Just over fifteen years ago, I got a job at a gas station slash convenience store. This was a place where you could not pay for your gas at the pump. Instead, you had to enter a small store chockfull of salt, sugar, caffeine, alcohol, nicotine, gambling machines and other addictive items. The business model revolved around selling gasoline at cost and making money from the in-store purchases.
I landed this job on the spot after walking in to inquire about the Help Wanted sign while wearing a t-shirt with a wolf on it. Holly was the manager, and she was really into dogs. The opening was for minimum wage, working four ten-hour overnight shifts. I figured it would allow me to take summer classes at the university during the day without altering my general routine too much. I’d just turned 21, and was still invincible. Besides, it was the only available job around not requiring a vehicle or experience.
I had spent the previous three summers working as a cook at the Saylorville Marina near Polk City, but when the spring semester of 1997 ended, coinciding with the expiration of the last of my college scholarships, I moved out of the dorms and into a two bedroom apartment in downtown Cedar Falls that I was to share with four other roommates. Splitting the rent five ways meant my portion was somewhere around $70 per month. I'd never paid rent before, so I was concerned whether that was cheap enough to allow me to save to pay for my next school semester, which I’d calculated was all I needed to graduate with a double major if I took three summer classes.
Third shift at Petro-N-Provisions (known by everyone as PNP) consisted of eating day-old donuts, drinking pot after pot of coffee, confiscating the fake IDs of underage drunk college kids, stocking the shelves of a walk-in cooler that you had to climb around in like a monkey, jumping off the roof of the building into stacks of empty boxes and setting powdered creamer ablaze- all while blasting hard-core rap out of a boom box. Basically, this job was freaking awesome.
At 8am on the mornings when I didn’t have class, I’d ride DJ's bike (which I had on long-term loan) home from work, eat a bowl of cereal and sleep until 2pm. Then, I’d practice drums non-stop until 8pm, take a bath (the apartment didn’t have a shower) and either head back to work or, if it was a day off, spend the night reading from Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. On school days, instead of riding home, I’d sleep for two hours on the couch at the house inhabited by my friends Amy, Tausha, Risa and Brad, which was conveniently located a few doors down from PNP and closer to campus. After classes, I’d eat a slice of pizza, a stuffed baked potato or a veggie bagel with shmear from the Union and read from Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman before heading to the Library, where I’d checked out a locker to store books, toiletries and a changes of clothes, to work on homework and read old Downbeat magazine articles before heading either back to work or to Stebs, the live music venue slash bar in Cedar Falls.
One of my roommates was only there two nights a week, and then she traveled back to Des Moines (presumably with a supply of toilet paper as it was constantly disappearing). The others were my closest friends at the time, so I had spent plenty of time in the apartment even before I'd lived there. But it wasn't long before Eric and Annie moved away, and since Erin and I worked opposite shifts, I amused myself by creating morbid vignettes with her Tickle-Me-Elmo doll before I left for work for her to come home to.
I didn’t really end up saving much money that summer, and my parents paid for the final 21 hour credit load that would finish up my college life. It also eliminated sleep entirely, which quickly became unbearable, but luckily around about the time I’d resolved to never eat another donut, a second shift position opened up.
My university barely had three years worth of information to dispel, so that last semester mostly consisted of editing papers I’d already written about books I’d already read. I started working during the day, still forty hours a week but shorter shifts, often alongside Holly, who was generous enough to buy us both lunch every day and let me drive her car to pick it up. Her salary was $200 a week, which I thought at the time was a lot, and still recognize it as enough to be able to buy another’s lunch when they need it.
Most of my usual haunts were also frequented by this girl named Buffy, and she introduced me to some interesting contemporary music and literature. On the day of my graduation, she and I drove to Dubuque so I could play drums as part of a pop trio named Circus Fun. The head of the psychology department had attempted to entice me to attend the graduation ceremony by pointing out I’d get to wear special badges or sashes or whatever for being valedictorian, Magna Cum Laude and whatnot, which acted to make it sound even less appealing than a total waste of time. The head of the philosophy department laughed about not going to his graduation either. Dubuque proved noteworthy in that it was the last of my dates with Buffy and gigs with Circus Fun.
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Monday, December 17, 2012
Ethnicity (Please Check)
I will forever be confused by forms asking for ethnicity. There’s never enough room to put ½ German, ¼ Castilian and ¼ Scotch/Irish/English (roughly). Further, they want to know whether I’m Hispanic/Latino, which, as you can see, is yes- my maternal grandfather’s family immigrated from the Basque region on the Iberian Peninsula, which is the textbook definition of Hispanic.
As a kid, I was told to checkmark “Caucasian.” The Caucasus is the region between the Black and Caspian Seas in which several ethnicities reside, but none of them are called Caucasian. A cursory glance at the origin of this term is horrifying. It seems some 18th Century German “philosopher” proposed the human race could be divided into two categories, based on the inherent beauty of their skin. Shortly thereafter, a colleague added the criteria of skull structure, and I assume that either inspired or was inspired by the sham science of phrenology. The “beautiful” races were labeled Caucasian and the “ugly” ones Mongolian. Yikes! This made-up racist term should never be used by anyone, let alone an official document.
I suspect these forms are most interested in my skin tone, but it seems obvious to me that “White” is not an ethnicity. Where would Whites come from- Whitelandia? That’s what makes American racism so dumb- what the hell does skin tone have to do with ANYTHING? Maybe they should have a color chart; although probably it’d be more accurate if the choices were just on a spectrum between Privileged and SOL.
Many years ago my grandpa stated, “The great thing about America is that you can choose your ethnicity.” Thinking this an odd statement but willing to explore what he meant, I replied by asking, “Have you read Anti-Semite and Jew, by Simone DeBeviour?” He apparently hadn’t because he sort of stared at me befuddled before continuing: “In America, all you have to do to be American is act American. If you embrace the ideas of capitalism, you can have everything you want in this country.” Ever the contrarian, I observed, “But that creates a conundrum if you don’t want to be a capitalist,” which led my grandpa into a rant about that being exactly the problem with so many foreigners- that they refused to accept the American dream.
The irony of this conversation is my grandpa was the same person who’d boasted to me that in all his years as a banker he’d never given a home loan to a minority.
In retrospect, I think perhaps he meant “your” in “choosing your ethnicity” to be singular instead of plural. He might not have been saying everyone can choose their ethnicity, but that I could. As his family had moved to California from Mexico when he was a boy, he knew this firsthand. I guess because his ethnic roots were Castilian and not Mexican, he looked “white.” He went by Joseph, not José, and was an eloquent English speaker. He was well-read in classic Western literature; interestingly his favorite writer seemed to be the Transcendental essayist Ralph Waldo Emerson, who declares in his most famous work, entitled Self-Reliance: "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds."
A few years ago, in circumstances I do not recall, I casually mentioned to a friend from Great Britain that I was part Castilian. “That explains so much about you!” she exclaimed, “Castilians are fiery!” As this was coming from a redhead, I knew it was a compliment. I had no idea that Castilians possessed any stereotypical traits, but the revelation especially excited me because, after discovering Ronaldinho around 2005, I had begun following Spanish soccer. Also, possibly because of the awareness that I’m a Taurus, I’ve long been fond of illustrations depicting bull fighting.
Since that moment, I’ve been taking my grandpa’s advice, and choosing to identify as Castilian. Poor Grandpa Vasquez must be rolling in his grave. Honestly, I know nothing about Basque culture and I’ve never been to Spain, but I have done some cursory reading on Spanish history and try to keep up on Spanish politics. Because of my bias toward Futbol Club Barcelona, I’d admittedly rather be Catalan, but at least it's in the vicinity (I looked on a map).
Lest my point be lost, it is not that I have forgotten the absurdity of racism, but that I have chosen to embrace that absurdity to an extent. It allows me to think to myself, I’m German, Scotch/Irish/English and Basque: of course I love soccer! I’m fully aware the assertion is ridiculous, as I could make the same claim if I were Brazilian, Argentine and Dutch. But it seems to me that’s precisely the fun, curse and irony of ethnicity: we pick and choose which of our traits are genetic and do the same in others. This deceptive cloud of racial identity gives us power to place blame, embrace interests and eschew responsibility at our discretion. We can use race as a tool to infuse or incite pride or shame. Maybe it’s not the concept that’s defective so much as how we choose to use it.
In any other country, I’d be considered an American, but when I think of Americans, nothing much resembling me comes to mind. Perhaps that’s why I tend to be critical of American nationalism. Honestly, I’ve never trusted Americans or its government, precisely because I’ve always been fascinated by American history, and when I was a kid, I wanted to be a Native American when I grew up….
As a kid, I was told to checkmark “Caucasian.” The Caucasus is the region between the Black and Caspian Seas in which several ethnicities reside, but none of them are called Caucasian. A cursory glance at the origin of this term is horrifying. It seems some 18th Century German “philosopher” proposed the human race could be divided into two categories, based on the inherent beauty of their skin. Shortly thereafter, a colleague added the criteria of skull structure, and I assume that either inspired or was inspired by the sham science of phrenology. The “beautiful” races were labeled Caucasian and the “ugly” ones Mongolian. Yikes! This made-up racist term should never be used by anyone, let alone an official document.
I suspect these forms are most interested in my skin tone, but it seems obvious to me that “White” is not an ethnicity. Where would Whites come from- Whitelandia? That’s what makes American racism so dumb- what the hell does skin tone have to do with ANYTHING? Maybe they should have a color chart; although probably it’d be more accurate if the choices were just on a spectrum between Privileged and SOL.
Many years ago my grandpa stated, “The great thing about America is that you can choose your ethnicity.” Thinking this an odd statement but willing to explore what he meant, I replied by asking, “Have you read Anti-Semite and Jew, by Simone DeBeviour?” He apparently hadn’t because he sort of stared at me befuddled before continuing: “In America, all you have to do to be American is act American. If you embrace the ideas of capitalism, you can have everything you want in this country.” Ever the contrarian, I observed, “But that creates a conundrum if you don’t want to be a capitalist,” which led my grandpa into a rant about that being exactly the problem with so many foreigners- that they refused to accept the American dream.
The irony of this conversation is my grandpa was the same person who’d boasted to me that in all his years as a banker he’d never given a home loan to a minority.
In retrospect, I think perhaps he meant “your” in “choosing your ethnicity” to be singular instead of plural. He might not have been saying everyone can choose their ethnicity, but that I could. As his family had moved to California from Mexico when he was a boy, he knew this firsthand. I guess because his ethnic roots were Castilian and not Mexican, he looked “white.” He went by Joseph, not José, and was an eloquent English speaker. He was well-read in classic Western literature; interestingly his favorite writer seemed to be the Transcendental essayist Ralph Waldo Emerson, who declares in his most famous work, entitled Self-Reliance: "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds."
A few years ago, in circumstances I do not recall, I casually mentioned to a friend from Great Britain that I was part Castilian. “That explains so much about you!” she exclaimed, “Castilians are fiery!” As this was coming from a redhead, I knew it was a compliment. I had no idea that Castilians possessed any stereotypical traits, but the revelation especially excited me because, after discovering Ronaldinho around 2005, I had begun following Spanish soccer. Also, possibly because of the awareness that I’m a Taurus, I’ve long been fond of illustrations depicting bull fighting.
Since that moment, I’ve been taking my grandpa’s advice, and choosing to identify as Castilian. Poor Grandpa Vasquez must be rolling in his grave. Honestly, I know nothing about Basque culture and I’ve never been to Spain, but I have done some cursory reading on Spanish history and try to keep up on Spanish politics. Because of my bias toward Futbol Club Barcelona, I’d admittedly rather be Catalan, but at least it's in the vicinity (I looked on a map).
Lest my point be lost, it is not that I have forgotten the absurdity of racism, but that I have chosen to embrace that absurdity to an extent. It allows me to think to myself, I’m German, Scotch/Irish/English and Basque: of course I love soccer! I’m fully aware the assertion is ridiculous, as I could make the same claim if I were Brazilian, Argentine and Dutch. But it seems to me that’s precisely the fun, curse and irony of ethnicity: we pick and choose which of our traits are genetic and do the same in others. This deceptive cloud of racial identity gives us power to place blame, embrace interests and eschew responsibility at our discretion. We can use race as a tool to infuse or incite pride or shame. Maybe it’s not the concept that’s defective so much as how we choose to use it.
In any other country, I’d be considered an American, but when I think of Americans, nothing much resembling me comes to mind. Perhaps that’s why I tend to be critical of American nationalism. Honestly, I’ve never trusted Americans or its government, precisely because I’ve always been fascinated by American history, and when I was a kid, I wanted to be a Native American when I grew up….
Monday, November 26, 2012
To Build a Fire
Growing up, I was in both a scouting group and a frontiersmen re-enactment organization, and camping was the only thing I enjoyed more than G.I. Joes. It wasn’t until I became an adult and began camping with others that I realized how naïve most are to basic survival techniques, such as shelter building, trail navigation, food preparation and, possibly most importantly, fire building. The interesting thing about watching others build fires, besides the extreme incompetence, is the stubborn refusal to accept any help, especially when males are involved. Every man assumes that the knowledge of starting a fire is somehow embedded in their genes; if their ancestors could figure it out, so can they. Consequently, I’ve seen rituals involving bundles of smoldering newspaper, bottles of wasted starter fluid and smoldering logs strewn throughout the campsite (apparently in an attempt to put them out).
I can start a fire in a light rain or heavy winds with absolutely no problem. I’m not bragging, because all it takes is a basic understanding of how fire behaves, which I’m keen to share with anyone willing to listen. I’m also content to sit back and mock stubbornly desperate and futile attempts.
Tenet #1: Fire is lazy. If you are willing to do the work for it, it is content to let you. It will consume the easiest thing available that will sustain its current state. It doesn’t want to grow and doesn’t like change.
Tenet #2: Fire can’t hold its breath. It needs a constant supply of oxygen. Wood does not act as a substitute for oxygen; in fact oxygen is more important than fuel.
That’s pretty much all you need to know about fire to get one started.
The ideal diameter area in which to build a normal-sized fire is about a yard (meter), but most provided pits at modern campsites are about half that. This is because the people providing them know most people become idiots in the presence of fire and are trying to restrict the size of it as much as possible. I don’t blame them. Speaking of idiots- things that should never be discarded in a fire pit include glass, metal, plastic and rubber. Burning railroad ties is also a bad idea.
Have all your firewood gathered before starting the fire. There are three categories of wood, and you will need all three to progress a flame into a campfire. The finest materials used to get the fire started are called tinder. You don’t need much of it- just enough to fill two cupped hands. Tinder can be: a dried out bird’s nest, dried pine needles, shredded paper or a ripped up brown paper grocery sack. A ripped up weekday newspaper also works, but avoid the glossy pages printed with color ink. Do not use dried leaves; they just create smoke and tend to smother the fire. A common mistake in building a fire is using too much tinder. Its purpose is to get the fire started and not to keep it going. As long as you keep feeding tinder to a jejune fire, tinder is the only thing it will consume (refer to tenet #1). The goal is to ween it off tinder and force it to burn larger materials.
Kindling is the term used for the wood used to grow the fire. Basically, kindling is tree branches. As your fire building skills improve, you will need less and less kindling, but an armload or one dead tree branch should be more than enough. The main thing is to have a progression in size from twigs to about 2 inch diameter sticks. If a branch bends instead of snaps or is green in the middle, it is not dried, or cured. Also, I’d better point out that in some states it is illegal to use tree branches found on site at certain campgrounds. Alternatively, you can use a progression from tightly rolled up newspaper or brown paper bag to corrugated cardboard or paint stir sticks to untreated lumber or quartered logs.
The goal of building a fire is to get it to burn logs, which are called fuel. In ideal conditions, the progression from match to log takes about 5 minutes. If you’re not using dry wood, a realistic goal is more like 10-15 minutes. If you construct the tinder, kindling and fuel properly, very little work is needed once the tinder is lit, whereas if you just haphazardly chuck wood into the pit, you will spend more time than necessary fussing with it.
Please note: starter fluid is for putting on charcoal briquettes, not on campfires.
You want to provide a way for a little air to get under the tinder. I do this by placing two ½” sticks in a V shape pointing away from the wind (opposite how a weather vane works) so the wind blows inside the opening of the V and laying several small twigs across the V like a grate. Nest, I surround that small V with a much larger V of two 4” logs. Across this large V make an A by placing a wedges log across it. I recommend a wedge both because that’s an easy way of preventing it from rolling off and because it provides an easier meal for the fire than a rounded log. This wedged log is the goal of our fire building operation. Once that wedge is in flames, you should be able to keep the fire going simply by adding more logs.
The tinder goes in the area on top of the small twigs held up by the small V and inside the A of the logs. One handy cheat I use as the primary thing to light is a stick of sawdust compressed with resin or wax that you can either make or buy for cheap in any store with a camping section.
If you are using some method other than a match or lighter to start the fire, you’ll have to wait before stacking any more wood, because it’ll probably involve cupping and blowing on the tinder to get it smoking before putting it into the A frame. (Flint and steel is a technique that’s easier than it looks while using a friction bow is far more difficult than you’d imagine.) As long as you have something you can light and fit under the A-bar of the big logs to light the tinder, you can arrange the kindling before doing so. I’ve recently been using an aim-and-flame but that’s not really as good as using wood matches stored in a waterproof container. If you opt for more of a challenge in fire-starting, you’ll have to add the rest of the wood as you make sure the tinder is getting air (which isn’t particularly challenging, actually, as long as the kindling is with easy reach).
Secret #1: The fuzz stick. If your wood isn’t dry or weather conditions aren’t amenable, I highly recommend taking a few minutes to construct a fuzz stick, which acts as a transitional device between the tinder and the kindling. Get a stick about a ½” thick and a foot or so long, and cover the entire thing with a series of thin U-shaped cuts. Each U gets flared out so the stick looks fluffy. Finally, sharpen the end opposite the one the knife blade has been facing to a point and stab it through the middle of the tinder in the A frame so that it stands erect. The fire will climb the stick, first burning the flared out notches until it consumes the stick itself. This might seem like a waste of time, but it’ll save you a few matches in the event your tinder goes out before the kindling is fully lit. Making the fuzz stick for the next trip is a great pastime while sitting around the fire. You can quickly improvise a substitute by ripping a bunch of tears into a brown paper bag and then rolling it up.
