Dan Must Blog

Superhero by Day?

2010-08-31T13:49:00.003-04:00

I realized recently that there are two distinct kinds of superheroes: Those who are always on, and those who treat it like a day job.

I came upon this epiphany after taking a picture of myself tearing off a shirt to expose my Batman uniform underneath. Of course, this is factually inaccurate. Not because I'm not actually Batman, but because Batman never wore his uniform beneath his street clothes. During the day, Bruce Wayne lives his millionaire playboy lifestyle, living his life to the fullest. It's at night, during his pre-planned shifts, that he pulls on his cowl and becomes…Batman. He has a distinct line between his life as Bruce Wayne and his life as Batman. And it's relatively easy to maintain. There's such a disconnect between the two, that it really is just a hobby for him.

On the other hand, we have the superheroes that are always on. Take Superman, take S

piderman. They have the suit on beneath their clothes. When the ugly head of crime is reared, they're ready. They may have their pre-planned patrols, too, but they're also just ready for action.

Scenario: A superhero, in his street clothes, is walking down the street and glances down an alley. A woman is being violently mugged. What does he do?

Batman: Well, as I'm dressed in my Bruce Wayne clothes, I have to decide whether it's worth stepping in. If I decide that it is, then I have to make an assumption about how long it will be going on. If it's going to be over soon, then I probably won't do anything. I'd have to step in as Bruce Wayne, millionaire playboy, and I don't really need that kind of publicity right now. If it's looking like it will take a while, I can take a car home, change into my uniform in the Batcave, and head back out in the Batmobile. I mean, Wayne Manor is a bit out of the city, so I have to weigh in factors of time of day, traffic, etc. Yeah, I'd most likely just let him continue on his way. It's really not worth getting involved. I mean, I sometimes keep an additional suit over at the Wayne Enterprises (formerly WayneCorp) building, but that's still a bit of trouble, what with the elevators and all. I'd just let it go.

Superman: I'd duck behind a dumpster or through a car or something and strip down to my suit. Then I'd make sure justice is served. That woman's liberty shall not be impeded upon.

Spiderman: I'd duck behind a dumpster and strip down to my suit and pull on my mask. I'd make some witty comments and defeat the bad guy.

Spiderman and Superman both believe that their main purpose is to fight crime and protect the masses. It has many downsides, as it means crime-fighting comes first. It's more important than relationships, work, school, etc. Nothing is bigger than crime fighting. But Batman believes in a "trickle-down" theory of crime. The guys at the bottom, the street thugs, muggers, drug dealers, etc, they're nothing. They're just a symptom of a much larger problem. That's what he's after. He's going after the top rung, the criminals from which all other crime flows.* In his opinion, Spiderman and Superman are simply wasting time by spending so much effort on the little guys.

*Obviously, this is a flawed view. Following Batman's plan of attack, all the big criminals will be taken out, and any remaining low-level thugs will be dealt with during his shifts from 10pm to 4am. Outside of that, it's open season.

Soup That Eats Like a Meal

2010-08-28T16:15:00.002-04:00

I was feeling rather hungry, so I went to the pantry to see what I had. I contemplated my options. Pasta, cereal, soup, stuffing. All of them seemed to carry the same fatal flaw; they wouldn't allow me to demonstrate, while eating, how much I love the National Football League. If only there was a way that I could carry on my undying support for football.

Thankfully, there was.

Thank you, Campbell's! It's good to know that you solved this problem before I even realized it could be an issue. And you have my back whether I'm in the mood for clam chowder, minestrone, or chili. You're awesome.

Pigeons.

2010-08-13T15:44:00.008-04:00

While I was waiting at the bus stop for the elusive 54C, the woman next to me carried on a phone conversation. She was doing that thing where she had the phone on speaker and so I had the benefit of hearing both sides of the conversation. It was a pretty standard older lady conversation about what was going on later. The woman had a doctor's appointment to go to, and her conversational partner was picking up some kids or watching some kids or something.

It was kind of dull.

BUT THEN!!! Then the woman began making comments about the birds around us and how there seemed to be a group of pigeons amassing. And she was right. Up on the wires, more and more pigeons were joining up. The woman then started saying "They's waiting for Mary Jane! You just wait. They's all there waiting for Mary Jane." I didn't know what she was talking about so I just ignored it. She kept making comments to her friend about the number of birds flocking around us. I made the mistake of making eye contact and she asked me if I noticed the birds. I acknowledged in the affirmative. She said, "Just you wait. Mary Jane''ll be coming on the next bus, I betya. She gets fined for feeding 'em downtown, but she keep doing it."

And soon, the 88 pulled up and a little old lady in a hat and with an old lady cart got off. The woman next to me said "Mary Jane! When the 54C come?" And Mary Jane said just keep waiting. She crossed 40th and the woman said "You watch when she cross the street. You just wait." As she stood on the corner, the pigeons all started getting restless, hopping from wire to wire. The light changed and Mary Jane crossed Penn, and all hell broke loose. The pigeons started dropping down from the sky all around her. She reached her hand in her bag and tossed out some bird seed for them. She walked on her way, but the pigeons remained. Soon they flew off in another direction.

It was weird.

And the Winner For Best Surprise Gift Is....

2010-04-14T22:03:00.001-04:00

In honor of the 27th anniversary of the greatest day in the history of me, people far and wide made offerings to me. These included a roll of wax paper, a box of generic brand toaster pastries, a pair of jeans, and a plush dinosaur head on a stick. And while this is seems like a strange assortment of items, they're all quite fitting and none too surprising in the grand scheme of things. But the best gift I received this year is one that is kind of unexpected. A charitable donation in my name of three rabbits, via World Vision.

"Wait. Did I read that right? Did Dan just say that the best gift he received was one that he didn't actually receive??"

Yes, you did. I did receive a card in the mail from Tom and Jean, the kindly philanthropists who made the donation, stating that I am now "part of something special". And it's flipping awesome. Why? Let me tell you!

1. I like to give. It's true. I like to give. I like knowing that I've helped the community or individual or local music scene, that I've done my part. I don't usually have the opportunity or resources to give, and, more often than not, I can find something much more enjoyable to spend my money on, but deep down I like to give. That's one of the reasons I'm a fan of Brad Yoder. He finances his albums by taking loans and grants from fans and they, in return, get a copy of the album and their name in the liner notes. That takes us to the next item...

2. I like recognition. I'm a horrible person who greatly prefers to give if other people know about it. I can only think of one time in recent history when I gave without getting recognition, going so far as to give the recognition to someone else, and it was such a pain in the butt and hassle that I don't expect to do it again soon.

3. I have enough stuff. I have somehow become the man who has everything. Every birthday and every Christmas, people start asking me what I want, and every year the list is shorter and shorter. I need a new laptop for when I start school, which my mom has made a grand donation of her own towards, but that's such a giant present that I don't feel right asking for it. Even when she offered the money, I told her to hold on to it until I know exactly what kind I want, since I'm much more likely to just spend it on windows or other home repairs. But I have clothes, I have pets, I have a means of transportation, and I have a comfortable life. There really isn't anything that is quite obviously missing (especially since I already bought myself a new camera). So another trinket or dollar-store gift is hardly what I need*.

4. I wasn't expecting a gift. Jean is great. Tom is great. I don't know when their birthdays are, and I don't know that I would get them gifts if I did. In turn, I didn't expect them to get me anything, either. So the card coming in the mail was a total surprise. Like finding a quarter. Good in a better than mediocre way. Not mind-blowing, but cool.

Combining these four items, we end up with an unexpected gift that allows me to give AND gives me credit for it, while being meaningful and, most importantly, didn't require me to do a damn thing. I feel good, I feel better about myself, and I didn't have to lift a finger or pay a penny. It's all win for me.

* I still love the trinkets and dollar-store gifts everyone else got me. I don't need them, but I love them all the same.

One Year Diary

2010-03-26T08:59:00.004-04:00

In my mom's garage, there are two or three one-year diaries that belonged to my great-aunt. My mom came into possession of them, and they are absolutely wonderful to read. Mostly they mention things like "Did the laundry and went to the store. Weather was cloudy", the mundane details of everyday life. But they're great. A documentation of an entire year of life. I was inspired.

And thus, I made one resolution this year: to keep a one-year journal. And I have. I purchased a 2010 Moleskine notebook, and everyday I write down a synopsis of what happened the day before. At first I wrote it in the physical journal, but soon I moved on to writing it on Post-it notes to add in later. Eventually, it morphed into an online thing where I simply updated an un-posted Blogger entry to reflect the previous day's events, with the intention to eventually transfer everything over to the physical notebook.

And there is where the treat for people who have me on an RSS feed comes into play. Today I mistakenly posted the entry. Every one of my days since early February. I immediately removed the post, but as suspected (and confirmed by my own Google Reader), the RSS feed still exists. So to all of you who now have received a list of my day to day life, I ask the following:

1. You can feel free to read and enjoy. I looked over it and I'm not bothered by what it contains. I'd prefer if it didn't go any farther because of the other people mentioned, but if you've already looked over it you'll know I live a pretty boring life.

2. Please ignore the few dreams I've mentioned. That was the only embarassing part, the things that didn't happen.

3. Don't pass on the name of the person who potentially did porn.

Other than that, I guess you can just consider this an added bonus for being a fan. Kudos!

How To Save A Life

2010-02-23T09:49:00.002-05:00

Saturday night, I attended a "Big Lebowski" themed birthday party for my next door neighbor. Tara and I had just gotten our White Russians and were standing in the entrance to the kitchen when a gentleman walked over to us who seemed familiar, but I couldn't place him. He seemed like he was already half-cocked, and was a bit of a close talker. He had an interesting conversational style, where he would kind of dominate the conversation, then back off a bit, then take over again. He mentioned that he lived up the street and instantly I knew who he was!

"You live in [house number], right??"

"Um, yes," he replied.

"I know Jenny, who lives next door."

"Oh, Jenny, right."

I excused myself to fill up my drink, leaving Tara to suffer his nearly incoherent ramblings on leaking roofs alone. When she finally escaped, she was understandably angry, but I stopped her and said, "you know who that guy is, right??" She did not, so I told her.

I had saved his life.

It was years ago when I had attended a backyard party at Chris Kaiser's house. This same drunken neighbor made a nearly fatal error in judgement as he sat upon the railing of the raised porch. Leaning backwards a little too far he was able to get a hand on his own house across the way, but was then stuck in that precarious position as his wife and child watched on in horror. I walked over, placed an extended hand upon his back, and raised him back up to the safety of his perch. His wife thanked me and I replied "Everybody gets one."

And here he was. It was odd to look on and know that, if it weren't for me, he wouldn't be here. I was responsible, for better or worse, for the man he was today. And that made me watch him more closely, to forgive his odd social mannerisms. It was like he was my creation.

He left the party a little early, shaking my hand as he said goodbye. He forgot my name, and as he walked away, I secretly delighted in my thankless job as a savior.

"A Broken Nose And A Broken Heart"

2010-02-15T13:55:00.005-05:00

So after a year and 11 months, Tara and I have ceased our coupledom.

Obviously, the thought in everyone's mind is "Um...don't you guys have, like, a house and dogs and a cat and entire house worth of mutual belongings?" And yes, we do. As such, the break up is not the usual, casual, "okay, I'll have a friend come by next week and drop off a box of all the crap of yours that I don't want," but instead shall be the potentially awkward renaming and reworking of the relationship, taking it from "couple" to "roommates." The inevitable dividing of our material possessions will come later.

Apologies if this is painfully incoherent and stream of consciousness. I am still processing.

Today, the most bothersome feeling associated with the break up was the instant realization that I am no longer a member of a team. It is back to being just me against the world. Picking up on my weakness, the world decided to underscore my feelings of isolation and loneliness.

At lunch, I was forced to eat my chicken cold, as a coworker chose to microwave a dish for 7 minutes. Not an eternity, but far beyond the limits of common decency when most people in the office have 30 minute lunch.
When I went to the bathroom, the stalls on both sides of me quickly became occupied, not once, but twice, meaning I was unceasingly surrounded at my most vulnerable.
When I waited for the bus, the first one to come along was the one route (out of a potential six or seven) that would put me farthest from home. I chose to wait for the next one, only to be stuck standing in the snow for 15 minutes.
Adding insult to injury, the bus that finally came was an old style bus, where the seating area is raised up, blocking all view out of the windshield, and lacking the handy (and strangely erotic) female voice telling me which stop we were approaching. I ended up getting off a stop early, adding an additional two blocks of snow trekking on to the homeward journey.

Thank you, world, for kicking me while I'm down.

Etiquette Says That's My Soda

2010-01-28T17:58:00.002-05:00

As much as I consider myself a rebel, I continue to find that I have an inner desire for rules and structure. Certain things irk me to no end. Some fall under the category of breaking laws (like changing lanes in an intersection) while others simply show stupidity (like misusing the word "ignorant"). Unfortunately, some of them are more of just rules in my head that I have no way of actually implementing on a grander scale (like leaving a single-stall buffer zone in the bathroom; if I can see your feet, you're too close). Today, one of my rules of etiquette was breached, and I was bothered by it for hours. Let me paint you a picture...

It was lunch time and I was enjoying a grand meal in the break room at work. I had finished my trout with sauteed mushrooms, eaten the last of my Parmesan-baked asparagus, and was just beginning on my stuffed mushrooms when a large woman came into the break room. She put a bag of popcorn into the microwave and then went over to the soda machine to purchase a bottled cola product. She put her change in the slot, made her selection and watched as the soft drink of choice dropped to the bottom. She bent over, flashing a horrible tramp-stamp in my direction (and inadvertently burning it into my retinas). She faltered, banging the door of the pick up slot back and forth to no avail.

Being familiar with this particular machine, I knew that the most common problem is that bottles will land in a vertical position, impeding the door and keeping the sodas all to itself. In order to thwart the selfish actions of the machine, a ruler is kept on top of the machine to knock the vertical sodas horizontal and free up the door.

To assist my coworker, I grabbed the ruler and offered it to her. She was crouched in front of the machine, towards the right, banging the door. She declined, saying "The soda isn't stuck, it's the door." I crouched down, ruler in hand, and looked towards the left, seeing a bottle standing vertically and blocking the door. I used the ruler to knock it aside, pointing out that there was a soda on this side. "A second one?" she asked. "You could give it to me," I suggested. As I stood up, she grabbed both sodas, uttered "It's a bonus", and walked over to the microwave. She took her popcorn and waddled out of the break room, arms overflowing with everything she needed to continue her trip on the obesity express.

I was livid. I couldn't believe it. My personal rules of etiquette say that in this instance, the "bonus" soda should have been offered to me. She paid for one soda, but wouldn't have received any sodas if it weren't for my quick thinking and fancy maneuvers. The least she could do was offer the other soda. But nooooo! She decides that she deserves to treat herself to another helping of high fructose corn syrup. Not cool. No, not cool at all.

Let's See How 2009 Went

2009-12-31T09:41:00.003-05:00

We've entered into a new year, and that means it's time to put forth my New Year's Resolutions. But as stated years ago, I shall not be looking to the future, but to the past. And now, my after-the-fact New Year's Resolutions for 2009.

1. Buy a House - Perhaps the most impressive thing I've done in ages, I am the co-owner of a magnificent piece of property. Three stories, a front porch, a back yard, and an endless list of problems to solve. It's one more thing crossed off the "You're an Adult" list.*

2. Acquire a New Dog and a New Cat - Jack and Admiral Goonie-Face of the S.S. Polyphemus joined our clan in 2009, rounding out the trio of pets. Despite some early apprehensions, I feel that both have shown themselves to be irreplaceable additions, fitting in quite well with our odd family. The only downside I can see is that when the revolution comes, they'll outnumber us and easily overtake us with their chants of "2 legs bad, 4 legs good".**

3. Learn to Ride a Motorcycle - A long time coming, but the freedom of pedal-less two wheels is finally mine. A little hard work, two Saturday mornings, and I'm all set to hit the open road.

4. Purchase a Motorcycle - Obviously the next logical step, following number 3. The cute little '82 Kawasaki 440 has enough power to haul me around with Tara on the back, yet is still small enough to make me look like a bear riding a tricycle. That's what we were going for. But seriously, it's a lovely bike and perfect to start with. I'm sure I'll trade up at some point, but I'll always have a soft spot in my heart for it.

5. Keep the Same Job and Earn a Promotion (With Raise) - Where in the world did I pick up this work ethic??

6. Take the LSATs and Do Well - 168, 96th Percentile. I don't get tired of saying it.

7. Begin to Acquire a Respectable Wardrobe - A few months ago, Tara found an estate sale that she wanted to check out. It was in Beaver county, for judge J. Quint Salmon, who had passed away at the ripe old age of 101. A tall, well-to-do gentleman, he had acquired quite a wardrobe of fine suits, many from Brooks Brothers. In a wonderful demonstration of serendipity, his frame happened to be very similar to mine, and we left the house with 3 Brooks Brothers suits, a generic tuxedo, and a magnificently beautiful Brooks Brothers tuxedo (which I wore last night). Each individual suit was $20. Combine this with Tara's penchant for buying me good looking clothes, from shirts to shoes, to the Christmas presents of monogrammed cuff links and a monogrammed pocket watch, and I have quite a formidable closet of style.

8. Become More Adept at Home and Vehicle Repairs - I always liked a definition of the word "boat" that I once read, which stated "a hole in the water into which you throw money." Get rid of the water and you have a house. Just like "The Money Pit" or "Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House", a house is nothing but task after task. But so far we've been able to do all of the repairs, updates, etc., on our own. We're having a professional do the roof, but we've busted walls, put up new walls, replaced a toilet, replaced the thermostat, torn out a closet, and fixed screens, all on our own. And the motorcycle is a similar story! I changed the oil and replaced the battery, with no problems. Next up, replace the handlebars.

9. Acquire a Hobby/Collection - This one came via my sister Brynn whose birthday present to me was a dollar bill signed by Johnny Yong Bosch, aka the Black Power Ranger from the movie. This kicked off a collection that now includes dollar bills signed by Fox Sports Net Pittsburgh's Rob King, Pittsburgh Steelers' Willie Colon, Pittsburgh Pirate's Andrew McCutcheon, and PNC Financial's CEO Jim Rohr.

It's been a good year. Here's to 2010 being even better.

*In high school, and for a period after that, I created a mental list of what would constitute "adulthood". Basically a line in the sand, after which I would be an adult. It was pretty simple, and I think it actually just constituted ownership of a dog and a residence. That means that I now embody the definition of adult that was decided by my younger self. I am an adult. But I don't see it. Everyone else does, but I don't. My sister and her friends came over to our place for New Year's Eve because, as she put it, "you guys are more fun that REAL adults." I wore a tuxedo. I own a tuxedo. Oh, god. I really am an adult. When did this happen? I'm still the same awkward, immature, self-conscious person I was 10 years ago (which, incidentally, was at age 16. I'm not just an adult, but I'm old, too!!). I feel like I know less than I did then, I'm more confused, slightly less awkward, and the only thing I've learned is that nobody feels as old as they are. Those of you out there who are older than me, do you feel like an adult, and if so, when did that acceptance occur? Was it a warm embrace, a realization that you're well-prepared to handle life's ups and downs, or was it a savage wrenching of everything you know and love, a confusing cacophony where black became white, up became down, and you found yourself naked and alone in the cold? Suzie, Jen, Mia--I'm looking at all of you. Post a comment!

**Our only hope is that the revolution will fall apart due to in-fighting over the proposed sub-clause of "two eyes bad, one eye better".

Giving It The Old College Try

2009-12-12T00:41:00.001-05:00

On Tuesday there was a school shooting at Northern Virginia Community College, and as much as it pains me to say this, having attended a community college myself, it is quite obvious that it was perpetrated by a community college student.

Based on the evidence available, 20-year-old Jason Michael Hamilton was angry at his math teacher for his grades, so he plotted and planned his revenge. He bought a high-powered rifle from the local Dick's Sporting Goods the day before exacting his revenge, most likely going home to continue stewing about his plan while living in his parents' basement. The next day, he slept in, then went to the school. At 2:40pm, he burst into the classroom and walked towards the teacher's desk at the front of the room. He silently took aim at his teacher and fired, but missed. The teacher yelled for the other students to exit quickly and call the authorities, then hid behind her desk as he fired again. Then his gun jammed so he threw it on the floor and gave up. MSNBC noted in their article that "a more experienced gunman might have been able to overcome the jam." He walked into the hall and sat in a chair waiting for the police, calmly following their orders without resistance.

Thankfully, we ended up with a slacker who poorly planned his massacre, failed to learn how to properly use his weapon, and gave up the second something went wrong. It's kind of like reading an article in The Onion.

The other thing that struck me as odd were the quotes mentioned in the Washington Post article:

Police treated the incident as an "active shooter" scene and entered immediately, said Sgt. Kim Chinn, a Prince William police spokeswoman.

"I can't say enough good things about the way this was handled," [school provost Sam] Hill said.

Prince William Police Chief Charlie T. Deane said, "It had the potential for something much worse."

"At the end of the day, when I go home, if everyone is safe, I know I did a good job, and that's what happened today," [Campus police officer Anthony] Mellis said.

Yes, you arrested the shooter and nobody was injured or killed. But did you really keep everyone safe and have a chance to utilize your recent training? No. The shooter's poor aim, the shoddy craftsmanship of the gun, as well as the shooter's disappointing work ethic were the only life savers here. Stop patting yourselves on the back. You did your job, and you did it well, but this won't be a TV-movie lauding the heroics of the Prince William PD.

Rider Insurance, or How To Fail At Customer Service By Arguing Over $1.65

2009-12-04T23:00:00.007-05:00

When Tara and I recently purchased our new [to us] motorcycle, we opted to be signed up at the dealership for insurance. We were quoted a price of $162 for a year of full liability coverage, and the salesman assured us that going with this company, Rider Insurance, was the way to go. He signed us up online for the policy, we paid our premium, and, thus, it began.

The policy was written with myself as the primary and Tara as a secondary rider. Within a week, I received two insurance cards, both in my name, and both with the same bike listed. They were identical, all the way down to the VIN. I called up Rider Insurance to ask why in the world I would need two cards, while Tara, however, would need none, and to experience what their website promises, "affordable motorcycle insurance and great service with no hassles."

Some informational background: Rider Insurance, based in Springfield, New Jersey, was founded in 1971 by Harry R. Bleiwise. A passionate motorcycle rider himself, he sought to bring the same atmosphere of friendship and loyalty to insurance. Since its founding, Rider has grown to service not only New Jersey, but Pennsylvania, Ohio, and West Virginia. While still serving as Chairman, Mr. Bleiwise now has his permanent address in Boca Raton, Florida.

The first person I spoke with was a gentleman by the name of Evans Bierre (or Pierre?). I explained my issue, only to find out that the real issue was not that I had two cards, but that I had been signed up for a policy with two bikes, both sharing the same VIN. How this could happen, I do not know.* He said he could go ahead and submit to have the second bike removed, and quoted me the change in price. I then asked about adding Tara as the secondary driver. He said that she was already on there, but that she wouldn't receive her own card. I asked if he could provide me with any documentation showing that she was, in fact, insured by this policy. He refused. Then he begrudgingly admitted that Tara need not be on my policy at all. It seems that as long as she and I live under the same roof, she is fully insured under my policy as long as I have given her my permission to ride the motorcycle. He resisted my urgings to go ahead and note my permanent permission. He said I would be receiving a reimbursement of $102.00, but he would need to submit one change today and the other the following day, so he would go ahead and give a call to confirm everything once he had finished all the changes.

This call remained calm, for the most part. He was hesitant to give me some of the information I was looking for, especially in regards to Tara already being covered by my sole coverage, but for the most part, it was fine.

The next day, I receive a voicemail from Evans stating that he has gone ahead and processed the changes, and I will be receiving a refund check in the amount of $73.35. This upset me. Now for some math!

If the base policy for Me, Tara, and the same bike twice equals $165 (including 10% multi-vehicle discount), then without the 10% discount we're at $180. Taking off one bike leaves the policy for the two of us at $90. Taking Tara away means that my policy should be roughly $45.

This is ignoring the fact that Tara is under 25, meaning insuring her is more expensive than insuring me. If we take that into consideration, then the premium drops even lower. Even pro-rating the week's worth of insurance Tara had had by that point totalled only about ninety-six cents.

And so I was understandably confused (and, admittedly, aggravated) at having to call back again. This time, calling during the 30 minutes I had for lunch, I spoke with Blanche. She was kind, and I was kind in return. I explained the situation, the assurance of $102, and that all I was looking for was a reimbursement of that amount. Blanche explained that the amount I was getting back was correct. After a great deal of pushing, she said she could go as high as $100.35. While closer to my goal, it was still short of what I had been promised. As she 'haggled' with me over how much of my money she would be willing to give back, I asked her for some hard figures, because, frankly, the math wasn't adding up. She quoted me a price of $60 for my policy alone, and Tara's at $135. That's not a mis-type. She said that the breakdown of our $160 combined policy was $60 for me and $135 for Tara. I refused to budge, becoming more and more aggitated as the call progressed from the thirty minutes I had allotted to me for lunch, and into the fifteen minutes I had allotted for my break later. Increasingly frustrated with the lack of answers and the fly-by-night mathematics being employed, I gave her three options:

1. Refund me the $102 originally promised.
2. Refund me the $135 quoted for Tara's policy.
3. Refund me the entire policy of $165.

Prior in the conversation she had told me that her supervisor, Tracey, was not available. I said let's go higher, but Yolanda, Tracey's supervisor, wasn't available. She tried to tell me that, because this policy began at the dealership, "I'm going to need to transfer you over to our Dealership group". I refused, explaining that I have nothing to do with the dealership and that my business with them ended when I drove my bike off of their lot. If Rider Insurance has an issue with the dealership, they can call them and request reimbursement for the the $1.65 they're now trying to withhold from me, but I refuse to go over all of this again. At this point though, in response to the ultimatem and the possibility of a cancelled policy, she said "Can I put you on hold and get a supervisor?" I agreed, but only on the terms that I be on hold for less than 2 minutes, having already spent upwards of 10 minutes on hold during this 40 minute conversation. After 5 minutes on hold, I terminated the call and called back. I don't remember who I got, but after demanding to be transferred to a supervisor and being on hold for an additional few minutes, I terminated the call again. Calling back again, I reached Evans. My buddy, my pal, the man who had started this mess of a customer service nightmare. The first words I told him were "Do not put me on hold or I will cancel my policy". I then explained that I was angry and frustrated with the company after spending far too much time on the phone with Blanche. In response, he said "Hold on" and put me on hold. When he came back, he argued that violating my wishes to not be put on hold was necessary to get the story from Blanche. I told him that he had quoted me $102.00, that I demanded one of the three options listed above, and that I wanted a response now. He said that Blanche had gone to run it past the supervisor in Dealership, Odalys, and that he would have her call me back with a response. I gave him Tara's number and my wish that she call Tara first (so Tara could either demand the full amount or implement the cancellation of our policy) and then call and leave a message for me.

I was fuming. An hour or so later I received a message from Odalys stating that I would be receiving the full $102.00 back and apologizing for any problems I had experienced. She had failed to call Tara first, but I let it slide.

And then I began the waiting game. Either Blanche or Evans had stated that it would take 3-4 weeks to receive my refund. So I waited. And waited. And waited.

Two days ago was four weeks.

Yesterday I called. I began by trying to reach Odalys, who had been so kind as to leave me a message before, but only got voicemail at her extension. I tried the main number and spoke with Kay, who haughtily told me that refunds actually take 30 to 45 days to process, but that mine *cheerfully* was ordered to be processed yesterday! She coughed, then contiued. That means it could go out today, tomorrow, or even Monday. I asked why it should take so long, especially given that it was their error. She coughed and snapped, "Will you hold on a minute? I have to get a drink of water" and put me on hold before I could reply. Upon her return, she said that it was just company policy. A manager could have fast-tracked it to go out sooner, but they didn't. In fact, she pointed out, the change wasn't even inputted into the system until the 10th, despite the assurance from Odalys on the 5th of November that I would be getting the $102.00 back. So I asked Kay for some names. She told me that the company is made up of two departments, Customer Service and Dealership. Kay, Blanche, and Evans (as well as Ianda, who I spoke with later) are all the ground-level employees for Customer Service. Tracey is a supervisor in Customer Service. Yolanda is the manager of Customer Service. Yolanda's equal on the Dealership side is Odalys. Above them is the director Diane Karpinski, and beyond her is the president Lauren Belfiore. The company is owned by Harry Bleiwise, but apparently he has little to do with the day-to-day operations. When I began asking for extensions and email addresses, Kay became nervous and said she would have to confer with a manager. Again, against my wishes, she put me on hold. This time, I hung up. I called back and reached Ianda (pronounced EE-anda), who I presumptuously mistook for Yolanda, thinking that I had finally, through some chance encounter with serendipity, reached a person of importance. She, too, refused to give me extensions or email addresses, putting me on hold. But this time there was music, so I decided to give it a chance. Lo and behold, a few minutes later, I had reached the mythical Odalys.

