Dan Finds His Family

I am an American.

I don't mean that in an "I rule the world"-Toby Keith-sort of way. I mean it in the simplest, cultural sense. I am an American. I was born in California. My parents were born in Oregon and Illinois. If we go farther back, we can say I'm German, but no distinguishable German culture exists in my life. I am simply an American. Hamburgers, apple pie, baseball, and Playboy. I am the standard, upper-middle class offspring. I received a liberal arts education in college, I have a big screen tv, and I still hold a dream of someday being famous for doing little to nothing.

Lately, though, I have been lamenting my lack of a heritage. I'm so far removed from where I came from that I have nothing to hold on to as a map to guide me forward. Not only do I lack a heritage in the grand, worldly, "this is the village which spawned my clan" sense of the word, but both of my parents moved away from their families relatively early on, so I don't have the familial sense of heritage either. We visited the grandparents on Christmas or Thanksgiving a few years, but mostly it was just the nuclear family sitting around the table. That has seemingly translated into an inability to keep up with family and friends, explaining my "out of sight, out of mind" mentality.

I'm not kidding. I'm really bad. Right now I owe calls to my Dad, my former professor who has been making an effort to catch up, not to mention a card to my dear friend Susan (or at least an email). I generally call my dad's mom about once a year (although there was a stretch of about 5 years when I didn't talk to her at all. She sent me cards offering a reward for proof of life). I doubt that I've talked to my mom's parents since my high school graduation. Actually, I spoke to my grandpa a few years back on Christmas and he asked if I was my father*. Facebook has made it easier to feign connections with my older sister, but I haven't talked to her lately either (sorry, Dusti). As for my step-siblings, I know nothing more than my my dad has relayed via small talk in his visits every few months. I am horrible at maintaining family relationships and friendships.

But I feel bad about it, because it's just another way in which I'm isolated. I recently spent an afternoon with my friend Sri and her sister Paavani**, both of whom are full of not only heritage, but quite attached to their family as well. And having, in the past, seen Sri perform traditional Indian dancing in full Indian garb, it kind of made me feel a small empty hole where my heritage should be. I want to be able to wear traditional clothing and feel legitimate. But I would look just as out of place wearing a sari as I would in a "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" t-shirt. I'm like a man without a history.

That is, until recently.

While looking for some posters in my mother's garage, I stumbled across a box of baby books. Finding the box in poor condition due to water damage, I took it upstairs to go through it. While my baby book seems to have sopped up the most liquid, on the upside I rediscovered a book someone had made a while back that documented my lineage along one trunk of my family tree to 1802. Another document within the book showed a different trunk followed it down from a split in the tree, adding to the information I have, although not taking me any farther than the limit set at my great-great-great-great grandmother and grandfather. I took the book home and spent an hour or so inputting the information into my Geni account. I noted the dates of birth (and death), as well as marriage dates. And as I did, I felt a sense of pride. It's bittersweet, though, as they are still just names to me, nothing more. There aren't any smiles to put with them, or funny stories, or memories. I know they're my family, but I don't know who they are. And I've been wondering how I could solve this. How do you reconnect not only with your family members who you haven't shared a Christmas with in ages, but with the ones you didn't even know existed up until a week ago?

And today it hit me.

I received an email from Geni, notifying me of an upcoming event within my family. July 16th is the 44th wedding anniversary of Dale and Margaret. You know about as well as I did who these two people are, but I looked them up on my tree and found that Dale is my great-grandmother's brother's son, making him my first cousin twice removed. On a whim, I did a search for him on a people search site and found a list of three possible addresses and phone numbers. All I need to do to connect with someone new is call them up. Should I? Should I get in touch with family members I've never met, wish them a happy anniversary or a happy birthday? What do I even say? Is this the way to gaining a heritage of my own?

*Understand, my parents had been divorced for at least 15 years at the time, each having remarried since then, and both living on opposite sides of the country from each other, but somehow it made more sense that my dad would be at Christmas dinner with my mom than for me to be using the telephone.

**Paavani is my friend, too, I just wanted to subtly point out that they are related.

Mental Playlist

Work has been boring today. My mind has responded by creating a mental playlist and playing loops of songs from the list. It goes as follows:

"Oh, Sherrie" - Steve Perry
"Lights" - Journey
"I'm On a Boat" - The Lonely Island (feat. T-Pain)
"Chemicals Between Us" - Bush
"Sex on Fire" - Kings of Leon
"Be Our Guest" from Beauty and the Beast*, but instead of the line "Be our guest" it's playing as "We won't pay"


*Updated

Dan Took The LSATs

In early June I took a step towards bettering my current place in life by taking the LSATs. I bought a book, studied the sample questions, and took the practice tests. When the day of truth finally came around, I felt prepared.

