Friday, June 26, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Bob Dylan was full of shit.
The times, they aren't a-changin'. They're pretty much staying the a-same.
That's not to say petty things don't shift around mid-flight. For example, I'm writing stuff for the ADN Play Blog these days. Little stuff. Like this. It's pretty fun having a soapbox again after the unceremonious demise of gamesforthought.com and the delightful podcast series Jess and I worked up.
Fun as it was, we really needed to do something other than the handful-of-dudes-bulshitting-about-games thing. It felt a bit unispired, and to get any sort of recognition in this vast internet sea, you've gotta be different.
Maybe when that new and unique idea strikes me the times will change a bit. But I'm not holding my breath.
Play me off, Keyboard Cat. No, actually, don't.
Play me off, Tower of Power!
That's not to say petty things don't shift around mid-flight. For example, I'm writing stuff for the ADN Play Blog these days. Little stuff. Like this. It's pretty fun having a soapbox again after the unceremonious demise of gamesforthought.com and the delightful podcast series Jess and I worked up.
Fun as it was, we really needed to do something other than the handful-of-dudes-bulshitting-about-games thing. It felt a bit unispired, and to get any sort of recognition in this vast internet sea, you've gotta be different.
Maybe when that new and unique idea strikes me the times will change a bit. But I'm not holding my breath.
Play me off, Keyboard Cat. No, actually, don't.
Play me off, Tower of Power!
Friday, July 18, 2008
Greyhound
You'd be hard pressed to find a bus worth taking in Anchorage, Alaska. If, say, you were trying to get from Eagle River – my hometown – to downtown, it would cost you $4.50, require at least one transfer, and take upwards of 55 minutes. Including 13 miles of highway with a speed limit of 65 miles per hour, the route covers a distance of about 14 miles. The “People Mover”, as the bus service is called, scarcely moves people, and when it does, it does it slowly. Needless to say, most Alaskans own a car.
So it was quite an event when I stepped aboard my first Greyhound bus in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania en route to Washington D.C. in the summer of 2005. My friend Jesse and I were in PA to see a few Dave Matthews Band concerts and decided to hitch a ride to D.C. to visit my older sister, Jesseca, who worked on Capitol Hill.
Jesse is an odd one. He's the kind of guy who would lose his car key every time he came over to your house – even if only for 10 minutes. It's not forgetfulness, just preoccupation. Anything with moving parts or some mechanical aspect to it inevitably finds its way into Jesse's hands, starting a fidget cycle that lasts until the object either breaks or loses its mystique. He never stops moving. Ever. But he fidgeted slightly less when boarding the Greyhound – neither of us had been to D.C., and we were equally excited.
The Harrisburg Greyhound station was a definitive change of pace compared to the transit stations of downtown Alaska. A whole fleet of buses sat behind a short brick wall with only a few out front to greet passengers. The classic brick architecture, reminiscent of set designs for the play 1776 was off-putting; it seemed to clash with the steel and fiberglass of the buses.
One thing about the station paralleled the bus depots back home, though: the passengers. There was the same diversity, the same general somber attitude, the same awkward tension preventing anyone from speaking to one another. There was the same elderly person whose license had been recently revoked by concerned children, There was the same borderline crazy guy sitting in the back commenting to himself or his standard imaginary friend. And there was Jesse and me; the impoverished under-twenty-somethings without other means of transportation, inevitably plugged into our iPods. Though, can we be blamed for shutting out the world? It's either that or listen to the crazy guy talk.
The bus left the depot at around 6:30 – a bit too early for my taste, but I wasn't the least bit tired. Alaska, while gorgeous, is so limited in its scope of cultural activities. The east coast seemed so rich in history and I was eager to soak up everything it had to offer. I may have plugged my ears, but my eyes were wide open as we tore down the countryside.
There were a lot more trucks than I was used to. It seemed like every other vehicle had more than 14 wheels. Being in the bus, it wasn't too intimidating, but I'd imagine a Toyota Camry would be bowled over by just the wind. We passed farms and mills among other rarities as far as Alaska was concerned – White Castle comes to mind. Passing through smaller towns like York was comforting. The old buildings projected a Rockwellian sensibility that I'd only seen in Leave It to Beaver reruns.
