Heart and Mind

It Depends

There's this game that's been around for a while called "Scruples." The players of the game are supposed to answer ethical and moral questions, and that always makes for interesting discussions. So it's fun to read the questions and discuss them. However, any attempt I've ever made to actually play Scruples as a game has turned out to be a bit of a let down. I mean, there are lots of things I like doing, but trying to turn these things into a board game would not be too successful.

In the Scruples game, people are asked these ethical questions. Here's an example of a typical one...

While drinking in an out-of-the-way bar, you see a friend's spouse having a romantic tête-à-tête. Do you mention it to your friend?
Now, basically, the game involves the players having to determine how the other players would respond to this. (I'm oversimplifying things here, but that 's OK...this blog entry is not supposed to be an instruction manual nor a commercial for the game. If you really want to know exactly how it's played, visit the Scruples Game website.)

Anyway, when determining how someone would respond, you have cards to represent three possible answers:

1. Yes
2. No
3. Depends

Now, here is the problem. While I've certainly come across questions that for me are definite "Yes" or definite "No," a disproportionate amount of them are "Depends." Most things in life depend. Even things that seem cut and dry often have exceptions. Things can always "depend."

Using the example above, I may have a knee-jerk "yes" or "no" answer, but faced with that situation in real-life, it really would "depend": Who is this friend? How close of a friend is this person? Close friend? Acquaintance? How comfortable am I with this friend? How would this friend react? Is it better he find out from me, or better he not know? How well do I know the spouse? Do I like the spouse? Is the spouse well-treated by my friend? And what the heck am I doing drinking at a bar, anyway? (I don't like bars much and I am a teetotaler...so that's kind of a joke there. But there is value to it, because perhaps the person answering the question would be drunk and not in a position to judge. Anyway...)

There are certainly situations where I would tell the friend immediately. And there certainly are situations that I would opt to mind my own business. It depends.

What I found when playing the Scruples as a game is that there are too many questions where the answer is "depends." And if I don't feel that way to begin with, someone who has a vested interest (for gain in the game) in having me answer with the "depends" card can almost always suggest a situation where it's possible. Even something as crazy as...

Would you knock your own grandmother down in the street?

...which is an obvious "no," could well become a "yes," if you said, "Would you do so to keep her from getting run over by a bus?" OK, that's a stretch, but it shows how there can be extenuating circumstances to everything... how things can become "depends."

Well, there's a larger point here, which is ultimately the point of this blog entry, and it's not about the game of Scruples. It's about blanket statements of belief and such. Like when people always support Republicans because they think of themselves as Republicans. Or the same thing works with Democrats. Or with religion. Or with any large, societal issue. People like to say, "I'm pro-this" or "I'm pro-that" or "I'm anti-this" or "I'm anti-that." Now if you're talking about chunky peanut butter vs. smooth, that's one thing, but once you get to real-life "big" issues, there usually ISN'T one global answer to what's right or wrong in every situation. Because most things "depend" on the situation. I understand when people say, "I'm usually pro-this," but too many people just follow the label that they give themselves and don't consider individual context. (And sometimes people say they will consider situational things, but they really don't, because they derive a sense of power from their label.) When people just follow one code, it's just mindless, unintelligent, narrow-scoped dogma at work. I suggest people think for themselves, but that seems to be difficult for many. I guess that's why dogma—religious, political, what-have-you—was invented to begin with.

posted by Steve @ 9:45 AM 0 comments

Saving Face

OK, I've got this problem here...

Well, it's not really so much of a problem as it is an issue of minor import that seems like more of a problem than it is because lacks a solution.

The non-problem is that I have become bored with my face.

You see, if you harken back to September of 2005, you'll find this musing. It was the second posting here on the blog, and some might argue the first "real" entry since the actual first one was a welcome message of sorts. (For the record, I'm not one of those people. I think of it as the second posting.)

Anyway, that post described above was called "A Close Shave—Facial Hair Musings.") You do not need to read it to proceed here, but, naturally, I would encourage you to do so. Hell, read 'em all!

So that musing discusses how I had recently shaved a beard off and about how it was the first time in five years I had done that. It also was only the third or fourth time I had done so in the 10 years leading up to that point.

I discussed how I still liked the beard, but I didn't want to be "one of those people who is afraid to shave," or one of those people who friends never see without their trademark facial hair. And I also said I liked growing scruff and "playing around and growing different things in and out."

Well, over the last two-and-a-half years, I have lived by those words, and done so in a big way. I grew the beard back and shaved it off more times in those few years than I had for 10 years prior. I grew it long, I kept it short. I grew lots and lots of stubble. I maintained stubble, like a really short beard. I grew side burns that ranged from "extremely huge" to a size that I called "small-ish," but my wife describes as, "You think they're small, but they still look freakishly long...and you have to remove those points." I grew lots of soul patches and several horse-shoe mustaches. I grew 'em thick and long and small and cropped. I even very briefly had a handlebar mustache with little twists at the end and also a "civil war style" beard, where the chin is shaved out, like Lemmy from Motorhead's famous look. (Although no goatees, van dykes, or 80s-mustaches; I don't like those for me.)

And it's been fun. And since around January of this year, I had had the beard back, which was the longest I kept one during this particular two-year stretch. And then I shaved it off last weekend. And that brings us to today and the issue I have...

I am bored with my face. I am clean shaven now, but I don't love it like I did when I first went clean shaven a while back. I like the beard, but I haven't been loving it like I used to back in the day. I still like the stubble, but it seems kind of pointless to always be stuck in-between the two extremes all the time. The horse-shoe mustache is cool, but it can't be a permanent fixture 365-a-year on me. So, I don't really know what to do. When I was a kid, I was a dude without a beard. As an adult, I've been an official "guy with a beard." These days, I have no idea what I am or what I should be in this department. But I don't really like my face so much.

And that's probably what it comes down to. I'm getting older, my face is probably looking worse. We rarely get better looking as we age. I'm not sure what to do with my face these days.

This may change, but for now, I am bored of my face.

posted by Steve @ 4:29 PM 0 comments

Dirtbags

Do you guys know what a dirtbag is?

Whenever I look for a definition, I come up with all sorts of things that don't hit the mark, at least as the word relates to my experiences.

Wikipedia says, "Dirtbag is a general term for a filthy or dirty person."

Maybe in a very general sense it's true that you could use the word to describe a dirty person. And sometimes I've heard people use the term to describe an unethical, con-artist who can't be trusted, as in, "That guy is a real dirtbag. You don't want to do business with him."

But where I come from—and I come from Long Island in the 1980s—a dirtbag was much more specific a term than that.

For starters, although "dirtbag" was often used as a derisive term, it didn't have to be. As often as not, it was merely a label to identify a reasonably large sub-culture within our schools. It was not unlike the terms "jock" (an athletic type), "brain" (a successful academic sort), or "freak" (gothy, theatre-major type). And while all those terms are derisive at their core, they really weren't. Sure, "jocks" were referred to as such because of a smelly athletic support intended to protect male genitalia, but they weren't offended by that. They knew it just meant that people saw them as athletic, which they liked.

Similarly, most dirtbags knew they were dirtbags and, frankly, were proud of it. That's because being a dirtbag was a lifestyle, attitude, and image that they voluntarily subscribed to. Most dirtbags I knew loved being dirtbags. Especially the guys.

So where I come from, dirtbag was simply a noun. Like "redhead," it had adjective-like origins, but the red-headed person became a noun in the form of a redhead. And people know what a redhead is. Similarly, people knew what a dirtbag was.

So, let's define a dirtbag.

For starters, in the 1980s, dirtbags listened to heavy metal. There isn't a lot of wiggle room on this one. If you were into Depeche Mode or REM or even Tom Petty, you really couldn't have been in the dirtbag fraternity. Dirtbags liked metal. End of story. But not just any metal...

The male dirtbags did not like any of the metal that you saw on "Dial MTV." Bands that have become known as "hair bands" in retrospect were NOT RESPECTED. They were considered poseur metal or false metal. Your Bon Jovis, Cinderellas, and, believe it or not, even Guns 'n' Roses at the time (Guns didn't gain universal acceptance and appreciation until after the fact) were all considered watered-down, glammy, non-metal. Dirtbags liked "real metal" and would denounce anything for being "too soft." In the mid-to-late 1980s, dirtbags dug bands that didn't wear lots of makeup and hairspray, like Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, pre-...And Justice-Metallica, Overkill, Metal Church, early Queensryche, and bands of that ilk. And, before those bands broke, in the very early 1980s, it was bands like Rush and AC/DC. I mean, we're talking about an era before AC/DC was played at weddings and before Geddy Lee cut his hair.

Now, with the females, there was a notable exception with the music. It was still "metal," but the girls were able to be into Bon Jovi and post-Shout at the Devil-Motlely Crue without being ridiculed by other dirtbags. Those were acceptable as "chick bands."

Imagewise, not surprisingly, dirtbags generally followed a code of attire and presentation that was based largely on their musical mentors. For the guys: long hair, jeans that looked well-worn and not too nice, an earring in the left ear (this was before it was acceptable for anyone to pierce his ear), and a black concert T-shirt shirt featuring one of the approved bands on the front and with their tour dates on the back. Not, of course, that you would usually be able to see those tour dates that often, because the dirtbags often wore their denim jackets all day long, even in school where it was 100 degrees. These jackets had patches on them, like ones that said, "Metallica Alcoholica," and sometimes pins. Oh, and if you were a real tried-and-true dirtbag, you paid someone to paint some album cover (or 12-inch single cover featuring Iron Maiden's Eddie) on the back of your jacket. They even started making giant patches for the back of your denim jacket when dirtbag culture caught on, so people who had parents who wouldn't let them wreck their clothes could get in on the fun without actually ruining the jacket with a non-removable paint job. But that was purely for wanna-be dirtbags, not authentic ones.

