nothing to do with anything. building in downtown L.A.
Friday, March 04, 2005
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Old habits die surprisingly easily
Happy A-Month-Or-So-After-Groundhog Day, everybody.
There was a time when I sent out Dougression-type emails to commemorate the lesser holidays like that. There was a time when I thought I had a reason to, I suppose. I was inspired by some vague pleasure associated with acknowledging the little guy, celebration-wise. It wasn’t so much that I did anything to actually celebrate the days in question; it wasn’t accurate to say I was really “in tune” with the origins of the celebrations (although I could do modest research on the internet to approximate some understanding thereof); it wasn’t as though I gained anything from alerting people to the trivial aspects of the days other than some minor satisfaction from having sent out something.
It was easy fodder for subject matter; that much is easy to admit. Making it interesting for my “audience” was pretty simple, given I wasn’t blathering on about myself. It ensured I’d get at least a few messages read by a fair number of people each year; for some reason that must have appealed to me. Ultimately it all boiled down to: Finding some sense of community in this big crazy world. (It’s only over-analysis of the situation that renders that conclusion, but that’s what I do.) I aspired to keep some modicum of contact with those people who had expressed some interest in hearing from me; there’s only so many folks with whom I can hope to get along well, so I can’t let them get too far away (metaphorically speaking). Sending out messages is, frankly, how I maintain some of my friendships (in some cases it’s the entirety of the relationship), so it’s how I get some sense of connecting with these people without having to make an effort to, say, see them face to face on any sort of regular basis. But I digress. We were discussing the commemoration of events like the quaint notion that a rodent predicting the severity of winter for the next three fortnights.
Why would anything like that catch on? More important, why would it continue to be celebrated in this day and age? It gets back to the community thing. We like excuses to get out from the doldrums of our everyday existence, yes, but we also want to get out amongst others who are of a mind to celebrate something just for the heck of it; it makes us part of a group of ostensibly like‑minded individuals, if only for one day in February. (It’s also probably the only time that town in Pennsylvania gets mentioned in the national news, and must do wonders for its local economy with the temporary boom in tourism, or at least in reporters staying in town to cover the morning’s festivities.) However, my messages commented more on that delightful absurdity than about the importance of whether it would be snowy through March (growing up in Southern California that’s never been of particular concern); it intrigued me that people went to such efforts to maintain a tradition that had long since lost its intended significance. (Well, that presupposes that everyone appreciates the day in some ironic context; it’s entirely possible that Punxsutawney Phil can foretell the weather and it’s unfair to dismiss it as a long-standing publicity stunt. All I can state definitively is my intention with the messages I sent, and only somewhat so at that.) Something about that appealed to me, and I figured it would appeal to others (based on the fact it still gets mentioned on calendars and the news, etc.), and those people are worth keeping in contact with.
Or at least they used to be, before some implicit novelty wore off. Or perhaps I've succumbed to a hibernation-like routine. Every so often I emerge from my hole, see my shadow, and then... six more weeks of curmudgeon-ness.
And pretending that "curmudgeon-ness" is a word is a sure sign I need more human contact. Or maybe I just need to be feted by Pennsylvanians.
There was a time when I sent out Dougression-type emails to commemorate the lesser holidays like that. There was a time when I thought I had a reason to, I suppose. I was inspired by some vague pleasure associated with acknowledging the little guy, celebration-wise. It wasn’t so much that I did anything to actually celebrate the days in question; it wasn’t accurate to say I was really “in tune” with the origins of the celebrations (although I could do modest research on the internet to approximate some understanding thereof); it wasn’t as though I gained anything from alerting people to the trivial aspects of the days other than some minor satisfaction from having sent out something.
