Drupelet

Wow, the first post since September. The last thing I wanted to do with this thing is become one of those people who post for a week, then disappear for years. And yet, I can’t help but think whether keeping a journal on Facebook or something is a better idea – more accessible to all my friends, less accessible to my enemies, etc. Either way, I guess I should make a decision. Eventually.

If anybody still visits, a small update – I’m doing fine, snowboarding a bit, climbing a bit, lazing about a lot. I like you, let’s stay in touch. Oh crap, I just realized that there is nothing on this page for directly getting in touch with me. I’ll have to work on that…

I had something of a revelation recently.  When reading or listening to political debates, I’m sometimes amazed by how neither side is the least bit interested in understanding the other.  And until now, it’s been difficult for me to get into that mindset.  The mindset that my opponent’s arguments are worthless by default, and I shouldn’t even try to take them seriously.  I just didn’t understand having such a unilateral prejudice.

But now, through a little semantic substitution, I think I finally got a handle on how to debate like a true political nut.  Want to know the secret?  Just substitute the other person’s cause/grievance/argument with drinking urine, and carry on from there.

Let’s try some examples.

Withdrawing From an Unjustified War in Iraq
We can’t go on like this in Iraq!  We must convince President Bush to drink urine and order the troops to do the same!  All of the other developed countries drink urine – we are the only ones who have not signed the urine-drinking protocol!  Does this administration not care about drinking urine in unity with the rest of the civilized world?

Creationism in Public Schools
Listen, we’re not saying that we’re going to replace the science curriculum, we just want to represent both sides of the story for a more comprehensive education!  We just want to give children a fair chance to learn about urine drinking and how it complements science.  We want children to make an educated decision about whether to believe the Big Bang and Evolution (they are just theories you know!), or to drink urine.

Evolution in Public Schools
This is ludicrous – they have no right coming into a public school and disrupting a working, pragmatic urine drinking curriculum!  Urine drinking has been under close scrutiny by the urine drinker community, and though it does not provide all the answers to life, it at least helps children to make sound judgements based on urinary analysis and the diuretic method.

Gay Marriage
Who do those urine drinkers think they are, thinking they can get married just like everybody else!?  Now I don’t care how much urine they drink in the privacy of their homes.  But once they start taking to the streets and drinking urine right in front of my kids, then they cross the line.  Besides, urine drinking is just voluntary, something they do for fun!  They can stop drinking urine and get married to normal people if they want to.  But no, they want to have their pee and drink it too.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that if you don’t respect others, you shouldn’t hope to achieve productive debate, and are doomed to splashing around in piss.

So, yeah, lots has been going on.
The new condo is slowly becoming livable. We painted the living room, and one of the bedrooms. Yesterday I filled up one bookcase. I found a book that someone had given to me a long time ago and that I had never opened: How To Hit The Ground Running In Your New Job. Wow. What an eye-opener. According to the book, here are things you’re not supposed to do, which I have done

• Do not date within the company
• Do not listen to your music without headphones
• Do not discuss salary
• Do not drink alcohol at lunch

It also suggests things that you should be doing. These are sometimes ridiculously obvious, and and yet others are just bizarre. I have noticed several places where the book stresses the importance of when to place the napkin on your lap at a meal. Like, the timing. When is the right time? I mean really, how do you expect to succeed in your job if you don’t follow the correct napkin/lap schedule? Are you going to run to the table and place it on your lap as soon as you walk into the restaurant? Are you going to wait until everybody sits down, and then place each person’s napkin on their respective lap? Are there extra points for keeping the napkin on the table until you drop some food, then grabbing it, sweeping up the debris in mid-air, and then placing it in your lap? Is it bad form to place it in your lap after molding it into a lumpy protrusion? The book does not actually tell you when to do the napkin manipulations, but it urges the reader to find out, or else get fired.

So much for my literary pursuits. In recreation news – this past weekend some climate anomaly caused lots of snow to dump at Steven’s Pass, and I went boarding on both days. Now I’m sore in all sorts of interesting places. Like my triceps. What? From snowboarding? I don’t know, maybe I got tired picking myself up after all the wipeouts.