For the girls, they usually wore the concert tees in the "chick-metal" variety, high hair, and pants that were very, very tight. I recall that this was very exciting stuff back then. Sometimes the pants were those stretchy-type jeans, and sometimes it was spandex.

Attitude-wise, dirtbags were tough and cursed a lot and they usually were not academics, although there were a few exceptions here and there. They usually all hung out with each other, and exclusively with each other, and they almost always smoked! Frankly, it wasn't until I was in college that I learned that there actually were smokers out there my age that weren't dirtbags. Almost all the people I knew in high school who smoked were dirtbags.

Dirtbags usually were kind of outcasts and considered by teachers and such to be misfits, but I found most of them, particularly the girls, to be very approachable and amicable.

I kind of liked dirtbags. I was sort of a wanna-be dirtbag, because I dug Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, and Finger's Metal Shop, and I was always fighting parental pressure to cut my hair. But I was never a real dirtbag, because I abhorred smoking and I kind of cared about doing well in school. I would have no cred with the real dirtbags, but I found them much more to my liking than other social cliques like the jocks and the preps, who, like the dirtbags, I kind of saw as my adversaries.

And before we go, a word about Iron Maiden...

Have you ever heard the song, "Teenage Dirtbag?" When I first heard that tune, I was floored, because the line, "I'm just a teenage dirtbag, baby," caught my ear, but the next line was so apropos: "I listen to Iron Maiden, baby!" And it was at that point that I was not at all surprised to learn that the song's composer was from Long Island. That guy GOT IT! He knew. Listening to Iron Maiden was almost like the most common unifier among all dirtbags. It was like the soundtrack to the dirtbag bible or something. Dirtbags used to sometimes double-up on the Maiden, wearing their "Aces High" t-shirt and smothering it with their denim jacket with the "Live After Death" album cover on the back.

I think this sums it up well... I was on my bike listening to my Walkman one fine day in 10th grade when I stopped and found myself chatting with someone I can't remember and someone they knew, and this guy was a notorious dirtbag. A real "drop out of school when I turn 16" kind of guy! He looked at me and asked, "What are you listening to?"

"Children of the Damned," I replied, saying nothing more then those four words

Now, that's not a band. That's a song, and not even a single or anything like that. That was an album track. Normally you'd reply by giving the name of the band, but I knew it was absolutely unnecessary to do that. He would know. He would know that I was referring to, "Children of the Damned," the second track on side one of the seminal (metal-heads like that word) 1982 Number of the Beast album, between "Invaders" and "Prisoner." I knew he would know that.

And he did. And he was pleased. And so was I.

posted by Steve @ 2:07 PM 2 comments

Old Sneakers, Old Clothes, and a Story About My Leather Jacket

In my twenties, I noticed something interesting. I was starting to have a large backlog of old sneakers. When I'd wear out my regular sneakers—the ones I tend to wear daily or close to it—I would buy new ones and I'd hold onto the old ones with the thought that I'd use them for mowing the lawn or other dirty tasks. And I did use them for mowing the lawn and such, but I started having a lot of sneakers floating around that had been earmarked for that kind of use.

Now this had never happened when I was growing up because I was...well...growing. The shelf life of any sneaker was limited to a year or so because I'd be in a different size. Kids are forced to buy new clothes.

This brings up a geeky dilemma, because, in fact, the opposite is also true, which is that adults—who have stopped growing—don't usually need to buy new clothes (except for perhaps larger waist bands in their jeans, but that's not even true of everybody). So we can get pretty darn unfashionable because our clothes will go out of style and we might not stop wearing them on account of the fact that they still fit.

I think I had this problem to a degree in the mid-nineties, and I have to be aware of this still today. I'm not style-conscious enough to be paying attention and I don't really care, but I do care a little bit because... well, let's face it... it's cool not to be a slave to fashion, but you don't want to be the dude wearing the polyester leisure suit, either. A conscious, non-trendy, personal sense of individualistic style is cool, but simply looking outdated because the world has passed you by and left you ignorant to what you look like is not so much.

I think about this when I think about my leather jacket. It is really getting old, but I still wear it. I ask my wife about it, saying, "You know, this jacket is fifteen years old. Are you sure it is still OK?" My fear is that I unknowingly look like the guy wearing the "Member's Only" jacket or something (which brings to mind the line in Shallow Hal directed at the George Constanza character, "What are you, like, the last member?"). My wife tells me that it's OK, saying, "It's kind of a basic leather jacket, so it's a pretty timeless sort of look." I hope she's right.

I got that jacket in December of 1993. It was our second Christmas together and Sue was planning on getting me a leather jacket. I debated on whether I should get the biker-style one or the more conservative-looking one. On the one hand, I was playing in bands and still was young enough to sort of fancy myself a bit rebellious and, for that reason, I was thinking the biker-style one was in order. On the other hand, though, I was also twenty-two, just graduated from college, and pretty much had come to terms with the fact that I am not a guy with a "biker" sort of attitude and perhaps not so rebellious after all.

Funny thing is, it came down to price. The biker one was cheaper and she/we didn't have the money back in those days to spend lavishly on gifts for each other. The fact that it was $100 instead of $150 was kind of substantial back then when it came to gift giving. So, since it was a toss up anyway, she went with the more economical one. When I got it, we talked about it, and although I liked it, it was a little small on me. So seeing as how we had to make an exchange anyway, I made an offer to her to let me pay the extra $50 and lets return it for the one without the big lapels and chains. So we got a more basic looking leather jacket. I figured it would be more accessible to my needs as I aged in a post-college world. Still, I had no idea how true that would be.

I wore it today. I will wear it tomorrow. I wear it all winter-long, every winter. It seems unbelievable to me that I am still wearing it all these years later. I could never have imagined that the discussion we had about returning the biker-jacket would have such far reaching effects and that I'd be discussing things related to my life at 36 and all that is associated with it now.

posted by Steve @ 11:00 PM 0 comments

When Old Stuff Keeps Getting Older

On this blog, as all my (many, many, many) readers know, I like to talk about stuff related to the passage of time. It's an endless source of inspiration. And I've always been really comfortable with the idea that things get old and dated.

What I realized lately is that I'm starting to get a little uncomfortable with the fact that stuff that I have always considered "old" does, in fact, keep getting even older. It's becoming even more quaint and, disturbingly, closer to extinction.

Let's take something like "the sixties," speaking in just very general terms. The sixties, to me—unlike the eighties or to a certain degree the seventies—has been something that always seemed old and dated to me. I wasn't alive in the sixties and saw nothing first hand. So anything that came from that era—the Beatles, hippies, John F. Kennedy, the Dick Van Dyke show—always seemed dated to me, like something from a different era. Because for someone born in 1971, it always was. And that was totally cool with me, because I like that sort of thing.

But if that stuff seemed old-fashioned to me in 1988, I didn't stop to really think about how it would just continue to get older. It's now twenty years later and it's gone from being old to really old, and that saddens me a bit. I was comfortable with the idea that Beatles and hippies and other young stallions of the sixties were, when I was growing up, actually aging, middle-aged squares, but I am finding myself uncomfortable with the idea that they are now retired and "senior citizen" in nature. Where will they be twenty years from now? Do the math.

I was watching "The Partridge Family" the other day (that's a subject for another blog entry) and had the same kind of thoughts. Yes, in the eighties I found it amusing and interesting that the young Keith with his hip, shag 'cut and 70s lingo was, in fact, no longer the teenager he was playing but was, in fact, in his thirties. And in the nineties, I found it cool that he was in his forties. But it seems odd to me that he's almost sixty now. Keith Partridge should not be sixty, as he will be in less than two years.

Time just marches on. Like with the Beatles, John Lennon was killed when I was about nine, so I have always accepted the idea that one of the members of one of my cherished bands was gone, but there was this sense that the other three would remain. When George Harrison passed on, that was really weird. There was a joke (in poor taste, mind you) I used to hear that went, "What would it take for a Beatles reunion?" Answer: "Three more bullets." It bothers me a lot that that punchline makes no sense anymore. I had accepted the Beatles as a 3 and 1 thing, not a 2 and 2 thing.

I guess what ultimately is unsettling is the idea that cherished pieces of past lore and nostalgia will likely continue to become more and more obscure—even more so than it is already—and much of it will be forgotten. It all points to a certain insignificance of everything. It's the idea that only a few generations actually cross paths in this world.

posted by Steve @ 10:27 PM 0 comments

Finishing the Book

I've noticed something quite peculiar. Whenever I'm reading a book, even if I'm enjoying it, I seem to have my mind set on finishing it. I'm always looking towards the end as a goal: "Only 120 pages to go.... How quickly can I finish this?"

This makes little sense to me, because if I'm enjoying the book, I should want it to last. When I'm watching a good television program, I have a sense of disappointment when it's over. I don't want it to end. But with books, even when I've just started them, I seem to be wishing they were finished.

Perhaps it's because there is more of a sense of accomplishment in completing a book read. Or perhaps it's because I have had many books throughout the years that I started but never actually finished. Perhaps it's because I am often reading multiple books at one time and want to simplify. Or perhaps it's because I became conditioned to think this way because of all the reading assignments we had—either in the form of text-book chapters, novels, or otherwise—as students growing up. The funny thing is that although I love to read now, I found the concept of reading assignments in school horrible and, in hindsight, I still think they were a rotten proposition. In short, I only enjoy reading if I read what *I* want to read, not what some school curriculum tells me I should read. In other words, I say now that "I love to read," but that's only because I'm the one who is picking out what I am reading!

