I got to college a week before most of the rest of the students to try-out for marching band. My car insurance had recently been rescinded for having too many accidents, so my dad drove me up to Cedar Falls and dropped me off. I didn’t have any idea how fierce the competition would be, but I remember confidently assuring my dad that he didn’t need to wait to see whether I qualified. I piled my belongings as instructed in a dormitory hallway to begin my life out from under my parents’ roof. I would remain car-less for the next three years.
An audition was held, and I was ecstatic to be the only freshman who made the snare drum line, but this excitement was short-lived. The subsequent five days of band camp was called Hell Week, presumably because we rehearsed for ten hours a day, but it was especially difficult for me, as I had never learned to sight read in tempo, execute a flawless drum roll or play traditional grip. The rest of the snare line and the percussion instructor soon decided they didn’t want me there and tried to get me to quit. Their jeers only acted as fuel for me to continue practicing well after rehearsals had ended, enduring the pain while blisters on my fingers oozed until someone finally conceded to give me band-aids and ibuprofen.
On Wednesday, an upperclassman in the quint-tom section who had taken pity on me, named Roy, convinced me to take a break from drumming for an evening and attend a marching band house party. This was the first such party I ever attended, and probably imagined it was something like a birthday party- I had attended one of those when I was seven. Jim had received a life-sized toy M-16 that made sounds, and since guns weren’t allowed in my house, I convinced my mom that I wanted a birthday party, too, but I didn’t get the same present.
This party was different- it consisted mostly of loud music, beer and flirting. Years later, I would discover kids had been doing this in high school, but scrawny, zit-faced, glasses-wearing kids like me wouldn’t have been invited. I had never even seen drunk people before. This party contained about a hundred of them, all crammed in hallways and little rooms and squawking like chickens in pens. There was this cute redhead trumpet player that I had been curious about, and found her slurrily laughing and stumbling all over this other trumpet player who I had already deemed to be a total asshole. I quickly realized people acting drunk was really unattractive. I didn’t stay long before walking briskly back to my 7th floor Dancer dorm room alone.
Roy felt bad, agreeing with me that that scene was obnoxious, and decided I would better enjoy a much smaller gathering. On Friday afternoon, I called my parents on a pay-phone as pre-planned and instantly broke into tears. That evening I rode with Roy to a suite at ROTH, which was a recently-built dormitory exclusively for upper-classmen that offered such amenities as your own bedroom, a kitchenette and a bathroom shared only by four people instead of about a hundred. I joined Roy and two other guys, and learned how to play the card game Spades.
I loved it. In fact, that would be the most fun I would have until just before Christmas break, when I joined in on a sleigh ride with Phil and some girls from twelfth floor Dancer. I would spend a large part of the next couple years at Roy’s side, listening to jazz, transcribing drum parts, practicing drums on a practice pad and homemade rubber and wood double-kick drum contraption and playing Spades. Our association eventually waned after I got into playing chess and discussing all things philosophy with the guys from 9th floor.
About fifteen years later, a year before moving from Portland, I was invited by a co-worker to attend a house party. As such invites were rare, me being the hated boss and all, I showed up… about an hour earlier than anyone else. After a scolding from the co-worker, I found a bottle of Dickel Tennessee whiskey and a glass and settled in on the outside patio. For the remainder of the evening, I observed how pathetic I was at holding a conversation. People would introduce themselves, nod for at most five minutes, and then excuse themselves to dance, fix a drink, use the restroom, look for a friend, etc. Every once in awhile, I’d wander inside, where I would hijack a conversation about the difference between a dry and dirty martini or the like before retreating. At one point, I was interrupted by an older lady while explaining to her certain elements of quantum mechanics with, “Really I was just hoping to get a cigarette. Do you smoke?” Eventually the whiskey bottle was empty, and I stumbled home, which was several miles away. I don’t remember the walk, but I do remember having difficulty figuring out where my truck was the next day.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Happiness
I read the following on a Facebook update a few days ago: “Often I feel like I'm living thus: I can't wait until ______ happens/is over because then I can be happy. It's like I'm wishing my life away. Anyone else ever experience this? I'm guessing that contentment is lacking. Or, more pointedly, a life lived to love God and others versus a life lived for my personal fulfillment. Thoughts?”
I don’t relate to this experience, as the sentiment is grossly illogical, but this is not the first time this Facebook friend has posted something I found flaw in, as is evidenced by the fact that I am now barred from commenting on his posts.
There is not much chance of finding happiness when focusing on what you don’t have or don’t want to have. Many seem obsessed with preconceived notions about the way life should unfold or with creating false dependencies ("I can't live without..."), and unless those assumptions are fulfilled they refuse to be happy. To me, these are an almost surefire way to set yourself up for displeasure. Some expect, or rather demand, everything to be perfect all the time. These spoiled brats will never be satisfied. Being able to un-ironically smile through unexpected and unplanned circumstances requires flexibility.
One of my favorite documentaries is Hands on a Hard Body (1997), about a competition in Texas between contestants vying to see who can keep one hand on a truck while standing for the longest. It contains an interesting perspective and a few insights on life, perhaps the best being, “I figured it would eventually get to a point to where everything would quit getting worse and just stay bad, you know, but it just keeps on going downhill.” I love this idea that sometimes, like a baseball team on a down year, just staying bad is the best thing we can hope for.
It seems many expect that at some point the stars will align and happiness will suddenly appear to them like the culmination of some sort of successful spell. If happiness were to materialize, what form would it take? The answer, of course, is to be found at the Lagavulin Scotch whisky distillery on the isle of Islay in Scotland. But would a lifetime supply of 16 Year Lagavulin really bring happiness? I don’t know, but if someone is willing to fund such an experiment, I am willing to give it a try.
I don’t trust anyone who pretends to be happy all the time. These people are inevitably afraid of facing deep meanings or realities, preferring an existence of superficial fantasy. I currently live in a place that, aside from great disc golf courses, one good Thai restaurant, my brother, my girlfriend and nearby friends, is pretty much awful. However, when I complain about Iowa, the knee-jerk response from some is, "If you don't like it, move!" Really? I mean, it does have great disc golf courses, one good Thai restaurant, my brother, my girlfriend and nearby friends after all. Honestly, I can't think of a place that has more than that to offer. Pointing out flaws in a thing does not automatically make one sad and depressed. Recognizing ways in which things can improve is a much different perspective than wallowing in how bad things are. No matter what Disney wants us to believe, we don’t have total control over our own destiny. Sometimes you have to, as my mom would say, “be happy with what you have.”
I don’t quite understand the difference between happiness and contentment, other than the degree of giddiness involved. I think it’s obvious that laughter, being a sort of temporary onset of delirium, does not equate to happiness. Some situations avail no solution other than laughter. It is unwise to take some things too seriously. I often find myself requiring a conscious decision to not be irritated by things that aren’t at all important. (It is frankly ridiculous how easily I am irritated, and usually try, with questionable success, to keep that quelled, reminding myself that it is the height of immaturity for anyone to make another suffer because of trite, irrational intolerances.) Any degree of satisfaction is temporal, and therefore less valuable than the likes of empathy and integrity.