Immediately after the fuzz stick is in place, the smallest twigs are placed in rows above the tinder across the triangle of the A frame. Leave space between the sticks for air to be able to pass through. Then, form the largest kindling, consisting of three thick branches or log wedges, into a tripod above them. Finally, lean medium-sized kindling against the tripod, making a teepee surrounding the outside of the A frame but not between the legs of the A.
Now all you need to do is light the tinder. You might be noticing that there are a lot more places where more wood can be added. Instead of acting on this impulse, refer to tenet #2.
Once the tinder is started (if you don’t have a match long enough to reach under the log, light something longer, like a thinly rolled piece of paper, first), you want to make sure to keep airflow underneath it as the flames raise up and into the kindling. The classic methods are to contort your head down there and blow or use a bellows. I have to credit my friend Chant for introducing me to a third option.
Secret #2: The blow tube. Take approximately two feet of ¾” copper tubing and flatten one end with a hammer, leaving a sliver for an opening. Wrap glow tape at the top of the opposite end so that you remember which end is which. Then all you do is aim the flattened end where air is needed and blow through it. Don’t be overly worried about blowing out the flame; even if you do, a couple more blows should get it started again. The flames going out is not the same as the fire going out, but if you run out of glowing embers you might be hosed.
Depending upon the dryness of the wood, you might need to add a bit more kindling before the fire is hot enough to burn the log. If it starts going out, there is no need to immediately panic, because the small grated platform for the tinder that was the first thing placed acts as emergency back-up kindling. Build the fire by adding slightly larger sizes while keeping it supplied with oxygen; resist the urge to frantically dump on a bunch more tinder. The teepee will eventually collapse and you might need to push the sticks together to prevent the fire from getting too spread out, and the blow tube can be reappropriated for this task. Once the largest kindling that acted as the main support for the teepee is burning, another log can be placed alongside the cross bar of the A frame on top of the V with space between the two logs for airflow and then two more logs can be stacked perpendicular on top of those. That’s all there is to it. Occasionally consolidating and adding logs is all you’ll have to do for the rest of the evening.
White-hot coals are ideal for cooking on, and at this point I usually start prepping food, as it’ll be about a half hour before there are enough of them to cook with.
Unless it rains, after the inaugural fire has burnt down to coals, you should be able to start a new one simply by putting some twigs on them and blowing.
Before abandoning the vicinity, be sure to first sprinkle (to avoid a cloud of smoke and ash) and then completely douse the entire fire pit area with water.
I can start a fire in a light rain or heavy winds with absolutely no problem. I’m not bragging, because all it takes is a basic understanding of how fire behaves, which I’m keen to share with anyone willing to listen. I’m also content to sit back and mock stubbornly desperate and futile attempts.
Tenet #1: Fire is lazy. If you are willing to do the work for it, it is content to let you. It will consume the easiest thing available that will sustain its current state. It doesn’t want to grow and doesn’t like change.
Tenet #2: Fire can’t hold its breath. It needs a constant supply of oxygen. Wood does not act as a substitute for oxygen; in fact oxygen is more important than fuel.
That’s pretty much all you need to know about fire to get one started.
The ideal diameter area in which to build a normal-sized fire is about a yard (meter), but most provided pits at modern campsites are about half that. This is because the people providing them know most people become idiots in the presence of fire and are trying to restrict the size of it as much as possible. I don’t blame them. Speaking of idiots- things that should never be discarded in a fire pit include glass, metal, plastic and rubber. Burning railroad ties is also a bad idea.
Have all your firewood gathered before starting the fire. There are three categories of wood, and you will need all three to progress a flame into a campfire. The finest materials used to get the fire started are called tinder. You don’t need much of it- just enough to fill two cupped hands. Tinder can be: a dried out bird’s nest, dried pine needles, shredded paper or a ripped up brown paper grocery sack. A ripped up weekday newspaper also works, but avoid the glossy pages printed with color ink. Do not use dried leaves; they just create smoke and tend to smother the fire. A common mistake in building a fire is using too much tinder. Its purpose is to get the fire started and not to keep it going. As long as you keep feeding tinder to a jejune fire, tinder is the only thing it will consume (refer to tenet #1). The goal is to ween it off tinder and force it to burn larger materials.
Kindling is the term used for the wood used to grow the fire. Basically, kindling is tree branches. As your fire building skills improve, you will need less and less kindling, but an armload or one dead tree branch should be more than enough. The main thing is to have a progression in size from twigs to about 2 inch diameter sticks. If a branch bends instead of snaps or is green in the middle, it is not dried, or cured. Also, I’d better point out that in some states it is illegal to use tree branches found on site at certain campgrounds. Alternatively, you can use a progression from tightly rolled up newspaper or brown paper bag to corrugated cardboard or paint stir sticks to untreated lumber or quartered logs.
The goal of building a fire is to get it to burn logs, which are called fuel. In ideal conditions, the progression from match to log takes about 5 minutes. If you’re not using dry wood, a realistic goal is more like 10-15 minutes. If you construct the tinder, kindling and fuel properly, very little work is needed once the tinder is lit, whereas if you just haphazardly chuck wood into the pit, you will spend more time than necessary fussing with it.
Please note: starter fluid is for putting on charcoal briquettes, not on campfires.
You want to provide a way for a little air to get under the tinder. I do this by placing two ½” sticks in a V shape pointing away from the wind (opposite how a weather vane works) so the wind blows inside the opening of the V and laying several small twigs across the V like a grate. Nest, I surround that small V with a much larger V of two 4” logs. Across this large V make an A by placing a wedges log across it. I recommend a wedge both because that’s an easy way of preventing it from rolling off and because it provides an easier meal for the fire than a rounded log. This wedged log is the goal of our fire building operation. Once that wedge is in flames, you should be able to keep the fire going simply by adding more logs.
The tinder goes in the area on top of the small twigs held up by the small V and inside the A of the logs. One handy cheat I use as the primary thing to light is a stick of sawdust compressed with resin or wax that you can either make or buy for cheap in any store with a camping section.
If you are using some method other than a match or lighter to start the fire, you’ll have to wait before stacking any more wood, because it’ll probably involve cupping and blowing on the tinder to get it smoking before putting it into the A frame. (Flint and steel is a technique that’s easier than it looks while using a friction bow is far more difficult than you’d imagine.) As long as you have something you can light and fit under the A-bar of the big logs to light the tinder, you can arrange the kindling before doing so. I’ve recently been using an aim-and-flame but that’s not really as good as using wood matches stored in a waterproof container. If you opt for more of a challenge in fire-starting, you’ll have to add the rest of the wood as you make sure the tinder is getting air (which isn’t particularly challenging, actually, as long as the kindling is with easy reach).
Secret #1: The fuzz stick. If your wood isn’t dry or weather conditions aren’t amenable, I highly recommend taking a few minutes to construct a fuzz stick, which acts as a transitional device between the tinder and the kindling. Get a stick about a ½” thick and a foot or so long, and cover the entire thing with a series of thin U-shaped cuts. Each U gets flared out so the stick looks fluffy. Finally, sharpen the end opposite the one the knife blade has been facing to a point and stab it through the middle of the tinder in the A frame so that it stands erect. The fire will climb the stick, first burning the flared out notches until it consumes the stick itself. This might seem like a waste of time, but it’ll save you a few matches in the event your tinder goes out before the kindling is fully lit. Making the fuzz stick for the next trip is a great pastime while sitting around the fire. You can quickly improvise a substitute by ripping a bunch of tears into a brown paper bag and then rolling it up.
Immediately after the fuzz stick is in place, the smallest twigs are placed in rows above the tinder across the triangle of the A frame. Leave space between the sticks for air to be able to pass through. Then, form the largest kindling, consisting of three thick branches or log wedges, into a tripod above them. Finally, lean medium-sized kindling against the tripod, making a teepee surrounding the outside of the A frame but not between the legs of the A.
Now all you need to do is light the tinder. You might be noticing that there are a lot more places where more wood can be added. Instead of acting on this impulse, refer to tenet #2.
Once the tinder is started (if you don’t have a match long enough to reach under the log, light something longer, like a thinly rolled piece of paper, first), you want to make sure to keep airflow underneath it as the flames raise up and into the kindling. The classic methods are to contort your head down there and blow or use a bellows. I have to credit my friend Chant for introducing me to a third option.
Secret #2: The blow tube. Take approximately two feet of ¾” copper tubing and flatten one end with a hammer, leaving a sliver for an opening. Wrap glow tape at the top of the opposite end so that you remember which end is which. Then all you do is aim the flattened end where air is needed and blow through it. Don’t be overly worried about blowing out the flame; even if you do, a couple more blows should get it started again. The flames going out is not the same as the fire going out, but if you run out of glowing embers you might be hosed.
Depending upon the dryness of the wood, you might need to add a bit more kindling before the fire is hot enough to burn the log. If it starts going out, there is no need to immediately panic, because the small grated platform for the tinder that was the first thing placed acts as emergency back-up kindling. Build the fire by adding slightly larger sizes while keeping it supplied with oxygen; resist the urge to frantically dump on a bunch more tinder. The teepee will eventually collapse and you might need to push the sticks together to prevent the fire from getting too spread out, and the blow tube can be reappropriated for this task. Once the largest kindling that acted as the main support for the teepee is burning, another log can be placed alongside the cross bar of the A frame on top of the V with space between the two logs for airflow and then two more logs can be stacked perpendicular on top of those. That’s all there is to it. Occasionally consolidating and adding logs is all you’ll have to do for the rest of the evening.
White-hot coals are ideal for cooking on, and at this point I usually start prepping food, as it’ll be about a half hour before there are enough of them to cook with.
Unless it rains, after the inaugural fire has burnt down to coals, you should be able to start a new one simply by putting some twigs on them and blowing.
Before abandoning the vicinity, be sure to first sprinkle (to avoid a cloud of smoke and ash) and then completely douse the entire fire pit area with water.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Paradoxical Viewpoints
While the two people I hung out with most in junior high are two of the most generous and caring people I’ve encountered, it chagrins me to admit that the three people I spent the majority of my time with in high school are utterly despicable. I mention this not to speak ill but to ponder why I didn’t notice. They would criticize how I have changed, but I perceive my own character back then as deficient. I blame this in part on a typically teenage combination of wholly self-assured and utterly confused, but also on a fundamentally skewed view of reality.
One insight into my high school mindset is an occurrence I remember in one of Bob’s classes. (Bob was the teacher: his name was Mr. Roberts, but everybody called him Bob, because he allowed them to do so.) One of his assignments was to write a character sketch of him. I essentially wrote, “Bob adheres to New Age beliefs,” and turned it in, proud that I had so succinctly captured his persona. It came back with a failing grade and the comment, “You didn’t follow the assignment, which was to describe my personality.” I was genuinely confused by this. It seemed like he was suggesting there was something more to him than which religious stereotype he most resembled. Perhaps there was a religion I was unfamiliar with which better reflected his ideology? Perhaps he wasn’t privy to the accuracy of my insight? I thought about challenging the grade I’d received and get to the bottom of this obvious misunderstanding on his part, but decided against it.
The whole affair seems utterly strange to me today, especially considering the only thing I know about New Age is that it somehow involves crystals and John Tesh, and have no idea how I related these to Bob. I can’t figure out how I presumably didn’t understand that people have unique traits and qualities separate from any ideology. I can only surmise that I didn’t see them because I didn’t know to look for them. I just assumed everyone was either going to heaven or hell when they died, and it was best not to get to know the ones that were going to hell because they were bad influences. This heavily suggests that I was a major tool, to use parlance that, as far as I know, didn’t exist back then.
All life would be tragic if we weren’t provided the opportunity to learn, change and grow; but even more unfortunate is the life of someone who refuses that chance. I’ve long held that our lives our guided foremost by our priorities; that the things we value the most affects our perception of everything we encounter. I propose that even if we understand our own priorities, egocentrism makes it difficult to discern the motivations of others. For instance, I’ve long scratched my head at those prone to declare, “You’re just jealous,” as it seems ridiculously dismissive reductionism. But I’m not at all a jealous person, and perhaps that is why I’ve never considered it a valid motive for any pronouncement.
I’m notoriously impatient, and that bad habit prevents me from paying enough attention sometimes. I think of replies while others are still speaking, can be easily frustrated by communication failures and never see the point of beating around the bush. I’m prone to attack a sentence before heeding the clarifying or qualifying follow-up. My hurriedness tends to cause me to neglect affability and embrace crass bluntness. Our society is generally more comfortable with pretense and niceties than frankness, and perhaps rightfully so. Honest opinions tend to either offend or infuriate. Others are prone to informing me, “It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it,” to which I respond, “It’s not what you hear, it’s what you’re listening for.”
Oh, the irony. What am I listening for?
I find the nature of reality both fascinating and important. Sadly (from my perspective), this puts me in the minority. I’m constantly struggling to see things objectively and from multiple angles. This translates into a fondness for debate. While I strive to understand, often by exposing untruths (following Sherlock Holmes’ famous maxim), I’m often seen as argumentative. In actuality, I don’t at all like to argue and find it counter-productive.
Because some might retort that the difference between argument and debate is only semantic, I want to address what I see as a key difference: in argument there is always disrespect or the feeling of being disrespected whereas in debate both parties attempt to find mutual respect. Debate is sometimes impossible; one can only argue with a grocery store employee explaining store policy or a driver trying to run people off the road. Argument is the expression of one’s own bias causing frustration at another’s perceived faults. Debate, on the other hand, seeks accuracy and avoids assumption.
For some, the goal of debate is to trick another into a corner from which they cannot get out. This makes sense if you’re a prosecuting attorney or simply want to humiliate someone, but often results in chasing red herrings. I prefer to stay on topic.
Perhaps the greatest result of any debate is to come to a mutual understanding and appreciation for why divergent opinions are held, but this is only possible when both viewpoints have validity. When I don’t perceive this to be the case, I am strongly inclined to try and talk some sense into another. Although I might optimistically strive to change another’s mind, usually the best I can hope for is to promote further reflection or exploration on a topic. My debate tendency is to attempt to introduce concepts and variables as well as point out assumptions and fallacies pertaining to a conviction that perhaps another hasn’t considered. Unconsciously, I tend to assume refusal to accept facts is due to stubbornness. But after reflecting on some similarly confusing conversations and encounters with others through the years, I’m realizing some conversations never get anywhere precisely because their priorities, motivations and goals are fundamentally incompatible with mine, resulting in two separate conversations taking place simultaneously.
Some see stubbornness as a virtue. In this framework, the person who most refuses to concede is seen to have more conviction in what they believe, and through some fallacy of logic conclude that this validates those beliefs. Facts are considered a crutch for those who fail to “feel it in their heart.” In lieu of valid evidence, these people will tend to recite quotes echoing their position and metaphors explaining them. They will boast of their faith-based beliefs, not realizing that term was originally intended as a mocking antonym for fact-based beliefs. Rigidly hoping does not lead to truth, but (to state a tautology) it does sustain hope, and that is the highest of priorities for many. For me, as already stated, futility is found in a life refusing change, so what others perceive as retaining hopefulness I view as hopelessness. Eureka.
The Christian ideology I grew up with emphasized humility, devotion and long-suffering. My cynical self now realizes this as a successful scheme to keep subjects blithe, passive and obedient. However, there is another Christian angle that venerates success, prosperity and accolades because those things are granted by a higher power only to those deemed worthy enough to have them. This latter twist is so foreign, my inclination is to approach it with incredulousness, but both concepts are right there in the same compilation of books. Just as piety can be thought to bring success, success can be thought to prove piety.
There are yet others who esteem dominance, intimidation and oppression. They adhere to the premise, “might makes right,” and for them, the goal of debate is to display the most strength. This chauvinist mentality will admit making mistakes but not that they’re wrong. They seek out perceived weaknesses, such as compromise, modesty, frustration and empathy, and attempt to exploit them. They epitomize schadenfreude. One way in which their assumption of another’s weakness can be detected is in bizarre attempts at inducing guilt. They talk loud, interrupt and use unnecessarily arcane words.
Again, this prioritizing of bravado over reasoning seems to me so patently flawed, it is very difficult for me to accept that it’s how some people think. However, upon reflection, we all tend to assume docile creatures, like cows, are dim-witted. Further, it is convenient to assume that this perceived dumbness makes us inherently superior to them, and this perceived superiority seemingly justifies our opinions and behaviors over theirs.
Another motivation that I’ve discovered others to have is the desire for affirmation. Some become crazed when their viewpoints go unacknowledged. My assumption would be that these people suffer from low self-esteem, and was surprised to find it is in fact a major symptom of narcissism. Like an over-inflated balloon, narcissists’ exaggeratedly self-important egos are highly fragile. They will criticize others of the same traits they justify in themselves. They love to boast of their possessions and accomplishments while hypocritically underestimating and devaluing others. Narcissists are often envious of things belonging to others since they see themselves as more deserving. They hold grudges. From my perspective, the most frightening trait of narcissists is that they see themselves as having or even being the cure for all that is wrong with the world.
However, it should be considered that seeking approbation can also be due to a desire for respect; which is justifiable considering without respect all debate is doomed. Disrespect is rooted in lack of empathy, and lack of empathy is the root of all kinds of evils. It is the common thread between those motivated by both dominance and narcissism. Without empathy, people are compartmentalized with labels and lumped into prepackaged categories, exactly as I had done with Bob in high school. The feelings and experiences of others, being considered less important than loftier, purer ideals, can be dismissed. Only those beliefs which personally affect that individual’s life matter, so, for example, a man will not value women’s rights.
