We packed a truck for a guy moving back to Arkansas yesterday.
His father was there. He had a camera hanging from his neck, and suspenders holding up his jeans, over his t-shirt. He was hard of hearing, and any time I said anything to the father, he just looked at me. Every response was slow, brief, and through gritted teeth. At one point, I asked if he had a knife, so I could cut some rope. He replied that he did not carry a knife anymore, because he was sick of them getting confiscated on airplanes.
Being the judgmental person I am, I thought him to be uneducated and a bit backwater. Ironic I suppose, considering my own occupation.
But then I guess he took a little walk and saw something on the dashboard of our own truck. He came back and said "You know, a Thousand Splendid Suns is depressin' as all get out."
"I...know. I...just finished it."
"Somehow, it's even more depressin' than the Kite Runner."
For the rest of the job, he sat outside, watching me pack the truck, and we talked literature. We didn't get too deep into analysis, but he was more well-read than most of the people I know.
I couldn't help but smile at this old man, with suspenders over his t-shirt, who didn't carry knives anymore because of the TSA.
Thank you, Mr. Jones. You reminded me to Always Expect More out of people than you can tell by first glance.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Repeat.
I've been sitting here, trying to find a way to set a setting. A warm, humid night. Streets surprisingly empty. No one is stooping tonight, even though it's perfect weather for it. The ice cream truck that is usually blaring "Do your ears hang low?" is not sitting in front of the fire hydrant is absent. And I peacefully walked with Galt, allowing him to stop and sniff, and pee on people's flowers as he wished.
The only people I see, a pair of children about 6, run to their gate and ask if they can pet my dog. Sure. They think he's soft, and pretty, and I tell them to have a good night, don't wander too far, and we turn the corner.
I make it about 2 houses down, and I see a kid, about 15, come sprinting out of the alley. He runs to the middle of the street, and turns right, away from me. I stop. Reflexively, Galt sits down, and looks at me, awaiting instruction. I look at him, and reassure him. You're a good dog, Galt. Good boy.
More kids come sprinting down the alley. Probably six of them, the same age or so as the first, and they see him. They turn to follow. One kid stops, cocks his arm, and launches a rock. The first kid, who is probably 20 yards ahead of them, clutches the back of his head, and crumples to the ground. They are yelling. The voices are upbeat, congratulatory, but I can't make out any specific words. More kids come running out of the alley behind the first group. Three or four of them. They stop, and look in my direction. They see me. I see them. They're probably 15 feet away from me, and down the street there is the sound of kicking. Of vengeance. But between me and these other kids, just silence.
It feels like minutes pass, but it's more like a handful of seconds. I pull at Galt's leash, and turn and walk the other way. I turn the corner, heading back the way I came. Galt's admirers are gone, and I walk quickly back toward home. I hear a siren approaching, but I never see any lights by the time I make it back home.
The only people I see, a pair of children about 6, run to their gate and ask if they can pet my dog. Sure. They think he's soft, and pretty, and I tell them to have a good night, don't wander too far, and we turn the corner.
I make it about 2 houses down, and I see a kid, about 15, come sprinting out of the alley. He runs to the middle of the street, and turns right, away from me. I stop. Reflexively, Galt sits down, and looks at me, awaiting instruction. I look at him, and reassure him. You're a good dog, Galt. Good boy.
More kids come sprinting down the alley. Probably six of them, the same age or so as the first, and they see him. They turn to follow. One kid stops, cocks his arm, and launches a rock. The first kid, who is probably 20 yards ahead of them, clutches the back of his head, and crumples to the ground. They are yelling. The voices are upbeat, congratulatory, but I can't make out any specific words. More kids come running out of the alley behind the first group. Three or four of them. They stop, and look in my direction. They see me. I see them. They're probably 15 feet away from me, and down the street there is the sound of kicking. Of vengeance. But between me and these other kids, just silence.
It feels like minutes pass, but it's more like a handful of seconds. I pull at Galt's leash, and turn and walk the other way. I turn the corner, heading back the way I came. Galt's admirers are gone, and I walk quickly back toward home. I hear a siren approaching, but I never see any lights by the time I make it back home.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Stock photos.
Rosetta Stone (the language learning program) must have paid a fortune for every stock photo of eggs that could possibly be found.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
Maintaining my humanity.
We do a lot of work with the Chicago Community Development Corporation. CCDC.
CCDC essentially runs large swaths of public housing in the city. When they renovate buildings, we move their residents to the new buildings as they then renovate the old.
CCDC jobs are impossible to prepare for. My boss tried to prep me before I went. He told me sometimes there's roaches. And it's dirty. And the people don't really like you. And I figured, eh, I'll deal with it. Can't be that bad.