She recalled my situation and expressed some kindness regarding everything. I expressed the main points of my mission: to find the contact info of the people in charge, to find out how two bikes with the same VIN could be added to a single policy, and, of course, to get down to the rock bottom truth about what exactly was taking my refund so long to arrive. The refund had been ordered, she explained, pointing out that it was just company policy to wait 30-45 days. I failed to ask why it hadn't been deemed a top-priority, and she, understandably, failed to point out that rushing it could have ever been an option. She had no answer for the VIN problem either. She stated that it was just human error, and we all make mistakes sometimes. I responded that it seemed like it was human error on the side of the dealership, but that we had been assured at that time (as well as on the phone with Kay) that upon receipt of a policy via the internet, it would be looked at by an underwriter (who Kay had said could be individually identified). She stated that online policies were automatically entered into the system without any sort of perusal, and that no such fail-safes existed. As I tired of her ceaseless excuses and her annoying habit of changing the subject whenever presented with a question she couldn't/wouldn't answer, I focused back to trying to complete my "family tree" of the hierarchy of Rider Insurance. She refused to give me any email addresses or telephone extensions other than her own (odecicco@ridewithrider.com and *228), only going so far as to confirm the [what turned out to be a mis-] spelling of "Belfiore". She was hesitant to even give me her email address, later stating that she had broken company protocol by sharing it with me, although she then, confusingly, stated that company policy with regards to a complaint was to request the complaint in writing, either mailed or via e-mail. She said I could email her any complaints I had and that she would forward them along to the higher-ups. I pointed out that, due to this particular conversation and my dissatisfaction with the forseen results, the possibility existed that it would be critical of her as well, and asked her point-blank whether she would be editing my letter for content, or even grammar, before passing it on. She said "I can't say either way", refusing to guarantee that my complaint would reach her superiors unadulterated. I responded that I, understandably, was not comfortable with this scenario and that I would prefer to get in touch with them personally, without being forced to go through a biased middleman. She repeatedly refused, unconvincingly backtracking to say that she wouldn't edit my correspondence. I again expressed my discomfort and she refused any other options.

In the meantime, having grown bored with the unending back-and-forth and repeated circular arguments I was being forced into, I began checking out Facebook. On a whim I searched "Odalys DeCicco", finding who I can only assume was the person on the other end of the line. I told her that I was on there and asked if this was her picture, with the black hat and the silver necklace. She said she didn't remember what image she had chosen to serve as her image to general public. Feeling confident that I did have the correct person (based on her own admission of the uniqueness of her name, and later confirmed by her membership as a fan of the "Rider Insurance" Facebook page), I pointed out that her close-up photo had been cropped in such a way as to also showcase another female's cleavage directly behind her (image below). She said she was not comfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. I apologized and we ended the call shortly thereafter.

So here we are a month after we began. I'm still waiting for my refund. I've spent hours on the phone dealing with a company whose Customer Service Department is painfully ineffectual and doesn't even have a system for handling complaints. They refuse to allow contact to their upper management, fail to give consistent responses to questions, and seem to make up and subsequently break company rules to serve their own purposes. It's been terrible. I want to cancel my policy, but by considering how hard it has been to get them to give me a refund so far, I feel like trying to get the rest of my money back would be an effort in futility, so I shall simply carry my policy until it expires, maximizing on all opportunities to take advantage of the services offered. Perhaps they will even succeed in keeping me around by finding a way to make ammends for the hours of anger, frustration, and time wasted. But in keeping with Rider Insurance's philosophy of friendship and loyalty, I have taken what information (however correct or incorrect) I have received and I have compiled this [possibly] helpful little guide to recognizing and reaching your friendly Rider Insurance staff:

The email addresses other than Odalys' were guessed based on the format I found for other employees, [first initial][last name]@ridewithrider.com. There also seems to be a format for the phone extensions: 21x for the higher-ups, 22x for the Customer Service, and 24x for Dealership, although another employee mentioned that the organization isn't quite so rigid.

* This is a vehicle insurance company. Each policy is going to have, at the very least, a person and a vehicle. Doesn't it seem like the most basic rule of thumb for these policies would be "Don't allow either the same person nor the same vehicle to be listed twice". Example:

1. Person A with Vehicle X - OKAY!
2. Person A and Person A with Vehicle X - NO!
3. Person A with Vehicle X and Vehicle X - NO!

I understand that once you get to the point where you're insuring multiple people for the same vehicle (which apparently isn't necessary, either) or multiple vehicles to one person it can all get a little convoluted, but shouldn't there be some sort of fail-safe? "If [VIN] = [VIN]: Reject"?

***
Sources:
* http://www.state.nj.us/dobi/division_insurance/solvency/finexam_rpt34509rider.pdf
* http://www.insurancenetworking.com/issues/2008_63/insurance_technology_business_analytics_data_management-12591-1.html?pg=2
* http://www.ridewithrider.com/

Overheard at Work

2009-12-04T13:55:00.000-05:00

Two of my coworkers were just discussing the merits of various kinds of cigarettes and cigars, coming to a unanimous conclusion.

"But menthols, they just remind me of high school. People not inhaling and just blowing the smoke."

"...and that's why nobody who smokes menthols can be doing it for the flavor! That's why I smoke cloves and cigars. They have flavor."

I am Awesome

2009-11-24T16:10:00.003-05:00

I recently looked back through my many blog entries and as I read musing after musing, wonderful insight after wonderful insight, I realized something profound:

I am an amazingly awesome person.

It hadn't really struck me before, but somehow I've had thrillingly genius viewpoints about everyday things, and my writings about them remain interesting and intriguing. Not all of them, of course, but so many that I just went on reading and reading, late into the night, my mind being blown over and over by how vastly superior my writings are in real life to how I imagined them to be. How I managed to become this fabulous writer is beyond me, but somewhere along the way I replaced sad, introspective me with unequivocal genius I am today, spreading wit and awesomeness throughout the world. It truly makes me feel bad for not updating more often, like I'm withholding something from everyone else. The inner-workings of my mind should be shared with all.

The trouble is work. It's too distracting, not only during the block of time from 8am to 5pm that I'm paid to be there*, but in the off-time as well. I get home and I'm completely drained. I have no time to catch up on current events when I'm home, and at work I have breaks between calls (which would probably amount to a substantial chunk of time) but it's divided into uselessly small increments. I'm repeatedly made aware of a new call by a beep in my ear. You know who else had beeps in their ears? Smart people in Harrison Bergeron:

And George, while his intelligence was way above normal, had a little mental handicap radio in his ear. He was required by law to wear it at all times. It was tuned to a government transmitter. Every twenty seconds or so, the transmitter would send out some sharp noise to keep people like George from taking unfair advantage of their brains.

And you know what? It works. Knocks the thoughts clear out of your head. I can't even write a decent email at work because it takes me 8 tries to write a single sentence. By the time I finish, I've forgotten how it began. It's terrible. Nothing like spending years learning how to think, only to get a job where it's frowned upon. Today I spoke with a customer who was on his second payment and 10 days past due. He was telling me that he can't pay until the 5th of the month (at 20 days past due), and that it will stay this way unless we change his due date. I explained that he wouldn't be able to change the due date until he brought the account current. He dismissed it and say it was all our fault and that this was how it would be paid. I kindly pointed out that he would be accruing additional interest, getting phone calls every month, and that being that late early in the loan would put him at higher risk of being reviewed for repossession later. We went back and forth until he yelled at me for being "rhetorical". I asked him what he meant and he said "You just keep repeating yourself over and over."

Now mine is not a confident intelligence. As he went off on my rhetoric, I took the opportunity to verify my inkling that he was misusing the word**, looking up the definition online and then pointing out that "rhetorical" is not a synonym for "redundant". I gave him that benefit of the doubt while I looked it up, though, thinking that maybe, JUST MAYBE, this man who can't make his second car payment knows some obscure archaic definition. But he didn't. And I was right. And I mentioned it calmly as an aside. And he asked for my supervisor.

But it was a small victory and I relished in once again reminding myself that I am the Lord and Master of my humble phone line. I bow to no one, and no one dares approach my throne.

*Which I don't begrudge them for. They're paying me for my attention and mad collecting skillz, and during those many mindless hours, I am their indentured servant, plowing their fields and getting only the smallest share of the crops to take home.

**At least he didn't say that I was being so "ignorant" to him. Oooh, I hate it when they misuse ignorant.

Ragin' Ranch Discussion

2009-11-24T08:10:00.006-05:00

Hi, Dan,

I was going to drop off an empty bag of 'Raging Ranch' potato chips while on break, because I figured the visage of a hot pepper wearing shades and playing guitar (you could tell he was playing and not just posing.....there was a musical note above it) might be an inspiration. But the area downstairs and all those people I kind of know but not really scares me, and I didn't see you (you may be off today, or hiding behind some pillar).

Anyway, maybe next time.

Andy [Andy's Last Name]

***

Mr. [Andy's Last Name],

Tales of your kindness abound, but having never been on the receiving end of a tangible gift, I took them with a grain of salt. Your tale, however, shows me that the Andy [Andy's Last Name] of myth and legend exists.

Let us begin with the gift in question. Some might say that the lack of chips within the bag demonstrates selfishness, but I disagree! Chips would merely take the focus away from the object of value (i.e., the bag itself). If the chips were good, they would become the new focus. If they were poor in quality and flavor, they would detract from the enjoyment of the bag in which they came. It's a double standard, as good chips do not benefit the bag, but that is simply the way things are.

A cynic might also point out that while your intentions give evidence of a "potential" kindness, the lack of empty bag on my desk counteracts this claim. "We cannot revise history to show only our intended actions," they might say. Again, I disagree with them. It is often said, although generally in jest, that "it is the thought that counts," and I feel as though this scenario exemplifies that adage. Your description, while falling greatly short of the current exchange rate of one thousand words to a single picture, still gives me a reasonable idea of the image, allowing me to understand the humor, and nuance, of the "Ragin' Ranch" guitar-playing pepper.
In conclusion, I wish to thank you for your intended kindness. I will likely join the ranks of your faithful fellows, praising your good name to others.

Sincerely,

Mr. Awesome

***

Had I left the empty bag, questions would abound about as to why someone left something that gave the impression of trash on your desk, which you would quickly discard not having a priori knowledge, of my email. And had the bag still been full of chips, it might have implied some sort of unhealthy admirer relationship. Which may have been even more unfortunate on your end when the realization came that it was myself and not some young, attractive, female.

Presuming that would be your 'thing,' of course. I wouldn't care, nor would I judge if it wasn't.

So in my view, the only alternative option here is to have left a partially eaten bag of chips. That does sound like a pretty good option for future reference, but given my current state (slightly under the weather/flemmy/etc) it may not have been seen as a gift abounding with generosity but a clear act of maliciousness.

By logical deduction, there was only one real choice.

Andy [Andy's Last Name]

***

Mr. [Andy's Last Name],

I agree whole-heartedly with your list of options. They are indeed the "inside the box" default options, and of them, you chose the best available. That said, let me put forth a new, potential solution to this sensitive situation, which would, ideally, maintain focus upon the image in question, as well as make the gift-giver's identity well-known to the receiver.
I propose that if this situation should rear its awkward head again, the ideal solution is to cut the front of the bag out and mount it upon a makeshift frame of white paper. This would be delivered with a hand-made card stating your intentions, as well as disclosing your identity.

Sincerely,

Mr. Awesome

***

Must the paper be white? By my estimation, the essence of the image would be captured best when offset by a black backing.

Otherwise, I do wholeheartedly agree with the perfection and succinctness of your thought,.

Andy [Andy's Last Name]

***

Mr. [Andy's Last Name],

Whatever color best compliments the image should be used. White just seemed to be the easiest to find.

Sincerely,

Mr. Awesome

7 in Human Years

2009-10-01T09:28:00.007-04:00

In November of last year, Tara and I toyed with the idea of getting a dog. For me, this meant researching every possible breed of dog I might be interested in. My ideal theoretical canine companion for years had been summed up in the description "a dog who loves me and hates everyone else". Beyond that, I wanted a good looking dog, medium to large build, with short hair. I started keeping my eyes open for dobermans and boxers available on PetFinder.com. Tara, on the other hand, did what she does best, which was to look at puppies online and fall in love with each and every one.

We kept our eyes open, waiting for the day when the perfect puppy would be available. We emailed about a few, but missed out each time. Then, while in training for my new job, I happened across a listing on Petfinder. There were 7 puppies, which they had named by the days of the week, in Youngstown, OH. Two of them had rottweiler like coloring, and the rest were different, one brindle, one looking like a collie, etc. At my first chance, I called the pound and was told that they were all from the same litter, boxer-german shephard mixes, and of the two with the rottweiler coloring, one was male and one was female. Tara had requested a female, so I asked the gentleman if he could hold the puppy for us. He said he could only hold it until 7:00pm, adding that it was a kill-shelter and that if somebody came in to adopt the puppy and he turned them away, it would be on us if something happened to the puppy due to us failing to come by. With the guilt trip hanging over my head, I assured him we would be there, and we filled out the paperwork over the phone to save time when we got there.

Getting there in time would be no small feat. I got off work at 5, Tara around the same time. We were living in the Highland Park neighborhood of Pittsburgh, so by the time I got home from work it would be 5:30 or 5:45. Google Maps puts the trip to the pound at one hour and 30 minutes. Add rush hour traffic into the mix and it was going to be close.

After work, Tara and I hopped in the car and booked it to Ohio. We turned into the pound's parking lot, just as the dashboard clock turned 7:01, and hopped out. The lights were out, the door was locked, and the last employee was getting into his minivan. We stopped him, telling him that we had a dog on hold, that we drove all the way from Pittsburgh, blah, blah, blah. He reluctantly let us into the building and took us into the holding area where the animals were kept, and found our beautiful little puppy. She was only five weeks old, weighed 5 pounds, and fit in my cupped hands. As we stood there, holding and fawning over the cutest little thing in the world, the man pointed out that, unfortunately, we wouldn't be able to take her since it was too late to do the paperwork. I quickly informed him that I had done it over the phone with the other gentleman. He looked at me incredulously, but went into the office to double check.

Upon finding the paper, he tried to thwart us again, pointing out that all dogs need to be fixed before they can be released, but then retracted the statement due to her extremely young age. Three weeks older and it would have been a mandatory trip to the vet, but her youth was our saving grace. We paid the $42.50 adoption fee (borrowing .50 from the pound employee) and carried out our newest family member.

We hadn't planned ahead, so we stopped at a Target on the way home. I carried her in my coat and we picked up some food, a harness, a leash, and some toys. People ooh'd and ahh'd at her, although the best reaction was from a father who replied, to his daughter's cooing about how cute our puppy was, "they get bigger."

But for now, she was still just a tiny little puppy. The first few nights, we tried to teach her to sleep in her crate, assuring each other that we wouldn't give in and be those people who let their dog sleep in the bed. But after hearing her whine and cry and bark, we relented and allowed a third member into our bed. She romped here and there. She was so small that she couldn't make it up the steps into the apartment on her own so we would have to pick her up and carry her. In the mornings, she would run around and "help" us get ready. When I would take my morning constitutional, "Puppy", as we referred to her, would curl up in the crotch of my pajama pants.

She was "Puppy" for quite a while. We didn't want to give her a name prematurely, only to find it unsuitable as she grew up. Before long, however, we felt that we were familiar enough with her personality to begin thinking of a proper title. Nothing seemed to fit. She was cute and feminine in her beauty, yet too stoic and proud in her stance and coloring for a name like "Tulip" or "Sunshine". And we hoped her to be large, another issue with cutesy names. Add our hope to come up with something similar enough to "Puppy" that it wouldn't be a huge jarring change from the sound that we'd [temporarily] found for her. In the end, Tara came up with it.

"What about Abby?"

"That's a good one."

"We could give her a middle name, too. Like Winters. That's got a nice ring to it, Abby Winters. Do you like that?"

"Yeah, that's nice. Sounds familiar, though. Doesn't that sound familiar?"

"Kind of, I guess."

"It does. Where do I know the name Abby Winters from??"

We kept the name, despite the fact that a quick Google search solved the mystery of where I knew the name from [nsfw].

Quickly, we started noticing Abby getting bigger. She was able to make it up the steps unaided. Not only could she keep up with us on walks, but now she was outpacing us (not to mention pulling!). Where she could once walk under our coffeetable without taking notice, she became distinctly aware of its presence after hitting her head time and time again. Her first toy was a small foam PNC-football that she could barely fit her little puppy teeth around. Eventually, though, she lost her baby teeth, and her new fangs were more than enough to tear the poor little football to shreds.

Just as our little puppy changed, our family grew as well. A new kitty, the distinguished Admiral Goonie-face of the S.S. Polyphemus, joined our clan, as did the canine expatriate, Jack (whose name was changed from Jacques as he went through the immigration station). We moved from our ritzy one-bedroom apartment in swanky Highland Park, to our monstrous house. As we worked to build it into a home, Abby and the other pets stood beside us, supporting our move and helping to make our household a warm one, full of love. Here's to it continuing for many years.

Happy First Birthday, Abby!

G-20 Update

2009-09-24T13:13:00.004-04:00

I found it!

At least, I think I found it, after a minutes minutes perusal. A site that is providing me with constant updates of the protests, including a twitter feed! YAY!!!!

http://indypgh.org/g20/

G-20

2009-09-23T09:04:00.003-04:00

Working just outside of downtown Pittsburgh, at a site that underwrites and services consumer loans for one of the largest banks in the nation means that the G-20 summit is a major disruption. We're working with the bare minimum of staff, being paid overtime for being here (not to mention the perk of a lunch voucher for the cafeteria for up to $8). Debts must be paid!

Riding in today, there were no signs of protesters. I was really disappointed, though, when a guy I work with began complaining about the protesters, and their unbridled desire for destruction, but somehow he didn't know that they were protesting for a reason. I pointed out that some of them were protesting for economic reasons, disgusted that the twenty nations of the summit represent 90% of the nation's wealth. I added that our building is a target, in particular, paraphrasing a coworker, because of us housing the underwriters who make decisions over who to share the wealth with. He was completely incredulous. It blew my mind.

I then started talking to the person next to me about it. She was asking why people were protesting, what the point of the G-20 is, etc. I started looking into some of the things the protesters are fighting for, reading the Thomas Merton Center's website [http://www.thomasmertoncenter.org/], and some of it is legitimate stuff: stop funding coal and start spending that money on environmental programs, gender equality, money for human needs and not for war. They're arguing for changes that help more people and share resources, rather than hording them. I probably side with their messages and ideas more than those of the G-20 leaders. It's a shame that these messages are carried in such dirty, gutter-punk packages. It's also a shame that the media glorifies the violence that the minority of protesters takes part in, sullying the name of the rest. They try to make us fear all of the protesters by turning them all into violent no-agenda anarchists.

And that's not my only beef with the media. All day I've been scouring the web for updates on what's going on just a few blocks away. I'm expecting constant updates from KDKA, WPXI, etc, and I'm getting nothing. I've been told about a giant banner hung from the West End Bridge by GreenPeace stating "Danger: Climate Destruction Ahead: Reduce CO2 Emissions Now". A similar banner was intercepted before being unfurled on the Fort Pitt Bridge.

But nothing else has been mentioned.

That's Church [http://thatschurch.com/2009/09/22/its-a-hard-knock-life/] talked about a flash mob of dancing Point Park University students, welcoming the G-20, but haven't read anything about it. I heard about a protest involving a group "sleeping" in the street, covered in flags of the 20 nations of the G-20, and "waking" to their cell phone alarms, symbolizing the need for these nations to wake up and change.

And they're advertising that tonight there will be a "Clean Energy Jobs" Rally at Point State Park, with Al Gore, but I think the former Vice President's presence is the only reason that's getting a major mention.

But I want more! I want constant updates. I want a streaming ticker on the news websites telling me what's happening and where. I'm tired of seeing updates about how they'll be closing roads early and beefing up security. I want to see what's causing them to do such things. The Thomas Merton Center's site links to the G-20 Media web portal that has some updates, but nothing is matching the level of what I'm looking for. I need something akin to Twitter updates and constantly updating photo feeds (although Twitter is blocked at work), so I can keep on top of what's happening in my backyard. Can anyone help?

Links:
http://www.kdka.com/
http://www.wpxi.com/
http://www.g20media.org/

Bus Ride

2009-09-10T11:27:00.000-04:00

I caught the bus this morning.

The bus was full, so I stood up front in the entry way area. People kept getting on though, and eventually a really fat lady got on. She squeezed past me, then just stayed there at the front of the aisle instead of moving back. A stop or two later, a lady in the VERY back wanted to get off with her kid, and started yelling for the driver to open the back. He said "the door is already open. Exit the front" so she fought her way all the way up. I stepped off of the bus to let her pass, and as I was climbing back in, the driver began driving off, closing the door on me. I pulled my foot in and resumed my position in the entry way.

At this point, though, the driver started complaining that we needed to "get behind the line" or he would stop the bus. Everyone shuffled a bit, but nothing was solved. Then the driver pulled over. The fat lady tried her best to back up a bit, squishing herself behind the line, but I was still left out in no-man's-land. The driver bellowed "move on back" to everyone on the bus, and soon space opened up for us to move into the familiar territory designated for riders.

Feeling the need to bond with someone over the situation, I spoke to the fat woman, pointing out the odd juxtaposition of stopping the bus for us to get behind the line (ideally for safety's sake), yet taking off when I still had one foot (literally) out the door. She laughed, and I turned toward the window in time to watch him come up to a bus stop where a woman was standing with her arm up to wave him down. I also got to watch her face turn angry and both of her arms raise in annoyance as he drove right by her without stopping.

A Little Late

2009-09-08T17:25:00.003-04:00

In a follow up to my entry about my family tree, I checked my information today and found that tomorrow is the 42nd wedding anniversary of Sheila, my second cousin once removed (aka, my great grandmother's sister's grand-daughter). On a whim, I looked up her phone number and gave it a call. It was answered by a man who, frankly, didn't seem to believe me when I said I was her second cousin once removed. He eased up a bit once I began name-dropping and mentioning why I was calling. Unfortunately, it seems as though Sheila and Rick had divorced some time back. Even more unfortunately, Sheila died in November of 2005. He recommended I call her daughter Amy if I wanted to chase down any more information. I thanked him, but didn't make any more calls.

"Fuel"

2009-08-28T19:55:00.002-04:00

Earlier today I read a review of the game Fuel, focusing on the fact that it has the largest playable area in a console game, with an expanse of 5,560 square miles, all free for the roaming. As I read it, the game is quite lacking, with poor physics and controls, leaving little to do but simply drive as far in any direction as you can. Suddenly we have a land that just keeps going and going, but is filled with nothingness. The author points out that as much as he tries to see it in a philosophical light, as something similar to the endless anticipation of something more, as in "Waiting for Godot", he cannot. It is nothing more than a frustrating exercise of Sisyphean proportions. Soon his mind turns to suicide, but the internal coding refuses to allow it. He is stuck in a car in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to do but drive and drive and drive...

And as I sat at work reading this, it dawned on me that I was being interrupted every minute or so by a beep in my ear. The beep signaled a new account being brought up, so I would click over to the dialer system, click the button to bring it into our secondary system, wait for the phone to ring the 3 or 4 times necessary to reach a voicemail message, hit the hot key that enters in a comment stating that an answering machine was reached but no message was left, click back to the dialer, disconnect the call and click that I was finished with the account. And then do it over again and again and again...

The Sweet Nectar of Vengeance

2009-08-27T20:41:00.002-04:00

There is a girl who is a regular on my bus and I simply cannot stand her. I'm not sure where she gets on in the morning, but she works in the same building as I do, but halfway down the building (and the building spans two full blocks). She's in her early 20's, short and stout, with a very plain face that somehow continuously exhibits a sour demeanor while never quite going into a frown or a scowl. She has very long, very plain brown hair that is frizzy with split ends, except when she puts it up in a tight bun that pulls on her forehead. She hops on the bus and takes the first seat open to her, generally in the front section that is supposed to be reserved for the elderly and infirm. She sits down, scoops her large green phone out of her bag, and begins txting. It is hard for me to contain my vitriol.

The worst insult came one morning when I was preparing to disembark. I was standing in the aisle at the front of the bus, waiting for the driver to come to a full and complete stop. As he slowed down, I was shoved aside by the girl as she squeezed by me. I tried to explain "I'm getting off here, too" but it was to no avail. She threw her weight around and walked down the steps, with me, dazed, following behind.

And ever since, I've tried my darndest to shoot daggers out of my eyes at her. Every time she gets on the bus my face turns to an angry grimace.

But yesterday, I got on the bus in a good mood. It was pretty full, so I stood over to the side in the front section reserved for the elderly. I was standing between two women who were sitting, one skinny and one fat (and taking up the space of two people). I was out of the aisle, holding on to the bar, and just kind of standing around. I don't mind standing on the bus. It's not a very long ride and I'm able-bodied. When the larger lady got off, I offered the open seat to a skinny girl standing beside me. She eagerly sat down, but her small size left an additional seat available. Cue the plain looking fatty! She lumbered over, and plopped down, somehow combining this with the act of removing and opening her phone. The end effect was that she went instantly from standing above the seat to sitting and txting, with no intermediate steps. It was uncanny, but did little to mellow my feelings of disgust. She didn't even look around to see if anyone else wanted to sit down. It was like her ass was a magnet, drawn so powerfully to the seat that nothing could stop her. But I held my tongue and stood idly by, thinking of how nice it will be to have my bike fixed so I will no longer have to take the bus on a daily basis. A few stops passed, and then we stopped. A short, elderly gentleman climbed aboard. He had some bags with him, his bottom lip was swollen in a way that goes hand in hand with certain medications, and he was wearing a hat for the 101st Airborne. He set his bags down on the little ledge behind the driver and began looking for a seat.

Here it was, a showdown. On one side, the elderly veteran who holds every claim to sit in the front of the bus. On the other side, three young, able-bodied ladies, each avoiding his gaze, fatty in the middle texting her heart out. The old man seemed to have a mental connection with me for he focused his angry gaze upon the plain looking girl, slowly hobbling with the swaying of the bus until he was standing directly in front of her, myself just a step or two away. Nobody would meet his gaze. I looked back and forth, him staring at them, them avoiding him. Back and forth it went. Finally, I stepped up to assist him.

"How about one of you guys get up to let him sit down?"

Suddenly a fire was lit beneath them. All three looked up, then began looking back and forth deciding who would be the one to get up. "Who? You? Me? Her?" Each one looking around, hoping the others would stand. Finally, our plain fat friend stood up and moved to the front of the bus. The elderly gent sat down, silently thanked me, then pulled out his wallet to point out his "Senior Citizen" card. I nodded in agreement and added "And a veteran too!" He nodded and began talking to the skinny girl beside him. I couldn't make out his comments, but her responses were of the overemphasized, "Oh, I see" variety.

But the point was that the plain fat girl who is the devil in a disguise of long hair and back fat was forced to stand. On top of that, I got to tell her to move while still being morally absolved. It was like having diplomatic immunity. It was beautiful. It reminded me of an idea I once had, where I would accompany my formerly pregnant wife with our infant child on a trip to the mall and hover a bit away from her while she breastfed the youth. Then, I would have the opportunity to rush in and defend her honor if anyone approached. But this was better, because not only did it occur naturally, but I the fat, self-important girl was ultimately the loser of the interaction. Wonderful!

Dating In The Dark

2009-08-04T17:28:00.000-04:00

Since moving, my television intake has dropped dramatically. We got rid of our cable, and while we still get the over the air channels, where I used to come home and watch television from the about 6pm until bed around 10 or so, now it is limited to roughly one movie a night. Weekends have almost no television, save for the standard one movie a night. Wii gaming has also dropped, although DS gaming has increased (still falling short of pre-move Wii levels). Internet usage has probably stayed about the same. Reading has increased.

