Those of you who own an iPod, especially a nano, know what I mean when I say that it has drastic effects on the everyday experience. It seems to draw out hidden, musically bound meanings to life that require it's beckoning hand in order to emerge, hesitantly and blinking, from their dark and sealed lairs. One of the most noteworthy causes of this is how darn small the thing is. It can literally be taken anywhere and as a result I oftentimes take it everywhere.
Consequently I have begun to appreciate what it would be like to have a fitting theme song for every moment. Strolling around with my iPod blaring, there are occasional flashes of perfect synchronicity between the musical experience and the world surrounding that precious little bubble. For instance, as I round the last bit of a run and Rage Against the Machine's "Tire me" comes on, I can't help but scrutinize the moment for a divinely guiding hand. "Yeah you tryin' to tire me, tire me...Why don't you get out in front of me?" Guitar rifts. Yelling. And i'm sprinting with a sudden burst of energy as if I was just beginning my run instead of just finishing it.
In another, more extreme and more ridiculous example of this, I once took my iPod with me as I went to use the bathroom before a workout. Tool's Aenima was just reaching it's climax as I sat there on the toilet, and I couldn't help but laugh, most likely disturbingly and embarrassingly, at the fitting nature of a man yelling "I wanna see it go down, tear it down, flush it down" as I was trying to take a dump.
Maynard of Tool was, of course, referring to the decadent nature of the world and his desire to see it done away with, but for me, in that moment, he was clearly encouraging me in my efforts to empty my bowels.
Hence, ladies and gentlemen, a new theory: Every moment has the perfect theme song. Either you just haven't heard it yet or it hasn't found it's way into concrete manifestation.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Pressfield
Steven, Pressfield. This is my new favorite author, ladies and gentlemen. His choice of genre? You get three guesses.
No.
No.
You suck at this - why don't I just tell you? He writes historical fiction, which, if not the most geeky of my pleasures, certainly ranks among the top five. Truly, I'll enjoy this type of novel even if it seems to pretend to detail historically based tidbits about the ancient world. Oh man, and if it is about the Romans and/or the Greeks? Whoa baby, don't get me started about the Romans and the Greeks. Purrr.
Anyways, if historical fiction is my kryptonite then Steven Pressfield is simply Krypton itself. So compellingly does Pressfield construct his stories that sometimes I suspect the man actually IS from the ancient worlds his books describe, and, having mastered the mysteries of time travel, he has decided to settle in this day and age. This would make him something of a cheat and a liar, as this means he doesn't write historical fiction at all, but instead just relates events as he remembers them.
For those who don't know, historical fictions are books that take a historical figure, event, or thing and then add some fictional story that would be conceivable in the context of the period. Thus, Pressfield's Gates of Fire is about the battle at Thermopylae, but takes you through it from the perspective of a single, fictional soldier. I consider this book a must read - especially if you intend to see 300 next month.
So, if even the smallest corner of the dustiest space in your mind finds itself stimulated by such writing, you HAVE to go buy one of his books immediately.
If you read this post and mentally translated every word to "blah blah blah, geek geek geek," then I simply ask that you don't throw things at me or call me names.
No.
No.
You suck at this - why don't I just tell you? He writes historical fiction, which, if not the most geeky of my pleasures, certainly ranks among the top five. Truly, I'll enjoy this type of novel even if it seems to pretend to detail historically based tidbits about the ancient world. Oh man, and if it is about the Romans and/or the Greeks? Whoa baby, don't get me started about the Romans and the Greeks. Purrr.
Anyways, if historical fiction is my kryptonite then Steven Pressfield is simply Krypton itself. So compellingly does Pressfield construct his stories that sometimes I suspect the man actually IS from the ancient worlds his books describe, and, having mastered the mysteries of time travel, he has decided to settle in this day and age. This would make him something of a cheat and a liar, as this means he doesn't write historical fiction at all, but instead just relates events as he remembers them.
For those who don't know, historical fictions are books that take a historical figure, event, or thing and then add some fictional story that would be conceivable in the context of the period. Thus, Pressfield's Gates of Fire is about the battle at Thermopylae, but takes you through it from the perspective of a single, fictional soldier. I consider this book a must read - especially if you intend to see 300 next month.