But a few miles later we hit Baltimore. The first real big city I'd seen in the east, it didn't impress. Somehow, my 17-year-old psyche had manifested the notion that everything on the east coast was more “with it” than back home. But the streets were filled with the same yoakums and thugs that littered the streets of Anchorage. The same reactionary Christian diatribes were pasted on billboards and nothing seemed different but the license plates.
We pulled around Union Station in D.C. by two o'clock and met up with my sister, Jesse. After the boilerplate greetings had been exchanged, we walked to my sister's office. Her building was one of the government leased offices that held a few dozen senators and house reps and their respective cronies. We filtered through the metal detectors and took the elevator up to the sixth floor, passing endless suits and briefcases. Friend Jesse and I were introduced to a few of Sister Jesse's cohorts on the hill, mostly Jewish democrats doing research and assisting congressmen while at committee. One of them – a research staffer named Rob – greeted us politely, discussing recent bill propositions he knew we would agree were either abhorrent or hopeful. The four of us left the building, finding a coffee shop that served something cold to alleviate the 94 degree heat and even more formidable humidity.
“So what're you guys doing out here,” Rob asked, sipping an iced latte.
“Well, my folks said my graduation present could be to see Dave in concert and that I could bring a friend. My aunt and uncle live up in Harrisburg, so we found some shows. We saw him up in Scranton two days ago and we've got tickets for the Hershey Park show a day after tomorrow,” replied friend Jesse.
Rob nodded mid sip. Sister Jesse noted the time and that we should head up to her neighborhood. We found the nearest Metro station and headed down the escalator. We stepped onto the narrow escalator platform and began to ride down. Friend Jesse and I were standing next to each other, with me on the left as the stairs descended.
“MOVE IT, KID!” yelled a voice behind my head. A stocky man with hair greasier than Rob Lowe's and a suit that looked more expensive than any of my guitars shoved me to the right and hurried down the escalator.
“Stay on the right, Seth,” my sister snapped, evidently quite embarrassed. Friend Jesse looked at me quizzically and muttered “douchebag” at the now long-gone businessman.
Looking around me on the Metro platform, I saw a similar crowd. It was the same crew from the bus depots, but with an added element: the Business Douche. This species was particularly dominant and had an air of bullshit entitlement about it that made you want to take a shower just after being near it. Constantly emailing on their Blackberrys. Talking not to themselves like the crazed people of the bus, but seeming to as they gabbed incessantly into Bluetooth headsets. There were businessmen and women in Anchorage. They hurried about and drank their lattes, but the sense of superiority didn't hold a candle to the way this east coast breed carried themselves. Their Ivy League was tangibly poisonous and it was slowly suffocating me.
I'd been in Washington for three hours.
A more careful adventure up the escalator and we were in Adams Morgan. The district was lively, full of Hookah bars, odd book shops, overpriced restaurants and underliquored bars. It was definitely a liberal place. Flowing skirts and thick dreadlocks wearing Che Guevara t-shirts were abundant. But beneath this neo-Marxist facade lay a paranoid insecurity. The people were mostly under 30, and yet they looked much older, hardened and wrinkled by the grind of commuting via subway to jobs they hate. The limitless idealism they still outwardly project is being stifled. A look in their eyes and you could tell they had sold their souls to the people they fought against since puberty. It was disheartening to say the least.
We made it to Sister Jesse's apartment and tossed our stuff on the floor, exhausted from travel. Within minutes we were out the door again, heading out to dinner. As we walked towards the main cluster of shops, we tried to compromise on where to eat.
“How can you not like Indian food?!” my sister shrieked in disbelief.
“I'm not really a curry guy and it's all so riddled with curry,” I replied.
“There's got to be something without curry, man,” said Friend Jesse.
“Alright, well, since you aren't cultured enough to like Indian food, we'll go somewhere safer,” mocked my sister. “I know a good place.”
Nestled behind a bookstore that sold books with at least 10% markup was a restaurant with a line of about 12 people waiting to be seated. After about 35 minutes, we got a seat in a corner where we'd be lucky to see a waiter before the year was out and perused the menu – nothing under $20, few dishes with English names and save the steak, nothing sounding remotely appetizing. I ordered it medium rare and hoped for the best.