It was easy fodder for subject matter; that much is easy to admit. Making it interesting for my “audience” was pretty simple, given I wasn’t blathering on about myself. It ensured I’d get at least a few messages read by a fair number of people each year; for some reason that must have appealed to me. Ultimately it all boiled down to: Finding some sense of community in this big crazy world. (It’s only over-analysis of the situation that renders that conclusion, but that’s what I do.) I aspired to keep some modicum of contact with those people who had expressed some interest in hearing from me; there’s only so many folks with whom I can hope to get along well, so I can’t let them get too far away (metaphorically speaking). Sending out messages is, frankly, how I maintain some of my friendships (in some cases it’s the entirety of the relationship), so it’s how I get some sense of connecting with these people without having to make an effort to, say, see them face to face on any sort of regular basis. But I digress. We were discussing the commemoration of events like the quaint notion that a rodent predicting the severity of winter for the next three fortnights.
Why would anything like that catch on? More important, why would it continue to be celebrated in this day and age? It gets back to the community thing. We like excuses to get out from the doldrums of our everyday existence, yes, but we also want to get out amongst others who are of a mind to celebrate something just for the heck of it; it makes us part of a group of ostensibly like‑minded individuals, if only for one day in February. (It’s also probably the only time that town in Pennsylvania gets mentioned in the national news, and must do wonders for its local economy with the temporary boom in tourism, or at least in reporters staying in town to cover the morning’s festivities.) However, my messages commented more on that delightful absurdity than about the importance of whether it would be snowy through March (growing up in Southern California that’s never been of particular concern); it intrigued me that people went to such efforts to maintain a tradition that had long since lost its intended significance. (Well, that presupposes that everyone appreciates the day in some ironic context; it’s entirely possible that Punxsutawney Phil can foretell the weather and it’s unfair to dismiss it as a long-standing publicity stunt. All I can state definitively is my intention with the messages I sent, and only somewhat so at that.) Something about that appealed to me, and I figured it would appeal to others (based on the fact it still gets mentioned on calendars and the news, etc.), and those people are worth keeping in contact with.
Or at least they used to be, before some implicit novelty wore off. Or perhaps I've succumbed to a hibernation-like routine. Every so often I emerge from my hole, see my shadow, and then... six more weeks of curmudgeon-ness.
And pretending that "curmudgeon-ness" is a word is a sure sign I need more human contact. Or maybe I just need to be feted by Pennsylvanians.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Yesterday's future today
Although from the frequency of posts here it seems like I rarely write, the reality (or some delusion commonly agreed upon) is I don't often write on a computer outside of work (where I spend far more time behind a keyboard than humans were even meant to). On the train ride to and from the office, I jot down thoughts on a pad of paper with alarming regularity, sometimes composing several handwritten pages of drivel a day. (That I consider my journal, something I have been keeping on and off since 1988.) To the extent any of that is worthy of being shared with others, when I get home each night I tend to be too tired, undisciplined, unmotivated, and distracted by television to transcribe the barely legible text and transform it into as close to a coherent essay as I bother to achieve here.
A short time ago I borrowed a laptop from work to test using it during the commute. What follows is what I wrote one morning on that machine (a rumination on what it might be like to switch from using paper and pen to using a computer), without revision. You have been warned.
The biggest loss, to the extent that applies, to switching to composing on a machine like this would be the lack of false starts. That is, when I’m writing on a pad with a pen and I decide I don’t like the word choice or I decide to change the direction of the sentence or I misspell a word and have to re-write it to get it right (or as close to right as my brain allows at that moment), there’s lingering evidence of it: the lines scratching out the “deleted” text. Often I make them so heavy it would take forensics to make out what was there originally, but there’s no way to hide that I either goofed or reconsidered. On the computer, of course, if I backspace over a mistyped character or if the automatic spell check kicks in and the guesswork is taken from the scenario, all that is left is the end result—which may still be flawed from the standpoint of how well I composed whatever theme I pretended to be exploring, but would show no evidence of the process by which it was achieved (be it worthwhile or not).