While my goal here is to understand the perspectives of others in order to find common ground from which more productive dialogue can be generated, I’m at a loss how to see eye to eye with the trait of lacking empathy, as it creates a conundrum. I suppose the best we can do is find other characteristics or qualities within a person which make communication possible. We must look beyond the ease with which we can write someone off as a sociopath, for example, and gain awareness and understanding of each person as a fellow human being. We must strive to remain empathetic even when it seems others are being wholly selfish. In the end, it is not our ability to successfully debate but our humanity that prevents us from destroying ourselves.
One insight into my high school mindset is an occurrence I remember in one of Bob’s classes. (Bob was the teacher: his name was Mr. Roberts, but everybody called him Bob, because he allowed them to do so.) One of his assignments was to write a character sketch of him. I essentially wrote, “Bob adheres to New Age beliefs,” and turned it in, proud that I had so succinctly captured his persona. It came back with a failing grade and the comment, “You didn’t follow the assignment, which was to describe my personality.” I was genuinely confused by this. It seemed like he was suggesting there was something more to him than which religious stereotype he most resembled. Perhaps there was a religion I was unfamiliar with which better reflected his ideology? Perhaps he wasn’t privy to the accuracy of my insight? I thought about challenging the grade I’d received and get to the bottom of this obvious misunderstanding on his part, but decided against it.
The whole affair seems utterly strange to me today, especially considering the only thing I know about New Age is that it somehow involves crystals and John Tesh, and have no idea how I related these to Bob. I can’t figure out how I presumably didn’t understand that people have unique traits and qualities separate from any ideology. I can only surmise that I didn’t see them because I didn’t know to look for them. I just assumed everyone was either going to heaven or hell when they died, and it was best not to get to know the ones that were going to hell because they were bad influences. This heavily suggests that I was a major tool, to use parlance that, as far as I know, didn’t exist back then.
All life would be tragic if we weren’t provided the opportunity to learn, change and grow; but even more unfortunate is the life of someone who refuses that chance. I’ve long held that our lives our guided foremost by our priorities; that the things we value the most affects our perception of everything we encounter. I propose that even if we understand our own priorities, egocentrism makes it difficult to discern the motivations of others. For instance, I’ve long scratched my head at those prone to declare, “You’re just jealous,” as it seems ridiculously dismissive reductionism. But I’m not at all a jealous person, and perhaps that is why I’ve never considered it a valid motive for any pronouncement.
I’m notoriously impatient, and that bad habit prevents me from paying enough attention sometimes. I think of replies while others are still speaking, can be easily frustrated by communication failures and never see the point of beating around the bush. I’m prone to attack a sentence before heeding the clarifying or qualifying follow-up. My hurriedness tends to cause me to neglect affability and embrace crass bluntness. Our society is generally more comfortable with pretense and niceties than frankness, and perhaps rightfully so. Honest opinions tend to either offend or infuriate. Others are prone to informing me, “It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it,” to which I respond, “It’s not what you hear, it’s what you’re listening for.”
Oh, the irony. What am I listening for?
I find the nature of reality both fascinating and important. Sadly (from my perspective), this puts me in the minority. I’m constantly struggling to see things objectively and from multiple angles. This translates into a fondness for debate. While I strive to understand, often by exposing untruths (following Sherlock Holmes’ famous maxim), I’m often seen as argumentative. In actuality, I don’t at all like to argue and find it counter-productive.
Because some might retort that the difference between argument and debate is only semantic, I want to address what I see as a key difference: in argument there is always disrespect or the feeling of being disrespected whereas in debate both parties attempt to find mutual respect. Debate is sometimes impossible; one can only argue with a grocery store employee explaining store policy or a driver trying to run people off the road. Argument is the expression of one’s own bias causing frustration at another’s perceived faults. Debate, on the other hand, seeks accuracy and avoids assumption.
For some, the goal of debate is to trick another into a corner from which they cannot get out. This makes sense if you’re a prosecuting attorney or simply want to humiliate someone, but often results in chasing red herrings. I prefer to stay on topic.
Perhaps the greatest result of any debate is to come to a mutual understanding and appreciation for why divergent opinions are held, but this is only possible when both viewpoints have validity. When I don’t perceive this to be the case, I am strongly inclined to try and talk some sense into another. Although I might optimistically strive to change another’s mind, usually the best I can hope for is to promote further reflection or exploration on a topic. My debate tendency is to attempt to introduce concepts and variables as well as point out assumptions and fallacies pertaining to a conviction that perhaps another hasn’t considered. Unconsciously, I tend to assume refusal to accept facts is due to stubbornness. But after reflecting on some similarly confusing conversations and encounters with others through the years, I’m realizing some conversations never get anywhere precisely because their priorities, motivations and goals are fundamentally incompatible with mine, resulting in two separate conversations taking place simultaneously.
Some see stubbornness as a virtue. In this framework, the person who most refuses to concede is seen to have more conviction in what they believe, and through some fallacy of logic conclude that this validates those beliefs. Facts are considered a crutch for those who fail to “feel it in their heart.” In lieu of valid evidence, these people will tend to recite quotes echoing their position and metaphors explaining them. They will boast of their faith-based beliefs, not realizing that term was originally intended as a mocking antonym for fact-based beliefs. Rigidly hoping does not lead to truth, but (to state a tautology) it does sustain hope, and that is the highest of priorities for many. For me, as already stated, futility is found in a life refusing change, so what others perceive as retaining hopefulness I view as hopelessness. Eureka.
The Christian ideology I grew up with emphasized humility, devotion and long-suffering. My cynical self now realizes this as a successful scheme to keep subjects blithe, passive and obedient. However, there is another Christian angle that venerates success, prosperity and accolades because those things are granted by a higher power only to those deemed worthy enough to have them. This latter twist is so foreign, my inclination is to approach it with incredulousness, but both concepts are right there in the same compilation of books. Just as piety can be thought to bring success, success can be thought to prove piety.
There are yet others who esteem dominance, intimidation and oppression. They adhere to the premise, “might makes right,” and for them, the goal of debate is to display the most strength. This chauvinist mentality will admit making mistakes but not that they’re wrong. They seek out perceived weaknesses, such as compromise, modesty, frustration and empathy, and attempt to exploit them. They epitomize schadenfreude. One way in which their assumption of another’s weakness can be detected is in bizarre attempts at inducing guilt. They talk loud, interrupt and use unnecessarily arcane words.
Again, this prioritizing of bravado over reasoning seems to me so patently flawed, it is very difficult for me to accept that it’s how some people think. However, upon reflection, we all tend to assume docile creatures, like cows, are dim-witted. Further, it is convenient to assume that this perceived dumbness makes us inherently superior to them, and this perceived superiority seemingly justifies our opinions and behaviors over theirs.
Another motivation that I’ve discovered others to have is the desire for affirmation. Some become crazed when their viewpoints go unacknowledged. My assumption would be that these people suffer from low self-esteem, and was surprised to find it is in fact a major symptom of narcissism. Like an over-inflated balloon, narcissists’ exaggeratedly self-important egos are highly fragile. They will criticize others of the same traits they justify in themselves. They love to boast of their possessions and accomplishments while hypocritically underestimating and devaluing others. Narcissists are often envious of things belonging to others since they see themselves as more deserving. They hold grudges. From my perspective, the most frightening trait of narcissists is that they see themselves as having or even being the cure for all that is wrong with the world.
However, it should be considered that seeking approbation can also be due to a desire for respect; which is justifiable considering without respect all debate is doomed. Disrespect is rooted in lack of empathy, and lack of empathy is the root of all kinds of evils. It is the common thread between those motivated by both dominance and narcissism. Without empathy, people are compartmentalized with labels and lumped into prepackaged categories, exactly as I had done with Bob in high school. The feelings and experiences of others, being considered less important than loftier, purer ideals, can be dismissed. Only those beliefs which personally affect that individual’s life matter, so, for example, a man will not value women’s rights.
While my goal here is to understand the perspectives of others in order to find common ground from which more productive dialogue can be generated, I’m at a loss how to see eye to eye with the trait of lacking empathy, as it creates a conundrum. I suppose the best we can do is find other characteristics or qualities within a person which make communication possible. We must look beyond the ease with which we can write someone off as a sociopath, for example, and gain awareness and understanding of each person as a fellow human being. We must strive to remain empathetic even when it seems others are being wholly selfish. In the end, it is not our ability to successfully debate but our humanity that prevents us from destroying ourselves.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Obsessions
I was on my second day of writing an essay in my head about my brother’s uncanny cleaning abilities before the realization that I’d been making a living because of my cleaning abilities for the past several years set in. Writing essays while I clean is a common activity. My “24-hour memory trick” is that I continuously repeat a paragraph in my head until I am content with the construction of it. Then, I add another paragraph and continuously repeat both. Finally, I stop repeating the first paragraph but instead add a third paragraph and repeat it with the second. This process will yield about two pages of type-written material that, for whatever reason, will reappear in my head when I wake up the next morning. If it is longer than that, I only remember bullet points and type those instead. Then the essay vanishes from my brain similar to how you remember a dream when you first wake up but forget it soon after.
This ability was useful for getting me through college, but it is frustrating to consider how smart I would be if it didn’t have a built-in lifespan. In order to preserve the information longer, I would need to continue to repeat it in my head, which seems unnecessarily tedious since I can just write it down. As it is, I can simply re-read what I’ve written and think, I don’t remember writing that! Physical activities, however, can’t be written down, and that might explain why I spent about 10 years of my life practicing drums a minimum of 6 hours a day. And that, in turn, might explain why I got really into the process of recording music for awhile, and why I often experienced a sense of surprise and excitement upon hearing my drumming on a recording and thinking, I don’t remember playing like that!
It’s really weird to discover something consistent or fundamental about one’s own personality. It’s even weirder to realize it’s clinically diagnosable.
Most people know about the condition called Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, or OCD, in which people obsessively repeat an activity. Lesser known is an altogether different condition known as Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder, or OCPD, which is also called Anankastic personality disorder. (It is different than but sometimes confused with the more publicized of late Asperger syndrome.) OCPD is a genetic disorder that occurs in males more than females. The nutshell difference between OCD and OCPD is that, in the former and more familiar condition, a person mindlessly repeats a behavior they don’t find desirable, while in OCPD a person willfully adheres to a lifestyle that they consider laudable. Those with OCPD wouldn’t say that they “suffer” from it, precisely because from their point of view, others suffer from a lack of it.
One of the primary manifestations of OCPD is a preoccupation with remembering minute details which usually includes list-making. People with OCPD have what I would call a fear of losing, forgetting or overlooking details. I save my work after the completion of every single satisfactory sentence. (I just typed that sentence, hit Control-s, noticed I had left the “t” out of “sentence,” fixed it, and reached for Control-s again but decided to add this editorial first.) I’d suggest the overwhelming feature of OCPD is a profound annoyance with imprecision.
Starting a task can be intimidating because of the awareness that once you commit to doing so, you are going to fastidiously obsess over aspect of the job until it is completed. It is next to impossible not to become completely fascinated with a project or conviction. I’m sure I’m not the only one with OCPD that hates jigsaw puzzles because once one is started I can’t stop until every piece is found and put in its place. The other day I was talking to a friend about how when I see a movie I really like, I usually proceed to watch every movie that director made, and she replied, “I’ve always wanted to do that.” Hers is a completely different mentality than mine.
To prevent being overwhelmed by everything needing to be thoroughly finished, I am very good at breaking tasks into mini goals. When I reach the mini goal, I then have to muster the energy to continue with the overall task. I also have a strange habit of beginning several projects at once and then running back and forth trying to complete them all simultaneously. This is because it’s impossible to remain focused on one task without being distracted by the knowledge that there are others to be done. I’d wager OCPD is readily found amongst chefs.
Over-zealous cleanliness is actually a symptom only found in some with OCPD and is not a diagnostic criterion.
Another major symptom of OCPD is those with it are inflexible in their beliefs; in other words, dogmatic. I’m highly opinionated and value the ability of forming opinions. I can’t comprehend those you just say they “like” everything. But I’m always striving to perfect my opinions to be as accurate and precise as possible, which dogmatism doesn’t allow. In fact, I strongly believe in not being dogmatic, so go ahead and try wrapping your head around that paradox. It may be due to that quirk that, compared to most of my family, I seem to have a relatively mild case of OCPD. I do highly value integrity- being true to one’s word- which is perhaps another way of looking at the same thing. I am also incredibly punctual, loyal and stubborn. I don’t take advice on principle and can’t stand being micro-managed. I am also persistent- I don’t like last-minute changes in plans, never see the point in having or making back-up plans and will either refuse to quit or immediately quit entirely. I generally feel that my way of doing things is better than everyone else’s, unless it is a task that requires more expedience than precision, in which case I am jealous of others who can pull that off.
I love understanding and dissecting rules and I have spent countless hours researching rule nuances in various games and sports. I think one thing I appreciate most about sports is there is always, in the end, a winner and a loser. Dogmatism is commonly found in sports fans, and I am an obsessive soccer and baseball fan, but even then I don’t think my team is always superior to all others- I just want them to be. I can, however, be a bit of a grammar-Nazi (I deplore the gratuitous use of the word “Nazi,” finding it offensively trivializing, but can’t think of an appropriate substitute; striving to be as precise as possible).
Other common traits of OCPD are miserliness and hoarding tendencies. I don’t possess these nearly as much as others in my family, who tend to have refrigerators virtually empty except for old and rotten food. Then again, I can’t fathom those who don’t eat leftovers. I do have a tendency for collecting like items, but nothing trivial, which is again typical of OCPD. Incomplete, expensive or easy to obtain collections are too annoying. I’ve long wondered why everyone else doesn’t peruse every neighborhood thrift store once a week; it never occurred to me to wonder why I do. Also, I despise losing things, and could make a fairly complete list of everything I’ve ever lost. I took up disc golf a couple years ago, and it is similar to drumming in promoting an effort to control and perfect muscle mechanics with the added bonus of seeking to buy, used or on cheap on EBay, backup upon backup of discs I like in case one goes unfound after hours of searching.
People with OCPD are also often controlling, but I consider myself laissez-faire. I don’t have the energy to begin to analyze and critique every detail in somebody else’s life. I consider attempts to change others to behave like ourselves a surefire sign of insecurity. Being controlling also seems a waste of time, considering I tend to judge others on a continuum from uncommitted to lazy. I generally view most others as unreliable, and I can see how that could encourage a controlling nature in those that thought they themselves were reliable, but I’m skeptical of my own decision-making abilities. While I can be somewhat of a perfectionist, I don’t believe in perfection, and so it isn’t something I’d ever demand of anyone else.
People with OCPD tend to have few friends. In my case, I think this is because I don’t see the point of casual conversation and idle chat. And also because I generally come across as an overly-opinionated asshole. There is not much casual about me. I find the concept of relaxation befuddling. Why would anybody want to do that? I’m basically either passionate about something or ignorant of it.
Do obsessive people attract? I think they do, and I personally find my life has been filled with others with OCPD. I think it relates to the fundamental notion that people with OCPD believe their behaviors are desirable, and also because we have trouble relating to those without our convictions. Crazy like me is a good thing!
This ability was useful for getting me through college, but it is frustrating to consider how smart I would be if it didn’t have a built-in lifespan. In order to preserve the information longer, I would need to continue to repeat it in my head, which seems unnecessarily tedious since I can just write it down. As it is, I can simply re-read what I’ve written and think, I don’t remember writing that! Physical activities, however, can’t be written down, and that might explain why I spent about 10 years of my life practicing drums a minimum of 6 hours a day. And that, in turn, might explain why I got really into the process of recording music for awhile, and why I often experienced a sense of surprise and excitement upon hearing my drumming on a recording and thinking, I don’t remember playing like that!
It’s really weird to discover something consistent or fundamental about one’s own personality. It’s even weirder to realize it’s clinically diagnosable.
Most people know about the condition called Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, or OCD, in which people obsessively repeat an activity. Lesser known is an altogether different condition known as Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder, or OCPD, which is also called Anankastic personality disorder. (It is different than but sometimes confused with the more publicized of late Asperger syndrome.) OCPD is a genetic disorder that occurs in males more than females. The nutshell difference between OCD and OCPD is that, in the former and more familiar condition, a person mindlessly repeats a behavior they don’t find desirable, while in OCPD a person willfully adheres to a lifestyle that they consider laudable. Those with OCPD wouldn’t say that they “suffer” from it, precisely because from their point of view, others suffer from a lack of it.
One of the primary manifestations of OCPD is a preoccupation with remembering minute details which usually includes list-making. People with OCPD have what I would call a fear of losing, forgetting or overlooking details. I save my work after the completion of every single satisfactory sentence. (I just typed that sentence, hit Control-s, noticed I had left the “t” out of “sentence,” fixed it, and reached for Control-s again but decided to add this editorial first.) I’d suggest the overwhelming feature of OCPD is a profound annoyance with imprecision.
Starting a task can be intimidating because of the awareness that once you commit to doing so, you are going to fastidiously obsess over aspect of the job until it is completed. It is next to impossible not to become completely fascinated with a project or conviction. I’m sure I’m not the only one with OCPD that hates jigsaw puzzles because once one is started I can’t stop until every piece is found and put in its place. The other day I was talking to a friend about how when I see a movie I really like, I usually proceed to watch every movie that director made, and she replied, “I’ve always wanted to do that.” Hers is a completely different mentality than mine.
To prevent being overwhelmed by everything needing to be thoroughly finished, I am very good at breaking tasks into mini goals. When I reach the mini goal, I then have to muster the energy to continue with the overall task. I also have a strange habit of beginning several projects at once and then running back and forth trying to complete them all simultaneously. This is because it’s impossible to remain focused on one task without being distracted by the knowledge that there are others to be done. I’d wager OCPD is readily found amongst chefs.
Over-zealous cleanliness is actually a symptom only found in some with OCPD and is not a diagnostic criterion.
