Where are you now, Randy Cohen?

So yesterday at JKD and Will's Party (The Bad Decisions Party) we were sitting around and JKD and I started telling a story about a friend of ours (who later arrived at the party). It's not a damning story, sort of endearing, but frankly it should be his (the friend's) story to tell not ours. We told the shit out of that story, making it funnier and more dramatic than ever before. Really made the story work for us. But is that wrong. Is it wrong to basically take a story that's only partly yours and use it to entertain others? Shouldn't those laughs have waited for the true owner? Where are you now Randy Cohen

The best line of the night:

Will Singer answering the phone: "Bad Decisions Party, this is Will."

Instant Soundtrack

Yesterday while sitting in the sunlight field where I was to play frisbee I put in my ipod earbuds scrolled over to my 6-7-05 mix and instantly I felt like the character of film. Something about the songs on the mix always evoke this strange slightly removed feeling. Granted some of it comes from the fact that a few of the songs come from Garden State, which I maintain is the best use of music in a film since the Royal Tennenbaums. Garden State is some amazing combination of Grosse Pointe Blank and the Graduate. It's a perfect melding of ennui and music and filmic brilliance.

So what's on 6-7-2005 mix.

The District Sleeps Alone--Postal Service
New Slang--The Shins (the real clincher, turns any moment into something seemingly worth filming)
Like a Hurricane--Neil Young (You are like a Hurricane, there's calm in your eyes)
The Only Living Boy in New York--Simon and Garfunkle
Memory Lane--Elliot Smith
Such Great Heights--Postal Service (makes everything seem more magical, and epic)
Ain't Necessarily So--Willie Nelson (a new addition, but from here on out a must have)
Doin' The Cockroach--Modest Mouse (this is for the hard part of the movie, when life gets rough)
Let Go--Frou Frou (yeah, I guess there are a lot of songs from Garden State on this mix...hmm, not so original am I)
Car--Built to Spill (melodic perfection)

UPDATE (Sort of)
Turns out that my newest Ipod mix has the same effect as previous ones, which suggests that maybe listening to music while waiting for the metro is the real trigger.

Novacaine for the soul (eels), under pressure (David Bowie and Queen), Come and Find Me (Josh Ritter), Suite Judy Blue Eyes (CSNY), Simple Twist of Fate (Dylan), Running to Stand Still (U2), Center of the Universe (built to spill)

Nasty

I wanted desperately to come up with a funny title for this post. I toyed around with something to do with the lyrics from Janet Jackson's song Nasty (No, my first name ain't baby /It's Janet - Miss Jackson if you're nasty) but alas I couldn't make it funny. So if you have suggestions I'll gladly rename the post, or we can just pretend I was humourous here.

To the meat of the issue. Turns out playing with Nasty was loads of fun. It's another situation where I'm confident that I'm in the top third to quarter of the team...right now. So on the one hand this wouldn't be the best place to really push myself and get tons better. On the other hand, I like these people and for the most part (some frustration not getting thrown to, etc notwithstanding) I had a great time. So the question becomes: Should I try and play for a team that has some guys I don't like and where I'll be in the middle to bottom third talent wise, but I'll learn a bunch and get fitter, etc. Or should I revert to playing with fun people where I won't have to really push myself. Right now I'm leaning towards playing with Nasty. I love ultimate, it's one of the three things I'm most passionate about in the world, but I don't know that I want it to become job like. I don't know that I want to play it just to prove that I'm good. Finally there is the consideration of the durability of my body. This was a concern at Oberlin, and I imagine could well reappear. I'm just not built to play as hard as I do. I tend to pull and strain and tweak things. Maybe the right training would counteract this, but I'm not sure.

I have HOV practice on Saturday and I'll see how I feel about it. I think I could make the team. I'm not too shabby as a long, and I read the disc well. The question will be do I want to make the team. I'm reserving judgement until I've done a few practices and figured out more of what my life is going to look like.

====
In wholly unrelated news I've made two trips to temp agencies in the past two days. Each time I walked into a hyper corporate office (with paintings that could just as easily have been in a hotel) with well dressed, well tanned women who are cheerful to the point of terrorizing. I then am asked to fill out form after form. Then I'm interviewed. I, sadly, have to imagine that being a white, college educated, male, in a suit tends to make things go much easier than if any of those things were not true. Then I take a test on WORD and EXCEL. Having used both of these a lot, I do well. Then it's on to the typing test. I'm proud to report that I am, surprisingly enough, a good typist. I sorta figured I was mediocre, maybe just average.* I type 69 words per minute and had one error. According to the bubbly and copper colored women of City Staff that's very speedy. Incidently the woman who interviewed me asked about long term goals and I mentioned that I might want to be a professor. She said that she too wanted to teach. I asked, "what would you want to teach?" She said, "Well, I was a marketing major. So..... that. But really I've always wanted to teach about relations. Relations. Not like psychology or anything like that." "Sociology, maybe" I offered. "No not that formal, sort of like, well I have to deal with people all day here. Maybe like human relations. Like how people relate and communicate. Sort of how people relate one on one. Kind of like that." I'm not sure how seriously she wants to teach or if it's something she said to you know relate to me, but it was a strange moment to be certain. To bring this post full circle, while waiting for my scores to be recorded I leafed through a newsletter sitting out on the coffee table. Inside were listed temp employees who'd since transitioned to full employment with their respective companies. The final listing mentioned a Chris Neibling. Turns out the sketchy/nasty cage monster from Sophmore year 80s night is now the internal communications director for a firm in DC. Nasty indeed.


*(Side note, for some reason in the absence of independent confirmation, I often tend to assume I'm either bad or below average, then often enough find that that's not true, why is that? Why start with the assumption that you're below average. Fucked up, right?).

One Thing

One thing was made abundantly clear at HOV practive. The difference between the elite teams (a position to which HOV aspires) and middle level ultimate (the place I've resided for a few years) is all about fitness. The throws people exhibited were marginally better than those I've seen, and about equal to those I have (when I'm playing well, which sadly I was most certainly not). But the running is insane. I have been near the top in fitness (or at least able to cover shortcomings) on pretty much every team I've played for lately. I played a ton of points at Poultry Days. I played a ton at the alumni game. I played about 80-90% of tournament points with Moby Flick, etc.

I was winded well before we even got to the full field full length scrimmage. To say nothing of my condition during our full field sprint relay race (2 times up and back). Then to top it off we scrimmaged another team. All this after I went for a morning jog and had to bike down to the fields. I was just toast. I think some of it is diet (not eating well or regularly), but frankly most of it is just straight out physical training. These guys are in good shape. Which means I have no earthly conception of the conditioning for Sockeye or Jam.

I mainly played long. Or wing in the Horizontal offense. I scored a bit, skied some people. I got burned on defense some by people who were faster under the best of conditions. In the second scrimmage I played alright. I forgot until I started writing this that I scored one of our first goals on a great upline cut. What I remember and replay over and again are my two throw aways. I'm used to having permission to throw whatever I want on the teams that I play with. Here I need to reign it in. I don't have some of the stronger throws (they're good but there are many with better ones here) and I certainly didn't display very good judgement. It's a large transition to focus on one thing--cutting.

As for the guys themselves. Generally they were fine. A little hornier than I'd prefer (a bit too much talk of sex). A little less friendly than I'd like. With some being dickheads. But in general most guys were nice and made an effort to learn my name and were just what you'd expect from frisbee players--decent fellows whom you'd be happy to spend a weekend running around shouting No Break with.

Tomorrow is a chance to play with a mid level coed team. We'll see this may be more my speed. I'm trying to force myself to accept that in order to play at a higher level I'm going to have to go through some nasty learning moments. I won't get better just because I want to, I'll have to run till I feel like I'm going to vomit. I'm going to have to listen to people yell at me to cut here and don't throw that. I'm just hoping I can move my legs tomorrow, that'd be a great improvement over their present condition. Oh yeah, I biked a couple miles home after the final scrimmage...my legs and I are going through a rough patch not quite a break up, but quite close to a break down.

Off to the 1st of Two Tryouts

I'm heading over to catch the bus down towards the Mall. From there I'll bike to the Polo Fields for HOV practice tonight. HOV is a team that routinely makes regionals and then finishes about 5th or 6th there. So it's not Sockeye or DoG, but still a fairly substantial step up in competition from Moby. The best part would be getting to play the Sockeyes, PIKEs, DoGs, etc of the world. The idea of lining up to guard Chase Sparling Beckley or Moses Rifkin is a bit intimidating, since up until this year I've been guarding generic hippy dad #3, or super fast but uncertain teen #2, people like that. This would be slightly different.

The other tryout is tomorrow. It's also at the Polo Fields. It's with a team called Nasty. They're coed and appear to be closer to the speed that I'm at least familiar with.

The strange part about all of this is that when I've played with and against stronger players I've played really well. Against Madison (Mad Ass Hen) at Poultry Days I skied several players from the 2003 National Champions and guarded (well) the captain of the 2003 team. Did I dominate or intimidate or even scare them, certainly not. I'm sure not a single person on Madison could pick me out of a lineup today. Point being, I played well, and feel confident that that kind of performance is something I can replicate. Tonight I start to find out how good I am, and maybe how good I can be.

Old Photos

While searching for old writing samples I came across these photos. They were saved to some poorly labeled CD I thought I'd long ago lost. Seems like they should finally see the light of day.


I adore this photo. It's Neil (on the left) and I at the top of some mountain in the Smokies.

A Poultry Days Reader In Serial Form

Friday dawned bright and muggy and I set out to Takoma Park with my frisbee duffel and my backpack. A couple of stops and starts later, I arrived in front of JKD's apartment and we were off to the bucolic splendor that is Versailles Ohio (again, Ver-Sayles, none of this fancy pants French pronunciation).

