Egad, but how I despise the rain at times. Oh, heck: it’s the driving in it part about which I’m currently upset. (Granted, I’m not crazy about driving period—I don’t actively dislike it, but it’s nothing that spurs me to excitement either.) And I suppose, more accurately, it’s the darkness imposed by the clouds from which the rain falls that draws my ire.
Sunday morning I went down to my car, in the rain, and realized that I left my lights on when I arrived home from dragon boat practice the previous afternoon. And the battery was really dead. And I could not go anywhere, which wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t trying to meet a breakfast invitation.
The only reason I had my lights on in the middle of the day was due to the poor visibility imposed upon drivers by the rain; it seemed like a good idea at the time, I’m sure, but likely it did not increase the likelihood of me arriving home safely by a degree significant enough to warrant the anger and inconvenience I found myself suffering.
Not that we’ll ever know.
Of course, the anger may not seem to be warranted by the fact that it is but an inconvenience I’m suffering, and were the emotion attributable to that, it would be too much. However, it springs from my disgust at my own ineptitude: this is a tragedy of my own devising. I chose to turn on the lights in spite of the fact that I have accidentally left them on under similar circumstances in the past; I did not make some effort to remind myself to turn them off, even though the thought occurred to me that I should do something.
Ah, so there it is: I knew better, but failed to act. That is, on the whole, one of my longest lasting (and most endearing) character traits. But I was too caught up in the moment, as I struggled in the rain to gather up (ahem) my paddle, my wet jacket, my wet shirt, my wet jeans, my wet towel, and a slightly greasy paper bag (holding the garbage from my detour through the Jack In The Box drive-thru on the way home).
And what possessed me to believe that I wouldn’t be too distracted when I pulled into my parking spot to remember I had made this alteration to my ordinary daytime driving routine? Blind, stupid optimism. Oh, it wasn’t conscious optimism—I didn’t think Of course I will turn off the lights—but the implication is clearly there: somewhere in my brain I held faith in myself, and while that is good and admirable and positive and all that crap, it proved unfounded. I failed yet again.
We all make mistakes, and given the circumstances it is quite understandable that this could happen. What defies logic is this tendency to dismiss past missteps in the face of remarkably similar scenarios: with this case, I don’t think this was grand self‑delusion but rather poor follow‑through. Still, if I simply had not thought about the need to remember to turn off the lights, if I had almost absent-mindedly turned them on out of unconscious devotion to the rules of safe driving, then this could be dismissed as just one of those things.
This, however, must be classified as yet another one of those things that with minimal effort could have been avoided. And do I learn from these occurrences? Yes. Do I transform the lessons into a modification in my behavior? Apparently not.
In the middle of the afternoon, I thought about going to the store but decided against it, thinking I should stay in and work on some things. When it became evident that trying to work on said things was not really going anywhere, did I resume the store-going plan (where I would have gone down to my car presumably in time to do something before the lights would drag the battery to null)? No. I watched TV. Fate was practically dragging me in a direction—no, Doug, you won’t be allowed to focus on that task: leave your apartment and discover your error—and I fell back on utter slothfulness. Plopping myself down in front of the opiating cathode ray tube, accomplishing absolutely nothing towards the projects or towards going to the store: yes, this is progress, this is climbing the evolutionary ladder, this is what separates me from “dumb” animals.
It’s almost as though I’m being punished with this dead battery. And clearly, I’m doing nothing to prove I don’t deserve that. So I think what I must do is obvious: the next time I need to drive in the rain, I need to listen to the little voice inside me.
I think it’s telling me to go back to bed and wait for a sunny day.
Sunday, February 25, 2001
Sunday, December 31, 2000
It's that time again
[email sent 31 December 2000, 8:31 pm]
Greetings!
In these waning moments of the year 2000, I feel as though I would be remiss if I didn't send a message wishing you well for the coming year.
Of course, our system of time-keeping is arbitrary, and the only difference between today and tomorrow is that the number of the year increments by one. (Any given day is exactly one year after a year ago, regardless of whether the calendar changes or not; the only constant is the position of the earth in its orbit.) But until intelligent robots take over and develop a new system, and since the Powers That Be have declared that the year ends December 31st and given most of us tomorrow off, enjoy yourself, be careful, and for crying out loud, don't get caught!
You may now feel free to refer to the present as "The Twenty-First Century." We will also accept allusions to the "new millennium," however, frankly, given the average human lifespan, marking time in thousand-year increments seems a little ostentatious. But hey, it's a free country. Sort of.