Another major symptom of OCPD is those with it are inflexible in their beliefs; in other words, dogmatic. I’m highly opinionated and value the ability of forming opinions. I can’t comprehend those you just say they “like” everything. But I’m always striving to perfect my opinions to be as accurate and precise as possible, which dogmatism doesn’t allow. In fact, I strongly believe in not being dogmatic, so go ahead and try wrapping your head around that paradox. It may be due to that quirk that, compared to most of my family, I seem to have a relatively mild case of OCPD. I do highly value integrity- being true to one’s word- which is perhaps another way of looking at the same thing. I am also incredibly punctual, loyal and stubborn. I don’t take advice on principle and can’t stand being micro-managed. I am also persistent- I don’t like last-minute changes in plans, never see the point in having or making back-up plans and will either refuse to quit or immediately quit entirely. I generally feel that my way of doing things is better than everyone else’s, unless it is a task that requires more expedience than precision, in which case I am jealous of others who can pull that off.
I love understanding and dissecting rules and I have spent countless hours researching rule nuances in various games and sports. I think one thing I appreciate most about sports is there is always, in the end, a winner and a loser. Dogmatism is commonly found in sports fans, and I am an obsessive soccer and baseball fan, but even then I don’t think my team is always superior to all others- I just want them to be. I can, however, be a bit of a grammar-Nazi (I deplore the gratuitous use of the word “Nazi,” finding it offensively trivializing, but can’t think of an appropriate substitute; striving to be as precise as possible).
Other common traits of OCPD are miserliness and hoarding tendencies. I don’t possess these nearly as much as others in my family, who tend to have refrigerators virtually empty except for old and rotten food. Then again, I can’t fathom those who don’t eat leftovers. I do have a tendency for collecting like items, but nothing trivial, which is again typical of OCPD. Incomplete, expensive or easy to obtain collections are too annoying. I’ve long wondered why everyone else doesn’t peruse every neighborhood thrift store once a week; it never occurred to me to wonder why I do. Also, I despise losing things, and could make a fairly complete list of everything I’ve ever lost. I took up disc golf a couple years ago, and it is similar to drumming in promoting an effort to control and perfect muscle mechanics with the added bonus of seeking to buy, used or on cheap on EBay, backup upon backup of discs I like in case one goes unfound after hours of searching.
People with OCPD are also often controlling, but I consider myself laissez-faire. I don’t have the energy to begin to analyze and critique every detail in somebody else’s life. I consider attempts to change others to behave like ourselves a surefire sign of insecurity. Being controlling also seems a waste of time, considering I tend to judge others on a continuum from uncommitted to lazy. I generally view most others as unreliable, and I can see how that could encourage a controlling nature in those that thought they themselves were reliable, but I’m skeptical of my own decision-making abilities. While I can be somewhat of a perfectionist, I don’t believe in perfection, and so it isn’t something I’d ever demand of anyone else.
People with OCPD tend to have few friends. In my case, I think this is because I don’t see the point of casual conversation and idle chat. And also because I generally come across as an overly-opinionated asshole. There is not much casual about me. I find the concept of relaxation befuddling. Why would anybody want to do that? I’m basically either passionate about something or ignorant of it.
Do obsessive people attract? I think they do, and I personally find my life has been filled with others with OCPD. I think it relates to the fundamental notion that people with OCPD believe their behaviors are desirable, and also because we have trouble relating to those without our convictions. Crazy like me is a good thing!
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Friday, September 14, 2012
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Distractions
When I was in high school, I was profoundly affected by an essay (perhaps written by Walker Percy) that explores people going to the Grand Canyon so that they can take pictures of it. Its gist is that people get so caught up in preserving a record of things they’ve done while simultaneously fitting them into their preconceived notions that they’re distracted from appreciating the moment they’re in, completely missing it in any unadulterated state. The author elucidates the ludicrousness of filtering such a vast landscape through a camera lens, especially when you’re trying to frame it to resemble the professionally photographed postcard of the same location that you can buy across the street at the gift shop for 5 cents.
Is it The Matrix where one of the characters bemoans the “tourists” who wander around their entire lives never perceiving anything as it is? I haven’t seen that movie since those insipid sequels came out and really need to re-watch it….
To me, everything about photography cameras are a frustrating distraction- from trying to figure out how to get them to work to trying to figure out how to pose to sorting through the results. A few years ago, in Portland, OR, where the citizens are mostly pathetic, attention-seeking idealists, I was watching a soapbox derby on Mt. Tabor when I was interrupted by a group asking me to take their picture. I strongly responded, “No,” and they shriveled in horror at such audacity. What’s insulting to me is they think they can just impose their inane activities on me by expecting me to remove myself from my existence to indulge theirs. If you want your picture taken, hire a bloody photographer.
Technology seems to thrive when it’s effective at enabling us to avoid interactions. Instead of cooking, we can watch cooking shows on television. Instead of having conversations, we can make pithy remarks on Facebook that are almost instantly buried under a pile of other pithy remarks. Instead of listening to the birds and rustling leaves in the park, we can listen to digitally compressed music through earbuds on our iPods. Don’t even get me started on fucking smart phones, which are turning us into a bunch of zombies, wandering around with our faces immersed in 3 inch rectangles…. To quote Yoda, “Never your mind on where you are, what you are doing.”
But the issue goes beyond technology. I used to live in Oakland, CA- working hard 40 hours a week at a print shop and playing drumming gigs on the side- where I struggled to afford basic necessities. I rented a room in a small apartment shared with a couple and their four cats (not including mine). I shopped at the discount grocery store that sold the surplus from other grocery stores, and my roommates would tease me about how many days in a row I could eat burritos, which I often made with only tortillas, refried beans and chopped habaneros because I couldn’t afford cheese. My other meals tended to be cold cereal with milk and a bagel with schmear for lunch. My weekly food budget cap was $40 but I tried to keep it at $30. Obviously, I didn’t drink at all. Alcohol is expensive.
My favorite dish is Thai curry, which I now know how to make, but didn’t back then. Just down the street from where I lived was an excellent Thai place, or so I had been told, as I’d never actually been there. For weeks, I longed to try that restaurant, and little by little I managed to save up enough money to be able to treat myself. Finally, on a weekend afternoon, with a hard-earned $20 bill in my pocket, I walked down to the Thai place, sat outside in the courtyard and ordered Thai green curry with tofu, as spicy as they could make it, and a Thai iced tea. As I awaited my food, I watched the only other person at the restaurant, also sitting alone. He was reading one of the Lord of the Rings books.
I’ve actually read the first book of that trilogy twice… and found it tedious enough both times that I never picked up the others. Basically it’s about a midget who wanders around with a powerful ring and shenanigans ensue. What I don’t like about it, besides the unrealistically patent distinctions made between good and evil, is that any competent bad guy would’ve gotten the ring from that stupid hobbit in about five minutes. I mean, about the first thing he does (in the book, it isn’t in the movie- yeah, I saw all three of those in the theater…) is hand it over to some raving lunatic!
The food arrived for the kid reading the book before mine. I watched in horror as, instead of putting the book down to enjoy his food, he continued to read as he mindlessly shoveled the food into his mouth. Perhaps because I was so looking forward to my meal, this upset me to the point of tears, and when my food arrived, I had to make a deliberate effort to forget about this distraction I had now created for myself.
I’m certainly not exempt from being distracted. But what I love most are things that demand riveted focus on the present as it continuously unfolds into the future while revealing its dependence upon past knowledge and training. This is what I loved about playing improvisational music, what I love about so many Japanese films, what I love about watching every baseball pitch and every pass of a soccer ball for 45 minutes straight as incredibly fit players reach the brink of exhaustion…, what I love about playing disc golf, where the design of the course and the discs and the choices and execution of each throw set up the next shot. There’s an Anne Lamott book called Bird by Bird in which the author describes her method for writing, which consists of allowing it to evolve word by word, sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph, chapter by chapter, book by book. This, for me, is the essence of what it means to live life to its fullest.
“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” -Henry David Thoreau
Is it The Matrix where one of the characters bemoans the “tourists” who wander around their entire lives never perceiving anything as it is? I haven’t seen that movie since those insipid sequels came out and really need to re-watch it….
To me, everything about photography cameras are a frustrating distraction- from trying to figure out how to get them to work to trying to figure out how to pose to sorting through the results. A few years ago, in Portland, OR, where the citizens are mostly pathetic, attention-seeking idealists, I was watching a soapbox derby on Mt. Tabor when I was interrupted by a group asking me to take their picture. I strongly responded, “No,” and they shriveled in horror at such audacity. What’s insulting to me is they think they can just impose their inane activities on me by expecting me to remove myself from my existence to indulge theirs. If you want your picture taken, hire a bloody photographer.
Technology seems to thrive when it’s effective at enabling us to avoid interactions. Instead of cooking, we can watch cooking shows on television. Instead of having conversations, we can make pithy remarks on Facebook that are almost instantly buried under a pile of other pithy remarks. Instead of listening to the birds and rustling leaves in the park, we can listen to digitally compressed music through earbuds on our iPods. Don’t even get me started on fucking smart phones, which are turning us into a bunch of zombies, wandering around with our faces immersed in 3 inch rectangles…. To quote Yoda, “Never your mind on where you are, what you are doing.”
But the issue goes beyond technology. I used to live in Oakland, CA- working hard 40 hours a week at a print shop and playing drumming gigs on the side- where I struggled to afford basic necessities. I rented a room in a small apartment shared with a couple and their four cats (not including mine). I shopped at the discount grocery store that sold the surplus from other grocery stores, and my roommates would tease me about how many days in a row I could eat burritos, which I often made with only tortillas, refried beans and chopped habaneros because I couldn’t afford cheese. My other meals tended to be cold cereal with milk and a bagel with schmear for lunch. My weekly food budget cap was $40 but I tried to keep it at $30. Obviously, I didn’t drink at all. Alcohol is expensive.
My favorite dish is Thai curry, which I now know how to make, but didn’t back then. Just down the street from where I lived was an excellent Thai place, or so I had been told, as I’d never actually been there. For weeks, I longed to try that restaurant, and little by little I managed to save up enough money to be able to treat myself. Finally, on a weekend afternoon, with a hard-earned $20 bill in my pocket, I walked down to the Thai place, sat outside in the courtyard and ordered Thai green curry with tofu, as spicy as they could make it, and a Thai iced tea. As I awaited my food, I watched the only other person at the restaurant, also sitting alone. He was reading one of the Lord of the Rings books.
I’ve actually read the first book of that trilogy twice… and found it tedious enough both times that I never picked up the others. Basically it’s about a midget who wanders around with a powerful ring and shenanigans ensue. What I don’t like about it, besides the unrealistically patent distinctions made between good and evil, is that any competent bad guy would’ve gotten the ring from that stupid hobbit in about five minutes. I mean, about the first thing he does (in the book, it isn’t in the movie- yeah, I saw all three of those in the theater…) is hand it over to some raving lunatic!
The food arrived for the kid reading the book before mine. I watched in horror as, instead of putting the book down to enjoy his food, he continued to read as he mindlessly shoveled the food into his mouth. Perhaps because I was so looking forward to my meal, this upset me to the point of tears, and when my food arrived, I had to make a deliberate effort to forget about this distraction I had now created for myself.
I’m certainly not exempt from being distracted. But what I love most are things that demand riveted focus on the present as it continuously unfolds into the future while revealing its dependence upon past knowledge and training. This is what I loved about playing improvisational music, what I love about so many Japanese films, what I love about watching every baseball pitch and every pass of a soccer ball for 45 minutes straight as incredibly fit players reach the brink of exhaustion…, what I love about playing disc golf, where the design of the course and the discs and the choices and execution of each throw set up the next shot. There’s an Anne Lamott book called Bird by Bird in which the author describes her method for writing, which consists of allowing it to evolve word by word, sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph, chapter by chapter, book by book. This, for me, is the essence of what it means to live life to its fullest.
“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” -Henry David Thoreau
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Baseball Broadcaster Jargon
(A collection of goofy stuff baseball broadcasters say, with some technical baseball terms mixed in, not including most of the endless ways of colorfully stating, "home run.")
Across the body backhand ole: Quick backhand catch on line drive
Around the horn: Defense throwing ball from third base to second base to first base; often resulting in a 6-4-3 double-play
Airmail: Errant throw over everybody’s head
American Legion Play: Pitcher bluffs to third then looks to first: also called double-bluff
Annie Oakley: A walk (base on balls); also called a free pass
Around the horn: 6-4-3 double play
Around the world in 80 days: Slow runner circling the bases
Backup slider: Slider that doesn’t break; also called cement mixer
Backward K: Strikeout looking
Band Box: Small baseball park
Bags drunk: Bases loaded
Basket catch: Underhand catch with glove close to body about belt high
Batter's eye: Neutral backdrop beyond centerfield intended to prevent the hitter from losing the ball due to background clutter.
Battery: Pitcher and catcher
Bench jockey: Someone in the dugout effectively annoying the opposing team or umpires
Bettina Bunge backhand: Check-swing hit on low, outside pitch; a type of excuse-me swing
Bible thumper: Batter that swings at nearly everything
Big League Hang With ‘Em: Well hit ball but makes an out
(On the) Bingo Card: Batter that’s hitting less than .100 (intended to be polite)
Bloop(er): Ball that falls between infield and outfield; also called a Texas Leaguer or dying quail
Bloop and a blast: Bloop hit followed by a teammate hitting a home run.
Blue: Umpire
Boot: Error
Bucket: Horrible swing
Bugs Bunny change-up: A change-up so good it seems to stop on the way to home plate
Bump: Pitcher’s mound
Bunching (the outfield): Defense positions away from both foul lines toward center of field
Business Partner: Bat
Butcher Boy: Fake bunt, then swing
Cabbage: Player who’s out is inevitable; dead meat
Can of corn: Routine fly ball; also called room service
Camp Snoopy- The DL (disabled list)
Cannon: Strong throwing arm
Carve the turkey: Pitcher hitting all his locations
Catbird seat: Batter with pitch count/situation in his favor
Cement mixer: Slider that doesn’t break; also called backup slider
Check-swing: Swing that batter attempts to recant
Cheddar: Fast fastball
Cherry Picking: Hitting a fastball in a fastball count
Chin music: Very high, inside pitch
Clean Up: Forth hitter in batting order
Climbing the ladder: Pitching fastballs progressively higher in zone; also called Raising the ladder
Come-backer: Ball hit directly at pitcher
Commando: No batting gloves
Crooked number: Scoring more than one run in an inning
Daisy-cutter: Low line drive
Dead red: Hitter always looks fastball
Dog robber: Umpire (derogatory)
Double-bluff: Pitcher bluffs to third then looks to first: also called American Legion Play
Double-clutch: Hesitate before throwing ball
Double-switch: Two players enter game simultaneously so as to swap positions in batter order
Drag Bunt: Left-hander bunts ball past pitcher and out of reach of first baseman; see also push bunt
Drag Through Garden: An at bat with each pitch different and effective
Duck snort: Poorly hit ball that falls for hit
Dying quail: Ball that falls between infield and outfield; also called a Texas Leaguer or blooper
E 10: Spectator drops foul ball (E means error)
Earnie: Earned run
Elephant ear: Back pocket hanging inside-out
Excuse-me swing: Check-swing that makes contact with ball
Five hole: Between catcher’s legs (also fifth in batting order)
Five point five (5.5) hole: Area between third and short, coined by Tony Gwynn
Five tool player: Player that can hit for average, hit for power, run, throw and field his position well
Forced error: Baserunner causes distraction which leads to defensive error
Free pass: A walk (base on balls); also called an Annie Oakley
Four bagger: Home run
Gaylord Perry puff-ball: Put a ton of rosin on hand before throwing fastball
Generic signs: For bunt touch belt, for steal touch skin, for hit&run touch hat, for take hold up a finger
Get away day: Last day of a series between two teams; often a day game.
Go oppo: (Short for go opposite way) hit toward weak-side field; antonym of “pull”
Golden Sombrero: Strike out 4 times in a game; also called Silver Sombrero
Grab some pine, meat!: Go sit down on the bench (after that failed attempt), ambitious batter!; presumably coined by Mike Krukow
Grand salami: Grand slam
Handcuffed: Pitch causes batter to draw hands into body so can’t swing
Hanger: Breaking ball high in zone
Hat Trick: Strike out 3 times in a game
(Bringing the) Heat: Pitcher throwing fast
Hitch: A jerky motion during swing
Hitch in the giddy-up: A jerky motion in running stride
Immaculate inning: Inning in which pitcher strikes out three batters on nine total pitches
In The Hole: 2 batters away from current batter; after hitter on deck. Also phrased as in the hold
Inside-out: Knob of bat precedes barrel
(On the) Interstate: Batting in the .100’s
Jam: Pitch in on hands
Keyhole: Looking for one pitch in one location
Kitchen: Middle inside on a hitter
Knock: A hit
Lawrence Welk Double-Play: 1-2-3 (pitcher to catcher to first baseman)
LOOGY: Lefty one out guy; left-handed pitching specialist
Low bridge: Duck under ball
Lumber pile: Reserve bats
Mendoza line: Batting average right at .200
Mr. Spalding: Baseball
Never gets cheated: Always swings hard
Nickel slider: A slider with a loose spin so that the red seams form a nickel-sized circle in the ball from the batter's perspective
No dot slider: A slider without the tight spin forming a red dot in the middle of the ball from the batter's perspective
Nose to toes: Bad ball hitter
Nubber: Ball hit off end of bat; also called squib
Olympic rings: Batter that strikes out five times in a game; also called Platinum Visor
On Deck: Hitter after current batter
Off the fists: An inside pitch requiring arm strength to hit strongly
Ownage: Batter with good career stats vs a specific pitcher or vice versa
Pay-off: Pitch on a 3-2 count
Platinum Visor: Batter that strikes out five times in a game; also called Olympic rings
Peeling black/paint: Pitching right on the corners
(Play) Pepper: Stick bat out and let ball bounce off it
Perfect game: Game in which team allows no runners on base
Picked off: Runner thrown out while on base
Pie Thrower: Weak throwing arm
Pillow: Base bag
Pink hat: Bandwagon or fair-weather fan
Poached egg: Gently laid bunt
Pop-up dance: Fielder struggling to catch high fly ball in wind currents
Pow wow: Meeting at mound of coach and players
Pitcher’s best friend: Double-play
Punch and Judy: Weak but successful hit
Push Bunt: Right-hander bunts ball past pitcher and out of reach of first baseman; see also drag bunt
Rabbit ears: Umpire (or pitcher) who seems to hear everything said in dugout (or stands) and quickly takes exception (or gets unnerved)
Railroad: Baserunner plows into fielder at bag
Ribbie: Run batted in (RBI)
Rock Pile: A long meeting at the mound involving most of the players
(In the) Rocking Chair: Pitches alternatively being thrown inside and outside effectively
Rollover: Wrists rotate over top of bat on swing
Room service: Routine fly ball; also called can of corn
Round tripper: Home run
Rubber match: The final game of a three game series that will determine which team will win two of three
Rubberneck: Hitter looks at ump, surprised to hear called strike
Safety Squeeze: Runner breaks for home after ball is bunted
Salad: An easy to hit pitch
Scratch hit: Weekly hit ground ball base hit
Seed: Line-drive
Seeing-eye ball: Hit that finds the smallest of holes through the infield
Senior Circuit: National League
Set the Table: Get on base early in inning
(Getting) Shelled: Pitcher giving up a lot of hits
The Show: The Major Leagues; often expressed, “Welcome to The Show,” towards a rookie
Show-me pitch: A pitch thrown for a ball solely intended to set-up the next pitch
Signature call: Catch-phrase used by a certain broadcaster to celebrate a home run
Snow cone: A catch where half the ball is sticking out top of glove
Sparkplug: One player that motivates entire team
Squeeze: Bunt in attempt to score runner from third
(Getting) Squeezed: Umpire enforcing a small strike zone
Squib: Ball hit off end of bat; also called nubber
Stanza: Inning
Start the merry-go-round: Bases loaded & everybody will be running on contact (full count with 2 outs)
Station to station: Moving around the bases one at a time
Stepping in the bucket: Open batting stance
Straight-away: Normal defense
Strike-out the side: Get all three outs in a half-inning via strike-outs.