That was supposed to be a segue, but now that I'm at this point, it's become obvious that it didn't really go where I wanted it to. So let me just put up a handy little graph of this information...

...and we'll move on.

Last night, Tara and I watched a show called "Dating In The Dark" and it was pretty much exactly what the name makes it out to be. 3 guys and 3 girls went on dates in a dark room, learning as much as they could about their compatibility without seeing one another.

[spoilers ahead]

Now of the three guys, one of them was the standard, attractive, all-American nice boy next door (26 yrs old). One of them was the well built African American guy (27). One of them was the older, less-attractive white guy (33), with a more humorous personality. Of the girls, there was the older (30) woman, the chubbier rockabilly chick (23, visible tattoo)*, and the fit blond girl (30, albeit with a weird, yet not unattractive, face). They went on a group date, then some prearranged dates (I think, we were flipping around a bit), and then they got to choose who they wanted to go on another one-on-one date with.

All three ladies chose the nice, all-American guy. The other gentlemen didn't really seem that bothered, and the male trio seemed pretty chummy, discussing how he should proceed with his dates. He kissed each one, to check the "chemistry" between them, and was fond of each of them.

When reveal time came around, they did it in a one-on-one setting, with the person being seen standing behind a glass wall and having an overhead light turn on. Nobody seemed to be overly disgusted by anyone else (despite everyone wearing horrible outfits). Then the girls were left to decide whether or not they were interested in him, choosing to either exit out the front door or go out on the balcony to meet him face to face. The guy on the other hand, had made up his mind that, while all three were attractive, kind ladies, he was most interested in the weird faced fit girl.

They showed the ladies making their choices. First the older woman, who chose to leave because of how young the gentleman appeared. The chubby girl left the house because she said he wouldn't really fit in with her crowd of friends. It all came down to the last girl. The camera panned from door to door. The guy paced, quietly inviting her to choose his door. Finally, a door knob turned...

...and she chose to leave the house. Why? Because despite the fact that he was, in her words "a great guy" and that "he would be my perfect match", he was "a little young" for her.

Is an age difference of 4 years such a hurdle? At that age? No. I think the problem can be boiled down to a single source:

The guy's suit.

The entire ensemble was horrible, as he had opted to go big on everything. The collar on his shirt was too big. The knot on his tie was too large, and the tie itself was too wide. He chose a double breasted suit jacket and apparently assumed that the "double" in "double breasted" meant he needed to get one twice as large as he should have. He was simply drowning in the suit, making him look, as one of the girls said, like he had borrowed his dad's suit. Don't believe me? Pictures!

It's horrible, and it makes him look like he's 12. That's the source of your dating woes, my friend. I wish I could help him. A guy I work with is also a fan of being able to hide a family of four in his formal wear, and I explained to him that, objectively and purely as a friend, he could cut a rather dashing figure if he were only to purchase a suit that actually FIT him. He made some excuse about being too tall or having arms too long (because obviously I, at 6'3'', have no experience with having trouble finding sleeves that are long enough). I mentioned trying a tailor, and he hmm'd and ha'd, and I wrote him off as a lost cause. But it's okay, because he's in his 30's and is too old and set in his ways. But this young man is the same age as I and, at 26, should be well-aware of the sartorial arts, or at the very least, of how to look good. How does one go that many years without having a woman, even his mother, point out that he looks ridiculous and needs to go see George Zimmer? He could have EASILY walked out of that house with all three women, had he wanted to. But he lost it all and left miserable and alone, all because of his suit.

*I've always wondered what inspires a person of 23 to go on a dating show. Even at 26, I find it hard to believe that if I were single I would be so desperate to find a potential mate that I would deem a television show to be my only hope.

--

Side note: On a wholly unrelated topic, I saw the Amazon page for the DS game "Mario & Luigi: Bowser's Inside Story" and read their "product description" for the game:

Players are in control of two separate storylines. One features Bowser and his efforts to stop an arch-villain from taking over his castle.
The microbe-sized Mario & Luigi must muscle their way through challenges and keep their nerve if they want to find a way out. They take action to control Bowser from the inside - but without his knowledge.
Players can switch between storylines at will. What happens inside Bowser affects what he's doing on the outside. Sometimes Mario & Luigi must solve puzzles and challenges behind the scenes to help Bowser overcome various obstacles and advance the plot.
Players must make well-timed button presses to enhance their performance during battles and challenges.

"Well-timed button presses to enhance their performance during battles and challenges"?? I want whoever wrote this to write my resume.

Things I've Drawn At Work

2009-08-01T12:14:00.002-04:00

My job is monotonous and boring. On top of that, I sit at the end of a row, with a part-timer next to me who leaves at 1 or 2pm each day. To the other side is Jason, who works the late shift so doesn't come in until 11am, and is pretty quiet on top of that. I have no windows to stare out of, so I end up drawing and doodling all day long. It's the one thing that really keeps me going throughout the day. That said, here are a few of the masterpieces I've composed while hassling people to pay their bills.

Dan Finds His Family

2009-07-10T18:21:00.004-04:00

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 what 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

2009-07-09T12:44:00.004-04:00

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

2009-06-26T10:09:00.000-04:00

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

2009-06-25T17:46:00.002-04:00

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

2009-05-29T22:28:00.000-04:00

With a Tin Cup for a Chalice

2009-05-26T16:05:00.009-04:00

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

2009-05-21T11:12:00.002-04:00

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.

Ipods in Class

2009-04-30T12:54:00.000-04:00

Walking home from the bus stop yesterday, I happened across the following essay, author unknown:

Ipods in Class
We should be able to listen to ipods in class because music
helps me focus. Most teachers say that it's very disruptful, but I have a
solution.

When a teacher is explaining things or going over classwork we
don't listen to our Ipods, but when it comes time for us to work quietly on
things, that's when we should be able to. In order for me to work &
stay on task, I need music. I don't know what that's about , but it helps
south [sic] my brain & focus on what's in front of me not around
me.

Teachers should be understanding of that. Students shuld
[sic] be able to explain that when a teacher asks about why you have your ipod
out. And instead of students getting smart, they should tell why
respectfully why they do. That can help. If a student got smart with
me I wouldn't let them listen to their Ipod, but if they explained why I
would. That comes with respecting adults.

As a response to this, I began researching the topic. While I can sympathize with the desires of our school aged friend, recent research seems to side with "Author's" teachers.

Author's proposal does, admittedly, sound like a decent compromise between the interests of the teacher and the students. While the teacher tosses forth pearls of wisdom, the eager young minds will sit at attention, quietly taking in the information and storing it away to assist them in their journeys to fulfill their positions as beacons of hope for the future. During the quiet, individual work times, however, they would be free to exist in their own bubble of solitude, isolating themselves in their minds with walls of sound to comfort them and coccoon them from the harsh outside world.

Unfortunately, research has found that the effects of such an arrangement would most likely be detrimental. A 1997 study by A. Furnham and A. Bradley*, as published in Applied Cognitive Psychology, found that pop music played during memory tests and reading comprehension tests affected the outcomes in a negative way, moreso on introverted individuals. An additional study by Ardeshir Sadehkhou** found that all music had a negative effect on reading comprehension scores, although acknowledged that playing music that the subject was familiar with and enjoyed affected the scores less than music that was chosen by the testers.

Therefore, while Author's compromise seems to be a fair and even middle ground, the effects upon the minds of our little bundles of hope are far too negative to be allowed. Maybe Author should spend a little more time studying and researching, allowing him or herself to build arguments upon concrete foundations, and a little less time listening to that darn pop music.

* http://www.musicandlearning.com/research_background.cfm

**http://www.articlesbase.com/science-articles/testing-for-the-effects-of-music-on-reading-comprehension-skills-under-different-music-environments-885358.html

What If Wolverine Picks His Nose?

2009-04-01T03:05:00.003-04:00

A conversation at work a few days ago has stuck with me, wasting many precious minutes of my life by forcing me to go over it and think of all the ways the other person was wrong.

It began simply enough. On the other side of the cubicle divide, a discussion of the X-men arose, and someone asked someone else who their favorite X-man was. "Wolverine" they stated*. To this, my coworker (who we'll refer to as "Logan") said "It must really hurt when that guy picks his nose." As would be expected, the joke fell flat.

I turned around and said, "Logan, can you explain that joke to me? You're talking about Wolverine, right?"

"Just think about it. You'll get it." He said, obviously underestimating me.

"Well, I've thought about it, and my problem is that it doesn't make sense." Then, I schooled him. "I mean, Wolverine's claws come out of the backs of his hands, not his fingertips. Plus, they're retractable, so he can just put them down when his nose itches. It's not like he's Lady Deathstrike and has his claws on his fingertips.**"

Logan looked at me and then broke the first rule of debate, attacking me, rather than my argument. "Well, I don't have time to sit around studying the X-men."

"Maybe you should start studying them," I replied, "so you can avoid making such a glaring faux pas in the future."

In the retellings of this story, multiple people pointed out an additional fact that I had overlooked: Even if, by some amazing coincidence of forgetfulness and poor judgement, Wolverine someone picked his nose with one of his claws and caused all sorts of damage, his accelerated healing powers would fix all of the damage. While it doesn't affect the initial painfulness of the situation, it would definitely limit the duration of the pain, as well as any unsightly wounds and scars.

But the point is that Logan was wrong and was justifiably chastised. Unfunny jokes based on weak or faulty foundations are inexcusable.

*When I told this story to my friend Nick, he rightly interrupted at this part and stated "False. Gambit."
** The wikipedia article on Lady Deathstrike states that each of her fingers is fixed with a 12-inch adamantium talon, each of which is capable of being doubled in length. Add the fact that she's mentally unstable and part cyborg and you have a much higher probability of someone inflicting extreme damage while picking his or her nose.

Taking Abby To The Park

2009-03-20T19:25:00.002-04:00

The past three nights, Tara and I have started a trend of good, healthy pet ownership, taking Abby to the park in the evenings to run around and wear herself out in preparation for a quiet night of restful slumber. Abby is a masterful "fetch" dog, and her little green rubber ball is the perfect target for her to set her sights on. A good throw and she'll tear off across the field to retrieve it. Tara and I, meanwhile, remain peacefully standing in one place, not sharing her desire to move.

The first day we took her, the small park was teeming with children, almost all of whom looked over and stared at the puppy as she walked by. A six or seven year old girl came over to us once we got out to the field and said "Can I pet your dog?" Reluctantly, I said yes and she began her approach, only to flinch and scream when Abby turned towards her.

"I'll hold her, it's fine," I told the girl, kneeling down and grasping Abby's collar. I think it's important to note that this girl chose the absolute worst time to want to pet a dog, considering her apparent fear of canine movements. Abby was delighting in finally being outside after a day of incarceration, and was trembling with excitement and pent-up energy. The girl once again began her approach, chest thrust forward in a display of confidence, only to scream and recoil again when Abby turned her head. Again, I reassured her, "It's fine, I have her. Go ahead."

There was another round of fear and comforting, and finally she got close enough to the dog, upon whom I was serving as a straightjacket, and gently touched the dog's haunches. As the child backed away, Tara and I got back to organizing and participating in the sisyphian game known as "fetch". The small child kept hanging around, though. And soon, an additional child joined her, more timid (and rotund) than the first.

They watched for a bit, then began to gain some courage as a result of boredom from watching two people play with their dog. As I wound up for another devastatingly strong throw across the field, the first girl came over to me and spoke.

"Can I play with your dog?"

Sad as it is to admit, this was the point when I actually became truly annoyed by the girl, although I'm sure she wasn't able to read it in my voice as I replied "Well, I'm playing with my dog." Still, I tossed her the ball and watched as she did a piss-poor job of throwing it, barely scoring 7 feet of distance (which I blame on terrible form and a complete lack of follow-through). The dog scampered after it, scooping it up and bringing it back to me (and not her, a distinct show of loyalty). We went back to the system of me throwing, the dog retrieving, and the small children being ignored. Then the girl began chasing after the dog, grabbing on to her leash and just being a huge pain in the butt. Infinite props to the dog, though, for simply ignoring her.

At one point, the girl got a hold of Abby's leash. I was about to throw the ball and warned her, "You should let go of the leash. I'm going to throw the ball." She simply stared at me. I repeated myself, "I'm going to throw it. You should let go so the dog doesn't drag you." She didn't let go, but I had given fair warning. I threw the ball and she stumbled forward a few steps before following my advice.

Later, she turned to Tara and I and said something that sounded like "Where's your other Dwayne?"

"What?" we replied.

"Where's your other Dwayne?"

"I'm sorry, can you say that again?"

*sigh* "Where's your other Dwayne??"

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you're saying."

She eventually left when, we're assuming the relation, her brother came by and yelled from the edge of the field. As she walked toward him, I heard him yell "Did that dog bite you??"

The pudgy girl sort of hung out nearby for a bit then just sort of faded away. It made me wonder, where are these children's parents? My mother was ever vigilant when I was that age, and while that vigilance lessened with each subsequent child, I feel that she still had the wherewithall by the 3rd one to have kept any of us from hanging out with strange 20-somethings and their dog of unknown origin. Especially now that I have a very unbecoming playoff beard marring my face in honor of our forthcoming house closing.

In addition to the behaviors of small children, I have also noticed a fascinating effect that comes with taking a dog to the park: you become magnetic.

Two of the three days we've gone to the park, we've been approached by a fellow dog owner who has asked "Can our dogs meet?" They then come join up, letting the dogs scamper about biting and tackling with smiling faces and wagging tails, while us parents are stuck making awkward small talk and cursing under our breath because now we don't get to play fetch with the dog like we friggin' wanted to IN THE FIRST PLACE!!! We don't bring our dog to the park to play with your dog. We bring our dog to the park to play with us. If I wanted to stand around with strangers and make useless conversation while smiling uncomfortably, I would host a dinner party full of random people off of the bus and have the party in a hallway where you can *just* squeeze by everyone to get some food from the kitchen. And I would schedule this party to end 15 minutes after I'm expected to meet a group of friends at a bar. For a party in my honor.

Finding Foreclosures

2009-03-13T09:12:00.000-04:00

Last night I was talking to my friend Kelley and our brief conversation was mostly about purchasing real estate. She mentioned that she, too, has been looking to purchase a property and that she had tried looking into foreclosures, but that information was scarce and the actual properties were hard to find.

I had the same problem when I looked for properties. There are sites that charge money for information, like Foreclosures.com, but that's a hard fee to rationalize when you are the equivalent of a window shopper when it comes to home buying. It would make sense for home flippers who can justify the expense in terms of the income they gain from it, but us commoners need a cheap, yet still reasonably easy to use, source for foreclosures.

For the uninitiated, a foreclosure (or more appropriately a Real Estate Owned Property [REO] occurs when a person defaults on a real estate secured loan. The bank becomes the owner of the property and sells it to try and recoup as close to the amount owed as possible. The bank is put in a tight position. They want to get as much money as they can for the property, but they don't want to lose money through repairs, improvements, or carrying costs. To try and get the property off their hands they lower the price a bit, but to maximize their profit, they don't pay for anything that a seller usually would, such as basic fixes, etc. This can actually hinder your ability to purchase a property, as happened in an instance that I'll mention later.

It's obviously in the best interest of banks to have their properties accessible, although they don't want to waste too much money on advertising (or become known as the bank that forecloses on a large number of customers), so they generally just have simple websites. PNC Bank's list of REOs can be found at http://www.realtyservices.pnc.com/. The properties can be searched by area and show both commercial and residential properties, listing the address, asking price, current status (i.e. available, under contract), and a brief description. Additional information, such as number of rooms, square footage, etc, can be found by clicking the "Click to view Property Details" link. Another, arguably more helpful, link can be found here, listing a large number of banks and their REO properties.

The clear upside of REOs is their low price, but the unfortunate downside is that most times you'll still be putting a lot of money into the house. I've already listed the work that needs to be done on our house (which at the bare minimum can be listed as the roof, furnace, and hot water heater) and I think we're unbelievably lucky that the house is in such amazing condition. It stands to reason that the lower the cost, the worse it's going to be, both in terms of area and the physical state. When I was looking for a house two or three years ago, I was aiming to find one within the city for less than $20,000. I looked at a few, and the one that came closest still had a lot of work needed, and that was obvious from just a walk-through. The work, as I mentioned before, can be a pitfall for even being able to purchase the house. Before finding our house in Lawrenceville, we were looking at one in the Penn Hills area. We were serious about it and started to look into making an offer only to find out that its condition would keep us from getting a mortgage. The house was in livable condition except for one part: the plumbing. All of the copper piping that could be reached from the basement had been cut and stolen, sold for scrap. This meant that they would all need to be replaced before the water could be turned on and the rest of the plumbing system could be tested, and our mortgage required all utilities to be on for the home inspection. There's an obvious catch-22 there. We can't fix the plumbing until we buy the house, and we can't buy the house until we fix the plumbing.

Other than that, I haven't noticed any other major differences from what I expected house buying to entail. I suppose there is a slightly higher risk of the title search turning up something, but the mortgage hasn't required anything different. You don't have as much room for nitpicking on your offers with the seller (as in offering to raise the price by so much money if they throw in a couch or fix the furnace), but you can still offer less than asking price (which apparently is pretty much expected). It's been a good experience so far and is surprisingly painless.

So there you have it. Most likely the only interesting/useful parts of this entire entry are the two links. Sorry I'm so self-indulgent.

Sometimes I Find Houses I Like

2009-03-10T15:05:00.000-04:00

When I first began to think about moving to the city for school, I entertained a dream of purchasing a super cheap house, say, for example, a bank forclosure. I called about a couple, visited a few, and almost bought one. It was in Bloomfield, about $15,000 and looked like it had come out of a dirty, neglected dream. Looking back, it wasn't as magnificent as I thought, but it was big, cheap, and with enough love and elbow grease (and money), it could someday become fit to house people. But this one was attached to an abandoned house that was being taken over by vines and vermin, owned by a man who is notorious for buying houses up cheap and leaving them to rot, much to the ire of neighbors and viewers of such eyesores. It was just enough of a wake up call to cause this dream to deflate in the face of reality. Other houses had their flaws, from water damage to bad areas, sloping floors to sheer ugliness. The dream faded, I moved into a one-bedroom apartment in Oakland, and life progressed.

After graduating, I found myself with no job, but I had a girlfriend and a small apartment in a noisy college town. We moved to Highland Park after finding a relatively upscale apartment complex. I started my new, full-time, job and began to bring home full-time paychecks. We made some purchases- a couch, a bar, a giant TV- as well as getting a puppy and a one-eyed cat.

We have never been big fans of the apartment. It is too expensive for what it is, and while it is nice enough, it lacks any real sense of being a home. There's no personality. We painted, but the orientation of the rooms limits the design options, and everything feels sort of cookie cutter-ish. Plus it has small, but very annoying, flaws. The rim of the doorknob falls off often. The door of the refrigerator hits the counter and it sticks out in a way that makes two drawers and a cupboard completely useless. To reach items on the bottom drawer of the fridge, or in the back, you have to get down on your knees and contort your body around the door. You don't get used to it.

So we've been looking around for a new place to live, and that means the old dream has returned. We looked into foreclosures and visited some houses. There was one that we drove by that was surrounded by blocks and blocks of abandoned houses. There was one near Penn Hills, a cute 3 bedroom house, with an enclosed porch and front and back yards. The basement was large enough to finish and make into an additional hang out. The kitchen was small and bizarrely designed, and all of the copper piping that could be reached from the basement was missing. It could have been ours for $38,000 and it was a contender. But then we came across the real beauty.

In the heart of Lawrenceville exists a mythical street named Fisk. Ask around and person after person will state that it's their favorite street in Lawrenceville. It's clean, close to things, and has trees. Its lower end meets Butler St. and the shopping district that bears its name, while the other end comes up to Penn Ave. Its three streets over from the new Children's Hospital. It's close to Downtown, the Strip, Bloomfield, Oakland, and it's one street away from the 40th St Bridge, which connects to Rt. 28, the link to the North Side, the Waterworks, and vast expanses of suburbia in all directions. Fisk is a gem, lodged in the heart of the steel behemoth that is Pittsburgh.

My return to searching for foreclosures and cheap houses resulted in a lot of dead ends, but the shining beacon of hope was a 2,240 sq ft row house on Fisk. Originally listed at $96,000, the house was a bank foreclosure. It was built in the 1890's with extensive renovations in the 1960's. Since then, the work on it has been minimal, meaning it needs updating, but nothing has been shoddily done with disastrous results. It's big, and has been fixed up to easily transition to being a 2 family household (most clearly evidenced by the existence of a second kitchen). The basement is unfinished, but relatively large, with a low ceiling, a work bench, and plenty of room for storage (and a small room built beneath the front porch that should make a perfect wine cellar). The first floor has two open rooms, ideally a living room and a dining room. To the back there is the kitchen and first floor full bathroom, as well as a small back yard. The second floor has a master bedroom with a walk in closet, a room that can be a second bedroom or a living room, a second kitchen, and a full bath. The third floor is a large finished room with multiple closet areas.

The house does need a decent amount of work, but most of it is merely cosmetic. The first floor has a swirled plaster pattern on the walls and ceiling that Tara can't stand and wants to remove. The ceilings were dropped over a foot back in the 60's and we want to raise them back up. The doorway between the two rooms was made smaller at some point and we want to open that up again, and perhaps make it even larger. The wood floors have started to cup and, hopefully, will only need to be sanded and refinished, as opposed to completely replaced. The kitchen floor is a gross linoleum that needs to be replaced, probably with tile. The countertops are an unappealing color and the cabinets need to be replaced. The bathroom needs to be completely redone, but only for aestethic reasons. The second floor is a little worse. The master bedroom is fine, although we're thinking about tearing down the plaster over the chimney to expose the brick. In the second bedroom the paint is peeling and needs to be stripped down and repainted. There is a back staircase, and the ceiling of it is coming down. There was possibly some water damage (which seems to be limited solely to that area) and it will have to be one of the first things looked at to keep that stairwell safe. The third floor needs to be painted as well as get some new carpet. In the more general, the roof hasn't leaked yet, but is at the end of it's life, as is the furnace. Those are the top priorities. The hot water heater needs to be replaced at some point, and the windows are mostly single paned, steel framed, but with two of the would be exterior walls connected to our neighbors, the heat loss is greatly minimized. Other than that, it's just going to be a matter of repainting the interiors and getting some appliances. It's some work, but it's manageable, and really it's not any more than you'd expect for a house of that age and size.

The best thing about the house is the price. About four or five houses on the street are currently for sale, the cheapest going for $135,000 and the highest is going for over $300,000. The area is close enough to Pitt that you can rent it out to students, as well as nurses and doctors who will be at the new hospital. And since it was a foreclosure, the price was significantly reduced. It's unending in its potential and magnificence.

Hopefully this detailed description will make up for the lack of pictures.

The KKK Took My Bathroom Away

2009-03-04T19:28:00.001-05:00

While I should be heeding the advice of my commenters and writing entry upon entry about the tedious process of purchasing real estate, I shall, instead, bore you and yours with another meaningless rant that includes both stupidity of others and defecation.

Due to some random act of God, my body has settled on a pooping schedule that requires me to use my work facilities at least once a day. The first time this happened, after we had shifted to our new floor, I chose poorly and ended up in the one stall (out of seven or eight) that didn't yet have a toilet paper dispenser installed. While wiping with a pre-moistened disposable sheet may be a viable alternative, I can say from experience that wiping with a paper seat cover is not. Since that time, I've developed a fondness for a different stall. Second from the end, situated beside the handicap stall (whose seat rises to an alarmingly high altitude, causing you to feel like the sudden shifting of weight will cause such a displacement of your center of gravity that you will likely be hurled down to the disgusting floor far, far below), my porcelain chariot awaits. One of the leading features of it, is that it comes with its own personality in the form of a confusingly poorly applied declaration of hatred and bigotry. See the image below:

Can you spot it? How about now?

Still nothing? Let me give you a better picture to work with:

That's as good as it gets, folks. Scribbled on the door are the letters "KKK". They stand about an inch tall and fade, both in opacity and handwriting quality, as they move progressively from left to right. It's as if the writer began with a sense of confidence and pride in his beliefs, drawing the first K, tall and proud. But then those little doubts began to creep in. "Is this really the proper venue? Perhaps I should think this plan through a little more before actually committing to such a permanent display." His hand became shaky and his touch became lighter, but he steadfastly remained on the path of vandalism. Again, though, the doubts permeated his thoughts, poking holes in his plan and testing his faith. "Of all the descriptors that can accurately be applied to me; 'Man', 'American', 'Son', 'Banking Employee'; is 'KKK Member' really how I want to identified? Is this really who I am? Am I really going to stand up and allow this to stand as my poorly scrawled declaration of allegiance?" But he committed, albeit tentatively, and finished that final 'K'. Nearly illegible, it still serves its purpose of expressing his beliefs, striking an emotional* chord in all who lay eyes upon it.

And I stare at it while I poop.

*"emotional" meaning, in this case, something along the lines of stunned, yet humorous disappointment in the stupidity of mankind and inspiration for blogworthy rants.

The Acoustics of Metal Domes

2009-03-02T08:09:00.004-05:00

On the bus this morning, there was a man sitting in front of me listening to his headphones. His head bobbed gently, up and down, side to side. and even clenching and unclenching his jaw in time with the music. The oddest part was that I could hear some music, which I assumed was coming from his headphones, and the movements didn't fit. He was in his early twenties, and the music was all hits of the oldies: 50's and 60's mostly. I looked around and around (subtly, of course) trying to find the source of the music, desperately trying to prove that it was coming from somewhere other than this guy's headphones, as the disconnect between the music and his movements was simply too great for me to comprehend. The only other possibility was the bus itself, but I've never known a city bus driver to play music through the busses speakers.

There is something about the shape of a city bus, and its effects upon acoustics, that makes it nearly impossible to pinpoint the source of sounds. I first noticed this when the Steelers won the AFC Championship. A few days later, I was on the bus and a woman kept singing different Steelers songs, but only a single line at a time. My friend Nick and I had been in the midst of conversation, and the interruptions caused us to [subtly] look around and try and pinpoint the person responsible for making the bus ride more awkward than usual. It ended up being the weird lady in the black and gold scarf ("this is my terrible scarf," she stated matter-of-factly. "You can't have it. I made it, it's mine. Go Steelers!").

***

My apologies, dear readers.

As of late, my main concern has been the pending purchase of a home for Tara and myself. Buying a house is quite an experience, filled with glorious highs and terrible lows, and an all-encompasing fear that things won't go through or will simply take too long. You have power over very little. It kind of reminds me of being in college and signing up for classes. Every semester I would end up signing up for classes in a massive hurry. Apparently you were supposed to meet with an advisor, and all sorts of other stuff. I would wait until the last moment before enrollment opened to everyone and rush around getting signatures and approvals and adding my classes in a flurry of nervousness and activity. It would involve running between the Cathedral and the Advising office multiple times, and everything seemed to hinge on something else. That's how buying a house is. You have to get this done, but you have to wait until that is complete, which is contingent on something else. I like having close deadlines and being able to have control over what's going on, and buying a house is the opposite. I have only minimal control, the only deadline is a month away, and I still have the feeling that I should be able to get everything taken care of in a maximum of two days with enough running around. But instead you have to do all sorts of calling and waiting and nothing seems to go anywhere. It's a lesson in waiting for others, and it's all I can think of. Hence the rarely, updated blog, and the poorly thought out posts when it is updated.

Dan Awesome

On The Precipice of Possible Change

2009-01-21T17:57:00.002-05:00

In August of 2007, I read an article on Defamer about actor Terrence Howard which quoted him as saying:

Toilet paper - and no baby wipes - in the bathroom. If they're using dry paper, they aren't washing all of themselves. It's just unclean. So if I go in a woman's house and see the toilet paper there, I'll explain this. And if she doesn't make the adjustment to baby wipes, I'll know she's not completely clean.

At the time, I thought he was crazy, and that this was just the request of a movie star who had let his new-found fame go to his head. Recently, though, I saw a commercial for Charmin toilet paper, relaying the fabled glories of both their Ultra Soft and Ultra Strong varieties. At the end of the commercial, there was a small blurb thrown in regarding their Charmin Freshmates, which the label describes as "adult flushable wipes". These are described on the Charmin website as:

Charmin® Fresh Mates are stronger than the leading wipes brand. That's because Charmin Fresh Mates have flexweave™ texture. These flushable, premoistened wipes give you a clean you can count on to help get your family clean. And with the Charmin FreshWash™ gentle cleanser, Charmin Fresh Mates are perfect for everyday use.

