Twisty-Bendy-Ow

I've made good on my exercise pledge. Sort of. For the past few years I've been wanting to try yoga but haven't been able to due to aforementioned knee issues. Now that my knees are more or less normal and healthy, I decided to take a stab at it. I wasn't really sure what to expect. I've heard that it has incredible health benefits, but for all I knew that could have been a huge exaggeration. After all, the West has a fantastic habit of adopting Eastern practices, be it religious, philosophy, or exercise, and corrupting them with new age spirituality bullshit. You know, crystals and the Earth Mother, or whatever. But what the hell, I figured. I found a yoga supply shop in my town, bought a mat and carrying bag, and did a little investigating to try and find a decent yoga studio. I was shocked to discover that there are no less than half a dozen studios in my town! After narrowing down the candidates to two, and made a few visits and talked to a few people and finally settled on one. Not knowing what to expect, I attended a Wednesday evening beginner class.

As I walked into the studio the first thing I noticed was the sheer variety of people attending. Some were my age, some a little younger, and some older - middle aged and up. There definitely wasn't a specific age group being targeted here. I found the instructor before class and introduced myself, explained that I had knee surgery five months ago, signed a waver, and changed. I wasn't sure what to make of the instructor - she looked 30 something, incredibly fit, but had this granola air about her. She didn't smell bad, which was good, and didn't sport any dreadlocks, but she definitely seemed to be in the "Earth Mother" camp. She smiled a lot, and had this light, floaty, gentle quality to her voice, the kind of quality that I've heard from girls who were rolling on ecstasy (a decade ago in my late teens - I'm a model citizen now *cough*). But what the hell - I figured if this does turn into a "love the goddess" session I can always ignore the faux-spiritual crap and just focus on the exercise.

She told me to roll out my mat at the back of the classroom since I was new, and at first I wasn't sure why. I figured it'd be more beneficial if the new people were at the front of the class so they could get a better view of the instructor and the poses that we were supposed to do, but I didn't argue. I set up at the back with an elderly woman to my left and a woman my age on my right. I made small talk, and discovered that even these people who were relatively new to yoga had taken at least one class before. I was the only neophyte in the class. The instructor took her position at the front of the room, and we began.

This isn't meant to be sexist in any way, but at a glance, yoga looks relatively easy. You know, a bunch of women stretching. How hard could this be, right? Let me tell you, I thought I was going to die. Even the basic poses were incredibly difficult. After ten minutes my body was gleaming with sweat - droplets were falling from my face and spattering on my mat. My muscles were quivering and my breathing was ragged and uneven. This particular style of yoga involves holding a pose for 30 seconds or so, and then moving to a slightly different pose, holding it, and moving again. After every ten minutes of poses we got to move into a resting pose called "child's pose" which involves kneeling on the ground with your upper body bent completely forward so your forehead touches the floor and your arms are outstretched above your head. It wasn't very restful.

Occasionally I looked to my left. The elderly woman was doing fine. She wasn't even breaking a sweat. To my right, the woman my age showed barely any signs of strain. And then there was me. On two occasions I thought I might actually vomit from the exertion. Now, I had nothing to prove going in there. I knew I was out of shape, and this was my very first class, and no one reasonable would expect much from me. But there's this little slice of vanity that made me determined not to be the only one in this 25 person class that had to take a breather and sit a few poses out. And that's when I understood why they place the new people at the back of the class - so they're well out of sight and don't have to deal with the embarrassment of the rest of the class seeing how laughably out of shape they are. And by they, I mean me.

The class lasted an hour and fifteen minutes, and after ten minutes or so I lost all sense of time. It became utterly meaningless to me as every second was consumed by concentration and fatigue - trying desperately to maintain the poses, to not collapse, to not sit out. I was honestly scared at one point, not knowing if I could continue, but even more scared about collapsing into a heap in front of everyone. Stupid, I know. The instructor approached me to correct my posture from time to time and ask if my knee was holding up. It was during these moments that all thoughts of her being a new-age douche went out of my head. She was gentle, warm, and respectful, and that smile, natural or not, was more than welcome. She saw what a physical train wreck I was, and didn't judge me at all. But I didn't fall in love with her until she ended the class. Just at the moment where my vision began to darken, cloud, and I began to hear the voices of my ancestors calling to me, she dimmed the lights and instructed us to lie on our backs for ten minutes of meditation and rest. I complied. After the class I told her how difficult it was, and how amazed I was that I made it. She was amused and encouraged me to return.

I can honestly say I've never had such a grueling workout. Not with aerobic exercise, not with free weights. For the next three days my entire body felt like it had been beaten with lead pipes, and even today I still feel a little sore in my upper chest and abdomen. It felt like every single muscle, no matter how small, had been pushed to the brink. And you now what? It felt good. I'm going to be attending class again this coming Wednesday, and it can't possibly be any harder than the first class, right? I hope not. Let me be absolutely clear: If you're out of shape and want to get fit, yoga will fuck you up in a good way. I can't recommend it any higher if you really want to push yourself and get in shape. I'm not sure how long I'll stick with it, but I'm determined to go to the next class, and then the next, and see where I am after that.

While I wasn't able to exercise 20 minutes a day for a week, that's mostly due to the fact that I needed days of serious recovery after my first class. As I do it more, my recovery time will decrease. Right now I intend to take yoga on Wednesdays, and do some aerobics on Mondays and Fridays to work on reducing my gut. Even with exercising only three days a week so far, I still consider my experiment a tentative success.

Namaste.

Lethargy

I'm not sure if it's the weather, or the alignment of Venus relative to Pluto, or some sort of generic cyclical effect that I can't quite comprehend, but every now and then I get hit with periods of great lethargy. The coming of the fall semester at college may have kick started it, or maybe I never fully fell back in the zone after recovering from knee surgery, but damn... you ever just want to not get out of bed?

I'm not a lazy person per se, but dammit, I've felt like a lazy person since late August. It takes forever for me to get the motivation to clean my apartment (and sometimes it falls to embarrassing levels of clutter), I limp by in my school assignments (though I am a senior; maybe some of that is to be expected now), and that getting out of bed thing? Lately it's all but impossible for me to rise early, and I find myself languishing in bed until I'm absolutely compelled to drag myself to my feet due to a class or whatnot.

