[email composed 10 May 2001]
Today is the 30th birthday of my brother-in-law, Justin. He spent the day home recovering from a stomach flu. I'm told that last night he had a temperature of 103 degrees.
Some people will do anything to get out of having to work on their birthday, eh?
For those of you who have yet to reach this milestone, you probably approach this day with dread. For the rest of us who see it in the rear view mirror of the present, we know that it was the last moment of joy we experienced. Or it was just another day.
What can I say about Justin? He's smart, he has perspective on living, he's easy to talk to, he's can cook, he has a fine sense of humor, he has decent taste in music, and he looks okay in a skirt... er, kilt.
He's a good man. Sure, that expression has lost some of its luster by overuse, but it still holds truth when applied to him.
What does it mean to call someone "good"? Is it merely some default declaration to be applied if someone isn't bad? Of course not, although the not-being-bad angle certainly helps. The popular parlance would interpret it to mean he has a good heart. I'm not sure how well his ticker is pumping the blood, but since long ago someone seated the human emotions in that organ, we continue to use that expression to indicate someone cares.
About what one cares is another story. What it really indicates--having a "good heart"--is that the person cares about the same things that we do... and that really translates as he cares about us. (No one who dislikes us can be said to have a good heart. At least not by us.) So such declarations really say as much about the person saying it as the person about whom it is said.
Hey, there are worse things than having your sister's husband like you.
Justin loves my sister very much. It's almost disgusting how much he obviously adores her (still). (Granted, he didn't have to grow up with her...) He is a very lucky man--not just because he snagged my sister, but because he found love: not that desperate love some people settle for, but (for lack of a better term) true love. This is probably due (at least in large part) to the whole good heart thing.
In the end, it boils down this: he is someone worthy of me composing a message in his honor. There is no higher compliment I can possibly give.
However, I'm sure he'd trade these accolades for spending his birthday feeling healthy. Or to get his youth back.
Doug
who proudly considers Justin one of his people (a selective group, rest assured)
p.s. If there are any birthday wishes, mocking comments, random thoughts, inappropriate suggestions, etc., you'd like to pass along to Justin, reply to this and I'll forward them--unedited--to him. I'm sure he would appreciate them (remember: I said he had a good sense of humor). (I would give out his e-mail for you to reply directly to him, but I want him to continue to like me.)
[Six people replied with birthday wishes for Justin, only two of which actually knew him.]
Thursday, May 10, 2001
Thursday, May 03, 2001
Walking Past the Library
(first draft at explaining my place in life and why I'm not using my degree in creative writing as you all would expect)
[email composed 3 May 2001]
As I walked back from lunch to the office the other day, I passed the downtown L.A. library. Reflecting on all the books inside, and on how few of them I’ve read—and how many I continue to not read—I felt as though I had not spent enough of my past preparing for where, on some level, I wish I was right now. Sometimes I think part of what holds me back from exploring writing more seriously is this disparity between what I know and what I think I should know (or at least with which I should have some experience, have some familiarity).
This, on the surface, sounds like an easily surmountable obstacle: turn off the TV, stroll down to the library, find such a book, and sit down and read it. Repeat as necessary. Then write things, invoking this knowledge when appropriate. Astoundingly simple, at least in theory.
The problem (had to see this coming) involves my level of motivation in doing so at this point in my life: I don’t want to do these this, I want to have done it. I fancy the idea of procuring the information, as it does interest me. Unfortunately, the period of my existence when I had time set aside for this sort of activity—school—has passed. So go back to school, comes a response.
Hell no to that! I know one thing, and that is that I’m way too lazy.
I blew it (on so many levels) back in college: I didn’t apply myself well, I didn’t always take what interested me but what fit into my schedule, much of the time I didn’t do more than necessary to get through. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I must have known I would regret these patterns down the road. (Okay, let’s extrapolate that out to make a general statement that I know I’ll regret everything I don’t do, not merely what happened—or didn’t—at a university.)
Luckily, I have amazing resilience, and can get over these feelings of self-disappointment. I only beat myself up for so long before it gets old—at least for the time being—and then I focus on what I do know, on what I have done, on what books I have read, and realize that, relative to a lot of people, I am very knowledgeable. And what’s the point anyway? It’s not like intelligence is rewarded in our society. (It’s certainly not critical for working in high positions of government.) I switch on the tube and look at whatever is on, then the next day I write some stupid little essay about it justifying my lack of change of behavior, and feel smugly content for a while.