I have lived with those who suffer from depression, and that seems like a bitch of a disease. My degree is in psychology, and diagnosed depression is something psychologists have gladly turned over to psychiatrists. Do some drugs.
There are a few people who deserve to be miserable. I would love to pen a work entitled Andrew’s Inferno. In my book, there is nobody worse than an exploitive person. This selfish and self-absorbed type is either heartless or tends to assume others have magical abilities to endure hardships more than they can. They are recognizable by phrases such as, "You have to ____ because I'm too ____," often followed by, “Can’t you do anything right?”
The happiest times in my life have come not by intention, but rather have been an unexpected result of simply removing myself from unhappy situations. Feelings of futility, helplessness and contempt all breed unhappiness. In my experience, happiness is equal parts confidence and luck. Anyone who doesn’t believe in providence isn’t paying attention. For example, I've had the great fortune of possessing mental and physical health, a loving and supportive family and growing up in a country where white males have more opportunities and advantages than everyone else- things I really had no say in or control over.
Happiness has its risks. Those we love most have the greatest power of causing us pain. Refusing to endure unhappiness requires more faith and courage than most people have. Hence the Thoreau line, “The vast majority of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Some will never be happy simply because they're too scared to try.
The impetus for this post implies two things that stand in opposition to his happiness: God and others. He would likely object to this assertion, and I admit I didn’t see it upon my first reading, thinking instead he had randomly added some obligatory religious nonsense. But the dichotomy he creates in stating, “a life lived to love God and others versus a life lived for my personal fulfillment,” is glaring, because from my point of view, personal fulfillment comes in part as a result of living for others and my (lack of) belief in (any) god. I don’t have to make a choice; it is all part of the same thing.
I’ve been told by straight-faced Christians that it is impossible for non-Christians to experience happiness. When pressed with evidence to the contrary, they will eventually declare that happiness on earth does not exist for anyone. They preach that a life of suffering will be rewarded after death, while giving no evidence to support that claim. Jesus himself is portrayed as an utterly dreary bore who got people excited by telling them they could quit their jobs. For the most part, Christians are made to feel guilty for having fun. As life has so much wonderment and joy to offer, I feel this is truly a disservice.
Religion tends to prey on the less fortunate, and offers a community where one can agree to shed their individuality, and all associated freedoms and responsibilities, in trade for a sense of belonging and purpose. Religion appeals to those who dislike ambiguity or distrust their own decision-making skills. In a monotheism that thinks everyone should think and feel the exact same way, it is expected that they would egocentrically believe all others inhabit these traits. But then, they’ve probably never tried Lagavulin Scotch.
Humans are undeniably social beings, and our well-being is almost always connected to the success we are having interacting with others, or another. We are therefore compelled to surround ourselves with like-minded people. After all, misery loves company. It is utterly pathetic, however, to insist upon surrounding yourself with others willing to constantly whisper sweet nothings in your ear. I mean, Alex Rodriquez needs to call Pete Rose to remind him how awesome he is? What a loser. Even worse would be an omnipotent being creating creatures in hopes that they would worship and obey him.
I reject on principle the saying, “Ignorance is bliss.” Besides being a phrase that tends to be used by people talking about somebody else, my own dumb decisions is precisely what has usually led to times of despair. The most accurate summary of the original Facebook update seems to be: I’m miserable, but that must be what God wants, because he’s surrounded me with miserable circumstances and people, although I don’t understand why. My money is on him never being happy, in part because he is too stubborn to ever admit a mistake, but I sincerely hope otherwise.
I don’t relate to this experience, as the sentiment is grossly illogical, but this is not the first time this Facebook friend has posted something I found flaw in, as is evidenced by the fact that I am now barred from commenting on his posts.
There is not much chance of finding happiness when focusing on what you don’t have or don’t want to have. Many seem obsessed with preconceived notions about the way life should unfold or with creating false dependencies ("I can't live without..."), and unless those assumptions are fulfilled they refuse to be happy. To me, these are an almost surefire way to set yourself up for displeasure. Some expect, or rather demand, everything to be perfect all the time. These spoiled brats will never be satisfied. Being able to un-ironically smile through unexpected and unplanned circumstances requires flexibility.
One of my favorite documentaries is Hands on a Hard Body (1997), about a competition in Texas between contestants vying to see who can keep one hand on a truck while standing for the longest. It contains an interesting perspective and a few insights on life, perhaps the best being, “I figured it would eventually get to a point to where everything would quit getting worse and just stay bad, you know, but it just keeps on going downhill.” I love this idea that sometimes, like a baseball team on a down year, just staying bad is the best thing we can hope for.
It seems many expect that at some point the stars will align and happiness will suddenly appear to them like the culmination of some sort of successful spell. If happiness were to materialize, what form would it take? The answer, of course, is to be found at the Lagavulin Scotch whisky distillery on the isle of Islay in Scotland. But would a lifetime supply of 16 Year Lagavulin really bring happiness? I don’t know, but if someone is willing to fund such an experiment, I am willing to give it a try.
I don’t trust anyone who pretends to be happy all the time. These people are inevitably afraid of facing deep meanings or realities, preferring an existence of superficial fantasy. I currently live in a place that, aside from great disc golf courses, one good Thai restaurant, my brother, my girlfriend and nearby friends, is pretty much awful. However, when I complain about Iowa, the knee-jerk response from some is, "If you don't like it, move!" Really? I mean, it does have great disc golf courses, one good Thai restaurant, my brother, my girlfriend and nearby friends after all. Honestly, I can't think of a place that has more than that to offer. Pointing out flaws in a thing does not automatically make one sad and depressed. Recognizing ways in which things can improve is a much different perspective than wallowing in how bad things are. No matter what Disney wants us to believe, we don’t have total control over our own destiny. Sometimes you have to, as my mom would say, “be happy with what you have.”
I don’t quite understand the difference between happiness and contentment, other than the degree of giddiness involved. I think it’s obvious that laughter, being a sort of temporary onset of delirium, does not equate to happiness. Some situations avail no solution other than laughter. It is unwise to take some things too seriously. I often find myself requiring a conscious decision to not be irritated by things that aren’t at all important. (It is frankly ridiculous how easily I am irritated, and usually try, with questionable success, to keep that quelled, reminding myself that it is the height of immaturity for anyone to make another suffer because of trite, irrational intolerances.) Any degree of satisfaction is temporal, and therefore less valuable than the likes of empathy and integrity.
I have lived with those who suffer from depression, and that seems like a bitch of a disease. My degree is in psychology, and diagnosed depression is something psychologists have gladly turned over to psychiatrists. Do some drugs.