“So what're you gonna do after high school?” my sister asked me.
“I dunno. I want to write. I want to make things. Music, art, poetry. Whatever.”
“That's it? That's your plan?”
“Well, I guess I'll get a degree in something.”
“Yeah, but where?”
“I guess UAA. It's as good as anyplace.”
“No it's not.”
“Well, you went there, Jesse. You got your political science degree at UAA.”
“Yeah, and now I'm at American for grad school,” she replied. She was pleased with herself for being able to say that.
“Okay.” I chewed my steak. It was good – not $23 good, mind you, but it was good. $16.50, maybe – with a side dish.
Friend Jesse was entrenched in his food and willing to stay out of the conversation that was getting more and more uncomfortable.
“So what are you going to major in?” Sister Jesse asked.
“I don't know. Music. English, maybe?”
“Wow...That'll bring home the bacon.”
“And what does that matter?” I was getting noticeably riled up.
“You have to make money to survive, Seth!”
“Yes, I know, Jesse. I can make money. There are ways.”
“You're going to have to figure these things out eventually, you know.”
“You're right, Jesse. I'm going to have to figure out how to be a contributing member of the intellectual society that you're so fond of, aren't I? “Step one: Pay too damn much for college where out of touch professors who should've retired years ago but cling to tenure like stink on shit rant needlessly about things they barely understand. Step two: Pray I don't kill myself by 30.” I was barely in my chair
“I didn't say anything like that!”
“Jesse, I don't want your life. I don't want to do what you and dad think I ought to do. It's not me.”
“Fine, do what you want.”
“I will.”
“Fine!”
“Fine,” I said, digging back into my steak.
Friend Jesse's eyes darted back and forth between the two of us, both of our heads buried in our expensive plates.
After an uneasy night on the couch, Friend Jesse and I said our goodbyes and took a bus back to Union Station to catch the Greyhound back to Harrisburg. We got our tickets and boarded, taking our seats among the regular bus crew – the self-talker, the elderly. iPods fully charged, we headed back to Pennsylvania.
I listened to Dave. His new album, “Stand Up”, was incredible. Lively, energetic, evocative. But it wasn't satisfying. So I changed to some Ryan Adams. It cured me.
The east coast was certainly interesting. Full of “culture”.
I don't think I'll go back.
So it was quite an event when I stepped aboard my first Greyhound bus in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania en route to Washington D.C. in the summer of 2005. My friend Jesse and I were in PA to see a few Dave Matthews Band concerts and decided to hitch a ride to D.C. to visit my older sister, Jesseca, who worked on Capitol Hill.
Jesse is an odd one. He's the kind of guy who would lose his car key every time he came over to your house – even if only for 10 minutes. It's not forgetfulness, just preoccupation. Anything with moving parts or some mechanical aspect to it inevitably finds its way into Jesse's hands, starting a fidget cycle that lasts until the object either breaks or loses its mystique. He never stops moving. Ever. But he fidgeted slightly less when boarding the Greyhound – neither of us had been to D.C., and we were equally excited.
The Harrisburg Greyhound station was a definitive change of pace compared to the transit stations of downtown Alaska. A whole fleet of buses sat behind a short brick wall with only a few out front to greet passengers. The classic brick architecture, reminiscent of set designs for the play 1776 was off-putting; it seemed to clash with the steel and fiberglass of the buses.
One thing about the station paralleled the bus depots back home, though: the passengers. There was the same diversity, the same general somber attitude, the same awkward tension preventing anyone from speaking to one another. There was the same elderly person whose license had been recently revoked by concerned children, There was the same borderline crazy guy sitting in the back commenting to himself or his standard imaginary friend. And there was Jesse and me; the impoverished under-twenty-somethings without other means of transportation, inevitably plugged into our iPods. Though, can we be blamed for shutting out the world? It's either that or listen to the crazy guy talk.
The bus left the depot at around 6:30 – a bit too early for my taste, but I wasn't the least bit tired. Alaska, while gorgeous, is so limited in its scope of cultural activities. The east coast seemed so rich in history and I was eager to soak up everything it had to offer. I may have plugged my ears, but my eyes were wide open as we tore down the countryside.