Usually it's not that bad. Yes, it's dingy. The units are run down. It's in unsafe neighborhoods. The residents often speak little English, and are generally unprepared for the move, and more than a little hostile. But really, you do it, quickly, get out, and go home. Forget about it.
Forget about the poverty. Forget about how people who have it worse off than me live. And it's easy to pillory them for their poverty. FOr the squalor in which they live. To think of myself as better than them for not having crumbling furniture and apartments largely full of trash.
Today was the same. Well, worse.
------------------
We followed Tony up the stairs, and he stopped at the door.
"I should probably warn you guys..."
I stopped him. "I...don't think I wanna hear this Tony. Don't do this to me."
He looked me me, then at Checkmate Tony, then at the new guy and apologised profusely. Right before he opened the door, he kind of sucked in his breath. I didn't know why, until he opened the door. Like witnessing a scene of violence, our eyes all opened wide, and we moved our heads back.
At first, I thought it was the wrong apartment. There was not much furniture to speak of. Some bookcases, a TV stand or two, a couple TVs. But, mostly, it looked like the house had been ransacked. Piles of papers were spread across the floor, bunches of keys, christmas ornaments, DVDs, food wrappers. A coffee table missing a leg, 2 computer monitors, 2 violin cases, a piano, an air conditioner the size of nightstand. Every surface sticky with caked on grime and grease. A cat scampered down the hallway, meowing desperately. The bed, not white, but yellow, completely stained with urine. The closet doors unable to close, because they were jammed to the point of overflowing.
When we got to the new apartment, I was a bit shocked. The woman we moved was wheelchair bound. I guess this did not surprise me. What surprised me was the man living with her. He appeared to be about 30. He had a mullet, and a nasty little mustache that looked like the only facial hair he could grow. He was a Jewel employee, by the emblem on his shirt.
The first thing I thought upon seeing him was: you motherfucker. You're using this poor woman (she was older, about 55, overweight and black.) You're living rent free on our tax dollars, and taking from this woman. You son of a bitch. Scum. Fucking scum.
But then it occurred to me. If this woman had anyone else, he wouldn't be here. She couldn't care for herself the way she needed to. Her old apartment was on the third floor, and she was incapable of walking. For her to leave, he had to take her down the stairs. He kept track of her medicines, and her daily life, and in return, he had a place to live. She needed him as much as he needed her. And if she had no family, or they didn't care enough to do it, it's in fact completely necessary that he be there.
Every so often, these things remind me of my humanity. Remind me that judging people without knowing them doesn't make me better than them, it makes me worse. And it reminds me that I have a lot of way to go when it comes to understanding life.
CCDC essentially runs large swaths of public housing in the city. When they renovate buildings, we move their residents to the new buildings as they then renovate the old.
CCDC jobs are impossible to prepare for. My boss tried to prep me before I went. He told me sometimes there's roaches. And it's dirty. And the people don't really like you. And I figured, eh, I'll deal with it. Can't be that bad.
Usually it's not that bad. Yes, it's dingy. The units are run down. It's in unsafe neighborhoods. The residents often speak little English, and are generally unprepared for the move, and more than a little hostile. But really, you do it, quickly, get out, and go home. Forget about it.
Forget about the poverty. Forget about how people who have it worse off than me live. And it's easy to pillory them for their poverty. FOr the squalor in which they live. To think of myself as better than them for not having crumbling furniture and apartments largely full of trash.
Today was the same. Well, worse.
------------------
We followed Tony up the stairs, and he stopped at the door.
"I should probably warn you guys..."
I stopped him. "I...don't think I wanna hear this Tony. Don't do this to me."
He looked me me, then at Checkmate Tony, then at the new guy and apologised profusely. Right before he opened the door, he kind of sucked in his breath. I didn't know why, until he opened the door. Like witnessing a scene of violence, our eyes all opened wide, and we moved our heads back.
At first, I thought it was the wrong apartment. There was not much furniture to speak of. Some bookcases, a TV stand or two, a couple TVs. But, mostly, it looked like the house had been ransacked. Piles of papers were spread across the floor, bunches of keys, christmas ornaments, DVDs, food wrappers. A coffee table missing a leg, 2 computer monitors, 2 violin cases, a piano, an air conditioner the size of nightstand. Every surface sticky with caked on grime and grease. A cat scampered down the hallway, meowing desperately. The bed, not white, but yellow, completely stained with urine. The closet doors unable to close, because they were jammed to the point of overflowing.
When we got to the new apartment, I was a bit shocked. The woman we moved was wheelchair bound. I guess this did not surprise me. What surprised me was the man living with her. He appeared to be about 30. He had a mullet, and a nasty little mustache that looked like the only facial hair he could grow. He was a Jewel employee, by the emblem on his shirt.