However, eventually I do make some changes in my life to improve this situation: I figure out a different path to take walking back from lunch that avoids the library altogether.
doug
one bachelor's degree, nine years of his life he'll never have back
[email composed 3 May 2001]
As I walked back from lunch to the office the other day, I passed the downtown L.A. library. Reflecting on all the books inside, and on how few of them I’ve read—and how many I continue to not read—I felt as though I had not spent enough of my past preparing for where, on some level, I wish I was right now. Sometimes I think part of what holds me back from exploring writing more seriously is this disparity between what I know and what I think I should know (or at least with which I should have some experience, have some familiarity).
This, on the surface, sounds like an easily surmountable obstacle: turn off the TV, stroll down to the library, find such a book, and sit down and read it. Repeat as necessary. Then write things, invoking this knowledge when appropriate. Astoundingly simple, at least in theory.
The problem (had to see this coming) involves my level of motivation in doing so at this point in my life: I don’t want to do these this, I want to have done it. I fancy the idea of procuring the information, as it does interest me. Unfortunately, the period of my existence when I had time set aside for this sort of activity—school—has passed. So go back to school, comes a response.
Hell no to that! I know one thing, and that is that I’m way too lazy.
I blew it (on so many levels) back in college: I didn’t apply myself well, I didn’t always take what interested me but what fit into my schedule, much of the time I didn’t do more than necessary to get through. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I must have known I would regret these patterns down the road. (Okay, let’s extrapolate that out to make a general statement that I know I’ll regret everything I don’t do, not merely what happened—or didn’t—at a university.)
Luckily, I have amazing resilience, and can get over these feelings of self-disappointment. I only beat myself up for so long before it gets old—at least for the time being—and then I focus on what I do know, on what I have done, on what books I have read, and realize that, relative to a lot of people, I am very knowledgeable. And what’s the point anyway? It’s not like intelligence is rewarded in our society. (It’s certainly not critical for working in high positions of government.) I switch on the tube and look at whatever is on, then the next day I write some stupid little essay about it justifying my lack of change of behavior, and feel smugly content for a while.
However, eventually I do make some changes in my life to improve this situation: I figure out a different path to take walking back from lunch that avoids the library altogether.
doug
one bachelor's degree, nine years of his life he'll never have back
Saturday, April 21, 2001
the lighthouse beakons yet again
[email composed 21 April 2001]
This afternoon as I walked out the side door of my apartment building and towards my car, I passed a woman asking if I had any change. She was Caucasian with blonde hair, wearing a black parka over her not-quite-overweight frame, and was ostensibly clean (and even seemed reasonably lucid).
I reached in my pocket and handed her a quarter.
She then told me that she had been accosted by a sword-wielding man down the block, who apparently felt this technique would be an effective way to get her to sleep with him. (He also drove a silver, older model BMW, which caused her to jump any time she noticed a shiny car drive by.)
"Hmm. Interesting," I commented, somewhat under my breath, refraining from asking what kind of sword it was (and possibly having to distinguish a sword from a mere dagger if it didn't prove long enough; she didn't seem to be concerned with semantics).
She inquired about my level of familiarity with criminal law regarding such matters, and I replied that I was reasonably sure that there was something in what he did upon which the police would frown.
She wondered if I was with the FBI--apparently she had acquaintances in the Bureau, some of whom flew helicopters, and she felt she needed to get ahold of someone who could do that--but I had to reveal I was not. Continuing her tale without any prompting from me, she told me of moving here from (I believe it was) Florida with an apparently crooked cop with whom she was sleeping (alas, his name has escaped my memory), and who stalked her in San Pedro. This officer, in her opinion, was of the belief that she was an alien. There was another person in law enforcement who was of the belief that both she and her former lover were aliens, but I didn't catch all of that since she related this part as we crossed the street.
I nodded.
When she asked if I thought she should report the man with the sword to the authorities, and I replied that it seemed not a bad idea. I directed her to the police station, one block down and one block over. She exclaimed she was going to do it and started walking determinedly in the direction I had indicated.
I wished her good luck. I didn't ask for my quarter back.
*****
Yesterday as I entered the downtown L.A. train station, I passed a middle-aged Asian woman in a long coat, a pillbox-type hat on her head, and a large bag on her back. She stood very timidly next to a pillar in the walkway, and when she said something as I passed, I had to stop and step back and put my ear near her mouth to understand what she was asking. She wondered if I had a dollar to spare with sweet smile on her face. I reached in and fished a dollar from my wallet without removing it from my pocket, then handed it to her.
"Bless you," she said in appreciation.
"Live long and prosper," I replied, being the first thing that sprang to mind.
doug
emanating the signal in spite of himself
"Our world is merely a practical joke of God."