May 2001 be filled with joy and puppy dogs and pizza and better Simpsons episodes and salary increases for you, unless you'd prefer other things. Then you're on your own.
Happy New Year!
Greetings!
In these waning moments of the year 2000, I feel as though I would be remiss if I didn't send a message wishing you well for the coming year.
Of course, our system of time-keeping is arbitrary, and the only difference between today and tomorrow is that the number of the year increments by one. (Any given day is exactly one year after a year ago, regardless of whether the calendar changes or not; the only constant is the position of the earth in its orbit.) But until intelligent robots take over and develop a new system, and since the Powers That Be have declared that the year ends December 31st and given most of us tomorrow off, enjoy yourself, be careful, and for crying out loud, don't get caught!
You may now feel free to refer to the present as "The Twenty-First Century." We will also accept allusions to the "new millennium," however, frankly, given the average human lifespan, marking time in thousand-year increments seems a little ostentatious. But hey, it's a free country. Sort of.
May 2001 be filled with joy and puppy dogs and pizza and better Simpsons episodes and salary increases for you, unless you'd prefer other things. Then you're on your own.
Happy New Year!
Monday, December 09, 1996
AUC: Zen of the last cookie
[Originally published in the Long Beach Union (student paper at Long Beach State), in my bi-weekly column called...]
Another Useless Column
The killer awoke before dawn. He put his boots on, and he walked on down the hall. And he came to Long Beach State.
After 19 generally inglorious semesters at this institution, the warden is about to open the gate. I've apparently been rehabilitated. I am ready to be re-assimilated into society.
To adapt an old Robin Williams line: "Graduation. What a concept."
I've seen a great many things over the past decade. I remember when there was a big vacant lot where The Pyramid now stands. I remember when there was 49er football (much as we all try to forget). I remember when the Red Hot Chili Peppers played the Student Union. Believe it or not, I remember when you could get Coke and Pepsi on campus. Mister, we could use a man like Herbert Hoover again. Those were the days.
Over the years, I've often longed to get away from taking exams and writing papers and pretending I understand deconstructionism. Many times I nearly dropped out, but something kept me coming to class. Perhaps fear of someday hearing the phrase, "We'd like to give you the promotion, Doug, but…." Perhaps because Calvin Klein never asked me to model for him in my underwear.
Now, as it all draws to a close, I feel like I've just learned that I ate some poisonous blowfish while Bart and Lisa sing karaoke versions of the theme from Shaft, and I have only 24 hours to live. Actually, only 22, after Dr. Hibbert kept me waiting. Now I have less than a day, metaphorically speaking, to summon a last hurrah to culminate the academic period of my life, to experience those things only afforded me in college life, those things I should have done long ago. Whatever those things are.
Working nearly full time for much of my university years, I didn't attend college as much drop by occasionally. I scheduled classes to best facilitate jobs, only being on campus long enough to walk to class, sit through class, and walk back to my car. During these last few semesters, however, when I have actually hung out on campus, met a lot more people, and written for this rag, I've realized there's more in life than work and school, work and school. There's beer!
College is something of a metaphor for life. You can go through the motions, or you can try to make something of it. You can experience it, or you can observe it. You can dream the impossible dream, or you can pick the lint out of your navel. Or dream of picking the lint out of your navel.
Comedian Rick Reynolds spoke of what he calls "the Zen of the last cookie." Whenever he eats cookies, he particularly savors the last one, really appreciating it. But once, he reached for the last cookie and it was gone, denying him that "last cookie enjoyment." Thus he came to the conclusion that he should eat every cookie as though it were the last cookie. Not a new concept, of course, but nonetheless a good philosophy.
Like Ferris Bueller said, "Life goes pretty fast; if you don't stop and look around every once in a while, you just might miss it."
I went through the motions too long; I thoughtlessly ate my cookies, and now regard the last one. At least I'm relishing the metaphoric 10 minutes of sleep after hitting the snooze button, even if I ignored the previous eight hours. (I'll be joining Analogies Anonymous after graduation.)
I agree with Jim Morrison: this is the strangest life I've ever known. That's what I like about it.
Sure, I'll fritter away plenty of time in years to come. But hopefully I'll be able to suck some of the marrow out of life. Trite but true: Life is the moments, life is the journey. So as life lies sprawled before me, I think of the last words of a couple of my heroes, Calvin and Hobbes: "Let's go exploring." Yes.