Their charms are conveniently listed below the description, noting that Freshmates:

• Are flushable and safe for sewers and septic systems
• Are available in blue and white packaging to match your bathroom décor
• Are offered in convenient resealable refill packs, for freshness at home or on the go

I didn't really think about this until today when it hit me that, somehow, baby wipes (or the adult equivalent) have become a legitimate, accepted alternative to toilet paper. This is revolutionary, and how appropriate that my realization of it coincides with our country's own regime change. The use of toilet paper can be dated back to 6th century China. It is a huge industry, bringing in about $2.4 billion a year in the US alone, and suddenly, seemingly out of the blue, there is a competitor. In my mind I likened it to the rise of courier services like UPS, Fed Ex, and DHL in the massive shadow of the USPS, although this is hardly a perfect metaphor.* But metaphors aside, this is an event of unbelievable proportions and I feel honored and privileged to be standing on the precipice of possible change.

How did this happen? How did pre-moistened wipes make the leap from infants' bottoms to the bottoms of their parents? And furthermore, how did the market for adult wipes grow to such a large size that the major players in the toilet paper game have begun to create products, and advertising, to feed this desire? Did one housewife begin borrowing her child's wipes, realize that they were convenient and refreshing, and go out and tell her friends? Did they all begin a letter writing campaign to Charmin? I can't wrap my mind around how something as personal and 'hush-hush' as toilet related habits would change on such a massive scale. There have been times when I've cursed toilet paper, but I thought the options available to me were limited to going softer, choosing the ply, or picking the best texture. Never did I imagine that there could be an answer existing outside of the box. But others did, and now this option is available to all of us. What's next? Where does it go from here? And what does this mean for everything else? If toilet paper habits can be freely discussed enough to elicit change, that means that everything else can be discussed, with all of our options shared freely.

What a wonderful time to be alive!

*The USPS has a monopoly on the delivery of all first class and third class mail, as well as on the use of mailboxes. These are in place to guarantee that the USPS is financially stable enough to uphold their Universal Service Obligation, which, in short, says that they will deliver the mail to everyone, 6 days a week, with other information on pricing, geographic scope, etc., etc. Because of this monopoly, couriers obviously can't ever fully replace the USPS. But their rise and influence over parcel delivery has had its effect on the Postal Service and, combined with the growing influence of the internet, has caused the long-standing reigning king to consider changes to remain fiscally viable.

How to Print Your Own Shirt

2009-01-01T20:21:00.012-05:00

For Christmas this year, I did my best to give decent gifts. One of these was a sweatshirt for Tara. It wasn't actually a new sweatshirt. In fact, she already owned it, it was in the dirty laundry basket, and covered in dog urine. But I took this dubious item and made it sparkle. Not by washing it or anything. No, I made it better by printing a robot on to the breast. ALSO, being the resourceful guy I am, I took photos of the steps involved so that I could write a helpful guide for my sister, an instruction manual to go hand in hand with her gift of all the supplies necessary to print her own. So here it goes!

Here are the supplies you need:

Freezer Paper
Marker
Exacto knife (or scissors)
Iron
Ink (Can be found at Michaels)
Paint Brush
And, of course, something to print on.

Once you have the supplies, you're set to start.

First, assuming that you have your image, trace it on to the paper side of the freezer paper. We have a glass top coffee table, allowing enough light to come from below to trace through, but you can get the same results by purchasing a light board or taping the image to a window and letting the sun shine through.

After you've traced it, you can begin cutting it out. An exacto knife is much better than scissors for this, allowing cleaner, closer cuts and more detail in the final product. Be careful, take it slow. If there are islands of area that you want blocked (like the buttons on the robot's chest or its eyes), cut them out and set them aside.

Once everything is cut out, position your pieces on the shirt, waxy side down, and run the hot iron over them for a about fifteen seconds. This will melt the waxy side enough to form good seals and give you clean, sharp edges on your print. It won't leave any residue on the final product either.

Now that everything is set, it's time to start using the ink. Shake it, open it, and grab your paint brush. I usually dab it on for the most part, avoiding the risk of lifting up the edges of the stencil by brushing in strokes. Lay it on thick enough to have good coverage and then let it sit. You can remove the stencil after a couple minutes. If you remove it to early, you run the risk of the stencil having wet ink on it and dragging it on to areas where you don't want it. If you remove it too late, the ink will be dried and pull up with the stencil, ruining the cleanliness of your lines. Just give it a minute or two and be careful.

The ink I use recommends letting it air dry for some ungodly time, like 24 hours, before setting it with the iron. I usually just wait until it's totally dry, which takes about 20 minutes at the most. Cover it with a piece of fabric and run the iron over it for a good 30 seconds on both the front and back.

And that's it. You're done. Wear it with pride. Follow regular washing and drying instructions, but have it inside out when you toss it in the dryer.

Merry Christmas To All

2008-12-24T19:57:00.003-05:00

It's Christmas Eve. I spent the day working, and, let me tell you, people don't appreciate collections calls on the night before a holiday. Actually, most people didn't even know we were calling. Answering machine after answering machine, voice mail system after voice mail system, it got to the point where an actual human was so surprising that I would stumble and falter for words as I identified myself and asked them for money. From about noon on, the calls were slow, drawing out further the interminable nature of an already long day. There were occasional irate customers, but their ire took on a new level with the holiday season. One call I made was for a girl, we'll call her Noel Navidad.

"Hi, may I speak with Noel Navidad?"
"Do you have a heart?"
"I'm sorry, sir?"
"Do you have a heart?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you use it?"
"Quite often."
"Then why are you calling today?"
"I'm sorry, sir?"
"Why are you calling? Do you know what day it is?"
"Yes, sir."
"What day is it?"
"Well, sir, it's Wednesday."
"It's Christmas Eve. Why are you calling people on Christmas Eve?"
"Well, it's not a holiday, sir."
"It's Christmas Eve."
"I know, sir. Is Noel available?"
"Do you enjoy working on Christmas Eve?"
"Not especially, sir. Is Noel available?"
"Not on Christmas Eve."
"Will she be available later?"
"Not on Christmas Eve."
"Well, do you have another number where I can reach her?"
"Not on Christmas Eve."
"Okay, sir. I'll just try back later. Thank you."
"Not on Christmas Eve."
"I'm sorry?"
"I mean, we'd prefer if you didn't."
"Alright, sir."

It wasn't the worst call I've taken, but having someone question whether I have a heart or not when I'm just doing my job is a little harsh. It's not like I was in some Stanley Milgram experiment, shocking unknown test subjects. I was making a call to find out when the customer was going to keep up her end of a contract she signed. It's a job, and not one that I particularly enjoy. It doesn't make it easier to have people giving me shit about it. I do my best to be polite and understanding, as long as the customers are civil to me. When they act stupid or start claiming that they have a grace period, I start by being stern, slowly moving towards being downright rough with them. But enough about the horrible day of work.

After I got out, I waited, in the pouring rain, listening to Bing Crosby sing "Mele Kalikimaka," for the bus to take me home. The bus, which is usually notable for how absolutely packed with people it is, had exactly four other people on it. I was soon home.

And that's where I am now. I've spent the past few hours wrapping gifts, listening to the Elvis Christmas album, admiring our beautiful tree, watching "It's A Wonderful Life" and the "Yule Log" program, and waiting for my girlfriend to come home. To all of you, my fond readers, allow me to take this opportunity to wish you and yours a very merry Christmas.

Life in a Nutshell

2008-11-07T18:47:00.008-05:00

As mentioned before, this has been a time of beginnings. New apartment, new job, etc., and with all of the "new", I've been neglecting the "old", easily evidenced by my lack of posts.

I. The Apartment

I mentioned the apartment before, mostly in a negative light. It's gotten better, what with furniture and cable and internet, and such. We painted the dining room lime green, the bedroom light blue, and the living room a light cream (after a poorly thought out coat of "pumpkin 3"). We bought a sofa from Value City Furniture, which was a steal and included an ottoman and FOUR high quality feather pillows (retail $60 - 80). In fact, all things considered, we basically bought the ottoman and pillows and got the couch for free. We got a recliner from Tara's parents, and with our glass-topped coffee and end tables, we have quite a respectable living room. We moved our foosball table from the dining room to storage and replaced it with a nice, wooden dining room table (with chairs!). The bedroom has a dresser, and a bedside table. We even have lamps and candles throughout the apartment.

It has really begun to feel like a home. The furniture was pushed into the center of the room to allow access to the walls for painting for awhile, but we have returned everything to its rightful spot. It stays surprisingly warm, which is wonderful as I recently purchased a pair of shorts. They have become my go-to garb for leisure and relaxation. When I get home from work, I strip out of my button-down shirt and my fancy slacks and throw on my super comfy shorts. It's a nice way to calm down after a horrible day of work. What makes work so bad? Well, that takes us to the next new thing...

II. The Job

Yes, it is true, I have a job. It is the first full-time job I have ever held, it pays more than I have ever made in the past, and it is slowly eating away at my soul. My job title is Credit Counselor, and I work in the Early Stage Collections Department of the Consumer Lending Center. Now, when I applied and interviewed for the job, they built it up. It was an opportunity to help people in need, help them in their times of financial hardship. I would be calling customers who were having trouble making their monthly payments, and I would use mighty powers to make everything better.

Then I got the job. Of course, the training didn't actually begin for another month, so I had plenty of time to be lazy. Then I began my two weeks of training, and the training was relatively enjoyable. It was simple, the woman in charge was fun, and there was a jovial, communal atmosphere. Don't get me wrong, I was annoyed at times. The systems were far too simple for the time we devoted to them, and we ended up wasting a lot of time just sitting around waiting to do things. And not to be completely full of myself, but I was by far the smartest person in the group. Doubt me? One shining example of the caliber of people I was with was when the trainer said to us, "Also, if you're not familiar with it, you may want to practice selecting things and then cutting and pasting them." They gave us a packet of pages on how to log in to the systems, which included signing on to Windows. I was done using it after a day, while others among us continued using it up until we finally left the training and got out on the floor.

As the actual nature of the job became more obvious, I began having some moral qualms. I remembered that Dante Alighieri had a special place in Hell for those who charge interest to lend money, so during a break I looked it up on Wikipedia. When we reconvened, I was proud to be able to recount my findings with the group, explaining that due to our relationship with our new employer, we were destined to find ourselves spending a good portion of eternity in the Inner Ring of the Seventh Circle of Hell, sitting in a desert of flaming sands as fiery flakes rain down upon us. As I sat there, beaming about the opportunity to enlighten my fellow usurers-by-association, one of my fellow trainees said "Well, I don't know what book or movie it is you're talking about, but I don't see anything wrong with charging interest."

[side note to allow me the opportunity to vent: I have not read The Inferno, although I have started to in the past, and I am familiar with its existence. Most people have heard of "Dante's Inferno" whether they actually understand what it is or not. But to have absolutely no conception? To have never even heard of it? Unbelievable. I already knew that I was the only trainee to have a college degree, but this was coming from someone who had actually spent some time in school. Oh, by the way, if you were wondering how much graduating cum laude with a philosophy degree from one of the top 5 programs in the country helped my ability to get a job, you'll be happy to know if did come up in my interview. The interviewer, towards the end of the interview, asked me point blank "I see you got your degree in philosophy. Can I ask you what kind of job you were hoping to get with that?" Thank you, ma'am, for basically telling me that the past 4 years of my life were wasted on intensive study.]

I have since begun the actual job. It is horrible. I sit in a cubicle, which is great, but I am nothing more than a collections agent, barely a step up from telemarketer. I wear a headset, I use an automatic dialer, and I stare at computer screens of information. As I'm just starting out, I am on outbound calls only. I sit in my chair, ever at the ready, until a beep in my ear signals the beginning of the call. I look to the screen to find out who I'm asking for, who I'm calling from (as we work third party accounts, too), and what I'm calling about. The entire time I'm at work, I am on call. I can't use the internet. My conversations with coworkers are limited, as they're often interrupted by the horrible beep. A decent amount of the people I speak with are polite, but a similar number are rude or at least in a bad mood. I don't like calling people, but I do my best to see it from their point of view. I try to keep the calls short if they seem like they're in the middle of something, but I also let them rant if they're in that sort of mood. The other day I took a call from a man who was in the mood to talk. I'm bad about interrupting, and I usually enjoy the break in the monotony, so I let him go on. The call ended up being 13 minutes long. The desired length for calls is 2 minutes. Despite this lack of concern for time constraints, my numbers are surprisingly good. Every day they post a list of all the collectors and information regarding their calls: number of calls, number of promises to pay, number of promises kept/broken, and amount of money brought in. After the first week, I had more promises than anyone else in my training group, and, with 95% of them kept, I had a better percentage than any of the other trainees. My total amount of money brought in was double that of the next best trainee. I am surprisingly good at my job.

Sadly, the warm feelings I got from knowing that I'm good at my job faded quickly, and it was only a day later that I went back to feeling like Tom Hanks at the beginning of Joe Versus The Volcano. The problems with the job are numerous, but most of them boil down to misrepresentation in the hiring process. I am not a counselor. I do not have the power to help people, beyond deferring one or two months. My job is to collect money. They still hold on to the misnomer though, calling us "counselors" while at the same time offering us incentive bonuses based on how much money we bring in. What kind of counselors do you know who make a commission?

III. The Dog

Rounding out the hat trick of newness is the dog that Tara and I have adopted. For some time, Tara and I have been thinking about getting a pet. In the old apartment, we were bound by the line in my lease which read "Absolutely no pets or overnight guests" (obviously we didn't follow it completely). After getting the new place, we began a search for the perfect pet. We checked out the local pet stores, we checked Craigslist, we checked Petfinder. We thought about getting a cat, and even applied to rescue one that was at a local Petco. We found that we liked the idea of getting a cute Boxer puppy, and played with one at Petland. Here's something to think about, though: to rescue a 5 year old cat that was given up by a family that got a new dog cost $85 and required an application and a home visit, but to adopt a purebred puppy costs $1500 and requires nothing more (plus, the puppy comes with a warranty!). But in the end, we went we neither. We wanted something more lovable and playful than a cat that already had a family, and there was no way we could support the use of the puppy mills that Petland seems to prefer. We kept our eyes open, emailing and calling about puppies and dogs and getting no response.

Then, one day as I sat on my lunch break at work, I scanned the boxer puppies on Petfinder.com and saw the cutest puppies ever. They were from a litter of seven boxer shepherd mix puppies, strays, a mere five weeks old, and being held at a pound in Youngstown, OH. I called about them and spoke with a guy named Keith. I acknowledged my interest for the ones with black and fawn coloring, and found out there were two, one male and one female. Tara desired a female, so I asked him if he could hold it for us. "Well sir, the only thing is that if I hold it for you and other people come in and want her, I have to tell them no. Then, if you don't show up, she may have missed out on her chance of being adopted, and you know what happens then..." His voice trailed off as he avoided acknowledging the sad reality of a kill-shelter. I guaranteed that we would be there by the time they closed at 7pm. He called back later to take down all my information so he could have the paperwork ready for me when I got there. I called Tara and let her know that we were going to be making a road trip. It was at this point that the logistics of our puppy gathering arrangement.

Both of us were getting off of work at 5pm. By the time my bus dropped me off at home and Tara made her homeward commute, it would be 5:30pm. The drive to Youngstown from our place is an hour and a half. Things went as planned and we hit the road. We got to the pound at exactly 7:01pm, just as the last pound employee was getting into his car. We jumped out and said "wait, wait" and explained that we had called about a dog, spoken to Keith and that he said we could pick up our puppy. The guy was cool and let us in. He showed us our new, very small dog. We took her to the counter to pay and he explained "Alright, now I'm sorry, but you can't take her home today because it's too late and the paperwork will take too long..." "No, no, Keith took all my information, he said he would have it all filled out," I interrupted him. He looked at me incredulously, then looked for the paperwork, and came back with a surprised look on his face when he found it. A few minutes later, the paperwork was filled out. We handed him $42.50 (well, $42. He pitched in the fifty cents), he handed us our new dog (figuratively, as we already had her in our arms), and we were on our way home.

And now we have a puppy. She's super cute, and growing up fast. She's already twice as big as when we got her three weeks ago. She even has a name, after being referred to as "puppy" for the first week and a half. We were lazily brainstorming names and Tara tossed out the name "Abby". It was cute, it fit the dog, and it was similar enough to "Puppy" that all of our early training would not be in vain. Then Tara said she needed a middle name, too, and proposed we name our puppy "Abby Winters". It had a nice ring to it, and for some reason it sounded vaguely familiar to both of us. I googled it and we realized where we (or at least I) knew it from [nsfw].

And there you have it, the past month or two of my life in a nutshell.

Again With The How I Met Your Mother

2008-10-24T12:05:00.003-04:00

**Possible Spoilers Ahead**

I love How I Met Your Mother. I've mentioned this before. I've watched every episode, and I've rewatched the first two seasons an unbelievable number of times. Unfortunately the show, which is now in its fourth season, has started to slide downward in quality.

It began as a Friends-esque experience that could be appreciated by the rest of us. They drank a lot and hung out in a bar, not a coffeeshop. They gave high fives and fist bumps for witty comebacks. The gang hung out, worried about their jobs and money, made jokes, and got into adventures. Ted was always looking for love and failing, Marshall and Lily were always in love and showing the light and dark sides of coupledom, Robin was always there to be gorgeous and keep Ted interested, and Barney was always there to pick up random chicks and bang them. This was a perfect set up. As long as you kept it to the core five there were no problems. You could have random women come in and out of Ted's life, some lasting even a few episodes, but always have his desire for Robin take over and be an excuse to get them out of the picture again. Then, in the times between women, the gang could have awesome adventures, like licking the Liberty Bell (it tastes like pennies).

But then, Ted and Robin started going out. It was great and what we all wanted to see. Then they broke up. Then they went out again. Then they broke up again at the end of season 2. And now, it was time for Ted to find a new girl. Come season 3, Ted finds a new girl in the form of Sarah Chalke.

[BTdub, the whole premise of the show is that future Ted Mosby is telling his kids all about how he met their mother. Each episode is a further hint as to the identity of Ted's eventual wife.]

Now, we all know and love Sarah Chalke. We watched her as Dr. Reed on Scrubs, laughing at her misadventures and feeling bad about her mother issues and relationship hardships. We watched her as replacement Becky on Roseanne, until original Becky came back again. For some reason, she never really mastered the role like original Becky. She was too soft, too kind, just didn't look the part of lower middle class daughter. But we still enjoyed her performances and the return of original Becky was bittersweet (and bizarre). As much as I like Sarah Chalke, there is something off about seeing her in serious roles. She just doesn't play "responsible, serious adult" very well. And in this case, it can be argued that she was basically Ted McGinley in female form.

But don't write the show off just yet! I was broken hearted to watch the third season and see Ted actively pursue Chalke's character Stella. I was devastated when, in the season finale, he proposed to her. When I watched the first two episodes of the fourth season, I saw them continuing their wedding plans and began to plan my memorial for the show. Stella just didn't fit in with the group. The chemistry seemed all wrong. They were just different people. She was too serious, too adult. The gang was still fun-loving and relaxed. The show didn't do a good job of showing why Ted was even interested in her.

[Note: I don't watch shows I really like when they're on (except for House). For HIMYM, I like to wait, then download it. I wait a few weeks, so I can watch like 3 or 4 at a time and have a mini marathon. They're too short to just watch one. It's like having the option of eating a fun size candy bar each day for three days, or eating a king size candy bar on just one day; it's the same amount of candy, but when you have the larger amount it's just that much more satisfying.]

But today, I watched episodes 3, 4, and 5, and found my prayers had been answered! Stella ditches her own last minute wedding and runs off with the father of her daughter. Sad for Ted, happy for me. Robin showed interest in Ted again. And despite the threats of continuing descent into suck, a glimmer of hope shown on the horizon.

Internet and a New Apartment

2008-10-22T14:28:00.004-04:00

Upon entering my new apartment building, one is met with two sets of stairs. One goes down to the laundry and storage areas, the other goes up to the apartments. At the first landing, there are 4 doors, each being to an individual apartment, and the second one being to mine. There are more stairs going up to more landings and more apartments, but I don't go up there because I don't live up there.

The people who live behind the fourth door have a dog. It is a small, white dog of the yippy variety. Every day, the people leave for work, recreation, seal clubbing, etc., and they leave the dog at home. The dog proceeds to bark the entire time they are gone. Now, the walls are quite good at blocking sounds, so I'm able to look at the entire situation with a sense of whimsy, as opposed to a sense of anger and annoyance. The dog mainly sticks with a standard set of four or five yips in quick succession, followed by a brief pause. Sometimes, though, the dog will let loose an actual bark, then follow up with two or three yips. It is all terribly exciting.

The layout of the apartment buildings has caused me to become a bit of a voyeur. Each building is in an 'H' shape and houses 12 apartments. Each apartment has at least 5 windows looking out over a parking lot. That means there are an ungodly number of windows that I can see from my window. PLUS, whenever people come into the building, I can use the peep hole in my door to see who they are and where they go (there's an old man who lives upstairs. He was wearing gloves yesterday!!!). I'm not a huge fan of the peep hole though. It is simply a hole in the door with a grate over the outside and a little piece of metal that slides in front of it on the inside. It is obviously from the economy line of peep holes. No box that requires you to press secret buttons, no fish eye lens, nothing to leave the person on the outside wondering if you're actually home. If they have a toothpick and an axe to grind, you're begging for trouble.

As with many apartments, they've slapped on a coat of paint after each tenant. None of the doors close easily due to the accumulation of layers of white latex house paint. They even painted over the bathroom tiles, which line the bottom four feet of the walls. We scraped it off to reveal 4-inch pastel yellow tiles, and a 2-inch border of black tiles. It was a bittersweet discovery. The plan is to finish scraping all of the tiles and then paint over it all with a high gloss black.

The Ethics of Cyber Sleuthing

2008-10-01T01:30:00.002-04:00

Sometime in May or June, I received a Facebook friend request from a woman named Sharon. She seems attractive for an older woman, and I'm sure she's nice, but for the life of me, I don't have any clue who she is. We had a few friends in common, according to her profile, and I kept meaning to send her a message asking who she was, but I forgot and put it off, leaving her in friend request limbo, and eventually the request disappeared.

Then in early July, I received another request from her. This time, I sent her a short, but polite note, reading:

"I'm sorry, I'm having trouble placing you. How do I know you?"

A small conversation came out of this.

"There must be some mistake. I don't know you either."
"Then why did you friend request me? This is the second time you've done it."
"I haven't seen your name before. I've had this Facebook account closed down until yesterday when I opened it back up to check on some of the groups I belong to."

She promptly deleted her account.

It was weird behavior, but I looked past it and got over it. Just another crazy old lady trying to keep up with technology and modern youth culture. We should applaud her for her diligent attempts. She could have been nicer with her responses, but whatever.

Fast forward another two weeks, and I received a THIRD friend request from this woman. I was beginning to get a little irritated. Again, I sent her a message:
"Once again, I do not know who you are. This is the third time you've friend requested me. Please identify yourself."

She responded with a message that I interpreted to be surprisingly rude and impatient, given the circumstances.

"Dan, And this is now the third time that I'm truthfully telling you that I do not know how that is happeneing any more than you do. I'm telling you the truth. No matter how many times you ask, I can't give you an explanation because I don't know how it's happening. The only thing I can think of to do is just ignore the friend request. Or just block messages from my name."

It's important to understand that when I asked her to "identify" herself, I wasn't necessarily asking her to tell me how I know her. I would have been happy with a quick response outlining the basics: what you do, where you live, if you like piña coladas and getting caught in the rain. That sort of thing. But instead I got anger and frustration. It was like she was blaming me for her lack of internet savvy. So I did what anyone would do, given the situation: I googled her.

Back in the day, googling someone was the simple act of going to Google and searching someone's name. As time has passed and technology as grown, I feel that the term "googling" has evolved, becoming something more akin to internet sleuthing. There is an uncanny amount of information on the internet, and far too much of it is accessible to anyone with a most basic knowledge. We touched upon this in a limited form with the whole Megan's Law entry, but now it's time to delve deeper.

*** Note ***

I wrote this entry, at least up until this point, back in early August. The problem was that I hit an ethical wall. How much detail can you give about internet sleuthing (stalking) before you've given too much information? I mean, everything I found was available to anyone with an internet connection and the basic information I gained from her Facebook account. Even that much is negligible. She had sent me a friend request, granting me access to all of her page's information, but anyone doing a search for "Sharon [last name]" would have come up with her name, the fact that she lives in Pittsburgh (or is at least in the Pittsburgh network), and a small image of her. From there, the image's URL needs only one letter to be changed to be shown at a larger size. So now you have name, city, and picture. Have I said too much by sharing this information? If I go on to say that I typed her name into Google, is that crossing a line? What if I actually link to Google?

This whole issue came back to mind today, nearly two months after I began the post, because I read an article about a security flaw in Adobe's Flash server software that allows internet users to download and save movies from Amazon's Video On Demand service for free. The article describes the flaw and explains in layman's terms how it works. It makes mention, by name, of an additional program that is necessary to take advantage of the flaw and lists the URL of a page that details the step by step instructions of how to use the program. At what point, if any, does the article go too far? Should Amazon take action against the website publishing the article for assisting would-be pirates? I got the link through the feed on my Gmail page, does that mean Google should also be held responsible?

I suppose there is a distinct difference between something like enabling/assisting piracy and enabling/assisting cyber sleuthing, but where does one draw the line? The websites I used were all common knowledge and free to use. By plugging her name and city into one site, I was able to find her address. From plugging her address into another site, I was able to find a picture of her house and the price of it, as well as the fact that it was listed as being sold in 2002 for $1. This simply means there was a transfer of ownership, and a single search cleared the mystery by leading to an obituary for her husband, who passed away in August of 2001.* Other searches gave our mystery woman a career. Surprisingly, her job history was the hardest item to pinpoint. The internet left strange, inexplicable gaps, but her Facebook page further bolstered the information that could be found.

Now, I've given a lot of general information here, but at this point she could still be anyone. The scary thing is, I only used three search sites to get this information. One of them, as I've already alluded to, is Google. A second was an internet white pages search. The last was the ever helpful Allegheny County Assessments page.**

I've kept the one page secret, as it really serves as the missing link. I feel like this is enough to release me from my ethical chains. What do you think? Have I gone too far, or not far enough? At what point does it go from innocent to creepy? Does the fact that she contacted me first have any bearing on the situation? Let's hear from the audience on this one, and especially the MLIS students and ethicists out there. Does your Information Sciences training touch upon this sort of stuff at all? I know there's at least one medical ethicist in my readership, and while this is out of your field a bit, I'm interested in hearing your views considering the high premium the medical community places upon confidentiality. Can a person freely share information that is freely found on the internet? At what point does it become a matter of personal responsibility?

*And as information tends to lead to more information, the obituary named his children, his former profession, as well as his alma mater.

**Honestly, whoever thought of putting the assessments information online, you are a god in my eyes. I remember when I first discovered the site and rushed through the entire list of people I knew, searching out each and every home. It was easier then, as you could search by name as well as address. They've since done away with the name only search, probably a smart move on their part.

House, Hypochondria, and Shampoo

2008-09-30T12:36:00.002-04:00

Being unemployed is kind of like being deaf or blind. Suddenly, it's like your other senses have become heightened, but rather than suddenly being able to see through walls or figure out the last person to touch something based on taste alone, it's more like you're able to notice odd irregularities within the mundane, and then, as an additional super power, you're able to dwell on them for far too long and put way too much thought into them. Here are some examples:

1. The USA television network had a House marathon the other day. They also had one last weekend. They may or may not have had one sometime during the week. At what point do you, as a network, just sort of throw in the towel and stop referring to them as "House marathons" and just admit that you show a lot of episodes of House? I looked online and found that this week they will be showing 18 episodes of House. There is one block of five episodes, but I don't think that equals a marathon. That's 18 episodes, 18 hour-long episodes, and no marathon. What's the point of even saying that they're having House marathons at this point? They've basically decided that House is the new Law & Order, and following the Law & Order trend, they're showing it nearly non-stop. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for it, I just want them to acknowledge what they're doing.

