So, I thought I would share something. I've gotten into reading a bit again lately, with some help from my sister and others. Tonight I started "Travels with Charley" by John Steinbeck. For those of you who don't know, Steinbeck is awesome. Go read Grapes of Wrath, The Pearl, Of Mice and Men, or like anything else of his if you don't know what I'm talking about.
Anyways, I read the first 'chapter' of the book, and I was like: This needs to be shared. It just struck me by how awesome and simple and well-written and true and beautiful it was. So I thought I would share it. Just so you know how special you are to me, I couldn't find the text online, so I'm typing the whole thing up for you.
Don't worry, it's not very long at all. You're not that special.
Let us begin:
When I was very young and the urge to be someplace else was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch. When years described me as mature, the remedy prescribed was middle age. In middle age I was assured that greater age would calm my fever and now that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility will do the job. Nothing has worked. Four hoarse blasts of a ship's whistle still raise the hair on my neck and set my feet to tapping. The sound of a jet, an engine warming up, even the clopping of shod hooves on pavement brings on the ancient shudder, the dry mouth and the vacant eye, the hot palms and the churn of a stomach high up under the rib cage. In other words, I don't improve; in further words, once a bum always a bum. I fear the disease is incurable. I set this matter down not to instruct others but to inform myself.
When the virus of restlessness begins to take possession of a wayward man, and the road away from Here seems broad and straight and sweet, the victim must first find in himself a good and sufficient reason for going. This to the practical bum is not difficult. He has a built-in garden of reasons to choose from. Next he must plan his trip in time and space, choose a direction and a destination. And last he must implement the journey. How to go, what to take, how long to stay. This part of the process is invariable and immortal. I set it down only so that newcomers to bumdom, like teen-agers in new-hatched sin, will not think they invented it.
Once a journey is designed, equipped, and put in process; a new factor enters and takes over. A trip, a safari, an exploration, is an entity, different from all other journeys. It has personality, temperament, individuality, uniqueness. A journey is a person in itself, no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us. Tour masters, schedules, reservations, brass-bound and inevitable, dash themselves to wreckage on the personality of the trip. Only when this is recognized can the blown-in-the-glass bum relax and go along with it. Only then do the frustrations fall away. In this a journey is like a marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it. I feel better now, having said this, although only those who have experienced it will understand it.
Isn't that wicked good writing? Don't you just want to go on an adventure!
I do.
December 25, 2010
December 15, 2010
Johnson & Johnson
I didn't get a lot out of seminary my senior year. This was pretty much entirely my fault, of course. It's a defense mechanism, I think. When you're doing things you know you're not supposed to, you have to sort of shut off your mind to the good stuff. If you take in the good stuff, you'll be inspired to remove the bad. So, if you want to keep the bad, you have to block out the good.
Regardless, I remember one seminary lesson very well. It was in like November, I think. I remember it because it was a day or two before I was supposed to buy and use an "8-ball" of cocaine with a certain German friend of mine.
I was excited. We both were. We'd never tried it, we'd both always wanted to. And here we were with the unique opportunity to have this life-changing experience.
Several times throughout my high school career I had almost done it, but something always got in the way. Not this time, though, I said. This time things would finally work out.
Then, at seminary that day, we came in to find two large brown pieces of paper stretched out on the ground, in between the tables. We didn't discuss them for most of the lesson, but eventually we got into some relevant scriptures (I don't remember what they were) and Sister Hull brought them up.
They were paths, she said. This was no big deal for me, everyone knows there's a good path and a bad path, a straight and narrow and a wide and windy. I sat back in my chair and prepared to tune out yet another lecture on choosing the right and all that jazz.
But then she said something I hadn't really thought of before. "Each of these paths take you to certain place. You can't follow one path, and expect to end up where the other path takes you." This struck me as exactly what I was doing. She gave some examples of people she'd seen do this and more and more I realized that she was basically describing me perfectly. In my head at that time I was thinking, "Yeah, yeah, I'm doing all this bad stuff and spiraling downwards pretty hardcore, but eventually I'll get my life in order and I'll marry in the temple and everything will be great and dandy. I just need this little time of doing bad, but eventually everything will work out fine."