How do people motivate themselves? One theory is that human beings are motivated entirely by fear. The fear of death, of not being able to have a roof over their heads or central heating, etc. Maybe that's the issue. I live a reasonably comfortable lifestyle. I don't have to worry about food, clothing, or warmth. I even have the ability to distract myself with expensive video game systems and a solid collection of literature. But that doesn't sound right. I mean, beyond the fact that it's depressing to think that we're only productive when we're suffering, there are countless examples of well-off, driven, motivated people.

So do I hate myself? No, I don't think that's it. I'm rather fond of me. Sure, I have my own foibles and issues; things I'd like to change (lethargy being one of them). Do I just not care? I don't care about some things, perhaps. To quote Billy Joel, I used to think of myself as ". . . a romantic, I'm such a passionate man!" But as time ticks on and you get a bit older, some of that passion which is usually wrapped up in the idealism of youth tends to subside. But I'm not a bitter old guy sitting on a rocking chair cackling at the kids who walk by. Yet. I guess I just have to force myself to do better. At the end of the day, you're all you've got. Sure, your friends are there to help you in times of need, and support you, but they can't make you change your behavior. Your friends can be a sympathetic ear and give you suggestions if you want to quit smoking, for example, but only you can quit smoking.

This isn't a pity post. More like a philosophical musing. One thing I think might help is exercise. I live a pretty sedentary lifestyle, and if I got the blood pumping for 30 minutes a day I bet that'd help. I was able to use my knee surgery as an excuse for awhile, and though I don't have my full strength and mobility back yet, I'm at least capable of dragging my ass around the block a few times, or using a treadmill. Alright, so that's how I'm going to end this post. I'm going to exercise 30 minutes a day for the next week, dammit, and I'll report my findings back to you. Consider this a psychological and physiological experiment.

Relapse

So it's been months. Right. I knew that.

I have these weird motivational tics. I'm easily inspired, and through the course of a year I'll have a lot of ideas. Some that I think are brilliant, and a lot that are rather mundane. I'll latch onto these ideas with enthusiasm for awhile, but it tends to be cyclical. For instance, my apartment is in a constant flux of cleanliness vs. filth. When inspired, I keep my apartment virtually spotless for a few months or more, but inevitably I'll stop caring for some reason, and it'll end up looking like a hand grenade went off in the center of it for a few months. I suppose the same theory can be applied to my blogging habits.

This isn't to say that there haven't been disruptions. A primary one being the start of the fall semester which has thrown an uncharacteristic amount of work at me since September, and usually by the end of the day after reading and writing for my classes I'm hesitant to do any more for the sake of pleasure. Thankfully, I can be easily guilted into doing things from time to time, hence this post.

Granted, this is a short post, but it proves that I'm still alive and haven't given up on this blog entirely. More to come.

Oh, by the way, after eight years, my guy finally won. F&#$ yeah.

Redundancy

The internet is redundant and though I continue to perpetuate this trend with this blog I maintain, I decided I wasn't doing enough to speed up the mediocrity of the world wide web and took it upon myself to make a new blog about a little side hobby of mine: video gaming. It's a hobby I've indulged in ever since I was a kid, and rather than force my little past time among readers of this blog (which I consider to be relatively well-rounded and a general synthesis of my life), I've decided to create a new, separate blog specifically for this little obsession of mine. After all, I hate cartoonists who love golf or some other shitty sport or hobby and constantly remind us of that fact by including golf jokes all the time. And though I am a hypocrite, I try to at least keep that little fact hidden. So here you go. Enjoy:

Premeditated Gamicide

By the way, since it's been so long since my last post, here's a little update: Physical therapy is exceedingly long and highly annoying, though it does feel good to get a little physical exercise given the fact that I've been more or less immobile for the past nine weeks to one degree or another and my surgeon's stopped supplying me with those delightful little painkiller pills that somehow make life less dreary. So in other words with nothing else to do, I may as well go to a cramped excuse for a gym twice a week and lift my leg up and down a hundred and twenty times before they'll let me leave.

My only real regret is that the summer is flying by for me, at a rate seemingly faster than normal as I've had very little chance to get outside and experience some of that sun that everyone else seems to like so much. Oh well, at least I have an excuse for my pasty-white Irish skin this year.

"Count backwards from 100..."

So, I haven't written a blog entry in weeks, but this time I actually have a good excuse. On the 21st of May I had knee surgery, or, to put it technically, an "elmslie trillat" with a "lateral release." Basically this means they stick an IV in me, pump me full of drugs, wheel me into an OR, knock me out, slice open my leg, "laterally release" my kneecap along with a big chunk of my tibia, move stuff around in there, preform some carpentry, drive a screw through some bone, and sew me back up. Of course, I didn't do this just for the free drugs. I've had this really annoying problem with my knees, to put it mildly, that started when I was 14 or so. My kneecaps developed pointing at a slight angle instead of being dead-center in their sockets. It's a relatively common condition, but the stink of it is it meant that my knees were a lot easier to dislocate than they should have been. And let me tell you, if you've never dislocated anything, especially a knee, you have no idea the sheer amount of utter pain and suffering you've successfully avoided thus far. I'd rather break a bone. When you dislocate your knee, it pops out of its socket, and twists 90 degrees around the side of your leg, tearing all the tendons and ligaments with it. Obviously you drop like a sack of potatoes -- and the fun part is when you have to manually wrench your knee back into its socket, all while writhing around on the ground like a bass flopping about in the bottom of a canoe. You'll also burn through your vocabulary of profanity very quickly - I recommend a thesaurus.

I've had dislocations from carrying a bicycle up a set of stairs, to playing four-square in the street when I was a kid, to playing paint ball, to getting out of my car and having the door swing back and smack me in the knee, to messing around on my hands and knees trying to plug things into the back of my computer... it goes on and on. Essentially, I'd get a dislocation whenever I zigged when I should have zagged. Of course, this has been a huge pain in the ass for me because it precluded me doing anything remotely active that involved any degree of pivoting. I had to give up paint ball for starters. I used to love playing baseball, softball, and basketball, and those were off limits. Hell, I couldn't even go dancing safely - an activity that I really love. But these were all off limits. After all, if I could dislocate my knee getting out of my car, how could I expect to tear it up on the dance floor?