2. Watching so much House has adversely affected me recently. Last week, I was sick for two days. My main symptoms were headache and fever. This freaked me out. I was sure that there was something far more sinister lurking beneath the surface and that I was on the brink of death, the unknowing host to some ultra-rare strain of death-inducing illness. As I rested, shivering with my eyes closed, my mind raced through a mental checklist of body parts, checking each one for symptoms. I was demonstrating all of the hypochondriacal sufferings of a first year med student, but without any of the medical knowledge that would allow for an actual self diagnosis, leaving me painfully aware of my impending death, but painfully unaware of its source or how to stop it. I got better, but the worry will not fully dissipate until I have health insurance and can get an actual check up. Then my mind will finally be set at ease.

3. As I took a shower the other day, I grew nostalgic as I looked at my nearly empty shampoo bottle. When I first moved into the city, my mom allowed me to take with me a brand new, economy size bottle of Herbal Essences shampoo. Two years later, it's finally on its last leg, just as Tara and I are gearing up to finally move out. Somehow, fate timed it perfectly. The rarity of my showers, combined with the small amount of shampoo I use on my nearly hairless scalp, has perfectly offset the overuse imposed upon the bottle by long haired guests. And now, on the cusp of a brand new frontier, the bottle is letting go, allowing this little bird to spread his wings and take flight independently. Nothing gold can stay, and no bottle of shampoo can last forever.

I Got A Job

2008-09-29T14:02:00.000-04:00

I sent out my first resume this summer on July 18th. Over two months later, I've sent out hundreds, literally hundreds, of resumes, and I've only been called back about two positions, not including the temp agency I signed up with (who only called me once).

At one point, I went to visit the university's Career Counseling center about my resume and cover letter. I imagined some glaring, obvious error that screamed "Don't Hire Me!" to potential employers, like I had accidentally stumbled upon a secret employer code. I went into the office half expecting the woman to read my resume and say "get out". Perhaps she would find that the first letters of each line were arranged to spell out "cunt" or something, and taking great offense, she would kick me out without actually pointing that out as the reason.

Of course, this didn't actually happen. Instead, she read over each of them, told me to combine my education info under the heading of the university, as opposed to listing the community college separately, told me to left justify all parts of my cover letter, and that was it. Other than that, she said they both read very well and looked good. Then she began to speak about the online career assistance they offered. She sat me down at the computer and had me log in. She took me to the pages that were supposed to help me, the pages to see where other philosophy majors had gone, to connect with alumni who could be helpful contacts for me. The occupations that came up for Philosophy majors were Lawyer (which requires Law school), Librarian (which requires Library school). Only one alumni name came up as someone successful who you could contact, and the details of her background didn't actually show philosophy at all. The career counselor freaked out a little, attempting to sound upbeat about my future and avoid admitting the one thing that was painfully obvious- there is no hope for a straight up Philosophy degree.

I continued sending out the resume, applying to any job that I looked to be even halfway qualified for.

But now, now I have a job! Today I received an official offer of employment from PNC Financial for a position as a Credit Counselor. Sounds impressive, right? Yeah, I get to call up people who are delinquent on their payments and inspire them to give me money. I start in ~~7 days~~ 4 weeks.

This was weekend was apparently the real life equivalent of a power point presentation on karma. It began when I got my mail and found two checks, one for payment for a freelance graphic design job, and the other for stock dividends. I also found out that my undergraduate diploma had finally arrived at my mom's. Of course, karma is nothing without the bad side. I was stricken down with a migraine that began while I was asleep, infecting my dream with its painful nature, and lasting after I woke up. I suffered for a few hours then went back to bed. I was awoken after a couple hours by Tara.

"I answered your phone. Take it," she said.

I took the call and it was a woman from PNC asking if I was still interested in the position I had interviewed for and that the official offer would come on Monday. It was awesome. I got up, the headache much calmer than before, and drank a bottle of wine. That night, karma kicked me in the nuts again. I came down with a fever, shivering the whole night, waking up every hour or so to beg Tara to hold me closer and keep me warm. At 7:30 in the morning, the sound of jackhammers woke me up. At 7:45, they woke up my upstairs neighbor. At 7:47, she called a friend (who I assume she woke up) and proceeded to talk loudly to her. I got some more sleep after I took some DayQuil (the only item in our medicine cabinet that lowers fevers) but had a general miserable feeling for the rest of the day.

But the pendulum of good karma swung back in my direction again. I stopped at my mom's, looked at my new diploma, and was shocked to find the words "Cum Laude" printed on it. I rule. Today, at ten till 9am I received the official offer for my job. I rule. Finally, I can stop worrying about jobs. Finally, I can stop coming up with money making schemes.* I can stop looking around my apartment for items I can return to stores for cash.** Soon...soon, I shall be able to buy big tvs, go out to fancy restaurants, and buy suits! Suits!!! I'll be able to finally get a nice pair of leather dress boots. I will have such impeccable style that it'll be a shame I deal with people over the phone and not in person.

*I had an idea the other day for a money making scheme. I will buy/find a large piece of board, about 6' by 4', paint it white, and print a grid on it of 4'' by 4'' squares. I will then go out to the corner of Forbes and Bigelow and charge people a dollar to write whatever they want in a square. Absolute freedom of speech. Students love exercising their rights. They love writing stuff on walls with markers. This is a genius plan.

** I found a surge protector from Staples that was still in the packaging. Tara and I took it back, but changed our mind about returning it when they told us we'd only get 53 cents for it.

Seaweed, Egg Drop Experiment, and Silent Spring

2008-09-19T02:23:00.000-04:00

I couldn't get to sleep tonight. As I laid there in the dark, my mind started pondering my old age amongst other things. I began to think about younger years and ended up focusing on my eighth grade science class.

In eighth grade, I had Mrs. Clark. She was an acceptable teacher, probably even falling on the good side of the scale, but in the end she left me with strong dislike for her. To be honest, there are only four things I remember about her and her class: seaweed, the egg drop, seeing her again when I was in high school, and Rachel Carson's "Silent Spring".

Being a science teacher, it was her job to open us up to the wild and weird world of science, pushing our boundaries and piquing our interests. One way she did this was by introducing us to the seemingly disgusting concept of eating seaweed. On one of the first days of class she passed around a small tray with half inch squares of seaweed on it, inviting us to be amongst the daring and try it. This was eighth grade, so I was unfamiliar with the whole concept of nori and sushi was still more of a gross idea of eating raw fish than a delightful delicacy. The seaweed tasted good though, and I remember taking small squares multiple times a week, as she placed it on the counter for the rest of the year (looking back, that seems unhygienic and gross). Obviously, feeding me wasn't how she got on my bad side, so let's continue.

The second thing I remember was the egg drop experiment. Basically, we had to build an apparatus to allow a raw egg survive a two to three story fall. To keep it interesting, she built up a back story explaining why we were in such a position, why it would ever be necessary to create this magical egg saving device. The premise was something like this:

You work for NASA. In an upcoming mission, astronauts will be sent to
the moon (or some unexplored planet) and need a way to drop their rover,
utilities, supplies, selves, etc., onto the surface. For some reason, jets
can't be used. Because their is no atmosphere, parachutes won't
work. Build your enclosure in such a way that the egg will survive the
fall. Egg must be able to be removed to prove that it has survived. Surviving eggs will be broken to ensure they are not hard boiled. Entire enclosure may be no larger than 6'' by 6'' by 6''.

My dad happened to be in town for work this particular weekend and we spent many hours building enclosures and tossing them out of my bedroom window. Eventually, we designed one that worked. It was cardboard, housing the egg in the center between a bottom surface and a top surface. The sides were open, and around the egg were multiple cardboard "springs" to lessen the blow. I was excited. I had gotten to work on a school project with my father (a rare treat), and we had succeeded in our attempt to solve this engineering dilemma. He went back to California, and I looked forward to taking my project to school.

In class, there was a buzz in the air. We placed all of our projects in a garbage bag (very un-NASA like), and us students headed to the patio outside of the cafeteria while Mrs. Clark headed to the roof. As she threw the first one down, it became obvious that something was wrong. She simply reached into the bag, grabbed a project, and tossed it down towards the ground. Not out, mind you, but threw towards the ground with force. Project after project failed. Finally she tossed mine.

Crack.

I was utterly devastated. I was in the majority, but that was of little solace. The students who had older siblings fared better, having the knowledge that the real secret was to place the egg in a plastic peanut butter jar filled with Jello. Being the eldest, however, I was not privy to such knowledge. I felt like I had failed not only the project, but my dad as well. We finally get to work on a project together and I go and blow it for him. But I didn't place all of the blame on myself. I placed a large portion on her. Mrs. Clark, that lying failure of a scientist. She went against the backstory. We're working for NASA. We need to get this enclosure to the surface from a space craft that is orbiting the planet. There is no atmosphere. Obviously, we have the technology to at least send it out of the ship in the right fucking orientation! Beyond that, why the need to hurl it at the ground. NASA is generally a pretty conservative bunch, avoiding unnecessary risks and liabilities. It doesn't seem that they would send something towards the solid surface of a planet at 50 mph when 15 mph would do. If you're going to give a backstory, stick with it. Instead, she made the concept of the experiment non-canonical. Suddenly it's all just a fun little story that actually has nothing to do with the project.

I'm not going to say that this was what broke my spirit and ruined me for the rest of my school career, but it certainly didn't help.

Third item: Rachel Carson's "Silent Spring". At some point, being a science teacher who was a fan of the earth, Mrs. Clark told us about the book that outlined the dangers of DDT, blowing the whistle and leading to change. She lent out some of her personal copies to those who were interested in reading it, and I ended up with one. After the school year had ended, I was still in possession of the book, and despite the egg drop misinformation, I felt a sense of guilt about it. I wanted to return it, but never really found any reason to go back to my former middle school.

That is, until my Senior year.

Senior year of high school, I took part in my school's production of "You're A Good Man, Charlie Brown". In an effort to raise awareness of the show, myself and a few other cast members were sent to my former middle school to speak to the eighth graders during their lunch period. On the ride over, I remembered the book, kicking myself for not remembering sooner, and contemplating searching her out in the school and sharing an apology for my tardiness in returning it. The speaking went well, very informal, and then we spent the rest of the lunch period going to different tables to talk to students and answer questions. Now, at the time, I was a bit of a punk. My hair was died black and was long enough for my bangs to go behind my ears. Everywhere I went I wore my steel toed boots, my wallet chain, and my black sweatshirt bearing patches for various crappy local punk bands. I don't remember what the dress code was for this engagement, but I likely had the boots and the chains, less likely the sweatshirt. Despite this, I still ended up at some table with little eighth grade punks. In conversing, I found out that one of them was the younger sister of a kid I knew from a year above me, Nate Sheridan. We all talked until the end of lunch, when the students left for their various classes. I had noticed Mrs. Clark monitoring the lunch period, so I now approached her. She was speaking to another teacher and when I came over she spoke first, saying "Is that your sister? Are you Nate Sheridan?"

Slap in the face!

I understand that I was taller, had dyed hair, and was dressed a bit differently than I had in eighth grade, but still! I simply said "no" and walked away, fuming. Yeah, yeah, I know it's hard for teachers to keep all their former students straight year after year, but all things considered it was just too much. It was at that second that I relinquished all guilt over hoarding her copy of "Silent Spring", vowing never to return it. Its cover price is simply a small payment towards the anguish she has caused me.

I Drew That

2008-09-16T16:14:00.000-04:00

Not Dead, Just Unemployed

2008-09-15T22:19:00.001-04:00

I am unemployed.

Actually, Tara and I are both unemployed, living in the idyllic area that exists between your last day of work and your last paycheck. Our bedtime gets later and later, we sleep farther into the afternoon each day, and our days are filled with a broken record of "what do you want to do today?" We go out to eat, we get dressed out of necessity, and we watch tons of movies.

I miss my job, but in the most general sense, and probably not for the reasons I should. I don't have an overwhelming desire to help answer questions and direct eager young minds to the sources of knowledge. I do miss being paid to internet. It's obvious that I'm behind on my blogging, but I'm also behind on my blog reading. My Facebook bowling has fallen to the wayside, and I feel unknowledgable when it comes to friend-based news, and all news for that matter.

A few weeks ago we went to Niagara Falls and spent an afternoon and evening walking around the Canadian side. It was a level of trashy I wasn't expecting. It was disconcerting, in the same way as hearing a recording of your own voice sets you aback. After you passed the first street, which overlooked the falls themselves, it was just tourist establishment after tourist establishment, and not the classy kinds. No bed and breakfasts, no cafes, just the weirdest, most bizarre kinds of crap you could think of that were still on this side of family fun. Lots of wax museums and horror characters. Lots of miniature golf. Signs everywhere for Cuban cigars and bongs and pipes. Buffets and overpriced steak joints flourished. We walked up and down the streets, cursing the image that this must give people of Canada, and worst, of America, as this place exists to entertain us Americans. We walked, we cursed, and then we got dinner in a TGI Fridays.

After sitting for an hour, talking quietly amongst ourselves about what we'd seen and our plans for the immediate future, our waitress approached us. She apologized for the delay in our food, explained that there had been a mix-up in the kitchen, and that the manager would be out soon to speak with us. After a few minutes, a short, stocky, no-nonsense woman came to our table. She apologized without really accepting guilt, and told us that dinner was on the house, and quickly left. It was all done very professionally and without any question or debate. Our food came out, we ate it, and went on our way. We were pretty much done with this side of Canada, so after buying and smoking a Cuban cigar, we took off and drove back home.

We also took a trip this past week, arriving home a few days ago. We began in Baltimore, visiting Inner Harbor and spending a lovely night in a hotel. The next morning we headed to Washington, DC. We toured the Capital building, saw the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, and the Vietnam Memorial. We saw the White House, but only from afar. Then we headed to Lewes, Delaware where we camped out with Tara's family for a few nights. While they slept comfortably in their RV, we slept on the cold, hard ground in Tara's tent. I pulled a muscle in my shoulder the first night we slept there and was sunburned and mosquito bitten by the time we finally left. That said, I still got to visit a new state and swim in the Atlantic Ocean for the first time. I drank more than I should have, took part in a marshmallow fight (which tends to happen whenever Tara's extended family gets together), and bought some saltwater taffy. I saw a few dolphins, felt crabs under my toes, and visited Bike Week in Ocean City, MD. It was an awesome trip.

Of course, now I'm back home, applying for more jobs, and watching tv. Anyone have a job for me?

Hipsters and Bicycles

2008-08-23T16:39:00.003-04:00

A friend of mine recommended I read a rant that was posted on Facebook by our mutual friend Erin Dragan. I've copied it, in its entirety, below.

So, this shit has gone far enough. I set my eyes upon a few pictures of some stupid fucking hipsters this morning in someone's picture database on here and pretty much puked. To hipsters: YOU ARE PRETENTIOUS, YOU LISTEN TO HORRIBLE MUSIC (DON'T PRETEND LIKE YOU HAVE AN EDUCATED OPINION BECAUSE YOU DON'T, AND BESIDES, I'M A MUSICIAN AND I PLAY A REAL GUITAR, NOT SOME STUPID THRIFT STORE SHIT), AND FIXED GEAR BIKES, UNLESS YOU'RE A MESSENGER OR LIVING IN THE FLAT PARTS OF THE CITY, AND REALLY IMPRACTICAL IN PITTSBURGH. I'd like to see you go down one of the hills in Schenley, your feet pumping as hard as the possibly can while your frame threatens to break apart, and your piece-of-shit tires with probably-shot presta tubes just roll right out from under you. Oh, you probably wouldn't survive that, would you? Because, obviously, helmets aren't cool enough to wear. Yeah? I had one save my life last year. Good riddance to you when your blood is washed away on a typical overcast day in my hometown. Oh, and when your wheel from your Bianchi Pista gets stolen because you didn't lock it in with the frame with your thin-ass 'burb lock, don't try to hit me while I point and laugh. I'd bet you that you also use shitty cleaners and lubes on your bike, too, like Pedro's. When your pink-painted chain breaks and whips you in the ankle and rips your gap skinny jeans, don't come crying to any of us.

In all seriousness, though - some thoughts on fixies:

1. It isn't that I don't respect. They're bicycles, and I love bicycles.
2. Pgh has a lot of big, steep hills. Fixies were designed for simple commuting through the rolling grades of urban centers in Western Europe. In other words, not for conquering huge, poorly-engineered, hills.
3. Bike messengers caught onto this stuff because fixies are good for riding at low speeds, and you (generally) have more control on the bike in high-traffic situations. Not bad.
4. There would be one exception to using a fixie in Pgh: training. Going up those hills on a fixie without the option of gearing down would REALLY whip your legs into shape. Going up those hills in Schenley on a multi-geared bike work them enough, so I can't imagine what it would be like on a fixie.

And also, to those who think that mountain bikes don't belong on roads: one word for you guys - POTHOLES. Even a great carbon-fiber road racing bike would not stand a chance in some of the potholes that plague our roads (don't even get me started on the politics of this). Mountain bikes, with their fat tires, are much better at attacking unpredictable terrain. You can ride a road bike in Pgh just fine, though - as long as you avoid the rough stuff. Honestly, the best kind of bike in Pgh is a hybrid, so you get more speed from it, but also more stability over weird stuff. I myself ride a 1998 Diamondback Outlook DX 21-speed mountain bike, and I would continue to do so, if I were staying in the area. Road bikes are better for nice open roads where you can really push 18-25 mph at regular intervals.

So, to conclude: Think Green, Think Bikes, Think Solidarity. If you aren't willing to share the road with everyone (and I [grudgingly] even share it with hipsters...), THEN GET OFF THE ROAD.

While I am always in favor of a good rant, I feel that this rant fails to really take off. It lacks a clear focus, and as such, the aggression seems misplaced and confused. She sets it up to be about hipsters, their music, their clothes, their bikes, but it quickly degenerates into a stream of consciousness rant.

PART I

Even the opening of the piece seems to lack focus. She opens with "So, this shit has gone far enough," indicating some sort of behavior that has been long running and hostile. The setting is then described, and it is acknowledged that the inspiration for this piece is simply her viewing of someone else's photos. Instantly, confusion sets in. She was the one performing the action. She took it upon herself to view their photos, which they had merely made available. This seems akin to someone downloading porn and then complaining that they saw nudity. If you didn't like the pictures, why didn't you just not look at them?

Having given the background and laid out the targets of her aggression, she launches into the angriest point of her diatribe, lambasting them for their pretension, their music, and their fixed gear bikes. Later in the paragraph, she also brings up their penchant for "skinny jeans". Let's look at each of these points individually.

1. The pretension is left at that. She simply calls them out on it and then drops it. While I won't agree, nor disagree with her claim, I feel that the action of writing an angry rant that vilifies an entire group of people who did nothing more than post some pictures is a little pretentious in its own right.

2. She then brings up their musical tastes. While she doesn't mention any specific artists, she does cut the hipsters down by explaining that they do not "have an educated opinion", while she does, as she is "a musician". This claim is reinforced by her ownership of a guitar that is "not some thrift store shit". Once again, the author's own pretension seems to heavily outweigh that of the hipsters she is railing against, especially due to the lack of comments justifying her claim that they are, in fact, pretentious. It continues as she points out that none of them know anything about music, while she herself is a musician, with a good guitar (ignoring the fact that, technically, the place of purchase has no effect of the quality of a guitar).

3. Fixed gear bicycles. This will be her undoing. By directing the bulk of her anger at the topic of fixed gear bicycles, she alters the piece from being a rant against hipsters in general to simply focusing her ire upon the hipsters who also ride fixed gear bikes. For them, her vitriol is seemingly unending.

Suddenly, her conception of a fixed gear bike includes weak frames, "piece-of-shit tires", and "probably-shot presta tubes". The justification for these claims seems completely unfounded. The tires that are chosen for a bike have little to do with the frame. Presta tubes are just as likely to be "shot" as a Schrader tube is (for the uninitiated, Presta and Schrader are the two most common types of inner tube valves). The debate of which is better is long discussed on internet message boards, and is much akin to the discussions "Star Trek" vs "Star Trek: TNG" or "Xbox" vs "Playstation". Everyone has their preference and each choice has its pros and cons. This comment seems to lack any clout. Furthermore, her main argument against fixed gear bicycles is that they are "impractical" for this city. If the only thing that really irks you is that they ride impractical bikes, will we be seeing a similar rant against people who wear scarves or sweaters in the summer?

The fixed gear anger really finds its stride as she outlines a hypothetical situation in which a nameless hipster rides his or her bike down a hill in Schenley park, feet pumping quickly, frame shaking, wheels rolling out from under him. This allows her to nearly seamlessly segue into the topic of their distaste for helmets. She takes it to a personal level, recalling a time last year when she took a nasty spill on her bicycle. The rage quickly returns, albeit with a twinge of nostalgia, as she looks forward to their death as a result of the accident, as their "blood is washed away on a typical overcast day in my hometown (I assume she is referring to Pittsburgh as her hometown, and not the suburbs she hearkens from).

Another hypothetical situation follows, this one describing the theft of the wheel from the still-nameless hipster's Bianchi Pista, due to a combination of negligence and a poorly constructed, "thin-ass 'burb lock". It is unclear whether the weak framed bicycle from before is the same as the now identified Bianchi, but if so, it hardly seems correct. Bianchi is one of the oldest bicycle manufacturers in the world, having pioneered a variety of technologies, and having a fabled history that includes being used in multiple Tour de France wins. The rider's elementary error of failing to lock the wheel to the frame seems to also identify them as the type who uses "shitty cleaners and lubes...like Pedro's", as well as the type of person who has a "pink-painted chain" and wears "Gap skinny jeans". There is a change in the voice of the piece in the last sentence of this section, where the author goes from referring to herself as "I", to suddenly saying "don't come crying to any of us". There is no indication as to who the other members of her group are.

Overall, this first section purports to be almost completely a critique of hipsters, specifically the fixed gear bicycle riding hipsters. In reality, however, the section is simply a poorly thought out rant. There is no substance to the complaints, and the described "hipster" is simply an amalgamation of what the author sees as being the worst qualities found within a group of hipsters. The name dropping of presta valves, bianchi bikes, and Pedro's products gives the author a baseless air of superiority. Ultimately, her critiques, beyond the claim of pretension, amount to nothing put a dislike of their aesthetics.

PART II

Part two of the piece is a calm, calculated explanation of the pros and cons of fixed gear bicycles (affectionately referred to in her piece as "fixies" from this point on), expounding upon her claim that they are impractical for Pittsburgh riding. She begins by explaining that she loves bicycles, and that includes fixies. This is her complete first point.

Her second point is that Pittsburgh is full of steep hills, much different from the "rolling grades" of Western Europe, and that a fixed gear is impractical for the former as it was designed for the latter. While Pittsburgh does have its share of steep hills (including Canton Avenue, which is arguably the steepest street in the world), the area of Oakland and its surroundings are relatively flat, or at least far from being hills of break neck grades. With the majority of hipsters being located in the areas of Bloomfield and Lawrenceville, they are in an area that is quite manageable in its steepness.

Her third point brings up the occupation of bike messengers and a brief history of fixies. She points out that fixies excel in the area of low speed riding, offering more control in high-traffic situations, which has led to their popularity amongst the bike messenger crowd. The problem with this claim, is that bike messengers are interested in speed over all else. Getting things delivered quickly is the entire name of the game, and fixed gear bikes are the tool they employ. Claiming that they're good for low speeds is easily contradicted by reality. She allows one caveat as justification for riding a fixed gear, and that is training. If you're training, she argues, then riding a fixie will "REALLY whip your legs into shape".

It seems that riding a fixed gear bike is a source of pride for many, a badge of honor that must be earned through hard work. Simply using it as a training aid isn't the point for most fixed gear riders. They enjoy the challenge of traversing hills, they enjoy the direct feel of traction that a fixed gear allows, and they enjoy the feeling of having their bike be an extension of their body in a way that a multi-speed bike simply doesn't allow. While the exercise may be an important aspect, it is hardly the whole reason for their choice. Simply disregarding something for the reason that it's impractical or hard work is not justification for claiming someone is completely wrong in their preference for it. Her contentions seem to completely misinterpret the reasons why people choose fixed gear in the first place.

PART III

Part III is merely a defense of mountain bikes. She gives up on fixed gears, now categorizing them with road bikes in general, and attempting to justify the presence of mountain bikes on the city roads. More than anything, this comes off as being a self-conscious defense of her own choice of bicycle. She describes the roadways of Pittsburgh as being a daily battle with the scourge of the urban cyclist: the pothole. For the first time in her rant, she avoids going off on a tangent ("don't even get me started on the politics of this" and continues on to describe how mountain bikes allow the rider to simply barrel through anything in their path. She acknowledges that road bikes can work, but that it becomes necessary to "avoid the rough stuff". She then puts forth her ideal solution to Pittsburgh riding - the hybrid. The problem with this is that she has already acknowledged the increased control that road bikes (particularly fixed gears) offer. It seems that she is merely putting forth two options, but forcing her choice on to everyone else. Ostensibly, it's like having a tree branch in the road and deciding whether you'd prefer to drive a Hummer and go right over it, or a compact and swerve around it. Both are fine options, but really, it's far more in depth of a problem than she makes it out to be. Mountain bikes are heavy, and offer less control. As bad at Pittsburgh roads are, they haven't reached the point of being more pot hole than road, so it's still important to take matters of weight, control, and speed into account. Road bikes are built for the road, and mountain bikes are built for off-road. It's elementary.

***

The entire piece is like a scribbled child's drawing, lacking any clear logical point. Her critique of hipsters is a poorly constructed cloud of criticism, lacking any substance whatsoever. At no point does she explain what has inspired such disgust. She makes comments about their clothes, their music, their maintenance products, their bikes, their disdain for helmets, and their seemingly "impractical" choices, yet at no point does she explain how any of these things affect her life in any way. She castigates the hipsters for their fixed gear bicycles, then backtracks, loses the vitriol, and explains the qualities that make fixed gear bikes desirable. And then, in an apparent defense of her own choices, she explains the reasons for her personal preference in bicycles. The conclusion puts forth a call for solidarity, ignoring the fact that she has just finished putting up a wall between her and her fellow riders, baseless and uncalled for. It seems that her final sentence of "If you aren't willing to share the road with everyone (and I [grudgingly] even share it with hipsters...), THEN GET OFF THE ROAD" simply serves to further emphasize and underline her unjustified claim that she's better than everyone and that they must change to suit her preferences. Perhaps the effort put forth in her attempt to lay waste to the hipsters would be better used to adapt the "share the road" motto to all facets of her life.

Soft Drinks and Sexual Habits

2008-08-21T11:41:00.000-04:00

Tara and I had a "picnic" dinner last night, sitting on a blanket on the floor of the living room, watching "Run Fatboy Run." But before that, I drove her car to her place of employment and picked her up after her shift. I had picked up some wine, as a surprise. Of course, being me, I then asked her to grab us some drinks from work. As she handed me my bottle of Coke, I sighed loudly, feigning disgust. The entire way home I laid it on thick, asking "Why would you get Coke? Of all beverages, why Coke??" And then I pointed out that our picnic was to be of a romantic nature, which allowed me to come to a realization.

Coca Cola is not a romantic beverage. Consider the commercials for Coke. They follow the general theme of receiving a bottle of Coke and passing it on to others. Coca Cola is all about promiscuity. There is no room for romance in the world of Coke. I mentioned this to Tara. She quickly asked, "Well, what is a romantic soft drink?" I thought for a second and quickly realized that the most monogamous of the carbonated beverages is 7-Up. Why? It is the uncola. It is the exact opposite of Coke. Where Coke is dark and mysterious, 7-Up is clear and transparent. 7-Up's intentions are clear. With Coke, you never really know what's going on in there. There's a little twinge of apprehension when you look into that dark murkiness. Why the slightly red coloring when you hold it up to the light? And what about its history?? Like a casual sex partner, Coke has some slightly troubling stories in its past. Didn't I hear something about drug use?

7-Up, though, is clear and refreshing. It's caffeine free, so it's calmer, more tame, than Coke. No raucous late nights here. Sure it's a little more boring, but there's nothing hidden. If you have a stomach ache, you turn to 7-Up, not Coke. 7-Up was originally designed as a hangover cure. You can trust 7-Up to have your best interest in mind. Coke is just looking to party. Coke wants to keep you up all night, get you wired, and make you crazy. 7-Up also has a clear flavor, the crisp lemon-lime spilling forth and tasting delicious. Coke's flavor is delicious, but it's the ever-questionable "cola". What is cola? Cola is unnatural. It's a variety of spices and flavors, an unholy amalgamation.

