Subject: Save 11% on Brazilian waxes when you bring a friend!)
These aren't spam, but most of the time I treat them as such. They are almost never opened unless they pertain to something super relevant. Most of the time, I can get the gist from the title of the email without ever needing to read them.
Facebook (That one friend you haven't talked to in five years has just poked you!)
These are almost always deleted, except for wall posts, which I will read in email format if I don't want to be bothered to visit Facebook.
Important emails (From: My girlfriend Subject: Innocuous title that could have deeper unpleasant implications!)
Girlfriend messages are always read.
Replies (From: Professor Subject: Re: your unexcused absence in my class)
Replies are always read.
But here's the annoying category:
Messages that are important enough that they should be read, but pertain to vaguely uncomfortable life decisions (From: Graduate program that raises feelings of unworthiness Subject: Information to know about applying to us, better have references lined up!)
These messages are too important to ignore or delete completely, but I don't want to open or read them - they just take too much effort! I don't want to have to invest this much energy and worry in an email, so I tend to simply ignore them. This results in them piling up in my inbox, still at the top of the stack, still patiently waiting to be opened, but never actually touched. This, dear readers, is my procrastination.
Horrible news? I'll read it and groan. Great news? I'll read it and cheer. Slightly disappointing news? I will leave it alone, never reading it, and put it off forever.
Spam (From: ladksfjadlkfawe69696969@hotmail.com Subject: 3nl4rg3 j00r p3n15)
These are spam messages. They are almost never opened, unless I want to get a good laugh out of how much bigger I could make various body appendages.
Updates and Deals/Advertisements (From: Cheap-4-U Deals Subject: Save 11% on Brazilian waxes when you bring a friend!)
These aren't spam, but most of the time I treat them as such. They are almost never opened unless they pertain to something super relevant. Most of the time, I can get the gist from the title of the email without ever needing to read them.
Facebook (That one friend you haven't talked to in five years has just poked you!)
These are almost always deleted, except for wall posts, which I will read in email format if I don't want to be bothered to visit Facebook.
Important emails (From: My girlfriend Subject: Innocuous title that could have deeper unpleasant implications!)
Girlfriend messages are always read.
Replies (From: Professor Subject: Re: your unexcused absence in my class)
Replies are always read.
But here's the annoying category:
Messages that are important enough that they should be read, but pertain to vaguely uncomfortable life decisions (From: Graduate program that raises feelings of unworthiness Subject: Information to know about applying to us, better have references lined up!)
These messages are too important to ignore or delete completely, but I don't want to open or read them - they just take too much effort! I don't want to have to invest this much energy and worry in an email, so I tend to simply ignore them. This results in them piling up in my inbox, still at the top of the stack, still patiently waiting to be opened, but never actually touched. This, dear readers, is my procrastination.
Horrible news? I'll read it and groan. Great news? I'll read it and cheer. Slightly disappointing news? I will leave it alone, never reading it, and put it off forever.
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