I suppose there’s something about the process that I find enjoyable, and hence the slight dismay over the alteration to the way that would work by changing the methodology. No, let’s call it what it is: arrogance and egotism. Like anyone who puts even the slightest artistic effort into a task (go with it—remember, arrogance and egotism), I harbor some delusion that the process grants some delightful insight into my person and my personality, and should it prove to be something that is regarded as genuinely artistic, some scholar might choose to analyze it thoroughly someday (presumably after I’m dead but perhaps sooner), and the scratched out passages could be seen as some kind of Rosetta Stone to the enigma that is Doug.
Arrogance and egotism. I make no proverbial bones about it. Not that I’m sure what making a bone of something means from an etymological standpoint, but nonetheless the expression has made its way into my vernacular. (See, that’s the sort of detail the scholars would eat up. That frightens me somewhat, to be frank.)
On second thought, there may be something to be said for having the evidence of my mistakes be lost to history. More than being combed over by scholars it would just be used to tear down what little I may have achieved. Well, that’s not so much an issue; given the way I try to reveal my shortcomings in these essays, what might be learned in a journal entry that would be that damning is somewhat hard to imagine.
Really, it’s probably my own inadequacies that aren’t exploited by writing on a pad of paper with a pen that I like about that method. With electronic words in an easily transferable format like this, I have little excuse to not go back and revise, to hone it to something that is ready to be shared (if the thought is even remotely worthwhile); with immutable scratches of ink on a piece of wood pulp, there’s no opportunity to go back and re-work it. It can be re-written, yes, but that’s essentially starting over, just with a good outline; it’s not merely tweaking a word here and there, not just adding or subtracting a line to improve the argument. It’s much more laborious, and hence the ideal excuse to not bother with even starting (unless great inspiration strikes)
Yes, procuring a laptop of my own (that is as small enough to be used it on the train, harnessing the nigh ten hours a week I’m already accustomed to being semi-productive) is certainly a first step to overcoming my shortcomings, and perhaps getting to the point where scholars would decide that the world needs no greater insight into the enigma of Doug than concluding he’s not much of an enigma.
[I am presently stymied by the decision of what kind of laptop to get, with what bells and whistles, etc. Ah, the joys of a neurotic bent to one's personality.]
A short time ago I borrowed a laptop from work to test using it during the commute. What follows is what I wrote one morning on that machine (a rumination on what it might be like to switch from using paper and pen to using a computer), without revision. You have been warned.
The biggest loss, to the extent that applies, to switching to composing on a machine like this would be the lack of false starts. That is, when I’m writing on a pad with a pen and I decide I don’t like the word choice or I decide to change the direction of the sentence or I misspell a word and have to re-write it to get it right (or as close to right as my brain allows at that moment), there’s lingering evidence of it: the lines scratching out the “deleted” text. Often I make them so heavy it would take forensics to make out what was there originally, but there’s no way to hide that I either goofed or reconsidered. On the computer, of course, if I backspace over a mistyped character or if the automatic spell check kicks in and the guesswork is taken from the scenario, all that is left is the end result—which may still be flawed from the standpoint of how well I composed whatever theme I pretended to be exploring, but would show no evidence of the process by which it was achieved (be it worthwhile or not).
I suppose there’s something about the process that I find enjoyable, and hence the slight dismay over the alteration to the way that would work by changing the methodology. No, let’s call it what it is: arrogance and egotism. Like anyone who puts even the slightest artistic effort into a task (go with it—remember, arrogance and egotism), I harbor some delusion that the process grants some delightful insight into my person and my personality, and should it prove to be something that is regarded as genuinely artistic, some scholar might choose to analyze it thoroughly someday (presumably after I’m dead but perhaps sooner), and the scratched out passages could be seen as some kind of Rosetta Stone to the enigma that is Doug.
Arrogance and egotism. I make no proverbial bones about it. Not that I’m sure what making a bone of something means from an etymological standpoint, but nonetheless the expression has made its way into my vernacular. (See, that’s the sort of detail the scholars would eat up. That frightens me somewhat, to be frank.)