There are a few people who deserve to be miserable. I would love to pen a work entitled Andrew’s Inferno. In my book, there is nobody worse than an exploitive person. This selfish and self-absorbed type is either heartless or tends to assume others have magical abilities to endure hardships more than they can. They are recognizable by phrases such as, "You have to ____ because I'm too ____," often followed by, “Can’t you do anything right?”
The happiest times in my life have come not by intention, but rather have been an unexpected result of simply removing myself from unhappy situations. Feelings of futility, helplessness and contempt all breed unhappiness. In my experience, happiness is equal parts confidence and luck. Anyone who doesn’t believe in providence isn’t paying attention. For example, I've had the great fortune of possessing mental and physical health, a loving and supportive family and growing up in a country where white males have more opportunities and advantages than everyone else- things I really had no say in or control over.
Happiness has its risks. Those we love most have the greatest power of causing us pain. Refusing to endure unhappiness requires more faith and courage than most people have. Hence the Thoreau line, “The vast majority of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Some will never be happy simply because they're too scared to try.
The impetus for this post implies two things that stand in opposition to his happiness: God and others. He would likely object to this assertion, and I admit I didn’t see it upon my first reading, thinking instead he had randomly added some obligatory religious nonsense. But the dichotomy he creates in stating, “a life lived to love God and others versus a life lived for my personal fulfillment,” is glaring, because from my point of view, personal fulfillment comes in part as a result of living for others and my (lack of) belief in (any) god. I don’t have to make a choice; it is all part of the same thing.
I’ve been told by straight-faced Christians that it is impossible for non-Christians to experience happiness. When pressed with evidence to the contrary, they will eventually declare that happiness on earth does not exist for anyone. They preach that a life of suffering will be rewarded after death, while giving no evidence to support that claim. Jesus himself is portrayed as an utterly dreary bore who got people excited by telling them they could quit their jobs. For the most part, Christians are made to feel guilty for having fun. As life has so much wonderment and joy to offer, I feel this is truly a disservice.
Religion tends to prey on the less fortunate, and offers a community where one can agree to shed their individuality, and all associated freedoms and responsibilities, in trade for a sense of belonging and purpose. Religion appeals to those who dislike ambiguity or distrust their own decision-making skills. In a monotheism that thinks everyone should think and feel the exact same way, it is expected that they would egocentrically believe all others inhabit these traits. But then, they’ve probably never tried Lagavulin Scotch.
Humans are undeniably social beings, and our well-being is almost always connected to the success we are having interacting with others, or another. We are therefore compelled to surround ourselves with like-minded people. After all, misery loves company. It is utterly pathetic, however, to insist upon surrounding yourself with others willing to constantly whisper sweet nothings in your ear. I mean, Alex Rodriquez needs to call Pete Rose to remind him how awesome he is? What a loser. Even worse would be an omnipotent being creating creatures in hopes that they would worship and obey him.
I reject on principle the saying, “Ignorance is bliss.” Besides being a phrase that tends to be used by people talking about somebody else, my own dumb decisions is precisely what has usually led to times of despair. The most accurate summary of the original Facebook update seems to be: I’m miserable, but that must be what God wants, because he’s surrounded me with miserable circumstances and people, although I don’t understand why. My money is on him never being happy, in part because he is too stubborn to ever admit a mistake, but I sincerely hope otherwise.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Appreciating Sports
As soccer is easily the most intense and exciting sport I have ever watched, it dumfounds me that most Americans think it’s boring. Further, they prefer a sport in which a bunch of guys in body armor spend more time utilizing time-outs, period breaks, clock stoppages, unlimited substitutions, huddles and replays then actually doing anything. But as much as I’d like to write an essay on why Association Football is better than American Football, the more interesting issue for me is why such preferences exist.
The main reason why people don’t like sports in general is because they themselves lack athleticism. However, since watching sports doesn’t require any athletic ability whatsoever, this reasoning is absurd. Sports contain among the most concrete examples of human achievements. Architects, painters and chefs can all demonstrate undeniably exceptional ability, but none of these directly pit man against man in the same time and place with established rules to decisively declare who is better. Sports can confirm or deflate with equal unpredictability. Even when the results are contentious, there is a winner and a loser. Comparatively, prose is complete bullshit.
Watching a sport without knowing the rules is akin to reading a book in a language you don’t understand- there’s no way of discerning what is going on. Even a seemingly simple thing like how and when the game ends might be complicated for the uninitiated, but is all-important in grasping what’s occurring. An in-depth knowledge of the rules will allow a more full comprehension of the game’s intricacies, and yield greater appreciation. I think most learn rules by watching a sport with someone who can explain it to you, which is a style of learning many adults are reluctant to engage in. Based on the coaches I had growing up, I wouldn’t assume having played a sport means you know the rules. They mostly spout jargon and expect you to know what they’re talking about. (I still vividly remember a rare occasion of getting on base in fourth grade Little League and shortly thereafter hearing the coach yelling, “Tag up! Tag up!” from the dugout with absolutely no idea what he was wanting me to do.)
All sports use a fair amount of jargon, which makes any game mysterious to one not indoctrinated. Jargon often doesn’t translate between sports, which causes frustrating confusions. When an American Football fan hears a soccer fan declare, “Nice tackle!” he thinks, no it wasn’t! and when he discovers a tackle in soccer isn’t what he thinks it is (it’s an enforceable technique for kicking the ball), his knee-jerk reaction is to think, that’s stupid.
I am predilected to prefer sports with efficiently eludicated rules. (Although I don’t follow NASCAR, I appreciate the simplicity of its premise.) There is something beautiful in being able to pull off one specifically difficult task and also in performing various juxtaposed activities. Sport rules typically figure out ways of exploiting human limitations, such as kicking while running or only punching above the belt. As a viewer, this requires an appreciation for the degree of challenge involved in successfully accomplishing an athletic feat. Most who would look upon even the more simple of actions required in sport and declare, “I could do that!” have never tried.
Obviously, the actual skills required differ from sport to sport. Usually there is some kind of built-in mechanism which tests to the max things such as speed, endurance, agility, strength, focus, instinct and coordination. The skill and determination trained athletes possess are an awe-inspiring thing that one can’t fully appreciate without having seen them perform live (and I’m not referring to showing up on cheap drink night, chatting with your friends and getting wasted). It is frighteningly easy to forget that athletes are still human. I can only imagine what it must be like to have 10,000+ people screaming at you to catch a ball or whatever, when that is obviously what you’re trying your best to do. Athletes are not created from a mold. Each player has unique abilities, weaknesses, ideas and fears that influence his game. Anyone who has dedicated the time to get to know a player, watching him mature and/or deteriorate, has probably seen humanity at its best and worse.