The first thing I thought upon seeing him was: you motherfucker. You're using this poor woman (she was older, about 55, overweight and black.) You're living rent free on our tax dollars, and taking from this woman. You son of a bitch. Scum. Fucking scum.
But then it occurred to me. If this woman had anyone else, he wouldn't be here. She couldn't care for herself the way she needed to. Her old apartment was on the third floor, and she was incapable of walking. For her to leave, he had to take her down the stairs. He kept track of her medicines, and her daily life, and in return, he had a place to live. She needed him as much as he needed her. And if she had no family, or they didn't care enough to do it, it's in fact completely necessary that he be there.
Every so often, these things remind me of my humanity. Remind me that judging people without knowing them doesn't make me better than them, it makes me worse. And it reminds me that I have a lot of way to go when it comes to understanding life.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Down with Big Brother.
I've always loved dystopian literature. I cannot count how many times I've read 1984 and Brave New World. Cumulatively, probably two dozen. If not more.
The nature of their societies is certainly fascinating. But from a more logistical standpoint, the means by which they reveal them is even more interesting.
Narrators are always outsiders in a society that is supposed to have no outsiders. In perfect worlds, there is no dissent. No resistance. In 1984, Newspeak was eventually going to wipe out the ability to disagree. To make thoughtcrime impossible. In Brave New World, the dissent comes from the perspective of an Alpha. Someone part of the indoctrination, who is cognizant of the falsehoods being purported.
Really though, the thing that separates the best from the B-grade movies are the way the story is told. The teasing out of mundane details that even the protagonists seem to take for granted. The Two-Minute Hate. Hypnopaedia. Telescreens. Soma. Oceania has always been at war with Eurasia. Ending is better than mending.
On a related note. It's a shame Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale isn't included in the discussion of the great dystopian novels. Maybe it's just too new. But really, it deserves to be there.
The nature of their societies is certainly fascinating. But from a more logistical standpoint, the means by which they reveal them is even more interesting.
Narrators are always outsiders in a society that is supposed to have no outsiders. In perfect worlds, there is no dissent. No resistance. In 1984, Newspeak was eventually going to wipe out the ability to disagree. To make thoughtcrime impossible. In Brave New World, the dissent comes from the perspective of an Alpha. Someone part of the indoctrination, who is cognizant of the falsehoods being purported.
Really though, the thing that separates the best from the B-grade movies are the way the story is told. The teasing out of mundane details that even the protagonists seem to take for granted. The Two-Minute Hate. Hypnopaedia. Telescreens. Soma. Oceania has always been at war with Eurasia. Ending is better than mending.
On a related note. It's a shame Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale isn't included in the discussion of the great dystopian novels. Maybe it's just too new. But really, it deserves to be there.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
More Logan Square.
It seems that every night for the past 2 weeks or so, I've heard police sirens racing by. Every night car alarms go off a number of times. Every night, there is yelling and running down the street - the sound of chase.
And every night I think "The people who say that poverty and crime have no relation" know neither poverty, nor crime.
And every night I think "The people who say that poverty and crime have no relation" know neither poverty, nor crime.
Friday, March 13, 2009
I am not Filipino.
I'm not.
I mean, I am. But really, I'm not. I don't speak Tagalog. I enjoy the food, but can make nothing but mediocre adobo. I don't know the cultural customs. I have never visited. Hell, I don't even have a particular plan on if or when I am going to visit.
The reality of the situation for myself, and for most people, is that we are American with ethnic ancestry. Most people haven't visited the countries their relatives/ancestors came from. Most people don't speak the language. Most people don't really know the culture of their home countries.
I am not really Filipino, or Polish, or Spanish. I am American. I just happen to be brown.
PS. No, you are not 1/64th Cherokee.
I mean, I am. But really, I'm not. I don't speak Tagalog. I enjoy the food, but can make nothing but mediocre adobo. I don't know the cultural customs. I have never visited. Hell, I don't even have a particular plan on if or when I am going to visit.
The reality of the situation for myself, and for most people, is that we are American with ethnic ancestry. Most people haven't visited the countries their relatives/ancestors came from. Most people don't speak the language. Most people don't really know the culture of their home countries.
I am not really Filipino, or Polish, or Spanish. I am American. I just happen to be brown.
PS. No, you are not 1/64th Cherokee.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
I have to get out of Logan Square.
"Who you with?"
"No one."
He demanded to know again. "Who you with?"
"No one man."
He leaned out, so his back was to the aisle, and he kept pulling the hood of his sweatshirt closer to his face, so to make sure no one else could see him. "Don't lie to me Nigga. I know. Who the fuck you with?"
"Really, no one."
"Bullshit, nigga. I'm a King. I can tell."