Personally, I only read non-fiction. I don't read any fiction whatsoever. I haven't read a fiction book since my last scheduled college assignment (and even that I may not have read!). That "I only read non-fiction" line might sound pretentious to some people, but it's truly not, in my case, because, trust me, plenty of what I read is not at all high-brow. It's just not fiction. To sum it up simply, I like to read about stuff that interests me. If I like something, I'd probably like to read a book about it, too.

But to get back to the question of why I am always thinking about finishing books instead of focusing more on the enjoyment of the reading-journey itself, while the suggestions above are nice theories, I actually think the reason is rather simple. Because I am very busy, and because I have numerous other hobbies I like to indulge in the rare spare time I do have, I don't get to read nearly as often as I'd like to. So I always have a pile of books on my "to read soon" shelf, waiting in the queue. So I'm really looking forward to finishing the current book so that I can start the next book, which I am greatly anticipating.

But that's where things get strange, because once I do start that next book, the chances are good that I will soon start considering that one the one that I need to finish so I can start the one in line after that.

It makes me think that the anticipation of the read is stronger than the act of reading itself, and that's bizarre.

posted by Steve @ 9:45 PM 0 comments

When Lampooning Ceases to Be

When I look back at my life and think about all of the silly expressions I have used as staples in my vernacular, I am quite amazed at how many of them were born of ironic origins.

For example, consider these few examples:

• Prefacing statements with the word, "dude"


• "I'm Not Down With That."


• "Word"


• Referring to things that are good or exciting to me as being "main"

I could go on and on, but these examples will be enough to give you the point. Each and every one of those bullets represent something that I either said a lot at one point in my life, or, in some instances, continue to say. And each and everyone of them started out with me using the lingo to satarize people who actually said them with serious intent.

Then, one day I turned around and realized I was saying them with, at least some degree, serious intent, or, at the very least in the context of a conversation where I am not trying to say anything funny.

This is not even limited to popular expressions and dialect. I've seen it happen a million times even with personal expressions that I have heard individuals use on a more unique basis. The best example is that I had a friend in college, who, by societal standards, had a bit of a nerdy streak to him, and he kept us (me and like-minded friends) rolling with a non-stop stream of expressions and unusual and/or odd verbal reactions he'd have to things. There was a sense of square-ness to things he said that was absolutely hysterical, so, of course, we started using his quips ourselves in mockery, because each time we did, we laughed at the oddity of it all. Funny thing happened, though... before long, all these expressions became OUR expressions and we used them daily and unwittingly and, most certainly, in front of other people who wouldn't get the joke and probably just thought it was we who were strange.

The thing about the guy who originated the expressions is that, I came to realize, behind his some-would-say-squarish exterior lurked a guy with impressive, innate comedic talent.

At any rate, I've seen it time and time again. What starts as lampooning becomes normative. Sometimes this is OK with me. In 1989 when I went to college and became known as "that guy who says everything is 'main'," I accepted it and embellished the reputation. I didn't mind that one, and that silly expression, despite it's ironic origins, was one that became such a part of me that even I, myself, ceased to see it as me being ironic and it all just worked for me on the un-ironic level. (Possibly laughably so in hindsight, but this is true none the less.) On the other hand, if someone heard me say, "Word," and thought that I actually said that because I thought it was an ideal way to express myself, that would be a little disturbing. But it likely happens. Hell, what am I talking about? It has happened.

posted by Steve @ 4:53 PM 1 comments

Acting Like Myself

By the way, the subject "I" is implied in the title, as it is about ME acting like myself. So this is a grammatically sound title.

I was updating a website yesterday by reposting a certain snippet of code, with some minor alterations, that I originally posted this time last year and then removed last summer.

When the job came across my desk to put the 2008 version up, I basically thought to myself, "When I removed this last summer, it would have been nice if I had done so in a way that anticipated that I might have to put it up again in the future." (With coding, you see, it's not always as simple as just saving an old file and sometimes you have to be creative in how your preserve your old scripting.) Unfortunately, I had no recollection of doing such a thing, so I figured I didn't. Then I thought to myself, "If I was removing that information today..." and then I mused as to how I would have done it.

Well, when I went in to start my editing I saw that—lo and be hold!—I did use that method that was just going through my head! This, despite the fact that I don't remember doing it.

Now, let's be real. It makes perfect sense that I didn't recall having done it. I work with tons of coding and scripting every day and some of it is pretty involved stuff and it's not like I always remember what I did last year or even last week. That's because it's either too routine ("I update 600 files every day, why would I remember specific tasks a later?") or too involved ("This coding was pretty heavy and I always need to take a few minutes review and re-aquaint myself with how it works every time I sit down to work with it."). Or, it's both at the same time, as I routinley do involved coding.

So, not remembering is to be expected. But because I didn't remember it, it made me more disjointed from it, and it made it feel like the person who originally changed the code (Steve from 2007) was different than the person doing it now, even though, technically, I'm the same.

That sense of "disjoint," makes the whole thing seem really cool, because I didn't expect to find it done to my liking, and, thus, I found it really cool when I see evidence that I am acting like myself. I once mentioned that I, in part, didn't like to not pump my own gas, because it makes me feel "not like myself," but, rather, like someone doing a "bad imitation" of me based on poor research of "what I'm like."

So, this is kind of like the opposite. I like seeing that I did things and thought last year like I do things and think this year. And then it all makes sense. It's like, "Of course I did it this way. This is how I would do it and it was me doing it!" All at once there is a sense of trust, comfort, familiarity, and reassurance. That's a great feeling.

This kind of thing happens all the time. Another example is in old emails and letters. I will find an old message where I'm pontificating on a certain subject, and as I read along, I'll say, "I agree...but there's also this issue to consider...." And, right on cue as I think it, the next paragraph starts and I hit all the extra points that I was just thinking about. And it makes sense because it's me, I know what I think about the subject, and I likely thought the same way in the past, too.

While this is trippy in the small doses, I guess it also points to why it would not be that much fun to have a clone to hang out with. I often wondered if that would be cool because, you know, we'd enjoy the same things, like playing frisbee. So I'd always have a partner as willing to throw the disc as I am, and that would rock! But, to the con-end of the argument, it would get boring because he'd know all my stories and he'd agree with me on all viewpoints and I wouldn't be able to enlighten or amuse him (or vice versa). Nothing would be new in our dialogue or approach.

In the end, though, it's totally cool to see me acting like myself when I look back on old things. And, as I've said about a couple of other posts here on the blog, this concept is perhaps a little esoteric and you need to have a slightly warped way of looking at things to totally "get" why this is absolutely blog-worthy.

posted by Steve @ 1:33 PM 1 comments

"Your Shoe's Untied"

I really don't like it when people tell me that my shoe is untied.

I know they mean well. They say, "Your shoe's untied," because they don't want to see me trip on the laces. It's a nice gesture. Still, I don't really like it.

That's because I almost always already know that my shoe is untied when it is. In fact, I may be able to say without hyperbole that no one has ever, in my adulthood, informed me of an untied shoe lace when I didn't already know about it.

A big, flopping shoe lace is really quite obvious to the wearer, isn't it?

While I appreciate people not wanting to see me trip and fall, the fact of the matter is that I'm usually busy doing something when I'm not tending to an untied lace, and that's why I haven't gotten around to bending over and tying it. But I always do. usually within a minute or so.

I guess it makes me feel stupid, like people assume I wouldn't know that my lace is untied.

I have other little things like this, too. Like sneezing. I enjoy a good sneeze now and then, but I don't like doing it around co-workers and stuff, because then there is that awkward moment where they feel the need to "God Bless Me" and, if they miss it, it's like, we're all waiting. And then I have to thank them for their courtesy, which I do willingly, but it gets awkward if I sneeze multiple times in a row. Anything after two sneezes starts to become an issue.

My favorite (sarcasm, here), though, is when you do an exhale of sorts and people can't tell whether you just coughed or sneezed. Sometimes you'll cough and they'll say, "God Bless You," to which you have to either roll with it ("Thank You") or correct them ("That was a cough.") What's more awkward, though, is when they recognize themselves that they might have erred and start questioning it. They'll usually say something like, "God Bless You! Wait, was that a sneeze or a cough? If it was a sneeze, God Bless You." I guess if it was a cough, you don't get blessings.

posted by Steve @ 10:33 PM 0 comments

Injustices of Resources and Timing

I have often heard people lament that there is a cruel injustice to aging and retirement. The rather valid argument is that we spend our whole able-bodied, youthful lives working hard and wishing we had the free time and luxury that a non-working retire-ree has; but when we get to the age of retirement, we can't fully enjoy it as much as we hoped because we're not usually as able-bodied or healthful as we used to be.

It makes sense to me, and there's something more than just a little disheartening about it. This kind of thing is also not limited to this one example. I recognize stuff all the time that has a similar, almost cruel irony to the timing in which it unfolds. Here are two examples I have noticed in my own life.


Musical Resources

When I was sixteen, I started playing in bands.

In those early days, we all got by and managed to musically prosper quite well on an exuberant dose of youthfulness, uncompromising passion, and spiritual devotion to the cause and the groups we were in.

I know this to be true, because we lived some of the most honest, memorable, and wonderful times in our musical lives, despite the fact that we were working with very little, financially-speaking. In the early days, the equipment wasn't always pro-grade; but we managed to put something wonderful together with a low-budget, piece-meal sound-system. Means to record ourselves in a home-demo setting were so modest that often hitting play & record on a cassette boom-box was as good as we could get. Bands and vocalists rarely owned a PA system, and how many backing-vocalists you had was often limited by the number of microphones or stands you had.