Along the way JKD and I rethought the dominant approach to unionizing (need to focus on contractors and temp agencies, maybe even taking the burden of training and background checks off the plates of the temp agencies in exchange for unionization), the various reasons why journalists have become foppish air heads instead of Studs Terkel-esque cigar-chomping working-class heroes, and other topics similarly grandiose and mundane. Turns out that air conditioning is pretty quickly longed for when you're sitting in a hot little car for hours on end in traffic...Interstate 70 around Washington PA moved with the rapidity of molasses traveling uphill in November. Thankfully during the long wait in lines of traffic, JKD's Sirius radio provided us with rather good music options, enough so that if I end up getting another car (mine's in Ohio these days) it'll have a magic music box like his.

Many hours and many liters of water later (I tend to drink a lot of water while traveling, read 5 liters in the 10 hours to get there) we arrived at our first destination: Dayton Ohio, or more specifically the airport. Looking at a map, as I'd done, it seemed clear that one could just take 70 to 75 and get off at the exit marked airport and that in so doing you'd place yourself in a position whereby you could gain access to the terminals. Well, my friends, you'd suffer a fate similar to ours if that was your thinking. Turns out the Dayton airport is, as JKD mentioned, something of a Kafkan nightmare. It's impossible to find any signage. There is no indication of how you get to the airport. We circled the entire airport with success coming after about 25 minutes of driving around. No signs. It's the worst place in Ohio. I've been to a lot of places, and I say this with some measure of confidence. Worst in the state.

After getting Dan Scott we hit a liquor store to purchase a handle of George Dickel and 3 12 packs of PBR. Finally after another hour or so of driving we hit Versailles. It's a small town, sleepy, and very reminiscent of many of the towns that made up the 63rd House District (where I worked my first campaign). After taking a relatively well marked turn (Frisbee Fieids -->, not sure what a fieid is) we navigated our way to frisbee nirvana. Heritage Park is glorious in ways that defy apt description. First off, it's gigantic. I've never seen a small town park like this. It's vast. The best part of this tournament to my way of thinking is the camping. Hundreds and hundreds of ultimate players camped out together in this incredible park. There were 65 teams and since each team averages around 15 players that's just under 1000 of the best people I know (or would come to know).

Upon arrival we stow our things on top of a large blue tarp (you know the kind). This tarp will serve as our bedroom, and will serve us well. I leave my wallet and keys in my bag, in the wide open. It's a park full of frisbee players they're (keys, etc) safer there than in my room in DC. We walked over to the pavilion for the egg eating contest.

The whole genesis of Poultry Days is the Versailles Poultry Days Festival a giant fair like celebration of chickens. The celebration mainly involves killing the aforementioned chickens and serving them as 1/2 chicken dinners. These dinners are transcendent. They are wonderful in ways that travel well beyond my limited vocabulary. Eating a 1/2 chicken, orange drink, and a biscuit after playing 4 games of ultimate is pretty close to my heaven. So as part of the celebration of the chicken, there is an egg eating contest for the frisbee players. No man can eat 50 eggs, but one guy did eat 26 in 15 minutes, and that's not nothing. Fairly impressive really.

...
When we last left our disc chasing heroes they were watching a man consume 26 eggs.

After the egg eating contest the assembled masses sort of retreated to their tents to begin what would later become a many hour baccanalia. Dan, JKD and I retreated to the tarp and found cold and refreshing PBR in great quantities. At this point I should explain the sort of trepidation that I'd normally be feeling in a situation like this. For whatever reason, I'm always nervous around people drinking. I always worry that I'm being judged, and worse that I'll find myself judging others. It's a fairly unpleasant feeling and one that I tend to avoid. Also when I get around frisbee players I'm instinctively sure that they are cooler than I am (by whatever neurotic definition) and that they're just sort of putting up with me. So that sense coupled with the drinking I knew would follow left me feeling nervous and worried. I'd be found out as both a buzzkill and a geek. Something like that.

Turns out it's all in my head. No one judged me and I was thrilled to share the company of nearly everyone there. I don't know why or how I've built this fear. It is one of the reasons I never really played at Oberlin. I was convinced that the "powers-that-be" never liked me. I was afraid that everyone was better friends with eachother than they could ever be with me. Something about this evening changed all that. I walked around, drank beer, chatted about frisbee, retold old stories, listened to frisbee lore, and generally realized that whatever it was that stopped me from playing at Oberlin was my problem. I'd spent a lot of energy in years past worrying about not being liked so much so that I'd started to dislike people who bore me no ill will. Again something clicked on the first night at Poultry Days and I just gave up that fear. I finally felt assured in my own abilities and personality. It's a pretty freeing sense, that.

The evening consisted of wandering around, drinking, chatting and beer fris. Beer fris, a game invented (I'm told) by obies is hard to explain. It consists of two empty cups placed on a sidewalk about 10 yards apart, two sets of two teammates, and two cups of beer. Without going into all the rules, you get a lot of drunken sprinting, drinking, tossing, trashtalking, and general mockery in a small space and short time. We played beer fris until 4 am. By 4am I was tired and the tarp began to call to me. I unpacked the sleeping bag and slept under the stars. A lot of useless worrying seemed to have melted off. I slept the sleep of kings.

That is until 6am when the sun rose, and so did I.

More on poultry days later...

We Smile to Hide the Shame

The 2005 Preying Horsechickens and friends.
From L-R, second row: Ryan ("Pornstar"), Aaron, Biscuit, Nathan, Mateo (Te Te), Jeff, JKD, Nate (Little Sketch), Dan, seated: Matt (Sketch), Jane, Erika, Josie, Tom, Steve, not pictured Hawk.

*I'll probably post a write up about Poultry Days later in the day or week. For now just look at these incredibly good looking smiling people...and imagine how good we would have looked had we won a game.

Mt. Pleasant Indeed

I have of late found myself swooning. Singing the praises of my new love. Mt pleasant.

For years Mark and Brian have engaged in the city dweller game of geographic porn--the celebration and lusting after zip codes and addresses which both confer upon the possessor great cache and which satisfy a desire to live amongst a certain type of people or building, etc. Neighborhoods with impossibly nice apartments or implausibly large egos. The could rattle off neighborhoods and cross streets like the measurements of a Playmate. Both fully aware of the implications of each piece of information, able to paint with streets and sections a picture of perfect, idealized life. It never made sense to me, or at least I never had the ability to imagine that life. Maybe I'm starting to understand, maybe I'm entering the adolescence of my city dwelling life.

I liked living in the Wedge in Minneapolis, it was quirky and nice. Had some cache, some notoriety. But really I liked living in Minneapolis. I liked the city, full stop. After that it was living near Drake. I lived near a diner, but it was Des Moines. No one cared, and I abhorred it. Then on to Seattle. Lived on Capitol Hill (granted the East side). The coolest neighborhood is one of the coolest (by someone's standards) cities in America. I loved my area, but mainly because of the people. If I didn't swoon there, maybe I was swoon-proof.

Before I moved to DC I was hoping to live in Woodley Park or Adams Morgan or even, god willing, Dupont. They are wonderful areas. They represent the intersection of wealth, youth and beauty and the trappings of each of those traits are well marked in the stores, buildings and clubs that fill out and dominate the landscape. If you want to go to a great bar, bookstore or restaurant, you go there. If you want to see people who are impossibly well composed by both physical and fashion standards--those are your places. But while I am many things, I am not those. For instance, as I came to learn last night, I look like a character on the show Beauty and the Geek. It's not one of the beautiful women, I assure you. And above all else, I have little daily use for a great bar, nice club or the opportunity to parade myself in front of people expecting something better. I want a place that feels neigborhoody. There is a fairly annoying book I read called The Alchemist. The one fine take away from it is the idea that when you are on the right path the whole universe conspires to help you. I'd always liked that notion, of the world conspiring to aid you. Seems awfully involved what with the universe being everything. For instance how much help do I really need from the Horse Head Nebula. It's doing its shit, handling its business...I don't really need it worrying about my car loans. I got it, I can handle it on my own. I don't see the Nebula asking me for help turning dust into stars. But I digress.

Besides all those post-facto rationalizations the main factor in my choice of Mt Pleasant was financial. I'm paying 500 for rent here, and would be paying 900 in Dupont or Adams Morgan. So here I am in Mt. Pleasant, bank account thankfully not fully exhausted. And it is (and I realize it's only 4 days) exactly what I want in a neighborhood. It's diverse with respect to income, race, nationality and fuction (ie, churches, stores, homes, trees). Dave my roomate said he looked up the Census tract information for the area: 25% African American, 25% white, 25% hispanic, and 25% Asian, immigrant, etc. A church in the area has its Sunday services in English, Spanish, Haitian and Vietnamese.

I'm sure some of this is from walking and taking the bus, but I feel closer to the place. I feel both metaphorically and, I guess, literally closer to the place. I know, for instance, that the Bestway has a sickening sour smell to it, and vegetables that I've never seen nor could I identify. My 4 years of French do not serve me nearly as well as maybe an hour of Spanish would. Because I walk, I've wandered into a closet that pretends (and seems to be permitted to do so) that it is an antique store. It's a hodge podge of junk. And I consider junk a generous description. Because I walk, I've already begun visiting the hardware store just to talk with the folks I know there. Because I live here I have, with great pride, secured a library card.

I came back last night from an evening of hanging out with Emmet in Dupont; soccer, Beauty and the Geek (Emmet tells me I look like one of the guys, entirely possible) and dinner and I was filled with such a sense of joy to see my neighborhood. I'd just left the coolest, hippest part of DC and was thrilled at the prospect of returning to my home, to my neighborhood. Not too shabby.