There were a lot more trucks than I was used to. It seemed like every other vehicle had more than 14 wheels. Being in the bus, it wasn't too intimidating, but I'd imagine a Toyota Camry would be bowled over by just the wind. We passed farms and mills among other rarities as far as Alaska was concerned – White Castle comes to mind. Passing through smaller towns like York was comforting. The old buildings projected a Rockwellian sensibility that I'd only seen in Leave It to Beaver reruns.
But a few miles later we hit Baltimore. The first real big city I'd seen in the east, it didn't impress. Somehow, my 17-year-old psyche had manifested the notion that everything on the east coast was more “with it” than back home. But the streets were filled with the same yoakums and thugs that littered the streets of Anchorage. The same reactionary Christian diatribes were pasted on billboards and nothing seemed different but the license plates.
We pulled around Union Station in D.C. by two o'clock and met up with my sister, Jesse. After the boilerplate greetings had been exchanged, we walked to my sister's office. Her building was one of the government leased offices that held a few dozen senators and house reps and their respective cronies. We filtered through the metal detectors and took the elevator up to the sixth floor, passing endless suits and briefcases. Friend Jesse and I were introduced to a few of Sister Jesse's cohorts on the hill, mostly Jewish democrats doing research and assisting congressmen while at committee. One of them – a research staffer named Rob – greeted us politely, discussing recent bill propositions he knew we would agree were either abhorrent or hopeful. The four of us left the building, finding a coffee shop that served something cold to alleviate the 94 degree heat and even more formidable humidity.
“So what're you guys doing out here,” Rob asked, sipping an iced latte.
“Well, my folks said my graduation present could be to see Dave in concert and that I could bring a friend. My aunt and uncle live up in Harrisburg, so we found some shows. We saw him up in Scranton two days ago and we've got tickets for the Hershey Park show a day after tomorrow,” replied friend Jesse.
Rob nodded mid sip. Sister Jesse noted the time and that we should head up to her neighborhood. We found the nearest Metro station and headed down the escalator. We stepped onto the narrow escalator platform and began to ride down. Friend Jesse and I were standing next to each other, with me on the left as the stairs descended.
“MOVE IT, KID!” yelled a voice behind my head. A stocky man with hair greasier than Rob Lowe's and a suit that looked more expensive than any of my guitars shoved me to the right and hurried down the escalator.
“Stay on the right, Seth,” my sister snapped, evidently quite embarrassed. Friend Jesse looked at me quizzically and muttered “douchebag” at the now long-gone businessman.
Looking around me on the Metro platform, I saw a similar crowd. It was the same crew from the bus depots, but with an added element: the Business Douche. This species was particularly dominant and had an air of bullshit entitlement about it that made you want to take a shower just after being near it. Constantly emailing on their Blackberrys. Talking not to themselves like the crazed people of the bus, but seeming to as they gabbed incessantly into Bluetooth headsets. There were businessmen and women in Anchorage. They hurried about and drank their lattes, but the sense of superiority didn't hold a candle to the way this east coast breed carried themselves. Their Ivy League was tangibly poisonous and it was slowly suffocating me.
I'd been in Washington for three hours.
A more careful adventure up the escalator and we were in Adams Morgan. The district was lively, full of Hookah bars, odd book shops, overpriced restaurants and underliquored bars. It was definitely a liberal place. Flowing skirts and thick dreadlocks wearing Che Guevara t-shirts were abundant. But beneath this neo-Marxist facade lay a paranoid insecurity. The people were mostly under 30, and yet they looked much older, hardened and wrinkled by the grind of commuting via subway to jobs they hate. The limitless idealism they still outwardly project is being stifled. A look in their eyes and you could tell they had sold their souls to the people they fought against since puberty. It was disheartening to say the least.
We made it to Sister Jesse's apartment and tossed our stuff on the floor, exhausted from travel. Within minutes we were out the door again, heading out to dinner. As we walked towards the main cluster of shops, we tried to compromise on where to eat.
“How can you not like Indian food?!” my sister shrieked in disbelief.