Given human limits on physical prowess, strategy employment becomes the overriding factor between winning and losing. Understanding strategy demands a more sophisticated knowledge of the subtleties within the structure of a sport. A player must study his opponent, find his weakness and determine how to exploit them before going about accomplishing that task. In defense, the opponent strives to discern how he is being exploited and strives the close the holes. It is hard to contextualize the outcome of a game without watching it as it unfolds.
In any competition, the outcome is only important to anyone who cares who wins. Being a neutral spectator is nothing like being a fanatic. Even events of a sport one enjoys become dull if you aren’t cheering for a winner. Team loyalty can span generations, uniting or dividing families. In some countries, sports clubs can have political ties. You can’t really take anything a sports fan says seriously, because their opinion is absolutely biased. While having a bias is best avoided in judicial matters, there is no substitute for wanting and hoping for your team to win. Fans are undoubtedly the most obnoxious thing about sports, but there is a part of human nature that compels us to take sides and unite behind a common goal which sports allow us to indulge. The thing that saves us from sports fanatics is that sporting events take place within a clearly defined arena. No sport can function without an out-of-bounds. The brilliance of sports is no matter how seriously it’s taken, in the end it’s “just a game,” and when the game is over, everybody goes home, hopefully looking forward to the rematch.
One could argue that sports are the greatest way there is of settling a dispute. This reads as ostentatious, but certainly sport is preferable to war. For example, the Biblical Elisha conceived a simple way of turning religion into a sport. I propose that the world’s religious leaders get together once each year at rotating sacred sites throughout the world and build bonfires. Then their respective religious fanatics can congregate and cheer, jeer, pray or whatever, and the first religion to get their god to light their bonfire, say before sunset, wins. The winner can get- and then smash- a golden calf or something. Throughout the year, local churches, synagogues, mosques, etc. can hold little competitions on town squares. Atheist referees can prevent attempts of cheating. Agnostics can root for whoever seems to be in the lead. What objection could any religious zealot have against this opportunity to demonstrate their god’s power?
The main reason why people don’t like sports in general is because they themselves lack athleticism. However, since watching sports doesn’t require any athletic ability whatsoever, this reasoning is absurd. Sports contain among the most concrete examples of human achievements. Architects, painters and chefs can all demonstrate undeniably exceptional ability, but none of these directly pit man against man in the same time and place with established rules to decisively declare who is better. Sports can confirm or deflate with equal unpredictability. Even when the results are contentious, there is a winner and a loser. Comparatively, prose is complete bullshit.
Watching a sport without knowing the rules is akin to reading a book in a language you don’t understand- there’s no way of discerning what is going on. Even a seemingly simple thing like how and when the game ends might be complicated for the uninitiated, but is all-important in grasping what’s occurring. An in-depth knowledge of the rules will allow a more full comprehension of the game’s intricacies, and yield greater appreciation. I think most learn rules by watching a sport with someone who can explain it to you, which is a style of learning many adults are reluctant to engage in. Based on the coaches I had growing up, I wouldn’t assume having played a sport means you know the rules. They mostly spout jargon and expect you to know what they’re talking about. (I still vividly remember a rare occasion of getting on base in fourth grade Little League and shortly thereafter hearing the coach yelling, “Tag up! Tag up!” from the dugout with absolutely no idea what he was wanting me to do.)
All sports use a fair amount of jargon, which makes any game mysterious to one not indoctrinated. Jargon often doesn’t translate between sports, which causes frustrating confusions. When an American Football fan hears a soccer fan declare, “Nice tackle!” he thinks, no it wasn’t! and when he discovers a tackle in soccer isn’t what he thinks it is (it’s an enforceable technique for kicking the ball), his knee-jerk reaction is to think, that’s stupid.
I am predilected to prefer sports with efficiently eludicated rules. (Although I don’t follow NASCAR, I appreciate the simplicity of its premise.) There is something beautiful in being able to pull off one specifically difficult task and also in performing various juxtaposed activities. Sport rules typically figure out ways of exploiting human limitations, such as kicking while running or only punching above the belt. As a viewer, this requires an appreciation for the degree of challenge involved in successfully accomplishing an athletic feat. Most who would look upon even the more simple of actions required in sport and declare, “I could do that!” have never tried.
Obviously, the actual skills required differ from sport to sport. Usually there is some kind of built-in mechanism which tests to the max things such as speed, endurance, agility, strength, focus, instinct and coordination. The skill and determination trained athletes possess are an awe-inspiring thing that one can’t fully appreciate without having seen them perform live (and I’m not referring to showing up on cheap drink night, chatting with your friends and getting wasted). It is frighteningly easy to forget that athletes are still human. I can only imagine what it must be like to have 10,000+ people screaming at you to catch a ball or whatever, when that is obviously what you’re trying your best to do. Athletes are not created from a mold. Each player has unique abilities, weaknesses, ideas and fears that influence his game. Anyone who has dedicated the time to get to know a player, watching him mature and/or deteriorate, has probably seen humanity at its best and worse.
Given human limits on physical prowess, strategy employment becomes the overriding factor between winning and losing. Understanding strategy demands a more sophisticated knowledge of the subtleties within the structure of a sport. A player must study his opponent, find his weakness and determine how to exploit them before going about accomplishing that task. In defense, the opponent strives to discern how he is being exploited and strives the close the holes. It is hard to contextualize the outcome of a game without watching it as it unfolds.
In any competition, the outcome is only important to anyone who cares who wins. Being a neutral spectator is nothing like being a fanatic. Even events of a sport one enjoys become dull if you aren’t cheering for a winner. Team loyalty can span generations, uniting or dividing families. In some countries, sports clubs can have political ties. You can’t really take anything a sports fan says seriously, because their opinion is absolutely biased. While having a bias is best avoided in judicial matters, there is no substitute for wanting and hoping for your team to win. Fans are undoubtedly the most obnoxious thing about sports, but there is a part of human nature that compels us to take sides and unite behind a common goal which sports allow us to indulge. The thing that saves us from sports fanatics is that sporting events take place within a clearly defined arena. No sport can function without an out-of-bounds. The brilliance of sports is no matter how seriously it’s taken, in the end it’s “just a game,” and when the game is over, everybody goes home, hopefully looking forward to the rematch.
One could argue that sports are the greatest way there is of settling a dispute. This reads as ostentatious, but certainly sport is preferable to war. For example, the Biblical Elisha conceived a simple way of turning religion into a sport. I propose that the world’s religious leaders get together once each year at rotating sacred sites throughout the world and build bonfires. Then their respective religious fanatics can congregate and cheer, jeer, pray or whatever, and the first religion to get their god to light their bonfire, say before sunset, wins. The winner can get- and then smash- a golden calf or something. Throughout the year, local churches, synagogues, mosques, etc. can hold little competitions on town squares. Atheist referees can prevent attempts of cheating. Agnostics can root for whoever seems to be in the lead. What objection could any religious zealot have against this opportunity to demonstrate their god’s power?