It had always been my right knee that had been the culprit, and in 2004 I had this same procedure for it. Now it's straight as can be, and I have a nice screw in my tibia that I can feel through my skin as a reminder (it sounds grosser than it is. It can be removed, but I just haven't been able to be bothered with it yet). The procedure is outpatient, and takes about two hours. You're virtually immobile for a week, though you can hobble around on crutches if you desperately need to get somewhere, such as, say, the bathroom - but that's about it. After 10 days or so you can think about putting a slight amount of weight on that leg. After three or four weeks, then begins six to eight weeks of physical therapy, which is more of an inconvenience than painful, but the whole thing from start to finish is an ordeal that you don't want to take lightly. Unfortunately for me, it was necessary.

Of course, almost immediately after I had my right knee fixed, my left knee, which had never dislocated before in my life, started to pop out. I had to wait three years or so before getting it fixed mostly because I wanted to do it in the winter, but being a college student made that impossible. Finally, I just said "fuck it" this year and decided to get it done over summer vacation. I just really miss being active, and don't want to have to walk on ice every time I do something that involves a slight degree of pivoting. I want to play sports again. I want to run around like an idiot. I want to dance again. This fall, baby... this fall.

My folks more or less demanded to take care of me during the first two weeks of my recovery, and bless them, it was both a huge comfort and a massive convenience. They more or less waited on me hand and foot, though I did my best to be a kind and benevolent Young Master, not abusing my powers as much as I could. Now I'm back at home, and I can "walk," or more accurately hobble, without crutches. I can take actual showers (try going two weeks with only sponge baths sometime), I don't have to wear a dressing on my wound anymore, and I can prepare my own food. A measure of independence is good.

Oh, yeah, and my knee looks like this now. You can see the lovely round, softball shaped curves and contours around my knee, along with some puffy, bloated flesh. We're hoping that goes away reasonably soon! Thankfully the scarring probably won't be that bad. And on a side note, having your knee shaved, for a guy at least, feels damn weird. There's so much about surgery and the process leading up to it that's just damn surreal.


And, just for a frame of reference, here's a side-by-side comparison of my healthy and non-mutilated right knee, verses my left knee. As you can see, there are some... subtle... differences. But, to be fair, the medication is fantastic - nothing like oxycodone mixed with vicodin to help you keep your sense of humor about something like this. Still, after 16 days of seeing practically nothing outside of my mother's home office where I was more or less confined to the guest bed, I was starting to go a little stir crazy. Don't get me wrong, it's a nice home-office and all, and I got to take regular sightseeing trips to the bathroom, and occasionally had to slide downstairs on my butt to go to the surgeon's office for an update, but after awhile it felt like being confined in a luxurious prison with excellent room service and home care. Though it was a fantastic bonding experience with my folks, and I remember saying how ironic it was that it took major surgery to bring us closer together, especially when we live a stone's throw away from each other. But then again, life is funny sometimes.

And now I'm home, in my studio apartment, and while it's a definite change of scenery, I still can't really go anywhere for at least another week or two. But I'm trying to make the most of it and be productive in ways I might not if I could be more active. I upgraded, and practically rebuilt my computer with the help of two of my friends, and it absolutely screams now (though I will need to upgrade my video card very soon), I've got some writing done for a project I've been kicking around in my head for awhile, and it's also been a good opportunity to reflect and spend some quiet time with myself.

Oh, and if you're going to have knee surgery, or any kind of surgery that'll result in you being immobilized for awhile, get a cat. One of my folks' cats, named "The Little Guy," was quite a comfort - except when the little asshole would jump on my left leg while I was sleeping. Anyway, here's to being able to walk, and run, and dance, and throw a ball around. Here's hoping there'll still be some summer left by the time my bones finish knitting.

Polepoke

So I got an iPhone this past January, and frankly, I love the damn thing - though whenever someone notices me using it I feel this guilty need to explain to whomever it is that I'm not an "Apple Guy," or one of those people that was camping outside an Apple store the night before the launch, live-blogging away, eagerly awaiting the opening of the store's doors and the grand spectacle of capitalism that would undoubtedly unfold. Thankfully, this explanation is never difficult, as the iPhone is more than just an expensive yuppie toy. It's got a host of features I use every day, from a real web browser, to the ability to check and write email, to being a fully-fledged MP3 player, etc. Plus, unlike Blackberries, it does this with an easy to use, aesthetically pleasing interface that's second to none.

What I hate about the iPhone, however, is its text messaging system. It's easy to use, sure, but it's got this insufferable auto-correct spelling feature. This is great if I mean to write "the" and accidentally tap out "teh." This happens occasionally, and the iPhone conveniently recognizes my obvious human error, and compensates for it. Where the iPhone goes from being a faithful little editor to a well-intentioned meddler is with slightly more esoteric words and phrases. For example, one evening I was bored and sent a text message to a female friend that I figured was also bored. There was no deep message or substantive dialog invovled. I simply wrote: "pokepoke." As in, "I'm poking you in the ribs to get your attention."

My faithful iPhone must have misinterpreted my motivation for sending this message and, without my knowledge, changed it from an innocent, charming "pokepoke" to the much more suggestive "polepoke." You can imagine the hilarity that ensued before I realized this error that my diligent, dutiful, but socially inept iPhone made on my behalf. This is just one example of many awkward situations that I've had to endure as a result of my confused little digital companion. Perhaps it's my fault for not quickly checking to make sure that what I wrote is actually what's being sent, but that shouldn't be my job. If I wrote something than that should be what's actually sent. I'm just glad I'm not using my iPhone to write this blog entry, otherwise the central theme of this post may have been translated to: "May you never find a live turtle in your soup."