“I'm not really a curry guy and it's all so riddled with curry,” I replied.
“There's got to be something without curry, man,” said Friend Jesse.
“Alright, well, since you aren't cultured enough to like Indian food, we'll go somewhere safer,” mocked my sister. “I know a good place.”
Nestled behind a bookstore that sold books with at least 10% markup was a restaurant with a line of about 12 people waiting to be seated. After about 35 minutes, we got a seat in a corner where we'd be lucky to see a waiter before the year was out and perused the menu – nothing under $20, few dishes with English names and save the steak, nothing sounding remotely appetizing. I ordered it medium rare and hoped for the best.
“So what're you gonna do after high school?” my sister asked me.
“I dunno. I want to write. I want to make things. Music, art, poetry. Whatever.”
“That's it? That's your plan?”
“Well, I guess I'll get a degree in something.”
“Yeah, but where?”
“I guess UAA. It's as good as anyplace.”
“No it's not.”
“Well, you went there, Jesse. You got your political science degree at UAA.”
“Yeah, and now I'm at American for grad school,” she replied. She was pleased with herself for being able to say that.
“Okay.” I chewed my steak. It was good – not $23 good, mind you, but it was good. $16.50, maybe – with a side dish.
Friend Jesse was entrenched in his food and willing to stay out of the conversation that was getting more and more uncomfortable.
“So what are you going to major in?” Sister Jesse asked.
“I don't know. Music. English, maybe?”
“Wow...That'll bring home the bacon.”
“And what does that matter?” I was getting noticeably riled up.
“You have to make money to survive, Seth!”
“Yes, I know, Jesse. I can make money. There are ways.”
“You're going to have to figure these things out eventually, you know.”
“You're right, Jesse. I'm going to have to figure out how to be a contributing member of the intellectual society that you're so fond of, aren't I? “Step one: Pay too damn much for college where out of touch professors who should've retired years ago but cling to tenure like stink on shit rant needlessly about things they barely understand. Step two: Pray I don't kill myself by 30.” I was barely in my chair
“I didn't say anything like that!”
“Jesse, I don't want your life. I don't want to do what you and dad think I ought to do. It's not me.”
“Fine, do what you want.”
“I will.”
“Fine!”
“Fine,” I said, digging back into my steak.
Friend Jesse's eyes darted back and forth between the two of us, both of our heads buried in our expensive plates.
After an uneasy night on the couch, Friend Jesse and I said our goodbyes and took a bus back to Union Station to catch the Greyhound back to Harrisburg. We got our tickets and boarded, taking our seats among the regular bus crew – the self-talker, the elderly. iPods fully charged, we headed back to Pennsylvania.
I listened to Dave. His new album, “Stand Up”, was incredible. Lively, energetic, evocative. But it wasn't satisfying. So I changed to some Ryan Adams. It cured me.
The east coast was certainly interesting. Full of “culture”.
I don't think I'll go back.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Obama Campaign response to FISA vote (Never gonna give you up)
Like most twenty-something tech nerds with a affinity for political involvement, I was distraught by Barack Obama's - to use my words - pussy-ass bitch vote to approve FISA this week. Also like so many others, I expressed my displeasure for this Congressional bend-over-and-take-it-in-the-ass action by sending an slightly drunk and angry email to the Obama campaign.
It went a little something like this:
Belligerent? Yes. Passionate? Definitely. Sexy? Well it's me, so...fuck yes.
Anyway, his campaign responded as such:
A part of me (the really pissed off, constitutionalist part) wanted Obama to not respond to this at all and prove himself a true, typical political suit, but instead it's clear he drafted an eloquent response to the countless other angry messages regarding FISA, one that speaks to most of the concerns I had.
Do I wish he would've voted nay due to the retroactive immunity clauses? Yes. But I give the man major points for being pretty damn honest about his reasoning for voting the way he did.
And one last thing. Bash Obama for approving FISA and I'll agree it was a lame-ass move, but be plenty pissed off at the countless other spineless Democrats that approved this bulshit. Obama wasn't the only one grabbing his ankles.
Long live Chris Dodd.