Doug would like to thank everybody who ever read the Useless Column. If he made just one person laugh, or think, or at least forget about his/her problems for a moment, well, then he wishes he'd made a lot more people laugh or think or forget their wretched lives, so maybe he could one day get paid to write like this.
Another Useless Column
The killer awoke before dawn. He put his boots on, and he walked on down the hall. And he came to Long Beach State.
After 19 generally inglorious semesters at this institution, the warden is about to open the gate. I've apparently been rehabilitated. I am ready to be re-assimilated into society.
To adapt an old Robin Williams line: "Graduation. What a concept."
I've seen a great many things over the past decade. I remember when there was a big vacant lot where The Pyramid now stands. I remember when there was 49er football (much as we all try to forget). I remember when the Red Hot Chili Peppers played the Student Union. Believe it or not, I remember when you could get Coke and Pepsi on campus. Mister, we could use a man like Herbert Hoover again. Those were the days.
Over the years, I've often longed to get away from taking exams and writing papers and pretending I understand deconstructionism. Many times I nearly dropped out, but something kept me coming to class. Perhaps fear of someday hearing the phrase, "We'd like to give you the promotion, Doug, but…." Perhaps because Calvin Klein never asked me to model for him in my underwear.
Now, as it all draws to a close, I feel like I've just learned that I ate some poisonous blowfish while Bart and Lisa sing karaoke versions of the theme from Shaft, and I have only 24 hours to live. Actually, only 22, after Dr. Hibbert kept me waiting. Now I have less than a day, metaphorically speaking, to summon a last hurrah to culminate the academic period of my life, to experience those things only afforded me in college life, those things I should have done long ago. Whatever those things are.
Working nearly full time for much of my university years, I didn't attend college as much drop by occasionally. I scheduled classes to best facilitate jobs, only being on campus long enough to walk to class, sit through class, and walk back to my car. During these last few semesters, however, when I have actually hung out on campus, met a lot more people, and written for this rag, I've realized there's more in life than work and school, work and school. There's beer!
College is something of a metaphor for life. You can go through the motions, or you can try to make something of it. You can experience it, or you can observe it. You can dream the impossible dream, or you can pick the lint out of your navel. Or dream of picking the lint out of your navel.
Comedian Rick Reynolds spoke of what he calls "the Zen of the last cookie." Whenever he eats cookies, he particularly savors the last one, really appreciating it. But once, he reached for the last cookie and it was gone, denying him that "last cookie enjoyment." Thus he came to the conclusion that he should eat every cookie as though it were the last cookie. Not a new concept, of course, but nonetheless a good philosophy.
Like Ferris Bueller said, "Life goes pretty fast; if you don't stop and look around every once in a while, you just might miss it."
I went through the motions too long; I thoughtlessly ate my cookies, and now regard the last one. At least I'm relishing the metaphoric 10 minutes of sleep after hitting the snooze button, even if I ignored the previous eight hours. (I'll be joining Analogies Anonymous after graduation.)
I agree with Jim Morrison: this is the strangest life I've ever known. That's what I like about it.
Sure, I'll fritter away plenty of time in years to come. But hopefully I'll be able to suck some of the marrow out of life. Trite but true: Life is the moments, life is the journey. So as life lies sprawled before me, I think of the last words of a couple of my heroes, Calvin and Hobbes: "Let's go exploring." Yes.
Doug would like to thank everybody who ever read the Useless Column. If he made just one person laugh, or think, or at least forget about his/her problems for a moment, well, then he wishes he'd made a lot more people laugh or think or forget their wretched lives, so maybe he could one day get paid to write like this.
Monday, December 02, 1996
AUC: Feeding the pigeonhole
[Originally published in the Long Beach Union (student paper at Long Beach State), in my bi-weekly column called...]
Another Useless Column
Ever since I was a kid, people have been asking me: How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? I wanted to be asked something easy, like what I wanted to be when I grew up.
Eventually they asked me that, too. And kept asking. Then I came to college, and the question shifted to what was I going to do with my degree? (And allow me to state for the record that there is more one can do with an English degree than just teach. There are plenty of openings in the food-service industry, for example.)
Like comedienne Paula Poundstone once joked, adults perpetually ask kids what they want to be when they grow up because they're looking for ideas themselves.
When I was a kid, I thought I knew. Well, at least I didn't have to worry if what I wanted to be would earn enough to live on, or whether I could actually make it in said field despite fierce competition. Theoretical life is so much simpler. That's why we live there as much as possible.