He was bald, about 6'3". He had a thin mustache, and some hair on his chin. His stare bore into me, his pupils huge from some sort of drug. His head was cocked slightly to the side the whole time, and he struggled to keep his eyes completely open.
"What are you listening to?"
"Rodrigo y Gabriella."
"What the fuck is that?"
I told him it was Spanish guitar. He wouldn't like it.
He leaned his head very close to mine and "I want to hear it" escaped from clenched teeth. He never took his eyes off me.
I handed him my headphones, but didn't hand him the player. He listened, and asked what else I had on it.
"Not much."
"I think I'll take it, and find out myself."
He tried to reach into my pocket to grab my mp3 player out of it. I grabbed his wrist firmly. "No."
"What motherfucker?" Suddenly his eyes opened all the way. His pupils became a little smaller. His focus was tangible.
I told him that he, in fact, was not taking it.
He looked at me, unsure of how to react. He decided by throwing my headphones back at me. "Keep it bitch. But get the fuck up. We're getting out. We gonna fight."
I slowly placed the headphones in my pocket and met his gaze. "Alright."
"What nigga? You wanna fight?"
"Of course not." I'm not sure how steady my voice sounded. I stood up.
"You don't wanna fight? Then why'd you say okay?"
I stared at him for a second before giving my reply. "If we're gonna fight, we're gonna fight. Ain't nothin I can do about that but defend myself."
He pointed to the door, and said "You first."
Instead of getting out the back door of the bus, I slowly walked to the front of the bus, and just stood by the door. He didn't follow me, but stood by the back door. Waiting for me to get off.
So we waited. A block went by. Then 2 more. We picked up some passengers, and still I stood by the front door. He sat down, but didn't avert his look.
A few blocks later, and we hit some traffic. He was looking out the window. He looked out, then to his side, then to his back.
As he was looking back, I asked the driver if I could just get out here. He said nothing, but the door opened, and I slipped quickly out. I took a few quick steps til I got to the corner, and made the turn.
I didn't look back until I had sprinted halfway down the street.The sun was setting, and I couldn't tell who the person was, walking down the street toward me. I turned back around and continued my hard sprint. Around that first corner, and I kept running. This block was empty. I got halfway down the street, and turned back to look again. Still empty. I slowed my pace, but continued to jog to the next street, looking over my shoulder two or three more times. I turned left, and slowed to walk. As soon as I got to the next busy street, I leaned on the streetlight. Finally, after I caught my breath, I walked slowly to the train station. I didn't see him again.
I'd have thought eventually I'd get used to situations like this. But I haven't. I don't think I ever will.
"No one."
He demanded to know again. "Who you with?"
"No one man."
He leaned out, so his back was to the aisle, and he kept pulling the hood of his sweatshirt closer to his face, so to make sure no one else could see him. "Don't lie to me Nigga. I know. Who the fuck you with?"
"Really, no one."
"Bullshit, nigga. I'm a King. I can tell."
He was bald, about 6'3". He had a thin mustache, and some hair on his chin. His stare bore into me, his pupils huge from some sort of drug. His head was cocked slightly to the side the whole time, and he struggled to keep his eyes completely open.
"What are you listening to?"
"Rodrigo y Gabriella."
"What the fuck is that?"
I told him it was Spanish guitar. He wouldn't like it.
He leaned his head very close to mine and "I want to hear it" escaped from clenched teeth. He never took his eyes off me.
I handed him my headphones, but didn't hand him the player. He listened, and asked what else I had on it.
"Not much."
"I think I'll take it, and find out myself."
He tried to reach into my pocket to grab my mp3 player out of it. I grabbed his wrist firmly. "No."
"What motherfucker?" Suddenly his eyes opened all the way. His pupils became a little smaller. His focus was tangible.
I told him that he, in fact, was not taking it.
He looked at me, unsure of how to react. He decided by throwing my headphones back at me. "Keep it bitch. But get the fuck up. We're getting out. We gonna fight."
I slowly placed the headphones in my pocket and met his gaze. "Alright."
"What nigga? You wanna fight?"
"Of course not." I'm not sure how steady my voice sounded. I stood up.
"You don't wanna fight? Then why'd you say okay?"
I stared at him for a second before giving my reply. "If we're gonna fight, we're gonna fight. Ain't nothin I can do about that but defend myself."
He pointed to the door, and said "You first."
Instead of getting out the back door of the bus, I slowly walked to the front of the bus, and just stood by the door. He didn't follow me, but stood by the back door. Waiting for me to get off.
So we waited. A block went by. Then 2 more. We picked up some passengers, and still I stood by the front door. He sat down, but didn't avert his look.
A few blocks later, and we hit some traffic. He was looking out the window. He looked out, then to his side, then to his back.
