Friday, September 30, 2005
This word hero, I don't think it means what you think it means
"I think that if Barbara Lee would read the history of Joe McCarthy she would realize that he was a hero for America."
Strange. I am struggling to invent a sentence that's less true.
====
In highly unrelated news: I'm playing in Regionals this weekend. This will be my first trip to Regionals. I realized that I have the least big tournament experience of anyone on my team. I will be on the starting line (most likely) at Regionals, and everyone else will know that feeling but me. It's like I missed a couple of steps along the way. You're supposed to work your way up, playing with increasingly strong teams. I apparently skipped that step. Went from teams that would get bageled at Regionals to playing an integral role for a team that will be competitive. I don't harbor delusions that we're going to make nationals or that we'll finish in the top 5-6. But it's certainly possible for us to finish around 8. No matter the finish, I'm excited about next year and thrilled to be playing with this team. Good people, good approach (overall). Should be fun. Here's hoping I can walk come Monday. I make no promises. I hear that ACLs are valuable. And groins, hamstrings are pretty sweet from what I can gather, ankles do their thing and you love them for it. I'm just hoping that my parts love me after this weekend. Lord knows I'm a horrible abuser, but they seem to take me back time and again.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Arrogance
I've never read a book by Tom Wolfe. Growing up, my parents had a ratty paperback copy of Bonfire of the Vanities on the shelf next to their bed. It was an ugly book. I was vaguely aware that there was a movie of the same name. Never appealed to me, and sadly since it was a book owned by my parents in paperback I sort of assumed it wasn't high literature. Not sure it is, but that's neither here nor there.
Last night while discussing branding and this Onion article, JKD emails me this link. It's hard for me to imagine the talent that justifies this much ego. Tom Wolfe looks like a small town mayor from the 30s dressed up for his office portrait. It's hard to imagine that he himself is so potent as a brand as to justify this kind of arrogance.
The whole thing suggests a new level of personal definition. It's strange. Branding has gone from something you do to the ass of cattle, to something that companies seek, to something that major companies devote budgets somewhat akin to the GDP of small Asian nations to define, and now people are becoming brands. I read somewhere that David Bowie offered stock in himself. Now Tom Wolfe is making himself a brand. The only other person who I know of who has self branded as effectively is Thomas Kincaid. I, myself, hate Kincaid like he stole my date, and shot my dog. His work is so purposefully devoid of talent. So fuzzy and readily digestable as to make Norman Rockwell seem like Maplethorpe. Kincaid is like the pureed carrots of art. It asks nothing of the viewer and, sadly, offers nothing to viewers. But he has branded himself. He has factories that produce posters to which he applies a few highlights and then sells them as original works. I guess two dots of paint on the snow capped roof of yet another warmly lit cottage in the middle distance is almost like an original work. Granted using the term original to describe any of his works is a fallacy of incredible proportions. I find his work so cloyingly annoying that I often wonder that there are enough shitty motels to justify his continued creation. And yet, he is a brand. Hooray! Remind me that if I ever try to brand myself I should first do it with a hot iron.
Last night while discussing branding and this Onion article, JKD emails me this link. It's hard for me to imagine the talent that justifies this much ego. Tom Wolfe looks like a small town mayor from the 30s dressed up for his office portrait. It's hard to imagine that he himself is so potent as a brand as to justify this kind of arrogance.
The whole thing suggests a new level of personal definition. It's strange. Branding has gone from something you do to the ass of cattle, to something that companies seek, to something that major companies devote budgets somewhat akin to the GDP of small Asian nations to define, and now people are becoming brands. I read somewhere that David Bowie offered stock in himself. Now Tom Wolfe is making himself a brand. The only other person who I know of who has self branded as effectively is Thomas Kincaid. I, myself, hate Kincaid like he stole my date, and shot my dog. His work is so purposefully devoid of talent. So fuzzy and readily digestable as to make Norman Rockwell seem like Maplethorpe. Kincaid is like the pureed carrots of art. It asks nothing of the viewer and, sadly, offers nothing to viewers. But he has branded himself. He has factories that produce posters to which he applies a few highlights and then sells them as original works. I guess two dots of paint on the snow capped roof of yet another warmly lit cottage in the middle distance is almost like an original work. Granted using the term original to describe any of his works is a fallacy of incredible proportions. I find his work so cloyingly annoying that I often wonder that there are enough shitty motels to justify his continued creation. And yet, he is a brand. Hooray! Remind me that if I ever try to brand myself I should first do it with a hot iron.