And did you know that Coca Cola's original advertising campaigns featured attractive women like Hilda Clark shilling the beverage? 7-Up, on the other hand, used the slogan "The Fresh Up Family Drink" when it first came out. Each beverage made their intentions clear from the very beginning.

Coke is a loud Friday night. 7-Up is easy like Sunday morning. Coke is casual sex and dance clubs. 7-Up is farmer's markets and brunch.

Dan Buys A Suit

2008-08-09T13:55:00.000-04:00

Lately, I've been reading a lot of Gentlemen's Quarterly online. Years ago, I had a subscription, and I found that their magazine was a masterful guide to all things manly and gentlemanly. Like Playboy, but more about fashion and less about naked girls (So basically "Playboy + (clothes* 2)"). For ages and ages I've wanted to be stylish. I watch movies like Alfie and dream of owning fabulous, wonderful suits. I want fancy ties, and bold solid color shirts. I want two button and three button suits, cut slim in the British style, as opposed to the boxy sack style of American suits. And now, with possible job interviews lining the horizon, the time has come to begin living the dream.

One thing I found on GQ.com, was a list of the best suits for under $500. As I scanned through it, I was shocked to find that one of the suits listed was from Target and only $85! I went to the Target website and began looking through the styles offered. The one that was listed was the gray stripe two button, but they all had a surprisingly nice look to them, belying their bargain basement price. Suddenly, the urge was overwhelming. I want a suit, I need a suit. These suits must be mine!

Further fueling my desire was a phone call I received at work two days ago. It was a 415 area code, and I let it go to voice mail. When I finally listened, it was amazing. It was regarding a job interview for a teller position at a bank in the Castro District of San Francisco. Now I know, I know, a bank teller isn't what I hoped to be after putting in 4 years of study and getting tens of thousands of dollars in debt. But let us look at it as a jumping off point. There's room for advancement, and I'll finally be returning to my roots. Plus, I love gays*, and I honestly can't think of a place that would be more perfect for me than the city's gay district. I returned the call yesterday and they want me to come in to interview on Wednesday. In San Francisco. Tara and I had some discussions, and it looks like I'll be flying out there for it. That said, it became imperative that I find a suit.

I was on my way back into the city after running some errands, when Tara called me to say she was getting out of work early. I picked her up and we drove to Target. The selection was a little disappointing, but we got an idea of the sizes I needed. Then we drove to a different Target. Here, I began to make purchases. They didn't have the gray stripe suit, but they had the charcoal three button** and what I think might have been the charcoal/blue two button. They lacked my size in the two-button, but the three-button looked fantastic. It slimmed in the sides and hung beautifully. The pants fell nicely, and hung just right at my hips. I wasn't sure I wanted a combination of both three-buttons and black (excuse me, charcoal) because I worried it would look to stuffy, professional, and...er...funereal. But I bought it. It looked magnificent, and I figured I could just dress it up or down with the right shirt and tie. We grabbed a tie while we were there, as well as a pair of shoes that were nice, as well as comfortable, and Tara bought an attractive black dress.

We headed next door to Kohls, where we began looking for shirts. Greeted by a dazzling array of choices, we began the quest for the perfect shirt. We already had a tie from Target that looked great against a white shirt, so we aimed our pursuit at the white shirts. No button down collar points. Had to fit me. That was about it. We ended up getting the Arrow "Sateen" dress shirt in white and azure, matching the azure to a tie we purchased there. I also bought a tie clip, to finish off my classy look.

So, to recap, I bought a suit, two shirts, two ties, a tie clip, and a pair of shoes. It was barely over $200. I was so happy. The one thing I love more than being fashionable is being a spend thrifty and cheap. We were hungry by this time, so we continued driving, scouting for a good restaurant. We ended up at Bravo, the mildly upscale italian restaurant chain. We decided that since Tara had just come from work and was still wearing her dirty, stinky clothes, and I was wearing my jeans and "Techno Dance Party Is Go!" shirt, we should perhaps make an effort to class it up a little. So we did. There, in the parking lot, we stripped down and changed: me into my suit, with the azure shirt, and her into her brand new dress. When we stepped out of the car, we oozed style and grace.

Our dishes were good. I believe she had the Penne Mediterranean, which was Spinach, sun dried tomatoes, pine nuts, olive oil and Feta cheese, tossed with Barilla Plus multi grain pasta, while I had the Spaghettini Rustica, which had bacon, red onion, tomatoes and chicken broth tossed with olive oil, spaghettini and Reggiano Parmesan cheese. Mine was fantastic. It was light and wonderful, filling me up without making me feel heavy and disgusting. Tara's was good, but once she ate all of the yummies out of it, the pasta itself was too heavy and you could taste the multi-grainness. We split a bottle of the Kiona Riesling (Columbia Valley, Washington), which was delicious. Finally, we finished off with a plate of dessert, consisting of a piece of chocolate cake and some coffee ice cream, all drizzled with chocolate and caramel syrup. It was delicious and we both made it the whole meal without spilling on our new outfits.

We stopped at my mom's to say hi and show off the threads, then headed back home. It was finally time for me to shave. About a month ago, I decided that I was simply going to cease shaving until I had an interview. I'm pretty much unable to grow a legitimate beard, due to a few patches that simply refuse to grow. But I made it work, and even received a couple compliments in the process. But now I have an interview, and it's time to clean it up. I went into the bathroom, did a little work, and came out like this:

I'm all set now. That job is mine.

Snazzy!

* My friend Gianni once pointed out that every one of my stories began with "Oh, [girl] and I did this...", with various female names popping up. She asked "don't you have any male friends?" Turns out that about 95% of my friends are either female or gay men. Gay men love me, and I love gay men.

** I didn't know the color was "charcoal" until I tried to look it up online. I just thought it was black. Shows you what I know.

IMPORTANT NOTICE ENCLOSED

2008-08-08T13:18:00.001-04:00

An envelope came for me today. On the front it said:

IMPORTANT INSURANCE INFORMATION ENCLOSED

and lower down it said "Open Immediately".

The back said:

IMPORTANT NOTICE ENCLOSED
Do Not Discard

While I knew it was just junk mail by the lack of my name, and the small "©2008 GEICO", I was still eager to open it. I brought it inside, opened the envelope, and instantly saw a shock of red peeking out at me. It was a slip of paper, which read:

IMPORTANT NOTICE!

The enclosed advisory could
help you save money on auto insurance.

Please read carefully.

But there was a problem: this was the only thing in the envelope. That was it. One single slip of paper telling me of the importance of itself. Not the way I would advertise my product, but maybe Geico is trying something new.

Sitting Like A Girl

2008-08-05T13:39:00.000-04:00

From GQ.com's Style Guy:

Q: Weird question, but how do you cross your legs? I say that in a professional environment, a man should cross his legs like a gentleman, the same way ladies do. My female colleagues say this is a turnoff. They suggest a guy should sit like a jock.

A: Sit like a jock? The only thing that comes to my mind is Stephon Marbury moping on the Knicks bench with a white towel on his head. But maybe by “like a jock” you mean “with ankle resting on knee.” Although some etiquette experts okay this practice for guys, I think it is not a good one in company because it exposes the sole of the shoe, which is of questionable cleanness. I think that in a polite setting (i.e., not on a Barcalounger), a man should keep his feet on the floor, cross his legs at the ankles, or even cross his legs like a dame or sissy, knee over knee. A little ambiguity is good for you. My favorite etiquette book, Our Deportment, by John H. Young, advises, “He may sit cross-legged if he wish, but should not sit with his knees far apart, nor with his foot on his knee.” And as Grandma says, “Sit up straight!”

I remember being a kid, sometime early in elementary school, when things like how to cross your legs in a masculine way were just beginning to carry some importance in my life. Girls kept them knee over knee, and men, at least REAL men, crossed them with their ankle on their knee. I suppose this may be to symbolize that their junk is so girthful that they can't bring their legs any closer together, like a body builder who is super strong, yet will never be strong enough to actually get his arms down against his sides. Being a new initiate to this strange gender-based custom I was very aware of it, and I began noticing the leg orientation of every seated figure I saw. They generally seemed to follow party lines, but then I saw one notable exception - Jose Canseco.

I saw an interview with him on tv, and he was sitting back in the chair, his legs crossed knee over knee. This was groundbreaking to me. Jose Canseco crossed his legs like that, so obviously there couldn't be a real stigma attached.* I could cross my legs however I wanted and if I was ever called out on it, I had a defense: "Jose Canseco crosses his legs knee over knee. Are you calling him a girl??" There was no way they could EVER be calling him a girl, so it was, in fact, the perfect, most infallible defensive position known to man**

In conclusion, I agree with Style Guy. The bottoms of your shoes should never be seen. And thanks to Jose Canseco, there's nothing wrong with sitting "like a girl".

* I have never been heavy into sports, and this was probably the time when I was most interested in them. As my father loves to point out, I was the kid who sat in the outfield picking flowers and clovers instead of paying attention to the game. I wasn't much better when it came to professional baseball. I knew who Jose Canseco, Mark McGwire, Bo Jackson, and various other players from the Oakland A's, and that was about it, but those first three were gods in my eyes. Jose Canseco was simply a towering statue, epitomizing everything a REAL man should be: strong, fast, not afraid to get into a fight, and adored by women. And if he could cross his legs like a girl, then obviously something was wrong, not with him, but with the whole "like a girl" label. Jose Canseco was quite obviously not a girl.

** At least in accordance with a six year old's sense of logic.

Quarterlife Crisis

2008-07-30T18:20:00.000-04:00

The other day, Tara asked me how tall I was. "6'2''," I replied. She didn't believe me and insisted that I was wrong. I stood against a wall and we marked my height, then measured. Lo and behold, she was right. I'm 6 foot 3! We even double checked it with my mom's industrial sized, hospital-style scale, and it was legit. I'm taller than I thought.

For years, my height has been a huge source of pride for me. Not that I'm the tallest person around or anything, it was just something I could flaunt. It was my rock, my one saving grace. All of my other traits are arguable (wit, looks, personality), but my height is non-negotiable. I'm tall and that's all there is to it. But suddenly, I'm taller! It's disconcerting to think that something I've been so sure of for so long (I've been 6'2'' since mid-high school) has been wrong. At least it went in the positive direction. I was recounting this story to a friend who told me of a similar occurrence, where he believed himself to be one height, only to find out later that he was, in fact, half an inch shy. I can't even imagine the devastation that would cause. It would be entirely too much to handle.

So now I'm taller. It's great. Everything has changed. Being 6'2'' was kind of like being the tallest short guy. You're the tallest, but you're still short. But 6'3''! 6'3'' is like breaking free of the short group. I'm now an OFFICIAL tall person. I'm no longer fat, I'm merely proportional. I've found myself walking a bit taller, standing a bit straighter. I'm proud of my freakish height. Lately, it's been the lone shining spot.

I believe I am going through a quarterlife crisis.

I was reading on Wikipedia, and the symptoms are listed as follows:

feeling "not good enough" because one can't find a job that is at one's academic/intellectual level
frustration with relationships, the working world, and finding a suitable job or career
confusion of identity
insecurity regarding the near future
insecurity concerning long-term plans, life goals
insecurity regarding present accomplishments
re-evaluation of close interpersonal relationships
disappointment with one's job
nostalgia for university, college, high school or elementary school life
tendency to hold stronger opinions
boredom with social interactions
loss of closeness to high school and college friends
financially-rooted stress (overwhelming college loans, unanticipatedly high cost of living, etc.)
loneliness
desire to have children
a sense that everyone is, somehow, doing better than you

It's strange to read such a list and find that there are only two or three that you'd say no to. But how does one react to a quarterlife crisis? Am I supposed to follow the stereotype of the midlife crisis and make expensive, flashy purchases. Should I dump my 22 year old girl for an 18 year old? Grow my hair out? Pop my collar? The article goes on to explain that this crisis generally occurs when one graduates from school and enters the workforce, finding that they can only get jobs that they're overqualified for, and still make less than they would expect. You know what this means? It means that this is destined to get worse before it gets better.

Tara and I have been looking for jobs for weeks now. We've applied for probably 40 - 50 jobs each, and between the two of us we've received one response. It was for her, and it didn't yield a position. We're stuck and weighing our options. We keep applying, but it's tough. My library position runs out at the end of August, and she's becoming increasingly frustrated with her job. So now we're trying to decide how to proceed. Do we up and move out there without any jobs, hoping to find temporary positions at Starbucks/grocery stores/etc, while we continue to apply for jobs? Do we stay out here for a few months and save money before leaving? All signs seem to point to moving. We'll make some money, and already be there for when we actually do get job interviews. It's a bit of a disappointment to read article after article about how hard it is to find jobs and how ill-prepared college graduates are for the modern workforce.

I haven't even been aptly prepared with how to deal with the crisis itself. There are any number of examples on TV and in the movies of people dealing with midlife crises. I know that the way to solve "the problem that has no name" is to share your feelings with your peers and to get out of the home and get a real job that allows you to feel useful. I know that to deal with yourself or a loved one dying, you must go through the 5 stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I know that if you're a 26 year-old investment banker and bored with life, you focus your interests on style, the music of Huey Lewis and the News, and the murder and torture of young women. If your parents are murdered when you're young and you are left with an outrageous amount of money, you go forth and become a masked vigilante. There is no limit to the crises I am prepared to deal with, but that simply makes the sort list of ones I'm not prepared for that much more bitter. I've seen Reality Bites. I watched a few episodes of that horrible internet (and then NBC) drama. But nothing has really prepared me. The movies, the shows, the books, they're all idealized versions. Everything is fixed in the end, all too easily, or nothing is fixed but everyone is happy anyway.

But I guess I should just keep looking at the bright side. Please, somebody point it out to me.

I Bought You A Puppy

2008-07-25T11:45:00.002-04:00

I forgot to post this before, but here is a postcard I sent to Tara while she was on her trip:

I'm Better Than Them

2008-07-25T09:30:00.000-04:00

Try as I might, I continually find it hard not to be an elitist. There are just so many stupid people. I was just reminded of this. A man in his mid to late 20's and a woman of roughly the same age came into the library. They were talking loudly and asked me where the restrooms were. I gave them the standard "Down the hall, on the right." He then asked me "Which hall? This hall?" as she dragged him on, saying "thank you." This interaction seemed odd, but didn't raise me on a pedestal.

When they were leaving, they stopped at the desk once more. He asked "I was wondering if you could do a favor for me?" I waited for him to describe the favor, taking in their appearance. He was wearing a dirty t-shirt, with outlines of tattoos up and down his arm. Just the outlines, though, nothing filled in. While it could have been an intricate piece, it looked to be multiple small pieces, making me wonder if he simply decided that tattoos were something of the quantity, not quality variety. His female was the perfect companion piece to this white trash composition. Her too-tight t-shirt accentuated her breasts, and exposed her midriff. Her dark, nearly black hair was marred by multiple inches of brown roots. Her face had too much makeup, and her lacy underwear rose a good inch and a half over the waist of her jeans. A few seconds had passed and neither of us had spoken, as I gave him my best "yes?" face.

"Well, can you do me a favor?" he inquired again.

"It depends on what you're asking."

"I was just wondering if you could help us by looking up something on the computer. See, some guy who lives on our street is on the Megan's Law website. We were wondering if you could look it up and print it out for us."

I was torn. For the uninitiated, the Megan's Law website lists all of the registered sex offenders in an area. Every state has one. They show the convicts photo and list their name, address, charge, as well as identifying features, etc. It is one of those internet voyeur goldmines, like the Allegheny County Assessment's page or Google Street View. It's better though, because beyond the voyeuristic nature, it also combines an element of the taboo in it. You're looking at the skeletons in other people's closets, the really bad ones, the ones of a sexual nature. And you're judging them the ENTIRE time. It's impossible not to. And you can feel okay about it, because they've been convicted. It's not like Pet Abuse.com, which just makes you feel bad. These are the ones who have gotten caught and are found guilty by a jury of their peers. I enjoy looking up areas I've lived in and seeing the number of sexual predators nearby. I have yet to actually know any of them.

But here, here was a chance to live vicariously through these poor, dirty people. On the other hand, though, I had other things going on online. It would involve googling the site, searching the street, printing it out, and above all, helping these people. I really am an elitist. There is not a doubt in my mind that I am better than these people. To help them would be to go against my nature.

So I said no. I told them something about only being allowed to look up information regarding call numbers, etc., and sent them on their way. I'm sure that if they had complained, my supervisors would back up my actions, considering libraries are known for being strongly against invasions of personal privacy, or simply that something of such a tawdry nature could make me feel uncomfortable. That means I win.

Guitar Hero, Job Searching, and Art

2008-07-22T00:35:00.001-04:00

Wow, any number of things to be mentioned. As action-packed, catch-all entries seem to be the blogger trend (at least among the few I read), let's go for that.

1. I finally purchased a second Guitar Hero guitar, hopefully calming down the bitterness that can ensue when Tara and I are both jonesing to rock. I've also managed to slowly hone my abilities and I am now able to complete songs in "Hard" mode, at least on Guitar Hero 1. This may not sound like an exceptional feat, but I've spent such a long time being awesome at Medium that it's nice to finally have more of a challenge than simply trying to get a perfect on a song. I don't think I'm ready to rock Guitar Hero 3's Hard mode, though. There is a distinct difference in the levels of difficulty between the two games. It makes sense though, as the die hard players are naturally the ones who reach the harder modes, and they are the ones who will want to play more and more. And really, the dream of someday completing "Through The Fire and Flames" on Medium (let alone Expert) is something I continually strive for. It makes it a game again, rather than just an interactive jukebox.

That's something I noticed yesterday. For weeks now, I've found Medium to lack any difficulty, except for some of the most difficult songs. When I bought the first Guitar Hero game, I was able to play through all of the songs and score 5 stars on most, and perfects on some. It was a disappointment and turned me off to the game. But I've come back to it. "Hard" on GH3 is just too hard. There needs to be an intermediate level, which is what GH1 offers. It's a nice step up program.

2. I hate this job searching thing. I don't like selling myself, as I don't have any marketable skills. Even the skills I do possess have been honed in the wrong ways, or lack any sort of formal training. I can do art, but I don't have an art degree, or the now-required background in programming to go with it. I'm a surprisingly decent writer, but I don't have an English or Journalism degree. I aced my Math courses and even did honors work for my Statistics class, but I don't have a degree to show for it. I've applied for a god-awful number of positions. I kept a list at first, writing down the position, company, location, and salary, but quit after the third one. Nobody has contacted me, and I freak out and start to doubt myself when put in this kind of position. "Maybe my degree really isn't worth anything", "Maybe my references are giving me bad reviews", "Maybe the fact that I'm an idiot is showing through too much." I already found an error that was present in the early cover letters I sent out (including to an opportunity as a Proofer. My hopes aren't high about getting that one). There have only been a few jobs that I've really wanted. One was in a law firm, describing itself as laid back and quiet. The other was as a Copy Editor for an Anime/Manga publisher, whose job page had the disclaimer of:

As part of a multi-media entertainment company, employees may be subjected to work-related content such as: sexually explicit images, nudity, and graphic violence. Applicants should be willing to work with this type of content. VIZ Media does not condone the viewing of this content where not work-related.

I feel like I'm leaping into the complete unknown and that I have little to no power over the situation. All I can do is send out my resume and hope people call me back. I don't know how much to ask for as a salary, or how much I'll need to live. Even the lowest salaries are so far beyond what I make now that I can't imagine needing more than that. But at the same time, I'm looking for jobs in the Bay Area, and California costs are higher than I'm used to. When I get tired of looking at jobs, I take some time to look at apartments. A cheap, but decent, two-bedroom runs about $1200-1600, which is 3 to 4 times what I pay now. I'd obviously have a roommate in the form of Tara, but it still freaks me out. I didn't expect that it would all be this hard. I figured I'd get a degree and then I would have a job. Sadly, philosophers are not in high demand.

3. On the art front, I did two pieces recently. The first was for the band Stephen Foster and the Awesomes. I recently realized that if I ever want to get a job in some sort of graphic design field, it is imperative that I build a portfolio. While I have some pieces from my recent art courses, I have made the decision that my hobby for the summer will be to create as much art as possible, in the hopes of having a portfolio worthy of hiring. With that in mind, my first creation was a poster for Steve's band. Here, in its uncolored form, is my handy work:

I also made a card for my father and stepmother's anniversary. This is perhaps the first time I've ever acknowledged anyone's anniversary (other than ones relating to my own relationships), and I am happy with the outcome.

By this point, it's probably easiest to just stick together.
Happy Anniversary!

Looking for a commissioned work of your own? Let me know!

Pittsburgh Facts and Fabrications

2008-07-14T19:55:00.000-04:00

I found a list of Pittsburgh facts on my way into work. To amuse myself I at work, I spent 2 hours researching them. A lot of the "firsts" seem to come from the list "Pittsburgh Facts and Pittsburgh Firsts", which cites no sources and seems painfully inaccurate.

Alcoa Building was the first aluminum faced skyscraper
First Bingo Game. 1920's
First US Commercial Radio Station 11/02/1920
the First Gas station - 12/1913 ¹
Forbes Field was the first baseball stadium in the US ²
Pittsburgh is the Nation's largest inland port ³
Pittsburgh lost the "h" in 1891. It was ~~return~~ returned in 20 years ⁴

Movies filmed in Pittsburgh

Mothman Prophecies
Wonder Boys - Michael Douglas, Tobey Maguire, Robert Downey Jr
Desperate Measures
Kingpin - Woody Harrelson
Boys on the Slide - Whoopi Goldberg, Drew Barrymore ⁵
Sudden Death - Jean-Claude Van Damme
Milk Money - Melanie Griffith, Ed Harris
Groundhog Day - Bill Murray
Hoffa - Jack Nicholson, Danny DeVito
Striking Distance - Bruce Willis, Sarah Jessica Parker
Robocop
Angels in the Outfield - 1951, about the Pittsburgh Pirates
Deer Hunter - Robert DeNiro

Klondike Bars ⁶
A B-25 bomber crashes in the Mon River in 1956. Shrouded in mystrey [sic]. Mafia money, nuclear money, nerve gas
Home to the 5th oldest opera company ⁷

¹ This doesn't seem to be true at all. The Pittsburgh Facts and Pittsburgh Firsts says "In 1913 the first automobile service station, built by Gulf Refining Company, opened in Pittsburgh at Baum Boulevard and St. Clair Street in East Liberty. Designed by J. H. Giesey." Reighard's Gas Station in Altoona, PA claims to have existed since 1909, there is a plaque in Seattle recognizing a gas station from 1907, and apparently there was one erected in St. Louis in 1905. No matter what, it seems that Pittsburgh doesn't hold this title.

² Shibe Park, which opened on April 12, 1909, seems to be accepted as Major League Baseball's first steel-and-concrete stadium. Forbes Field, which opened on June 30, 1909, was second.

³ This may have been true as late as 1999, but it seems that as of 2003, the Army Corps of Engineers has moved Pittsburgh down to 3rd behind Huntington and St. Louis. While the Corps has not released a more modern list of inland ports, the 2006 list of total tonnage for all ports still puts Pittsburgh behind Huntington (although not St. Louis).

⁴ Correct, for the most part, although the date seems to be 1890, not 1891.

⁵ Really? Boys on the Slide?? I know it was a crappy movie, and I know it came out 13 years ago, but you really got this one wrong? That doesn't even make sense. Is it about a playground romance? Come on!

⁶ The Isaly company had a plant outside of Youngstown, OH, and one in Pittsburgh, both producing the frozen treat.

⁷ False. From the Pittsburgh Opera's website: "Founded in 1939 as the Pittsburgh Opera Society, Pittsburgh Opera is the eighth-oldest company in the US, and draws on a rich legacy of music-making with performances by such famous performers as Birgit Nilsson, Joan Sutherland, Beverly Sills, Luciano Pavarotti, along with current luminaries such as Jane Eaglen, Frank Lopardo, and Stephanie Blythe. The company’s first conductor, Richard Karp of Vienna, led Pittsburgh Opera for close to 40 years and oversaw the company’s move to Heinz Hall in 1971."

A Discussion On Body Hair, Without The Term "Hirsute"

2008-07-12T04:27:00.000-04:00

As the summer weather continues to bless us with its heat and plague us with its humidity, one thing has become abundantly clear to me:

I am grossed out by women who don't shave their armpits.

It's disgusting. Nothing disturbs me like seeing a cute girl raise her arm and have a patch of stinky fur sticking out, appearing like a tribble out of nowhere. It's unsightly and unhygienic.

I first started thinking about this a few weeks ago, after witnessing the overgrowth of various friends' pits. My disgust shocked me. Could I really be that horrified by such an innocuous part of a woman's anatomy? I began to think about it. Leg hair I can deal with, for the most part, although I'm not a huge fan. I think I gained my sense of apathy for leg hair in high school. During my last year or so of high school, I dated a girl who had a rather liberal attitude towards shaving. She fancied herself a feminist, although she had, what I would consider, a misunderstanding of what that meant*. Her leg shaving went between an all-out refusal to shave, to a conceptually more socially acceptable refusal, where she would shave only the fronts of her legs, theoretically giving the appearance of shaved legs from the front, while retaining her feminist ideals on the remaining three sides (not that she had cubed legs--more of a cylinder).

As I was still adjusting to the concept that people might want me to touch them in their bathing suit parts, my eager nature allowed me to look past the hair, for the most part. Soon, it was simply something I was used to. In fact, when I later began seeing and feeling other girls' legs, I was shocked by how vigilant they were with regards to their lower body hair growth. They liked being able to wear shorts, and complained of itchiness when they let it grow. They didn't shave for men, they shaved for themselves. It was a pleasant surprise.

I'm still okay with leg hair, though. It's like parenting; if you introduce your children to new and different things, they will learn to be tolerant and open. Apparently this is also applicable when dealing with horny teenage boys.

I didn't have any sort of experience with armpit hair. I wasn't introduced to it until I was older, and by that time my openness had solidified into a hard rock of nonacceptance. Armpits are not a bastion for hair. But the strength of my stance began to bother me. "Why doesn't the thought of male armpit hair disgust me to the same degree?" I like to think of myself as a believer in the equality of the sexes, and this opinion spat in the face of everything I believe myself to stand for. So I started to break it down. Why does it bother me? What is it about men vs. women?

Suddenly it hit me!

There is an extremely simple explanation for my disgust: Women show their armpits much more than men. Men may not shave, but they also refrain from sleeveless shirts and tank tops a lot more often. And when they do wear them, or go topless, I am disgusted. Women, however, are constantly showing off their entire arms and shoulders, wearing tank tops, halter tops, sleeveless shirts, various forms of dresses with straps, etc., all showing off the nasty patch of dirty, stinky hair. So it's not a gender issue! I am grossed out by all armpit hair! I can't tell you how much of a relief this epiphany was. I'm not harboring chauvinistic views, I'm just commenting on what's visible. It's like my distaste for popped collars, which just happen to be seen on men more than women.

See? I'm not as bad as you thought.

* Rather than choosing her personal label as one that aligned with her beliefs, she instead seemed to align her personal beliefs with the label she chose. Every action involved a conscious decision to do the "feminist" thing, or whatever she interpreted that to be. Suddenly, anything that men might take enjoyment from was anti-feminist, and the proper response was to refuse to do such an action. I still think this is the wrong way of going about things. Your label should be based on your actions, not the other way around. And you should do what you want, not what you think corresponds with your label.

A One Day & A One Friend

2008-07-10T17:12:00.000-04:00

15 minutes into my shift this afternoon, an older Japanese woman approached me. She introduced herself as Yasuko Suzuki and she explained to me, in horribly broken English, that she was here from Japan and that she was learning and experiencing the United States. She handed me a paper which read as follows:

~AGREEMENT~

We came by training of the TAYAMA business college in Japan to this vast United States.
In the TAYAMA business college, a cosmopolitan outlook is learned and the young man with a global view is raised.
I also believe becoming so, make it a target and a dream, and am learning. These themes are "A one day & A one friend"
A one friend will be made with the background of this foreign country for one day, and it is learning in order to extend its capacity through history, culture, a meal and the encounter with you, and impression in various places.
Please become a cooperator for growing up for me by all means. And the encounter with you will grow up me.
Even if it will return to Japan from now on, I want to carry out much information exchange.
Believe that this encounter takes mutually and becomes a treasure in appreciation of the encounter with this you.