So, if even the smallest corner of the dustiest space in your mind finds itself stimulated by such writing, you HAVE to go buy one of his books immediately.
If you read this post and mentally translated every word to "blah blah blah, geek geek geek," then I simply ask that you don't throw things at me or call me names.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Mustard Man!
There is a small, Chinese restaurant very near to my apartment that goes by the name "Hunan Springs." It's right around the corner, in fact. It's the type of place that I call when utterly out of groceries, sure that my order of cashew-nut-chicken will be both filling and delicious. Ordinarily things go smoothly, with the possible exception that their spotty english makes ordering via phone an adventure at best, and a hellish five minutes of miscommunication at worst (one might contend that, following the unwritten law of cultural restaurants, the degree to which a restaurant can't speak english is inversely proportional and reciprocal to the tastiness of the food). Today, however, things proved different...they proved super.
I had just paid for my meal, and was arming to go back into the cold. Walking out off the restaurant, I turned left to leave by the back alleyway, as is my want. I had only made it about forty paces when I heard a desperate "Sir! Sir!"coming from behind me. Turning, I saw one of the employees of Hunan Spring's running after me, with mustard packets held in his outstretched hands. I knew they were mustard packets because he was yelling "Mustard! Mustard!" at the top of his lungs as he drew near. He was skinny with large glasses, wearing only a t-shirt and was obviously cold. Yet so noble was his character, so firm his belief in his mustard bearing cause that he proceeded completely undaunted. He spoke very little english and simply said "Mustard, right?" when he reached me, placing the packets in my hands. In awe, I stammered a thank you and stared as he ran back to the restaurant.
Clearly, I had just encountered Mustard Man - the superhero empowered beyond normal human means to track down those lacking his precious yellow cargo and supplying them with all the mustard they so desperately need. I knew he was a superhero because of his apparent immunity to the cold, as well as his immediacy in tracking me down (I.E. How did he know I left the parking lot by the back entrance, when the front is so much more likely? Only a super hero could do that!)
It took me a good five minutes to let sink in the bizarreness of what I had just experienced, and to fully appreciate it's impact on my day. It should be noted that I did not even order mustard with my meal, as I don't really like it that much. Today, however, I knew exactly what I had to do: I solemnly removed the somewhat battered packets out of the bag, and in ceremonial fashion spread their golden substance over my chicken in a much earned salute to Mustard-Man's efforts.
Bravo, Mustard Man, Bravo. Your nobility convinced me to eat mustard today, and for that we all owe you thanks.
I had just paid for my meal, and was arming to go back into the cold. Walking out off the restaurant, I turned left to leave by the back alleyway, as is my want. I had only made it about forty paces when I heard a desperate "Sir! Sir!"coming from behind me. Turning, I saw one of the employees of Hunan Spring's running after me, with mustard packets held in his outstretched hands. I knew they were mustard packets because he was yelling "Mustard! Mustard!" at the top of his lungs as he drew near. He was skinny with large glasses, wearing only a t-shirt and was obviously cold. Yet so noble was his character, so firm his belief in his mustard bearing cause that he proceeded completely undaunted. He spoke very little english and simply said "Mustard, right?" when he reached me, placing the packets in my hands. In awe, I stammered a thank you and stared as he ran back to the restaurant.
Clearly, I had just encountered Mustard Man - the superhero empowered beyond normal human means to track down those lacking his precious yellow cargo and supplying them with all the mustard they so desperately need. I knew he was a superhero because of his apparent immunity to the cold, as well as his immediacy in tracking me down (I.E. How did he know I left the parking lot by the back entrance, when the front is so much more likely? Only a super hero could do that!)
It took me a good five minutes to let sink in the bizarreness of what I had just experienced, and to fully appreciate it's impact on my day. It should be noted that I did not even order mustard with my meal, as I don't really like it that much. Today, however, I knew exactly what I had to do: I solemnly removed the somewhat battered packets out of the bag, and in ceremonial fashion spread their golden substance over my chicken in a much earned salute to Mustard-Man's efforts.