The most striking thing about the LSATs, is how important they THINK they are. I received multiple emails reiterating the rules and regulations governing behaviors and procedures on test day. Bookbags and purses were not allowed. You could only bring a clear, plastic, gallon-size Ziploc bag. In it you could have standard non-mechanical pencils, erasers, a highlighter (but no pens), a snack (to be eaten during the break time ONLY), a beverage in a bottle (up to 20oz, and again, only for during the break time), a wallet, keys, an analog (not digital) watch, and any medical or hygiene products you required. Under no circumstances were you allowed to have any cell phones or iPods, digital watches, any watches that had alarms or beeped on the hour, etc. No scraps of paper of any size were acceptable.

When we arrived, we sat around, waiting to be led into the testing area. I had already dropped off my non-essential belongings with a trusted soul at the library and was in possession of my plastic bag items only. A woman came out and reminded us to check the many signs on the walls and be sure not to have any of the prohibited items with us*. We lined up, IDs and test forms in hand, and sloooowwwwwwwwwly filed into the room. They compared our IDs to the name on the test form**, and then told us where to sit, placing us in every other seat. I ended up with an aisle seat, which was awesome. Then a different girl came by to have us give a thumb print and to slice off the top portion of our enrollment form and leave us with a slip of paper (which they strictly reminded us could not be on our desks during the test) confirming that we had been signed up, shown up, etc.

They kept seating people, though, filling up most of the empty seats. One of the explicit rules was that you could not choose where to sit. The tables were wide, so there was no risk of bumping elbows (or uglies, for that matter, although I don't think that was ever much of an issue). They seated a gentleman to the left of me, but he didn't stay there long. After the proctor began speaking and asking if there were any questions to this point, the gentleman raised his hand.

"Yes, you in the back?"

"I have a question, but could you come back here? It isn't necessary for the whole group to hear it."

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"I have a question, but could you or someone come back here?"

The proctor looked to her proctor assistants, trying to make sense of it. Finally one of the assistants headed back. Now, the gentleman kept his voice low, but his problem had to do with the lighting over his particular seat, that it was either too bright or too dark. I was right next to him, and I did a quick survey, finding that the gentleman had not inadvertantly sat in the one seat where light did not penetrate, nor did he have a small micro-sun hovering above him, burning out his retinas and melting the printed word right off of the page. In fact, I couldn't distinguish any differences at all between the light at his seat and at mine. But they moved him to the back and began the test.

Even if I remembered, verbatim, every question on the test, the angry emails of procedural conduct preclude me from discussing them. Basically, there were five sections and a writing sample (each lasting 35 minutes, with a single 15 minute break after section two or three). One of the sections was an unscored experimental section to decide what will be on future tests, and it was easily identified by the fact that it was the easiest section on the test. The writing sample is unscored but is sent along with your test scores to give prospective schools an idea about your ability to write in favor of an argument. I don't really know what to say about it all. It was a lot like the practice tests I had taken. I felt confident and didn't run out of time on any sections. There were some questions that had me stumped, but they were few and far between. Overall, it was a good experience.

I had taken three practice tests in the week leading up to the test, taking one every other day to get into a good flow that would allow me to be comfortable and confident with the situation. The first practice test I took put me in the 95th percentile, with a calculated score of 168***. It left me feeling confident and unconcerned. The next practice test gave me a score of 161, dropping me all the way down to the 80th percentile. I had faltered, run out of time, and basically just done a completely atrocious job of test taking. I felt unprepared, worried, and completely unhinged from the score. The third and final test ranked me a little higher, with a score of 167 placing me in the 92nd percentile, but it was still a far cry from my original practice test.

That said, I have spent the last few weeks worrying about my score, having absolutely no idea where I would fall. But last night I checked my email and found that my score had finally arrived! Tara and I sat next to each other as we opened it up and read:

Dear Dan Awesome,

Your June 2009 LSAT score is 168. The percentile rank is 96.

This is your unofficial score report.