As he was looking back, I asked the driver if I could just get out here. He said nothing, but the door opened, and I slipped quickly out. I took a few quick steps til I got to the corner, and made the turn.
I didn't look back until I had sprinted halfway down the street.The sun was setting, and I couldn't tell who the person was, walking down the street toward me. I turned back around and continued my hard sprint. Around that first corner, and I kept running. This block was empty. I got halfway down the street, and turned back to look again. Still empty. I slowed my pace, but continued to jog to the next street, looking over my shoulder two or three more times. I turned left, and slowed to walk. As soon as I got to the next busy street, I leaned on the streetlight. Finally, after I caught my breath, I walked slowly to the train station. I didn't see him again.
I'd have thought eventually I'd get used to situations like this. But I haven't. I don't think I ever will.
Monday, March 2, 2009
9/24/07.
My favorite concert ever started like most concerts I've been to. You show up a little late, to avoid the terrible opening bands. You find the optimal standing room taken already, so you do your best to maneuver to somewhere in 'the middle,' and wait as the last opening band finishes up their lackluster set. As they do, the handful of friends they have at the show cheer maniacally, but every else just sort of settles in, to await the main act.
You stand, and you wait in relative darkness, as more and more people file in. You notice the space around you get smaller and smaller, until someone is dangerously close to your ass, while you're dangerously close to someone else's ass. You shift your weight from foot to foot, wishing you had arrived early enough to snag a seat, or a good wall or railing to lean against. You start to sweat, but only on the inside of your shirt, and it drips slowly down your body, but there is no way to cool off, except to fight your way through the now full venue and lose your valuable standing space.
So you wait. And you get thirsty, wishing beers weren't 9 bucks, and waters weren't 4. And someone around you smells. Not just of alcohol, but of having not showered since last night, and you can't figure out who it is. You see an occasional person walk across the stage, checking sound levels, making sure all the wires are plugged in. Every time someone new walks across the stage, you crane your neck to try to see around the tall guy in the hat who decided to plant himself in front of you. A group of Asians chats excitedly and quickly somewhere behind you.
That was all typical at the best concert I've been to. But that moment when things suddenly get a little darker, and everyone cuts the conversation...that was just buildup. It started out slow. A few flashes of light, a low meandering bassline.
Then, it started.
I can't describe it very well. Honestly, I was rather overwhelmed. The first song had video with old 50's style Russian Industrialist/Communist propaganda video.
Link.
I admit, the Chemical Brothers are not my favorite band, and the Riv is not my favorite venue. But man. That night, was something else.
You stand, and you wait in relative darkness, as more and more people file in. You notice the space around you get smaller and smaller, until someone is dangerously close to your ass, while you're dangerously close to someone else's ass. You shift your weight from foot to foot, wishing you had arrived early enough to snag a seat, or a good wall or railing to lean against. You start to sweat, but only on the inside of your shirt, and it drips slowly down your body, but there is no way to cool off, except to fight your way through the now full venue and lose your valuable standing space.
So you wait. And you get thirsty, wishing beers weren't 9 bucks, and waters weren't 4. And someone around you smells. Not just of alcohol, but of having not showered since last night, and you can't figure out who it is. You see an occasional person walk across the stage, checking sound levels, making sure all the wires are plugged in. Every time someone new walks across the stage, you crane your neck to try to see around the tall guy in the hat who decided to plant himself in front of you. A group of Asians chats excitedly and quickly somewhere behind you.
That was all typical at the best concert I've been to. But that moment when things suddenly get a little darker, and everyone cuts the conversation...that was just buildup. It started out slow. A few flashes of light, a low meandering bassline.
Then, it started.
I can't describe it very well. Honestly, I was rather overwhelmed. The first song had video with old 50's style Russian Industrialist/Communist propaganda video.
Link.
I admit, the Chemical Brothers are not my favorite band, and the Riv is not my favorite venue. But man. That night, was something else.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Chance.
I've always been interested in chance. Specifically not probability. But rather the chance that brought everything together the way it did.
Imagine, if my mother did not have something to do tonight, I'd be doing her taxes. But, as chance stands, she does, and I am going to spend the night catching up on cleaning. Very boring, both in terms of what I'm doing, but also in terms of the grand scheme of things.
But, imagine again if instead of Barack Obama's parents meeting, they never did. And this recent election never would have happened.
Or if Thomas Paine had been claimed by childhood disease as was not uncommon at the time.
Or if the first primitive humans hadn't migrated in a certain pattern which allowed them to discover agriculture.
Or if billions of years ago, atoms arranged themselves slightly differently, and the solar system as we know it, and consequently us, do not exist.