Nostalgia

I was musing on the concept of nostalgia today, and I had the unsettling realization that memories tend to become idealized after a certain point in time. We tend to pine for the past because we're discontent with the present. Compounding that is the fact that we tend to gloss over the blemishes of past experiences and emphasize the brighter spots. This isn't a malevolent tendency; it's subconscious and part of being human. As a personal example I remember every last vivid detail of my first real kiss, but I only have vague recollections of a horrific car accident I was in that involved the vehicle hitting a telephone pole (which snapped into three pieces), flipping upside down, and then only being able to get out by kicking out shards of window glass and rolling out the window upside down (I wasn't driving, by the way). That said, one of the things that drives the point of an idealized past home is that for the most part, things that I thought were great and enjoyed in my past, tend to not interest me anymore to put it mildly. In fact, one of the best ways to preserve pleasant memories of the past is to not revisit the original source material.

One of the most powerful examples of nostalgia for many people, myself included, is in music. I shake my head sometimes when I think of the kinds of music and bands I used to love in my more formative years. Part of this is out of our control - I mean, our tastes and interests naturally evolve over time. I remember getting pulled into the one-hit-wonder "band" Ace of Base in the early nineties through my best friend. I was 13. It's forgivable. Sometimes we find gold by accident, and carry it with us into the future, such as discovering The Cure, Depeche Mode, and Mozart around 1996 (I still listen to all three to this day).

I kind of got left behind with the rise of alternative rock in the 1990s. Never was a huge fan of punk either, and I never even tried to get into ska (I think the name alone made me resist). Occasionally you come across a band, or at least an album, of a genre that you typically avoid, that strikes a chord with you for some unexplainable reason. For me the prime example of this is the band The Offspring, and more significantly, the album Americana. Seriously, this is a fantastic album. There's something about The Offspring that sets it outside its pseudo-punk genre. Their songs range from melodrama on one end, to hilarity and satire on the other, with most occupying a sensible middle ground. I think one of the reasons why I'm taken by them is they don't take themselves that seriously, and have a talent for social commentary and satire. Of course, I'm of the feeling that Americana was their best, and only "true" album. Seriously, if you've never listened to it, give it a try. It's worth it.

We have an incredibly powerful ability to lodge memories into music. Songs contain vivid memories of summers with friends, past relationships, friendships, school years, and random moments in time. It always amazes me when I listen to a song I haven't heard in years and all of a sudden memories and emotions from that time come rushing in all at once. It's almost like how smells are linked to memory. Of course, often enough if we dare to scratch the surface and really, honestly explore those memories, we find a familiar pattern: As great as those memories are, we're using rose-colored glasses when viewing them. More often than not, at that point in time we were lamenting for the nostalgia of a prior past, and considering the present to be inadequate or lacking in comparison. I guess the lesson is to enjoy the present. It's all you've got.

Day 1 as a Student Senator

So today I went to my orientation as a new student senator. Wow. What the fuck did I sign up for? Basically, here's how student government at my university breaks down. We oversee about half a million dollars each semester in the form of "student activity fees," or extra cash that each student attending my university has to pay. From that half a million, the student senate allocates resources to fund essential services on campus, the school paper and radio station, and other projects that promote student success. We also have discretionary funds that student groups can apply for to help go to conferences, host events, etc. In other words, compared to most universities, student government actually performs a useful function at my school. That's the "neat" part. The not-so-neat part boils down to the usual cause of problems in life: Other people.

Parliamentary procedure is used for each meeting to make sure that things don't get wildly out of hand, that people don't talk over each other, and that some veneer of professionalism is maintained. This is a good thing - but the sheer amount of bureaucracy, or more importantly, a lack of understanding of how the bureaucracy works by most of the participants makes attending one of these meetings feel like getting beaten with lead pipes. Beyond people, beyond student senators who should know what they're doing not having done their homework, there's the other "people problem."

There is a very special type of person that goes to and truly enjoys meetings of these types - I call them "meetings whores." These are people with little to contribute other than a love of hearing their own voice; people who will take every opportunity to criticize a motion or proposal, who make mountains out of molehills to create the illusion that they're performing important work, and who are self-aggrandizing to the extreme. I hate these people, and I've already identified those who are going to be my prime nemesis' for the following school year. If someone would load these people into helicopters and toss them out into the bay, we could turn a four hour meeting into an hour long meeting. To compound the difficulty, these people tend to be the ones with the most motivation to attend each meeting.

This entire problem could be minimized if the Chair actually did his job: stopping nonsense, and making sure the proceedings go smoothly. I wasn't impressed by what I saw today. Granted, I'm a freshman senator - what the fuck do I know, right? But in reality, you could get rid of half of the senate seats, combine some committees, run meetings with a no-nonsense Chair, and the only people who would suffer would be the ones who love to raise objections over the barest minutia.

Next week? A budget meeting. The last budget meeting ran for eight hours. I'm packing a bag lunch.

Intelligent [sic] Design?

Even if you've been living under a rock for the past decade, it's likely you've caught wind of the "intelligent design" movement. Essentially ID is a Christian strategy that originated in the '80s with the goal of discrediting Darwinian evolution and pushing the concept of an "intelligent designer" (code for God) into high school and college classrooms (on our dime). The clash between religion and science has been around far before taxpayer money ever got wasted on Scopes, and in reaction to the Scopes trial (the good guys lost that one) biology, or more specifically, the scientific theory (more on this later) of evolution, was glossed over or outright ignored in U.S. schools until the mid-60s. Thanks to a 1987 court ruling, "Creationism," or the story that God created the earth about 6000 years ago, put lots of stuff in it, and then took a nap on Sunday, was legally barred from being taught in public classrooms. Hence, the ID movement. ID is creationism repackaged to hide the overt Jaaaaayzus-factor and has been presented as a scientific theory in its own right, which would mean that it carries the same weight as real, substantive scientific theories.