9.23:07
A while back I was introduced to Over Heard in NY. Basically it's hundreds of people who record the minutae and ridiculousness of overheard conversations in the Big Apple. My fellow commuters tend to be both somber and sober in the mornings, so I get few interesting overheard nuggets. I have witnessed a woman dilligently recording in a nicely bound leather journal every text message she received (or sent) from a lover of hers. The book was open directly under me (as I stood) and several of the passages were particularly sweet and corny. One indicated that her paramour "thinks of her roughly every 37.8 seconds." The strange thing, to me, was that she was recording the date, time and second that she received each and every message. It became more like an autistic librarian effort than a catalogue of love letters.
But who am I to criticize young lover. I've done some strange and (I thought touching) things while deeply in love, so here's to the text message lady. Hope it works out.
But who am I to criticize young lover. I've done some strange and (I thought touching) things while deeply in love, so here's to the text message lady. Hope it works out.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Putting a puzzle together, wearing mittens
I’m laying on the couch I call the "14 yr old makeout couch." This couch, acquired by my roommate Dave has as its primary defining characteristics two features which suggest to me the dreams of 14 year old boys. The couch is sort of suede-y, and most importantly it functions a bit like a chaise lounge. If you pull the arms of the couch towards you, they can be lowered into full recline, as can the back. It converts from a velvety/suede couch into a bed of same. Dave loves it, though thankfully not for those reasons. I on the other hand find it not a little preposterous and generally silly. But it serves the purpose, and I have taken a few naps in its gentle embrace, so I shouldn’t complain too much.
I’m sitting here alone. As I mentioned in a previous post, I’ve been leading the life of a galavanting socialite or someone similarly engaged in evening activities. I’ve lamented this fact, and whined about it. And tonight I find myself occupying my apartment in total solitude. And without being too blunt, I’m bored out of my fucking mind. I want to be talking to people, making friends, telling stories, hearing jokes, throwing Frisbees, doing something. Instead I’m checking and rechecking my email, and now sitting to write this.
And yet, whining aside, it’s terrific. In the final analysis, I think I may be overloading on people right now, if I’m this distracted and bored while sitting alone. I may want to try and spend a little more time with just Aaron, otherwise I may lose my damn mind.
I guess I need alone time, but though how much is still an issue of some debate. Tonight I’m buzzing with thoughts about this weekend’s Sectional tournament. (to read more you can check out another blog project of mine http://www.brdmultimate.blogspot.com/) But the realization that there are tons of people with whom I could be hanging out right now, several just a few blocks away, well that’s just peachy keen. I’m thinking about the various new friends I’ve made and trying to sort out what it means that I’m making considerably more female friends, and um…well, what comes next. I never really bought the thesis of When Harry Met Sally that it’s hard to have cross gendered friends without some (some) relational pressures interceding, but I think it may be on to something.
All of which leads me to a strange conclusion. I now realize. I’ve never really dated before. I’ve only ever entered into relationships with close friends. The idea of asking someone whom I don’t *really* know to a meal or movie is completely foreign. Not so much scary or intimidating, as simply foreign. And if you ask someone to diner who is in possession of XX chromosomes, does that have to be a date? What signals am I sending? I feel like a jittery telegraph operator, I'm undoubtedly sending and receiving signals that mean nothing. I don’t know. When is a movie just something you watch with another person, and when is a movie a signal of some primal dating instinct. It's all Greek to me.
Unlike the 14 yr old whom I imagine loves my couch, I don’t really have the basic experience of dating. I don’t know the official rules. It feels a little bit like trying to piece together the rules of cricket by watching a test match. I get the general goal of the game, and some of the terms, but the strategy is impenetrably confusing to me.
But, even if I'm struggling with the rules and basic truisms of dating or the precursor to dating (really). But, the best part of all of this is the realization for me that dating someone and ending the romantic part of that relationship doesn’t have to come with the requisite strife and sorrow that ending a 2 year relationship does. I have been worrying that I better choose really carefully, lest I mess up and have to endure another gut wrenching break-up. This isn't going to hurt like my last break up. This is pulling off a Band-Aid not Civil War field surgery.