Somehow, though, we made it all work because we were hungry, determined, and committed to the cause.

Sometime around my mid-twenties, things got easier, resource-wise. We now were working adults. We had the money to get the equipment we wanted and needed. We would never have to hang microphones from the ceiling because we couldn't afford mic stands. Bands I've been in in recent years have enjoyed "luxuries" that the bands of my formative years could never have imagined. Recording equipment, multiple instruments per individual to best suit the song, mixing boards, and so much more. And we were better writers, performers, and all-around musicians.

Still, there was a tradeoff. Right around the time when better equipment and better financial backing entered the picture, we also saw arguably the demise of the golden age of our musical careers. After all, the means that brought the income—full-time working as full-time adults—also killed some of the vibe.

I've never entirely given up writing and playing and I have no plans to, and my most recent full-fledged band was just a year or two ago, but things have slowed down compared to the old days. Bands are best suited for youthful people. We lived for our bands back in the day. We had no full-time careers, no families of our own, no kids, no mortgages. There was a brotherhood among our bandmates and we lived and breathed music. We'd rehearse and hang out afterwards till after midnight, making plans and celebrating our collective lives.

Most thirty-somethings can't dedicate that kind of time or spiritual energy to this kind of cause anymore. And despite the fact that the quality of work these days is light-years better than it ever was, there is a certain essence that is missing. This sort of level the playing field between yesterday and today, or sometimes even gives the nod to yesterday.

If we could have had today's talent and financial resources to combine with the spirit and energy we had in the early days (or vice versa), the results would have been more incredible that I could even imagine. I believe that fully.


The House

This is a similar tale in that it points to how the rewards of adulthood are offset by the responsibility that comes with it.

I spent my college years (in particular) and my early- to mid-twenties (to a lesser, but still remarkable extent) as a seasoned road-tripper. To me, a road-trip is simply an informal trek out of town with very few plans and a sense of "I'll end up where I end up and figure out a way." On road-trips, we'd never stay at hotels. We didn't always know where we'd stay, but we knew we'd find somewhere to sleep.

It wasn't always cozy—in fact, it was rarely comfortable at all! But we would find places to "crash." I slept on couches, on floors, in cars, in trailers. We'd sometimes make pillows out of a pile of our clothes bundled up. We often wouldn't even know who our host was. It would be some "friend of a friend who knew someone who could put us up."

Even after college in our early- to mid-twenties, while our trips were a little less kamikaze than the ones described earlier, we still didn't pay for hotels. We traveled a lot, as our college friends became more spread out and a lot of road-trips were taken to go to people's weddings and stuff like that. Lots of pull-out couches or sleeping bags on the floor.

I, of course, was hardly unique. All the people I knew from my college scene were like this. It's just how things were among all of us.

Well, a little over a month after I turned twenty-eight, something happened that was going to change the scope of road-tripping in our worlds and offer luxuries beyond what we'd ever known. My wife and I bought a house.

So here we were, the two of us, in our fixer-upper house, but it offered an astounding eleven rooms (including five bedrooms and two living rooms) plus a full basement. We had several real guest rooms with real, full-sized beds. Add in the couches and stuff like that and we could accommodate a whole slew of our road-tripping friends in ways we never thought possible. No more vying for the best sleeping arrangement like in the old days, where the lucky guy would get the bed, the second most lucky guy would get the couch, and the still-sort-of-lucky-guy got the beanbag! Instead, we could be like hosts from heaven that ensured that all the guests were super lucky! They'd all get a bed! Not too long ago, I had had the pleasure of sleeping in a narrow hallways and getting stepped on in the night. I had slept in the same room as a cat box. I had slept in my car. There was no way anyone would ever have to do anything like that in my place ever again, and that made me feel great.

Well, as it turns out, I never did get the chance to put up a bunch of friends. RIght around the time we bought the house is right around the time we stopped traveling. It was around the time that our friends stopped traveling, too. Everyone was employed full-time or working in earnest to get some career off the ground. People started having families. People were buying houses of their own and had all the responsibilities of homeownership that we were dealing with, too. The days of road-tripping came to an end. And around that time, I think we all started realizing that we were getting too old to be sleeping on floors, anyway, so it's not like what I could offer would have been deemed a luxury, anyway. It would be almost expected.

I always thought it would be great to have my own house so I could fill it with friends from out of town and be a great host. When I finally got the chance, we all got too busy to take advantage of the benefits of a luxury "crash pad."

posted by Steve @ 10:52 PM 1 comments

Christmas Decorations After Christmas

I generally leave my tree, lights, and Christmas decorations up until New Year's day. At that point, I am well ready to take them down. In fact, Christmas decorations seem weird—even a bit depressing—for the entire week between Christmas and New Year's.

Christmas, ultimately, is all about the anticipation. It's about the coming of the holiday even more so than the holiday itself. In an ideal scenario that seems never to exist (see my previous blog entry), the Christmas season is a month-long wonderland that encompasses all of the December days leading up to the twenty-fifth. The magic of Christmas, perceived or real, even increases the value of Thanksgiving, which, while cool by itself, really packs a punch because it kicks off the "holiday season." The time when the plates from the turkey meal are cleared in November marks the crossing of a line: Christmas songs are not permitted in my world before that time, but they are 100% legitimate—encouraged, even—after it. That's when it all begins.

In theory, it ends on New Year's, for most people, but for me, it almost always ends on Christmas Day itself. Ironically, it ends well before the day is even over. In fact, once the morning presents have been exchanged—and I'm talking about the joy of giving as much as receiving, lest you judge me to be "in it for the gifts"—there is this sense that we've climaxed, that the big bang we've been anticipating has occurred. Now, we just play with our new toys, relax with our family, and basically crash from the season-long race we just ran to get to this finish line.

When I get home on Christmas night, there's no real shimmer or beauty to the lights and the tree anymore. They seem out of place. I'll live with them for the next week, but they don't bring me the same joy. The decorations seem to represent an upcoming chore, as I will soon have to put them all away and get back to a normal grind. How can they not? I put them up because December 25 is coming. December 25 is now gone.

By January 15 or so, the holiday season will have seemed like it was a million years ago. I'll see an occasional house that still is lit up with Christmas lights and think to myself, "How odd! Christmas was ages ago."

posted by Steve @ 9:33 PM 0 comments

"Yuletide Carols Being Sung by a Choir"

I always long for those Christmas seasons of my youth, where things just seemed so festive, so happy, so warm and fuzzy. Every year I hope that I will experience it again.

But Christmas hasn't quite been like that in many years. I know this is already starting to have a pessimistic tone, and that's not what I'm trying to do. I'm not saying that Christmas still can't be fun or that it isn't fun.

It can be, and often it is. But most of all, it seems like the season just kind of blows by. As I type this now, it doesn't quite feel like it's only four days before Christmas. In some ways, of course, it does, because we've all been busy, buying gifts, making sure we've remembered as many people as we can in terms of cards and trinkets to give out, and wrapping up our week at work in anticipation that we're going to have a day or two off. But from a "festive" perspective, it seems like I'm still waiting for the holiday season to start.

What "festive standard" do I hold things against to determine proper "festiveness"? I'll say, in short, Christmas never seems quite as festive as I remember it being because it's never like it is in the songs.

Yeah, that's right. Christmas songs. For me, nothing makes me feel more warm and fuzzy than the feelings behind some of those Christmas songs. And I'm not necessarily talking about ones about Rudolph or Grandmothers being victim to hit and run accidents. But when you think about some of the more traditional songs, they seem to paint an idyllic, tranquil, idealistic picture that just seems, unfortunately, more inline with days gone by (either for us as adults personally, or us as a society in general).

"Through the years, we all will be together." "Here we are, as in olden days, happy golden days of yore." "Later on we'll conspire, as we dream by the fire." "Faithful friends who are dear to us, will be near to us." "From now on, all our troubles will be out of sight."

Christmas songs seem to paint a picture of this huge, season-long event where friends and family all come to town and frolic about in a carefree way, yukking it up around the eggnog and enjoying leisurely walks though quaint little villages. And maybe—maybe—people experience that a little bit or for a couple of days, but for the most part, it's an impossibility because we work right up until the holiday.

You know how life slows down at work in the days before Christmas and, on Christmas Eve, if you even go to work, you usually have a half-day or something? If life slowed down like that on December 1, instead of December 23 or 24, we'd have a chance of having a holiday like the songs dictate. A season-long celebration. But as long as we have to work, as long as it's business as usual, it's tough to achieve the same feeling I had when I was young.

Most people would probably jump to the conclusion that the magic has been diminished since my formative years because I get fewer presents or because I don't believe in Santa Claus or other things like that. But I really don't think that has anything to do with it. It's about a lack of time. It's about the similarity of December with the daily grind that typifies the rest of the year.

posted by Steve @ 1:36 PM 1 comments

Black Ink and the Quirks We Keep

I walked out the office this afternoon and headed towards the bank. I got about ten steps down the hall when I turned around and walked right back to the office.

You know how when you do something like that you have to almost explain yourself if anyone witnessed it? Otherwise they're going to make some lame joke like, "Well, that was fast!"

So as I walked back in, I volunteered the truth: "I've got to get a pen. I don't like writing in my (checkbook) ledger in blue ink."

In other words, I was going to have to record my banking transaction, but I was fearful that the little pens-on-chains at the bank would all be blue. And I don't like that. I like my pens black. (No "Airplane" references, please.)

I pretty much never write in blue ink, especially if it's something I plan to keep. Maybe I'll scribble a phone number on a piece of scrap paper in blue ink if it's the only pen I can find in the vicinity, but certainly I would not write in blue ink in my checkbook ledger. Black all the way.