This was also written in Japanese above the English. At the bottom was a square which asked for "Adress [sic]", "Day", and "Name". The understanding I got was that she was a visiting student, and to learn about this country, she was speaking to foreigners. She had me fill out one of the forms for her. I read over it, and found myself in a dilemma. How could I sign this with a clear conscience without having a conversation of sorts with her? If her aim is to gain a knowledge of America and its people, I should applaud that and help in any way.

So I did.

I began a brief conversation with her as she became flanked on either side by an additional Japanese adult, one male and one female. They each began to take photos and video of me, making me wish I had shaved. I asked her about what she was doing here and if her aim was to interact and converse with people. She was confused until the man said something to her. She then began telling me about herself. She said that she was 57 years old, and that she has one daughter who is married. They all laughed as I did a "shucks" type of finger snap at the news of the wedding. She said that she was very happy about the marriage, and something about best friends, although I didn't catch if she was saying that her daughter was her best friend, or if her daughter was marrying her best friend, but it all seemed quite nice and cheery. She asked if I was single and I explained that I was not. I then filled out her form, explaining where my street was. She then thanked me profusely and bowed to me as they all left.

It was an odd interaction, and I'm wondering if this signed me up for some sort of "adopt a foreign non-traditional student" program. That wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. I'm more than happy to serve people dinner and attempt to converse with them if it will make their experience in the States more worthwhile.

Years ago, back when I was delivering working at a grocery store, a group of Argentinians and Brazilians joined our team. They were there as part of a visit America group, and had paid a great deal of money to live and work in the United States. Sadly, they had gotten the shaft in a major way, being placed in the Pittsburgh suburb of Wexford (more specifically McCandless) where they ended up working shifts at both McDonald's and Festival Foods* in order to pay their rent and have spending money with which to survive. I became friends with some of them and did my best to make their trip a fun, interesting, and exciting one. We went to the flea market, Fallingwater, and I took Pablo with me on my paper route. Great fun was had by all.

So maybe I'll be serving dinner, or perhaps I'll simply be receiving a postcard from a happy Japanese woman, thanking me for my kindness and conversation.

* In linking to Festival Foods, I aimed to link not simply to the franchise proper, but to the particular store in question. Sadly, I was unable, as they have apparently let the domain registration lapse. I find it sad that not only did the store itself fail to keep up with that, but that the larger corporation has yet to notice their error. How terribly unprofessional.

Jeans and Video Games

2008-07-08T15:35:00.001-04:00

Recently, I've had two things on my mind: Jeans and video games.

As I mentioned before, my jeans were reaching the end of their lifespan. Their brethren had already fallen before them, but they held on strong, save for some minor flesh wounds. I patched them up, but soon, they were beyond the point of repair. The crotch wore away until I was basically hanging brain every time I put them on. After a few days of this, Tara's embarrassment had become so thorough that she insisted on purchasing me some new jeans. Thus began our denim-based exploratory mission.

We went to the South Hills Village Mall and in store after store I tried on pair after pair. Eventually, we left with a pair of jeans from American Eagle, and a dream of finding a pair of Levi's 549s. Apparently 549s are the impossible dream of the Levi's world, or possibly they're being discontinued. The Levi's website didn't have my size. The Macy's in the mall didn't have my size. In fact, extensive searching seemed to suggest that only JC Penny's would have them.

A few days later, Tara went out shopping for her own clothing needs and was able to hunt down a pair of 549s in Macy's at Ross Park Mall. This weekend we went out shopping and I ended up with a pair of Levi's 501s. I feel like this will either end up being an extreme blessing, or a complete curse. Allow me to expound:

501s are Levi's signature line. The classic design, unchanged and magnificent. Or so goes the theory. When I tried on a pair, they fit well, in a standard jeans way. They feel good, but strong. Exactly what you'd expect of jeans that are advertised as being worn by cowboys and forty-niners. I like that from now on I can just go to the store and know that I'm looking for a pair of 501s. No searching, no wondering. These can just be my pants, plain and simple. And they're button fly. But the problem lies in their color. The jeans are blue. Very blue. A deep indigo hue that clashes with the modern style of wear and tear. They're bright and wearing them makes me appear to be a geeky loser on the first day of school. A loser whose ass looks amazing, though.

To battle this whole "my mom dresses me" appearance, I began researching how to fade my jeans. The ways of doing this are pretty much what you'd expect (bleach, hydrogen peroxide, or RIT color remover, mixed with water), but researching the topic introduced me to something entirely unexpected: the denim subculture. According to the underground denim aficionados, the best way to treat your denim is to wear your own lines, fades, and honeycombs into it. This is accomplished by wearing your jeans often and for at least six months before their first washing. Washing your jeans is, quite possibly, the worst thing you can do to them (really, all you need to do is air them out once in awhile). It's inspiring how strongly they believe in their preaching. There are a lot of posts about shortcuts to making your jeans look worn, but they reiterate that the shortcuts will lead to sub-par effects. In this modern world of instant gratification, it's nice to know that some people are willing to put in the time to get what they want. They're also more than willing to share pictures of their work.

But beyond jeans, I'm also thinking about video games. For the past week or so, I've been playing Fable: The Lost Chapters, four years after its release. My computer is too inferior to handle the processing requirements, so I've had to wait all this time for Tara to come along and let me use hers. This is only the first in a long line of games I plan on installing on her laptop and playing through.

Fable is an action RPG, where you take the role of a young fledgling hero, guiding his movements and choices through life, leading him to being either good and just, or dark and evil. The strong scale of morality is based on your actions, and helping people will result in an alignment towards the good, where killing people or stealing will lead toward a negative alignment. Overall, I think the game is wonderful. I've waited years to play it, and it is definitely worth it. At the same time, though, I have a few problems with it.

1. The heavy emphasis on morality causes a problem by limiting the freedom that the game offers. I recently read a similar sentiment regarding GTA IV, and was surprised by how on the nose it was in my instance too. Basically, there is a clash as the freedom granted by the game to do what you want meets the strict moral barometer. Suddenly, your desire to massacre the town results is countered by your awareness of how it will affect your moral alignment. My desire to have a halo keeps me from stabbing children. It's not exactly the same as in GTA IV, as the morality is a strong part of Fable, but it still follows the basic premise. The game takes on added dimensions of difficulty as your desire for complete freedom of action over the world meets with in-game ethics. And with my choice to be good (I just want the blond hair and blue eyes) I am left having second thoughts about whether or not I should murder shop owners just for the sake of being able to buy and rent out their building.

2. After playing for a few days, I decided to try my hand at being a trader. I went to a shop and purchased some items, then checked how much I could sell them for. It turned out that I could easily sell them for far higher than what I paid, and I quickly amassed a small fortune by merely buying and selling with a single merchant. This unlocked a world of opportunity. Suddenly I was able to buy houses, strong armor, and the best weapon that was available to me. From that point, the missions became decidedly easier. While I suppose there is a minimum of skill required to realize how to abuse this system, it's hardly the kind of problem-solving abilities I was expecting to use. My only hope is that as I continue through, the game will get progressively harder, and I will advance at a lesser degree, so eventually the two will meet and the game will once again be difficult.

3. The final problem is that I have absolutely no idea how far into the game I am. I don't know if I'm 10% done or if I'm two missions from beating the entire thing. This forces me into the wrong mindset, as I'm now playing it just to finish, rather than playing it to enjoy it. I feel removed from the story. This is also happening in the other game I'm playing, Red Dead Revolver.

Red Dead Revolver also came out in 2004, from Rockstar Games, and is a cowboy themed adventure game. I've only played for about an hour, but already I've noticed something that bothers me. While it's fun to play a hero in a classic, movie-style Old West environment, it seems like the game isn't maximizing on this potential. The game throws you into a mission, which is nothing more than killing a bunch of baddies, then there's a small cut scene as more baddies come out, and then you kill them. Another cutscene, big boss, then the mission is over. From there you are almost immediately thrown into a new mission. There's no down time. It's mission after mission after mission. I feel like I'm just being dragged around by the game, forced to reach mile markers for the sake of reaching them. Unless it starts to mix it up, I fear my interest will start to wane.

(206) 629-8642

2008-07-02T18:15:00.003-04:00

Earlier this afternoon I received a phone call from the number (206) 629-8642. I didn't answer it, and later I had my friend Jamie play the part of my personal assistant and call it for me. The automated voice on the other identified the caller as VW Publications. I didn't think anything more of it.

About 5 hours later, they called again. An eager caller on the other end identified himself as "Len" and began to tell me about the wonderful opportunity I had before me. I had just won a $1000 online shopping spree. He told me the details, and it sounded rather nice. $1000 to spend on anything, with only a small fee for shipping and handling (which I later realized I should have been able to put some of the $1000 towards). Then he added that there was an additional part of the offer where I could receive subscriptions to 5 magazines for 60 months, for the ultra low price of $3.88 a week, although it would be made in 20 payments of $49.90. That's for all 5, not just one.

I leapt at such an exciting deal. He told me that he ws new and that he would have his supervisor talk to me, adding that I should hint towards him deserving a raise. He called her over and soon I was speaking to his supervisor. She was upbeat and excited to offer me this deal, and quickly began going over my information. The address was wrong, and I started to realize that something was amiss. I asked if I could opt out of the magazines and just keep the shopping spree, or cancel the magazines at some point in time. She said it was a complete package, and that it was all or nothing. I quickly did the math on Google and realized that I would be paying $998 + shipping and handling for my $1000 shopping spree. I asked her about this and she confirmed it. I said that this didn't sound like a very good deal, to pay over $1000 for $1000, and she quickly rejected that notion, stating "It sounds like a very good deal to me." As I became more hesitant and further pointed out the ludicrous nature of such a deal, her tone turned angry and she soon hung up on me.

A quick Google search of the phone number shows that I'm not the only one who has been called by this company, and that it is likely it will happen again.

Phone Sex

2008-06-26T18:25:00.000-04:00

Remember how the all-powerful Wizard in the "Wizard of Oz" turned out to be just a regular guy? Remember how Darth Vader ended up being nothing more than a gross-looking old, white guy with robotic parts? In "Phone Sex", photographer Philip Toledano shows the people on the other end of the line, and asks them about their thoughts on their business. The book comes out in September.

I stumbled across the website for it today. The pictures are interesting, evoking some unidentifiable emotion. Mostly I just wanted to hear their voices, to get more of an idea about the person. The only experience I've ever had with phone sex operators was when I was in elementary school. My friends and I had just become aware of the concept of 900-number sex lines, although we weren't yet at the point that we understood the concept of sex. We used to call and listen to the recording of a breathy woman explain how much pleasure we would be having in a few minutes after we entered our credit card number.

Occasionally, we would type in random numbers, hoping to stumble upon a magic combination that would take us farther into the depths of debauchery, and provide answers that would feed our curious minds.

And then, one day, we did.

Sadly, there's nothing more to the story. We typed in a number, heard something other than a rejection, and quickly freaked out and hung up. Being optimists though, we saw this as a success, not as a failure. We had crossed that threshold. Sure we didn't actually talk to anyone, and we still had no idea what was said on a phone sex line, but we were that much closer to having actually made a call. And in elementary school, that was enough to make it a good story.

Getting back to the book, though, it's odd to think about "phone sex operator"as being a real occupation.* In my quest to find a job, I've started realizing that any job you can think of is probably legitimate. You know how beers are starting to introduce temperature indicating technology and air vents for quicker chugging? Someone designed those! Every time you see a rug or a window, someone has to wash them. Every well kept bush has a gardener, and every building has a maintenance guy (or crew). Every time you see a warning label on an item, that means there was a lawyer or legal team avoiding a lawsuit, a designer to come up with the label, and workers to make it and adhere it. Not to mention all the people involved in coming up with the item, packaging it, pricing it, shipping it, and selling it. There are so many jobs related to any one thing, it seems ludicrous that I can't find one that pays well.

* And one that seems relatively lucrative and easy to get into. I should look into this more deeply.

Your Prayers Have Been Answered

2008-06-24T12:26:00.000-04:00

[Although it hasn't been mentioned outside of the Twitter updates, Tara and I are now engaged. She asked me, I said yes, she got me a ring. Expect a post about it eventually.]

At what point does a man's relationship begin to replace his former life alone? As I have once again begun to experience life as part of a serious couple, there have been changes that I have been required to make. I now have someone else to think about before I make plans. I have to share the remote, pick up the apartment to make her comfortable, and refrain from peeing in the kitchen sink.

But beyond making simple changes such as these, I am also learning about the bigger changes that are necessary. Just as a law school grad must get rid of his Animal House poster when he gets a real job, I have reached the point where I must rid my life of certain acquisitions that are indicative of my previous existence as a fun-loving bachelor. Yesterday, I made the first of what will most likely be many of such steps.

I deleted my naked pictures of ex-girlfriends.

All of them. The full on flashes, the coy "in bed with only a loose sheet to cover my ample bosom" shots, the nipples, the nether regions, the bare asses, the bend-overs, the spread opens, the just-woke-ups, the in-showers, the "I miss you" shots -- everything. All gone.

I think it's safe to assume that at least a couple readers are now exhaling a sigh of relief. I probably should've taken this step a long time ago, but it was serving as a kind of safety net. As long as I had these pictures, I had something to fall back on in the case of a break up. As long as they existed, I had proof that at some point in time, girls had wanted me to see them naked. Multiple girls, and they not only wanted me to see them naked, but they wanted to grant me the ability to see them naked whenever I wanted. Frankly, having that kind of reminder is more helpful than any "plenty of fish in the sea" talk. Having plenty of fish in the sea means nothing if they don't have any desire for you to see them naked.

But now I am engaged. I'm part of a couple, ideally one that will last for a long, long time. And this should be reassurance enough that I will never again need to reminded that there are other fish in the sea, let alone see any of them naked. But it's still weird. I hardly ever looked at them, and never for 'productive' purposes*, but they were a buffer. They kept me safe. They were the smoke detector that you never set off but like to have. They were the 7 day grace period at the library, keeping you from getting fined. They were the condom you use even though she's on birth control and you trust her when she says she's been tested. I didn't think about them, but they gave me a sense of well-being.

And now, now they are gone. At first, I felt a little lost, but I'm realizing that I don't need them. I have a hottie, and I have pictures that will serve to replace the pictures I had before. Maybe this is what a relationship is: Realizing that you are at the point where you only want to see this one person naked, and that you're okay with no longer have the ability to see any of the past girls. I'm cool with that. Her boobs are awesome.

* Pictures you take yourself never look as sexy as internet pictures. They're awesome, and the fact that you know the girl can make up for a lot, but I still pay my DSL bill for a reason.

Panera and the Case of the Dirty Toilet

2008-06-14T17:07:00.001-04:00

On Thursday, I was walking through Oakland when I received a call from my friend Sara. She was in town and craving human interaction. We made plans to meet at Panera where I would provide invigorating conversation and watch her eat food.

Armed with the knowledge that my pockets held nothing that could be argued to be currency, I took inspiration from Chris Kaiser and dove head first into a trash can, emerging with a Panera cup in my hand. When Sara arrived, I entered with her, then excused myself to the bathroom while she ordered. I washed the cup out with with soap and water, and then looked for something to dry it with. Apparently Panera does not believe in paper towels. I stepped into a stall to pilfer some toilet paper when I happened to glance at the toilet.

Words cannot express the horror I saw. The toilet was filled with a mixture of toilet paper, urine, and feces, and a huge splatter of diarrhea marred the virginal white toilet seat. Choking back the overwhelming urge to vomit, I whipped out my trusty enV2, which has been named "Toronto Vasquez", and snapped a picture of the visual and olfactory offender. After saving the image, I quickly rushed out of the restroom. After pausing briefly to explain the situation to Sara, I headed to the front counter and showed the picture to the first worker I saw, noting that they "should probably have someone clean that up".

The rest of the lunch went well, proceeding without incident. As Sara enjoyed her fruit and nut salad and a bowl of soup, I dined frugally on free soda refills and complimentary bread samples. A few days later, I sent the following message through the Panera website:

I went to your establishment on Thursday, June 12th, to meet up with a friend and enjoy some bread in a relaxing atmosphere. Before we sat down to eat, I went to wash my hands in the restroom. The first thing I noticed after rinsing them under the water was that your store does not stock paper towels. I stepped into one of the stalls to get some toilet paper, to use for drying purposes, and I was shocked and disgusted by what I saw. The toilet bowl was filled with a mixture of paper and feces, and there was a splatter of feces on the seat and even on the wall. The smell was atrocious. I took a picture with my camera phone and immediately informed one of your employees of the mess.

Seeing the bathroom in such a state has led me to question the cleanliness of your establishment. I am a fan of your products, especially the asiago roast beef sandwich, but I am afraid I will not be able to enjoy any of your food items, nor recommend your restaurant to my friends, until I have been reassured about your safety guidelines and practices.

Here is a link to the photo I took of the toilet:
http://i35.photobucket.com/albums/d156/Djkimmons/0612081645.jpg

Cross Cultural Sabotage

2008-06-11T16:15:00.000-04:00

[A guest blog entry by Chris Kaiser]

The total system cleanse which I have haphazardly embarked upon, which includes massive amounts of fiber, liver formula, and digestive enzyme supplements, has left my head and my body in a state of dissonance. It was under these circumstances that I stumbled to the Indian Food truck and purchased a small portion of chicken korma. I have since come to regret this decision, given the baleful effects that the spicy korma and the undercooked chicken have had upon my already fragile digestive tract. In any case, after gobbling up my slop like a malnourished mongrel, I had the monomaniacal desire to slake the hammering thirst which had set itself upon my parched tongue. When I find myself in this situation, I fall back upon a protocol which I established several months ago. To drink deeply from a water fountain is a futile pursuit. This machine is obscene in its conception and diabolical in its design, for the absurd jet of water which gushes up at your mouth is an abhorrent unnatural contrivance and leaves you feeling used and nauseated. Consuming any respectable amount of water requires cacophonous gulping intermixed with frantic gasping for air, all the while standing in a rather compromising position. In sum: consuming a fulfilling amount of water from a water fountain is an activity in which I would engage only under torture.

For this reason, I often find a cup for myself in the trash, wash it out in the bathroom, and then parade it about, drinking at my leisure. As I stood up to rummage through the rubbish, I noticed one of the countless Asian summer students, here to learn English, heading my direction at a brisk clip. Surely, this student was confused by his surroundings: I can only imagine the cultural shocks that a citizen of a nation whose customs are so different from ours must undergo on a daily basis. In any event, he was making for the trash can that I had been eyeing up, and was about to deposit his cardboard Starbucks cup. As he approached the can, I ambushed him, my crimson red eyes eagerly trained on both his increasingly nervous face as well as the prized cup he was about to throw away.

I confidently and unabashedly solicited him for the cup. After a few shortened breaths and no doubt some stomach butterflies which were screaming "what do I do? what do I do?" in some sort of arcane tonal language, he recognized that I desired his cup. He cautiously handed it to me. I snatched it greedily before he could think twice about it and gulped down the few drops of coffee which remained.

While in my mind I can contextualize this behavior as being decidedly outside the bell-shaped curve of actions a typical American will perform, I can only imagine the disorienting free-fall into which I had thrown this poor student's cross-cultural understanding. Was this typical behavior? Perhaps Americans did this all the time, and it simply hadn't happened to him yet. Furtive discussion with his countrymen: can you believe that Americans are so unsanitary as to drink the last coffee drops of strangers? Has this ever happened to you? Should I offer my empty cup to others out of kindness? Is it expected that I ask others for their empty cups? If I fail to do this, will they think me rude?

I can only imagine the confused discussions and relatings of events that I have caused with that singular action. Perhaps some day soon, in a "campus conversation" class, this student will finally muster up enough courage and enough verbs to relate this happenstance to the teacher, only to be reassured that this is highly abnormal, and then to be mocked and ridiculed by the other classmates. Yes, I have truly done more damage than I could have ever imagined...I have taken a signpost in his tenuous construction of American Reality and by force twisted it so that the arrows are pointing in the direction opposite from which they were previously facing. The havoc that I have wrought will require weeks, if not years to undo, and perhaps this student, disgusted by the uncleanliness of the American people, will one day be a foreign policy maker and will craft less-than-favorable trade agreements with American corporations. All because I took his cup.

Cell Phones and Parties

2008-06-10T15:32:00.001-04:00

A few years ago, I got a new phone, a Motorola E815. It was a bit bulky, but the keys were large enough to type with one hand, and it felt solid. It had a front display that could serve as a clock (which I had desperately wanted), as well as a camera. It was nice and made me happy.

But then it died, through little to no fault of my own. It all started when I went to my first college party. I was excited. I got there and found a group of about 8 library workers, most of them hipsters, hanging out. Now, having thrown a few parties since then, I've begun to understand the general life cycle of a party.

Stage 1 - Infancy (8pm to 10pm) : The party starts off slow, with those early arriving guests sitting on the couch. The music is tame and played quietly in the background. These are the people who are there to eat and converse more than to drink. They pick over the hors d'oeuvres and compliment the decor, and nurse a single drink for their entire stay, if they drink at all. This is the point where you think "oh no, these are all the guests that are going to come. This is it. The party will never get past this point. It is merely a hang out, making it a failure in the party department." This is usually the point where I start drinking heavily.

Stage 2 - Adolescence (10pm to 11:30pm) : The second stage comes a few hours later, when the real party goers arrive. They crack open the case of beer, start pouring the wine, and the laughter begins. The music is changed to something faster, and turned up to compensate for the steady drone of conversation that has begun to fill the apartment. Generally the early arrivers leave during this stage, blaming their early exit on a job to be at in the morning. Heavy drinking continues at this point, but more out of enjoyment than out of self pity and desperation (which stem from the possibility of party failure in stage 1).

Stage 3 - Adulthood (11:30pm to 2am) : Stage three is the result of the maturation of the party, occurring around 11 or 11:30pm. The music is turned up, but nobody notices it. The room buzzes with activity. Conversations are filled with laughter, the living room has some people dancing, and everyone has a drink in their hand. The smokers are out on the porch, having their own little party. A few party fouls occur (a spilled drink here, a broken glass there, some chips and dip ground into the couch cushions), but nothing that truly ruins anything. Heavy drinking continues, matching the light weights who just arrived drink for drink.

Stage 4 - Old Age and Death (2am to 3am) : As people start to leave, the party dies down. Eventually it's just a tight knit group of friends sitting around, drinking calmly. This is when the embarrassing stories and "Do you remember the time..." sentences begin. The music is quiet again, playing something soft. There may or may not be someone passed out on the couch. People help you pick up a bit, but they're drunk so the benefit is minimal. Eventually they leave, too. Then you go to bed.

Of course, there are different types of parties. My birthday party had an alternative fourth stage.

Stage 4 [Alternative] - Senile Old Age and Death (2am to 3am) : People leave at some point, but you have no idea when. Suddenly you realize that you're the only one there (or at least you think you are) and you go pass out in bed. After half an hour, you get a txt message from your girlfriend that says "I'm gonna puke" so you leap (or stumble) out of bed and head to the front door. Finding it locked from the inside, you start using your magnificent deductive skills to ascertain that she's in the bathroom, laying on the floor. You hold her hair back as she vomits and then help her get to the bed. Again, you hold her hair back as she pukes, this time into a garbage can. You may or may not remember this in the morning.

Stage 5 - Funeral (11am to 2pm) : Your girlfriend and/or best friend come over in the morning to help you clean up and muddle through the memories of the previous night. You recall how awesome the party was, and realize that, despite it all, the mess is surprisingly manageable. This is where the seedling of the next cycle is planted.

But this party was different. I arrived a little late (after earning myself a Craigslist missed connection), with a chocolate cake in tow. The group was sitting in the living room, listening to a calm mix that consisted of hipster bands - Magnetic Fields, Yo La Tengo, Belle and Sebastian, etc., and talking quietly. It was Stage 1. I loaded up some cake, had some wine, and joined the group. I kept drinking, making sure I would be fully inebriated for when Stage 2 rolled around and the fun really started.

Stage 2 never came.

The party was all Stage 1, all night. Having expected something [anything!] interesting to happen and keep me interested, I had drank enough alcohol to kill a small horse. And then I fell asleep/passed out on the couch.

The next morning I awoke on the couch, alone, without any pants or socks on. I didn't know where I was or what time it was. My right eye wouldn't open without stinging in pain. I got up and began walking around the apartment. Nobody was there, but I ended up finding my host in his bedroom, asleep. I let him be and continued to search for clues and pants. In the kitchen, I found the contents of my pockets strewn about the counter, all of them soaking wet. Each individual item that had been in my wallet had been removed and laid out. My cell phone was separated from the battery, and when combined, the phone simply vibrated unendingly. My pants were neatly folded and laying over the back of the couch, clean, with one sock beside them. I put them on, filled my pockets with my wet wallet contents, and left. I spent half an hour stumbling back home, not sure of how to get there, with my hand covering my eye the entire way.

I got the full story later, and it was just as unflattering as one would assume. At some point in the evening, after sitting on the couch passed out, I leaned forward and expelled the contents of my stomach all over myself and the light-colored carpet. My friends stripped off my vomit soaked pants and tossed them in the washer, although being drunk themselves, they failed to empty the pockets until later in the wash cycle. I was bummed, but it was obviously my fault.

I let the phone sit for a few days, but it didn't get better. When I went to the Verizon store, I was completely prepared to be hosed. I've read enough articles on Consumerist to know that trying to exchange a water damaged phone is the cell phone equivalent of dropping the soap. I was worried, but I ended up having the nicest Verizon employee ever. Her name was Vern, and she was everything you could hope for in a cell phone hustler. She started out by checking the phone for water damage, which those damn little stickers were more than happy to indicate the presence of. This was bad. She took me over to the wall of phones and showed me my options. They were the cheapest, simplest phones, and not at all what I wanted. I had done my research, and I pointed out that I would prefer to get the vx8600, and asked how we could make that happen.

First, she said I would need to renew my agreement and pay the retail price for the new phone. After some more research, she said I would have to renew my agreement, and pay for the price of the battery of my old phone, plus some other fee. Then she said she would get rid of the fee. Then she got rid of the agreement renewal. I got the brand new phone for about $50.

The phone was great. It was sleek and pretty, and it worked well. It had a good camera, as far as phone cameras go, and I liked it a lot. I put some clear tape over the water damage stickers and was good to go.

A few months ago, my New Every Two rolled around. I went into the Verizon store to see what looked good, although there was no rush, since I was still happy with the phone I had. I signed in at the front and waited for assistance.

The guy who came over was the epitome of slimeball. From the second he started talking, I knew he was trying to swindle me. He showed me the expensive phones and told me how much they were "with the bundle." Every price he gave was "with the bundle." When I said that I didn't want the bundle, the prices all suddenly dropped by $50. I was disgusted. I may not know all there is to know about cell phones, but I do my research before making a purchase, and I like to think of myself as somewhat more educated than the average joe. I don't need to be talked down to or have my hand held. When offered a RAZR, I said no, since they're pieces of crap that have tons of problems. He agreed, and that should have been enough to acknowledge that I know what's what. I asked him how much it would cost me to "upgrade" to the LG Chocolate (vx8550), considering that my phone was the flip-phone version of the Chocolate.* He said it would be $50, and I asked why it made any sense for me to upgrade.

"Well, the Chocolate has the touchscreen buttons."

"Mine does, too" I said, showing him the three buttons on the front.

"Yes, but the Chocolate is a music phone. You can put mp3s on it."

"Yeah, mine too. It's the flip phone version of the Chocolate. It's the 8600, where the Chocolate is the 8500." I was annoyed. I'm sure this kind of thing works on a lot of people, but you'd think he would realize that I've done a little research and I know he's just talking out of his ass.

"Oh, well just between you and me, people are having a lot of problems with the phone you have."

I asked him to expound.

"Problems with everything. Firmware, you name it."

I was confused. "Well, considering they're basically the same phone, wouldn't the firmware problems affect the Chocolate, too?"

"Oh no, all of the other LGs are great. It's just that one."

Now, at this point I had gone a year without having any problems at all. It's a ludicrous claim to say that every other LG is great, and that this one phone has tons of problems. I was offended by his patronizing attitude, so I left.