People date all the time. You can date and find out that after a few days, weeks or months it isn’t working and that’s fine. It’s not some earth shattering upheaval, hell, it can be less of an ordeal than changing long distance carriers.
So the past few weeks have been spent trying to figure out what people think of me vis a vis dating, and what I think of them. But it’s funny. How can I know what another person is thinking when, with unfettered access to my own thoughts, I’m often flummoxed. I gotta imagine that if I don’t know what I think, knowing what they think is like cleaning the Aegean stables. I was talking about this with a friend (Liz) and described the quandary as trying to put together a puzzle with mittens on. Seems about right. And yet, it’s still pretty fun. Further vague updates as events warrant.
I’m sitting here alone. As I mentioned in a previous post, I’ve been leading the life of a galavanting socialite or someone similarly engaged in evening activities. I’ve lamented this fact, and whined about it. And tonight I find myself occupying my apartment in total solitude. And without being too blunt, I’m bored out of my fucking mind. I want to be talking to people, making friends, telling stories, hearing jokes, throwing Frisbees, doing something. Instead I’m checking and rechecking my email, and now sitting to write this.
And yet, whining aside, it’s terrific. In the final analysis, I think I may be overloading on people right now, if I’m this distracted and bored while sitting alone. I may want to try and spend a little more time with just Aaron, otherwise I may lose my damn mind.
I guess I need alone time, but though how much is still an issue of some debate. Tonight I’m buzzing with thoughts about this weekend’s Sectional tournament. (to read more you can check out another blog project of mine http://www.brdmultimate.blogspot.com/) But the realization that there are tons of people with whom I could be hanging out right now, several just a few blocks away, well that’s just peachy keen. I’m thinking about the various new friends I’ve made and trying to sort out what it means that I’m making considerably more female friends, and um…well, what comes next. I never really bought the thesis of When Harry Met Sally that it’s hard to have cross gendered friends without some (some) relational pressures interceding, but I think it may be on to something.
All of which leads me to a strange conclusion. I now realize. I’ve never really dated before. I’ve only ever entered into relationships with close friends. The idea of asking someone whom I don’t *really* know to a meal or movie is completely foreign. Not so much scary or intimidating, as simply foreign. And if you ask someone to diner who is in possession of XX chromosomes, does that have to be a date? What signals am I sending? I feel like a jittery telegraph operator, I'm undoubtedly sending and receiving signals that mean nothing. I don’t know. When is a movie just something you watch with another person, and when is a movie a signal of some primal dating instinct. It's all Greek to me.
Unlike the 14 yr old whom I imagine loves my couch, I don’t really have the basic experience of dating. I don’t know the official rules. It feels a little bit like trying to piece together the rules of cricket by watching a test match. I get the general goal of the game, and some of the terms, but the strategy is impenetrably confusing to me.
But, even if I'm struggling with the rules and basic truisms of dating or the precursor to dating (really). But, the best part of all of this is the realization for me that dating someone and ending the romantic part of that relationship doesn’t have to come with the requisite strife and sorrow that ending a 2 year relationship does. I have been worrying that I better choose really carefully, lest I mess up and have to endure another gut wrenching break-up. This isn't going to hurt like my last break up. This is pulling off a Band-Aid not Civil War field surgery.
People date all the time. You can date and find out that after a few days, weeks or months it isn’t working and that’s fine. It’s not some earth shattering upheaval, hell, it can be less of an ordeal than changing long distance carriers.
So the past few weeks have been spent trying to figure out what people think of me vis a vis dating, and what I think of them. But it’s funny. How can I know what another person is thinking when, with unfettered access to my own thoughts, I’m often flummoxed. I gotta imagine that if I don’t know what I think, knowing what they think is like cleaning the Aegean stables. I was talking about this with a friend (Liz) and described the quandary as trying to put together a puzzle with mittens on. Seems about right. And yet, it’s still pretty fun. Further vague updates as events warrant.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Underdogs
Longtime readers (or long time friends) no doubt know that one of my closest friends is Brian Fusco. You may remember him from the various Red Sox vs. Yankees posts this time last year. Brian is, and has been for as long as I've known him (almost 10 years now) a devoted Yankees fans. His devotion to the pin striped ones is always best described as nearly religious. It fulfills, as best I can tell, a bonding function in his family. It's something that his brothers and father share, and something that is a point of commonality. And lord knows that's important.