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Human Week
Monday, May 14, 2012
Bricks
My first real exposure to writing came in sixth grade. Sure, I’d learned to draw letters, spell words and construct sentences long before, but it wasn’t until a group of us started a student newsletter that I realized the potential of writing to inform and entertain strangers.
Our elementary school divided classes into reading groups according to different levels of competency. There were eighteen kids in my class and three reading groups. I was in the advanced group, and by the end of fifth grade we had already completed the entire curriculum. To give us something to do, our sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Bleam, assigned our group to compose our own newsletter.
I wasn’t the smartest kid in my class- Jim Condon was. And he wanted to be a journalist when he grew up. I had no idea what a journalist was but figured it must be something important. He was named the editor of our newsletter, which I also assumed must be something important.
We were allowed to construct our newsletter in an empty office area that had belonged to the creepy elementary school principal until his position was dissolved, apparently because he did nothing except extol Dr. J and distribute jelly beans, calling them “happy pills.”
I volunteered to do the movie review and comic sections of the newsletter- in other words, the best parts. I cleverly titled the movie review section “Fiskell & Sezbert” and gave my opinions about the informational films we watched in class. (In those days, we got to watch actual films projected onto a screen that pulled down over the chalkboard. Jim ran the film projector.)
Jim reviewed our work before press-time. For the first issue, I had drawn a cartoon, but it was suggested that it wasn’t very good. At that time, I was obsessed with Marvel comics, and they inspired me to want to be able to draw. Our art teacher felt that it was more important for me to understand that I had no artistic ability whatsoever. Both Jim and JJ could draw, and every once in awhile JJ would give me a drawing of a Marvel hero, which I jealously cherished at the time and still own to this day. I nagged JJ for help with my cartoon, and he explained to me some basic principles of perspective. I wondered where he had acquired this information. I dropped the cartoon and instead contributed zingy one-liners cribbed from a joke book.
Much to my confusion, it was not the jokes others found funny but my movie reviews. In explanation, I learned of the word “candid” with an attempt to contextualize by using the television show Candid Camera, which I had never seen. Apparently, if you simply express your observations without being self-conscious, others will perceive that as humorous.
We printed and proudly distributed two or three issues of our newsletter before the other teachers complained that our entire class should be involved, but it seemed implicitly obvious there was no way to coordinate the logistics of doing so. We soon realized their objection was that we were working on it unsupervised, which was precisely the best part about it. I had relished the ability to explore and experiment with this project, rather than the usual regurgitation of information, which I found tedious. Why ask us for the answers when they already had a book containing all of them? I didn’t understand why we needed to be constantly lorded over, and suspected the sole function of adults was to prevent us from discovering anything they didn’t already know.
The newsletter was scrapped. I don’t remember what our reading group did instead. I spent the school days surreptitiously reading Marvel comics hidden under my desk and the evenings reading an entire compilation containing every Sherlock Holmes mystery except (I would discover years later) those containing references to cocaine. Later that year, I won an Easter art contest by drawing a rabbit with a red cape flying across the sky with bipedal rabbits below looking up, pointing and saying, “It’s a bird!” and, “It’s a plane!” On the far right, a little bunny trailing his mother while holding her hand said, “Look mom, it’s Superbunny!” Looking instead at the edge of the paper, the mother drolly replied, “Yes dear, hop along now.” The art teacher, who had not been a judge, made sure to remark that my picture had obviously won more for the humor than the artwork.
I have never won another contest of any sort in my life. I wouldn’t learn a useful thing from a teacher until college.
Our elementary school divided classes into reading groups according to different levels of competency. There were eighteen kids in my class and three reading groups. I was in the advanced group, and by the end of fifth grade we had already completed the entire curriculum. To give us something to do, our sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Bleam, assigned our group to compose our own newsletter.
I wasn’t the smartest kid in my class- Jim Condon was. And he wanted to be a journalist when he grew up. I had no idea what a journalist was but figured it must be something important. He was named the editor of our newsletter, which I also assumed must be something important.
We were allowed to construct our newsletter in an empty office area that had belonged to the creepy elementary school principal until his position was dissolved, apparently because he did nothing except extol Dr. J and distribute jelly beans, calling them “happy pills.”
I volunteered to do the movie review and comic sections of the newsletter- in other words, the best parts. I cleverly titled the movie review section “Fiskell & Sezbert” and gave my opinions about the informational films we watched in class. (In those days, we got to watch actual films projected onto a screen that pulled down over the chalkboard. Jim ran the film projector.)
Jim reviewed our work before press-time. For the first issue, I had drawn a cartoon, but it was suggested that it wasn’t very good. At that time, I was obsessed with Marvel comics, and they inspired me to want to be able to draw. Our art teacher felt that it was more important for me to understand that I had no artistic ability whatsoever. Both Jim and JJ could draw, and every once in awhile JJ would give me a drawing of a Marvel hero, which I jealously cherished at the time and still own to this day. I nagged JJ for help with my cartoon, and he explained to me some basic principles of perspective. I wondered where he had acquired this information. I dropped the cartoon and instead contributed zingy one-liners cribbed from a joke book.
Much to my confusion, it was not the jokes others found funny but my movie reviews. In explanation, I learned of the word “candid” with an attempt to contextualize by using the television show Candid Camera, which I had never seen. Apparently, if you simply express your observations without being self-conscious, others will perceive that as humorous.
We printed and proudly distributed two or three issues of our newsletter before the other teachers complained that our entire class should be involved, but it seemed implicitly obvious there was no way to coordinate the logistics of doing so. We soon realized their objection was that we were working on it unsupervised, which was precisely the best part about it. I had relished the ability to explore and experiment with this project, rather than the usual regurgitation of information, which I found tedious. Why ask us for the answers when they already had a book containing all of them? I didn’t understand why we needed to be constantly lorded over, and suspected the sole function of adults was to prevent us from discovering anything they didn’t already know.
The newsletter was scrapped. I don’t remember what our reading group did instead. I spent the school days surreptitiously reading Marvel comics hidden under my desk and the evenings reading an entire compilation containing every Sherlock Holmes mystery except (I would discover years later) those containing references to cocaine. Later that year, I won an Easter art contest by drawing a rabbit with a red cape flying across the sky with bipedal rabbits below looking up, pointing and saying, “It’s a bird!” and, “It’s a plane!” On the far right, a little bunny trailing his mother while holding her hand said, “Look mom, it’s Superbunny!” Looking instead at the edge of the paper, the mother drolly replied, “Yes dear, hop along now.” The art teacher, who had not been a judge, made sure to remark that my picture had obviously won more for the humor than the artwork.