All things considered, since moving to DC I've been doing a-ok. The apartment is cool in the summer and in a great location. The buses seem to arrive on my schedule. My interview on Monday was with a firm that does amazing work, and for whom I've hoped to work for months now. (Who knows if I'll get the job, but frankly I'm just happy to know that I was able to make the effort, to take the chance). Tuesday I saw old friends and shared with them a couple of beers. Last night was soccer and supper. Today, already I've reconnected with an old friend (from Wellstone) whom I've not heard from in months...turns out she's in DC as well. Tonight I'm going to a Nationals game with folks from Brookings. Tomorrow I leave for Ohio for the best frisbee tournament in the Midwest.

For the first time in a while I'm in a good place in all ways. Mentally, emotionally, geographically. And even better than being in the right place is the realization that I'm moving in the right direction. Call it a conspiracy but I think things are starting to work out.

Someone find me a beret

For reasons I don't fully understand I have started humming the theme song from The Mary Tyler Moore Show. Apparently I am reassuring that "[I'm] going to make it afterall." Freeze frame.

Well after driving back to DC from Ohio (this drive grows tiresome quickly) I have set up shop at 18th and Park. I live with a roomate (who is in Milwaukee right now) in a small but serviceable basement apartment. I miss having large windows, but being submerged beneath the earth tends to keep the place nice and cool. Not having air conditioning, I'm just thrilled about anything that keeps the place cooler. I'm a somewhat ironic twist of fate I am borrowing wireless access from someone in the building above me (take that angry middle aged man). My room lacks several basic things. First: a bed. Second an object by which I can keep my clothes off the floor. I'd settle for a bureau or cabinet, hell a strong walled cardboard box would suffice at this point. My room also lacks a desk, but now I'm just being picky.

I set out to find some of these items, namely a book shelf and or some hangers...something to give order to my room. I'm in the beginning of Genesis phase, instead of water and land, I'm trying to separate the clothing from the books. And were I to succeed it would be good. There is a cute little hardware store about 2 blocks from my place and so I headed over with every intent to patronize and support local business...and get some shit done. Turns out they don't have any of the things I need. Including a cutting board or boxes, or really anything besides row after row of Miracle Gro, and S hooks. I'm sure there are many people who need those products--just not me. So I set out walking. I walked a grand total of 3.5 miles trying to find a store that would sell me shitty press board funiture, milk crates, or a cutting board. Nothing. I know I'm not the first person to need these things. People before me have sought to elevate their books and keep their meat off the counter while cutting it. I'm not looking for a pint of unicorn tears. These are reasonable requests. Apaprently you need a car to get most things. But since I'm without...I will have to make due. Stay tuned for further updates into the oh-so thrilling efforts of Aaron to procure the basic accoutrements of apartment living.

Given that they screw like rabbits...

how else do you keep the bunny population under control.

Bunny suicides
Worth a click, guaranteed.

Lean Zone

Below is a rather long article/post/essay/set of toughts that I wrote back in March. JKD suggested I give it some real attention, and I did, and since nothing ever became of it, I'll post it here. At the time I was finding myself increasingly concerned with fitness.

For the past month, owing to a 30 day free trial at the gym a block from my office I've been working out. It makes me shudder. I always cringe when I use the term. Working out. It's imbued with a measure of self-focus and pretense that makes me think of the terms "traveling on business", or "I've got to call my broker." They're terms that serve only to indicate the users status and not any specific action. More like a self-congratulatory adjective in hobby form, than any frank appraisal of time spent. Working out just conjures up an image of giant men glistening and women with frizzy hair with leotards. I neither aspire to reflect those images nor find them comforting.

Frustration with terms aside, every Monday, Wednesday and Friday for 30 days I've been working out. I should confess upfront that the aesthetic goals of exercise are secondary to me, or at least I try mightily to ensure that I project that image. Muscles are sorta like my high school relationship with girls: They seem nice enough and other guys seem to have and want them. But mainly I feel a strong sense that I should want them. And besides I'm easily distracted, and it seems like a lot of work.

My free membership ending, I decided to go to another gym. This one is a chain, located just a few blocks from work in an old bank. From the outdated credit card receipt (the kind with the carbon paper) I learned that before corporate buyout the gym used to be called "The Vault." The only visual clue that remains to the buildings prior identity is the walk in vault that doubles as the Jacuzzi. It reminded me of the Willy Sutton line. When asked why he robbed banks, he replied: "That's where the money is." Apparently this is where the fitness is. It's fitting that the gym once served as a bank. While the commodity has changed from currency to appearance the implied security remains. The gym like a bank is in the business of offering security--offering reassurance that your goals are neither outlandish nor hedonistic. Instead the opposite is true, your goals are too limited. Don't you want more, wouldn't it be great to be bigger. Simply replace checking account for chest size and you get a fairly accurate sense of the selling points of a gym.

While both money and muscles are truly useful on their own, allowing you to clothe yourself and not be winded all the time, they are much more powerfully alluring in relation to others. Being able to bench press 350 pounds is great, but what if everyone could do that. It's not great intrinsically; it's great by comparison. Earning 3% interest is fine, but only if that's more than what the uninformed schlub earns. How much business would a gym get if the weight plates were labeled by color instead of number. What good is it to bench press 'purple'? It's the comparison, the metrics, the measurement and ultimately the commodification that makes these industries work. The ability to improve the self primarily in contrast to others. And this fact makes both gyms and banks incredible institutions. They are centers for the accumulation of external approval.

Upon arrival at the gym, an affable and enormous man named Ariel greeted me (more like the Israeli prime minister than the mermaid, I assure you). A large man with a far too comfortable rapport and very large shoulders, he referred to me as "bud" or "chief" several times in the first few minutes of our relationship. I always find interactions like this awkward, when one party fails to recognize the truth--that our relationship is merely commercial. We don't know one another, and your sole reason for talking to me is to sell me a service that reinforces your life choices, and modern aesthetics. I get that and am ultimately fine with it, but the accompanying friendly banter feels forced and seems to imply that I'm seeking counsel from a trusted friend instead of clinical recommendations from a professional. I don't want Ariel to be my friend, my friends don't know jack about fitness. I want a professional, and just as I don't call my doctor "chief" I don't want a jocular relationship with a trainer.

For the rest of the story go to extra vaganza

Newest Home

I'm moving. I am going to be living at 18th and Park in Washington DC. It's a small place, but one that should be just perfect for me. It's not too pricey, and it's close to a lot of things. I'm excited. I think I'll likely move in this weekend. Then I have a job interview on Monday (with the firm BRS, I'm really excited about this). So all in all life is progressing.

Better still, Poultry Days (the best frisbee tournament, besides GLO in Ohio) is two weekends away, and I'm going to be playing with Oberlin team. Should be a great chance for injury and fellowship.

DC...again and again

I drove into DC last night. I was looking at an apartment in Mt. Pleasant. 500 bucks for a basement place to be shared with a guy who works at Brookings. The place is small, there's no getting around that, and it's got the worn feel of a place that's been well used and not as well cared for. And yet...it's a wonderful location (18th and Park) and very reasonable rent (and I don't have to pledge to live there forever). So with a few assurances here and there I think I may have a new address. Currently I'm writing from the very very posh residence of Mssrs JKramer-Duffield and W Singer. It's across the street (I see it now) from the Metro. The apartment has gorgeous floors, high ceilings and the overall appearance (decoration and layout) of a place where up and coming publishing folks live. Like so many nice places for 20 somethings it feels like the owners are stockholders in Ikea. It's a wonderful place. Maybe if I'm really nice I can spend some evenings engaged in argument here or at least share some port or PBR (seems like a place that could accomodate both) ...it's a huge and comfortable place--kind of like an interior/urban park.

I am heading off to Columbus this morning. I'm going to navigate "The Spur" a section of highway (270) whose name always seems funny to me. The Spur.

In other news I was accosted outside my potential new apartment by a haggard middle aged man in a wife beater. I was sitting in the car with my laptop open. He walked over and banged on my windows. I rolled mine down and he shouted, "If you don't turn that damn thing off, I'm calling the cops. I know what you're doing, you're breaking into networks." I was, of course, taken aback and stammered out something that resembled, "No I'm not. Not at all." He then demonstrated (or hoped to) his sincerity by committing to memory my license plate number. He mumbled this to himself three or four times before launching into more black helicopter visions. He demanded that I take down the GPS locator that I mounted to my window (it plugs into my computer). I explain it was a GPS locator, to help me navigate and he rolled his eyes and said, "Oh sure." This is why a little bit of knowledge is a bad thing. He knows what a computer is. He knows what a network is, in so much as he believes it to be something that I would "hack" in the middle of the afternoon, while sitting listening to NPR. For the rest of the afternoon (I was waiting to meet the potential roomate) he sat and stared at me while, I can only imagine, explaining to his daughter the evils of P2P software and compromised firewalls.

The Marks We Share

As I prepare to leave the reunion I’m washed under the same kind of thoughts that accompanied my graduation. I feel blessed to have been a part of this college, this institution. I feel remarkably sad at the prospect of the great distances that are about to be put between these people, about whom I care deeply, and myself. It’s a more acute version of the sadness that follows a birthday and birthday party. It is the moment of dawning realization, the moment where you realize that tomorrow won’t be hedonistically focused on making you feel special and loved. Tomorrow you won’t be entitled to expect perfect moments of encapsulated joy; tomorrow it’s back to the task of carving out a life. Tomorrow it’s back to assumed anonymity rather than expected recognition.