That's not really how it works. If you're trying to get to the north pole you can't just take a southwestern road and say "Well I'll turn around eventually," because the fact is you're just getting further and further away from where you want to be.
I think this applies to non-spiritual matters, too. I've never been a particularly good student, mostly because it's never really been a priority for me. Almost always I'll start out the class with a few good weeks, then stop doing assignments or going to class or any of that. Inevitably, midterms roll around and I have a C or a D. "Don't worry, Ed," I say. "You'll get an A at the end of the semester, you're only halfway there, plenty of time to change it." But, surprise surprise, nothing changes and at the end of the semester I don't have an A. You get X for doing Y, and A for doing B. You can't do B and expect to get X. Or something like that (don't judge my variable analogies, math was one of those classes I didn't get an A in).
The point? Let's all get A's.
And that's the story of the day I didn't snort coke. Yay.
Regardless, I remember one seminary lesson very well. It was in like November, I think. I remember it because it was a day or two before I was supposed to buy and use an "8-ball" of cocaine with a certain German friend of mine.
I was excited. We both were. We'd never tried it, we'd both always wanted to. And here we were with the unique opportunity to have this life-changing experience.
Several times throughout my high school career I had almost done it, but something always got in the way. Not this time, though, I said. This time things would finally work out.
Then, at seminary that day, we came in to find two large brown pieces of paper stretched out on the ground, in between the tables. We didn't discuss them for most of the lesson, but eventually we got into some relevant scriptures (I don't remember what they were) and Sister Hull brought them up.
They were paths, she said. This was no big deal for me, everyone knows there's a good path and a bad path, a straight and narrow and a wide and windy. I sat back in my chair and prepared to tune out yet another lecture on choosing the right and all that jazz.
But then she said something I hadn't really thought of before. "Each of these paths take you to certain place. You can't follow one path, and expect to end up where the other path takes you." This struck me as exactly what I was doing. She gave some examples of people she'd seen do this and more and more I realized that she was basically describing me perfectly. In my head at that time I was thinking, "Yeah, yeah, I'm doing all this bad stuff and spiraling downwards pretty hardcore, but eventually I'll get my life in order and I'll marry in the temple and everything will be great and dandy. I just need this little time of doing bad, but eventually everything will work out fine."
That's not really how it works. If you're trying to get to the north pole you can't just take a southwestern road and say "Well I'll turn around eventually," because the fact is you're just getting further and further away from where you want to be.
I think this applies to non-spiritual matters, too. I've never been a particularly good student, mostly because it's never really been a priority for me. Almost always I'll start out the class with a few good weeks, then stop doing assignments or going to class or any of that. Inevitably, midterms roll around and I have a C or a D. "Don't worry, Ed," I say. "You'll get an A at the end of the semester, you're only halfway there, plenty of time to change it." But, surprise surprise, nothing changes and at the end of the semester I don't have an A. You get X for doing Y, and A for doing B. You can't do B and expect to get X. Or something like that (don't judge my variable analogies, math was one of those classes I didn't get an A in).
The point? Let's all get A's.
And that's the story of the day I didn't snort coke. Yay.
December 12, 2010
Gotta name 'em all...Better.
Wouldn't it be awesome to name something? To discover some island off the coast of Madagascar and get to call it whatever you want? Or to find some new type of bug in a cave in your backyard and get to choose what it would called for ever and ever? Wouldn't that be awesome?
Yes, it would.
When I was a kid I wondered once whether God had different names for all the animals than we did. Does He call a Zebra a Zebra? What did He call it before humans ever made a name for it? We discover new animals all the time, does He just call them what he knows they're going to be named, or does he have a special name for everything that we don't know (that's probably it, actually).
If that's the case, what happens to all those Alpha Taxonomists when they get to heaven? Is it basically like, "I know you spent your entire life classifying every living thing, but here's the updated list" *hands them giant book*.
That would suck.
I was quite a Pokemon fan in my younger (read: current) days. As a wee child I would always be amazed at how awesome all the names were. I wondered what sort of creative genius they must have holed up in their Tokyo laboratory, agonizing day in and day on just the right name for each individual Pokemon.
I imagined that he looked something like a cross between this guy:
And this one:
\
(Am I the only one who thinks he has an eerie resemblance to Henry B. Eyering?)