I'm pretty sure this particular quirk of mine started when I was in 10th grade. In school, I always kept notoriously poor notebooks. I frequently didn't take notes, they were illegible when I did take them, and I usually opened up to a random page in the notebook and just started writing. In fact, I didn't usually even have separate sections for different classes. I would start the year with either different notebooks or different sections and the goal of keeping everything neat and orderly. That would last about 3 days. After that, it was just a collection of random, illegible, unorganized notes and doodles.

But in this one particular tenth grade class, I vowed to keep an organized notebook, and, for some unknown reason, I did. This did not, mind you, reflect a changing of my habits across the board. It's not like from that day on, I kept neat notebooks. I still usually didn't. But I did for that one class.

I decided to develop a handwriting style (yes, it was conscious) where I wrote in what graphic designers know as "small caps." The letters were all capitals, but the ones that were supposed to be lowercase were smaller capitals. And, the ink was all black.

I think beginning with that notebook, blue type started seeming too playful, colorful, cute-sy. You know how your teachers in 6th grade wouldn't let you use purple ink or even the more common red for your assignments? It was not "proper." Blue started looking that way to me, too, even though it's considered acceptable. One day I only could rustle up a blue pen and took my notes in that note book in blue and I—almost incredulously—opted to re-write my notes later because it bothered me that it didn't match. (This may seem very OCD and anal, but it was actually just that I knew myself, and if I didn't like the way my notebook was "looking," I knew I was one step away from falling off the notebook wagon and letting it turn into the piece of shit that was all my other notebooks. I vowed to see this thing through.)

Anyway....that story of my notebook is perhaps not that interesting, but that's OK, because at this point we're really only getting to the actual revelation of what this blog entry is all about.

What matters here is that I still hold the same dislike for blue ink—to the point that I will steadfastly refuse to use it—even though this notebook crap was over 20 years ago. That is to say, this is a quirk, if you will, that has remained all this time.

Why do some quirks stick with us? If these were important life issues that you had strong convictions on—faith, morality, character, etc.—it would make sense (or even be expected) that they'd stick with you. But quirky things are less predictable. Some you hold onto, other you don't. If I thought about it, I probably could give you a laundry-list of quirky things that I used to do that I don't really get hung up on anymore. But then there are other things—like this black ink thing—that stick with me.

If someone knew about me and the black ink thing in 1986, and then didn't see me again until today when they witnessed my little retreat to go get a pen, I think they'd find it quite fascinating. "Oh my God! I totally remember that you didn't like blue ink back in the 1980s! I can't believe you still are like that!"

It's almost like, to me, when you see a picture of someone as a kid and they look exactly like themselves, but younger. "That is your face! That is YOU, if you were a 10-year-old!"

While this may seem obvious and expected, I still find it weird. I mean, everyone looks a little like themselves, but I'm talking about when it's like that "dead ringer but younger" thing. It's weird because the person looks so much older, they should look a little different, too, beyond simply the age thing. The details should not be the same.

And neither should our quirks. But sometimes they are.

In 20 more years, will I still have black ink hang-ups? I probably will, but it seems bizarre to me to think that I can even predict something so stupid.

posted by Steve @ 5:03 PM 0 comments

Blog Classic: The ol’ Toilet Seat

With the exception of, I believe, only two of the 100-plus posts here on Here and Mind, I haven't used "recycled material." I'd been "blogging" for years, just without the blog; still, I didn't want to publish a backlog of old musings. I wanted to keep it fresh and not draw upon old concepts and writings that folks who know me already had heard before. That much said, my circus-peanut-loving pal, Rich (from Rich's Uber-awesome Captain's Blog), was talking to me a little bit about the seat-up/seat-down toilet issue. I told him that I would repost my old musing on "The ol' Toilet Seat." I think, too, that it fits in really well with the type of nonsense I discuss here on the blog. So, it's a worthy addition. Here's a slightly revised and truncated version of my original essay on lifing the toilet seat.

I once got this forwarded email called, “The Rules According to Guys.” It was, by and large, pretty lame.

See, for a man, I'm almost a feminist. I think a lot of traditional "gender roles" are pretty stupid and I give women a lot credit as having the potential to be amazing, smart, capable people. Similarly, I find most of the jokes and emails about these differences between the genders to be... well, I really can't relate to them too much. Dispensing humorous (sometimes, sometimes not) bits about how men think and act one way and women think and act another is really the same fodder that comics have been depending on for years. Men are from Mars, women are from Venus, and all that kind of sh*t.

The stuff is based on such seriously promoted gender stereotypes—for the guys and the gals. Many guys are not nearly as lame as many women pretend they are and many women are not as lame as the "pro-male" arguments would have you think.

Well, this particular forwarded email and most of the “rules” on this list seemed pretty silly and completely inaccurate, at least in my experiences. However, there was one little joke/observation that I found amusing because it has, indeed, always struck me as a long-standing peculiarity in these gender battles. It's about the toilet seat.

You know the drill…men leave it up, women complain, blah, blah, blah. But, this has always had me kind of baffled. Let me explain…

The rule that was listed on this email was as follows: "Learn to work the toilet seat. You're a big girl. If it's up, put it down."

Amazing and true! I never quite got the big deal about this issue. If it's up, put it down. It's easy to spot a raised toilet seat, and it requires minimal effort to remedy the situation. Pick you battles…

Now, you can call it a lack of courtesy to leave it up, but that theory lacks substance for two reasons.

Firstly, if one is going to accept the premise that it is rude to expect someone else to have to go through the trouble of lowering the seat, wouldn't it then also be accurate to say that it's rude to expect the males to have to lift the seat? How is that less of an inconvenience? It's the same thing. "It's OK for men to have to 'prepare' the commode before use and after), but for women it is only OK if we have it in our needed position 100% of the time so we never have to deal with it."

It is selfish and it just doesn't hold water. Especially when considering that, if the women who are all twisted about this issue had their way, then they are basically saying men have to do the work every time they urinate. Because, trust me, attempting to shoot the stream through the downed seat—i.e., bypassing the effort involved in the lift—often yields, because of erratic starts and a smaller target area, results that are much more undesirable for the next person who has to "sit." I know all about it. I had to put up with all sorts of sh*t from my mother and sister when growing up because I used to prefer the challenge and—more importantly—the indolent approach that accompanied the practice of leaving it down.

That's reason number 1, and I'm sure a common retort to this is based on the notion that "It's totally different!! I can fall in!!" Well, while I again refer you to the simplicity of the concept of looking before you do your business, I have to go one further and point out that this reasoning is also faulty. After all, consider that men, too, can fall in, as they don't use the john exclusively for "standing" activities, if you know what I mean. So, realize that even if we leave the seat up, there's only a 50-50 chance that we won't be inconveniencing ourselves the next time we go to use it. There's no covert operation involved with pissing off the women. It's just the way it is. After all, after using the bowl in a sedentary capacity, we don't go out of our way to lift it, right?

But if the women had their way it would require that they never have to do anything, either prior to or after their business. But men would have to do things—first raise, then lower—every time they urinated, which is at least 50% of the time they use the facilities.

So...that's my theory. The ladies who are bothered by this either have to quit complaining or purchase a urinal for the bathroom in their house. For the record, I have always wanted a urinal in my home bathroom. And, if you had one, the toilet would not even need an operable seat. It could be in the down position permanently—only to be removed with a screwdriver when it needs to be replaced.

Thankfully, my wife, who is a wonderful, non-typical female much like I am a non-typical male, doesn’t give a damn about any of this toilet seat stuff.

For the record, I leave the toilet seat in whatever position it is in when I’m through using it. If you’re a woman who thinks that you should be catered to like a helpless individual just because you’re female, then you should relinquish your right to vote and go home and be subservient to your man. You can’t have your cake and eat it, too. You’re either a helpless female or you’re a strong woman of the world. Personally, as something of a feminist, I don’t discriminate against women because they are female.

I don’t think women are any more helpless than men in terms of how their brain operates, and that’s why I am respectful towards them. It also is why I give them credit that they can use the toilet without falling in, just like I can use the toilet and not fall in when I’m conducting my sedentary business.

And, yes, once in a great while I'll visit the bathroom in the middle of the night and forget to check and—WHOA! The cold porcelain rim hits the back of my legs and I get that weird feeling 'cause I almost fell in. But it's never happened yet, and it doesn't happen enough to be an issue that I worry about.

posted by Steve @ 8:37 PM 2 comments

The Halloween Score

This year I went trick or treating for the first time in about 20 something years. I went as an accompanying parent. Now, being that my kids are toddlers, they're still young enough that we won't let them eat all their candy on their own, and they're not really too hung up on treating their bundles of treats as "individual possessions." We took all the candy received and put it in one big pile that pretty much anyone can indulge in.

So what this all means is that, although the candy is mostly for them and the experience of getting it was entirely for them, the candy is going to be nibbled on by everyone in the household. And "everyone" includes me!

Now, I've never been too fond of lollipops, Jolly Ranchers, and hard candies, nor any other low-quality, pure sugar crap confection like candy corn and circus peanuts. But I really dig good candy. In a word, I dig chocolate bars! Very tasty.

Here's what I think is very funny. As we're going door to door, I am secretly getting very excited over the great candies that the kids are scoring. We got tons of those "fun size" versions of Snickers, Milky Ways, and Twixes. We got plenty of those singular Recess Peanut Butter Cups. Heck, one or two of the stops were so generous that they were giving out the full sized versions. And I found it very awesome, like we were really accumulating some fantastic treats.