Trillions of things happen each second to make things the way they are. I don't believe in predestination, or fate, or the hand of god. My own belief is something like that of Occam's Razor. Things happen the only way they can. If they could have happened differently, they would have. It's just interaction. Interaction of molecules forming cells forming sentient beings forming society forming civilisations forming humanity.
I'm not sure where I'm going with this. Nowhere really. But an infinite number of chances had to happen for this to be our world, and an equally infinite number of things have to happen for it to exist in the future. Why though?
Imagine, if my mother did not have something to do tonight, I'd be doing her taxes. But, as chance stands, she does, and I am going to spend the night catching up on cleaning. Very boring, both in terms of what I'm doing, but also in terms of the grand scheme of things.
But, imagine again if instead of Barack Obama's parents meeting, they never did. And this recent election never would have happened.
Or if Thomas Paine had been claimed by childhood disease as was not uncommon at the time.
Or if the first primitive humans hadn't migrated in a certain pattern which allowed them to discover agriculture.
Or if billions of years ago, atoms arranged themselves slightly differently, and the solar system as we know it, and consequently us, do not exist.
Trillions of things happen each second to make things the way they are. I don't believe in predestination, or fate, or the hand of god. My own belief is something like that of Occam's Razor. Things happen the only way they can. If they could have happened differently, they would have. It's just interaction. Interaction of molecules forming cells forming sentient beings forming society forming civilisations forming humanity.
I'm not sure where I'm going with this. Nowhere really. But an infinite number of chances had to happen for this to be our world, and an equally infinite number of things have to happen for it to exist in the future. Why though?
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
Misspelling.
The English language is such a bizarre language. I'm a pretty damn good speller. But, on a fairly regular basis, I'll type a word and stop for a second. "Wait, is that really how you spell that?"
Sometimes I'll cock my head to the side like a confused puppy, and ponder for a second. Usually it's right, but the very fact that I have to wonder about so many words makes me really hate the spelling eccentricities of this language sometimes.
Sometimes I'll cock my head to the side like a confused puppy, and ponder for a second. Usually it's right, but the very fact that I have to wonder about so many words makes me really hate the spelling eccentricities of this language sometimes.
Friday, January 23, 2009
The suburbs.
There's something about the suburbs that always unnerved me. And I think, as I write this, I'm just figuring out what it is.
The city, like humanity as a whole, is mixed. It's diverse. Not just in ethnic makeup, but in terms of zoning, more simply, where things are.
Housing, business, residence, industry, commerce. All together, in varying degrees. To get home, you pass the little store on the corner, the laundromat, the lawyer's offices, a strictly residential building, duplexes, houses, gas stations. All these things can exist on a single block. And to go from home to school as a child, and home to work as an adult, you must, on the most basic level, pass them, if not interact with them on a personal level.
But the suburbs are completely different. In one part, you have houses. No little stores, no barbers, no things linking families to the businesses. In the next part, you have strip malls. In these strip malls, you have your shops. Built en masse, 15 stores move in at once. Chains, mostly. Then next to this strip mall, you have your other strip mall. And down the block, another strip mall.
And the exurbs are even more defined. It's not just residential and commerical. It's subdivisions looking at other sub divisions from across the street, or down the block. Park Oak Glens sits across from Shady Pines Vista and every person has their own prefabricated house which looks exactly like the other 64 houses in the subdivision. And strip malls are secondary to the big box stores like the Wal-Marts and Home Depots, and flank them in their own strip mall complexes, and you can even do away with some of the more popular small chains for the homogeneity of the "Every Day Low Prices™" of a single store.
The further out you go, the more physical space you may be able to afford in terms of acreage and square footage, but the less it's actually yours. Obviously you physically own it, but it's exactly like your neighbors. And his neighbors. And the other 62 people with the exact same house in your subdivision. And the fewer stores or restaurants around you, the less you actually choose what you can consume/buy. And if there's the chain strip mall/big box stores, you're really limited in the kinds of products you buy, as are all your neighbors. And independence of how much you can wall yourself off becomes greater, but the amount you interact with humanity as the whole becomes less.
But really, it's just a personal preference. Maybe it'd be different if I had kids. Or if I wanted to buy a nice big house and drive an SUV, and care about things like golf. But I really don't. Regardless of how much money I have or don't have, I don't think I need a 5 bedroom house with a family room, sitting room, dining room, and finished basement for all the kids' toys because they just couldn't possibly fit into a regular sized room. But really, I'll take a city any day of the week.
The city, like humanity as a whole, is mixed. It's diverse. Not just in ethnic makeup, but in terms of zoning, more simply, where things are.
Housing, business, residence, industry, commerce. All together, in varying degrees. To get home, you pass the little store on the corner, the laundromat, the lawyer's offices, a strictly residential building, duplexes, houses, gas stations. All these things can exist on a single block. And to go from home to school as a child, and home to work as an adult, you must, on the most basic level, pass them, if not interact with them on a personal level.