An all-around admirable score! Tara immediately checked out the Yale website, finding that my GPA would put me at the low end of the scale for the profile of the class of 2011, but that my LSAT score puts me around the 25% mark, meaning that an ivy league education, while a long-shot, could still be a possibility. Pitt, however, has a class profile that puts my GPA somewhere between 50 and 75% and my LSAT score over the 75% mark, which makes me feel better about possibly getting a scholarship of some sort. Yay!







* Actually, the woman told us to make sure we didn't have any of the "non-prohibited" items, but I simply assumed it was the first logic question of the test.

** I don't think the woman actually looked at me, but merely at my ID. I feel as though this is a flaw in their system. Maybe she just sort of compares the skin color in the ID picture to the shade of your arm flesh, but if I'm standing right there, you might as well take a gander at my pearly whites and stunning blue eyes that see all the way down to the very depths of your soul, making you shudder in orgasmic delight. On second thought, maybe it's better that she just looked at my arm.

*** The test is out of 101 points, but they then take your score and apply it to some curve that puts it on a scale of 120 to 180. Your final score is somewhere in that range, but they also give you a percentile ranking.

Vacation: Day 1

For the first time since I got my current job, I'm taking a vacation. 5 days off of work, wrapped around a weekend. I have a house full of projects, a head full of ambitious ideas, and all the motivation of a slice of ham.

I spent the afternoon watching videos on YouTube: Collegehumor videos, the Prank War, Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog, and then Michael Jackson videos*. I took the cat outside on a leash. I cleaned up a large amount of dog poop. I played some New Super Mario Brothers on my new DSi. I didn't get dressed though.





*Culminating in him actually dying in real life.

Seen On The Bus

With a Tin Cup for a Chalice

I'm not a fan of the Bernie Mac show. Something about the staging and lighting always made it seem very dark and claustrophobic. I don't like it. That said, the other day I caught the last half of an episode. It wasn't very good, and I definitely wouldn't recommend it, but one part blew my mind. The episode involved Bernie making friends with some guy and forcing his nephew to be friends with the guy's kid, despite the kid being a mean, boring kid. Then Bernie realizes that the guy sucks too, so he doesn't want to be friends with him. He figures that all he has to do is get the nephew to stop pretending to be friends with the kid and then he can break off the friendship with the guy on those grounds. ANYWAY, the guy comes over at the end and brings a box of wine:


Do you see that box? Do you??


BANANA WINE!!! I want that! I google'd it and found nothing. I know that productions make up products and such, but this was only used in a single shot, so why go to all that work, right? RIGHT? Can anyone help? All I could find were recipes to make my own banana wine, but I'm not ready for that kind of commitment. Please, find me some banana wine!!



Update: I posted a comment for the author of The Boxed Wine Spot in an effort for some assistance from an expert.

Appreciating the Cat

A couple weekends back, Tara took the puppies and went home to her parent's house for Mother's Day. I stayed behind with our cat, Admiral Goonieface of the S.S. Polyphemus ("Meow Meow" for short) with the plan of getting a good amount of LSAT studying done. It was quiet, relaxing, and allowed me to bond with our precious one-eyed feline boarder. Generally, the cat is completely overshadowed by the rowdiness of the two dogs, forced to creep along the edges of the room while the dogs tear around in the center of it. The cat really gets the short end of the stick in the "pet adoration" department. We rarely get any good one on one time with her because of the dogs being so large and domineering. She doesn't get to have any toys of her own because the dogs appropriate all of the toy mice and plastic balls with bells in them, and then eat them. She can play with the laser pointer, but ends up chasing after the spot, then darting out of the way of the dog barreling down upon her. It has gotten to the point that when we throw the dog's ball (something about the same size as the cat's head) she chases after it with the dog.

But this weekend it was just us. And it was awesome. And a little bit weird. The cat followed me from room to room 98% of the time, and simply disappeared completely for the other 2%. She meowed a lot and demanded to be petted and loved. The best part was that we finally got to play with the rarely used cat toys. Since we can't really play with the cat, she doesn't have anything other than the mice and the balls with bells, but they're so new and novel that it doesn't matter. She liked the mice and ignored the balls, and what I found is that our cat plays fetch. Better than the dogs, in fact. I would hurl it across the dining room, into the kitchen, and she would scamper after it, bat it around a bit, then bring it back and drop it at my feet. She would sit there and look up at me, meowing occasionally, until I threw it for her again. She slept in the bed with me, curled up at the foot of the bed, and just sort of kept me company. It was nice.