I have never won another contest of any sort in my life. I wouldn’t learn a useful thing from a teacher until college.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Mr. Fjelly-belly
During our last week of high school, the principal gathered a group of seniors together for a meeting. We scrunched around a table in Burdett Christiansen’s classroom. (As there were three teachers with that same last name at our school, we informally called this one Burdett.) The principal, who we all called Mr. Fjelly-belly behind his back, stated that the purpose for this meeting was to get feedback from us as to how we thought our scholastic experience might be better improved. Having for the most part deplored the experience, I had a few ideas. Probably because we were in his room, I started out by suggesting, “Two of our required courses and one popular elective are all taught by Burdett Christiansen, and all he does in all three is repeat the exact same anecdotes.”
Perturbed, Mr. Fjelly-belly responded, “Okay, let’s just stop right there. Mentioning specific teacher’s names puts me in an awkward position. Let’s try to limit this to things that can be done in general.” I thought I had done something wrong, and felt both guilty and stupid. I remained silent for the remainder of the discussion, even while he explained the decision to build a second gymnasium instead of an auditorium.
In the ensuing years, I have often been puzzled by strong reactions to elicited answers. My stance is, don’t ask the question if you don’t want the answer. My working hypothesis for an explanation is that what people are doing in these situations is seeking agreement, validation and praise. I don’t really see the use of such things; they don’t provide means to improve and you can’t eat them. I rarely trust anything positive anyone has to say about anything. Frankly, compliments piss me off, because they imply the deliverer assumes I need one.
People are obsessed with affirmation. Most can’t make two consecutive statements that go unacknowledged, even when no response is necessary, without worrying whether they are being ignored. We can be saying the most trivial remark known to man and still become disoriented without an “amen.” Odds are high that anything you have to say isn’t worth the effort, but kudos to you for making the attempt. (Does that make you feel better, you fucking pansy?)
Humans are wired with an innate fear of inferiority. This is what compels us to improve. I see no reason to hide from it behind a veil of unwarranted applause. As there is no difference between the two, even warranted praise is meaningless. It is up to each to decide for himself whether he tried his best, because in the end that’s the best we can do. I guess that’s the point I’m trying to make- in the end we must judge our actions for ourselves, without forgetting that we exist in a world with others.
Probably praise-seekers realize their incompetence to a degree, and are testing to determine whether others have picked up on it. Who cares? Unless we’re talking quantum mechanics, existence does not depend upon perception.
I honestly prefer criticism. Little is more useful than discovering and accepting ways to progress. While most will gladly be complimentary but dishonest, only manipulative egoists or twisted humorists will be deceitfully critical. These former assholes are best avoided, although even their insults can contain an element of truth.
Realizing something I can improve on is a good thing- I enjoy working at perfecting a task. In fact, that is what I most like to do for fun. I don’t like making mistakes, but I don’t mind apologizing when I do. I don’t understand the resistance to do so many seem to have, as if admitting mistakes is some kind of weakness. I also don’t care about being perfect; I don’t know what that term means anyway.
Perturbed, Mr. Fjelly-belly responded, “Okay, let’s just stop right there. Mentioning specific teacher’s names puts me in an awkward position. Let’s try to limit this to things that can be done in general.” I thought I had done something wrong, and felt both guilty and stupid. I remained silent for the remainder of the discussion, even while he explained the decision to build a second gymnasium instead of an auditorium.
In the ensuing years, I have often been puzzled by strong reactions to elicited answers. My stance is, don’t ask the question if you don’t want the answer. My working hypothesis for an explanation is that what people are doing in these situations is seeking agreement, validation and praise. I don’t really see the use of such things; they don’t provide means to improve and you can’t eat them. I rarely trust anything positive anyone has to say about anything. Frankly, compliments piss me off, because they imply the deliverer assumes I need one.
People are obsessed with affirmation. Most can’t make two consecutive statements that go unacknowledged, even when no response is necessary, without worrying whether they are being ignored. We can be saying the most trivial remark known to man and still become disoriented without an “amen.” Odds are high that anything you have to say isn’t worth the effort, but kudos to you for making the attempt. (Does that make you feel better, you fucking pansy?)
Humans are wired with an innate fear of inferiority. This is what compels us to improve. I see no reason to hide from it behind a veil of unwarranted applause. As there is no difference between the two, even warranted praise is meaningless. It is up to each to decide for himself whether he tried his best, because in the end that’s the best we can do. I guess that’s the point I’m trying to make- in the end we must judge our actions for ourselves, without forgetting that we exist in a world with others.
Probably praise-seekers realize their incompetence to a degree, and are testing to determine whether others have picked up on it. Who cares? Unless we’re talking quantum mechanics, existence does not depend upon perception.
I honestly prefer criticism. Little is more useful than discovering and accepting ways to progress. While most will gladly be complimentary but dishonest, only manipulative egoists or twisted humorists will be deceitfully critical. These former assholes are best avoided, although even their insults can contain an element of truth.
Realizing something I can improve on is a good thing- I enjoy working at perfecting a task. In fact, that is what I most like to do for fun. I don’t like making mistakes, but I don’t mind apologizing when I do. I don’t understand the resistance to do so many seem to have, as if admitting mistakes is some kind of weakness. I also don’t care about being perfect; I don’t know what that term means anyway.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Friends of Friends
I’ve known Stefanie for a long time, but aside from Adam and Cara, had never met her friends until about a month ago, when I happened to be in Seattle on her birthday. She organized a brunch at a modern styled restaurant with good food and bad service. I sat across from Stefanie, between my friend Molly (who didn’t know anybody else, including Stefanie) and a wittily-dressed girl accompanied by her recent boyfriend. Somehow, I quickly found myself in a conversation with the boyfriend about breasts, which encouraged the girl between us to start stretching her back and attempting to touch her elbows together behind her.
Eventually I looked to see what the rest of the table was doing and noticed an emaciated person with wan skin had appeared next to Molly. “Oh, there’s new people here,” I observed aloud. “Are you discussing anything more interesting than breasts?”
“We’re all about nutrition here,” Molly dryly replied.
“Oh god, I’m glad I missed it then,” was my snarky response. I didn’t find out until later the sickly-looking girl was in fact one of two people at the meal employed as nutritionists. In retrospect, I probably immediately soured our interaction. The nutrition lovers were fondling sugar packets. I suspect this is a normal activity for them.
“These have little messages on them!” someone sang gleefully, and read an inspirational cliché from one.
“The last thing I want to be getting advice from is a sugar packet.” To me, this is funny. For others, apparently not so much. I started to get a bit self-conscious.
The girl next to Molly tried to strike up a conversation with me. “Where are you from?” This is one of those questions I can’t stand, because I truly don’t know how to answer it. I have lived in cities, towns and rural country scattered throughout multiple states.
I replied, “I’m currently staying in Iowa with my brother,” and then internally mulled my obvious overstatement, as I actually hadn’t been in Iowa for several months and certainly wasn’t “currently” there.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. I took her for someone who unintentionally comes across as hostile. To contrast, I decided to poke fun at my previous statement.
“I’m not here; I’m a hologram.”