- Franz Kafka
This afternoon as I walked out the side door of my apartment building and towards my car, I passed a woman asking if I had any change. She was Caucasian with blonde hair, wearing a black parka over her not-quite-overweight frame, and was ostensibly clean (and even seemed reasonably lucid).
I reached in my pocket and handed her a quarter.
She then told me that she had been accosted by a sword-wielding man down the block, who apparently felt this technique would be an effective way to get her to sleep with him. (He also drove a silver, older model BMW, which caused her to jump any time she noticed a shiny car drive by.)
"Hmm. Interesting," I commented, somewhat under my breath, refraining from asking what kind of sword it was (and possibly having to distinguish a sword from a mere dagger if it didn't prove long enough; she didn't seem to be concerned with semantics).
She inquired about my level of familiarity with criminal law regarding such matters, and I replied that I was reasonably sure that there was something in what he did upon which the police would frown.
She wondered if I was with the FBI--apparently she had acquaintances in the Bureau, some of whom flew helicopters, and she felt she needed to get ahold of someone who could do that--but I had to reveal I was not. Continuing her tale without any prompting from me, she told me of moving here from (I believe it was) Florida with an apparently crooked cop with whom she was sleeping (alas, his name has escaped my memory), and who stalked her in San Pedro. This officer, in her opinion, was of the belief that she was an alien. There was another person in law enforcement who was of the belief that both she and her former lover were aliens, but I didn't catch all of that since she related this part as we crossed the street.
I nodded.
When she asked if I thought she should report the man with the sword to the authorities, and I replied that it seemed not a bad idea. I directed her to the police station, one block down and one block over. She exclaimed she was going to do it and started walking determinedly in the direction I had indicated.
I wished her good luck. I didn't ask for my quarter back.
*****
Yesterday as I entered the downtown L.A. train station, I passed a middle-aged Asian woman in a long coat, a pillbox-type hat on her head, and a large bag on her back. She stood very timidly next to a pillar in the walkway, and when she said something as I passed, I had to stop and step back and put my ear near her mouth to understand what she was asking. She wondered if I had a dollar to spare with sweet smile on her face. I reached in and fished a dollar from my wallet without removing it from my pocket, then handed it to her.
"Bless you," she said in appreciation.
"Live long and prosper," I replied, being the first thing that sprang to mind.
doug
emanating the signal in spite of himself
"Our world is merely a practical joke of God."
- Franz Kafka
Sunday, April 15, 2001
ahem
[email composed 15 April 2001]
Some people have mentioned some disappointment that I did not send out a quaint little message explaining a little about the origins of recent events like Friday the 13th, Good Friday, or Easter (as I did with daylight savings time, April Fool's Day, and St. Valentine's Day).
It is at times like this that I am reminded why it is generally prudent to simply never do anything, as it only raises the expectations of others.
However, for what it's worth (off the top of my head), the Good Friday and Easter are Christian holidays, of course, with the modern observance of the latter having serious pagan overtones (but let's not get into that): they serve to grant schoolchildren and teachers a week off around this time of year, and are not as well-marketed (and therefore not as well acknowledged) as Christmas, and pretty much ensure that no one outside of the Jewish community even acknowledges Passover. If you do not know more about their significance, then you probably don't care.
Friday the 13th is also religious in nature (according to some), tying in with what inspired Good Friday and how many were present at a famous last meal. Not that any of this holds any significance with the general modern opinion of what it is, of course, but there is perhaps some solace to be found in knowing that even today, humanity still holds the same capacity for superstition and irrational thinking that it did thousands of years ago.
Enjoy, have a pleasant day, and try not to crucify anyone unless absolutely necessary.
Doug
monkey boy and occasional dispenser of inconsequential accuracy (or some modicum thereof)
Some people have mentioned some disappointment that I did not send out a quaint little message explaining a little about the origins of recent events like Friday the 13th, Good Friday, or Easter (as I did with daylight savings time, April Fool's Day, and St. Valentine's Day).
It is at times like this that I am reminded why it is generally prudent to simply never do anything, as it only raises the expectations of others.
However, for what it's worth (off the top of my head), the Good Friday and Easter are Christian holidays, of course, with the modern observance of the latter having serious pagan overtones (but let's not get into that): they serve to grant schoolchildren and teachers a week off around this time of year, and are not as well-marketed (and therefore not as well acknowledged) as Christmas, and pretty much ensure that no one outside of the Jewish community even acknowledges Passover. If you do not know more about their significance, then you probably don't care.