So-called two-dimensional thinking, where everything is black or white, prevails. We prefer things to be concrete, and understandable at a glance. The guy in the black hat is the bad guy. Or the white sheet. Categorization: that's just how our minds work. Or fail to work, as the case may be.
Me, I like the gray. Sure, I jump to conclusions just like everyone, but remind myself that nothing is so cut-and-dried that it can be summed up in a few words. Except maybe John Tesh.
So in this here Useless Column, I sometimes employ sarcasm. But some people don't get it. Or else, some people think I'm always being sarcastic. Still other people wonder what Tom Brokaw looks like naked. Now, I'm not complaining: I knew the ploy was dangerous (and open to alternate interpretations) when I used it. Still, can't I be sincere sometimes and sarcastic other times?
Yeah, sure. And as they say, monkeys might rapidly emerge from my posterior. I just hope I'm not wearing expensive pants at the time.
But back to The Question. As I stand on the precipice of graduation, the time left to come up with an answer quickly dwindles away.
What's the big deal? Well, the unfortunate truth is one's role in society is defined by one's occupation. I'm reminded of a line by another comedian, Rick Reynolds: "If I was killed tonight, the papers would read, 'Comedian dies in pool of blood.' That's how you're viewed in society, what your job is. You never see the headline, 'Snappy dresser dies in pool of blood.'"
Consider the introduction in Jeopardy: a contestant may be a "quantum physicist," "certified public accountant," or "trial attorney," but never "really fun at parties," which seems a much more apt descriptive of an individual's personality.
But do we really want to know an individual? Not somebody who's smart enough to be on Jeopardy, that's for damn sure.
If society is going to label and pigeonhole me, I'd at least like it to be for what I am, not merely what I do. The Question is what do want to be?
When I was a kid, all I wanted to be was taller. That I've accomplished. But what I am, after I'm found in a pool of blood, will never fit within that headline.
So while I figure out what I want to be, I'll do what everybody does: take what I can get.
And keep asking kids The Question until I get an answer I like. Or until I figure out how many licks it takes to get to the end of a Tootsie Pop.
Another Useless Column
Ever since I was a kid, people have been asking me: How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? I wanted to be asked something easy, like what I wanted to be when I grew up.
Eventually they asked me that, too. And kept asking. Then I came to college, and the question shifted to what was I going to do with my degree? (And allow me to state for the record that there is more one can do with an English degree than just teach. There are plenty of openings in the food-service industry, for example.)
Like comedienne Paula Poundstone once joked, adults perpetually ask kids what they want to be when they grow up because they're looking for ideas themselves.
When I was a kid, I thought I knew. Well, at least I didn't have to worry if what I wanted to be would earn enough to live on, or whether I could actually make it in said field despite fierce competition. Theoretical life is so much simpler. That's why we live there as much as possible.
So-called two-dimensional thinking, where everything is black or white, prevails. We prefer things to be concrete, and understandable at a glance. The guy in the black hat is the bad guy. Or the white sheet. Categorization: that's just how our minds work. Or fail to work, as the case may be.
Me, I like the gray. Sure, I jump to conclusions just like everyone, but remind myself that nothing is so cut-and-dried that it can be summed up in a few words. Except maybe John Tesh.
So in this here Useless Column, I sometimes employ sarcasm. But some people don't get it. Or else, some people think I'm always being sarcastic. Still other people wonder what Tom Brokaw looks like naked. Now, I'm not complaining: I knew the ploy was dangerous (and open to alternate interpretations) when I used it. Still, can't I be sincere sometimes and sarcastic other times?
Yeah, sure. And as they say, monkeys might rapidly emerge from my posterior. I just hope I'm not wearing expensive pants at the time.
But back to The Question. As I stand on the precipice of graduation, the time left to come up with an answer quickly dwindles away.
What's the big deal? Well, the unfortunate truth is one's role in society is defined by one's occupation. I'm reminded of a line by another comedian, Rick Reynolds: "If I was killed tonight, the papers would read, 'Comedian dies in pool of blood.' That's how you're viewed in society, what your job is. You never see the headline, 'Snappy dresser dies in pool of blood.'"
Consider the introduction in Jeopardy: a contestant may be a "quantum physicist," "certified public accountant," or "trial attorney," but never "really fun at parties," which seems a much more apt descriptive of an individual's personality.