His fandom is also a source of fairly frequent teasing from Mark and I -- we who dislike the machine that is (or recently was) the Yankees.
But the odd thing, as I've come to realize is that Brian in his professional life always roots for the underdog. And in some cases for the preposterous, jaw dropping, eye-rubbing underdog.
Instance 1. Brian moved out from New York to join me, JKD and Tanner in Iowa. He moved without a job (same for the others, I'd already been hired) in order to do numerous tasks of dubious personal enjoyment to help a fiesty, spine-bearing Democrat compete in Iowa...against the life time party guy, John Kerry. He willfully moved to Iowa to do this (I guess I did so as well, but other people's devotion to these things amazes me, my own just seems like a programming error).
Results. Um, yeah. We lost. But I challenge anyone living in a non-Schiavo like state to tell me we weren't right. Each of the things that men and women of lesser vision attacked us for turned out to be diversions from a weak argument of their own. But, we lost. And in a Jana Novatna sort way.
Instance 2. Less risky, but still somewhat outlandish in theory. Brian moved to Wisconsin. Specifically to La Crosse. He did this to so that he might help re-elect (see less outlandish) a guy who voted against the Patriot Act. This is at a time when every Democrat (well, lots of the ones I don't like) were saying that you had to be strong and tough. Apparently the way you demonstrate these values is by whining like a girl with a hop-scotch related injury. You whine about how you were tricked, how you really thought you could trust the president. Anyways Brian packs up and moves to help a nebbish Jewish guy try to win in Wisconsin. Because why not. Now I also worked for Paul Wellstone. A nebish Jewish professor...but again the insanity of others amazes, mine just feels normal.
Results
Now I guess technically Russ Feingold isn't an underdog, but how many people figured he'd basically prevent Kerry from getting his ass whooped in Wisconsin. That's right the regal senator grabbed on with both hands to little radical Russ' coatails and let the ground work of clinically insane people like Brian, and the Matts carry him to victory in Wisconsin.
Instance 3. Brian moved back to New York and is working for a white woman running for city council in.....wait for it, Harlem.
Results. We'll find out on Tuesday.
I guess when your childhood team is the winningest team in the history of sports, you can make your life's mission to work for long shots.
Good luck Brian.
His fandom is also a source of fairly frequent teasing from Mark and I -- we who dislike the machine that is (or recently was) the Yankees.
But the odd thing, as I've come to realize is that Brian in his professional life always roots for the underdog. And in some cases for the preposterous, jaw dropping, eye-rubbing underdog.
Instance 1. Brian moved out from New York to join me, JKD and Tanner in Iowa. He moved without a job (same for the others, I'd already been hired) in order to do numerous tasks of dubious personal enjoyment to help a fiesty, spine-bearing Democrat compete in Iowa...against the life time party guy, John Kerry. He willfully moved to Iowa to do this (I guess I did so as well, but other people's devotion to these things amazes me, my own just seems like a programming error).
Results. Um, yeah. We lost. But I challenge anyone living in a non-Schiavo like state to tell me we weren't right. Each of the things that men and women of lesser vision attacked us for turned out to be diversions from a weak argument of their own. But, we lost. And in a Jana Novatna sort way.
Instance 2. Less risky, but still somewhat outlandish in theory. Brian moved to Wisconsin. Specifically to La Crosse. He did this to so that he might help re-elect (see less outlandish) a guy who voted against the Patriot Act. This is at a time when every Democrat (well, lots of the ones I don't like) were saying that you had to be strong and tough. Apparently the way you demonstrate these values is by whining like a girl with a hop-scotch related injury. You whine about how you were tricked, how you really thought you could trust the president. Anyways Brian packs up and moves to help a nebbish Jewish guy try to win in Wisconsin. Because why not. Now I also worked for Paul Wellstone. A nebish Jewish professor...but again the insanity of others amazes, mine just feels normal.