I was immensely fortunate. Out of the roughly 600 people in the graduating class something like 65 class of ’01 folks showed up. Of those were many of the people who most shaped my Oberlin experience. There were certainly people whom I would have loved to have seen (Ann, Ellen, Beth, Rachel). But to see Aaron, Neil, Dave, Josh, JKD, Ben and Naomi as well as Melissa and Noah felt like a fulfilling reunion.

The reunion was a chance for people to remind one another of moments of glory and moments of imfamy. Old nicknames resurfaced and "whatever happened to" session broke out like dandelions in an abandoned field, each querry sparking a new round. There were numerous moments where a story, in which I played a role, was told and I felt like I was hearing it for the first time. People you never liked before you weren’t forced to love now, but you had to admit that seeing them made the experience fuller. Each of us addressed or confronted old traumas, challenging old demons in the face of old friends…and in the end while some had left scars none had left us disfigured or embittered.

We’ve left Oberlin only to return as if for the first time. In some ways we’ve regressed to near copies of our first week freshman year selves. We cling to our groups; cleave to anyone who, by their presence alone, will suggest that we have friends here. The fear and timidity of freshman year is nothing like that of the newly reunited. As freshman, while afraid and lonely, we recognized that each of us faced the same new problems. But at the reunion there is a sense that everyone else knows more people, has more friends and may just have had a more meaningful time at Oberlin. The intervening years have brought definition and purpose, heartbreak and joy and yet we’re terrified to face our classmates without a brace of Obies. We travel in amorphous packs to bathrooms, dinners and events. The worst fear is that you’ll be left alone, or arrive and be lonely.

It’s been just under 8 years since I first set foot on Oberlin’s campus (as a student). The experience of Oberlin and memories and friendships formed there have in many ways dominated the better part of a third of my life. Neil and I were talking and we realized that the change you see between an old high school friend and an old college friend is remarkable. High schoolers are nearly raw clay ready for formation into vases or bowls, cups or plates. College kids seem to be once fired pieces, all that remains is some kind of finishing glaze. The changes I saw in my friends over the first 4 years I knew them dwarf whatever changes the past four have brought. Being back at Oberlin only reinforces that knowledge. Walking past the building which brought structure and order to those changes just works to remind me (and I think us) that we are very much the same person we were when we left and not at all the same person as when we arrived. Oberlin has marked us, has made us pieces that fit together. Not quite a matching set, but certainly complimentary.

Vin Diesel Once Invented a Plane with No Wings

It's 9:54 am at Oberlin. Despite going to bed at 3:45 I woke up at 8:30. Hooray!

I've been wandering the internet for a while this morning and found this site.

http://www.4q.cc/vin/
It's wonderful, it gives you fun facts about vin diesel. When the page loads just hit refresh and enjoy.

For instance:

Vin Diesel is not in fact bald, but has discover the secret of limited invisibility.
Vin Diesel is so tall that his field of vision goes all the way around the world, and he can see his own ass.
It was Vin Diesel's idea to glue staples together in columns. Before that, they just came in singles.
Vin Diesel Once ate seven orangutans after losing a game of Go Fish to Jesus.
If God made a burrito so hot that even He could not eat it, Vin Diesel would eat it with Fire sauce from Taco Bell.

My favorite:
Vin Diesel once invented a plane with no wings. He put wheels underneath it and called it a train.

Oberlin.Blogspot Live from Oberlin

I'm at my reunion. Not my 5th year reunion...my fourth. But because of an inane clustering system (whereby I'm paired with 2000, and 1999 grads) it's my time to shine and remember. It's truly stunning to be back. I've been back before, but never when other friends were here, and never during nice weather. It's wonderful. I met friends and went for a few drinks at the Feve (local reference). Then played frisbee on Tappan square. I saw an Ex. Though I think that she and her boyfriend did not see me. I saw old student senators and friends from Seattle. (3 in fact). I'm writing from a single dorm room in East. It's incredible to be here. It smells and feels just like the first day moving in. I feel like I'm this over experienced freshman reclaiming my four years. I'm in a particularly nostaligic point in my life, transitions and changes will do that to a person: but I love it here. Later tonight I'm sure more alcohol will be consumed, stories told and heartstrings tugged upon. Then tomorrow is the alumni frisbee game and other wonderousness. I'm sure to injure myself playing tomorrow, and would expect nothing less. I feel like I'm playing to prove to others that I could have played before. The thing is they don't care, not out of malice but because I never registered that high on the scale to be concerned about my abilities. So we'll see about tomorrow, I'm just hoping I don't play too hard and seem like the guy who doesn't realize it's just for fun. Because this whole weekend, all of it, it's just for fun. Nothing more and certainly nothing less.

Wild Kingdom...and Aaron

I made it safely home. The connection here is sorta screwy so I already lost a wildy funny, insightful pulitzer worthy post...so you'll just have to settle for this crap.

Bison

According to the park materials bison are the largest land mammals in North America (I'd have guessed Grizzlies, but who am I to quibble with authoritative signage). This guy and I came much closer right after the photo, to within about 8 feet, at which distance you fully believe the park pamphlet which cautions against bison maulings. Those horns seem wholly capable of turning my skin into a pulpy mass. So suffice to say I was happy when mr bison decided to move off of the path I was walking.

Bear

By way of direct contrast with Mr. Bison, this black bear seemed very tame and cuddly...though I have to imagine that hundreds of feet and a river helped me to warm to it.

Mountain Goats

These goats were just hanging off the side of a mountain as I drove by. I stopped on the highway (not an advisable move) and took this and a few other photos of them.

more photos at http://www.extra-vaganza.blogspot.com

Photos From the Road

In a surprising turn of events I have wireless access here in Cody Wyoming. Go figure.

I'm posting a photo from my first day.

This is the Madison River at sunset. Across the stream from me are a herd of bison. More on my close encounters with bison later. Suffice to say, they are very large animals, and even larger at a short distance.



It's prettier in person, but you weren't there so you just have to take my word for it.

The second photo is one of my favorite travel photos. It's taken along the highway just as you turn onto 287 to go to Yellowstone. It's a tremendous place, and I'm proud of the photo.

My bags are packed

As a child I detested change. It caused me no end of nervousness and abject terror. A new grade in school was enough to make me cry. Any deviation from safe and regular patterns was scary, and to be avoided.

And then I grew up and chose this life and this lifestyle. I've chosen to live and work in every time zone in the Continental US (and don't think I'm not ready to come over there Hawaii and you too Alaska). Since leaving college (a major change to be certain) I've lived for some time in seven states. I've had two incredible romantic relationships and made friends by the campaign load. Somehow a child who feared change has become a man who can deal with it. I don't like it. But I do it, over and again. I'm hoping that moving to Washington means a respite from nomadic life, but when the next great chance to work for the next great candidate calls in a year or two I may be right back in the Saturn heading West or South or who knows where.

My apartment is empty. I'm sitting on the newly scrubbed floors having loaded all my belongings into the car. And the song "Leaving on a Jet Plane" keeps floating in and out of my consciousness. When I was very little and would wake in the middle of the night crying my mother or father would take me from my crib and pace with me. Each of them would sing that song to me. It's not the most reassuring song, it's about being left and leaving. It's about uncertainity and about losing something that you love. But I can't help but wonder if somewhere in all those loving renditions my folks didn't plant just a small seed of acceptance, a small notion that it's alright to leave. It's alright to move and grow to travel and risk. So now it's that time. My bags are packed, and I'm ready to go. Again.

If you’re gonna play the game, boy, ya gotta learn to play it right.

Friday evening I went out with some friends from frisbee for a drink and dinner. One of my friends works a bit doing web consulting but really makes his money playing online poker, and the other friend aspired to do the same. This was finally my chance to figure out why poker has this magical svengali like grip on 20-30 year old white males. Turns out I still don't quite get it, but I'm sadly starting to see. They explained to me how to go online and set up an account. Went home and did so, just for curiosity's sake. Went into a 7 card hold 'em room. (I should point out I'm playing in the free rooms, no real money for me). At this point it seems fair and right to point out that I don't really understand poker. I have a vague sense of how it works, and I have watched it a few times when other television options failed to entice. I know how it works in the same way I know how my car works. I know that if it's on fire that's bad, and if it were say a bentley that that might be nice. Short of that, I leave it to the professionals. For some reason though I decided that poker was more about luck than learning, and hell it's only electrons, it's not real money.

Now for those of you similarly poker challenged there are all kinds of hands that beat other hands. Sadly my notion of what *should* beat another hand does not conform with reality. For instance...I figure anytime you have a pair or three cards that should beat everything except four of those cards. This is not the case. What moron cares about have 5 hearts if they are the 3,5,6,8 and 10. That's just stupid. My 2 Aces should certainly kick your crappy hearts' asses. And yet no. In fact it's not even close. So while I know the rule, I think it's dumb, and therefore pretty much ignore it. Which I do to my great and consistent detriment.

Another thing...straights. I played yatzee...I know about straights, though sadly in poker there's no such thing as a small straight (would that there were for my pretend bank account). Also, and I was prety sure this was the case (though am very sure now) you cannot go around the Ace. So for instance my seemingly lucrative hand of King-Ace-Two-Three-Four...turns out to be pretty impotent against nearly everything else.

Finally I believe in probability. But sometimes I slip into a way of thinking where my sheer will to receive a Jack will be enough to make it so. This, I believe, is a bad approach to gambling--what with it requiring nothing short of magic to enable its success. Turns out the force...not so much with me.

So how did I in my first forray into online poker. I cleaned up. I messed people up like snow in DC. I have to figure it's a combination of several nearly irreplicable factors. 1. It's pretend money. No one bets as cavalierly and irregularly as I do when it's real money. It's hard to prepare for a strategy that seems based on star charts and not the cards. 2. I drew very well. I realized early on that when I have a good hand I bet it a lot, and when I have a bad hand I fold. Simple enough, but it negates the principle that "I'm due" and it forced me to realize that no matter how much I wanted the next card to be perfect....it just wasn't that likely.