It was only later in life that I realized the Pokemon names were more likely made up by this guy:
Armed with only a Japanese-to-English dictionary and a rudimentary knowledge of zoological classifications, (perhaps his father was an Alpha Taxonomist), this boy was able to single handedly name all 150 Pokemon in my Pokedex.
For instance he might have seen this Pokemon:
And said to himself: ラット!
After he plugged that into his translator, he would have said: RAT!
しかし、あまりにも不足していると、それは長くする必要があります!
*Translating*
"But that is too short, I must make it longer!"
So he would have carefully drawn out several more letters, probably on this paper.
Then, with a smile on his face, he would hold up his final product.
Rattata.
149 to go.
Yes, it would.
When I was a kid I wondered once whether God had different names for all the animals than we did. Does He call a Zebra a Zebra? What did He call it before humans ever made a name for it? We discover new animals all the time, does He just call them what he knows they're going to be named, or does he have a special name for everything that we don't know (that's probably it, actually).
If that's the case, what happens to all those Alpha Taxonomists when they get to heaven? Is it basically like, "I know you spent your entire life classifying every living thing, but here's the updated list" *hands them giant book*.
That would suck.
I was quite a Pokemon fan in my younger (read: current) days. As a wee child I would always be amazed at how awesome all the names were. I wondered what sort of creative genius they must have holed up in their Tokyo laboratory, agonizing day in and day on just the right name for each individual Pokemon.
I imagined that he looked something like a cross between this guy:
And this one:
\(Am I the only one who thinks he has an eerie resemblance to Henry B. Eyering?)
It was only later in life that I realized the Pokemon names were more likely made up by this guy:
Armed with only a Japanese-to-English dictionary and a rudimentary knowledge of zoological classifications, (perhaps his father was an Alpha Taxonomist), this boy was able to single handedly name all 150 Pokemon in my Pokedex.
For instance he might have seen this Pokemon:
And said to himself: ラット!
After he plugged that into his translator, he would have said: RAT!
しかし、あまりにも不足していると、それは長くする必要があります!
*Translating*
"But that is too short, I must make it longer!"
So he would have carefully drawn out several more letters, probably on this paper.
Then, with a smile on his face, he would hold up his final product.
Rattata.
149 to go.
December 10, 2010
v+l=Y
Fact of the day: I no longer know how to write a capital Y. Every time I need to write one I pause, panic, and eventually draw a high "v" with a stick under it. It looks retarded.
This wouldn't be such an issue except I know for a fact that I used to be able to write them.
What's next?
This wouldn't be such an issue except I know for a fact that I used to be able to write them.
What's next?
December 8, 2010
All sorts of bassoonery
I went to a concert last night.
No, no, not one of these:
One of these:
I didn't go in with a lot of expectations. Which turned out to be good, because I would have been sorely disappointed otherwise.
The main reason I didn't enjoy this concert was how distracted I was. There were several aspects of the concert that were downright distracting to me.
For instance, the people with the curvy trumpets. What are they doing with their other hand? Do they put it in the trumpet mouth, or is that just an illusion? Also, I'll be straight with you, I don't know what an oboe looks like. But it sounds like a weird looking instrument. So when these guys came out with these giant wood things, I assumed they were oboes. I was later informed that they are, in fact, bassoons. Either way, you can bet none of the players looked as classy as this.
Before last night, if you had asked me to pick a band instrument to be proficient at, it would have been easy. The saxophone. Mostly so I could hang out in blues clubs and tell women I "play the sax". Also, because this guy is awesome:
You'd be surprised at how much of my life has been influenced by the Simpsons. But that's a story for another time.
So, while I've always wanted to play the sax, I find myself wondering if perhaps the bassoon is not my imaginary calling after all. It's bigger, more obscure, and perhaps most importantly, not as important. When the band plays, I can recognize the saxophone. I can recognize the flute and the trombone and the cymbals. But for the life of me I have no idea what a bassoon sounds like. For all I know, these guys could just be chilling in the back for the whole concert, talking about how awesome their bassoons are. (2 points if you get the alliteration on that one)
But, I digress. A man can only talk about bassoons for so long. There was one other aspect of the concert that really peeved my privates (don't ask).