So why is that funny? It's funny because:

a) As this was going on, I knew full well that I had a bucket-full of the same exact candies in my house: the ones that we're giving to trick or treaters coming by. And it's not like 80% of it isn't going to be leftovers that we end up eating ourselves. And...

b) It's not like I, as a working adult, don't have the financial resources and permission to buy bag-loads of the candy bars any time I want to. If tasty candy is so important to me, I don't have to rely on the graciousness of generous neighbors one day a year.

And yet I still feel like we're "scoring big," when I get these tasty morels to take home.

I guess it's like what they say about the bird in the hand. I could indulge on candy bars all year long on a daily basis, but I don't. A candy bar in the hand is worth much more than the potential I have on any given day to achieve that very thing.

posted by Steve @ 8:10 PM 3 comments

Disco Sucks

It's funny how era-specific nostalgia—the appreciation of a bygone, time-sensitive, societal motifs—is something that, itself, comes and goes. That is to say, it's possible to remember (in a nostalgic sort of way) a time when nostalgia of something even older was en vogue. Nostalgia about being nostalgic about something else.

Let's use disco as an example of this.

Saturday Night Fever was 1977 and, for argument's sake, we'll use that as the zenith of the disco-saturated culture. Some people actually say that by the time it became that "mainstream" and the movie made it into something we'd always associate with the late 1970s, it was actually on the way out. In actuality, disco was happening earlier in the 1970s than you'd probably think and it lasted longer into the late 1970s than you also might think. But regardless of whether it was at it's height in 1977 or not, let's assume it was, on account of the fact that that's the perception most people have. Perception, ultimately, is what matters in issues of nostalgia.

I remember disco. I remember it first hand. I missed Woodstock, but I'm old enough for disco. "I was there." Sort of...

I say "sort of," because I wasn't partying at Studio 54. The pertinent number here is not 54, but 6. I was 6-years-old in 1977. I remember disco, I remember all the songs, and I certainly remember my father playing, "Bad Girls" by Donna Summer on the stereo, but I wasn't paying that much attention and had no appreciation of the cultural significance. I had a 6-year-olds perception, which means I had no great understanding of what it was all about.

What I understood much more—because it lasted way into the 1980s when I started hitting my "childhood prime" for soaking up youth cultural—was a concept that had as much to do with disco as anything else:

"Disco Sucks!"

Disco always had it's detractors, but by 1980 or 1981, certainly, the overwhelming popular opinion was "disco sucks." It wasn't even "disco's bad" or "disco's shit" or "disco's horrible," which all would have meant the same thing (albeit without the homophobic origins). It "sucked." "Disco Sucks" was the expression. And everybody who was 10 knew it!

When I 10, if anyone mentioned disco, I'd tell them, "Disco sucks!" I didn't really even fully understand what made a musical piece "disco," so this wasn't a legitimate statement about personal taste. I just knew that it was dreadfully uncool to like disco and you had to say it sucked. This is age 10, an age where homogeny rules. Fast forward a few years into teenage-dom and kids who, ironically, were pretty similar tried to pass themselves off as being "different from the crowd." But as a "tween," we didn't even want to be different. We just wanted to be like our peers, because we thought we, collectively, knew what was what. And our peers knew disco sucked.

In fact, there was only one time in my youthful life when someone I knew—a seventh grade peer—broke the mode and expressed a dislike for "rock" (that was what you were supposed to like), saying he, instead, liked disco. It was so strange and foreign I didn't even know how to respond. I think I just said, "Really????" And I, of course, thought silently to myself, "Disco sucks!"

Now, if we jump ahead to when I was in college in the very early 1990s. All of a sudden, late-1970s disco culture became kitschy, campy, and cool nostalgia. Not that any of us really got "into" disco, but people started appreciating it in a "this sucks so bad it's great" sort of way. Cheese is fun.

More importantly, people started enjoying it beyond just the fact that it was cheesy. We were a culture of 18-, 19-, 20-year-olds who:

a) after years of hearing about sock-hops and hippie love ins that we didn't have firsthand experience with, were finally were getting to an age where we were old enough to start having our own version of nostalgia

b) remembered hearing these songs on the radio and bopping around to them as 6-year-olds because we were too young and uncool to really know that they "sucked"

So, all of a sudden, it became cool to have a sort of tongue-in-cheek attitude towards disco, and it also became almost enjoyable to watch a crown of people bounce around the dance floor to a rousing rendition of "If I Can't Have You" by Yyvone Elliman or "I Never Knew Love Like This Before" by Stephanie Mills.

My wife (girlfriend, at the time) even bought a double-disc compilation CD from the "70s Preservation Society" called "Disco Fever" which included virtually all of those signature disco songs and it featured a cover with this really cheesy guy with a polyester leisure suit and gaudy necklace brushing his hair in anticipation of a night out of disco dancing. And you know what? It was sort of cool. It was fun. "Hey look at this guy. He rules!"

But here's the thing. Like I stated in the opening lines of this blog, even nostalgia over things that have become "old hat" becomes, itself, "old hat." Once my wife got beyond the kitsch factor of hearing these songs again after not hearing them for many years, she suddenly realized that, enjoyable as they might be in small doses, they have a very limited shelf life. And the picture of the guy who is combing his hair? That's not so interesting anymore.

See, disco sucked and then sucky disco became cool again in a camp sort of way, but you know what I think is really lame? When people get off on disco nostalgia as if it hasn't already been "nostalgisized" over already.

Whenever one of those Saturday Night Fever songs plays at a wedding, there's always one guy out there who thinks he is funny by going out there and ironically hitting all the John Travolta poses. You know, all that shit with pointing your finger in the air. I apologize if this is you, one of my close, blog-reading friends, but, whoever is doing that, I have this message: Dude, you gotta stop that shit.

You see, it's not that Saturday Night Fever moves aren't funny. They are.

Moreover, it's not even that mimicking Saturday Night fever moves in an ironic sort of way isn't funny. It's friekin' hysterical! But it's also so 1991!

In other words, we've all seen it. The first time I saw someone do that in the early 1990s, I was on the floor. "Check it out, dude! I remember that movie, too! Ha ha, that's so funny! 'Disco sucks,' dude!"

But now it's just trite. We all know that trick. There's no "edge" to that kind of mockery anymore. Good mockery and camp-nostalgia has got to have edge.

posted by Steve @ 2:45 PM 3 comments

"I Am Sure"

This musing is similar to my "literally" musing. Why the hell do people use the word "literally" when the clearly mean "figuratively." "He literally fell to pieces." Really? Read more about this by clicking on the link above, if you'd like.

Well, unlike most people I seem to hear speaking, I never use literally unless I mean literally. However, I have noticed that people often use "I am sure" to mean, "I am not sure, but I would certainly think." And I also have noticed that I often do it, myself, and I hate that that. I am trying to break that habit. Let me explain what I'm talking about...

In order to fully understand this, you may have to picture a conversation in which this phrase might be used. So, let's suppose we're having a conversation about where to order take-out from.

You might say, "How about Italian food?"

And I might say, "Yeah, there's this new pizza place we should try that just opened last month, you game?"

"Yeah, definitely. I was actually thinking of getting an entree. Does this pizza place also serve entrees?"

"Yeah, I'd imagine so. What are you looking for?"

"Oh, I don't really care, maybe ziti or lasangna or stuffed shells. Just something other than pizza. Maybe we should just get greek food."

"Well, I guess we could....but... no, I mean..if you want Itallian... I'm sure they have the basic stuff like ziti..."

Now, did you catch that? If you picture the intonation to the conversation, you'd have noticed that I not only said "I'm sure," but I did so in such a tone that meant, "I'm pretty sure." Or, "I would certainly imagine they have ziti and think it odd if they didn't."

I'm sure (there it is again) that you know what I'm talking about. Think of your own experiences when you've heard people make assurances using "I'm sure."

Clearly, I am NOT sure they have ziti. And if I knew they did, I would have said, "Yeah, they have ziti" or "Yeah, they serve entrees besides pizza."

At that point, the conversation would be done without ever mentioning that I was sure. It would simply go without say that I'm sure. In fact, in the unlikely event that it didn't go without say and the conversation were to continue, it would be you who'd mentioned the word "sure":

I'd say, "Yeah, they server entrees besides pizza."

And you'd say, "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm positive," I'd say in a tone that had a slight -what-do-you-think-I'm-lying?- edge to it. "I've seen their menu."

So, bottom line: When I am sure, for real, I just give my answer. I usually only say "I'm sure" when I mean "I'd strongly wager on that if I were a betting man." That's messed up.

I have been thinking about writing this blog entry for a while, but was finally motivated to do so after a string of emails this morning. I had sent an animated GIF to a friend and then he replied, "LOL!!!!! That was hilarious.  Where’d you get that??"

To which I replied, "I don't know, 'cause I've had it for years. I'm sure someone sent it to me." But before hitting send, I edited my message to say, "Someone sent it to me, I'd imagine."

I'm 99.9% sure that someone did send it to me. It wasn't the kind of thing I would dig up myself. But I can't recall the specifics, and how could I have, in good faith, written, "I'm sure" someone sent it, when the previous sentence said, "I don't know" where it came from.

I'm sure your think this blog entry is pretty lame.

posted by Steve @ 12:42 PM 3 comments

Shaving Habits

I'm quite pleased to announce that this blog entry—though no more special than any of my other useless musings—is historic blog number 100 on Heart and Mind. Pretty cool! Have I slowed down? You betcha! Considering that I finished the first year with 70-something posts and my blog just turned two a couple of days ago, I'm definitely not as prolific as I was. This, as always, is due to a shortage of time. I've got a few blogs queued up in my head, waiting for the proper time to write them. Here's one, though, to read right now.