I was playing 25 cent raise but with no limit. I guess that means you have to raise at least a quarter, and eventually as the betting goes on you can raise as much as you have. Well doing this a few times when the pot goes from 1 buck to say 200...and then winning...it does great things for your pretend bankroll. Fischer price my first gambling addiction set. So flush (see I can use the terms) with this success I started to think, this is easy money. If only I were playing with money instead of spare electrons. But I knew enough to fight this thought and played again the next morning...again with fake money. I got the shit kicked out of me. I got beaten like I owed them money and in the process they took mine, so apparently I did. Finally realizing that it's not just luck but a process of measured risks, the game seems interesting.

Though the chorus of "The Gambler" plays in my head and I realize I should probably learn all the rules, because I have no earthly idea when to "fold 'em."

Piece of Shit Car

Like the Sandler song...my auto is a piece of shit. Having just spent 500 getting it fixed and prepared for the trip cross country, today it begins to make a little noise when I accelerate going up hill, something that you might imagine me needing to do as I...oh I don't know drive up and over the Rocky Mountains. Needless to say this happened well after the garages have closed for the week. I'm going to take it tomorrow to some brand place...firestone, mr. goodwrench, something like that. The good news is that having tested it a bunch around town, I've found that the noise is very slight and generally doesn't sound damaging. And as someone who has had more than my fair share of car trouble, I've gotten good at judging the severity of various noises. I still have no clue what they are. You could tell me I have a broken right stamen and I'd think...that sounds plausible and it explains why I have such trouble knocking up other flowers. Here's hoping that it's nothing, or at least that if there is a problem they tell me how lucky I was that I caught it before I was stranded in Idaho or Montana..or really any of the states along the way (excepting MN).

Living the Dream

Update on a previous lamentation....my fantasy team is now winning my league. The wise addition of Dontrelle Willis and Brian Roberts and getting rid of Kerry Wood and Mariano Rivera has proved beneficial. All hail Aaron, he shall always and forever reign fantasy baseball. Never shall he receive comeupance. Never I say.

Stay tuned.

It's far

Last night saw the installation of Streets and Trips 2005 (with the fancy GPS locator). I spent the better part of the evening into the morning (2am) playing with the mapping function. It's fantastic. My route is nearly planned. Along the way if I so desire I can open my lap top and find the nearest thai restaurant to West Yellowstone, or the closest grocery store to Pahaska. The software stores all those locations. The single greatest realization from last nights forray into cartography was just how fucking long this trip is going to be. As the crow flies Seattle to Columbus is only 1890 miles. I am neither a crow nor am I flying so it's considerably longer than that. It's estimated at 42 hours and 16 minutes worth of driving. I'll cover more than 2800 miles all told (plus about 10 or so hiking).

For some perspective I used the fancy "measure the distance" tool on Streets and Trips. Turns out it's 1870 miles from Barcelona to Moscow. Long story short, it's a long trip, which hopefully yields some great stories.

The Height of Absurdity

For reasons passing understanding I decided recently to measure myself. Lacking a measuring tape, the notion soon fell to the wayside and I continued with my long stated belief that I am 6'1 tall. I always wanted to be 6'2. For me that height held some magical quality, suggested an importance and dignity. All of that is completely preposterous, and I’ll easily admit as much, but all the same the hope of 6'2 has loomed large since I was 13.

While cleaning up my apartment and preparing to move I found a long discarded, and long thought lost tape measurer. A knife sharpened pencil (I don’t have a proper pencil sharpener) placed nearly level at the crown of my head marked the doorframe to my kitchen. I eagerly stretched the tape to its maximum and found my true and honest height. I am and probably have been for years just 6 feet tall. That it bothers me seems silly. But it does. Partly for the lies I’ve unknowingly perpetuated, but also because it suggests I’m not all I thought I was...quite literally. Oh well, I guess now why I sky someone in frisbee I can be more self congratulatory. Afterall everyone else in the world just got one inch taller by comparison. Somewhere I hear Randy Newman penning a ballad just for me: Shorter People Got Less Reason.

Familiarity Breeds Relief

My flight was uneventful. I finished a book, took a nap, and plowed through half of another book. Good stuff. Turns out that National Airport is wonderful. I'd never been, as I usually drive to Washington. National is really a nice way to welcome folks. I was surprised, I sorta assumed that it would feel unwelcoming (at least to me) since it shares a name with Reagan. About 20 minutes after landing I had another informational interview lined up thanks in large part to help from Ms. Stuntz. Met up with Emmet and went for a "kick." We bumped into a friend from the campaign. It's nice to feel comfortable in this city. It's nice to feel at home. I was afraid that I'd feel really removed and distant when I got here, like a high school football player trying to relieve old glories. Turns out I was wrong. Thankfully.

This Time Tomorrow

This time tomorrow I'll be somewhere over North Dakota on my way to Washington DC. I have a couple of informational interviews scheduled. Beyond those two suit wearing obligations, I'm not really sure what the next few days promise. I'm sure I'll see a large number of friends, and probably go to a Smithsonian. Other than that, who knows. If you're in DC feel free to give me a call.

I've been doing the cleaning and boxing assoicated with moving. It's become less and less traumatic as it's become overly familiar. I'm still waiting to plan out the route to Ohio, but I'm becoming more and more eager to travel that route.

Quick Sunday Update

As my new laptop has not yet arrived (that's right, I'm soon to be the proud owner of a refurbished Dell laptop), I'm paying the fine folks of Kinko's for the right to use the internet. (I guess right is probably a strong term, the priviledge, makes more sense). Anyways...quick updates.
1. Getting laptop. It's a refurbished Dell with 2.33ghz, 30G hd, CDR/DVD, 256 Ram. All for right about 500 bucks. Hooray for luck.

2. Am now hairless...at least on the face. I'm back to my presentable self. For about 3 minutes I had just a moustache, and I was terrified/terrifying. I did sort of look like a gay 70s cop, so that's something.

3. My knee is again screwed up. While playing today, I layed out and banged my knee up pretty good. It hurt enough that I didn't play anymore during the game (even as we lost) which gives those of you who've seen me play a sense of the severity. But I've iced it and am enjoying the pleasant feelings that candy brings. (candy being ultimate slang for Ibuprofen).

4. I'm getting truly jazzed about my trip/move to DC. For the first time it's seeming more real than fantasy, and while I'll certainly miss Seattle (it's hard to leave when it's lush, green, sunny and 65 most days) I'm eager to find myself doing good work around my east coast friends.

Mindless Facial Hair Update

I'm down to a goatee. It's a new look for me. Jen thinks it makes me look like a yuppie scenester. I'll take a photo and upload it.

It's soon going to be reduced to The Half General. (cut out the bottom). Then I'll go to a moustache...for about 15 minutes, then it's on to clean shaven Aaron just in time for my trip to DC.

Further thrilling facial hair updates as events warrant.

Help Plan Aaron's RoadTrip

So here's the deal, I'm driving across the country (by myself) and I have a ton of things that I want to see...but no real idea of how to see them all. I'm therefore soliciting input from friends.

Basic goals/Things to See
Glacier National Park
Yellowstone National Park
Grand Tetons National Park
Badlands National Park
Mount Rushmore
Crazy Horse Monument
Minneapolis

Ground Rules:
I'm not equipped to camp in any of the places.
I'm willing to spend 300 dollars or so on lodging over the course of this trip.
I'm willing to drive 12 hours a day only on the last day of the trip (Minneapolis to Ohio)
On all other days I am willing to drive up to 10 hours.
I am eager to spend at least 4 hours in each of Montana and Wyoming Parks. I would settle for 1-3 in each of the SD parks.
=============================
So those are the basics. What should I do? What should I see? Are there shortcuts? Should I skip one of the parks to include another?

thanks,
Aaron

Striking Out

Long time readers of this blog will remember my previous unemployment bringing about a renaissance of hand eye coordination. I started filling endless Ohio hours with trips to the batting cage. It got so bad that I would conduct phone interviews from the parking lot of the cage...because having just blasted a few shots over the pitching machine seemed to relax me and make the interview seem more pleasant. Well, having watched a lot of baseball in the past few weeks and weekends I've again felt the itch to swing a bat. There is a batting cage just South of SafeCo Field (where the Mariners play), and off I went,today in hopes of further glory. Turns out getting directions to the actual location is really a good choice. I set out with a vague notion (knowing 3 of the four streets I needed to take to get there). While three out of four sounds bad, at least it was in order, meaning I knew everywhere but what street the gym was on. I was pretty sure it started with an H. There were three H streets in a row, each of which backed onto a train depot. None of which seemed to be secreting away a batting cage. Without taking a swing, I'd struck out.

Not wishing to be denied the mind numbing joy of bashing a ball meaninglessly with a stick. I went in search of a driving range. This I found with relative ease. I paid my 9 dollars for the large bucket (104 balls). Why they dispense balls in multiples of 17 I don't know, but I overestimated the durability of my delicate hands. Turns out 104 balls, was about 65 too many. By the end I was swinging the club, dutifully, with just one hand. The other hand, my left, was open and bleeding. For loyal readers and any friends I have out there, you'll recognize this as the traditional pattern for Aaron. Remarkably poor judgement w/r/t to stopping sports. Turns out I can just destroy a two iron, up until the point where the skin on my fingers and left palm begins to puff and separate from my hand. At that point, my prowess...small though it may be, diminisses rapidly. Funny that.

UPDATE: I checked the date of last year's batting cage post...almost one year ago exactly. Maybe there is something about the 4th monday in April that stirs a man's appetite for blisters and batted balls.