On second thought, there may be something to be said for having the evidence of my mistakes be lost to history. More than being combed over by scholars it would just be used to tear down what little I may have achieved. Well, that’s not so much an issue; given the way I try to reveal my shortcomings in these essays, what might be learned in a journal entry that would be that damning is somewhat hard to imagine.
Really, it’s probably my own inadequacies that aren’t exploited by writing on a pad of paper with a pen that I like about that method. With electronic words in an easily transferable format like this, I have little excuse to not go back and revise, to hone it to something that is ready to be shared (if the thought is even remotely worthwhile); with immutable scratches of ink on a piece of wood pulp, there’s no opportunity to go back and re-work it. It can be re-written, yes, but that’s essentially starting over, just with a good outline; it’s not merely tweaking a word here and there, not just adding or subtracting a line to improve the argument. It’s much more laborious, and hence the ideal excuse to not bother with even starting (unless great inspiration strikes)
Yes, procuring a laptop of my own (that is as small enough to be used it on the train, harnessing the nigh ten hours a week I’m already accustomed to being semi-productive) is certainly a first step to overcoming my shortcomings, and perhaps getting to the point where scholars would decide that the world needs no greater insight into the enigma of Doug than concluding he’s not much of an enigma.
[I am presently stymied by the decision of what kind of laptop to get, with what bells and whistles, etc. Ah, the joys of a neurotic bent to one's personality.]
Thursday, December 02, 2004
Walking past the library (again)
My walk to the office from the train station takes me past the Downtown L.A. Library. It is not uncommon to see individuals sitting on the benches or wandering the walkways outside its walls who seem to have a great deal of free time and an inconsistent bathing schedule. Except when there shooed away by Los Angeles’ finest aging, overweight officers so a film crew can shoot a scene for a commercial there.
Over the years I’ve seen quite a bit, from insistent down-on-their-luck souls just seeking spare change "for the bus" to bag ladies shuffling along with vacant eyes. I dare not suggest I’ve seen it all, and I don’t mean to sound jaded, but let's just say it takes some effort to show me something new in the arena (so to speak).
One recent morning as I approached the corner of 5th and Flower (the edge of the library grounds) I came upon an older man coming the other direction. He had no front teeth, and was dragging an empty shopping cart behind him. (Nothing novel about either of these elements of the situation). When I got within about eight feet of him, he looked more-or-less at me and muttered with as much of a scowl as one can muster without teeth: "Call 9-1-1… I'm gonna take out your legs with some 2x4s."
However, before any of this could come to anything, the light at the intersection turned green for me to cross, so I continued walking past him without breaking stride, nodding at him in vague acknowledgment, commenting to myself, "Well, fair enough."
Some people would have been alarmed at the moment of accost from a man with a tenuous grasp on reality, but I appreciated (at least theoretically) the warning; it’s not everyone who gives one the opportunity to summon emergency assistance before being attacked. Or being thusly threatened. I mean, it’s more than Ron Artest gave that first guy he punched in the Auburn Hills crowd (although whether most NBA players have any better grasp on reality is arguable).
I was not concerned, however, because not only was he not a professional basketball player, it was clear that he didn’t have any lumber in his cart with which he could follow through on his declaration (and even if he had, I felt reasonably comfortable with my ability to dodge his attempt to strike).
Besides, I bet he says that to all the boys. Reflecting back, I don’t even feel special.
Still, if I’d had any change in my pocket I might have given it to him—not so much out of pity or out of fear but for giving me something a little different. Heck, I pay a bunch of money for cable that I don’t watch that much; surely his gesture, though likely sincerely malicious (in his mind), was worth a small donation.
(Not what he really needs, of course, but that’s not the focus of this piece. Ahem. Okay, everyone who walks past numerous homeless people every day, please raise your hand. Now, keep your hand up if you would have helped him. No, I mean taken him your home and… Yes, that’s what I thought.)