In recent times, certain individuals in the Coffee Crew and I have been discussing the changing standards of personal decorum, whether it be related to attire, grooming, or mannerisms. It's the whole "we used to get dressed up to go out to dinner and wear a tie to the holidays" comparison that we've also talked about here and there on this blog. All the discussions that I've had have also included terrifically engaging debate as to whether these changes have been a good thing or a bad thing for society as a whole. Well, I certainly don't plan to open up the whole can of worms here and try to answer whether things are better or worse, but I can muse on a topic that will contribute more evidence to the notion that we sure have changed a lot over the years.

I got the idea for this blog entry the other day when I was, as the title suggests, shaving, and I started considering how my shaving habits differ so much from the shaving habits that I saw in the world during my pre-shaving years.

Before I get any further, let me clarify that I am talking about shaving the whiskers on my face. I do not "manscape" at all, and that includes chest, back, legs, or any region that is not my face (or the front of the neck right below it). In that sense, I'm probably more like prior generations.

Regarding facial shaving, though, things are different for me. The image I had growing up was that a man shaved everyday. Or, at least, everyday that he went to work. It was part of a busy morning routine, just as essential as showering or brushing your teeth. Looking unshaven with stubble was akin to looking unclean. Even my father, who wore a beard, used to shave in the mornings to outline and shape it, which is to say, he shaved the portions of his face that were supposed to be clean shaven.

Go up one generation more to my grandfather and you'll see a guy who, as far as I know, never skipped a morning shaving. He used an electric razor (seems sort of ironic to me, since that kind of gadgetry would seem more new-school than the regular "blade" that I prefer) and would meticulously shave off every single whisker on his face habitually day in and day out, even when there wasn't any visible stubble. And he never grew a beard. When I was home from college for a holiday one time, he pulled me and my beard-in-progress-stubble aside and spoke in hushed tones to me and said, "I see you're growing a beard."

"Yes," I said. "I am."

He replied, in his quiet tones so as to be tactful, "It looks...."

And then he paused as though he wanted to find the best word he could to tactfully describe what he saw.

"...bad."

I could have been offended, but I just found it hysterical. It didn't look bad. It just looked like a beard-in-progress, which, perhaps, is not the most flattering look, but that wasn't the point. It's simply that he was from a generation where beards were not where it was at. Especially for young men. He told me several times that it was bad idea to "cover up my face" with hair and made some kind of remark about how beards were only for old men or something like that. Born in the first decade of the 1900s, he missed the era in the previous century where facial hair was in vogue (think Civil War) for years and years, and he was already older in the late 1960s and early 1970s, when "young kids today" (guys like my father) started seeing it ideal to stylistically grow whiskers.

Well, to get back to the subject here, when you fast forward to my personal habits—and I know I'm not the only one—we see some major generational differences. Of course, unlike my grandfather, I as a matter of routine, am always growing different types of facial hair. Wearing facial hair, to me, is like wearing a shirt. It's just something you put on and there's no stigma to it. But let's get beyond that and just talk about the act of shaving itself.

The most obvious difference from what I saw growing up is that I do not under any circumstances shave everyday. I could. While I'm not quite one of those people who has a very definitive "5 o'clock shadow" at 5 o'clock, I do grow enough stubble to be able to warrant shaving every morning if I saw fit. But I don't see fit. I don't have a problem with one, two, or even three day stubble growth. I actually even prefer it. I like having a little sandpaper on my face then to have it completely smooth. It's not until I get to about 4 days that I start thinking it needs to be cleaned up, at which point I will either trim it, shape it, or lop it off with the razor completely, depending on what mood I'm in.

The other difference is that I almost never shave in the mornings anymore. I used to, but over the years that has changed, and now I don't. Why would I waste time shaving before I went to work when I'm in a hurry to get out the door? I'm a graphic designer, not a corporate salesman. (And I'm not even sure that would make a difference.) Rather, I tend to shave in evenings, or any time where I feel like I have the time to do it, which often means the weekends. Some may say that's ironic, considering that weekends—when people didn't have to go to work—used to be the time when men would get a reprieve from shaving.

And the final difference I can point to is that while I grew up understanding that shaving was considered a thankless, tedious, pain-in-the-butt task, I actually like it. I don't mind it at all. But you know why? It's because I don't have to do it and I do it, more or less, on my own schedule. There's no grind to it. Compare it to showering: I shower every day with no exception, sometimes twice or even thrice depending on what I'm doing, but I don't like it. It's a chore. I'd rather I didn't have to. But that's not the case with shaving for me.

I know I'm not like "everyone," and there are plenty of men out there today that may hate beards, hate stubble, and hate shaving. And those who wish to shave daily and religiously probably still do. But they no longer have. It's become something of a choice.

posted by Steve @ 1:26 PM 3 comments

The Price of Pizza

Back in February, I posted a blog entry about how vending machines with cruddy toys only take quarters these days. In that discussion, I mused briefly about how it was typical and predictable—and therefore, arguably kind of boring—for any aging individual to start griping about how expensive things are compared to how things used to be. I even specifically mentioned pizza and about how I wasn't going to complain much about it. But now, in light of recent situations, I've changed my mind and I am going to start complaining about it.

When I was growing up, pizza was always the ultimate "dollar food." A slice of pizza was about a buck. It was cheap, but beyond that, it was easy. A dollar a slice...nice and simple. You got a buck, you got a snack.

Then at one point something happened. Pizza went over a dollar. Not much at first, and not everywhere. A few select pizza parlors with ambitious mercenary goals started being bold enough to start charging $1.10 a slice.

This was a big annoyance for me. Hey, it's not that the dime was all that big of a deal. What's a dime? The bigger problem was that it was no longer "dollar food," food you could get for a neat and clean exchange of a single bill. Now, you had to have spare change one you. And if you didn't, you had to fork over $2.00. Even though you were bound to get 90-cents back, it still felt like you were spending $2.00. Paper money in your pocket is much more comforting than change. It's much less fun to depart with. Especially when you were still a kid and a dollar might have counted for more than it does now.

This new price scheme worked against you when dealing in multiple slices, too. $2.00 couldn't get you two slices anymore.

It just wasn't comfortable anymore. And, if you think I sound like a cheapskate, you should know that I wasn't alone in this battle. I knew other people who didn't like it either. It just seemed weird that a slice of pizza should have costed more than a dollar. Dollar bills seemed almost made for pizza. Like if you had to explain what the value of a dollar was to someone from another planet—a planet who happened to eat New York Style pizza–you'd say, "Oh, it's worth about a slice of pizza."

Well, as time went by—and this took years, but eventually it happened—the $1.10 places went to $1.25 and then $1.35 and eventually everyone started charging over a dollar. And, eventually, I got used to it. These days it's hovering around $1.75 to $1.80, I'd say, at most places. So, although it took me a long time, I long ago learned to accept pizza as the "dollar and change" food. In 2007, I guess I have to admit that it's still a pretty good deal.

But something unsettling has happened recently.

I have had the experience where I go in to grab a quick slice, I've got the two bucks in my hand ready to fork over, and...

"Two-fiteen, please!"

Damn!! Over two dollars? For a slice of pizza? "Why back in my day, that would buy two slice AND a soda if you bought it during the lunch special, " says the crotchety middle-aged man!

The writing's on the wall, man. This is where it's all going. It's going to take me years to get used to the idea that I have to be carrying at least three singles if I want a slice of pizza and have no loose change on me. That just sucks.

(That's the end of the blog entry, folks, but as a post script, let me just add a comment before someone else brings it up. You may be thinking, "With all this 'dollar-only' business, doesn't it all go out the window on account of the fact that you usually buy a drink with your pizza, anyway?" And the answer is, "Actually, no. I eat a lot of pizza, and, while I certainly buy a drink with it often enough, the majority of the time I buy just a slice or two without buying a drink." Really. Especially if I'm at work where my bottle of water is usually nearby.)

posted by Steve @ 9:31 PM 0 comments

Air Conditioning Habits, Then and Now

Damn, we use a lot more air conditioning these days than we used to, don't we? What's more interesting is how our attitudes have changed about it. It's more of a necessity than it's ever been. I can't necessarily speak for everyone, but I know that's how it kind of is for me, and I know I'm not alone. Let's tackle this subject in two sections: air conditioning in the car and air conditioning in the home.

Starting with the car, let me first say that I probably use my car AC more than just about anyone. I almost use it year-round. I probably use it from sometime in March through sometime in November, give or take. Really. I'm not all that keen on open car windows, because it's loud, it interferes with the radio, and it blows wind all over the place. Convertible? No thanks, not for me!

So, whenever I feel slightly stuffy or warm because maybe the car has been sitting in the sun for a while—even if it's March—I'll put the AC on. It's fair to say that there are parts of the year where I use the AC and heat on the same days, just at different points. And then, of course, I run it almost constantly from May through September. Having the AC on is like having the engine running—something that's always happening while the vehicle's in use.

Now this is totally not how it used to be. For starters, when I was growing up, air conditioning in your car was something of...well...I wouldn't call it a "luxury," but it was a bonus of sorts. Some cars had it, but many didn't. And even when a car did have it, I think people were more hesitant to use it. I know I was. It ate up more gas, so it was a cost factor. But the prevailing AC attitude was one where it almost felt like using it was bad, like eating high fat foods or something. It was something to be practiced in moderation. I remember it had to be "really hot" to justify using your AC. If you could possibly just open the windows fully and only be a little uncomfortable and sweat a little bit, then there was no need to put on the AC. It had to be one of those horribly hot spells—like the kind that only come once or twice a summer—to justify using the AC.

F*ck that.

I'll put my AC on and be comfortable to avoid sweating AT ALL.