What's with the clapping, guys?
It just keeps going, and going. Not even at the end of the concert, where I can understand giving a general "Right on" to the performers. Nope. After every piece, we feel the need to just clippity clap it up for like 5 minutes. I give a good 10 seconds of clapping, and then sit there awkwardly as everyone is going crazy like they just saw the greatest performance of their life.
But, such is life. Full of mysteries and disappointments. Failures and triumphs.
So it goes.
No, no, not one of these:
One of these:
I didn't go in with a lot of expectations. Which turned out to be good, because I would have been sorely disappointed otherwise.
The main reason I didn't enjoy this concert was how distracted I was. There were several aspects of the concert that were downright distracting to me.
For instance, the people with the curvy trumpets. What are they doing with their other hand? Do they put it in the trumpet mouth, or is that just an illusion? Also, I'll be straight with you, I don't know what an oboe looks like. But it sounds like a weird looking instrument. So when these guys came out with these giant wood things, I assumed they were oboes. I was later informed that they are, in fact, bassoons. Either way, you can bet none of the players looked as classy as this.
Before last night, if you had asked me to pick a band instrument to be proficient at, it would have been easy. The saxophone. Mostly so I could hang out in blues clubs and tell women I "play the sax". Also, because this guy is awesome:
You'd be surprised at how much of my life has been influenced by the Simpsons. But that's a story for another time.
So, while I've always wanted to play the sax, I find myself wondering if perhaps the bassoon is not my imaginary calling after all. It's bigger, more obscure, and perhaps most importantly, not as important. When the band plays, I can recognize the saxophone. I can recognize the flute and the trombone and the cymbals. But for the life of me I have no idea what a bassoon sounds like. For all I know, these guys could just be chilling in the back for the whole concert, talking about how awesome their bassoons are. (2 points if you get the alliteration on that one)
But, I digress. A man can only talk about bassoons for so long. There was one other aspect of the concert that really peeved my privates (don't ask).
What's with the clapping, guys?
It just keeps going, and going. Not even at the end of the concert, where I can understand giving a general "Right on" to the performers. Nope. After every piece, we feel the need to just clippity clap it up for like 5 minutes. I give a good 10 seconds of clapping, and then sit there awkwardly as everyone is going crazy like they just saw the greatest performance of their life.
But, such is life. Full of mysteries and disappointments. Failures and triumphs.
So it goes.
October 5, 2010
August 22, 2010
August 18, 2010
I INVENTED THE PIANO KEY NECKTIE
I'm a big fan of weird inventions. If it weren't for quirky people (read: Japanese) who invent stuff that no one in their right mind would usually use, the world would be a far drearier place.
The world of cleaning is one where weird inventions can flourish. People generally hate cleaning, but are often forced to do it for hours on end (again, this is more a Japanese thing, Americans either hire a foreigner to clean or live in filth). These countless hours of cleaning are inevitably spent trying to think of a better, easier way to do it. This has given rise to several brilliant inventions in the cleaning industry.
Say you're a mother. You have this adorable little baby that crawls around on the floor all day. Child labor laws do not permit you to send them off to the factory (for another 6 months at least), and you're desperate for it to start pulling its own weight.
Your search for a productive infant outlet is over. I give to you... the baby mop.
It looks something like this.
What's that, you say? That looks cruel and hideous? It looks like it should be outlawed? I, too, felt this way once, until I discovered this next photo.
Look at him! Happy (that's the Japanese expression for delight, by the way) and productive. He's going to make his parents proud one day.
Another problem that often ails the world of cleaning is that of old age. Oftentimes, a young girl will work in the cleaning industry from the age of 9 or 10, and not get a pay raise for the next 70 years. As she reaches the twilight of her life, she will start to develop various physical maladies, and become less productive as a cleaner. Because she is still making 80 yen per hour, she has no savings and will starve if she can no longer work.
Now, conventional wisdom would say to let her go, to cull the herd, if you will. But that's what's so great about the Japanese, they go against the grain.
Thus, I give to you, the slipper-broom-dustpan-cleaning-thing.
Just because you can't bend over doesn't mean you can't work.