Bravo, Mustard Man, Bravo. Your nobility convinced me to eat mustard today, and for that we all owe you thanks.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Rocking Quotes from a Rocking Class
Well, it's something like week three, and I can officially declare my anthropology class as my favoritist. It was a close race, with my Composion II class putting up a valiant fight due to my natural interest in the subject matter and my professor's extremely effective teaching methods. There were three things that ultimately let Anthropology take the cake:
1) My professor is an elderly, yet still vibrant, raging badass of contradictory qualities that somehow mesh into a really awesome lecture experience. He seemes constantly short of breath as he speaks, yet is oddly powerful in his projection; he takes firm stances on things he dislikes (like our concern for materialism in this country), yet truly believes in unbiased appreciation; he makes clear points, yet somehow always makes you feel as if you reached said point, and so on. Also, he's insanely sincere and humble.
2) The subject matter, and the way he presents it, strikes an immediate cord. Anthropology, for those who don't know, is the study of cultures. On the first day, he passed out a little blue pamphlet he called our "passport" with questions such as: "What does it mean to be human? What can we as humans become? What is true, lasting, and ennobling?" He calls the course a journey, and engages in other fanaciful departures from the norm, yet seriously knows his stuff and still provides all the necessary scientific backing. It's like studying, systematically, how I can change the world.
3) He gives us awesome quotes every class to guide our dialogues (This is the word he demands we use, "dialogue." We are assigned into "sapitential circles" (sapien meaning wise) where we pass around a talking stick and discuss things he prompts us on. You cannot talk unless you have the stick, and are forced to listen to what the other peeople have to say. I don't think i've ever come across it's like in the academic world.) Here are two such quotes to give you a taste:
"In america we have improved means to unimproved ends."
"Great minds consider ideas, average minds consider events, and small minds consider people."
So, it is with a glowing smile and a queenly wave that I proudly present Anthropology 101 with the coveted title of Robbie's Favorite Class This Semester
1) My professor is an elderly, yet still vibrant, raging badass of contradictory qualities that somehow mesh into a really awesome lecture experience. He seemes constantly short of breath as he speaks, yet is oddly powerful in his projection; he takes firm stances on things he dislikes (like our concern for materialism in this country), yet truly believes in unbiased appreciation; he makes clear points, yet somehow always makes you feel as if you reached said point, and so on. Also, he's insanely sincere and humble.
2) The subject matter, and the way he presents it, strikes an immediate cord. Anthropology, for those who don't know, is the study of cultures. On the first day, he passed out a little blue pamphlet he called our "passport" with questions such as: "What does it mean to be human? What can we as humans become? What is true, lasting, and ennobling?" He calls the course a journey, and engages in other fanaciful departures from the norm, yet seriously knows his stuff and still provides all the necessary scientific backing. It's like studying, systematically, how I can change the world.
3) He gives us awesome quotes every class to guide our dialogues (This is the word he demands we use, "dialogue." We are assigned into "sapitential circles" (sapien meaning wise) where we pass around a talking stick and discuss things he prompts us on. You cannot talk unless you have the stick, and are forced to listen to what the other peeople have to say. I don't think i've ever come across it's like in the academic world.) Here are two such quotes to give you a taste:
"In america we have improved means to unimproved ends."
"Great minds consider ideas, average minds consider events, and small minds consider people."
So, it is with a glowing smile and a queenly wave that I proudly present Anthropology 101 with the coveted title of Robbie's Favorite Class This Semester
Saturday, February 3, 2007
The art of island building
The name of the game is Independence. Sanctuary. Homebase tagged in the moment before one gets out. That is life - the dual, divisional processes of solitude and interaction. They are not, of course, mutually exclusive and they often overlap. But while our interpersonal relationships fluctuate with all the fickle force of a hurricane, our intrapersonal state can be as calm and deep as the ocean. And as strong as the hurricane might appear, it bases it's entire existence on it's proximity to the ocean.