Suicide Squeeze: Runner breaks for home on pitch while batter bunts
Tater: Home run
Tenth man: Audience
Texas Leaguer: Ball that falls between infield and outfield; also called a blooper or dying quail
Texas Swing: A swinging bunt or long check swing
Three Hole: Third batter in batting order
Through the box: Hit back up the middle
Tomahawk: Desperate swing at high pitch
Tools of ignorance: Catcher’s gear
Ugly finder: Ball hit into dugout (and destined to hit someone ugly)
Uncle Charlie: Curve ball
Unintentional Intentional: Instead of intentional walk, throwing all balls and avoiding the strike zone
Waiting for express and caught the local: Batter strikes out looking, expecting fastball but gets something off-speed
Walk-off: Hit that results in game-ending win
Went fishing: Chased an outside pitch
Wheel Play: Shortstop covers third on pitch while third baseman defends against bunt
Wheelhouse: Natural bat path
Whirlie: Home run (reference to ump’s hand signal)
Window shopping: Batter strikes out looking
Across the body backhand ole: Quick backhand catch on line drive
Around the horn: Defense throwing ball from third base to second base to first base; often resulting in a 6-4-3 double-play
Airmail: Errant throw over everybody’s head
American Legion Play: Pitcher bluffs to third then looks to first: also called double-bluff
Annie Oakley: A walk (base on balls); also called a free pass
Around the horn: 6-4-3 double play
Around the world in 80 days: Slow runner circling the bases
Backup slider: Slider that doesn’t break; also called cement mixer
Backward K: Strikeout looking
Band Box: Small baseball park
Bags drunk: Bases loaded
Basket catch: Underhand catch with glove close to body about belt high
Batter's eye: Neutral backdrop beyond centerfield intended to prevent the hitter from losing the ball due to background clutter.
Battery: Pitcher and catcher
Bench jockey: Someone in the dugout effectively annoying the opposing team or umpires
Bettina Bunge backhand: Check-swing hit on low, outside pitch; a type of excuse-me swing
Bible thumper: Batter that swings at nearly everything
Big League Hang With ‘Em: Well hit ball but makes an out
(On the) Bingo Card: Batter that’s hitting less than .100 (intended to be polite)
Bloop(er): Ball that falls between infield and outfield; also called a Texas Leaguer or dying quail
Bloop and a blast: Bloop hit followed by a teammate hitting a home run.
Blue: Umpire
Boot: Error
Bucket: Horrible swing
Bugs Bunny change-up: A change-up so good it seems to stop on the way to home plate
Bump: Pitcher’s mound
Bunching (the outfield): Defense positions away from both foul lines toward center of field
Business Partner: Bat
Butcher Boy: Fake bunt, then swing
Cabbage: Player who’s out is inevitable; dead meat
Can of corn: Routine fly ball; also called room service
Camp Snoopy- The DL (disabled list)
Cannon: Strong throwing arm
Carve the turkey: Pitcher hitting all his locations
Catbird seat: Batter with pitch count/situation in his favor
Cement mixer: Slider that doesn’t break; also called backup slider
Check-swing: Swing that batter attempts to recant
Cheddar: Fast fastball
Cherry Picking: Hitting a fastball in a fastball count
Chin music: Very high, inside pitch
Clean Up: Forth hitter in batting order
Climbing the ladder: Pitching fastballs progressively higher in zone; also called Raising the ladder
Come-backer: Ball hit directly at pitcher
Commando: No batting gloves
Crooked number: Scoring more than one run in an inning
Daisy-cutter: Low line drive
Dead red: Hitter always looks fastball
Dog robber: Umpire (derogatory)
Double-bluff: Pitcher bluffs to third then looks to first: also called American Legion Play
Double-clutch: Hesitate before throwing ball
Double-switch: Two players enter game simultaneously so as to swap positions in batter order
Drag Bunt: Left-hander bunts ball past pitcher and out of reach of first baseman; see also push bunt
Drag Through Garden: An at bat with each pitch different and effective
Duck snort: Poorly hit ball that falls for hit
Dying quail: Ball that falls between infield and outfield; also called a Texas Leaguer or blooper
E 10: Spectator drops foul ball (E means error)
Earnie: Earned run
Elephant ear: Back pocket hanging inside-out
Excuse-me swing: Check-swing that makes contact with ball
Five hole: Between catcher’s legs (also fifth in batting order)
Five point five (5.5) hole: Area between third and short, coined by Tony Gwynn
Five tool player: Player that can hit for average, hit for power, run, throw and field his position well
Forced error: Baserunner causes distraction which leads to defensive error
Free pass: A walk (base on balls); also called an Annie Oakley
Four bagger: Home run
Gaylord Perry puff-ball: Put a ton of rosin on hand before throwing fastball
Generic signs: For bunt touch belt, for steal touch skin, for hit&run touch hat, for take hold up a finger
Get away day: Last day of a series between two teams; often a day game.
Go oppo: (Short for go opposite way) hit toward weak-side field; antonym of “pull”
Golden Sombrero: Strike out 4 times in a game; also called Silver Sombrero
Grab some pine, meat!: Go sit down on the bench (after that failed attempt), ambitious batter!; presumably coined by Mike Krukow
Grand salami: Grand slam
Handcuffed: Pitch causes batter to draw hands into body so can’t swing
Hanger: Breaking ball high in zone
Hat Trick: Strike out 3 times in a game
(Bringing the) Heat: Pitcher throwing fast
Hitch: A jerky motion during swing
Hitch in the giddy-up: A jerky motion in running stride
Immaculate inning: Inning in which pitcher strikes out three batters on nine total pitches
In The Hole: 2 batters away from current batter; after hitter on deck. Also phrased as in the hold
Inside-out: Knob of bat precedes barrel
(On the) Interstate: Batting in the .100’s
Jam: Pitch in on hands
Keyhole: Looking for one pitch in one location
Kitchen: Middle inside on a hitter
Knock: A hit
Lawrence Welk Double-Play: 1-2-3 (pitcher to catcher to first baseman)
LOOGY: Lefty one out guy; left-handed pitching specialist
Low bridge: Duck under ball
Lumber pile: Reserve bats
Mendoza line: Batting average right at .200
Mr. Spalding: Baseball
Never gets cheated: Always swings hard
Nickel slider: A slider with a loose spin so that the red seams form a nickel-sized circle in the ball from the batter's perspective
No dot slider: A slider without the tight spin forming a red dot in the middle of the ball from the batter's perspective
Nose to toes: Bad ball hitter
Nubber: Ball hit off end of bat; also called squib
Olympic rings: Batter that strikes out five times in a game; also called Platinum Visor
On Deck: Hitter after current batter
Off the fists: An inside pitch requiring arm strength to hit strongly
Ownage: Batter with good career stats vs a specific pitcher or vice versa
Pay-off: Pitch on a 3-2 count
Platinum Visor: Batter that strikes out five times in a game; also called Olympic rings
Peeling black/paint: Pitching right on the corners
(Play) Pepper: Stick bat out and let ball bounce off it
Perfect game: Game in which team allows no runners on base
Picked off: Runner thrown out while on base
Pie Thrower: Weak throwing arm
Pillow: Base bag
Pink hat: Bandwagon or fair-weather fan
Poached egg: Gently laid bunt
Pop-up dance: Fielder struggling to catch high fly ball in wind currents
Pow wow: Meeting at mound of coach and players
Pitcher’s best friend: Double-play
Punch and Judy: Weak but successful hit
Push Bunt: Right-hander bunts ball past pitcher and out of reach of first baseman; see also drag bunt
Rabbit ears: Umpire (or pitcher) who seems to hear everything said in dugout (or stands) and quickly takes exception (or gets unnerved)
Railroad: Baserunner plows into fielder at bag
Ribbie: Run batted in (RBI)
Rock Pile: A long meeting at the mound involving most of the players
(In the) Rocking Chair: Pitches alternatively being thrown inside and outside effectively
Rollover: Wrists rotate over top of bat on swing
Room service: Routine fly ball; also called can of corn
Round tripper: Home run
Rubber match: The final game of a three game series that will determine which team will win two of three
Rubberneck: Hitter looks at ump, surprised to hear called strike
Safety Squeeze: Runner breaks for home after ball is bunted
Salad: An easy to hit pitch
Scratch hit: Weekly hit ground ball base hit
Seed: Line-drive
Seeing-eye ball: Hit that finds the smallest of holes through the infield
Senior Circuit: National League
Set the Table: Get on base early in inning
(Getting) Shelled: Pitcher giving up a lot of hits
The Show: The Major Leagues; often expressed, “Welcome to The Show,” towards a rookie
Show-me pitch: A pitch thrown for a ball solely intended to set-up the next pitch
Signature call: Catch-phrase used by a certain broadcaster to celebrate a home run
Snow cone: A catch where half the ball is sticking out top of glove
Sparkplug: One player that motivates entire team
Squeeze: Bunt in attempt to score runner from third
(Getting) Squeezed: Umpire enforcing a small strike zone
Squib: Ball hit off end of bat; also called nubber
Stanza: Inning
Start the merry-go-round: Bases loaded & everybody will be running on contact (full count with 2 outs)
Station to station: Moving around the bases one at a time
Stepping in the bucket: Open batting stance
Straight-away: Normal defense
Strike-out the side: Get all three outs in a half-inning via strike-outs.
Suicide Squeeze: Runner breaks for home on pitch while batter bunts
Tater: Home run
Tenth man: Audience
Texas Leaguer: Ball that falls between infield and outfield; also called a blooper or dying quail
Texas Swing: A swinging bunt or long check swing
Three Hole: Third batter in batting order
Through the box: Hit back up the middle
Tomahawk: Desperate swing at high pitch
Tools of ignorance: Catcher’s gear
Ugly finder: Ball hit into dugout (and destined to hit someone ugly)
Uncle Charlie: Curve ball
Unintentional Intentional: Instead of intentional walk, throwing all balls and avoiding the strike zone
Waiting for express and caught the local: Batter strikes out looking, expecting fastball but gets something off-speed
Walk-off: Hit that results in game-ending win
Went fishing: Chased an outside pitch
Wheel Play: Shortstop covers third on pitch while third baseman defends against bunt
Wheelhouse: Natural bat path
Whirlie: Home run (reference to ump’s hand signal)
Window shopping: Batter strikes out looking
Monday, August 20, 2012
Soccer Confusions
Association football, or soccer as it’s called in America, has very few rules (formally known as laws) necessary to understand for comprehensive viewing, but because most of these are singular to the sport in question, and because the continuous action makes a thorough explanation difficult, those only familiar with the rules of other sports frequently find soccer unappealing. Adding to the confusion is the fact that it is not uncommon for American sport commentators to unapologetically misuse soccer jargon and for popular information sources such as Wikipedia to have errors. I find it especially irritating when commentators actually criticize referees for enforcing the rules (with statements such as, “I NEVER see that called!”), but the worst are those with no appreciation for the integrity of the game suggesting the rules be changed. My aim here is to help clarify common definitional misunderstandings by highlighting the key aspects of terms for those relatively ignorant of the sport. This is not intended to be a thorough explanation of the rules; for more information visit the laws of the game at FIFA.com. (I have indicated the law number best related to each paragraph in brackets.)
PITCH: The soccer field is properly called a pitch, and while the exact dimensions can vary, it is minimally slightly larger than an American Football field. All lines on the pitch are 5 inches thick. It is divided into two halves, with each half said to belong to a team. The lines bordering the sides of the pitch are the touch lines and the lines bordering the ends are goal lines [Law 1]
SIDE: Each team is called a side. Each side starts a game, or match, with 11 players, one of them designated as the goalkeeper. A simultaneous combination of zone and man-to-man defense is used, and there are no restrictions on where any player can be on the pitch. Most of the zone positions have fairly self-explanatory names, but it seems worthwhile to detail that the player who tends to play deepest into the opponent’s half is called the center forward (cf) or number nine, while an aggressive attacking player who plays a bit deeper than a cf in order to utilize space and angles to drive towards the goal is called a striker or number ten. (Although the striker frequently wears the number ten, it is not a literal reference to a jersey number.) [Law 3]
GOAL: (1) The goal is an area 8 feet high, 8 yards (24 feet) wide and 5 inches thick centered on each end of the pitch. Each side protects their own goal and attempts to score on their opponent’s goal. (The net behind the goal has no purpose other than to make it easier to determine whether a goal has been scored.) [Law 1]
GOAL: (2) A goal scored is a ball in play that COMPLETELY crosses through a goal. The entire ball must be past the 5 inch thickness of the line and posts. No goal can be scored directly from an indirect free kick or throw-in, and a goal cannot be (accidentally) scored through one’s own goal directly from a goal kick, direct free kick, corner kick or penalty kick. [Law 10]
OUT OF BOUNDS: A ball that completely crosses the border of the pitch at any height, other than one that scores a goal, is immediately considered out of bounds and therefore out of play. Possession of the ball is given to the team opposite that of the player who last touched the ball before it went out of bounds. A ball which crosses a touch line is returned to play with a throw-in; which must be two-handed, from behind the head and with both feet on the ground. A ball touched past the opponent’s goal line results in a goal kick, and a ball touched past one’s own goal line results in a corner kick. An active player is never considered out of bounds (see MISCONDUCT). [Law 9, 15-17]
GOAL AREA: Also called the 6 yard box, the goal area is the smaller of the two rectangular areas in front of each goal that primarily functions to demark the area from which a goal kick can be taken. The only other use of the goal area is to limit the location from which indirect free kicks and dropped balls can commence (see INDIRECT FREE KICK and DROPPED BALL). [Law 1]
CHALLENGE: A challenge refers to two players simultaneously going after the ball. It is important to understand that every action of a soccer player (properly called a footballer) MUST be with the intention of playing the ball; either attempting to contact it or getting in position to do so. All contact with an opposing player must be incidental. This means no shoving, kicking, tripping, jumping at (especially with both feet), jumping on, grabbing, charging or even spitting at an opponent, unless these things happen unavoidably and not recklessly in the course of attempting to contact the ball. Also, if an opponent is between a player and a ball, that player cannot contact the opponent enroute to the ball. Any contact with an opponent that a referee judges to be intentional, avoidable or reckless is considered an illegal challenge. [Law 12]
It is equally important to understand that no footballer in the history of the game has ever fully followed this rule forbidding intentional contact with an opponent. Therefore, “heavy challenge” is often used as a euphemism implying that somebody is trying to take someone else out. A “cynical challenge” is a challenge that displays obvious disregard for the rules. No penalty is awarded when the referee find both players equally guilty of not playing the ball.