But do we really want to know an individual? Not somebody who's smart enough to be on Jeopardy, that's for damn sure.
If society is going to label and pigeonhole me, I'd at least like it to be for what I am, not merely what I do. The Question is what do want to be?
When I was a kid, all I wanted to be was taller. That I've accomplished. But what I am, after I'm found in a pool of blood, will never fit within that headline.
So while I figure out what I want to be, I'll do what everybody does: take what I can get.
And keep asking kids The Question until I get an answer I like. Or until I figure out how many licks it takes to get to the end of a Tootsie Pop.
Monday, November 04, 1996
AUC: We always said you’d go places
[Originally published in the Long Beach Union (student paper at Long Beach State), in my bi-weekly column called...]
Another Useless Column
Recently I was informed by a rather boisterous individual on campus that I’m going to hell. I’m so relieved to have that situation resolved.
Despite my inevitable damnation, I continue my education. Why? There seems no contingency for avoiding fire and brimstone by flashing a bachelor’s degree at the time of death. But maybe there’s part of the Bible that addresses education that doesn’t get much attention.
Clearly, something pertaining to this mortal coil drives this quest for knowledge. (Okay, that presumes I’m learning anything here; as I near the end of my collegiate journey, I do wonder how much I would have just figured out on my own, for thousands less.)
Preparation for a career? I think not. This isn’t a trade school, it’s a university (says so in the name; I checked). Sure, the law of averages states that some people will acquire skills or knowledge her germane to how they earn a living. But no classes are offered in looking busy in a cubicle, or carrying heavy trays of food (well, we’ve already got that down), so I must conclude the focus of the university is somewhere else.
Like all institutions—prison, for instance—this place primarily prepares a person for the environment of the institution.
At least criminals have the sense to commit more crimes after release, so they can return to a place where they fit in. College students emerge from academia and have to acclimate to a world where being able to identify the finer points of abstract expressionism counts much less than being able to get a jammed piece of paper out of the copier.
Professors are the exception. They never had to leave. Were it not for administrators making their lives difficult, they’d be eternally blissful.
So if it’s not the score points with the Guy Upstairs or get a job, what does that leave? Advanced studies in sociology—er, socializing. Yes, getting dates! Meeting interesting people, or at least people who are interesting after several beers. It’s all kind of a big singles bar with midterms.
Is learning worthwhile as an end unto itself? Will the experiences afforded me at this university have benefits in ways that cannot be fully articulated but are nonetheless valuable? Is my dog getting enough cheese in its diet?
The sad thing is this: I bet when I get to hell, life will not have prepared me for it. Not that it should.
Another Useless Column
Recently I was informed by a rather boisterous individual on campus that I’m going to hell. I’m so relieved to have that situation resolved.
Despite my inevitable damnation, I continue my education. Why? There seems no contingency for avoiding fire and brimstone by flashing a bachelor’s degree at the time of death. But maybe there’s part of the Bible that addresses education that doesn’t get much attention.
Clearly, something pertaining to this mortal coil drives this quest for knowledge. (Okay, that presumes I’m learning anything here; as I near the end of my collegiate journey, I do wonder how much I would have just figured out on my own, for thousands less.)
Preparation for a career? I think not. This isn’t a trade school, it’s a university (says so in the name; I checked). Sure, the law of averages states that some people will acquire skills or knowledge her germane to how they earn a living. But no classes are offered in looking busy in a cubicle, or carrying heavy trays of food (well, we’ve already got that down), so I must conclude the focus of the university is somewhere else.
Like all institutions—prison, for instance—this place primarily prepares a person for the environment of the institution.
At least criminals have the sense to commit more crimes after release, so they can return to a place where they fit in. College students emerge from academia and have to acclimate to a world where being able to identify the finer points of abstract expressionism counts much less than being able to get a jammed piece of paper out of the copier.
Professors are the exception. They never had to leave. Were it not for administrators making their lives difficult, they’d be eternally blissful.
So if it’s not the score points with the Guy Upstairs or get a job, what does that leave? Advanced studies in sociology—er, socializing. Yes, getting dates! Meeting interesting people, or at least people who are interesting after several beers. It’s all kind of a big singles bar with midterms.
Is learning worthwhile as an end unto itself? Will the experiences afforded me at this university have benefits in ways that cannot be fully articulated but are nonetheless valuable? Is my dog getting enough cheese in its diet?
The sad thing is this: I bet when I get to hell, life will not have prepared me for it. Not that it should.
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