Man, this was supposed to be a post about neckties, and how they suck. I really need to work on my focusing skills...
The world of cleaning is one where weird inventions can flourish. People generally hate cleaning, but are often forced to do it for hours on end (again, this is more a Japanese thing, Americans either hire a foreigner to clean or live in filth). These countless hours of cleaning are inevitably spent trying to think of a better, easier way to do it. This has given rise to several brilliant inventions in the cleaning industry.
Say you're a mother. You have this adorable little baby that crawls around on the floor all day. Child labor laws do not permit you to send them off to the factory (for another 6 months at least), and you're desperate for it to start pulling its own weight.
Your search for a productive infant outlet is over. I give to you... the baby mop.
It looks something like this.
What's that, you say? That looks cruel and hideous? It looks like it should be outlawed? I, too, felt this way once, until I discovered this next photo.
Look at him! Happy (that's the Japanese expression for delight, by the way) and productive. He's going to make his parents proud one day.
Another problem that often ails the world of cleaning is that of old age. Oftentimes, a young girl will work in the cleaning industry from the age of 9 or 10, and not get a pay raise for the next 70 years. As she reaches the twilight of her life, she will start to develop various physical maladies, and become less productive as a cleaner. Because she is still making 80 yen per hour, she has no savings and will starve if she can no longer work.
Now, conventional wisdom would say to let her go, to cull the herd, if you will. But that's what's so great about the Japanese, they go against the grain.
Thus, I give to you, the slipper-broom-dustpan-cleaning-thing.
Just because you can't bend over doesn't mean you can't work.
Man, this was supposed to be a post about neckties, and how they suck. I really need to work on my focusing skills...
June 7, 2010
Sitting
Everybody has their perfect job. Guidance counselor's sometimes say: "If money wasn't an issue, what job would you see yourself doing." Then, of course, that's the job you should take. That works really great if you have a burning desire to practice corporate law, but not so good if you get your kicks by cleaning up horse poop all day.
Some people have just one dream job. A friend of mine who has recently become a 'follower' on here, (and thus deserves a shout-out), has the dream of being a mattress tester. I wish him luck in this endeavor, and will be greatly impressed if he can make a career out of it.
Myself, I have two dreams, and luckily they are not mutually exclusive. For a long time I have wanted to be a teacher. In recent years I have settled on becoming a high school English teacher, because I've had enough experience in the field to know what a difference a not-shitty teacher can make.
In recent years, or year, I've also decided that I want to carpent. I want to build my own house someday. I just think it would be pretty cool to go home at night, stand in my driveway, look at my house, and think, "That was me."
I think both of these dreams have to do with leaving a mark on the world, with doing something real, and tangible. Creating something that will last. An education does that, obviously, by changing the youth of the future. Not just by teaching them what a badass Shakespeare was, but by changing the kind of people they'll turn out to be.
On the other hand, there's something to be said for a real-life building. Something you can walk around in, have babies in, buy insurance for.
Of course, the best laid plans...
We'll see what happens.
Some people have just one dream job. A friend of mine who has recently become a 'follower' on here, (and thus deserves a shout-out), has the dream of being a mattress tester. I wish him luck in this endeavor, and will be greatly impressed if he can make a career out of it.
Myself, I have two dreams, and luckily they are not mutually exclusive. For a long time I have wanted to be a teacher. In recent years I have settled on becoming a high school English teacher, because I've had enough experience in the field to know what a difference a not-shitty teacher can make.
In recent years, or year, I've also decided that I want to carpent. I want to build my own house someday. I just think it would be pretty cool to go home at night, stand in my driveway, look at my house, and think, "That was me."
I think both of these dreams have to do with leaving a mark on the world, with doing something real, and tangible. Creating something that will last. An education does that, obviously, by changing the youth of the future. Not just by teaching them what a badass Shakespeare was, but by changing the kind of people they'll turn out to be.
On the other hand, there's something to be said for a real-life building. Something you can walk around in, have babies in, buy insurance for.
Of course, the best laid plans...
We'll see what happens.
June 4, 2010
April 10, 2010
L is for Leukemia
CANCER NEVER SLEEPS!