HAND BALL: While playing the ball, a player cannot intentionally contact it with any part of his hand or arm (from shoulder to fingertips) except by the goalkeeper while within his own penalty area (see PENALTY AREA). Hand ball is actually short for handling the ball. Unavoidable contact with the hand or arm or attempting to avoid such contact is not an infraction. All legal contact with a ball is called a touch. [Law 12]
Even within the penalty area, the goalkeeper can only handle the ball for no more than six seconds, and not after he deliberately releases it or after it is kicked or thrown in to them by a teammate. These infractions are not considered hand balls, however. [Law 12]
OBSTRUCTION: A player not going for a ball cannot get in the way of an opponent’s route to the ball, even if no contact with that opponent is made. However, this does not entitle that opponent to make contact with the player obstructing his route (as contact always trumps obstruction). [Law 12]
DANGEROUS PLAY: A player cannot do anything which could potentially injure an opponent, even if it is incidental and no actual contact is made. Dangerous play includes pointing shoe cleats toward an opponent and kicking near their head, always without making contact. [Law 12]
TACKLE: A tackle refers to dispossessing an opponent of the ball or intercepting a ball on the way to an opponent. This term is used almost exclusively in reference to a slide tackle, in which a tackle is made while sliding feet first. (A tackle can also refer to knocking down an opponent, but that is a homonym and, as such, a distinctly separate definition.) In order for a slide tackle to not be considered an illegal challenge or dangerous play, no contact can be made unless only one foot is forward and remains forward with the cleats facing the ground, while the other foot remains bent back and away from the opponent. (Sliding with both feet forward is called a two-legged tackle, bending a leg and tripping while slide tackling is called hooking and ensnaring an opponent between both legs is a highly punishable infraction called scissoring.) A successful tackle, in other words, winning the ball, is often considered evidence of a legal challenge as long as contact with the ball is made before contact with the opponent. [Law 12]
OFFSIDE: When on the opposing team’s half of the pitch, except any restart following an out of bounds (throw-in, goal kick or corner kick), a player without possession of the ball and ahead of it is ineligible to interfere with play or make an attempt at playing the ball, if at a teammate’s last touch there are not at least two defenders as near or nearer to their goal line (not necessarily between that player and the goal) than that player. This includes every part of his body except arms and hands. Such a player is considered offside and continues to be offside until the ball is touched by an onside teammate while he is not offside or the other team gains possession of the ball. (An offside player remains offside if, for example, a ball is deflected off the goalkeeper or a goal post.) It is NOT a penalty to passively be in an offside position, nor does it matter if a ball is received in an offside position as long as that player was onside when the teammate made last contact, but this requires the receiving player to successfully time his run. Please note that it is NOT “offsides.” The antonym of offside is colloquially referred to as onside. (Offside has nothing to do with the location of the ball relative to the player already controlling it.) [Law 11]
OFFSIDE TRAP: It is common strategy for a defensive player or players to move further away from their goal line just before a ball is to be passed so that potential recipients suddenly become offside. The second to last defender is the lynchpin in defining the imaginary line demarking offside. It is obviously beneficial but also more challenging to have several players in defensive positions holding this back line and synchronizing the offside trap. An offense unable to counter this tactic and beat the offside trap becomes forced to rely on a player’s dribbling skills to maneuver the ball through the line without passing or score a goal from behind the line. A defense competent and confident in holding the line will prefer to push it forward, moving further from their goal. [Law 11]
ADVANTAGE: When a foul is spotted, the referee can chose to allow play to continue briefly in order to determine whether it is preferable for the fouled team to continue play or impose a penalty. The referee signals the fouled team that he has seen the foul but to play the advantage by gesturing both arms forward. After play has been given a few seconds to develop, the referee must make a permanent decision whether to let play continue, allowing the advantage, or stop play and impose the proper penalty. [Law 5]
PENALTY AREA: Also known as the 18 yard box, the penalty area is the larger of the two rectangles drawn in front of each goal. Besides restricting the handling of the ball by the goalkeeper (see HAND BALL), if a player commits an illegal challenge or hand ball within his own penalty area while the ball is in play, the other team can be awarded a penalty kick. [Law 1]
PENALTY KICK: Any one player gets a chance to kick the ball one time from a spot 12 yards in front of the opposing goal, with only the goalkeeper defending it. The goalkeeper must remain on the goal line until the kick, and the kicker cannot break stride. The other players must remain behind the penalty area and outside of the half circle above it (called the “D”) until the kick is made, after which normal play immediately resumes. [Law 14]
DIRECT FREE KICK: For an illegal challenge or hand ball outside of a team’s own penalty area, a referee can stop play and award the fouled team a kick of a stationary ball from the location of the foul (NOT the location of the ball at the time of the foul). The opposing team must remain 10 yards from the ball until it is kicked. [Law 13]
INDIRECT FREE KICK: For offside, dangerous play, obstruction, preventing the goalkeeper from releasing the ball, illegal handling of the ball by a goalkeeper other than a hand ball or if play is stopped to issue any card (see YELLOW CARD and RED CARD), a referee can award the fouled team a kick of a stationary ball from the location of the foul, unless that foul occurs inside a team’s own goal area, in which case it is placed on the line of the goal area nearest the location of the foul. An indirect free kick is similar to a direct free kick, with the exception that after the first kick of the stationary ball, another teammate must also touch the ball before a goal can be scored. A foul penalized by an indirect free kick is never entitled to a penalty kick. [Law 13]
MISCONDUCT: Briefly, misconduct is dissent, delay of game, not allowing the proper distance on a free kick or corner kick or entering or outright leaving the pitch without permission. [Law 12]
YELLOW CARD: Any foul that a referee deems as intentional (and not simply a result of a poor decision or technique) OR misconduct is penalized by giving the guilty player a booking or caution, which is done by literally showing them a yellow card. Play is often not stopped in order to issue a yellow card, but is instead done so at the next available opportunity. Because, by definition, a hand ball is always intentional, in order for it to be penalized with a yellow card, it must be in an attempt to score a goal or unquestionably intentional, which is a slightly higher standard. [Law 12]
RED CARD: If any foul is considered dangerous with solid contact (properly called serious foul play but often mistakenly called dangerous play), violent, vulgar, interferes with an obvious goal scoring opportunity or receives a second yellow card, he is shown a red card and expelled from the game, or sent off. That team must play out the remainder of the match with one less player. [Law 12]
DROPPED BALL: A dropped ball restarts play on the rare occasion when the referee deems it necessary to stop play without assessing a penalty. These reasons include an injury requiring immediate medical attention, the ball goes flat, two balls are in play, something dangerous gets thrown on the pitch, a fan decides to join the game, etc. After these instances, the referee simply drops the ball where it was located when play was stopped and immediately becomes live for any player after it touches the ground, except if the ball was inside the goal area, in which case it is dropped on the goal area line nearest its last location. [Law 8]
The referee should not stop play simply because a player is injured, but a player from the opposing team will sometimes put the ball out of bounds to stop play, allowing an injured player to be attended to, as a courtesy. It is an expected display of good sportsmanship to give a ball back to a team that was in possession whenever play is stopped for an injured player on the opposing team.
SUBSTITUTION: In an official soccer match, each team is allowed to substitute only three players (with only seven potential subs) in total. A substituted player cannot return to play. In an exhibitionary match, called a friendly, the number of substitutions allowed can be whatever the two sides agree upon before the match, with the norm being six. Additional substitutions are not allowed for any reason, including injury. [Law 3]
STOPPAGES: The sport of soccer is intended to be a test of endurance, and so every effort is made to keep the players in constant activity (and is precisely why substitutions are limited). During a match, the time-of-play clock can only be stopped and restarted by the head referee, and, in order to avoid argument or confusion, these stoppages are recorded only by that referee. The stoppages are not intended to be a secret, and happen when a ball goes out of bounds, a goal is scored, a penalty kick or any free kick is given or on rare occasions when the referee deems it necessary to stop play (see DROPPED BALL). Substitutions are only allowed during one of these other stoppages, and only at the referee’s discretion, and so play is never stopped solely to allow a substitution. It is not uncommon for the referee and players to do such a good job of keeping the ball in play that there are only a few seconds worth of total stoppages. [Law 5]
STOPPAGE TIME : All stoppages are added onto the end of every half, and play continues in what is called stoppage time, extra time, injury time or penalty time. The head referee indicates the length of stoppage time, rounded down to the nearest minute (so, for example, 2 minutes of stoppage time indicates at least 2 minutes). (If asked, a referee will tell a player the rounded amount of stoppage time that has been accumulated even before stoppage time begins.) An exact time cannot be given, because stoppages can happen during stoppage time. Also, play does not stop while one team has an obvious advantage. [Law 7]
PITCH: The soccer field is properly called a pitch, and while the exact dimensions can vary, it is minimally slightly larger than an American Football field. All lines on the pitch are 5 inches thick. It is divided into two halves, with each half said to belong to a team. The lines bordering the sides of the pitch are the touch lines and the lines bordering the ends are goal lines [Law 1]
SIDE: Each team is called a side. Each side starts a game, or match, with 11 players, one of them designated as the goalkeeper. A simultaneous combination of zone and man-to-man defense is used, and there are no restrictions on where any player can be on the pitch. Most of the zone positions have fairly self-explanatory names, but it seems worthwhile to detail that the player who tends to play deepest into the opponent’s half is called the center forward (cf) or number nine, while an aggressive attacking player who plays a bit deeper than a cf in order to utilize space and angles to drive towards the goal is called a striker or number ten. (Although the striker frequently wears the number ten, it is not a literal reference to a jersey number.) [Law 3]
GOAL: (1) The goal is an area 8 feet high, 8 yards (24 feet) wide and 5 inches thick centered on each end of the pitch. Each side protects their own goal and attempts to score on their opponent’s goal. (The net behind the goal has no purpose other than to make it easier to determine whether a goal has been scored.) [Law 1]
GOAL: (2) A goal scored is a ball in play that COMPLETELY crosses through a goal. The entire ball must be past the 5 inch thickness of the line and posts. No goal can be scored directly from an indirect free kick or throw-in, and a goal cannot be (accidentally) scored through one’s own goal directly from a goal kick, direct free kick, corner kick or penalty kick. [Law 10]
OUT OF BOUNDS: A ball that completely crosses the border of the pitch at any height, other than one that scores a goal, is immediately considered out of bounds and therefore out of play. Possession of the ball is given to the team opposite that of the player who last touched the ball before it went out of bounds. A ball which crosses a touch line is returned to play with a throw-in; which must be two-handed, from behind the head and with both feet on the ground. A ball touched past the opponent’s goal line results in a goal kick, and a ball touched past one’s own goal line results in a corner kick. An active player is never considered out of bounds (see MISCONDUCT). [Law 9, 15-17]
GOAL AREA: Also called the 6 yard box, the goal area is the smaller of the two rectangular areas in front of each goal that primarily functions to demark the area from which a goal kick can be taken. The only other use of the goal area is to limit the location from which indirect free kicks and dropped balls can commence (see INDIRECT FREE KICK and DROPPED BALL). [Law 1]
CHALLENGE: A challenge refers to two players simultaneously going after the ball. It is important to understand that every action of a soccer player (properly called a footballer) MUST be with the intention of playing the ball; either attempting to contact it or getting in position to do so. All contact with an opposing player must be incidental. This means no shoving, kicking, tripping, jumping at (especially with both feet), jumping on, grabbing, charging or even spitting at an opponent, unless these things happen unavoidably and not recklessly in the course of attempting to contact the ball. Also, if an opponent is between a player and a ball, that player cannot contact the opponent enroute to the ball. Any contact with an opponent that a referee judges to be intentional, avoidable or reckless is considered an illegal challenge. [Law 12]
It is equally important to understand that no footballer in the history of the game has ever fully followed this rule forbidding intentional contact with an opponent. Therefore, “heavy challenge” is often used as a euphemism implying that somebody is trying to take someone else out. A “cynical challenge” is a challenge that displays obvious disregard for the rules. No penalty is awarded when the referee find both players equally guilty of not playing the ball.
HAND BALL: While playing the ball, a player cannot intentionally contact it with any part of his hand or arm (from shoulder to fingertips) except by the goalkeeper while within his own penalty area (see PENALTY AREA). Hand ball is actually short for handling the ball. Unavoidable contact with the hand or arm or attempting to avoid such contact is not an infraction. All legal contact with a ball is called a touch. [Law 12]
Even within the penalty area, the goalkeeper can only handle the ball for no more than six seconds, and not after he deliberately releases it or after it is kicked or thrown in to them by a teammate. These infractions are not considered hand balls, however. [Law 12]
OBSTRUCTION: A player not going for a ball cannot get in the way of an opponent’s route to the ball, even if no contact with that opponent is made. However, this does not entitle that opponent to make contact with the player obstructing his route (as contact always trumps obstruction). [Law 12]
DANGEROUS PLAY: A player cannot do anything which could potentially injure an opponent, even if it is incidental and no actual contact is made. Dangerous play includes pointing shoe cleats toward an opponent and kicking near their head, always without making contact. [Law 12]
TACKLE: A tackle refers to dispossessing an opponent of the ball or intercepting a ball on the way to an opponent. This term is used almost exclusively in reference to a slide tackle, in which a tackle is made while sliding feet first. (A tackle can also refer to knocking down an opponent, but that is a homonym and, as such, a distinctly separate definition.) In order for a slide tackle to not be considered an illegal challenge or dangerous play, no contact can be made unless only one foot is forward and remains forward with the cleats facing the ground, while the other foot remains bent back and away from the opponent. (Sliding with both feet forward is called a two-legged tackle, bending a leg and tripping while slide tackling is called hooking and ensnaring an opponent between both legs is a highly punishable infraction called scissoring.) A successful tackle, in other words, winning the ball, is often considered evidence of a legal challenge as long as contact with the ball is made before contact with the opponent. [Law 12]
OFFSIDE: When on the opposing team’s half of the pitch, except any restart following an out of bounds (throw-in, goal kick or corner kick), a player without possession of the ball and ahead of it is ineligible to interfere with play or make an attempt at playing the ball, if at a teammate’s last touch there are not at least two defenders as near or nearer to their goal line (not necessarily between that player and the goal) than that player. This includes every part of his body except arms and hands. Such a player is considered offside and continues to be offside until the ball is touched by an onside teammate while he is not offside or the other team gains possession of the ball. (An offside player remains offside if, for example, a ball is deflected off the goalkeeper or a goal post.) It is NOT a penalty to passively be in an offside position, nor does it matter if a ball is received in an offside position as long as that player was onside when the teammate made last contact, but this requires the receiving player to successfully time his run. Please note that it is NOT “offsides.” The antonym of offside is colloquially referred to as onside. (Offside has nothing to do with the location of the ball relative to the player already controlling it.) [Law 11]
OFFSIDE TRAP: It is common strategy for a defensive player or players to move further away from their goal line just before a ball is to be passed so that potential recipients suddenly become offside. The second to last defender is the lynchpin in defining the imaginary line demarking offside. It is obviously beneficial but also more challenging to have several players in defensive positions holding this back line and synchronizing the offside trap. An offense unable to counter this tactic and beat the offside trap becomes forced to rely on a player’s dribbling skills to maneuver the ball through the line without passing or score a goal from behind the line. A defense competent and confident in holding the line will prefer to push it forward, moving further from their goal. [Law 11]
ADVANTAGE: When a foul is spotted, the referee can chose to allow play to continue briefly in order to determine whether it is preferable for the fouled team to continue play or impose a penalty. The referee signals the fouled team that he has seen the foul but to play the advantage by gesturing both arms forward. After play has been given a few seconds to develop, the referee must make a permanent decision whether to let play continue, allowing the advantage, or stop play and impose the proper penalty. [Law 5]
PENALTY AREA: Also known as the 18 yard box, the penalty area is the larger of the two rectangles drawn in front of each goal. Besides restricting the handling of the ball by the goalkeeper (see HAND BALL), if a player commits an illegal challenge or hand ball within his own penalty area while the ball is in play, the other team can be awarded a penalty kick. [Law 1]
PENALTY KICK: Any one player gets a chance to kick the ball one time from a spot 12 yards in front of the opposing goal, with only the goalkeeper defending it. The goalkeeper must remain on the goal line until the kick, and the kicker cannot break stride. The other players must remain behind the penalty area and outside of the half circle above it (called the “D”) until the kick is made, after which normal play immediately resumes. [Law 14]
DIRECT FREE KICK: For an illegal challenge or hand ball outside of a team’s own penalty area, a referee can stop play and award the fouled team a kick of a stationary ball from the location of the foul (NOT the location of the ball at the time of the foul). The opposing team must remain 10 yards from the ball until it is kicked. [Law 13]
INDIRECT FREE KICK: For offside, dangerous play, obstruction, preventing the goalkeeper from releasing the ball, illegal handling of the ball by a goalkeeper other than a hand ball or if play is stopped to issue any card (see YELLOW CARD and RED CARD), a referee can award the fouled team a kick of a stationary ball from the location of the foul, unless that foul occurs inside a team’s own goal area, in which case it is placed on the line of the goal area nearest the location of the foul. An indirect free kick is similar to a direct free kick, with the exception that after the first kick of the stationary ball, another teammate must also touch the ball before a goal can be scored. A foul penalized by an indirect free kick is never entitled to a penalty kick. [Law 13]
MISCONDUCT: Briefly, misconduct is dissent, delay of game, not allowing the proper distance on a free kick or corner kick or entering or outright leaving the pitch without permission. [Law 12]
YELLOW CARD: Any foul that a referee deems as intentional (and not simply a result of a poor decision or technique) OR misconduct is penalized by giving the guilty player a booking or caution, which is done by literally showing them a yellow card. Play is often not stopped in order to issue a yellow card, but is instead done so at the next available opportunity. Because, by definition, a hand ball is always intentional, in order for it to be penalized with a yellow card, it must be in an attempt to score a goal or unquestionably intentional, which is a slightly higher standard. [Law 12]
RED CARD: If any foul is considered dangerous with solid contact (properly called serious foul play but often mistakenly called dangerous play), violent, vulgar, interferes with an obvious goal scoring opportunity or receives a second yellow card, he is shown a red card and expelled from the game, or sent off. That team must play out the remainder of the match with one less player. [Law 12]
DROPPED BALL: A dropped ball restarts play on the rare occasion when the referee deems it necessary to stop play without assessing a penalty. These reasons include an injury requiring immediate medical attention, the ball goes flat, two balls are in play, something dangerous gets thrown on the pitch, a fan decides to join the game, etc. After these instances, the referee simply drops the ball where it was located when play was stopped and immediately becomes live for any player after it touches the ground, except if the ball was inside the goal area, in which case it is dropped on the goal area line nearest its last location. [Law 8]
The referee should not stop play simply because a player is injured, but a player from the opposing team will sometimes put the ball out of bounds to stop play, allowing an injured player to be attended to, as a courtesy. It is an expected display of good sportsmanship to give a ball back to a team that was in possession whenever play is stopped for an injured player on the opposing team.