Unfortunately we now have to delve into semantics and parse some language. What is a theory? I know of a man on the street who's homeless and makes tinfoil sculptures of animals. He says that he can do this because he's been given a gift from God. That's a theory, of sorts. But in the context of science, a theory is a subject that's rigorously studied over many years by a body of people who work to understand the mysteries of the universe. Scientists aren't interested in what's already known - that's boring, and more importantly, uninteresting. Some aspects of a theory lead to dead ends, and those are discarded, while more promising aspects lead to new understands and sometimes groundbreaking discoveries (genetics, for example). To help put this into perspective, gravitation is a scientific theory.

ID proponents (in public) will state that they just want to expose students to a broad range of ideas and let them make up their own minds. Sounds good, right? But the standard that they set for their pseudo-science is so low, that by that definition, by that standard, the tinfoil man would have an argument for equal time in the classroom as well - that children should be exposed to his "theories" and then make up their own minds about what they believe. Of course, all you have to do is follow the money trail to see that the backers of ID hail from enlightened and agenda-free organizations such as the Discovery Institute. But going beyond the agenda to not just Christianize, but fundamentally Christianize (the Bible is the literal word of God) the United States, the amusing, tragic, and pathetic fact is that ID has no scientific conclusions or results. It's negative-science, and you can't prove a negative. I can't prove that God doesn't exist, but the burden of proof is on those that make the claim that God does exist. In short, it's simply a cover - wrapping religion in pseudo-science. It's the equivalent of defecating into a box that's then carefully wrapped in ornate paper, tied with a bow, and given as a gift.

This came to a head in 2004 in the small town of Dover Pennsylvania when the board of the town's high school ruled that science teachers be mandated to to read a disclaimer that, paraphrasing, states that the theory of evolution is imperfect, there are gaps in the science, and that there were alternative viewpoints. This was coupled with a "gift" to the school of 60 "textbooks" that trumpeted creationism as the origins of life on Earth. This resulted in a lawsuit and a fascinating trial. NOVA did a fantastic documentary on the ordeal, and I highly recommend it: http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/id/

What inspired this post was the discovery of a pro-ID "documentary" that's being released this month called "Expelled: No Intelligence Allowed," from the production company that was behind the Passion of the Christ. To add even more hilarity, it's narrated by Ben Stein, a man that I found amusing and fun to watch when all I knew of him was his role as a game show host. The guy's brilliant, and a completely fucking crazy right-wing nutjob. I was intrigued by this documentary, and started investigating reviews from screenings that had started to pop up throughout the webs, and I came across some blogs that I truly recommend - they're well written, witty, and intelligent. Both are worth your time.

One is by PZ Myers who is a biologist and associate professor at the University of Minnesota, Morris: http://scienceblogs.com/pharyngula/

The other is by Kristine, a graduate student and science geek (I mean that in a good way): http://amused-muse.blogspot.com/

If there's anything I want to leave you with, it's the realization that there is a small group of highly motivated individuals out there who have an agenda they want to force on the rest of us while we're sleeping. There isn't a lot of them, but they're loud, incredibly committed, and dangerous. Thankfully, they're also relatively incompetent.

Philosopher King

So here's a story... I've decided to run for student senate at my university. Now, I've previously made statements such as, "student government is utterly worthless." That might seem to conflict with my recent candidacy. Fair point. In my defense, I was drunk when I made the decision. More importantly, I think that student government can actually be useful in a limited way. It's a bridge between the administration and the student body, and does have some say regarding finance and the ability to organize events on campus. Worst case, it'll be an interesting sociological experiment. Which brings me to this snippet of conversation I had with a friend of mine regarding my plans following my inauguration... the names were changed, though no one was innocent:

T. Madison: yeah, true - and I have to agree with him to a certain extent. But at the end of the day I really do think that student government can do great things, but my cynicism comes from being skeptical that it can overcome infighting and external barriers. Part of the problem is that half the people in student government are just there to be in a clique or enclave on campus

J. Wilks: yeah, absolutely. And I also think it can actually be of good use

T. Madison: I know I've said student government is "worthless" and I'm not backing away from that statement - I think it more or less is worthless, at least in the results it historically produces, but I don't think it's innately worthless

J. Wilks: don't worry, I won’t send a transcript of this to the free press...

T. Madison: lol, I guess I'm subconsciously thinking like a politician already

J. Wilks: haha

T. Madison: but fuck them! I'm running unopposed! Hahaha!

J. Wilks: lol

T. Madison: I could walk in there on day one and say, "Hah! this is all a crock of shit!" - no - better than that - that could be my platform - and I'd still get elected.

J. Wilks: yes indeed

T. Madison: Maybe next year if I'm still around I'll run for student body president and then declare martial law

J. Wilks: in fact you could just wait a month 'till someone drops out and then get yourself appointed and not worry about hte election...

T. Madison: Will you be my general? I'll provide the eye patch

J. Wilks: damn straight! or at least foreign minister...

T. Madison: My first decree will be a distribution of campus resources under martial law. I'll need you to recruit shock troops that will steal the kegs from frat and sorority houses and appropriate the buildings as student apartments. Except for the frat house, that'll be my palace. And the sorority members will be used as concubines for myself, and my staff

J. Wilks: Wow - this is going to be the best year ever! and because I am writing a thesis on how a state comes to manipulate thugs into doing horrifying acts of violence. I'm well suited for the job

T. Madison: My second decree will be the removal of all athletic scholarships and a redistribution of funds to lower tuition costs.

I plan to be the case study for the philosopher king, or enlightened despot.

J. Wilks: lol. I see history repeating itself ...

T. Madison: Part of the athletic scholarship will also be used to provide extra confectionary goods to keep Police and Safety on my side.

J. Wilks: one day I will challenge your authority and you will have me shot

T. Madison: You'd never.

J. Wilks: but that will cause an uprising which you will quell with much violence

T. Madison: I'll just throw a little money at the international affairs program

J. Wilks: oh, well that’s cool then... everyone has a price I guess

T. Madison: That's why police and safety will have to be bribed. I'll naturally have to increase their funding to provide fire hoses, rubber bullets, and an armored vehicle. Razor wire will go around the my converted frat house, and a 50 cal machine gun will be placed on the porch.