But the suburbs are completely different. In one part, you have houses. No little stores, no barbers, no things linking families to the businesses. In the next part, you have strip malls. In these strip malls, you have your shops. Built en masse, 15 stores move in at once. Chains, mostly. Then next to this strip mall, you have your other strip mall. And down the block, another strip mall.
And the exurbs are even more defined. It's not just residential and commerical. It's subdivisions looking at other sub divisions from across the street, or down the block. Park Oak Glens sits across from Shady Pines Vista and every person has their own prefabricated house which looks exactly like the other 64 houses in the subdivision. And strip malls are secondary to the big box stores like the Wal-Marts and Home Depots, and flank them in their own strip mall complexes, and you can even do away with some of the more popular small chains for the homogeneity of the "Every Day Low Prices™" of a single store.
The further out you go, the more physical space you may be able to afford in terms of acreage and square footage, but the less it's actually yours. Obviously you physically own it, but it's exactly like your neighbors. And his neighbors. And the other 62 people with the exact same house in your subdivision. And the fewer stores or restaurants around you, the less you actually choose what you can consume/buy. And if there's the chain strip mall/big box stores, you're really limited in the kinds of products you buy, as are all your neighbors. And independence of how much you can wall yourself off becomes greater, but the amount you interact with humanity as the whole becomes less.
But really, it's just a personal preference. Maybe it'd be different if I had kids. Or if I wanted to buy a nice big house and drive an SUV, and care about things like golf. But I really don't. Regardless of how much money I have or don't have, I don't think I need a 5 bedroom house with a family room, sitting room, dining room, and finished basement for all the kids' toys because they just couldn't possibly fit into a regular sized room. But really, I'll take a city any day of the week.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
On hold.
I wonder how many more people Comcast has working the "payment" and "upgrade" departments of their phone system, as opposed to the "cancellation/downgrade" department.
Took me 2 minutes to get an operator for "change of service." But when they find out "change of service" means "downgrade," I've been on hold 10 minutes so far.
I mean, from a business standpoint, it makes sense. People paying less or nothing are worth less in operator time than people making payments or those who will be paying more in the future. But that doesn't mean it annoys me any less.
Took me 2 minutes to get an operator for "change of service." But when they find out "change of service" means "downgrade," I've been on hold 10 minutes so far.
I mean, from a business standpoint, it makes sense. People paying less or nothing are worth less in operator time than people making payments or those who will be paying more in the future. But that doesn't mean it annoys me any less.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Poor taste.
I was looking for some music on Soulseek. On this particular program, you can see the directory name you're downloading from.
From user SF, the title of the folder I downloaded from was "Really, I have shitloads of better music than this."
I literally laughed out loud. Until I realised that I was downloading from that folder.
From user SF, the title of the folder I downloaded from was "Really, I have shitloads of better music than this."
I literally laughed out loud. Until I realised that I was downloading from that folder.
CTA.
This is a pretty interesting artcile. I had no idea the CTA needed so much of its revenue to be from ridership.
No wonder they're always broke. Given the amount of buses that are packed ass to crotch on a daily basis during rush hours, I don't really see any possible way they could meet that funding requirement.
No wonder they're always broke. Given the amount of buses that are packed ass to crotch on a daily basis during rush hours, I don't really see any possible way they could meet that funding requirement.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Barbaro.
I wonder what makes us think of someone, randomly, who were haven't seen or heard of in a long time.
I was wondering today what Barbaro is up to these days. For those of you who don't know him, which is everyone, let me tell you the kind of guy Barbaro is. I don't know whether it's true or not, but once he told me this:
She told me to give her 10 inches and make it hurt. So I fucked her twice and slapped her on my way out.
Yeah, I wonder what that guy is up to.
I was wondering today what Barbaro is up to these days. For those of you who don't know him, which is everyone, let me tell you the kind of guy Barbaro is. I don't know whether it's true or not, but once he told me this:
She told me to give her 10 inches and make it hurt. So I fucked her twice and slapped her on my way out.
Yeah, I wonder what that guy is up to.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
An interesting question.
Do you think you've read more books or seen more movies in your lifetime?
And I'm talking about actual books, not Bernstein Bears or things like that.
I'm kind of torn on how to judge juvenile series books, i.e. The Boxcar Children (my favorite as a 9-year old), or the Babysitters Club (my sister's choice reading of that time). I mean, when you're 9, you can't exactly be reading literature, but you'd certainly count movies you watched at that age.
I'm really not sure which I've done more of. Of the books I own, I'm at about 200. My Netflix says I've rated 801 titles, but a lot of those are Simpsons, Family Guy, Seinfeld, and other not-movies. I'd say maybe 650-700 total would be actual movies, but I doubt I rated every movie I've ever seen either.