Photos!
Sean was auditioning for a band, and wanted some pictures taken for his submission. He came by the condo and we shot stuff for an hour or so. My favorite is pictured below. People have also been liking my photo of frosty leaves, so here they are.

click for biggy-size!

I’ve been thinking about taking my photography to the next level. Specifically, I see myself renting a studio, finding models willing to trade their time for prints, getting more lighting gear, and then just shoot shoot shoot. Really, I’m surprised that I haven’t gotten bored with this hobby yet – I just want more and more.

I have lots to write, but no time to write it. In the meantime, let’s take the time to learn about a real-life superhero: Angle Grinder Man. Operating in London and Kent, this helpful chap will answer citizens’ calls for help and come quick with a large saw to cut the clamp off their car.

He even has a (somewhat dated) blog!

The following was written yesterday.

Today was a pretty interesting day. Not really that interesting in terms of what I did, but rather what I thought in my little head. There was one key event that affected the rest of the day, and it was last night’s visit to Traderous Joe that brought about this event.

I got to work at around lunchtime, and, feeling a bit guilty about it – though not too guilty mind you, considering the late nights and weekends I sometimes work, insufferable office neighbor, and poisonous cafeteria food – and so I got to work instead of getting to lunching. Peckish, I set about a box of chocolate-covered espresso beans. Appetite, they say, arrives during the meal. And so, one after another, my caffeinated friends met their doom.

The rest of the day was me putting a spin on the jittery delirium. There was some work done. I dove deep into webcomic archives. I read Wikipedia entries for malt and Admiral Akbar. I penned a politically-motivated blogpost for no readily available reson. I discussed stylesheet-imposed relative and absolute positioning with Rando Commando. I guess the best word to describe what I was feeling was upset. We tend to use that word when something is wrong, but its actully its etymology does not suggest any grief. My mind was knocked off course by a chemical imbalance, and I was thankful for it. Thank you, coffee bean friends!

Nothing focuses me better than discomfort. Conversely, it’s not surprising that lately my mind has been hazy, resilient to change, minimally creative, and generally useless. It’s just too damn comfortable lately.

I remember I was on a car trip with Lyuba, my older sister. It was a barren Indiana winter, and her shitty Neon’s heat was turned up to max, but it wasn’t helping, because Lyuba had rolled down the window so that she could smoke. The cold was seeping into my spots – secret and otherwise. I was cussing intermittently, mostly out of principle. When we tired of the music, Lyuba had me change tapes. Tapes. I got some York Peppermint Patties to make the truck stop coffee go down easier. I don’t remember how many winters ago this was, but I imagine that I had the eternal thoughts in my head – about one girl while getting text messages from another, about what to do with adulthood, about what it takes to be happy, and whether I had it in me, and whether there was really anything wrong if I didn’t. Lyuba was probably talking about the usual things – the grad school annoyances, why all the men she met were big losers. And, since we were headed north, we were discussing our crazy family. Everybody’s got a crazy family, it’s true, but I’d enter mine in any contest that requires defying rational thought.

So why is it that in my cozy corporate job with the medical insurance, a sharp car, and a bigass TV, why is it that I look back wistfully on those few shivering hours?

I was getting tired of the mental whirlwind. Again, “getting tired” is used mostly as a euphimism, but I mean that I was just exhausted of getting my thoughts scattered. I thought that a Guinness would relax me a bit. Nah, it just tasted good.

Tasted good like when we kept our Guinness cool by putting it in the water as we went swimming in a reservoir at The Red. Tasted good like the beer that I smuggled into my dorm room after my astronomy lab group left the field where we mapped constellations, and went to a field where partook in herbology.

It was getting late, so I went home so that I could put more wear in my sofa cushions. So I can pace, brew some tea, pull a book from the shelf, read a page, put it back, wonder about what else I should buy like a good little consumer to introduce some change into my life, write a random letter to a random lost friend, who’s probably married now.

I ate my vegetarian stew, listened to some newly downloaded music, and wrote this. Conclusion: the last De La Soul album blows, while Prince Paul decidedly rocks.

When I think Walter Cronkite, the term “anti-drug-war activist” doesn’t exactly spring to mind. But the legendary anchorman is active even in his retirement. Here is his recent article about the foolishness that is DEA’s drug war.