J. Wilks: wow, you are really going to put USM on the map - I bet you turn around the retention problem over night

T. Madison: Oh, there will be no more dropping out.

J. Wilks: anyone who tries to go will be shot?

T. Madison: First they'll face an "exit interview" where a special staff "discusses" their reasons for wanting to drop out, and has a reasonable discussion explaining why that would be a bad idea. If they still persist, they'll be taken to a camp (the Sullivan gym will be converted to this end).

J. Wilks: If I wasn't so high up in the administration, I would be kind of afraid right now...

T. Madison: You'll be among my inner circle, which will only consist of my most trusted allies. You, Amanda, Lauren, Hans, and a handful of others. I need people on my staff that I don't have to worry about getting paranoid about later and thus have to purge.

J. Wilks: BJ just for window dressing?

T. Madison: BJ... window dressing is too good for her. She'll be part of the concubine. I can't trust her

J. Wilks: but she buys into the whole power paradigm you set up, even if she doesn't realize it...

T. Madison: Which is exactly why she's so untrustworthy

J. Wilks: plus she has a great rack...

T. Madison: hence, the concubine.

J. Wilks: fair enough

T. Madison: I would accept her on my staff only if she publicly executed her current squeeze to show her commitment. Then I'd put her in charge of executive relief

J. Wilks: is she still with him?

T. Madison: god only knows

J. Wilks: good lord, what a waste...

T. Madison: Seriously. So basically that's my plan. I seriously hope I can count on your support...

J. Wilks: do I have a choice?

T. Madison: Sure. Just a shitty one.

J. Wilks: lol

T. Madison: Dude, trust me, you always want to get in on the ground floor with these things.

J. Wilks: how true

T. Madison: part of me wishes we had this conversation in person, but another part of me is glad there's a text record of it

J. Wilks: yeah - evidence to be held on to for future bribery... I mean laughs...

T. Madison: Dude, you're my general. What more do you want? You get beer, automatic weapons, and enough pussy to give you a thousand offspring. Plus you get to push people around. Your only real task will to take a percentage of freshman each year and train them to serve in the People's Army

J. Wilks: what is really scary is how accurate that is... you just described most every dictatorship in the world...

T. Madison: See? I'm more than qualified.

J. Wilks: since US government 101, I've never questioned that...

T. Madison: I will humbly take that as a generous, heart-felt compliment

J. Wilks: indeed

T. Madison: I think this conversation needs to go on my blog.

J. Wilks: yeah - i was thinking the same, but it fits better on yours..

T. Madison: I'll change our names and initials

J. Wilks: yeah

T. Madison: this is good - I've been waiting for more blogging inspiration.

"...I know because I've done it thousands of times."

So there haven't been any updates for over a week - and I guess that's because my heroic quest to quit smoking sort of flopped. Well, it didn't "sort of" flop. It nosedived into a field. To someone who's never smoked, it must seem silly that a person can't just up and quit. Believe me, I say that to myself at times. I have one particular neurosis though that makes quitting a little more challenging. I can't just have one pack of cigarettes on hand. If I'm down to my last pack I feel like I'm running out of ammunition - and you never want to be low on ammo. So by about that time I'll invariably head out to the corner store to pick up a few spare clips, and lo and behold, my "low ammo anxiety" will immediately dissipate. The problem with that is I'll set a quit date, mark it on my calendar, be deadly serious about it, enjoy my "last day" of smoking, and go to bed. Then the next morning I'll wake up, groggy, nicotine deprived, and see a pack of unsmoked cigarettes a few feet away from me on my desk. And I'll light up. What I need to do is just immediately stumble into the shower, stumble out, slap on a nicotine patch, and flush the bastards down the toilet. I'll get there within a week or two. You just watch.

So in other news, classes are going well, though I think I've read more about labor relations and capitalism than I ever thought would be possible to cram into a single semester. I'm enjoying it though, and that's what counts. My excessive schedule has kept me from my afternoon/evening cocktails though - something I plan to do something about this coming weekend, perhaps in conjunction with my next quit attempt; maybe as a reward. That's all for now... have more industrial relations papers to read...

Smoking

I'm a smoker. It sucks. Unlike most people I know I didn't start smoking, ironically, until I was 18. My best friend got hooked on it through another friend of his, and he got me to try it. It was great - back then, with no tolerance, taking a drag was like getting high. It felt like your brain was one of those little balls inside the vertical tubes they use to test the power of your lungs when you blow into it. It just went up, and up, and up. I remember saying to my friend, "I can't believe it's legal to smoke and drive!"

Then, of course, the tolerance kicked in. Instead of smoking to get that high, we started smoking just to not feel like shit. Pretty common story. So anyway, I've been smoking for about nine years now, off and on. I've made numerous attempts to quit, some of them even successful, but I'd always end up coming back to Mr. Camel. Or Mr. Basic. Or Mr. Nat Sherman. Or Mr. Dunhill. Or whomever.

It'd always go the same way. I'd use the patch (which is a godsend for me). I'd feel like shit for a few days. I'd feel pretty bad for a week. I'd feel mildly bad for another week. Then I'd be fine. Then, I'd go for maybe weeks, maybe even months without smoking a single cigarette, or even really feeling the urge to. Then one fateful night I'd go out drinking with some friends. I'd get a few drinks in me, have some laughs, and then someone would pull out a cigarette and light up. I'd turn to them and say, "Hey, gimmie one of those." They'd look at me, knowing I'm an ex-smoker, and say, "You sure?" to which I'd reply, "Of course I'm sure. I'm drunk!" Then it'd be all over.

There are people that can quit smoking for good, but still light up once or twice at a party or special occasion. I'm not one of those people. I don't have a completely addictive personality, but in little nooks and crannies of my psyche', I'm like a crack addict when I get started on something. Smoking is one of these things. The physical pains of withdrawal are bad enough, but for me the worst part is the psychological aspect. I've associated cigarettes with pretty much everything I do, from driving, to sitting at my computer, to having a cup of coffee, to watching TV, to a post-dinner treat. When I don't smoke, I don't just feel withdrawal pains. I feel like I don't have my pants on.