Pope.Com

The new pope has an email address. It's: benedictxvi@vatican.va. Several strange things there, first don't you figure it could just be Pope@vatican.va, as it's not possible for there to be two popes. If I were the only Aaron at Oberlin, I'd have had my email be Aaron@oberlin.edu, but there were others so the school was more specific. Also, can you imagine that there will be a lot of emails that are to Benedict XVI that are independent of his role as Pope. I have to imagine that everyone one of the emails he receives is concerning his being the Pope. So when he dies, the email should just go to his successor, just like the popemobile and apartment.

The other thing I adore about the Pope having an email address: He's going to get spammed like no one else on earth. The only close competitor might be Bill Gates. But can you imagine how entertaining it would be to see the number of penis enlargement emails that the pontiff gets. How many times per minute will he get a great offer on refinancing his Papal apartment? Thousands. How many Nigerian dissidents will have a deal for him, and this time they'll actually know with whom they are speaking. It's just a little too "of this earth" for my outsider understanding of the Pope.

Who gets the job of reading the emails? Or do we think that the Pope is like Joe Trippi and he'll spend all night reading every email? I hope for a Papal Blog next. That'd be fantastic. I'm figuring a lot of "OMG Can U believe Cardinal Fitzgerald said that, I swear I thought I was gonna die!!!" Maybe not. Does it seem wrong that you can email God's representative on earth, especially using a form that encourages emoticons? Will there be a Saint of the smiley face? God, I hope so.

Signs

As promised I'm posting some of my photos from Mount Rainier. In my last post I covered most of the highlights, but I ignored two great signs I saw. The first sign doesn't have a photo, but it was on the highway and advertised the Weyerhauser Bonsai Collection. That's right, Weyerhauser the paper company has a collection of well groomed miniature trees. Bonsai trees are regular trees that you abuse into fitting some centuries old notion of beauty. You starve and cut too short the trees, bracing and tying the limbs into interesting but unhealthy configurations. I guess I found it funny that a paper company would go to the trouble of growing these bonsai trees when a great one takes hundreds of years. My understanding of the paper industry is that it's not the most patient, and certainly not with any organism sporting bark.

The second great sign was for a Volcano Evacuation Route.
These are signs that don't make appearances in the Mid West. You don't see a lot of evacuation route signs (any kind, tsunami, volcano, etc) in Ohio. We have tornado warnings, but those don't get fancy signs. This particular sign was about 500 yards outside of the park proper. Which means it's maybe 5 miles from the middle of Mount Rainier. Here's the deal, if you're 5 miles from a giant volcano and it erupts you're dead. At five miles away the pyroclastic flow is going to get you. Moreover, if you don't know to move away from the smoking scar in the earth that used to be a 14,000 foot mountain...then you've probably already been naturally selected, and I'm guessing that the sign isn't going to be the primary trigger for fleeing. I have to imagine that somewhere in our lizard brains is something that says, when molten rock begins raining and flowing at 80KM/H...it's time to move, and with some rapidity.

For more photos visit Extra Vaganza

Paradise

When life presents me with situations that seem beyond my control, I change my facial hair. Some of it is a defense of agency, but more often it's simply a declaration of laziness. As in, the last thing I want to deal with right now is maintaining my facial hair. Thus, though I lack the photos to prove it, I am currently bearded. For many of you on the east coast, you've never seen me without a beard. But it's been a year or so since I last let the folicles run wild, and they are back to their natural dominion over my chin. We'll see if I let them stay, as I have interviews (hopefully) in DC at the beginning of May. Whenever I let the beard go I start to look grizzled, and finally start to appear like I could live in the West (not the Pacific Northwest, but the West--montana style). I wonder if when I die folks will look at photos of me in the same way that you look at tree rings. Instead of lean years marked by smaller rings, tougher situations will be marked with facial hair.

Today I arose, beard blazing, and was full of energy. A small portion of sun broke through my blinds and I promised myself that if I could see Mt. Rainier (not that common, with all the clouds) I'd go and see Mount Rainier. I dressed, and sure enough it was crystal clear and warm. So fulfilling my promise to myself, I geared up (camera, jeans, and extra pair of dry socks) and set out for Mt. Rainier National Park. The directions I used were horrible. There is something tremendously frustrating about getting lost trying to go to a mountain. Because you can constantly see it. And yet you never seem to be getting closer, and you never know which road will be the one you need, since it seems large enough that you could head in any of the cardinal directions towards it. I imagine it like getting lost while trying to send a probe to Jupiter. Maddening.

After more than a few instinctual turns off the main roads, each of which was wrong. (Turns out, I have terrible driving instincts, just awful). I stopped at a little market bought fresh apples and strawberries and got better directions. The sun was shining, I'm sure outside the car birds were singing, life was good. I arrived at the park around 11:00am. I had no planned routes, which might be a bad idea for future visits, but fit the mood of the day perfectly. I also didn't have gloves...and well, Mount Rainier is a mountain. A snow covered mountain. It looks like this.

See, snow. But I decided that I would go to Paradise. Paradise is a location, a popular trailhead quite near the Nisqually Glacier (which sounds really fucking cool, but which I never quite got to see).

I took a mess of photos, some of which I'll try to post here later. Never having hiked in the snow, I didn't realize that there aren't really trails. You just figure out where you want to go, and walk there. Fortunately some folks who seemingly knew where they were going, arrived before me. So I followed their path. That others were there first was good, that the path was matted down into a mess of pure ice, that was less good. I slipped and stumbled and fell up the hill. Oh, another note of some relevance, Mount Rainier being a mountain is at a higer elevation than say, my apartment. There was plenty of air, sadly not so much oxygen. And while I love me some nitrogen, it just doesn't quench my thirst for really breathing. So I'm out of shape, out of breath, and in shoes wholly inappropriate for the task, wandering up the face of a snow covered mountain. It was tremendous. I've become somewhat jaded, or at least habituated to the glory of the West in the last year. But I was still blown away. It made me sad, as I am giving this up for the swamps of Washington DC.

I continued up the mountain, and finally found some snow that wasn't packed into a zamboni approved sheet of ice. The sad part about that was that unpacked snow tends to allow grown men to fall down several feet. I managed to take surreal drunken steps up to a bluff. Every few steps was an adventure, the snow would hold for a couple of steps, then give way dropping me up to my waist in snow. At some point the snow just continually gave way, every step sunk me up to my waist, and I was having trouble getting out of my little holes, and I decided that that was a good indication of a stopping point. Making my way down was my own tribute to the Legolas slide down the tusk from the second LOTR movie. Sliding and gliding, and generally having a silly time of it, I finally made it back to the car. I drove home through nearly blinding sunshine, and 65 degree weather. Paradise indeed.

Strangers

Of late I have been in a pretty awful funk. Between losing a girlfriend, a job, the temporary use of my right knee, my lungs (chest cold), and the use of my car (thankfully now repaired at the cost of 500 dollars), it's been a shitty few days. But this post isn't to be a list of complaints.

Friday, on the way to pick up my car from the shop I took a few unfamiliar bus routes, and found myself with extra time to wait. An elderly Vietnamese gentleman shared the bench with me and we got to talking. His right eye was unusable, looking more the color of milk than anything else. He walked with a crutch, and spoke, by his own estimation (though not mine) bad English. He smiled throughout our talk. He was late for some meeting (I couldn't ever figure out what). His bus wasn't coming for another 40 minutes, and he moved with great unease. It was not a "there but for the grace of God" moment. Hardly. It was simply the fact that he was the first person to talk to me that entire day. I'd spent the day inside. Watching tv, feeling miserable, and sorry for myself. He approached me and we started talking, and it was fun. Somehow I'd forgotten how much I just enjoy meeting people, talking with them, learning from them. I never caught his name, nor gave him mine. Midway though the conversation he confided that after the end of the war, he was imprisoned for 6 years. He said this with the sorrow that I usually attach to losing my keys. It seemed, as he explained it, inevitable, and therefore not something to worry about or lament. I can't imagine that that's how he felt about it then, or now, but it was a little perspective adjustment. It's alright to go through tough times, in fact it's expected, but the real skill is moving on. Not ignoring, but continuing.
The man then out of the blue asked (as one question) how old I was and if I am married. I responded honestly to both, feeling some odd shame about the answers; a welling up of lost opportunity, missed chances, something overblown and self defeating. I was certain that he was going to be shocked by my age and lack of wife. Nope, turns out his 3 children are 30, 32, 36 and none of them are married. Each is too busy working with "the computers" and "saving to buy a home, gotta get a home, gotta buy a house." Again, it was nice to have a little perspective. My bus arrived and we parted company. One of those nice things about public transit, you get to meet people whom you don't know. Sitting anonymously in a coffee shop is a very Seattle thing to do, and it's been the bulk of my days of late, but it's nothing like talking to a stranger.

The second stranger experience was just yesterday morning. I was heading over to pick up a friend on the way to frisbee. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a woman sitting on the grass in front of some of the great houses near my apartment. She seemed out of place. I stopped the car (in the middle of the road, thankfully it wasn't busy) and ran over. She was, in fact, out of place, she'd fallen on her way to the nearby church. I helped her up, at which time she confided that without help she did think she could have gotten up. We parted company and she called over her shoulder "thanks, I'll say a prayer for you at church." It was the best start to my day in a long time. It's awfully nice to stop feeling so fucking selfish, and sorrowful just for a little. It's like the record skipping. You realize that maybe the sad sad songs you've been listening to aren't the soundtrack to your life, or at least they only are if you keep putting them on. I've felt better since. Both meetings were chance encounters, and both gave me a little distance from my frustration and self-loathing, a little space to realize that it's fine to feel crappy, but better to do something about it.