It’s true. Unlike most things that people are terrified of: bears, spiders, having peanut butter stuck to the roof of your mouth, cancer is something that just works round the clock to murder you. It is because of cancer’s unrelenting resolve to wreak havoc on the lives of men that tonight I chose to take a stand. If cancer won’t sleep, then neither will I.
Granted, me not sleeping isn’t that big of a stand to take. As a matter of fact, if I wanted to show cancer I really meant business I would probably just conk out for a good 18 hours, but you’d be hard pressed to find someone to sponsor you to sleep against cancer.
No, that would be too easy. People aren’t going to pay money to see you do something you enjoy (unless they’re really creepy). In order to convince people to donate to your cause you have to do something painful, something you wouldn’t normally do. Walk.
I’ve long been of the mindset that walkers are a dying breed. With the way technology is advancing these days, (see here), I think we will soon live in a world where only the hardcore Lance Mackey/Armstrong folks feel the need to use their feet for transportation. I know what you’re thinking: “Hey, that’s just the plot to Walle, you cheese-eating copyright infringer!”
Wrong. In the world of Walle everyone was fat and ugly and didn’t use their legs because they were lazy. In the world I envision, everyone will take hard narcotics to sleep at night while complex machines work out every muscle in our body. The result will be a bunch of really hot, toned, muscular people who roll around on Segways all day.
Wow, that was quite a tangent.
As I was saying, before I so rudely interrupted myself. Tonight I decided to walk for cancer. The idea was that you walk in a circle around a local high school from 8pm to 8am to show cancer who's boss. Apparently cancer just acts tough, but if you show it that you’re not a little pansy it will just shake in its boots and beg for mercy. Since I’m down for pretty much anything that includes an all-nighter, I paid my 30 bucks and joined the club.
After a long and boring opening message, (basically, cancer is bad), we started walking. And walking. After a whopping 15 minutes of circling the high school by myself, occasionally talking to one of the many Eskimo girls doing laps as well, I decided that perhaps this wasn’t the activity for me.
There’s more to this story, but I’m hella tired.
So, cancer. You may have won this round, but I’ll be back. And next time…. Something.
It’s true. Unlike most things that people are terrified of: bears, spiders, having peanut butter stuck to the roof of your mouth, cancer is something that just works round the clock to murder you. It is because of cancer’s unrelenting resolve to wreak havoc on the lives of men that tonight I chose to take a stand. If cancer won’t sleep, then neither will I.
Granted, me not sleeping isn’t that big of a stand to take. As a matter of fact, if I wanted to show cancer I really meant business I would probably just conk out for a good 18 hours, but you’d be hard pressed to find someone to sponsor you to sleep against cancer.
No, that would be too easy. People aren’t going to pay money to see you do something you enjoy (unless they’re really creepy). In order to convince people to donate to your cause you have to do something painful, something you wouldn’t normally do. Walk.
I’ve long been of the mindset that walkers are a dying breed. With the way technology is advancing these days, (see here), I think we will soon live in a world where only the hardcore Lance Mackey/Armstrong folks feel the need to use their feet for transportation. I know what you’re thinking: “Hey, that’s just the plot to Walle, you cheese-eating copyright infringer!”
Wrong. In the world of Walle everyone was fat and ugly and didn’t use their legs because they were lazy. In the world I envision, everyone will take hard narcotics to sleep at night while complex machines work out every muscle in our body. The result will be a bunch of really hot, toned, muscular people who roll around on Segways all day.
Wow, that was quite a tangent.
As I was saying, before I so rudely interrupted myself. Tonight I decided to walk for cancer. The idea was that you walk in a circle around a local high school from 8pm to 8am to show cancer who's boss. Apparently cancer just acts tough, but if you show it that you’re not a little pansy it will just shake in its boots and beg for mercy. Since I’m down for pretty much anything that includes an all-nighter, I paid my 30 bucks and joined the club.
After a long and boring opening message, (basically, cancer is bad), we started walking. And walking. After a whopping 15 minutes of circling the high school by myself, occasionally talking to one of the many Eskimo girls doing laps as well, I decided that perhaps this wasn’t the activity for me.
There’s more to this story, but I’m hella tired.
So, cancer. You may have won this round, but I’ll be back. And next time…. Something.
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