SUBSTITUTION: In an official soccer match, each team is allowed to substitute only three players (with only seven potential subs) in total. A substituted player cannot return to play. In an exhibitionary match, called a friendly, the number of substitutions allowed can be whatever the two sides agree upon before the match, with the norm being six. Additional substitutions are not allowed for any reason, including injury. [Law 3]
STOPPAGES: The sport of soccer is intended to be a test of endurance, and so every effort is made to keep the players in constant activity (and is precisely why substitutions are limited). During a match, the time-of-play clock can only be stopped and restarted by the head referee, and, in order to avoid argument or confusion, these stoppages are recorded only by that referee. The stoppages are not intended to be a secret, and happen when a ball goes out of bounds, a goal is scored, a penalty kick or any free kick is given or on rare occasions when the referee deems it necessary to stop play (see DROPPED BALL). Substitutions are only allowed during one of these other stoppages, and only at the referee’s discretion, and so play is never stopped solely to allow a substitution. It is not uncommon for the referee and players to do such a good job of keeping the ball in play that there are only a few seconds worth of total stoppages. [Law 5]
STOPPAGE TIME : All stoppages are added onto the end of every half, and play continues in what is called stoppage time, extra time, injury time or penalty time. The head referee indicates the length of stoppage time, rounded down to the nearest minute (so, for example, 2 minutes of stoppage time indicates at least 2 minutes). (If asked, a referee will tell a player the rounded amount of stoppage time that has been accumulated even before stoppage time begins.) An exact time cannot be given, because stoppages can happen during stoppage time. Also, play does not stop while one team has an obvious advantage. [Law 7]
Monday, August 13, 2012
Junior Senior
Eleventh grade would bring a lot of change. I met Nacho on the school bus. I’m not sure why I was riding the bus. It could have been after I rear-ended my VW bug into some crazy chick, driving in what I thought was fog but turned out to be a broken defroster. Or maybe it was just because that piece of junk didn’t start half the time. I frequently got rides to marching band in Scott’s Camaro with a bass you could hear from two blocks away and to jazz band with Jason Ruddy, who is my uncle’s grandson.
Regardless, Nacho was a Catalan living in Madrid, which he attempted to elucidate the significance of. He told me about futbol, and gave me a shirt that said futbol, but it would be until years later that I’d discover Ronaldinho and finally realize what he’d been trying to explain. Because his host family had to move and he didn’t want to change schools again, Nacho ended up moving in and living with us for the school year.
Before Nacho could even speak English, we went to Hardee’s with Faith and Charity Abuhl, where it was revealed that both of them were interested in dating me. (Not at the same time, obviously.) Charity was more audacious but Faith was prettier and my age, so I went with her. Her parents had a rule that we could only go on two dates a week, which we probably thought was criminally cruel at the time, but was actually a good idea. She introduced me to tennis. We ate a lot of fast food and saw a bunch of movies. Honestly, we didn’t have that much in common, and anyway we were too naive to know what our interests were or what to do with our time.
After I wrecked the bug, my brother gave me his Ford Festiva. A group of seniors would amuse themselves by picking it up and carrying it to random places in the school lot. I wrecked the Festiva, too, by running a yield sign in front on the school and getting sideswiped by a Camaro.
My drum instructor finally succeeded in convincing me to start actually listening to jazz music. Max Roach’s Drums Unlimited completely changed my views of what was possible on the drumset, and soon I was buying up every jazz CD that was recommended to me. Also around this time, I got into Jimi Hendrix and Erik introduced me to all manner of gangsta rap. I watched Star Trek: Next Generation and Northern Exposure religiously. I also read a lot of classic literature. I became close friends with a kid at my church named Michael Gossen, and we hung out on most Sunday afternoons. Clay Scarborough would come over not infrequently to escape his rough home life and we’d spend the evenings watching anime, Godzilla, kung-fu, samurai and camp (B) movies. I don’t know how Clay knew so much so early in life, except that he was more perceptive than anyone I’d ever met. I’d also wander over to Dave Shultz’s house and get beat at ping pong. Most of what I remember about school itself involves screwing around with Dave- seeing how close we could get to getting in trouble without actually getting in trouble. I spent a lot of time in detention for trifles so hackneyed I doubt they even bothered to tell my parents.
Larry Cory and Andrew Larsen would continuously harass me to let them cheat off my tests in Mrs. Christensen’s class, the content of which I don’t even remember. Jeremy Wicks and I dissected a cat in Advanced Biology. We watched Ken Burn’s Civil War series in Mr. Taylor’s class, during which this kid sat behind me and drew me pictures. He was another kid that got picked on, and I only remember that everyone called him “Doorstop.” I hope that kid turned out alright….
During the summer between eleventh and twelfth grades, I worked during the day at a concession stand on the ninth hole of the Ankeny Golf & Country Club golf course. This young kid who lived across the street would join me. We’d listen to Adam Sandler and serve extremely strong mixed drinks to well-tipping golfers while helping ourselves to candy bars. I can’t fathom why I was allowed to do that job unsupervised.
A waitress named Kristin Gamble, who’s twin sister had been there all along, started working at the AG&CC restaurant, where I worked in the evenings washing dishes until I was promoted to making salads. I exerted a lot of energy playing practical jokes on Kristin.
I got good enough at tennis that I’d routinely go to the courts by the library and defeat the kids that were actually on the North Polk tennis team, which would make them extremely pissed, much to my amusement.
My senior year of high school was basically more of the same. Josh Kortbein introduced me to Nirvana. Cory Webb introduced me to Soundgarden. Beth Dudley tried to introduce me to Brooks and Dunn. I somehow discovered Smashing Pumpkins and Blind Melon. Dave and I spent way to much time making a computer game called Clue II. We took a class trip to Washington DC. My most vivid memory of that is being alone in a hotel room listening to a Tony Williams CD and having the guys I was rooming with come running in to telling me to join then at the pool because Erin Bequeaith was wearing a skimpy bikini. I didn’t care, and continued listening to the CD.
I spent my last summer before college still working at the AG&CC restaurant, and the person I’d miss the most when I went away to college with Faith was Kristin.
Regardless, Nacho was a Catalan living in Madrid, which he attempted to elucidate the significance of. He told me about futbol, and gave me a shirt that said futbol, but it would be until years later that I’d discover Ronaldinho and finally realize what he’d been trying to explain. Because his host family had to move and he didn’t want to change schools again, Nacho ended up moving in and living with us for the school year.
Before Nacho could even speak English, we went to Hardee’s with Faith and Charity Abuhl, where it was revealed that both of them were interested in dating me. (Not at the same time, obviously.) Charity was more audacious but Faith was prettier and my age, so I went with her. Her parents had a rule that we could only go on two dates a week, which we probably thought was criminally cruel at the time, but was actually a good idea. She introduced me to tennis. We ate a lot of fast food and saw a bunch of movies. Honestly, we didn’t have that much in common, and anyway we were too naive to know what our interests were or what to do with our time.
After I wrecked the bug, my brother gave me his Ford Festiva. A group of seniors would amuse themselves by picking it up and carrying it to random places in the school lot. I wrecked the Festiva, too, by running a yield sign in front on the school and getting sideswiped by a Camaro.
My drum instructor finally succeeded in convincing me to start actually listening to jazz music. Max Roach’s Drums Unlimited completely changed my views of what was possible on the drumset, and soon I was buying up every jazz CD that was recommended to me. Also around this time, I got into Jimi Hendrix and Erik introduced me to all manner of gangsta rap. I watched Star Trek: Next Generation and Northern Exposure religiously. I also read a lot of classic literature. I became close friends with a kid at my church named Michael Gossen, and we hung out on most Sunday afternoons. Clay Scarborough would come over not infrequently to escape his rough home life and we’d spend the evenings watching anime, Godzilla, kung-fu, samurai and camp (B) movies. I don’t know how Clay knew so much so early in life, except that he was more perceptive than anyone I’d ever met. I’d also wander over to Dave Shultz’s house and get beat at ping pong. Most of what I remember about school itself involves screwing around with Dave- seeing how close we could get to getting in trouble without actually getting in trouble. I spent a lot of time in detention for trifles so hackneyed I doubt they even bothered to tell my parents.
Larry Cory and Andrew Larsen would continuously harass me to let them cheat off my tests in Mrs. Christensen’s class, the content of which I don’t even remember. Jeremy Wicks and I dissected a cat in Advanced Biology. We watched Ken Burn’s Civil War series in Mr. Taylor’s class, during which this kid sat behind me and drew me pictures. He was another kid that got picked on, and I only remember that everyone called him “Doorstop.” I hope that kid turned out alright….
During the summer between eleventh and twelfth grades, I worked during the day at a concession stand on the ninth hole of the Ankeny Golf & Country Club golf course. This young kid who lived across the street would join me. We’d listen to Adam Sandler and serve extremely strong mixed drinks to well-tipping golfers while helping ourselves to candy bars. I can’t fathom why I was allowed to do that job unsupervised.
A waitress named Kristin Gamble, who’s twin sister had been there all along, started working at the AG&CC restaurant, where I worked in the evenings washing dishes until I was promoted to making salads. I exerted a lot of energy playing practical jokes on Kristin.
I got good enough at tennis that I’d routinely go to the courts by the library and defeat the kids that were actually on the North Polk tennis team, which would make them extremely pissed, much to my amusement.
My senior year of high school was basically more of the same. Josh Kortbein introduced me to Nirvana. Cory Webb introduced me to Soundgarden. Beth Dudley tried to introduce me to Brooks and Dunn. I somehow discovered Smashing Pumpkins and Blind Melon. Dave and I spent way to much time making a computer game called Clue II. We took a class trip to Washington DC. My most vivid memory of that is being alone in a hotel room listening to a Tony Williams CD and having the guys I was rooming with come running in to telling me to join then at the pool because Erin Bequeaith was wearing a skimpy bikini. I didn’t care, and continued listening to the CD.
I spent my last summer before college still working at the AG&CC restaurant, and the person I’d miss the most when I went away to college with Faith was Kristin.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
The Barbs
The most notable change to start my freshman year of high school was 7:00am marching band rehearsals on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays as well as jazz band rehearsals at the same time on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I wasn’t actually in the jazz band; I simply attended at the bequest of the teacher in order to learn from Mike Leonard and Rusty Wiseman how to play jazz on the drumset. I lived right around the corner from Mike, and he picked me up in his black Monte Carlo for awhile to go to jazz band practice. We never spoke and he never even attempted to teach me anything. Eventually he just decided to stop picking me up altogether. Ignoring me wouldn’t be grounds to deem him an asshole, but the fact that he was constantly ridiculing his girlfriend does. Rusty never taught me anything either, but at least he was cordial.
Marching band, however, was a blast. This animated redhead named Nicole Pennington generously made sure we had a good time in the drum line. Amy Johnson was also still there, and then a few new people began trickling in- I believe Nathan Tigges was first, followed by Kara Brandau. It would be years before I found another group with which I laughed so much. We gave ourselves nicknames- I was Mickey (because I had a Mickey Mouse watch I’d gotten from Disneyland over the summer) and Nicole and Kara were The Barbs. The Barbs quoted from the movie Misery incessantly.
Nathan was an interesting guy. He was smart and observant, with a wry sense of humor. He was also thin and clumsy, which he was perceptibly self-conscious about. I remember suggesting to him that he should learn how to fight. He was a year older than me, but also happened to have an extremely attractive sister in my class named Adrienne. She was very nice to me, although I sort of don’t think she’d remember who I was.
The prettiest girl in my class was Lisa Moore, who sat next to me in science class. Her house got destroyed by a tornado that passed near our school during a band concert. Maybe that’s what caused her to move, but I almost think that happened after she was already gone and I simply heard about it through the grapevine. Either way; she transferred to Ankeny, and on her last week at North Polk I got an infection in my ear that swelled up and was pretty gross and I always figured that was her last impression of me if she remembered me at all. I was quite floored when I got a Facebook friend request from her last year.
Bryan Hitz played the trombone, and the trombone players were an interesting group. Bryan began hanging out mostly with a hilarious and vulgar guy named Doug, and frankly that made me jealous. Today it all seems childish, but then again, I was a child back then. Eventually, Bryan started dating an older girl named Jonann Owen, which launched him into a downward spiral of depression. I can’t remember when another character named Clay Scarborough would join the trombone players, but he would grow to become a great friend and influential person, introducing me to all manner of Japanese movies, a genre I have since become somewhat obsessed with.
Neither Bryan nor Trace went back out for basketball in ninth grade, so only Erik and I were left on the bench. The only reason I ever got into a game was because, if it was a blow-out, Charlie Husak would request that I replace him for the last two minutes. I would later have the privilege of getting to know his grandparents, and I will testify that all the Husaks were wonderful people. (Another delightful family in Polk City was the Webbs.)
The basketball team often practiced in the elementary school gymnasium, and for some reason that space nearly always gave me a nosebleed. I went to a doctor who stuck something hot up my nose but the problem persisted. This was excruciatingly humiliating, but at least it did get me out of having to run back and forth and finishing last.
Besides Erik and Charlie, the rest of the basketball team were assholes- especially Curious George, who now went by Magic. Little pranks gradually escalated into routine harassment. I was stuffed in lockers and toilets and wrapped in Cory Brown’s shit-streaked towel. Near the end of the season, I joined an everybody-against-everybody basketball contest on the stage behind the basketball court and ended up scoring more points than most of the others. Suddenly it occurred to me that none of those guys were actually any good at basketball either. The coach had witnessed the scrimmage, and when we were done, said to me, “If you keep practicing, you could be a starter next year.” I decided that would be the sweetest revenge, and spent the summer between ninth and tenth grades practicing a ton of basketball, often scrimmaging with a kid a year younger than me named Sean who lived nearby. Sean overtly disdained me, which made him good competition. He also had an Atari.
Attempting to become a starter on the basketball team probably isn’t the dumbest idea I’ve ever had, but it ranks right up there.
By the start of tenth grade I had received my school-work permit, which gave me free reign to drive my rusted-out ’71 Volkwagon Beetle as recklessly as possible, which I took full advantage of. (The first time I took the driving test, I missed a speed limit sign and consequently failed for driving too slow, so I had to take it again.)
Bryan was forcibly removed from North Polk not long after tenth grade began, and the rest of that school year is a blur of numbness. Only the kindness of The Barbs, as well as my friendships with Clay and Dave Shultz, made that year survivable.
Mike and Rusty had both graduated, which left jazz drumming duties in my incapable hands, along with Aaron Weineth, who was a year younger than me and a better drummer. He had started taking private drum lessons from Woody Smith in Urbandale, so I did the same. I would continue taking lessons from Woody right up until I left for college.
In other places, kids in the Talented and Gifted (TAG) program attend a different school. Unfortunately, all we did was take some group test on the computer every year that featured a creature called The Greak Awk, or something like that. I was the only male in TAG, which was great because, in contrast to the guys, every girl in my class was nice to me. I assumed it was because I seemed pathetic and harmless.
Anyway, several hours into one of these TAG tests, the multiple-choice question asked was, What unit is used to measure the length of a horse? Hattie Sparks, who was the only girl I ever dared asking out during high school, and who declined every time, immediately answered, “I think it’s a hand.” I knew hands were used to measure the height of a horse, but that seemed close enough, and besides, I wanted Hattie to be right. For some reason, this devolved into me having a meltdown, after which I assumed none of those girls would ever want to have anything to do with me.
Besides being tormented by various groups of jerks, and relatedly, discovering while rolling around inside a bass drum case I was somewhat claustrophobic, that’s about all I remember about tenth grade.
Near the end of it, Erik and I went to the Saylorville Marina with the intent of applying for summer jobs, but we spent the whole day goofing around on the docks and never got around to it. Luckily, Trace let us know about job openings at the Ankeny Golf and Country Club, and we both got hired. I started out my first job washing dishes for the member’s only restaurant at the country club. Erik didn’t last there long, but I liked it well enough, even though for the first year of that job everybody except the salad maker (who’s name I oddly can’t remember) was pretty bitchy. Strangely, everybody there called me Andy.
Marching band, however, was a blast. This animated redhead named Nicole Pennington generously made sure we had a good time in the drum line. Amy Johnson was also still there, and then a few new people began trickling in- I believe Nathan Tigges was first, followed by Kara Brandau. It would be years before I found another group with which I laughed so much. We gave ourselves nicknames- I was Mickey (because I had a Mickey Mouse watch I’d gotten from Disneyland over the summer) and Nicole and Kara were The Barbs. The Barbs quoted from the movie Misery incessantly.
Nathan was an interesting guy. He was smart and observant, with a wry sense of humor. He was also thin and clumsy, which he was perceptibly self-conscious about. I remember suggesting to him that he should learn how to fight. He was a year older than me, but also happened to have an extremely attractive sister in my class named Adrienne. She was very nice to me, although I sort of don’t think she’d remember who I was.
The prettiest girl in my class was Lisa Moore, who sat next to me in science class. Her house got destroyed by a tornado that passed near our school during a band concert. Maybe that’s what caused her to move, but I almost think that happened after she was already gone and I simply heard about it through the grapevine. Either way; she transferred to Ankeny, and on her last week at North Polk I got an infection in my ear that swelled up and was pretty gross and I always figured that was her last impression of me if she remembered me at all. I was quite floored when I got a Facebook friend request from her last year.
Bryan Hitz played the trombone, and the trombone players were an interesting group. Bryan began hanging out mostly with a hilarious and vulgar guy named Doug, and frankly that made me jealous. Today it all seems childish, but then again, I was a child back then. Eventually, Bryan started dating an older girl named Jonann Owen, which launched him into a downward spiral of depression. I can’t remember when another character named Clay Scarborough would join the trombone players, but he would grow to become a great friend and influential person, introducing me to all manner of Japanese movies, a genre I have since become somewhat obsessed with.
Neither Bryan nor Trace went back out for basketball in ninth grade, so only Erik and I were left on the bench. The only reason I ever got into a game was because, if it was a blow-out, Charlie Husak would request that I replace him for the last two minutes. I would later have the privilege of getting to know his grandparents, and I will testify that all the Husaks were wonderful people. (Another delightful family in Polk City was the Webbs.)
The basketball team often practiced in the elementary school gymnasium, and for some reason that space nearly always gave me a nosebleed. I went to a doctor who stuck something hot up my nose but the problem persisted. This was excruciatingly humiliating, but at least it did get me out of having to run back and forth and finishing last.