So tomorrow I'm going to quit again, and this time I'm going to really try and quit for good. This will probably be my ninth serious attempt. Like Mark Twain once said, "quitting smoking is the easiest thing in the world. I know because I've done it thousands of times." I guess from that point of view I'm well on my way. So over the next several days I'm going to be chronicling my epic journey into the depths of nicotine-deprived madness. And you, my loyal friends, are coming along with me.

Nightlife

Nightlife. My city is rather odd in this respect. On the one hand, it has a surprising amount of places to go after hours, but the caveat is that the only real thing you can do is get drunk. Now, I've got nothing against getting drunk. In fact, I enjoy a good drink and time out laughing, socializing, and participating in general debauchery. The only issue is the ratio of bars to, oh, I don't know, dance clubs, pool halls, and other establishments where you can get your drink on, and do other things as well.

Since hitting a bar is more or less a given on a night out in my city, this poses the next question: Where? 90% of the bars downtown are all clustered together on a waterfront street that stretches as far as the eye can see. Drinking establishments on this strip come in all sizes and flavors, from blue collar working class bars, to obnoxious frat boy bars, to neon-striped martini bars, and everything in between. The problem is they're all clustered together in this one street that is a constant venue for a parade of drunken idiots of all sizes and genres. You should see the police presence thirty minutes before last call. You'd think that martial law was about to be enacted. So while there are plenty of options on this street, they're all squished together in a clusterfuck of beer drinking morons and state power. Obviously, this isn't my local of choice when I want to get my drink on.

This has led me back to one of my older haunts, a hipster bar called the Whiteheart. I love and hate this bar at the same time. On the one hand, it's the only bar on its street for a good half-mile, which results in a homogeneous population and a relatively calm environment. On the other hand, I hate this homogeneous population. The bar is directly across the street from an art college, so 90% of the patrons are young, hipster, "too cool for school" socialites who walk under a palpable cloud that they're the hottest thing in fashion this season. Just wait until you start a conversation with them. You're struck by an overpowering urge to rifle through your pocket in hope of finding a needle that you can use to pop their straining bubble of ego and overvalued sense of self-worth. But I digress. They're better than the frat boys.

So what's a drink of choice on a cold night downtown? I have to confess that sometimes I get the overpowering urge for a "girly drink." Granted, I've only had an Alabama slammer once in my life, but then again, I really enjoyed it. If I'm feeling in the mood for a femme drink, my usual poison of choice is a white Russian. God damn, I love those things, especially when chased with a PBR for the surreal combination of tasteful class and white trash. Oh, and always remember to tip well - it'll come back to you in the form of bigger drinks.

Hedonism

Hedonism has cultivated a fairly negative reputation in the West, especially in the United States, where it's come to represent such unflattering meanings as "lazy," "selfish," "excess," and - in the more conservative necks of the woods - even "sinful." Hedonism began with a great reputation, starting with the Greeks, and then adopted by the Romans, spreading to Egypt and other locals. Then Rome fell, and the Church, as usual, ruined everything.

Hedonism simply means the pursuit of pleasure. On the face of it, when you take a step back and shake off the lens that society has placed in front of you since you were a toddler, what's so bad about pleasure? There's a great saying about sex that I'll paraphrase (while forgetting the name of the author), "In America, sex is an obsession. Everywhere else, it's a fact." Of course, carnal pleasure is only one very small slice of the pleasure pie, but it's what always gets everyone up in arms the most.

A successful hedonist indulges in pleasure with moderation and balance. It's very Eastern, in a way. Pleasure should be actively sought everywhere, whether in lunch, an evening cocktail, a massage, a vacation, sunbathing, or a sensuous lover. We're the only modern democratic state, to the best of my knowledge, that doesn't have vacation days mandated by law. We're obsessed with perfection: getting the perfect body, climbing the corporate ladder, running the treadmill of tasks to reach goals in the dream of being "successful." Politically correct pleasure, as an ideal, is always something that's in the future. It's an abstract goal that we're constantly striving for, putting off day-to-day pleasure in the hope that by the time we hit retirement we'll be able to get a hearty slap on the back from some unknown approving hand and some sort of acknowledgment and recognition of our "success" in life. It ain't gonna happen.

A friend of mine suggested I read "The Hedonism Handbook" by Michael Flocker. It's part meat, part fluff, part history, and sprinkled with tidbits of wisdom on every page. I'll quote from a passage:

On a recent trip to Barcelona with a friend, I was amused to find that many businesses really do close shop for several hours in the middle of the day. The happy and friendly residents of the city tend not to go out to dinner until nine or ten in the evening, and it's customary to head out for a drink some time around midnight. My friend and I were told by the hotel staff that no one goes to dance clubs before two in the morning. Armed with typical American skepticism, we assumed that this meant that the clubs don't really get hopping until about two in the morning. Cut to: Two American tourists standing alone in a cavernous dance club at 1:45.

To the swarthy and sexy residents of this seaside city, it seemed only logical that the hours between midnight and two were for socializing at bars. Then when the bars close at two, if the urge to dance is stronger than the urge to retire, off you go. And so it went, usually until about six in the morning. After several nights of such debauchery, my friend and I found ourselves in conversation with the manager of our hotel. Naively, we asked him, "How does anybody get any work done if they close the businesses in the middle of the day and go out partying every night until the early morning?" The look of pity on his face spoke volumes. He smiled and confided in a most delightfully resigned manner, "You know, in America you are all in this mad race to be number one. And you know what? You win! You can be number one. Here, we would rather enjoy our lives."

This statement was simple, but the truth it touched up on was a significant one. The frantic race to be number one is a sad and desperate compulsion. Whatever happened to just playing the game? Don't parents teach that to their children? When did the rules change? When did it become a disappointment for an Olympic athlete to win a silver medal? Is happiness reserved exclusively for the one individual who places first, and everyone else is expected to shrink back in shame and disappointment? Who's the genius who came up with that perspective?

This concept is shockingly foreign to me, and it raises a lot of questions about life, personal goals, and happiness. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy pleasure. Pleasure is fun - but I'd never really adopted pleasure as a philosophy. Reading this book has forced me to re-examine my own life and to look to the future with a different eye. Of course, we all need money and steady work. I'm very thankful that I have the opportunity to pursue a college education, and I'll definitely be seeing it through - but it's made me question what I do with my life after graduation. And more importantly, how I spend my free time.