Results
Now I guess technically Russ Feingold isn't an underdog, but how many people figured he'd basically prevent Kerry from getting his ass whooped in Wisconsin. That's right the regal senator grabbed on with both hands to little radical Russ' coatails and let the ground work of clinically insane people like Brian, and the Matts carry him to victory in Wisconsin.
Instance 3. Brian moved back to New York and is working for a white woman running for city council in.....wait for it, Harlem.
Results. We'll find out on Tuesday.
I guess when your childhood team is the winningest team in the history of sports, you can make your life's mission to work for long shots.
Good luck Brian.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Hey there...
So the past month has been hectic. I looked back at my calendar and for every single day over the past 4 weeks I've had something. Practice or games (14 times). Visitors. Birthday parties. Dim Sum. Trips to Phoenix. In general, I've been busy. And while I love being busy (as it keeps me social and prevents me from worrying about...well, a lot of things) I'm overloaded. I haven't gone to bed early in what feels like forever. Never one to favor the lukewarm middle ground I've gone from feeling sedentary in Seattle to wired in Washington.
Which brings me to this blog, this blog which I love and of which I have been neglectful. I realize that there are a couple of people who seem to enjoy reading it, and I've been unable to generate any content, largely because I've been alone for 10-15 minutes a day for a month. I'm going to try and return to writing more. I feel good when I write, and I've missed doing it. So for any of you, if there are any, who wish I'd written more--sorry. I'll try to do better.
Basic updates:
After journeying hither and yon yesterday I finally found cufflinks (for my new shirt) at the Dollar Store in Mount Pleasant. I walked in there, exasperated at not being able to find these incredibly simple things. I also was cursing my father, aren't cufflinks the kind of thing that a father gives to his son. Some sort of strange and pointless father son moment that is supposed to make up for a lifetime of distant parenting and mixed messages. Turns out I got the good father and no cufflinks. So I guess it's a fair trade. Anyways after searching high and low (well, a few stores anyways) I finally wander into the Dollar Store and ask for cufflinks. The woman working there informs me that "no" they do not have any, they've just sold out. Immediately another employee shouts to her something in a language I don't recognize and then says in English that they do have cufflinks. Later it is related to me that the 1st woman was certain I'd asked for Cornflakes. Apparently my English isn't nearly as good as I'd hoped, or at least my diction isn't.
After cufflinks were purchased, it was time for a return to Alex's Unisex Hair. Avid readers will remember my spicy visit earlier this summer. I liked the results from that first cut, so I ventured back. This time I was greeted by a woman who spoke absolutely no English besides the word clipper. Non-marine, white guy hair cuts are pretty rare in this place. But the price is right, it's close to home, and hell how badly can you mess up a man's haircut. After gesturing and trying to convey length, the woman asked me if I wanted clippers. Not waiting for the answer she asked Uno, Dos. I'm guessing that's shorthand for the length of cut. I gesticulated wildly making scissors out of my fingers. It was like an impromptu Roshambo had broken out and I was playing alone. Finally a guy a few chairs down translated, my motion into Spanish for scissors and out came the blades and the clippers were replaced.
Normally when I get a haircut I spend a lot of time having conversations about really mundane things, and generally sort of wishing I could just veg out. Well this was wholly appropriate situationally. She asked no questions, and I offered no small talk. She worked and watched tv, and I stared at myself in the mirror. Realizing for the first time, just how deeply creased my face is. I've developed wrinkles or at least marks that indicate age. It's not really something that troubles me, more just the strange realization that I don't know my own face as well as I thought.
Finally the hair cut was finished. The woman combed all of my hair straight back into something that resembled the look you'd see on a 80s film version of a mobster. My hair, in this process, acquired more grease and than a Rizzo appreciation festival. But the hair cut was cheap (11 bucks) and quick, and I didn't have to say anything. I parted with my best, and most sincere "gracias," which brought a smile and a patronizing (wholly deservedly) "something something something something, poquito (sp) Espagnol." I smiled. She smiled and laugh.
I guess 4 years of crappy highschool French doesn't really help so much when you live in a Hispanic neighborhood. Maybe I can pick up some Spanish along the way. I know (think, I know) poquito means small...she was being generous, I know one word, that's not a small amount that's nothing.