It went a little something like this:
I've just watched Senator Obama help pass an unamended FISA bill, in stark contrast to his claimed progressive stance on technology and privacy issues. I'm supremely disappointed by such actions and will not be donating to the campaign again. I had planned to volunteer for the Obama campaign in Alaska - a state I'm sure the campaign hopes to take in an underdog win this fall - but now I'm unsure I wish to contribute to or be affiliated with a campaign unwilling to stand up for the Constitution or defy telecoms. I know I'm not alone here. Obama's tech-savvy 20-something base is rather pissed off. And so am I.
Belligerent? Yes. Passionate? Definitely. Sexy? Well it's me, so...fuck yes.
Anyway, his campaign responded as such:
Dear Friend,
Thank you for contacting us and sharing your strong feelings about this important issue. Please find a statement from Senator Obama below.
We appreciate hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Obama for America,
---
Given the grave threats that we face, our national security agencies must have the capability to gather intelligence and track down terrorists before they strike, while respecting the rule of law and the privacy and civil liberties of the American people. There is also little doubt that the Bush Administration, with the cooperation of major telecommunications companies, has abused that authority and undermined the Constitution by intercepting the communications of innocent Americans without their knowledge or the required court orders.
That is why last year I opposed the so-called Protect America Act, which expanded the surveillance powers of the government without sufficient independent oversight to protect the privacy and civil liberties of innocent Americans. I have also opposed the granting of retroactive immunity to those who were allegedly complicit in acts of illegal spying in the past.
After months of negotiation, the House passed a compromise that, while far from perfect, is a marked improvement over last year's Protect America Act. Under this compromise legislation, an important tool in the fight against terrorism will continue, but the President's illegal program of warrantless surveillance will be over. It restores FISA and existing criminal wiretap statutes as the exclusive means to conduct surveillance - making it clear that the President cannot circumvent the law and disregard the civil liberties of the American people. It also firmly re-establishes basic judicial oversight over all domestic surveillance in the future.
It does, however, grant retroactive immunity, and I voted in the Senate three times to remove this provision so that we could seek full accountability for past offenses. Unfortunately, these attempts were unsuccessful. But this compromise guarantees a thorough review by the Inspectors General of our national security agencies to determine what took place in the past, and ensures that there will be accountability going forward. By demanding oversight and accountability, a grassroots movement of Americans has helped yield a bill that is far better than the Protect America Act.
It is not all that I would want. But given the legitimate threats we face, providing effective intelligence collection tools with appropriate safeguards is too important to delay. So I support the compromise, but do so with a firm pledge that as President, I will carefully monitor the program, review the report by the Inspectors General, and work with the Congress to take any additional steps I deem necessary to protect the lives - and the liberty - of the American people.
----------------------
Paid for by Obama for America
A part of me (the really pissed off, constitutionalist part) wanted Obama to not respond to this at all and prove himself a true, typical political suit, but instead it's clear he drafted an eloquent response to the countless other angry messages regarding FISA, one that speaks to most of the concerns I had.
Do I wish he would've voted nay due to the retroactive immunity clauses? Yes. But I give the man major points for being pretty damn honest about his reasoning for voting the way he did.
And one last thing. Bash Obama for approving FISA and I'll agree it was a lame-ass move, but be plenty pissed off at the countless other spineless Democrats that approved this bulshit. Obama wasn't the only one grabbing his ankles.
Long live Chris Dodd.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
The Order of the Alphabet
I was tremendously bored the other day when it dawned on me: who got to decide the order of the alphabet?
I understand that, historically, Latin and Greek alphabets have influenced western languages greatly, leading to our current set and order of 26 characters. But why does “H” precede “I”? Why does “Y” fall between “X” and “Z”?
Most importantly, I want to know who got to decide the order. I want that guy's job. How great would it be to sit in a den all day just thinking, “Maybe 'P' should go after 'O'. No, wait. Um, yeah. Then 'E' before 'F'. That's the ticket.” Best. Job. Ever.