“What do you mean by that?” she continued, unblinkingly. I noticed she had some kind of faint foreign accent and guessed she didn’t know what a hologram was.
“I’m working on a new technology, whereby I can eat breakfast at my brother’s place while appearing to be doing so here by projecting an image out from this restaurant’s security camera.” I proceeded, looking up in hopes that there was a security camera nearby.
Her eyes traced mine to the ceiling. “I don’t understand.”
Wow. This girl is stoic. I felt the whole table staring at me and buckled under the attention. “I’m joking.”
“I don’t know you well enough to get your sense of humor,” she hastily replied, scoldingly. I couldn’t quite read whether she was irritated, offended or simply unamused. I slumped back in my chair and ate my Eggs Florentine, which were delicious. Ms. Stick-In-the-Mud ordered something in the Eggs Benedict family as well. Soon after receiving them, she asked me, “Is your yolk runny like this?”
One of my greatest irritants is being served poached eggs with hard yolks. I send them back. “Yes. Poached eggs are supposed to be runny.”
But this runny?” I looked, and she had removed the albumen, leaving the yolk naked but unbroken. Maybe she was thinking of eggs-over-medium or medium-boiled eggs? I have no idea.
“Yes.”
“I think they make them better at Such-And-Such.” I didn’t reply that, since she obviously didn’t know what she was talking about, her opinion didn’t matter. I just thought it.
While poking at her food, her imminent trip to Holland was briefly acknowledged. Her husband’s job was taking her there. I believe this is how the conversation turned to dairy. Somebody, probably one of the nutritionists, started talking about deep-fried butter, which immediately reminded me of the Iowa State Fair. One major attraction at that godforsaken festival is a life-sized cow carved entirely out of butter. According to fair goers, this Butter Cow is world famous. Turns out, nobody has ever heard of it… which is why I spent about the next ten minutes explaining why a joke involving deep-fried butter balls and a butter cow is funny. But I digress.
Stefanie is very fond of cupcakes. I don’t have a problem with cupcakes aside from the fact that they are disgusting and girlish. The only thing cupcakes are good for are throwing at things. When the topic came up, I said that last bit aloud, just to be ornery. I have never lived as if life were a popularity contest.
It is very comfortable to surround one self with familiar faces. I was glad Molly was there to witness my current uneasiness in this group of strangers. While others seek out those who will reinforce their beliefs and opinions, I cherish those who will let me be skeptical, challenging and outspokenly honest without worrying that my effrontery will be misconstrued as a personal affront. I avoid those who insist upon polite conversation, as I don’t see the point of it. This often leads to a situation I think of as the friends-of-friends effect. I know Stefanie well enough to know she fully expects me to say something disparaging about whatever topic might surface, and surely won’t be affected by it. The other people at the table, however, are inevitably going to perceive me as being a jerk to their cupcake-loving friend.
Putting myself in their shoes, I am reminded of an evening spent around a friend’s backyard campfire shared with Rachel, over a year after we’d broken up, and two of her friends whom I’d never met before. The three of them had spent the day rock-climbing up the side of some mountain cliff. One of the guys couldn’t stop chiding Rachel for giving up halfway. Because I knew Rachel was severely afraid of heights and wouldn’t have even thought of attempting such a thing while we were dating, this guy really pissed me off. The two of us bickered well into the evening. Finally, instead of finding late-night food at nearby Javier’s, they stupidly decided to trek all the way to that trendy jambalaya restaurant under the Morrison Bridge while I fell asleep on the couch.
There is something enduringly fascinating about the perspective that each of us has on each other. We know our friends in a specific context, which is probably radically different from how their other friends know them. Our modern over-connectedness seems to be trying its best to eliminate this, however, giving us a multitude of ways to keep in contact with others without having to interact with them on any kind of personal or unique level. Cyberspace encourages us to connect with as many people at the same time as possible, which nudges us toward a neutral, sterile, democratic existence. I overtly fight this tendency, and can only imagine what skewed image those who only know me through my blog posts or Facebook rants must have of me. Even so, I’m still even more flagrant in person….
With the yolk still somehow intact, Molly’s anemic neighbor asked for a to-go box. A waiter said he would be glad to box her food and reached for the plate. Recoiling, she declared she would do it herself. I thought this was motivated by her desire to not include the yolk, but was surprised when she scooped it into the container. Only later did I realize she might have been saving it out of scientific curiosity. I myself wonder how long that thing can survive without breaking.
When Stefanie’s birthday brunch bill arrived, the girl sitting next to me suggested we just subtract the $60 groupon on the birthday girl’s phone and split the remainder evenly between the invitees. Because of the size of the group, a tip had already been included on the bill. Using my phone as a calculator, I determined that utilizing the suggestion came to just shy of $12 apiece, and suggested that we could all just pitch in $12. Everybody seemed fine with that, and I contributed $24 to cover myself and Molly, who had only ordered a pancake, since she’d already met up with an acquaintance for a slightly earlier breakfast while I had played a round of disc golf. But after everybody else had paid, the uptight nutritionist gathered it up, pulled out her Blackberry, and fussed over the money for several minutes. Oh, for fuck’s sake, I thought to myself and awaited the inevitable.
“There's like over two dollars too much here!”
“We were kind of a pain of a group, anyway, since more of us kept arriving at different times. I don’t see any problem with slightly padding the tip.”
“I think we should all take back fifty cents.”
The girl next to me piped up. “I mean the service wasn’t that great, but, Jesus, who cares!” Finally, somebody other than me was getting annoyed with this chick.
“Thank you!” I sighed, throwing up my hands and rolling my eyes as loudly as possible.
“I’m only going to pay $11.50.” I couldn’t determine whether the others didn’t hear or we all just chose to ignore her. Maybe I was just hearing things. It was time to go.
“We should find some time to get together before you travel to Europe,” the girl next to me offered to you-know-who, presumably trying to regain the peace after her outburst.
“Well, if you want to figure out the details, I’ll see if I can accommodate,” she snottily replied. Then she made an expression, as if it occurred to her she was being a bitch and regretted it. “I’m over my head with things to do before I leave.”
I don’t know anything about this person. Perhaps she was under a lot of stress. But the mystery that nags me most is- how the hell is she married?
Eventually I looked to see what the rest of the table was doing and noticed an emaciated person with wan skin had appeared next to Molly. “Oh, there’s new people here,” I observed aloud. “Are you discussing anything more interesting than breasts?”
“We’re all about nutrition here,” Molly dryly replied.
“Oh god, I’m glad I missed it then,” was my snarky response. I didn’t find out until later the sickly-looking girl was in fact one of two people at the meal employed as nutritionists. In retrospect, I probably immediately soured our interaction. The nutrition lovers were fondling sugar packets. I suspect this is a normal activity for them.
“These have little messages on them!” someone sang gleefully, and read an inspirational cliché from one.