Walter Cronkite: The Truth About The War On Drugs

To somebody who has read drug reform literature before, his arguments are nothing new. What’s surprising is that this isn’t coming from Marc Emery, a pop star, or a picketer, but from one of the most respected journalists in media – from an era before the polarized scapegoating, finger-pointing festivals pretending to be debates that we see on the news today. Oh, and it seems he conducted his own investigation.

His conclusion is the one that people have been shouting from the rooftops for years, but one that the government refuses to acknowledge:

Amid the clichés of the drug war, our country has lost sight of the scientific facts. Amid the frantic rhetoric of our leaders, we’ve become blind to reality: The war on drugs, as it is currently fought, is too expensive, and too inhumane.

And that’s the way it is.

P.S. It’s not entirely fair of me to say that the government is completely blind to the issue. The government is, well, rather large, and digging deeper, it’s clear that some of its members are sentient with regard to these issues. Four Representatives have recently put forward a request to estimate how much the DOJ has been spending to enforce federal medical marijuana laws. The requests is worded rather bluntly, and can be read here.

P.P.S. After writing the post, I looked for a bit more info about Cronkite’s letter. It seems that my comment about popular news shows was spot on; Bill O’Reilly has recently referenced Cronkite’s effort in his signature style: misquoting, accusing, and spinning. He accuses Cronkite of supporting violent crack dealers, and calls him insane. That much is generic O’Reilly ire. But what’s really hilarious is that he then issued an open invitation for Cronkite to debate him on the issue.

A quote from a Lyrics Born song comes to mind:

Lyrically y’all don’t compare to me in any contest
Like a stealth bomber up against a Hyundai Accent
…
The Loch Ness Monster up against a crawdad

Quite a lot has been happening.

Last week I sat in on my friend Victoria’s radio show, broadcast from the bowels of UW. It was very cool, with all sorts of sophisticated DJ’ing equipment, little knobs, lights, pulleys, and cranks. She even let me play a couple of songs – thanks Vic! Here she is, doing her thing, spreading tunes like butter on the acoustic toast.

Speaking of music, I went to see Dilated Peoples last night. I hadn’t listened to them in quite a while, but the show brought back all that I love about this group. Sharp rhymes, creative beats, and energy that sends the crowd soaring.

While pumping my fist in the air, I regretted that my friend Sean couldn’t be there. Sean doesn’t listen to Hip-Hop, he listens to Rock. And he likes his hard, thank you very much. A few weeks ago I went with him to see Powerman 5000. They had that one song in the 90′s. My left ear rang for a little less than a week afterwards. I stayed on the brim of the mosh pit during the show, watching bodies of all sizes slam into one another. Eyes either closed or darting with alarm, hair and saliva spurting in parabolic explosions. But it’s not all animal abandon: whenever somebody falls, the dance pauses as arms reach down to help. When it resumes, the victim seems almost sorry to have caused the interruption. Leaving the concert, Sean remarked that I was a sport for coming and enjoying the music that’s not my type, and he promised to come with me to a show of my choice. So, the Dilated Peoples would have been a perfect opportunity. Thankfully, there will be many others; on my way out of The Showbox, I picked up a few flyers announcing must-see acts like MF Doom + Danger Mouse, and DMC (minus Run and Jay).

And last weekend I visited Laurie in Purdue. No new piercings this time, though we certainly talked a lot about piercings with Melody, an anti-gun piercing ninja (pictured below in her needly workshop).

I met Melody at the POC climbing lock-in, an event that involves renting the climbing gym out for the night. It usually starts well-intentioned enough, with actual climbing, but soon the climbing yields to slack lining, dodgeball, stupid human trcks, and outright delirium.

Anyway, though I risk sounding like an old fart, I was glad to see the many people enjoying the club for what it is – an irresponsible way to kick ass in a group of lovable hosers. Noah, club president, is obviously doing something right…other than climbing.

And that was the active part of the weekend. The rest was spent in the most delightful debauchery – Laurie even baked me a pie. Mmm pie.