What's really funny is that while I think it's completely unacceptable to be uncomfortable in transit for even routine tasks like going to work or the store, back in the day, we used to live with the fact that we had no AC in the car even when we were doing something like one of those July weddings, where everyone was all dressed up and men had bulky, long-sleeved suits on and the women had their hair and make-up done. But somehow, it was OK. That would be unacceptable now. If your car doesn't have AC today—which I'm sure it does—you'd probably borrow your Dad's car when you had to go to weddings.

Now let's talk about air conditioning in the house.

Well, like with the cars, it's obviously becoming more and more common in the household. New construction almost always has central AC. Those who don't have it usually have at least a couple of window units or something similar.

I actually don't have central AC for several reasons that are unrelated to the crux of the discussion here, but we do have a split unit ("ductless") system that cools off the kitchen, the living room, and the basic quarters where we hang out during the day, and then we also have some window units that we use at night for sleeping. The ductless is only a couple of years old, but the window units have been something we got on board with years ago, when we reached that point where we said, "Screw sweating our asses off at night! I don't care that AC saps extra energy costs—I work for a living and demand to be comfortable when I sleep."

But, again, it was never like that when I was growing up, and here's where it gets interesting.

The whole time I lived at home with my parents—ages zero through seventeen—we never had any air conditioning. None! Not in the main part of the house, not in my parent's bedroom, and—obviously—not in my bedroom. So sweating our asses off was just a fact of life and we somehow dealt with it.

I slept all summer long with a fan pointed at me, and that simply had to do. Most of the time it was OK, but I do recall there being those ridiculous spells once or twice a summer where I'd be sprawled out on my mattress, one pair of Fruit of the Looms being the only garment preventing me from being completely naked, and not moving an inch so as not to expend an ounce of energy, and STILL sweating my ass off intolerably. It felt almost deadly on those nights, where panic would start to set in and I'd think, "What am I going to do? I am soooooooo hot. I am never going to fall asleep because i am so uncomfortable."

That sucked. A couple of years back, while we were already long into the AC-in-the-bedroom phase of our lives, we had a blackout (during and because of one of those hot spells) and I got a reminder of how unbearably hot it used to be pre-AC. It's was horrible.

While I remember those crazy hot spell nights, what's really interesting to me is that I remember that I was OK sans air conditioning on pretty much the other, regular nights of the summer. Because those nights are pretty damn hot, too! Pretty much the bulk of July and August is good AC weather. For example, on a night like tonight where it's warm but not sweltering, I will entertain not using the AC, but I will regret that decision. I will sleep worse without AC tonight, even though I don't "need" it that badly. There's something about the stickiness of humid summer air. Dry air, cool air....air that has been "conditioned" like the name says...is far more appealing to me than normal air. I don't know how I used to deal and think it was normal. (But, then again, isn't that the mantra that accompanies all technological and cultural changes when looking back?)

One final point here. Air conditioners are made better these days and they're far more economical to use than they were back in the day, but they still cost extra on your electric bill. As a result, old school mentalities do sometimes play into the picture and people still compromise at times by keeping the AC lower or off altogether to save money, even though they'd be more comfortable cranking it up. It's the same old routine of "I'd love to use the AC right now, but I'm only a little uncomfortable so I can deal with this." While that threshold is, in general, way lower than it used to be, it still exists. My parents, as people older than I am, probably have an even older school mentality than mine, and I think I probably am quicker to give into AC than they might be. I, myself, have gotten better at reaching for the switch. I've actively tried to break my old school habit of thinking that it's OK to feel a little shitty, reasoning that this is not 1978 with some inefficient AC system that's going to triple my energy bill. Most importantly, I don't want to perpetrate the old school myth that AC is the same brilliant luxury it was 25 years ago where you need to be practically dying to justify the cost of being a little more comfortable.

After all, the oldest school people are, naturally, the elderly, and sometimes those old-timers make that "dying of the heat" expression a literal one. Last summer during one of the ridiculously hot heat spells, as is typical when they hit, people really did die from the heat. I think it was two elderly people in a trailer. The temperature was in the 100s outside and the inside of their place became like an oven and they died from heat stroke. You know what it said in the newspaper? It said there was an air conditioner in the window, but it was not turned on because they didn't want to use it because of the extra cost it incurred. What were they waiting for? I mean, if you own an air conditioner, but won't turn it on in weather that is so hot that it literally kills you, why even bother having it?

posted by Steve @ 10:48 PM 2 comments

Muppets Need Arms Inside Them

The descriptive side bar here at Heart & Mind indicates that the topics of discussion are "often quirky, often serious... A little of everything." It's totally true, and that's totally what I want it to be in this "anything goes as long as I want it to" mentality the rules here. So it's only fitting to follow up a post like the previous one, which was sort of an inspirational piece about how multi-faceted we humans are, with one that is just absolutely ridiculous. Thus, it's time for my brief musing on a Muppet bone of contention that I have.

Now that I've got kids around the place, I spend a lot more time doing something that I, myself, loved as a child: watching Muppets. I don't want to get into a huge discussion about how great I think Muppets are, so I'll be uncharacteristically brief here. I think what Jim Henson and his crew did with puppeteering and how Sesame Street used them is brilliant. I watch Muppets these days—especially when re-watching classic skits that I originally watched as a First Sesame Street Generation Kid—and pick up little nuances in the performances that are just so well done. It's amazing how they come to life in the hands of the skilled puppeteers/actors that control them.

Anyway, here's my complaint. Whereas Muppets used to always be shown from the waist up or in back of some kind of wall so as not to reveal that there's a guy with a hand sticking up the Muppet's crotch, they now have technology that allows the display of a Muppet doing things in the middle of the room (like Elmo riding a tricycle) with nothing "connecting it" to its behind-the-scenes human. It's probably a green screen sort of thing, computer animation, remote wireless operation, or a combination of several technologies. And I don't like it.

Why don't I like it? Because it seems too easy and, in my mind, takes away from the artistry of the old-fashioned way of doing things. There was something great abut how they always were able to write such cool stuff, DESPITE the fact that they were limited to keeping the characters behind walls. It kind of begs the question now: outside of financial reasons, why not just ditch muppets and animate everything through computers so you could have no limitations? That would be a reasonable place to go with things, but if that happens, it will come at the cost of eliminating a great puppeteering art that I think is worth keeping.

posted by Steve @ 11:47 PM 1 comments

Multi-Faceted

I recently saw a quote that I loved. The quote came from someone named Molly (www.molly.com) whose website I was poking around at while looking for some information about Web Standards & W3C stuff (geeky terms related to stuff I do for a living).

Molly was describing herself on the site's "About" page and she said:

"What do you do? I hate that question! I'm never sure what to answer, because people expect to hear one thing. We're all multi-faceted, and we are not our jobs."

Everything she says there is true. I often wonder how I would want or expect people to describe me if they had to do it in a line:

"Oh, Steve? He's that guy I know who..."

But then I don't know how they'd finish it, because human beings are most certainly multi-faceted creatures. They're usually not one-dimensional animals who can be described like token characters on cheesy TV shows ("He's the jock; she's the girl next door; he's the geek; she's the slut.")

In many ways, I'm glad I'm not famous, because famous people are usually typecast—or at least predominantly known—for one thing. For example, "Who is Mike Piazza?" Ask anyone who knows and they'll tell you, "He's a baseball player." And that's the end of the story, even though it doesn't speak at all to the fact that he's human and is probably a lot of other things to people who know him. Even people who would embellish that "he's a baseball player" answer would probably do so by describing more things about him that relate to baseball. I know I would.

So, who am I? Since I haven't become famous, there is no "one thing" that people would universally say about me. Still, I think there are lots of ways you could describe me and be completely right:

In my job alone, you could say I'm a graphic designer, a print professional, a consultant, a teacher, a web designer, a Macintosh user, and someone who might annoy people with his ever increasing interested in conforming to web standards and writing better mark-up (which is how I ended up on Molly's site).

And then on the familial front, you could also say he's a devoted family man, a guy who adores his wife probably even more than most, the father of an adopted child, or the father of one-time 1-pound preemie born at 26-weeks.

And even at this point we're only scratching the surface. You could also say that he's a passionate music fan, a songwriter, a drummer, a musician, a writer, a guy who doesn't read fiction, someone who doesn't watch movies very often, a teatotaler, a freak who loves sideburns, a guy who has a manic interest in the Brady Bunch and Welcome Back, Kotter, a nostalgic person, a dude who often has a beard, someone who does a lot of home improvement, a guy obsessed with time and age so much that he made up a word (thymenage) that combine the two, someone with a big heart, someone who is neurotic and worrisome, someone who values great conversation, someone who writes too many words on his blog, a person who digs cats, a guy who loves to play catch, a guy with a dry sense of humor, someone who gets bent out of shape when people misuse the word "literally" or use the word "myself" in a non-refleive manner, and the list could go on and on and on.

And these are only (mostly) good descriptions people might use! I haven't even touched upon all the rotten things people might say about me.

But the point is that I would agree to to any of those things. If someone said, "Oh, you're the guy they were telling me about who (fill in ANY description from above, no matter how ridiculous some of them are)," I would say, "Yes! That's me!"

And the larger point is that this is not about ME, but about all of us. If this post has had a sickening sense of ego and self-stroking underlying the tone, it shouldn't because I'm just a random example here from a very, very large group of people called humankind. Most people are multi-talented and multi-faceted, and a great number of them are interesting and engaging and amazing in their own ways. (And I'm fortunate to know a bunch of them.) That is, most people can't reasonably be summed up in total with just one token description. Life is not a low budget, cheesy TV show. It's the biggest, most amazing, most complex, and most sophisticated show there's ever been, and we're like the well-written cast of characters.

posted by Steve @