Which brings me to this blog, this blog which I love and of which I have been neglectful. I realize that there are a couple of people who seem to enjoy reading it, and I've been unable to generate any content, largely because I've been alone for 10-15 minutes a day for a month. I'm going to try and return to writing more. I feel good when I write, and I've missed doing it. So for any of you, if there are any, who wish I'd written more--sorry. I'll try to do better.
Basic updates:
After journeying hither and yon yesterday I finally found cufflinks (for my new shirt) at the Dollar Store in Mount Pleasant. I walked in there, exasperated at not being able to find these incredibly simple things. I also was cursing my father, aren't cufflinks the kind of thing that a father gives to his son. Some sort of strange and pointless father son moment that is supposed to make up for a lifetime of distant parenting and mixed messages. Turns out I got the good father and no cufflinks. So I guess it's a fair trade. Anyways after searching high and low (well, a few stores anyways) I finally wander into the Dollar Store and ask for cufflinks. The woman working there informs me that "no" they do not have any, they've just sold out. Immediately another employee shouts to her something in a language I don't recognize and then says in English that they do have cufflinks. Later it is related to me that the 1st woman was certain I'd asked for Cornflakes. Apparently my English isn't nearly as good as I'd hoped, or at least my diction isn't.
After cufflinks were purchased, it was time for a return to Alex's Unisex Hair. Avid readers will remember my spicy visit earlier this summer. I liked the results from that first cut, so I ventured back. This time I was greeted by a woman who spoke absolutely no English besides the word clipper. Non-marine, white guy hair cuts are pretty rare in this place. But the price is right, it's close to home, and hell how badly can you mess up a man's haircut. After gesturing and trying to convey length, the woman asked me if I wanted clippers. Not waiting for the answer she asked Uno, Dos. I'm guessing that's shorthand for the length of cut. I gesticulated wildly making scissors out of my fingers. It was like an impromptu Roshambo had broken out and I was playing alone. Finally a guy a few chairs down translated, my motion into Spanish for scissors and out came the blades and the clippers were replaced.
Normally when I get a haircut I spend a lot of time having conversations about really mundane things, and generally sort of wishing I could just veg out. Well this was wholly appropriate situationally. She asked no questions, and I offered no small talk. She worked and watched tv, and I stared at myself in the mirror. Realizing for the first time, just how deeply creased my face is. I've developed wrinkles or at least marks that indicate age. It's not really something that troubles me, more just the strange realization that I don't know my own face as well as I thought.
Finally the hair cut was finished. The woman combed all of my hair straight back into something that resembled the look you'd see on a 80s film version of a mobster. My hair, in this process, acquired more grease and than a Rizzo appreciation festival. But the hair cut was cheap (11 bucks) and quick, and I didn't have to say anything. I parted with my best, and most sincere "gracias," which brought a smile and a patronizing (wholly deservedly) "something something something something, poquito (sp) Espagnol." I smiled. She smiled and laugh.
I guess 4 years of crappy highschool French doesn't really help so much when you live in a Hispanic neighborhood. Maybe I can pick up some Spanish along the way. I know (think, I know) poquito means small...she was being generous, I know one word, that's not a small amount that's nothing.
Friday, September 02, 2005
FRT
A random 10 from my itunes (I've started bringing my laptop to work to serve as a jukebox, because my beloved ipod has fallen on hard times).
You're Missing--Bruce Springsteen
Cut your hair--Pavement
Memory Lane--Elliot Smith
All is Grace--Palace Brothers
Rival--Pearl Jam
Sidewalk--Built to Spill
That was your mother--Paul Simon
Ohio--Neil Young
Sad But True--Metallica
Angels on her shoulders--Josh Ritter
I'm listening to a bunch of new stuff (to me) lately. Lots of Shins and Decemberists. Highly recommend each. I realize I'm late to catch on to each of them, but still, great stuff.
You're Missing--Bruce Springsteen
Cut your hair--Pavement
Memory Lane--Elliot Smith
All is Grace--Palace Brothers
Rival--Pearl Jam
Sidewalk--Built to Spill
That was your mother--Paul Simon
Ohio--Neil Young
Sad But True--Metallica
Angels on her shoulders--Josh Ritter
I'm listening to a bunch of new stuff (to me) lately. Lots of Shins and Decemberists. Highly recommend each. I realize I'm late to catch on to each of them, but still, great stuff.
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