Flares for the Dramatic

With unemployment offering numerous daylight hours with little structure, I've been able to watch sports and sports talk television. In addition to concerns about Terrell Owens and the Sox-Yanks, steroids and the general failure of closers to do their jobs, this week's most incredible story (one that seems to only barely be about sports) is the debacle yesterday in Milan. Yesterday AC and Inter Milan played soccer. Now for those among you who really follow soccer/futbol (Emmet, JKD) this is probably noteworthy in and of itself. I'll watch soccer if it's on and I'm bored. I like it well enough, and I bet I'll go to a DC United game while there, if only to watch Freddy Adu. That last sentence best describes the degree to which I follow soccer. I will watch famous (if not necessarily, the best) players. I'm like the Easter-Christmas Christians. I'll watch the World Cup, and I'm not offended by the sport, but it fails to serve any true religious function for me.

This is not the way that soccer is understood elsewhere. Ranger and Celtic in Glasgow make Sox-Yanks look like the East-West All Star games, hired guns, professing little concern for community or class. Celtic is the Catholic team and Rangers are the Protestant team. It's not a small distinction.

'“Walking down the Shankill Road in a Celtic shirt, you’re dead, straight-away,” the Catholic 17-year-old Roisin explained. “They’ll just brush you onto the carpet. But it’s the same in Catholic areas. If someone walked in with a Ranger shirt in a Catholic area, they’re as good as dead. … If it’s a mostly Catholic area, or a mostly Protestant area, you’re dead. You just are.”' Soccer serves as a marker for geography, class, and religion. Those aren't small things.

And yet, while sport can easily be conflated with war, it's not usually a literal comparison. Yesterday it was. After a disputed goal was taken away from Inter Milan, fans began booing (no problem with that) and hurling lit flares onto the pitch. Flares, honest to god road flares. The video from the game looks like parts of the West Bank. First off, who the fuck brings a flare to a game. What normal thought is going through your head. What kind of tailgaiting involves torches. Even after the first few fusilades of flares onto the field, one of which struck AC Milan's goalie in the shoulder (injuring him, of course), the officials were considering continuing the event. Then after a calm down period further bottles were chucked onto the field. The old line about, I went to a fight and a hockey game broke out seems apt. I went to a armed insurrection, and there were a few soccer players there.

What's Your Fantasy

Last weekend, while Mark and Stacy were here we laboriously created teams and filled out our rosters for Fantasy Baseball. If you're not familiar with Fantasy Sports, it's basically created on the premise that statistics should have some regular application towards the destruction of the joy of sports. Why not take something that verges on art and reduce it to math.

In all honesty, I found fantasy basketball really fun. So I figured I'd give this a try. I am getting hammered. Just demolished. I played baseball for a long time, I pitched and caught for about a decade, so I figured I'd have some advantage over Mark in this. I also assumed, very erroneously, that defense and pitching mattered. Nope. Growing up a National League guy (Ozzie Smith, Willie McGee, Barry Larkin, Chris Sabo, and the lot) I believe in defense, pitching and small ball. Turns out fantasy is to real baseball what porn is to real sex. Oversized people, oversized numbers, no compromise and no sacrifice--oh and there is some annoying designated hitter who seems to only be there to add to the output. There's no love, no moving the runner into scoring position. It's all about the home run, the run scored. THere's no points for hitting it to the second baseman so that the runner advances to third. It's just about the money hit. Sorry this analogy is getting stranger by the second.

Long story short, I'm obsessed with this stuff. It has data, baseball...and seems to nearly justify watching a lot of baseball. Today was the first day where my time started to play well (How can Pujols go this far into the season without having a 3 RBI game?).

Selling Crazy for Free.

POST DELETED.

Place Them On Glass

So cool blogs do this on fridays, but I'm not cool, so I have to use thursday. They post the ten random songs that shuffle to the top on their computer. Well here are my ten songs:

Come and Find Me--Josh Ritter (good, I was hoping he'd make the random list)
Discotheque--U2
Four Horsemen--The Clash
Roll--Richard Buckner
My Slate Roof--Boxstep
Mary's Place--Bruce Springsteen
Baby Got Back--Sir Mix-a-Lot (Seattle represents itself musically)
The Way--Fastball
Still Crazy After All These Years--Paul Simon (potentially a comment on the last two songs)
In My (Wildest Dreams) Jayhawks

Strange, no modest mouse, pearl jam or nirvana...and yet Sir Mix-a-lot holds down the fort for Seattle. Well done, Sir, well done indeed. Would that I could put them on the glass in your honor.

Mark and Stacy Arrive

So I finally have my first guests to this wonderful city. Mark and Stacy are due to touchdown at 10:48pm. Which makes them guests who force me to stay up late. For shame. But as I'm taking tomorrow off from work, I guess my life isn't that horrible.

We have several sight-seeing ventures planned. It is of course supposed to rain 2 inches in the next few days (having been drought like, seriously, for the past 2 months). Maybe the EMP, maybe the Off Ramp (site of the first Pearl Jam concert), etc.

Looking forward to having guests. Not sure I'm the best host, as I barely know the city, but I'll try. Stay tuned for hostly mishaps and miscues a-plenty.

Beach Logs Kill!

Last weekend Jen and I went to the Olympics (penninsula, not games) and the vast majority of that trip was incredible. I took a mess of photos (maybe too many) and I figured I'd post some of the better ones here.


These signs were all around on the western side of the Olympic Penninsula. Generally whatever direction the arrow pointed was directly opposite our desired path (we were heading towards the beach). While I did see some waves that make the Atlantic look like the water running down your drive way after you finish washing your car, we saw no tsunamis. Seemed better that way.

When we got down to the water at Ruby Beach we saw this sign, the best of the weekend, and an interjection throughout the weekend:


Yup, Beach Logs Kill (a great band name for anyone so inclined). The beach was covered in trees, hundreds potentially thousands of driftwooded trees, see below
Right, that's a lot of trees. Every one of them a killer.

For more photos visit Extra Vaganza.

5:45

Today, I was interested in seeing how fast I could run one mile. The answer: 5:45. I'm more than just a little pleased with that, especially because I think I could bring that time down another 10-20 seconds the next time I go out. Because while I'm absolutely exhausted now (I did an hour or so of lifting after running that mile, so I'm just pooped) I wasn't dying at the end of the 5:45. But for perspective...the best indoor mile by a high schooler is: Alan Webb's time of 3 minutes, 59.86 seconds. So I have a ways to go before I get into the area where real runners workout. But I'm fine with that.

NY State of Mind

Congratulations to Brian on his new job as campaign manager for Cynthia Doty. He's running her "underdog" effort to win election to the NY City Council. Her district encompasses small portions of the Upper West Side, Morningside Heights and Harlem. And if there's one thing I know about Brian is that he is beloved in Harlem.

I'm excited for him. He was enduring the horrible wait that comes from working, or more appropriately, not working on campaigns. It grates on you. It makes you question your talents. I must admit to being jealous. I had a shot to manage a campaign and I screwed the pooch. Granted there were some mitigating factors (no real control, a party that hated me, and a candidate who didn't ever listen to me) but all the same it felt like a failure. I'm excited for Brian, I think he'll do really well.

I'm still trying to find what job I want in DC. Mainly I want to learn from my boss, and view them as a means to learn not an obstacle. I'm really hopeful that I'll be able to make that move in the next few months, as I'm ready to move forward professionally. It's been a long year of jobs I don't love, and that takes its toll.

A year ago...

One year ago (this month) I stated this blog. One year ago, I was returning from Washington DC to Ohio. I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. Lots of changes have taken place in the last 12 months, but I'm still looking to move to DC and trying to figure out what to do with my life. This blog has catalogued the changes and the victories along with the failures. But it's been nice to have a place to trace the changes in the last year.

Where is My Mind?

My mind is all over the place right now.

Jen and I decided to break up last night. We love eachother, we care deeply for one another--but we weren't happy, something about the relatioship wasn't working for either of us. There wasn't any anger or yelling or fighting, just the sorrow of two people who love and loved eachother realizing that we weren't going to finish the story as magically as we started. So like I said, my mind is all over the place. I'm sad, for sure, but I'm also certain that falling in love with Jen was one of the greatest joys of my life, and if this is the price for that joy, then it was worth it.

Please don't post comments. Thanks.

You Can't Go Home, But I Guess You Can Shop There*

Finding myself with time to kill on Monday before the Harvard Club fundraiser I took time for a personal history tour of New York. My grandmother (Dinah Cohen) grew up in Brooklyn, specifically an ill defined area called then, as now, Boro Park (not sure why they couldn't afford the prestige of "Borough" Park, but apparently the extra ugh was too much). I wasn't ever completely sure that I was in Boro Park. I just saw the occasional Boro Park Realty or Boro Park Dentistry and took those as a clue that I was still in the neighborhood. Grandma grew up above her father's candy store at 3820 Fort Hamilton Parkway. That residence no longer exists. It's been replaced by "Lamp Warehouse," where the slogan is "Everything in Lighting...Discounted." The Lamp Warehouse bricked over the windows and painted giant cameos of Thomas Edison and a man they call "The Maven". Edison says "Let There Be Light" while The Maven says "Let There Be Discounts." So, it's changed a little since grandma lived there.

It's been almost exactly 70 years since she was in the neighborhood. On March 15th of 1935 she married my grandfather, and never returned to the old neighborhood. I'm not sure why. I'm grateful for this trip and for the questions it leaves me. I just hope to get answers before being 94 years old catches up with her. But in the days when she lived in Boro Park the apartments were filled with Irish, Italians, Poles, Swedes and Jews. Now the neighborhood is a strange mix. Fort Hamilton Parkway (in the high 30s) is full of car shops--places to install a stereo, fix a dent, sell you tires, fix your garage door, check your emissions, and insure your vehicle. The strange part (over and above the sheer number of car places) is the diversity. Boro Park east of my grandmother's place is full of Hassidic jews. While her area is largely Hispanic. Thus, I saw a Hassidic jew leaning over the engine of Hispanic customer's failing Buick. I've never seen that in Columbus, nor could I.