“The last thing I want to be getting advice from is a sugar packet.” To me, this is funny. For others, apparently not so much. I started to get a bit self-conscious.
The girl next to Molly tried to strike up a conversation with me. “Where are you from?” This is one of those questions I can’t stand, because I truly don’t know how to answer it. I have lived in cities, towns and rural country scattered throughout multiple states.
I replied, “I’m currently staying in Iowa with my brother,” and then internally mulled my obvious overstatement, as I actually hadn’t been in Iowa for several months and certainly wasn’t “currently” there.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. I took her for someone who unintentionally comes across as hostile. To contrast, I decided to poke fun at my previous statement.
“I’m not here; I’m a hologram.”
“What do you mean by that?” she continued, unblinkingly. I noticed she had some kind of faint foreign accent and guessed she didn’t know what a hologram was.
“I’m working on a new technology, whereby I can eat breakfast at my brother’s place while appearing to be doing so here by projecting an image out from this restaurant’s security camera.” I proceeded, looking up in hopes that there was a security camera nearby.
Her eyes traced mine to the ceiling. “I don’t understand.”
Wow. This girl is stoic. I felt the whole table staring at me and buckled under the attention. “I’m joking.”
“I don’t know you well enough to get your sense of humor,” she hastily replied, scoldingly. I couldn’t quite read whether she was irritated, offended or simply unamused. I slumped back in my chair and ate my Eggs Florentine, which were delicious. Ms. Stick-In-the-Mud ordered something in the Eggs Benedict family as well. Soon after receiving them, she asked me, “Is your yolk runny like this?”
One of my greatest irritants is being served poached eggs with hard yolks. I send them back. “Yes. Poached eggs are supposed to be runny.”
But this runny?” I looked, and she had removed the albumen, leaving the yolk naked but unbroken. Maybe she was thinking of eggs-over-medium or medium-boiled eggs? I have no idea.
“Yes.”
“I think they make them better at Such-And-Such.” I didn’t reply that, since she obviously didn’t know what she was talking about, her opinion didn’t matter. I just thought it.
While poking at her food, her imminent trip to Holland was briefly acknowledged. Her husband’s job was taking her there. I believe this is how the conversation turned to dairy. Somebody, probably one of the nutritionists, started talking about deep-fried butter, which immediately reminded me of the Iowa State Fair. One major attraction at that godforsaken festival is a life-sized cow carved entirely out of butter. According to fair goers, this Butter Cow is world famous. Turns out, nobody has ever heard of it… which is why I spent about the next ten minutes explaining why a joke involving deep-fried butter balls and a butter cow is funny. But I digress.
Stefanie is very fond of cupcakes. I don’t have a problem with cupcakes aside from the fact that they are disgusting and girlish. The only thing cupcakes are good for are throwing at things. When the topic came up, I said that last bit aloud, just to be ornery. I have never lived as if life were a popularity contest.
It is very comfortable to surround one self with familiar faces. I was glad Molly was there to witness my current uneasiness in this group of strangers. While others seek out those who will reinforce their beliefs and opinions, I cherish those who will let me be skeptical, challenging and outspokenly honest without worrying that my effrontery will be misconstrued as a personal affront. I avoid those who insist upon polite conversation, as I don’t see the point of it. This often leads to a situation I think of as the friends-of-friends effect. I know Stefanie well enough to know she fully expects me to say something disparaging about whatever topic might surface, and surely won’t be affected by it. The other people at the table, however, are inevitably going to perceive me as being a jerk to their cupcake-loving friend.
Putting myself in their shoes, I am reminded of an evening spent around a friend’s backyard campfire shared with Rachel, over a year after we’d broken up, and two of her friends whom I’d never met before. The three of them had spent the day rock-climbing up the side of some mountain cliff. One of the guys couldn’t stop chiding Rachel for giving up halfway. Because I knew Rachel was severely afraid of heights and wouldn’t have even thought of attempting such a thing while we were dating, this guy really pissed me off. The two of us bickered well into the evening. Finally, instead of finding late-night food at nearby Javier’s, they stupidly decided to trek all the way to that trendy jambalaya restaurant under the Morrison Bridge while I fell asleep on the couch.
There is something enduringly fascinating about the perspective that each of us has on each other. We know our friends in a specific context, which is probably radically different from how their other friends know them. Our modern over-connectedness seems to be trying its best to eliminate this, however, giving us a multitude of ways to keep in contact with others without having to interact with them on any kind of personal or unique level. Cyberspace encourages us to connect with as many people at the same time as possible, which nudges us toward a neutral, sterile, democratic existence. I overtly fight this tendency, and can only imagine what skewed image those who only know me through my blog posts or Facebook rants must have of me. Even so, I’m still even more flagrant in person….
With the yolk still somehow intact, Molly’s anemic neighbor asked for a to-go box. A waiter said he would be glad to box her food and reached for the plate. Recoiling, she declared she would do it herself. I thought this was motivated by her desire to not include the yolk, but was surprised when she scooped it into the container. Only later did I realize she might have been saving it out of scientific curiosity. I myself wonder how long that thing can survive without breaking.
When Stefanie’s birthday brunch bill arrived, the girl sitting next to me suggested we just subtract the $60 groupon on the birthday girl’s phone and split the remainder evenly between the invitees. Because of the size of the group, a tip had already been included on the bill. Using my phone as a calculator, I determined that utilizing the suggestion came to just shy of $12 apiece, and suggested that we could all just pitch in $12. Everybody seemed fine with that, and I contributed $24 to cover myself and Molly, who had only ordered a pancake, since she’d already met up with an acquaintance for a slightly earlier breakfast while I had played a round of disc golf. But after everybody else had paid, the uptight nutritionist gathered it up, pulled out her Blackberry, and fussed over the money for several minutes. Oh, for fuck’s sake, I thought to myself and awaited the inevitable.
“There's like over two dollars too much here!”
“We were kind of a pain of a group, anyway, since more of us kept arriving at different times. I don’t see any problem with slightly padding the tip.”
“I think we should all take back fifty cents.”
The girl next to me piped up. “I mean the service wasn’t that great, but, Jesus, who cares!” Finally, somebody other than me was getting annoyed with this chick.
“Thank you!” I sighed, throwing up my hands and rolling my eyes as loudly as possible.
“I’m only going to pay $11.50.” I couldn’t determine whether the others didn’t hear or we all just chose to ignore her. Maybe I was just hearing things. It was time to go.
“We should find some time to get together before you travel to Europe,” the girl next to me offered to you-know-who, presumably trying to regain the peace after her outburst.
“Well, if you want to figure out the details, I’ll see if I can accommodate,” she snottily replied. Then she made an expression, as if it occurred to her she was being a bitch and regretted it. “I’m over my head with things to do before I leave.”
I don’t know anything about this person. Perhaps she was under a lot of stress. But the mystery that nags me most is- how the hell is she married?
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