Besides Erik and Charlie, the rest of the basketball team were assholes- especially Curious George, who now went by Magic. Little pranks gradually escalated into routine harassment. I was stuffed in lockers and toilets and wrapped in Cory Brown’s shit-streaked towel. Near the end of the season, I joined an everybody-against-everybody basketball contest on the stage behind the basketball court and ended up scoring more points than most of the others. Suddenly it occurred to me that none of those guys were actually any good at basketball either. The coach had witnessed the scrimmage, and when we were done, said to me, “If you keep practicing, you could be a starter next year.” I decided that would be the sweetest revenge, and spent the summer between ninth and tenth grades practicing a ton of basketball, often scrimmaging with a kid a year younger than me named Sean who lived nearby. Sean overtly disdained me, which made him good competition. He also had an Atari.
Attempting to become a starter on the basketball team probably isn’t the dumbest idea I’ve ever had, but it ranks right up there.
By the start of tenth grade I had received my school-work permit, which gave me free reign to drive my rusted-out ’71 Volkwagon Beetle as recklessly as possible, which I took full advantage of. (The first time I took the driving test, I missed a speed limit sign and consequently failed for driving too slow, so I had to take it again.)
Bryan was forcibly removed from North Polk not long after tenth grade began, and the rest of that school year is a blur of numbness. Only the kindness of The Barbs, as well as my friendships with Clay and Dave Shultz, made that year survivable.
Mike and Rusty had both graduated, which left jazz drumming duties in my incapable hands, along with Aaron Weineth, who was a year younger than me and a better drummer. He had started taking private drum lessons from Woody Smith in Urbandale, so I did the same. I would continue taking lessons from Woody right up until I left for college.
In other places, kids in the Talented and Gifted (TAG) program attend a different school. Unfortunately, all we did was take some group test on the computer every year that featured a creature called The Greak Awk, or something like that. I was the only male in TAG, which was great because, in contrast to the guys, every girl in my class was nice to me. I assumed it was because I seemed pathetic and harmless.
Anyway, several hours into one of these TAG tests, the multiple-choice question asked was, What unit is used to measure the length of a horse? Hattie Sparks, who was the only girl I ever dared asking out during high school, and who declined every time, immediately answered, “I think it’s a hand.” I knew hands were used to measure the height of a horse, but that seemed close enough, and besides, I wanted Hattie to be right. For some reason, this devolved into me having a meltdown, after which I assumed none of those girls would ever want to have anything to do with me.
Besides being tormented by various groups of jerks, and relatedly, discovering while rolling around inside a bass drum case I was somewhat claustrophobic, that’s about all I remember about tenth grade.
Near the end of it, Erik and I went to the Saylorville Marina with the intent of applying for summer jobs, but we spent the whole day goofing around on the docks and never got around to it. Luckily, Trace let us know about job openings at the Ankeny Golf and Country Club, and we both got hired. I started out my first job washing dishes for the member’s only restaurant at the country club. Erik didn’t last there long, but I liked it well enough, even though for the first year of that job everybody except the salad maker (who’s name I oddly can’t remember) was pretty bitchy. Strangely, everybody there called me Andy.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
The Golden Years of Junior High
I remember the thing with Joe Gardeman: we had art class together and he thought it was funny to smear paint on me and my artwork. When I complained to the teacher, she intimated my artwork didn’t have any redeeming qualities to start with so it didn’t particularly matter. So the next time he tried to sneak behind me to do something annoying, I tried to elbow him with a backswing of my arm but missed and fell out of my stool instead. Obviously this with quite embarrassing for me and amusing to him and I tried for awhile to even the score.
Joe was friends with this intimidatingly strong yet friendly classmate named Cameron Hicamp. Cam was also on the football team and, taking pity on me after I’d whined about being head-butted (with my helmet on) during practice, told me if anyone ever messed with me to let him know and he would take care of it, which meant that Joe and I were always friendly after that and nobody would mess with me for the remainder of junior high, after which Cam moved away.
Every year we had to take the Iowa Test of Basic Skills (ITBS). Everybody hated those things, but I always secretly enjoyed the essay section as some of them were rather interesting. In fact, I would sometimes get so wrapped up in the essays I’d have to hurry through the test questions, and later when I got bored with the other tests, I’d skip back in the test booklet to re-read them. Anyway, one day I sat down to take the test only to realize I had a #3 pencil. As anyone who’s taken it knows, basically the only rule of the test is that you have to use a #2 pencil. I somehow procured one, but as time began, Cam leaned over and said, “Quick, give me that pencil,” referring to the #3 pencil I’d left on my desk. Not knowing what else to do, I gave it to him, and until this day have always wondered what the outcome of that was, never daring to mention it to anybody.
When the results of the ITBS came in, the principal called me to his office to personally congratulate me for scoring at the absolute top of the curved percentage test. As I spent the majority of my time surrounded either by idiots or people that couldn’t care less about tests, I didn’t find that result particularly exciting. Then, the principal suggested that I could help tutor some of my peers. That suggestion struck me as ludicrous. I didn’t know how to teach. I didn’t know how to interact with peers. Basically, the only thing I knew was how to fill in little ovals with a #2 pencil. Later that day, I heard Cameron Hicamp’s name over the loudspeaker, being called into the office, and I knew it was to inform him he’d scored at the bottom of the ITBS.
Once I got through the first semester, the rest of junior high was awesome. Erik and I played a lot of GI Joe (yes, we were aware we were too old for GI Joe), Nintendo (at which I never improved) and, most importantly, befriended Bryan Hitz. Bryan is the most imaginative person I’ve ever met. He was constantly coming up with a myriad of games for us to play, ranging from Supreme Retaliation to Willie’s Quest and culminating in a club called SASL (Students Against Stephen Leach), in which we devised ways to torment our favorite teacher. Bryan introduced me to “Weird” Al Yankovic, Dr. Who and who knows what else.
I didn’t intend to go back out for football in eighth grade, but Mr. Taylor, the coach, came up to me the first day of 8th Period study hall and gave me some speech about not quitting, so I inexplicably spent another semester being crushed by people actually big enough to play football. I also went out for basketball both years of junior high. Bryan, Erik, Trace and I sat at the far end of the bench and amused ourselves by mimicking the coaches and whatnot. The coaches threatened us with not letting us play if we goofed around, which didn’t discourage us at all, as not only did we not want to humiliate ourselves on the court, we already knew they weren’t going to put us in anyway.
One day during Mr. Latimer's eighth grade history class, I suddenly threw up, possibly in the direction of Brenda Nelson. From then on, Matt Larsen would call me Barf Boy, which I didn’t actually find particularly worse than Wormser (because I looked like that character from Revenge of the Nerds), Will or the various other bastardizations of my last name I was generally called. Honestly, I was rather proud that Matt Larsen knew who I was.
Whereas I didn’t even know why other males considered them interesting, Matt seemed to understand girls. Further, he seemed to know which girls. Several of them flocked around him, and he had a way of showing off with smart-ass, condescending retorts. When I wore a Harley Davidson shirt that he said I wasn’t cool enough for, I knew that was some kind of hint to wear that shirt more often. On rare occasions when Matt was not with girls, he talked to me like I was a normal person.
If I could figure out a way to combine Bryan’s creativity with Matt’s confidence, I figured that was about all I’d need in life.
Joe was friends with this intimidatingly strong yet friendly classmate named Cameron Hicamp. Cam was also on the football team and, taking pity on me after I’d whined about being head-butted (with my helmet on) during practice, told me if anyone ever messed with me to let him know and he would take care of it, which meant that Joe and I were always friendly after that and nobody would mess with me for the remainder of junior high, after which Cam moved away.
Every year we had to take the Iowa Test of Basic Skills (ITBS). Everybody hated those things, but I always secretly enjoyed the essay section as some of them were rather interesting. In fact, I would sometimes get so wrapped up in the essays I’d have to hurry through the test questions, and later when I got bored with the other tests, I’d skip back in the test booklet to re-read them. Anyway, one day I sat down to take the test only to realize I had a #3 pencil. As anyone who’s taken it knows, basically the only rule of the test is that you have to use a #2 pencil. I somehow procured one, but as time began, Cam leaned over and said, “Quick, give me that pencil,” referring to the #3 pencil I’d left on my desk. Not knowing what else to do, I gave it to him, and until this day have always wondered what the outcome of that was, never daring to mention it to anybody.
When the results of the ITBS came in, the principal called me to his office to personally congratulate me for scoring at the absolute top of the curved percentage test. As I spent the majority of my time surrounded either by idiots or people that couldn’t care less about tests, I didn’t find that result particularly exciting. Then, the principal suggested that I could help tutor some of my peers. That suggestion struck me as ludicrous. I didn’t know how to teach. I didn’t know how to interact with peers. Basically, the only thing I knew was how to fill in little ovals with a #2 pencil. Later that day, I heard Cameron Hicamp’s name over the loudspeaker, being called into the office, and I knew it was to inform him he’d scored at the bottom of the ITBS.
Once I got through the first semester, the rest of junior high was awesome. Erik and I played a lot of GI Joe (yes, we were aware we were too old for GI Joe), Nintendo (at which I never improved) and, most importantly, befriended Bryan Hitz. Bryan is the most imaginative person I’ve ever met. He was constantly coming up with a myriad of games for us to play, ranging from Supreme Retaliation to Willie’s Quest and culminating in a club called SASL (Students Against Stephen Leach), in which we devised ways to torment our favorite teacher. Bryan introduced me to “Weird” Al Yankovic, Dr. Who and who knows what else.
I didn’t intend to go back out for football in eighth grade, but Mr. Taylor, the coach, came up to me the first day of 8th Period study hall and gave me some speech about not quitting, so I inexplicably spent another semester being crushed by people actually big enough to play football. I also went out for basketball both years of junior high. Bryan, Erik, Trace and I sat at the far end of the bench and amused ourselves by mimicking the coaches and whatnot. The coaches threatened us with not letting us play if we goofed around, which didn’t discourage us at all, as not only did we not want to humiliate ourselves on the court, we already knew they weren’t going to put us in anyway.
One day during Mr. Latimer's eighth grade history class, I suddenly threw up, possibly in the direction of Brenda Nelson. From then on, Matt Larsen would call me Barf Boy, which I didn’t actually find particularly worse than Wormser (because I looked like that character from Revenge of the Nerds), Will or the various other bastardizations of my last name I was generally called. Honestly, I was rather proud that Matt Larsen knew who I was.
Whereas I didn’t even know why other males considered them interesting, Matt seemed to understand girls. Further, he seemed to know which girls. Several of them flocked around him, and he had a way of showing off with smart-ass, condescending retorts. When I wore a Harley Davidson shirt that he said I wasn’t cool enough for, I knew that was some kind of hint to wear that shirt more often. On rare occasions when Matt was not with girls, he talked to me like I was a normal person.
If I could figure out a way to combine Bryan’s creativity with Matt’s confidence, I figured that was about all I’d need in life.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Fall of 88
Andrew Mercer was the cruelest kid I ever encountered. He’d wait a couple blocks from the bus stop so he could jump me in the mornings. Then he’d apologize. That was the worst part. Strangely, I’d request to safely remove my glasses before being attacked and he would oblige. I didn’t know what he was picking on me for, except that I was the imposter new kid at school with the same first name. I was also an easy-looking target, but I was actually scrappy and not one to back down from a fight, even turning the tables and getting the better of him sometimes, so probably things escalated as a result. I also recall some early skirmishes with Joe Gardeman at the same bus stop, but as I never harbored any resentment towards him, I suspect those were instigated by me. During the bus ride itself, I tried to mind my own business as the rest of the kids tried their best to light the bus on fire and torment the driver, who they called One-Eyed Jack. I once witnessed a projectile narrowly missing the back of his head before cracking the windshield. I was grateful that at least I wasn’t being picked on as much as him.
Within the first couple weeks at my new school, I received a mysterious note from someone named “Aimee” asking me out. I didn’t know what to make of it, so I asked Matt, who still had a locker next to me and was still one of the few people I knew at that point. He shrugged. I eventually concluded it must have come from the girl drummer in band named Amy Johnson and could only assume she was spelling her own name wrong to be cute. So we wrote notes back and forth for awhile. She always ended them with TTFN. I really never understood the point of it, unless it had something to do with the nervousness associated with interacting with her.
I signed up for the football squad, not realizing actual football with body armor is much different than touch football in front yards. It was a nightmare that started 8th Period and lasted until 5pm. I would get so nervous during 7th Period that I sometimes thought I would pass out. The body armor weighed more than I did. I played tight-end, and rotated out with Jeremy Wicks every other play. When I came in, I’d give the quarterback, Charlie, the next play, which was always the same play- hand the ball to Andrew Mercer or Ryan and hope for a miracle. We lost every single game.
The house we initially moved into in Polk City had issues with the title. It was owned by an incarnation of evil, who happened to be the father of Dustin Drozd. Dustin had a clever wit which I admired, but his dad told all of his children in my presence that they weren’t allowed to hang out with me because my family was causing him trouble. I’d later experience a scene straight out of To Kill a Mockingbird where Dustin’s dad threatened my dad’s life.
My dad and I raised pigeons, and dad built a pigeon shed in the backyard. One day I was taking care of or playing with the pigeons when, to my horror, Amy and another girl named Cara appeared. I showed them the pigeons and answered their questions as hurriedly as possible. At least that’s what I think I did, as everything had become a blur of panic. All I could think was how I would explain to my parents, who I assumed were watching from the windows in the house, why I had been talking with girls. Interacting with the opposite sex was not something that was condoned in my family.
On the last day before Christmas break, Amy’s friend Jodi informed me that she was breaking up with me. For some reason, I chose to respond, “I don’t believe you,” which caused her to disappear for a few minutes, after which she returned with the news, “You’d better.” I was slightly relieved that I’d no longer have to spend time figuring out how to compose notes.
The first guys to befriend me at North Polk Junior High/High School were Trace Kendig and Erik Sheldon. I met them both in Mr. Leach’s English class. I believe the first thing Erik asked me was whether I liked the song Kokomo, by The Beach Boys. I had no idea what he was talking about, so he sang it to me, which I found hilariously intriguing.
When the art teacher heard I was associating myself with Trace, she bluntly told me he was an idiot. This is just how messed up that school was. The only thing wrong with Trace was that he smoked cigarettes, and he never so much as offered a cigarette to me. Trace and I never really did hang out a lot, probably only because we lived in different towns, but as we got older he’d occasionally give me a ride in his goofy kit-car and was also instrumental in landing me my first job.
Erik and I, however, would become best friends and hang out a ton in junior high. This had a lot to do with the fact that, thankfully, the sale of that first house never went through, and over Christmas break we moved again. Polk City is divided by a rise or hill, and we moved from under the hill to on it, one carload at a time. Now I lived across the street from Amy and the next street over from Erik. This move also meant a change of buses and bus stops. I could now learn about every baseball player and how much they were worth via Erik’s baseball card collection while being driven to school by One-Eyed Jack’s wife.
Andrew Mercer moved out of state before seventh grade ended.
Within the first couple weeks at my new school, I received a mysterious note from someone named “Aimee” asking me out. I didn’t know what to make of it, so I asked Matt, who still had a locker next to me and was still one of the few people I knew at that point. He shrugged. I eventually concluded it must have come from the girl drummer in band named Amy Johnson and could only assume she was spelling her own name wrong to be cute. So we wrote notes back and forth for awhile. She always ended them with TTFN. I really never understood the point of it, unless it had something to do with the nervousness associated with interacting with her.
I signed up for the football squad, not realizing actual football with body armor is much different than touch football in front yards. It was a nightmare that started 8th Period and lasted until 5pm. I would get so nervous during 7th Period that I sometimes thought I would pass out. The body armor weighed more than I did. I played tight-end, and rotated out with Jeremy Wicks every other play. When I came in, I’d give the quarterback, Charlie, the next play, which was always the same play- hand the ball to Andrew Mercer or Ryan and hope for a miracle. We lost every single game.
The house we initially moved into in Polk City had issues with the title. It was owned by an incarnation of evil, who happened to be the father of Dustin Drozd. Dustin had a clever wit which I admired, but his dad told all of his children in my presence that they weren’t allowed to hang out with me because my family was causing him trouble. I’d later experience a scene straight out of To Kill a Mockingbird where Dustin’s dad threatened my dad’s life.
My dad and I raised pigeons, and dad built a pigeon shed in the backyard. One day I was taking care of or playing with the pigeons when, to my horror, Amy and another girl named Cara appeared. I showed them the pigeons and answered their questions as hurriedly as possible. At least that’s what I think I did, as everything had become a blur of panic. All I could think was how I would explain to my parents, who I assumed were watching from the windows in the house, why I had been talking with girls. Interacting with the opposite sex was not something that was condoned in my family.
On the last day before Christmas break, Amy’s friend Jodi informed me that she was breaking up with me. For some reason, I chose to respond, “I don’t believe you,” which caused her to disappear for a few minutes, after which she returned with the news, “You’d better.” I was slightly relieved that I’d no longer have to spend time figuring out how to compose notes.
The first guys to befriend me at North Polk Junior High/High School were Trace Kendig and Erik Sheldon. I met them both in Mr. Leach’s English class. I believe the first thing Erik asked me was whether I liked the song Kokomo, by The Beach Boys. I had no idea what he was talking about, so he sang it to me, which I found hilariously intriguing.
When the art teacher heard I was associating myself with Trace, she bluntly told me he was an idiot. This is just how messed up that school was. The only thing wrong with Trace was that he smoked cigarettes, and he never so much as offered a cigarette to me. Trace and I never really did hang out a lot, probably only because we lived in different towns, but as we got older he’d occasionally give me a ride in his goofy kit-car and was also instrumental in landing me my first job.
Erik and I, however, would become best friends and hang out a ton in junior high. This had a lot to do with the fact that, thankfully, the sale of that first house never went through, and over Christmas break we moved again. Polk City is divided by a rise or hill, and we moved from under the hill to on it, one carload at a time. Now I lived across the street from Amy and the next street over from Erik. This move also meant a change of buses and bus stops. I could now learn about every baseball player and how much they were worth via Erik’s baseball card collection while being driven to school by One-Eyed Jack’s wife.
Andrew Mercer moved out of state before seventh grade ended.
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