But I think my desire to be that sit-around-pontificating kind of guy speaks to something Kurt Vonnegut once said: “We are here on Earth to fart around. Don't let anybody tell you any different.” Vonnegut has been called a Luddite – one who hates newfangled contraptions – and responded by embracing the simplicity and beauty of menial tasks such as typing a story on a typewriter or mailing a letter physically in contrast to the largely impersonal way we interact today. While I see and enjoy Vonnegut's point, I have to admit I'm an acolyte of the newfangled. I'm constantly attached to my computer. When the wireless internet connection was down on the UAA campus yesterday for eight hours I felt like my right hand was cut off and I was being forced to write incompetently with my left.
I spend hours playing games with friends, mostly through a network connection using voice chat to communicate. I rarely play Monopoly anymore. No one plays Monopoly anymore. It just takes too long.
But where Vonnegut's point about farting around really hits home is with my desire for a sedentary, detached lifestyle – like the guy who chooses the order of the alphabet. Vonnegut enjoyed the Luddite lifestyle because farting around entailed such humanistic wonders as watching waves cascade into the beach sand, trading niceties with the few remaining pleasant post office employees and embracing a cool breeze in August. You know, all that sappy stuff. But by avoiding the sap altogether, I've created an isolated virtual world of media specialized to barrage me with stimuli all day long. And to be honest, it's draining.
To continue this sedentary lifestyle would be reveling not in my ability to fart around, but my ability to fart in one place. And that's just farting.
I understand that, historically, Latin and Greek alphabets have influenced western languages greatly, leading to our current set and order of 26 characters. But why does “H” precede “I”? Why does “Y” fall between “X” and “Z”?
Most importantly, I want to know who got to decide the order. I want that guy's job. How great would it be to sit in a den all day just thinking, “Maybe 'P' should go after 'O'. No, wait. Um, yeah. Then 'E' before 'F'. That's the ticket.” Best. Job. Ever.
But I think my desire to be that sit-around-pontificating kind of guy speaks to something Kurt Vonnegut once said: “We are here on Earth to fart around. Don't let anybody tell you any different.” Vonnegut has been called a Luddite – one who hates newfangled contraptions – and responded by embracing the simplicity and beauty of menial tasks such as typing a story on a typewriter or mailing a letter physically in contrast to the largely impersonal way we interact today. While I see and enjoy Vonnegut's point, I have to admit I'm an acolyte of the newfangled. I'm constantly attached to my computer. When the wireless internet connection was down on the UAA campus yesterday for eight hours I felt like my right hand was cut off and I was being forced to write incompetently with my left.
I spend hours playing games with friends, mostly through a network connection using voice chat to communicate. I rarely play Monopoly anymore. No one plays Monopoly anymore. It just takes too long.
But where Vonnegut's point about farting around really hits home is with my desire for a sedentary, detached lifestyle – like the guy who chooses the order of the alphabet. Vonnegut enjoyed the Luddite lifestyle because farting around entailed such humanistic wonders as watching waves cascade into the beach sand, trading niceties with the few remaining pleasant post office employees and embracing a cool breeze in August. You know, all that sappy stuff. But by avoiding the sap altogether, I've created an isolated virtual world of media specialized to barrage me with stimuli all day long. And to be honest, it's draining.
To continue this sedentary lifestyle would be reveling not in my ability to fart around, but my ability to fart in one place. And that's just farting.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Holy Balls!
Despite the plethora of words we store in the vocabulary part of our brain, it seems a few stick out more than others, like a song you can't get out of your head.
One of my words is “balls”.
To be clear, there's nothing inappropriate or offensive about the word, in its own right. Balls are perfectly innocent, spheres that may or may not have connotative value with genitalia. The context in which I use the world almost exclusively has nothing to do with the raunchy. It slips out as an exclamatory mostly, often as “Holy Balls!” That's my favorite.
A friend and I run a website. We write posts each weekday, sometimes more often. I did a search through our database for the word “balls”, yielding 20 results. Eighteen were in my posts. I know I'm not the only one to perpetually repeat certain phrases. I'm pretty sure everyone has uttered “that's what she said” more than they'd like to admit.
Perhaps I should ease up on the balls, proverbially speaking.
One of my words is “balls”.
To be clear, there's nothing inappropriate or offensive about the word, in its own right. Balls are perfectly innocent, spheres that may or may not have connotative value with genitalia. The context in which I use the world almost exclusively has nothing to do with the raunchy. It slips out as an exclamatory mostly, often as “Holy Balls!” That's my favorite.