Really, I'm not sure, but I think it might be books.
And I'm talking about actual books, not Bernstein Bears or things like that.
I'm kind of torn on how to judge juvenile series books, i.e. The Boxcar Children (my favorite as a 9-year old), or the Babysitters Club (my sister's choice reading of that time). I mean, when you're 9, you can't exactly be reading literature, but you'd certainly count movies you watched at that age.
I'm really not sure which I've done more of. Of the books I own, I'm at about 200. My Netflix says I've rated 801 titles, but a lot of those are Simpsons, Family Guy, Seinfeld, and other not-movies. I'd say maybe 650-700 total would be actual movies, but I doubt I rated every movie I've ever seen either.
Really, I'm not sure, but I think it might be books.
Wow.
Ouch.
U.S. private employers shed 693,000 jobs in December, up sharply from the revised 476,000 jobs lost in November and far more than economists estimated, a report by ADP Employer Services said on Wednesday.
Six hundred seventy nine thousand. Think about that.
That's more people than live in the states of Wyoming, Vermont, North Dakota, and almost Alaska.
Granted, those are not populous states. But imagine an entire state of people lost their jobs. Including infants, and toddlers, children, and retired people who don't actually work.
And this all happened in a month.
U.S. private employers shed 693,000 jobs in December, up sharply from the revised 476,000 jobs lost in November and far more than economists estimated, a report by ADP Employer Services said on Wednesday.
Six hundred seventy nine thousand. Think about that.
That's more people than live in the states of Wyoming, Vermont, North Dakota, and almost Alaska.
Granted, those are not populous states. But imagine an entire state of people lost their jobs. Including infants, and toddlers, children, and retired people who don't actually work.
And this all happened in a month.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Indifferent express.
I don't think most people have a favorite author.
I think I can say that I have a new favorite author. Which to nobody else is a big deal at all, but to me, is a huge deal.
Sorry Miss Rand. But Mr. Gladwell is where it's at.
I think I can say that I have a new favorite author. Which to nobody else is a big deal at all, but to me, is a huge deal.
Sorry Miss Rand. But Mr. Gladwell is where it's at.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Because.
A lot of people have asked me why I do what I do, occupation-wise. It is true, I could be doing more...intellectually stimulating things, or at the very least more profitable things.
I don't know exactly how to explain it.
For the years and years I was in school, and not just college, but always, I never understood why I was there. Yes, to get good grades, then graduate, then go to school more, then get more good grades, until you eventually get a job and then...I don't know what is supposed to follow. But I never felt like it was the place I should be. The first day of class began the interminable countdown of days until the semester was finally over, and then I could be one semester closer to being done with school. On the whole, that's not a terribly healthy view to have of academia. I never really cared about graduating, I cared more about not having to be in school anymore. The difference is subtle, but important.
Working at Checkmate, it's not been like that. I don't come to work so I have one less day that I have to work before I retire and/or die. Although I don't always want to go to work, I like working on the whole. I feel better after work than I do before, even on long days. I like doing something, as opposed to sitting at a desk all day. I like being outside (in the summer), and I like being able to make positive impact on the company and its workers without having to deal with corporate policy.
I feel like school is something I did for others. And Checkmate is what I do for myself.
I don't know exactly how to explain it.
For the years and years I was in school, and not just college, but always, I never understood why I was there. Yes, to get good grades, then graduate, then go to school more, then get more good grades, until you eventually get a job and then...I don't know what is supposed to follow. But I never felt like it was the place I should be. The first day of class began the interminable countdown of days until the semester was finally over, and then I could be one semester closer to being done with school. On the whole, that's not a terribly healthy view to have of academia. I never really cared about graduating, I cared more about not having to be in school anymore. The difference is subtle, but important.
Working at Checkmate, it's not been like that. I don't come to work so I have one less day that I have to work before I retire and/or die. Although I don't always want to go to work, I like working on the whole. I feel better after work than I do before, even on long days. I like doing something, as opposed to sitting at a desk all day. I like being outside (in the summer), and I like being able to make positive impact on the company and its workers without having to deal with corporate policy.
I feel like school is something I did for others. And Checkmate is what I do for myself.
The latest from Mr. Bates.
I only heard this second hand:
Steve walked up to Mr. Bates carrying a bag. He asked "Do you know what this is?"
Mr. Bates looked at the bag for a second, and said "Looks like a couple of rotten bananas."
"No. It's a bag of shit."
WOW.
Steve walked up to Mr. Bates carrying a bag. He asked "Do you know what this is?"
Mr. Bates looked at the bag for a second, and said "Looks like a couple of rotten bananas."
"No. It's a bag of shit."
WOW.
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