A few weeks later, my phone started to crap out on me. It lost nearly all CDMA reception, and the battery was puttering out at an alarming rate (possibly related to trying to hold on to the CDMA connection?). I researched phones and then went to the Verizon store with Tara. I was in and out within 15 minutes, sporting a brand new LG EnV2 (vx9100). It's magnificent, and a vast improvement over the original EnV. It's easy to use and surprisingly compact. I have had it call someone without input from me, as is a risk with any candy bar phone, and I'm still getting used to not having a flip phone (meaning I generally answer my calls by opening the phone, then closing it to talk). And having the full Qwerty keyboard is great, although it makes me wish I had more people txting me.

*Technically, the 8600 was the flip-phone equivalent of the 8500 and the 8550 was the upgraded version, so mine wasn't the same. But I also argue that the upgrades between the 8500 and the 8550, while good changes, were hardly substantial changes.

Sunrise

2008-06-07T15:24:00.003-04:00

I watched the sunrise this morning. It was as stunning as people always say. Maybe not quite, as they always seem to grant it some sort of cathartic qualities that it just didn't seem to carry for me, but it was nice.

The circumstances that led to me sitting on a bench at 5:30 in the morning with a maximum of 1 hour of sleep aren't really important. I sat there feeling the comfortable air that hinted of the heat that was to come, watching cars drive by. I watched a rabbit scamper along the edge of a grassy area, ducking back into the brush when footsteps came near. The birds searched for worms, and the sprinklers created a hazy curtain over the park's grass. It was peaceful.

The sunrise used to hold meaning for me. When I delivered newspapers it would acknowledge a job completed, or remind me that I was running behind schedule and needed to hurry up. It would bring a sense of exhaustion or anxiety. But today, none of that. For once, I was able to simply sit back and relish in the peaceful nature of it. My mind had been whirling, doing somersaults and back flips, but being outside, in that silent, early morning hour, calmed me down. Nothing was cleared up and no answers came to me, but I was at least able to put things out of my mind for a bit.

It's Getting Hot In Here

2008-06-01T15:23:00.003-04:00

Today I had a woman come downstairs to the lending desk to make a complaint. "Is there anything you can do about the air in the quiet reading room? I'm up there studying and it is very hot."

I explained that I would inform the building supervisor, although I was unsure of his power over such matters.

"Well, could you do it now, while I'm here. I don't want to stay in there if it's going to be that hot."

"Of course" I replied, although in my mind I was shooting death rays out of my eyes at her. I called the building supervisor and explained the situation. He said that he would try to solve the problem. I turned back to her. "He said he will try to do something about it."

She looked downtrodden, and said "Okay. It's just really hot in there. It's not like the rest of the library." Then she left.

It's the summer term. There is nobody in the library. I have been averaging about one patron every 2 hours. Right now, this instant, I am sitting on the ground floor, arguably the loudest, busiest area (perhaps second to the first floor commons area), and it is completely silent. There are about 10 people spread out around the floor, but nobody is making any noise. I can only assume the other floors are even quieter. If it is so unfathomably uncomfortable in the quiet reading room, then how about you MOVE TO ANOTHER LOCATION. There are comfy chairs on other floors. They are all silent. There is nothing in the quiet reading room that you cannot find in other areas of the library. It only really means something during the school year, when the rest of the library is loud. Don't try to throw your weight around and make people change things to suit you. When you go to the movies, do you complain about the volume? When you're on the bus do you ask the driver to go a little faster?

Geez, lady, just deal with it.

Deliver Ice For A Year, Then Decide

2008-06-01T14:15:00.000-04:00

I had a conversation with a former philosophy TA of mine. He had been good, educating us in a way that really bolstered our understanding of the material (to the point that I literally aced our midterm). Given my recent increased stress levels over the lack of prospects for my future (a fact I blame on my choice to pursue a degree in philosophy), I asked him what I should do.

Of course, asking a Philosophy graduate student about how to get a job, or even what jobs are available, is like asking a porn star about how to maintain an abstinence pledge. They simply have no concept of what that would entail. Philosophy grad students are merely continuing a horrible, endless cycle. Philosophy professors teach philosophy to their students, some of whom major in it. This hapless souls then graduate, look around, and they realize that they are ill-prepared for the world. Well, that may not be correct. They are prepared, but the world simply has little use for them. So they end up doing what come naturally, and they go back to school and study more philosophy. Upon graduation, they get jobs as Philosophy professors, since by now they really are ill-prepared for anything else, and the cycle continues.

But I asked anyway, and he laughed at me. Then he told me about a New York Times article he had read recently that was about this particular subject. I looked it up while he stood there, and then we talked about options. I explained my cycle theory as why I didn't want to continue in Philosophy. He tossed out the idea of law school, which is something I've been thinking about. But I want to try my hand in the work force first, which he agreed with. "You should work for a year delivering ice or something, and then see how you feel. If you have the urge to go back to school, then do it. That's how you figure out if you have the hunger." I liked that. Sort of try your hand at multiple options and see where you end up. We exchanged our goodbyes, and that was that.

After he left, I checked out the NY Times article. It basically described how more students are majoring in Philosophy, and that it teaches them skills that are particularly helpful in today's work force. More schools are offering Philosophy programs, and more students are going through them. It was all very uplifting, until I realized that the article doesn't actually mention what jobs Philosophy students can get. All of the examples of success are people who majored in something else in addition to Philosophy, whether it be science, medicine, economics, or math. Hosed again.

My problem is that I don't even have a particular field that I'm interested in. I don't care what I end up doing, as long as it pays reasonably well and isn't too physically active. I don't want to work in the food industry, I don't want to go back to delivering newspapers, and I'd prefer to avoid dealing with "customers". I have this dream of simply working the stereotypical 9 to 5 in an office somewhere, but sadly, the various job websites I have looked at are lacking in straight-up "cubicle monkey" positions. It also seems like you need to have a computer science degree for such a job. I'm interested in doing something with art or graphic design, but it seems like a studio arts minor is not enough to accomplish that. Grrrr! Help me find a job everyone! I can write, I can draw, I can speak, I can be creative. I'm the perfect candidate for your position.

Girls Like Bloggers?

2008-05-31T12:20:00.000-04:00

A recent Twix ad has started to kind of annoy me. You may have seen it. A guy is at a party, talking to an attractive, socially minded woman. She's talking politics and he replies with "So do you want to go back to my place?" She takes extreme offense and asks "What kind of girl do you think I am?" He shoves a Twix in his mouth, buying himself some time, then replies "I thought you were a believer, and wanted to go back to my apartment to blog about our ideals." Her face lights up "Oh, blogging. I love blogging!"

Since when has blogging worked as a way to get girls?? I mean, I know it worked for Jason Mulgrew (although his posts argue otherwise), but for me personally, I've found that it works better to hide the blog until after I've wooed the girl. Then it comes up in one of those awkward conversations that begins with "So, there's something I should probably tell you about..." I've found that if I build it up in their minds that I'm referring to a hidden STD, they take the blogging new slightly better (fewer tears). But even assuming that you found a girl who thinks that being a blogger is a desirable quality, since when did blogging become a group activity?

I'm well aware that there are group blogs, with multiple posters taking on the responsibilities. They're so common now that most of the time you don't even notice them (any of the Gawker sites, Stereogum, etc, etc.). But there's a big difference between two people posting to the same site and two people actually hanging out in the same room, giving assistance in the formation of sentences. How would that work? Is it like a brainstorming session? Who does the typing? And it necessitates a certain level of planning ahead of time. In the commercial, they leave the party together, with her strangely failing to ask where his site is, or what it's called. It's not that outrageous in the commercial, but on the website, it's glaringly obvious.

The website is an entire rant unto itself. It takes the form of a game, in classic "Choose Your Own Adventure" style. You take the role of the guy in the commercial, choosing whether to be honest about your intentions (or not), how to get her friend to leave you alone, whether or not to speak up to her ex-boyfriend, and finally how to get her to stay in your place, all in an effort to get this girl to join you in the act of making sex. Lying is the name of the game. Honesty will get you slapped, right off the bat. Worst of all, Twix stole the whole concept.

But the illogical premise, the lying to get the girl, and the stolen concept, aren't nearly as offensive as their main point that blogging will EVER help you get a girl back to your apartment. I'd say there are, at most, 10 to 15 major blogs for any particular subject. If you don't write for one of those, it's very unlikely that anyone will know of your blog, and therefore, you instantly fall into one of two categories in their mind. If you blog about a specific topic (sports, politics, music, etc) then you become the equivalent of a columnist without a newspaper, a man without a country. It's about half a step up from being unemployed. If you write an aimless blog about your personal adventures and pet peeves, at that point you're nothing more than a guy who writes a diary that lots and lots of people can theoretically see. You're the equivalent of a 12 year old girl who had the unfortunate luck to have her diary photocopied and pasted on the halls of the school, only you've done the photocopying yourself. And really, who wants to deal with that kind of baggage?

Get it right, Twix, blogging doesn't get you laid.

Monkeys + Robots Still Equal Danger

2008-05-29T16:36:00.002-04:00

Remember when I told you about the danger of combining the intense rage of primates with the strength and anti-human philosophy of robots?

It has just gotten another step worse. What next, scientists? Are you going to keep going piece by piece, or will you just skip ahead and give them their own BattleMechs? You're already the source of the end, so you might as well just get it over with.

Automatic-Flush Toilets: Thumbs Down

2008-05-26T22:51:00.003-04:00

A couple weeks ago, I went out for dinner at the Cheesecake Factory. I've never been to the Cheesecake Factory before, and after the initial shock of finding the interior decor to be decidedly un-industrial, I ended up enjoying the meal. I had the shepherd's pie, which was delicious, and I fell in love with the mashed potatoes. They were a bit lumpy and had the skin with them, and they were amazing. The cheesecake dessert was good, too, but that's not the point of this entry.

After the meal I went to the restroom to poop. It was a nice bathroom, the kind you would expect to find in an upscale joint. It was clean, and the stalls had seat covers, which you never see in men's rooms. In fact, the bathroom only had one flaw:

Automatic-Flush Toilets.

I'm all for technology. I have subscription to Wired, and I keep up to date with the various tech websites. I use ATMs and I pay my bills online. I am not afraid of change. Automated sinks are wonderful, and they keep your hands clean. The same goes for autoflush urinals. Automatic paper towel dispensers are questionable. I understand the thought behind them, but they never give you enough, and they're finicky about how to alert the sensor. It ends up being a hassle. But even they seem like the greatest idea in the world when compared to automatic-flush toilets.

The concept of the auto-flush toilets, is that the sensors are designed to set off the flushing mechanism when you stand up, protecting you from the dirty handle germs. The problem, is that the sensor is focused on your back when you're sitting up straight. When you lean forward to wipe, the sensor believes you're standing and flushes the toilet.

This sucks!

Not only does it then freak you out, you're stuck holding a piece of toilet paper and sitting on an already flushed toilet. They usually have a built in delay between flushings, to prevent people from just waving their hand in front of it repeatedly and laughing uproariously (not that I would ever try that). So if you want to leave it clean for the next person, you have to hang out in there, sit on the toilet again, and then retrigger the flushing mechanism. A friend mentioned that some also have a button you can press to make it flush, but if you have to do that, then what's the point of having an automatic flushing mechanism in the first place? They have no place in our world. You've already made it easier for people to wash their hands; stop trying to prevent them from picking up germs in the first place.

Is 119 That Different From 120?

2008-05-25T15:54:00.000-04:00

In a big step on my quest to leave Pittsburgh, I went to finally register for graduation. As with all steps of my college career, this was basically me waiting until the last second, sending out crazed emails begging for someone to explain the process, running around Oakland to meet people, hitting roadblocks, and freaking out all over the place.

I began by picking up a packet for graduation in the office of the Dean of Arts & Sciences. I went to the library, printed out my current transcript and began looking through it to make sure I had completed everything necessary. I started by double checking that I had taken all of the required Philosophy courses for my major. Four required courses, and four upper level philosophy courses. I went down the list, counting the course numbers that began with PHIL. One from the community college, and...let's see...six from Pitt.

Wait.

When choosing a major I wisely nixed the idea of getting a math degree, but that doesn't mean I lack the most basic of addition skills. I freaked out. "HOW DID I MISS AN ENTIRE PHILOSOPHY COURSE???" I flipped through every page of transcripts, searching for this missing requirement. There were most definitely 7 PHILs and that was it. After a few desperate minutes I figured out that one requirement was satisfied by an HPS course, and a wave of calm overcame me. My dream of escape is once again a possibility.

I looked over the transcript again, and on a whim checked the requirements for a Studio Arts minor. They matched up. Without any intention of doing so, I had successfully earned myself a minor! The calm feeling became elation. It is hard to describe how much more successful I felt. Honestly, I am happier about completing the Studio Arts minor than I am about completing the Philosophy major. It's like I have completed something tangible, a skill rather than simply mastering the process reading and regurgitating.

I then counted how many credits I had earned in total. 59 transfer credits, 13 my first semester, 17 my second, 12 my third, 12 my fourth, and I'm currently enrolled for 6. So 59 + 13 + 17 + 12 +12 + 6 = 119.

Shit.

That's right. One solitary credit short of graduating after this semester. I flipped out again. I ran through my options. I really don't want to have to take a gym class next semester. I don't want to put it off anymore. I began firing off emails, visiting my advisor (for maybe the third time ever), and stressing. Thankfully, my one course offers a Writing Practicum, a single credit for writing a single paper. My professor responded within a day, granting me access. I ran to Thackery, and after running between the first 3 floors about 60 times, I got myself enrolled. I have yet to turn in the actual graduation application, but it's filled out and ready to go. If all goes well, I will be granted a degree in August. My time here will be done and I will have a piece of paper, some fleeting knowledge, and a decent chunk of debt to show for it.

Success!

Daniel.

2008-05-22T22:28:00.000-04:00

I'm taking two classes this summer: a mythology course and a painting course. As I mentioned in a twitter entry recently, I have been playing a character in my painting course. His name is Daniel.

Daniel is a quiet sort, stoic and introspective. During class, he focuses on his painting silently. He doesn't speak to others unless spoken to. When the professor speaks, Daniel listens intently, nodding his head as a gesture of understanding. When addressing the professor, he refers to him as 'sir', and does so in a sincere, respectful way. He avoids eye contact with other students. At the end of class, he cleans his area and his supplies, packs up, and leaves without a word.

Now, for those readers who aren't intimate acquaintances of mine, I should hope that the entries of this blog have at least painted enough of a picture to demonstrate that this is not my typical demeanor. I'm not quiet. I talk to people no matter where I am, or who they are. I delight in receiving calls from telemarketers, spending upwards of half an hour talking to them about utter bullshit. I call people out on things, even complete strangers. I am also a complete voyeur. As a friend of mine recently pointed out, I love knowing the secret details of stories. Focusing on my own work is not something I'm good at, especially not in an art class. It all hearkens back to high school, when I was in the highest level art class and was given almost complete freedom to spend the class periods how I wished. The atmosphere became laid back and jovial, leading to chatter, jokes, and a lot of wasted time. This is how I still see art classes today. Your work is to be left until the last possible hour, and then churned out. You spend class talking to others and looking at their works, while doing the very bare minimum on your own piece. I'm also not especially good at viewing my superiors with the respect they deserve. I see professors as slightly above me, but in a way that makes me want to befriend them and joke around with them, as opposed to seeing them as untouchable intellectuals of mighty stature. My bosses I see as equals. I never use the word "sir", and when it does slip out, it almost always sounds insincere and sarcastic. My apartment will attest to how messy I am, as will the fact that I have yet to shower once since my girlfriend left town a week ago. When I leave the library, it generally takes me half an hour to get out the door. I say bye in the same way as an elderly woman who gets out once a week, having extended conversations with every person I know who happens to be around.

If my own description isn't enough, here's Julie's [much shorter] description of me:

[a] theatrically and linguistically experimental, verbally uninhibited, fun-loving,
mildly antagonistic, male chauvinist

Thankfully, her description is more flattering than my own. I'm not quite as bad as I make myself out to be. I have some occassional redeeming qualities. But they're not important, at least not right now. For now, all that is necessary is to see that Daniel is quite different from the Dan Awesome you know and love.

I didn't go into class meaning to play a character. At the beginning of the first day of class, I was in a sour mood, more bummed than angry, but negative all the same. I was quieter than usual because of this, but because it was the first class, I was overly respectful. Daniel is not too far off from my regular "first day of school" personality. But then I kept it going. I've continued the nervousness, the quiet nature, and intense focus on my art. I've only broken character a few times, answering an inquiry about the time with a slightly purturbed overtone, and voluntarily telling a girl where dirty rags go. But otherwise I have managed to keep going with this introduction to performance art.

I don't see it as being immoral or dishonest. I am a multi-faceted individual, and Daniel is merely one side of myself. As I said before, he's the "first day of school" me, only he's existing longer than ever before.

I see it as part of an experiment.

I've always felt kind of awkward in new surroundings, or meeting new people, especially adults. They always gave me a weird feeling, like they could tell when I was faking my enthusiasm. Imagine if you were playing with a two year old, only the two year old knew when you were just patronizing him. He could tell that you weren't actually imagining your cup was full of tea and that there was a piece of toast on your plate. That's how I felt. Even when I was being sincere, there was a part of me that was stepping back and looking at the whole interaction, and I felt like they could tell and it was keeping them from being totally at ease.

But recently, I had an epiphany. A few weeks back, I went to Tara's parents house and they threw a large party. In attendance were family and friends, lots of them bikers, all of them drinkers, and everyone was happy to just let loose. This was the first time I had even met her parents, and now we were taking that to a completely different level. As the party started, I was understandably nervous. But within minutes, I realized that I had no reason to be. This family get-together was EXACTLY the same as the parties that are thrown when I go visit my relatives in Portland, Oregon. The same sorts of people, the same dynamic. It was like I already had a primer in what to do and how to act. I knew how to relate, which jokes were acceptable, and what was coming. Even better, for the first time I was one of the adults. I was on the other side. I knew how far I was allowed to push the younger cousins and finally understood the adult jokes and allusions. And best of all, I felt comfortable. It wasn't scary or weird, it was just a family party and I was part of the family.

And it paid off. They loved me. For once I was completely on the ball. I said the right things, I reacted the right way, and I talked to the right people. I had good conversations, I joined in the marshmallow fight, and I wasn't the nervous, awkward boyfriend that people expect you to be when you're meeting everyone at once. It was marvelous.

It also reiterated a thought that had been developing in my mind recently. All people and situations are of certain types. It just takes time to start to build a portfolio of them, but once you do, you can identify them and instantly feel comfortable. You just need to find something in your own experiences that you can compare and relate it to, so you know which part of yourself to show, the Dan or the Daniel. It's a concept I'm still learning, but this party made me confident in my ability to mature into someone who's appropriate in all settings.

The whole "being appropriate" thing is something I have trouble with. I often fail to turn off everyday Dan and turn on work Dan. Earlier today I received an email from my boss requesting that I come see her tomorrow. "I won't take up too much time - just a quick word." As this is not my first offense, I've learned that a note asking you to "drop in" is the adult equivalent of being asked to "stay after class". Through the grapevine I ascertained that I had said something inappropriate. To whom, I don't know. What, I have no idea. Contrary to what people might think, these sorts of things get to me, striking me hard. I don't set out to offend, and more often than not I'm terribly remorseful. It's a personal shortcoming and as such, it's not something I'm proud of or want to defend. And I know, you're thinking to yourself "Well, try harder. Learn to keep your mouth shut." And I do try! Unfortunately, my mouth has a terrible habit of moving independently of my brain, and even when my brain is in control, it has a tendency to be an idiot. Emails like that send me into a funk of self-criticism, much akin to how breaking a dish launches me into a completely sincere self explanation of "this is why you can't have nice things!"

Fortunately, it will pass. For a day or two after tomorrow's meeting I'll be nervous about everything I say and how it can and will be interpreted. For the next week or so I'll be extra careful at work. Hopefully this time it will stick.

Elementary Prisons Make Me Want To Leave Pittsburgh, Or I'm Leaving Part One

2008-05-19T13:02:00.004-04:00

My family moved to Pittsburgh when I was in sixth grade, leaving the wonderfully sunny, warm, and progressive Northern California area. We moved in April, and on my second day of school, the first day I rode the bus, there was a huge snow storm. When I stepped off the bus, I found that everything was covered in white. The streets were indistinguishable from the yards, and I had no idea at all how to get home. A neighbor walked me home, but took a short cut. I was completely perplexed and had no idea where I was or where I was going. When my mom drove by and yelled, she was a yard away and it loomed ahead of me like the ice planet Hoth. This was my introduction to Pittsburgh. I had left a wonderful paradise where I had friends and sunshine, in order to walk through freezing crap everyday.

The transition was hard. One of the things about schools in California is that they have open areas. They are made up of multiple buildings, and you have to walk outside between classes. You carry your backpacks to class, along with your coats, etc. The teachers were lax, and understanding that we were outside and walking a lot, we were allowed to carry water bottles, sodas, and any other beverages with a screw top lid. During lunch we'd eat in the cafeteria, then head out to the basketball courts or walk around the campus. The cafeteria had regular food, but it also had stands set up that were sponsored by fast food restaurants. Outside, people would play hacky sack or play guitar, or just sit. It was great. That meant you could get a slice of Domino's pizza, or a Taco Bell burrito, instead of the salisbury steak. People walked to school, rode their bikes, or had their parents drive them. There was no bus system that I know of.

And then I moved to the east.

The first thing I noticed about the school was that it looked like a prison. It was in an H shape, with each part housing a different grade. Everyone rode the bus. We had lockers, and I was constantly in trouble for carrying my backpack and jacket to classes. We weren't allowed to have drinks with us or chew gum. At lunch we had only cafeteria food options. After eating we could go outside to a small concrete patio where we had nothing to do. No basketball hoops, two benches. That was the only time we went outside, beyond gym class. The classrooms were dark, and everyone was strict. Where we had used computers constantly, even in elementary school, now we only used them very rarely. We were ostensibly prisoners.

But I survived and made it through, dreaming of the day I would be able to return. I ended up staying in Pittsburgh for college, and it did nothing more but intensify my dislike for this city. Perhaps it's less of a dislike and more of a lack of passion, but either way I want out.

Boyfriend or Info Desk?

2008-05-17T12:42:00.004-04:00

My girlfriend is currently on a road trip with her dad, driving around the US for the next 3 weeks to a month. Before she left, I worried that I would be broken hearted, missing her terribly, and that she would forget about me and fail to call or txt at all.

I was so wrong. They've only been gone three days, and I have received not only near-constant updates on their position, but inquiries as well.

They began as simple questions of mileage between cities.

"How far from Richmond, VA to Myrtle Beach, SC?"

"How far from Myrtle Beach to Tallahassee?"

Then they started to branch out, asking about places to stay.

"What are the closest military bases to Tallahassee?"

"Does that base allow camping?"

"How far from Mobile, AL to New Orleans?"

Today, though, the questions have started taking on a different tone altogether.

"How many calories is in a piece of celery?"

"What else is a negative calorie food?"

"What's a bayou? What's a delta?"

I have become nothing more than my girlfriend's personal telefact.

How To Buy A Gun In PA

2008-05-14T15:19:00.008-04:00

I owned a gun for 25 hours.

I am not a gun person. I was never around guns in my youth. While my parents and older sister were all in the Air Force as some point in time, my family never owned any guns. The first time I held a gun was in my late teens when I visited my older sister and she made me hold the automatic pistol she had for her occupation as a police officer. It wasn't loaded and it still scared the crap out of me.

For the past two months I've been in a relationship with Tara. She's much tougher than I am. She has tattoos, shoots guns, rides a motorcycle, owns a snake, and has scars from her bike wreck. She drives a truck with 4 wheel drive, curses like a sailor, can drink me under the table, and she scolds me often for being too much of a girl. Don't get me wrong, she has plenty of wonderful feminine qualities, too, but the aim of this description is to demonstrate how much tougher she is. And we're happy. Things have been going well, so I decided to buy her a present. That present was a gun.

Tara has two guns. They're her parents', but she had them with her at her apartment and would take them out shooting every few weeks. She took me shooting once, forcing me to have the first gun I ever fired be her 16 gauge double barrel shotgun. I preferred her .22 pistol, which allowed me to feel like a cowboy. A while ago, Tara went shooting with a friend. When they stopped at the store to buy ammo, Tara's eyes grew wide and she became smitten with a small pistol. The gun in question was a derringer, tiny and pretty, yet still a gun. She proceeded to rave about it, about its low price, about how cute it was, about how she wanted to buy it and get a belt buckle to hold it so she could wear it around. Being the astute person I am, I was able to pick up on the subtle clues and realize that this was something she wanted, so I decided to be a good boyfriend and buy it for her.

Having never before purchased a gun, I did some research online to prepare for the occasion. Pennsylvania no longer has a waiting period for firearm purchases. This system has been replaced by the Pennsylvania Instant Check System (PICS). The Pennsylvania State Police runs a toll-free number that licensed gun dealers can call to have background checks run on prospective buyers, allowing 60% of purchasers to be approved within minutes. There are no permits needed, unless you plan on carrying it around with you. For my purposes, though, I needed nothing. I called up Chris Kaiser and we made arrangements to go on Monday afternoon.

When Chris Kaiser picked me up, he was excited to begin our endeavor. He was dressed in camouflage shorts and a camouflage sweatshirt. We drove out to the north hills and headed to Big Buck Sport Shop, just off of Rt. 79 at the Wexford exit. At this point, the butterflies in my stomach began to go crazy. I have always been more of the liberal, "guns kill people" type. They frighten me and I often wonder what the world would be like if firearms did not exist (especially while watching action movies. Imagine Terminator without guns). We stopped for a sandwich, and then headed up VIP Drive, towards the giant illuminated target that serves as their sign. There, in front of us, loomed our destination.

As we walked in, I breathed deep, inhaling the lodge-like atmosphere. Near the door were fishing supplies. The guns were located in the back right corner, farthest from the door. On the wall were hung the shotguns and rifles. Handguns were housed within the glass case, used guns to the left, new guns to the right. We slowly made our way back there with slow, unsure steps. I began inspecting the guns in the case. Semi-automatics, revolvers, and even antique single-shot pistols were laid out in a line, each with a tag specifying the make, model, and price. As I browsed, a clerk came out from the back and inquired if I could use any assistance.

"Yes. A friend of mine said that you have a derringer pistol for around $100. I'm looking for that."

He looked through the case and found the gun I was looking for. It had been obstructed from view by a stack of papers, but when he pulled it out it was just what I had been looking for. He showed me how it opened, etc., and I said "I'll take it." It was at this point that I found out how easy it is to buy a gun.

I filled out two forms, each roughly two pages long. They asked for my name, address, SSN (optional), driver's license number, and I had to verify that I was not an illegal alien, a legal alien, a felon, a fugitive from justice, nor shown to be mentally unstable. Then they took my driver's license and went to the back to run it through the PIC system. I was part of the lucky 60% and within minutes the clerk returned to the counter. He answered some questions I had regarding ammo sizes and gun questions in general, and rang me up. Then he asked if I had my concealed carry permit. I said no, and he quickly ran through what I needed to do to procure one. Then he tossed my gun in a bag and I was on my way. The entire affair took about half an hour. It was amazing.

Of course, Chris Kaiser and I couldn't stop playing with it in the car. I went directly to work when we got back, then to class after that. When I was finally able to head home, I had Chris Kaiser and a friend in tow. We pointed the gun at each other, at ourselves, cocked it, and generally did all of the things you're not supposed to do with a gun. Thank God I didn't buy any ammo.

Sadly, the revelry was not to last. Tara came to town the next day and I was forced to bequeath my new purchase to her. We registered it in her name, and I went back to being a non-gun owner. We did end up taking it out shooting though. Right after we transferred the registration and bought some rounds, we headed to the range. Now, the gun is really small. The barrel is only 2 and a quarter inches, and when I hid it in the fifth pocket of my jeans, only a small portion of the handle was showing. The diminutive size deceived us. We had forgotten to purchase ear plugs, but we went ahead anyway. Tara loaded it up, and took her stance. I stood behind her. As she pulled the trigger, a deafening BOOM emanated from the tiny firearm. It was by far the loudest gun at the range. My ears began ringing instantly. We both giggled like schoolgirls. She fell more in love with it, and then fell more in love with me.

Guns make everything better.

I Love This City Like I Love Getting Poked In The Eye

2008-05-05T15:06:00.005-04:00

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