Along these lines, it seems to me like we spend our whole lives learning the art of island building. Our virtues are it's beauties, it's palm trees and glowing beaches, while our vices are its volcanoes, often dormant but capable of eradicating all our careful efforts in one single bout of baleful expression. We educate ourselves and the island grows, we meet with disappointment and our island shrinks beneath the weight of dark storm clouds. Our successes gather in golden clusters along it's shoreline, beaming brightly to the world, while our failures sprinkle themselves like dark snow, dulling every surface. What we take pride in we hold out to the very edges of the coast, as eager children during show and tell, while what shames us we hold close, secreted within dark forests so that the world may never see.
You, me, everybody has their island. The entirety of our social reality is one vast body of water endlessly dotted with these constantly revised citadels of ourselves. The crazy thing is how little we seem to know about our own islands, how little we appreciate what causes what. We are oftentimes experts on our neighbors islands - what hammocks they employ, how many coconut trees they have and how white their beaches are. But we couldn't tell you what we want to do with our own island, what we want to add and what we want to disappear. Or rather, we know the facts but not the application. Well, there is a quote my anthropology professor shared with our class: "If you don't know where you are going, you will wind up somewhere else."
With this lens reality becomes a simple question that proves complex in answering: Where are you going with your island?
Along these lines, it seems to me like we spend our whole lives learning the art of island building. Our virtues are it's beauties, it's palm trees and glowing beaches, while our vices are its volcanoes, often dormant but capable of eradicating all our careful efforts in one single bout of baleful expression. We educate ourselves and the island grows, we meet with disappointment and our island shrinks beneath the weight of dark storm clouds. Our successes gather in golden clusters along it's shoreline, beaming brightly to the world, while our failures sprinkle themselves like dark snow, dulling every surface. What we take pride in we hold out to the very edges of the coast, as eager children during show and tell, while what shames us we hold close, secreted within dark forests so that the world may never see.
You, me, everybody has their island. The entirety of our social reality is one vast body of water endlessly dotted with these constantly revised citadels of ourselves. The crazy thing is how little we seem to know about our own islands, how little we appreciate what causes what. We are oftentimes experts on our neighbors islands - what hammocks they employ, how many coconut trees they have and how white their beaches are. But we couldn't tell you what we want to do with our own island, what we want to add and what we want to disappear. Or rather, we know the facts but not the application. Well, there is a quote my anthropology professor shared with our class: "If you don't know where you are going, you will wind up somewhere else."
With this lens reality becomes a simple question that proves complex in answering: Where are you going with your island?
Friday, February 2, 2007
Relativity Sucks
Don't get me wrong: I love me some Einstein. And I enjoy the benefits of the relative quality of workmanship as much as the next chap (like when my math test score was curved UP to a 100 earlier this week, I was pretty happy). But when it is eight degrees outside, and every Chicago native in the area looks at me like I am a wimp every time I mention this ludicrous fact, I tend to draw the line.
Relativity, this is the last straw. The fact that you have made a whole culture of people unable to acknowledge the simple fact that eight degrees is flippin cold is ridiculous and wholly unappreciated. I don't want to say "It's eight degrees outside!" and be greeted with nonchalant shrugs; I want instant gratification and counter whining. I want a sane response, something like "Yeah, wow, that is cold man. You are totally right to be cold," not the now familiar "You think this is cold?! Wait till it gets in the negatives!" Negative degrees were designed for measuring things in science experiments, not for humans.
So, relativity, I'm delivering an ultimatum here and now: quit making cultures who live in environmental extremes become more use to those extremes compared to the rest of humanity! It's just not fair, and if such behavior continues I may or may not be forced to blog about this topic AGAIN, which is something no one wants. No one.
Relativity, this is the last straw. The fact that you have made a whole culture of people unable to acknowledge the simple fact that eight degrees is flippin cold is ridiculous and wholly unappreciated. I don't want to say "It's eight degrees outside!" and be greeted with nonchalant shrugs; I want instant gratification and counter whining. I want a sane response, something like "Yeah, wow, that is cold man. You are totally right to be cold," not the now familiar "You think this is cold?! Wait till it gets in the negatives!" Negative degrees were designed for measuring things in science experiments, not for humans.
So, relativity, I'm delivering an ultimatum here and now: quit making cultures who live in environmental extremes become more use to those extremes compared to the rest of humanity! It's just not fair, and if such behavior continues I may or may not be forced to blog about this topic AGAIN, which is something no one wants. No one.
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