A friend and I run a website. We write posts each weekday, sometimes more often. I did a search through our database for the word “balls”, yielding 20 results. Eighteen were in my posts. I know I'm not the only one to perpetually repeat certain phrases. I'm pretty sure everyone has uttered “that's what she said” more than they'd like to admit.
Perhaps I should ease up on the balls, proverbially speaking.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Gimme a little uproar
Sometimes, I worry. Not the conventional, “afraid of a crazy tearing up your office with an Uzi” sort of worry. Definitely not the “I'm concerned about the state of the nation” sort of worry. That's just silly.
Me? I'm worried about the rising cost of pizza and beer.
Recently, business owners of pizzerias and breweries nationwide have shown increased costs for dough, cheese, wheat and hops, largely due to the plummeting value of the American dollar.
The iconic American pairing of an Italian import and a fine lager have long been considered “recession-proof” commodities, but it seems even the Reaganomic policies of the Bush Administration can't save our nation's dearest food groups from going unscathed.
The devastation doesn't stop there. Even New York hot dogs are being hit by our economic blunders. A stand by the name of Gray's Papaya is planning to jack up the price of its infamous “recession special” - a $3.50 combo with a drink and two dogs. They've yet to set a price, but studies show that whatever it turns out to be, New Yorkers will complain. Loudly.
And who can blame them? We, the starving, emaciated citizens of the malnourished USA need every ounce of mystery meat we can get. God knows what will happen when we're wingless on Super Bowl Sunday! In a world where two hot dogs and a 14oz. soda cost more than $3.50, the Giants could upset the Pats for the championship. Oh, wait...
But the real cultural travesty would be to miss out on another edifying walk down 4th Avenue being berated by slovenly drunks for the Obama sticker on my car. If a twelve pack of Keystone becomes more expensive than those bumper stickers with Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes urinating on something, the rednecks in Anchorage might have to stay home and beat their heads against the wall to become inebriated.
Unfortunately, the increased cost of raw materials will continue to hurt the small microbreweries. You know, the people who make good beer. A sixer of Alaskan Amber better not reach ten dollars.
It's thankful that American citizens will take heed to our economic plight when their favorite commodities reach unnaturally high costs. It's just a shame they don't feel the same way about education. For example, my textbook for one class was almost $200. I want some uproar about that.
Me? I'm worried about the rising cost of pizza and beer.
Recently, business owners of pizzerias and breweries nationwide have shown increased costs for dough, cheese, wheat and hops, largely due to the plummeting value of the American dollar.
The iconic American pairing of an Italian import and a fine lager have long been considered “recession-proof” commodities, but it seems even the Reaganomic policies of the Bush Administration can't save our nation's dearest food groups from going unscathed.
The devastation doesn't stop there. Even New York hot dogs are being hit by our economic blunders. A stand by the name of Gray's Papaya is planning to jack up the price of its infamous “recession special” - a $3.50 combo with a drink and two dogs. They've yet to set a price, but studies show that whatever it turns out to be, New Yorkers will complain. Loudly.
And who can blame them? We, the starving, emaciated citizens of the malnourished USA need every ounce of mystery meat we can get. God knows what will happen when we're wingless on Super Bowl Sunday! In a world where two hot dogs and a 14oz. soda cost more than $3.50, the Giants could upset the Pats for the championship. Oh, wait...
But the real cultural travesty would be to miss out on another edifying walk down 4th Avenue being berated by slovenly drunks for the Obama sticker on my car. If a twelve pack of Keystone becomes more expensive than those bumper stickers with Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes urinating on something, the rednecks in Anchorage might have to stay home and beat their heads against the wall to become inebriated.
Unfortunately, the increased cost of raw materials will continue to hurt the small microbreweries. You know, the people who make good beer. A sixer of Alaskan Amber better not reach ten dollars.
It's thankful that American citizens will take heed to our economic plight when their favorite commodities reach unnaturally high costs. It's just a shame they don't feel the same way about education. For example, my textbook for one class was almost $200. I want some uproar about that.
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