I sent Laurie a link to my inaugural post. She approved, but pointed out one minor problem; in my first post I covered every subject typical of the genre:

general angst and frustration
song lyrics
philosophical meanderings
dissatisfaction with blogs
bragging about my girl
etc, etc, etc

And she was right! What oh what could possibly follow such a catharsis?

Let’s start easy.

Last weekend I visited Purdue, the good ol’ alma mater. The trip was one of the most satisfying vacations ever, as measured by both time well spent, and time well wasted. Went to a bikini party, had a semi-official dinner with some Microsoft people (lightning bolt! lightning bolt!) at Blue Nile, went to the LBC with Derick, played some beer pong, and of course was Laurie’s manwhore.

And now for the special treat.

On the day of my flight back, we did something we’d been thinking about for a while. Let’s just say that I decided to get a bit ornamental.

Hover over the pictures to reveal the mystery within!

Laurie, always the overachiever, got 3 holes to my 2.

The first question is of course “did/does it hurt?”
Nah, negligibly.

The other reactions have been varied. The most curious reaction is from people who instantly start reaching for elaborate criticisms – the ‘why would anyone do that’ crowd. Mind you, it doesn’t bother me in the least, but it makes me wonder how something so simple can elicit such upset.

As for me, I love it!

On the web longer than most of my peers, but the last to get a blog. When they started getting popular, I scoffed at the idea; it was an oversimplification of the personal website. Goodbye custom code, creativity, and individuality. Hello templates, me-too features, and banal blatherings. My reconciliation is not complete. But I am more and more worried about detachment from my old friends. I don’t talk to them as often as I should, though I stalk their websites diligently when taking a coffee break at work. And then there is my graphomania.

The only part left was the all-important debut post. And now it has ripened.

This morning I was on the verge of breaking shit in a stammering rage. Shit went sour. For a couple of months, I’ve been working at buying a house. Doing research, making plans, meeting with people, making financial decisions. You know, grown-up stuff. The final version of the plan had me and my co-borrowing coworker comrade buying the house, and two of my friends renting the other rooms: cohabiting. Cock-up. The renters bailed, after having led me on this entire time.

The internet is like a shitty girlfriend. You can get some amusement out of it, largely of erotic nature. You can meet people through it, who are sometimes wonderful and sometimes worthless. Finally, you can dump your emotional frustrations on it. You can also proclaim your love for it. Yay interweb.

I was, am, and will be pissed off. I’ve seen people be flaky before, but this truly took it to a professional level. I’ve had weekend plans ruined by it, but not 5-year fucking mortgage plans. Perhaps I was too trusting. I had repeated verbal affirmations that I would have renters in the house, and with those affirmations behind me, I engaged in the tedious, stressful house-buying process.

I researched, read. Got advice from friends, family, and colleagues. Hired a wonderful, hard-working real-estate agent. I took damage to my credit score to apply for several mortgages. I sold all of my stocks to have cash for the down-payment. Took time off work to go look at houses. Eliot – whom I convinced that the process would pay off – acted analogously. Sure, I had my doubts. It worried me to be tying myself down like that, to be giving up so much money all at once, to commit to something so responsible and long-term. But I convinced myself that it was worth it; I would be living with three of my friends, having parties every weekend just like in college, and hey – I could save a little money in the end as well!

Then we found The House. And we got The Loan. Braced our quivering knees, took a deep breath, adopted masculine facial expressions, and resolved ourselves. That was yesterday, this is today. The renters bailed, we can’t afford the house without their contribution, and all our work and stress have been for nothing.

How does Vladimir’s mind work? Is he a bold risk-taker? Shy or just bitter? A calculated schemer? A scatterbrained dreamer drunk with wanderlust?

In the shower this morning, I was furious. Imagine shampooing and conditioning in a rage. It’s not a pretty picture. Good thing I didn’t reach for my Soviet-made skin-scalping loofa.