I wandered around this Jewish neighborhood for an hour or two. It was among the most powerful experiences of the past year or two. I've never been in a white neighborhood and felt so out of place, so foreign, so conscious that I don't fit it. In my life I've never seen as many mezzuzahs as I saw in two blocks there. There were Hebrew posters for Hebrew boybands. And hosiery shops. Boy were there hosiery shops. I saw a woman leave a 99 cent store and pause to kiss her hand and put it on the mezzuzah in the doorframe of this store. It was tremendous. I don't know how different that is from the place where grandma grew up. But it was just about as far from Westerville as I've been.

A few random observations:

How are there so many 25-45 year old Hassidic men walking around in the middle of the day? Where are they working? I'd had Hammentashen. But not really. The piece I had on Monday was a whole different creature. I realized why New Yorkers are fiercely proud, there are few places where you could wander from a Kosher Bakery to an Italian deli, to a Polish restaurant in 150 yards.

Finally, I jumped back on the subway to travel to Southern Brooklyn where my grandmother went to High School (New Utrecht High). When I departed the subway I saw hundreds of students milling about (it was 1:30). I wandered past them and took a few photos of the school. After taking a shot or two a breathless reporter ran over to me and asked, "Do you have photos of the guy?" I asked, "What guy?" "The shooter, the guy who shot up the school?" At the time everyone was under the impression there was an attack and a student had pulled a gun. I learned later that some kid brought a gun to school, put it in his backpack and it went off into his leg during math class. My guess is that New Utrecht High has changed a bit since 1935 as well.


*Name that movie reference

New York

I'm packed and ready to head for the airport on my way to New York. For the second time in a month I'm flying to the East for essentially one meeting. The novelty began to wear off midway through the last trip, and it's worn down to a nub at present. I leave today, land tonight, work the room at a fundraiser tomorrow evening, then depart Tuesday afternoon. All of which leaves me with a fair bit of free and alone time in New York City. Sadly of the major east coast cities (Philly excepted) NYC is the city in which I feel most alone and uncomfortable (probably a strong relation between those two thoughts). Neil is in classes and I don't have too many other friends in the city, so it'll be a choice between hanging out with my boss (not a good plan) or being alone. Being alone isn't always bad, but I generally don't enjoy being alone in a large city. I don't like blending in, I don't like the annonymity. Somehow it feels more like getting lost, than getting away. So that'll be one of the challenges of the next few days. Thousands of things to do and see, but will I do any of them. Stay tuned.

The reason for this trip is a fundraiser at the Harvard Club. Open only to recommended Harvard graduates, the club is posh and exclusive and I'm guessing stifling. It has a private library of 75,000 volumes. And the food we're serving is unreal. Cornish game hen stuffed with sour cherries and wild rice. And 65 dollar a plate prime rib. nice stuff. The event will have several candidates and that should be interesting, and I tend to do a good job of working a room.

I wrote my boss's speech and with some help from JKD tuned up several sections. Below is one of the better paragraphs.

After the most recent election there was a lot of discussion of values, and lots of hand wringing about how the Democrats had lost contact with their values. It seemed like everywhere, well everywhere on cable, there was this amorphous notion that Democrats lacked values. I'm hear to tell you that's crap. Democrats don't lack
values, what some of our leaders have lacked is the courage and cohesion to defend our values. We don't lack morals, values or ideals, but some in our party been unwilling to fight, to scrap, to do the hard work of reaching out to voters. It's not enough to be right, we have to be willing to fight. Democrats are not weak on national defense, not by a long shot, but some Democrats haven't been strong in
their defense of the values of this nation, and our party. Too many Democrats have been borrowing Republican talking points in an attempt to appeal to "the middle." Democrats not Republicans must determine what we stand for. All those perceived weaknesses end the moment we decide to join together, and create a broad based progressive coalition. That weakness ends, and our victories begin the moment we
see the importance of progressive values. Values like a woman's right to choose, values like a gay couple's access to all the rights and all the responsibilities of marriage. Democrats value things like hard work, which is why we protect the right of workers to organize. Democrats value the land we'll leave our children, which is why we protect the environment. These are not issues that exist in opposition
to one another, rather they describe a cohesive worldview, one focused on providing opportunity, securing freedom and promoting tolerance. These are time-tested values, the values that have defined America's progress throughout the centuries. I was always told as a child don't say you're sorry if you don't mean it, well, I'm tired of Democrats apologizing for our values. You know what, we're right, we've been
right and we need to start acting like it.

I'm not convinced that I can make a living writting speeches, but I am fairly certain that I'd enjoy such a life. I probably won't check this site till after the speech is given (god help me) by my boss, as such feel free to post comments and critiques. It'll already have happened, and I'll be a lot more mellow about it.

Aaron's Frisbee Game Playlist

1. Float On--Modest Mouse
2. Death or Glory--The Clash (also the name of one of the most dominant teams ever)
3. Sunday Bloody Sunday--U2 (descriptive of the time, and the condition of my knees)
4. Under Pressure--Queen and David Bowie
5. Hurt--Johnny Cash (see number 3)
6. Say It Ain't So--Weezer
7. Roll Out--Ludacris
8. Thank You (fallettinmebemiceelf)--Sly and the Family Stone (Funk is as funk does)
9. Shelter from the Storm--Bob Dylan
10. Baba O'Reilly--The Who
11. No Depression--Uncle Tupelo

Suggestions for other on topic, pump-up songs?

Aaron Leavy Announces Candidacy For Employment

Over a year ago, following the defeat of Howard Dean I began to travel the country in the usual way one does when seeking employment. I then formed the "Aaron for Employed in DC or Boston" exploratory committee, and today I'm officially declaring that, I Aaron Benjamin Leavy am a candidate for employment in the cities of Boston or Washington DC.*

I've travelled across the internet and met thousands** of supporters who've encouraged me to move to the East Coast. Supporters like, Allison Stuntz, who said, "Aaron, you'd like D.C., it's nice here"

This move is for the people like Allison and the dozens like her, people with the vision to encourage me to do things I've always said I wanted to do. This campaign is for the people like Mark Seide, who told me, "Boston is great, we could be neighbors." I seek employment not for the glory of earning money but out of the necessity of paying off my new iPod mini.

This is a campaign to unite and employ people everywhere***.

It is a monumentous task, one that I know is beyond my abilities alone. That is why I'm entrusting this campaign to my many friends, supporters and allies. The greatest lie that job seekers like me tell people like you is, "Don't worry, I'll be able to find a job quickly, on my own." Abraham Lincoln said that government of the people, by the people and for the people shall not perish from this earth. But I
like to think he was just as concerned with the employment status of people like me.

The truth is: You have the power. You have the power to let me know about the great little non profit in Sommerville. You have the power to suggest that I interview with Congressman X. You have the power to suggest that I call your ex boyfriend's old boss. You have the power to make me further indebted to you for your incredible generosity, frienship and kindness. And that is exactly what I plan to do.

Thank you very much. Thank you very much. Thank you very much.

=======
*Jen got into a mess of grad schools all along the east coast, and it
seems like the best two locations for me are either Boston or DC. I'm
hoping for your help in trying to locate something that works for me
in either place. I'm looking to move over the Summer, but would move
sooner if I found the right job.
**actual number may vary
***Well, really it's mainly a campaign to employ Aaron Leavy in one of
two specific places, Boston or DC, but why quibble with poetic
license.

Apologies to Gov Dean and the English language.

Work.

JKD sent along this quotation from an article arguing for a resumption of the draft. Interesting points, etc. It's timid and apologetic about the choices that draftees would be allowed to make.

"Unlike an old-fashioned draft, this 21st-century service requirement
would provide a vital element of personal choice. Students could
choose to fulfill their obligations in any of three ways: in national
service programs like AmeriCorps (tutoring disadvantaged children), in
homeland security assignments (guarding ports), or in the military.
...
Most would no doubt pick the less dangerous options. But some would
certainly select the military—out of patriotism, a sense of adventure,
or to test their mettle. Even if only 10 percent of the one-million
young people who annually start at four-year colleges and universities
were to choose the military option, the armed forces would receive
100,000 fresh recruits every year. These would be motivated recruits,
having chosen the military over other, less demanding forms of
service."

"less demanding." This is a stupid argument. Less deadly certainly. But it's fucking hard toteach (says a man with no personal experience). It's doubly hard to teach when poorly trained. It's triply hard to teach when the students face challenges beyond the scope of needing to sit still...and verge into severe behavioral problems...and oh, crushing poverty, etc. And it's quadruply hard to do all that while being told that your struggle is worthless. The idea that those things that come easily, or are more easily imagined and less often romanticized are any less important is to think that careers should be chosen based by a trip to Blockbuster. Even if a smart populace wasn't the most important thing we can do to save our selves, it'd be wrong. Work is worthwhile. To get up daily and strive to perform your task, whatever it is, is noble. Just because it's easier to imagine yourself as a teacher than a soldier doesn't make it easier to do. you're right the risks are dramatically different. But for some the structure of the military is familiar and reassuring. and for those people being a free lance writer might be a real chore. for others having their souls crushed by a system that doesn't work and leaves millions of children without the basic tools to function in a society that regards them as spare parts...well that could be rough as well.

jesus.

Work is noble. Sacrifice and passion are heroic. No matter the form, no matter the title.