Friday the 13th is also religious in nature (according to some), tying in with what inspired Good Friday and how many were present at a famous last meal. Not that any of this holds any significance with the general modern opinion of what it is, of course, but there is perhaps some solace to be found in knowing that even today, humanity still holds the same capacity for superstition and irrational thinking that it did thousands of years ago.
Enjoy, have a pleasant day, and try not to crucify anyone unless absolutely necessary.
Doug
monkey boy and occasional dispenser of inconsequential accuracy (or some modicum thereof)
Wednesday, April 04, 2001
I have no clever title at this time
[email composed 4 April 2001]
This morning on the train ride to work, an older Black gentleman got up and began speaking, "spreading the word of the Lord." This has happened perhaps two other times in the year-and-a-half since I started taking the train, which just goes to show how far mass transit in L.A. lags behind New York.
Now, I sat there with my headphones on, as I do every morning, following standard commuter etiquette: don't talk to anyone and don't make eye contact. It's anti-social and it works. However, as the man went on about how we need to be ashamed of our behavior and to abandon our wanton ways so we could avoid spending eternity in Hell. There was probably some allusion to Jesus in there. As he continued, I must admit I couldn't help but wonder why God couldn't find someone a bit more eloquent to speak for him. Or at least someone who didn't keep prompting us to "aks" for forgiveness. Perhaps beggars can't be choosers.
The man explained, showing amazing powers of persuasion, that "there is no playpen in Hell." Apparently, there is common belief that Hell is like the playground outside McDonalds. And frankly, this shows how little the man knows, because anyone who has ever spent time in the Playland has seen a little bit of Hell.
He noted that he had led an unholy life in his earlier days, but apparently he had seen the light, or hit rock bottom--who can tell?--and wanted all of us young people to avoid giving in to the temptations of the desires of the body. He figured it best to steer us clear of the delightfully pleasurable mistakes he had made in his days of naiveté and debauchery, saving us the trouble of having fun and having to repent later.
Eventually he reached his stop and exited, without (as far as I could tell) a single person on the car acknowledging his existence, proclaiming that Jesus loved us, and that he loved us. And the rest of us continued our journey to oblivion, otherwise known as the downtown L.A. station.
The thought occurred to me that I could follow this example and pass along some of my knowledge that could help others avoid some of the pratfalls of my past. Then it occurred to me that no one pays any attention to anything I say, and decided that you crazy hippies were on your own. Mistakes build character, or lead to litigation. Who am I to stand in the way of the natural process of life?
Sorry, friends: Jesus apparently loves you more than I do. See you all in Hell. (Better there than in Heaven with all the Born Agains.)
This morning on the train ride to work, an older Black gentleman got up and began speaking, "spreading the word of the Lord." This has happened perhaps two other times in the year-and-a-half since I started taking the train, which just goes to show how far mass transit in L.A. lags behind New York.
Now, I sat there with my headphones on, as I do every morning, following standard commuter etiquette: don't talk to anyone and don't make eye contact. It's anti-social and it works. However, as the man went on about how we need to be ashamed of our behavior and to abandon our wanton ways so we could avoid spending eternity in Hell. There was probably some allusion to Jesus in there. As he continued, I must admit I couldn't help but wonder why God couldn't find someone a bit more eloquent to speak for him. Or at least someone who didn't keep prompting us to "aks" for forgiveness. Perhaps beggars can't be choosers.
The man explained, showing amazing powers of persuasion, that "there is no playpen in Hell." Apparently, there is common belief that Hell is like the playground outside McDonalds. And frankly, this shows how little the man knows, because anyone who has ever spent time in the Playland has seen a little bit of Hell.
He noted that he had led an unholy life in his earlier days, but apparently he had seen the light, or hit rock bottom--who can tell?--and wanted all of us young people to avoid giving in to the temptations of the desires of the body. He figured it best to steer us clear of the delightfully pleasurable mistakes he had made in his days of naiveté and debauchery, saving us the trouble of having fun and having to repent later.
Eventually he reached his stop and exited, without (as far as I could tell) a single person on the car acknowledging his existence, proclaiming that Jesus loved us, and that he loved us. And the rest of us continued our journey to oblivion, otherwise known as the downtown L.A. station.
The thought occurred to me that I could follow this example and pass along some of my knowledge that could help others avoid some of the pratfalls of my past. Then it occurred to me that no one pays any attention to anything I say, and decided that you crazy hippies were on your own. Mistakes build character, or lead to litigation. Who am I to stand in the way of the natural process of life?
Sorry, friends: Jesus apparently loves you more than I do. See you all in Hell. (Better there than in Heaven with all the Born Agains.)
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