It occurred to me then, as it often does, that life is a lot like climbing. Trusting people is like trusting your gear. Sometimes you place bomber gear, sometimes marginal, sometimes something that you’re not sure will hold an ant, but it’s the only thing you have. But you don’t fall on every piece of gear! Through your personal virtue as a climber, you’re able to avoid frequent falls. You train so that you can climb faster and longer. But in climbing, you also push your limits. And if you do so, you will fall. And when you fall, the gear you place undergoes the ultimate test. Some pieces will hold no matter how big the fall, no matter from which angle, no matter how many times. How many people like this will we know during our lifetime? Other pieces are marginal, and you, having placed them, dread the chance of falling on them. Yet other pieces were placed with the sole intention of holding body weight, but not a fall. Then again, you could be one of those climbers who avoid all risk, and the only weight their gear ever feels is when they’re hanging their food bag on it. I’m not really talking about climbing anymore.

My initial backlash was like that of having a woman cheat on you. You trusted, you believed, you made decisions, plans, and commitments, and then – poof – thanks for playing, better luck next time. After this stage, it’s important to play some appropriate music. Myself at a loss, I let Windows Media Player’s shuffle functionality do the deejaying. It did not disappoint. After some driven Russian rock by DDT about basically playing the hand that’s dealt to you, it chose to play a power-chorded, operatic song by Meat Loaf. Screw the corny image, that man has some serious chops.

There’s a party raging somewhere in the world
You gotta serve your country, gotta service your girl
You’re all enlisted in the army of the niiiiiiiiiiight

And I have one of the prettiest girls around. Too bad she’s hundreds of miles away.

By the time I was getting into my car to go to work, the frustration was receding. It was facing the one opposing ideology that it never had a chance against. Existential nihilism, the old reliable hound that is always ready at the call, who can lick any son of a bitch in this bar, was caressing my mind with its cool, familiar breeze.
There is no sobriety like it.
There is no intoxication like it.

Many people have trouble understanding how existentialism can lead to optimism. They understand the despair all right, but they don’t see a way out of it. I’ve attempted to explain it to people before, but I don’t think I convinced anybody. I don’t think I’ll be able to adequately explain it this time either, but it doesn’t hurt to try.

Bear with me. I assure you that I’m not goth, emo, or a great lover of Sartre.

Imagine yourself in that dark abyss that is existence. There is nothing superficial. No society, no comforting schools of thought, no way out of your mortality, nothing to corroborate aspirations. Not even Baby Jesus. You are alone, you’re not feeling that great, and it kind of stinks of shit and decay. You despair. Presumably, for quite a while. Your eyes adjust to the darkness. You feel something besides despair. Something that you know is important, something you’re too afraid to name. What you’re feeling is freedom. Animal freedom. You’re too afraid to face it, because – face it – you don’t want to admit that you’re just an animal, do you? No, you have principles, ethics, a family. A family? Sorry, not in the abyss, that’s not how the game goes. But maybe you’re on to something with that principles thing. Despite realizing your absolute freedom, you are using that freak of evolution, that unlikely mutation – your higher order brain. But it’s not laden with external restrictions, because hey, there aren’t any in the abyss! The only restrictions are your own. And here, where nothing matters, where you’ll eventually wither and the damp earth will accept you with no ceremony, like it does all its children, here, you can pick and choose your restrictions to your own liking. Which is, I should note, a dangerous thing, because some people are assholes.

And now, when you’re in this lucid state of mind, the abyss disappears and you’re back in our multicolored, bright world, full of flavors and people. There are mountains looming on the horizon, bunnies are fucking in the forests, humans are doing all sorts of curious things with their oversized brains, there are buildings full of books, there are buildings full of art, networks full of packets, there are oceans full of fish, and the colors, so many colors! And you move through it all with a new sense of wonder. You learned in the abyss that all these people and all these bunnies will rot away without a trace, and yet you’re so glad that they’re here now, for you to touch, interact with, study. You walk through the world as if it is a static exhibit presented for your amusement, and you’re careful not to disturb it too much, knowing just how fragile it is. And you’re careful not to talk about your experience in the abyss too much – partly because you covet the power that it gave to you, and partly because it seems like a lot of people are doing just fine anyway. This second illusion fades as soon as you imagine one of these people passing time with the toothed, clawed beings that live in the darkness. Or maybe you choose to flex your freedom and reshape the world with it. But right now, I’m happy just admiring.

Welcome to my blog, you beautiful butterfly you.