This book isn't the end all, be all of hedonistic thought, but it's a good place to start for a neophyte such as myself. More updates as they come. For now? I'm definitely penciling evening cocktails into my schedule.

The Life of the Student

Everyone bitches about their workload; it's a habit probably cultivated by the need to impress others and the desire to feel like we're doing something challenging (if not always useful) with our lives. My friends all bitch about their work, to which I listen to with good natured acceptance because they listen to my bitching in return. As a college student, though, I've recently thought that my friends truly lacked an appreciation for the amount of work I have to do - or at least an understanding. Perhaps it can be difficult to take an undergrad student seriously when they complain about their workload. I'm sure the lifestyle might seem to be that of friends, beer, parties, and lots of free time coupled with the occasional exam or paper.

Aided by modern technology, I'd like to put that assumption to rest by displaying the amount of reading I have to complete, analyze, and write about for this semester, for two classes. Of course, this doesn't account for roughly twenty online PDF readings, averaging about 20 pages each, that I have to download, print, and read in addition to my stack of books.

As you can see, my partying time is rather limited. This isn't a post to whine, but rather to educate. I'd like to think I'm doing my part here for undergraduate students all across the country. Just wait until graduate school.

Another Snow Day

What's up with this winter? I love it. I'm a huge fan of snow, mainly because I don't have to shovel a driveway, or drive 20 miles to work in raging storms. I do, on the other hand, get the benefits of repeated snow days. You can just tell I'm a highly motivated learner, can't you? Of course, this is probably just a precursor, an indicator of dramatic weather patterns to come due to global warming, and when the Earth collapses in upon itself, I probably won't be smiling the way I am right now, but the hell with it - that's at least a few years away, right?

I love electronics, and I love toys, and I recently scratched my consumer itch by getting a very nice digital camera - a Canon PowerShot 950 IS.

This thing is a real treat. My Dad used to be a professional photographer back in the '80s, and when digital cameras first started to become popular, he was in heaven; great photographs with no film or development time. I know there are purists out there who view photography as more of an art form, and enjoy the darkroom process and the various tricks you can use with real film that can be difficult to replicate digitally, but man, the quality of pictures you can get for such a small time investment is just astounding.

For anyone looking to buy a digital camera in the near future, I've learned a few things about the process. Whenever I buy a relatively expensive piece of technology, I really try and do my research. This is usually a long, painful process of viewing multiple reviews, browsing online forums, asking questions, and repeating the process as many times as necessary until I feel confident in my purchase. I think I looked at about twenty different cameras over a two week period before settling on this one.

If you're new to photography and want a good first camera, get a "point-and-shoot." These usually range between $150-$400, are small and easy to carry, and technology is now at the point where you can get some really beautiful photographs out of these little powerhouses. In our society, everybody loves numbers, and conventional wisdom is that bigger = better. This isn't necessarily the case with megapixels. One megapixel equals one million pixels, or dots of resolution on your photograph. Most cameras, even the cheap ones, sport at least 5 megapixels, and some, like the one I purchased, go as high as 12. This is important to a degree, but you only really need more than five or six if you're going to be making large prints or zooming in and cropping parts of your photos where that extra resolution is needed. I purchased my camera not because of its high megapixels, but because of several other factors.

One of the most important things to consider is how cameras handle colors. In my quest to find the perfect camera, I learned that the general consensus is that Sony cameras, while having their strong points, have a difficult time producing rich colors that truly reflect the image you're shooting. Canon cameras have an excellent reputation in this department, and it'd be hard to go wrong with most of their PowerShot line. Of course, as always, do your own research. Power up and shooting speed are also something to consider. You probably want to avoid cameras that take four seconds to power up after you hit the button because you'll run the risk of missing a once-in-a-lifetime shot. Also, some cameras take longer than others to cycle between shots, especially when using a flash. Part of this has to do with the speed of your memory card, but I'll touch on that later.

Other considerations, while less important, should be looked at. Most cameras sport at least a 2.5" LCD screen, which is really all you need, but some come in sizes of 3" which are just plain pretty. Usually to get an LCD in that size you'll have to sacrifice the optical viewfinder, though, which may be a problem for some. These days the optical viewfinder doesn't tend to be all that necessary for most, but it's always nice to have in a pinch if you need to stand way back from what you're shooting, or sun glare makes the LCD impossible to see clearly. I'd also recommend a camera with an internal lithium-ion rechargeable battery as opposed to AA batteries as they're smaller, less of a hassle to carry around, and come with their own recharger. It'd also be worth your time to find out what the control scheme is like, how many bells and whistles there are, manual settings, ease of navigation, etc. While most point-and-shoot cameras don't come with a lot of manual settings, you should at least be able to change basic light settings in various increments. At this point this is a pretty standardized feature though, and will probably only be discussed in reviews if it's omitted.

Image Stabilization is a really nice feature that most of the newer cameras have started to adopt. I couldn't tell you the technical mechanics of how it works, but basically the lens has a special component that reduces blur by compensating for shaky hands. If you drink as much coffee as I do, this is a feature you'll probably want. You also might want to look at how much "noise" or grain the camera produces at higher ISO speeds (every review will touch on this and explain what I mean here far better than I could). Finally, you'll want a large, fast memory card - at least 2GB, and probably 4GB to be on the safe side, especially if you're using a high megapixel camera that uses a lot of disk space per shot. I highly recommend the SanDisk Extreme III SDHC card (if your camera can support it) - it's incredibly fast, which will increase your transfer speed from camera to hard drive, and decrease your time between shots. This card will run you about $60 online, and is worth every penny.

One last note: After you do all your research and find your dream camera, buy it online! NEVER buy from a retail store like Best Buy or Circuit City. You'll save at least $50 (sometimes more than $100) ordering your camera online. To put this in perspective, my $60 SD card costs $130 at Circuit City. Whew - that ran a little longer than expected. If you're in the market for a camera, I hope this helped. Send me some pics!