To counter that, allow me to describe another recent encounter. This one occurred on the evening walk to the station, well after dark. That’s when only the (what we’ll call) the die-hard panhandlers are out; the heavy foot traffic in Downtown L.A. is in the middle of the day, before businesspeople have gotten into their BMWs and SUVs—sometimes in their BMW SUV—and returned to their communities (where the homeless are restricted to a couple guys outside 7-Eleven), so those still there in the evening are, in a manner of speaking, more committed to their craft than those who dwell there at midday.
There were two women walking in front of me and I’d already started moving to pass them when I discerned the figure on the corner on the other side of them was a panhandler. From my position and due to the poor light I couldn’t read the sign he held, although I imagine it involved a plea for help. I didn’t have any change in my pocket (you may be noticing a pattern), but I did glance at him, curled up the corners of my mouth and nodded in some acknowledgment of him being there, which is more than the ladies did (even though he had teeth and no shopping cart). The traffic signal was already green so I kept walking out into the crosswalk, but before I got too far I heard him say in a sincere tone, “Thank you for smiling.” He sounded like he genuinely appreciated simply not being ignored.
In the past I’d received many automatic “bless you” responses from those whose pleas I’d semi-apologetically declined, but being thanked for granting him the same treatment I’d give anyone else with whom I made eye contact did make me think about things differently. It was probably the case that most people not only didn’t give him anything but went out of their way to pretend he wasn’t there.
Whatever qualms I may have with straight-up giving such people money—or rather, qualms with the authenticity of their sob stories—I have no issue with regarding them as human beings. (That is, at least up until I catch them in obvious lies that undermine their pleas.)
This is where you’re hoping I say I turned on my heel and went back and gave him some money, or marched him to a restaurant and bought him food and talked to him. Well, I can say with absolute honesty if I see him again I’ll certainly be more inclined to at least pause and find some spare change. Even if it causes me to miss the train and have to wait 20 minutes for the next one.
Admit it: A few paragraphs back you thought me heartless. And at best you were only partially correct. So there.
Over the years I’ve seen quite a bit, from insistent down-on-their-luck souls just seeking spare change "for the bus" to bag ladies shuffling along with vacant eyes. I dare not suggest I’ve seen it all, and I don’t mean to sound jaded, but let's just say it takes some effort to show me something new in the arena (so to speak).
One recent morning as I approached the corner of 5th and Flower (the edge of the library grounds) I came upon an older man coming the other direction. He had no front teeth, and was dragging an empty shopping cart behind him. (Nothing novel about either of these elements of the situation). When I got within about eight feet of him, he looked more-or-less at me and muttered with as much of a scowl as one can muster without teeth: "Call 9-1-1… I'm gonna take out your legs with some 2x4s."
However, before any of this could come to anything, the light at the intersection turned green for me to cross, so I continued walking past him without breaking stride, nodding at him in vague acknowledgment, commenting to myself, "Well, fair enough."
Some people would have been alarmed at the moment of accost from a man with a tenuous grasp on reality, but I appreciated (at least theoretically) the warning; it’s not everyone who gives one the opportunity to summon emergency assistance before being attacked. Or being thusly threatened. I mean, it’s more than Ron Artest gave that first guy he punched in the Auburn Hills crowd (although whether most NBA players have any better grasp on reality is arguable).
I was not concerned, however, because not only was he not a professional basketball player, it was clear that he didn’t have any lumber in his cart with which he could follow through on his declaration (and even if he had, I felt reasonably comfortable with my ability to dodge his attempt to strike).
Besides, I bet he says that to all the boys. Reflecting back, I don’t even feel special.
Still, if I’d had any change in my pocket I might have given it to him—not so much out of pity or out of fear but for giving me something a little different. Heck, I pay a bunch of money for cable that I don’t watch that much; surely his gesture, though likely sincerely malicious (in his mind), was worth a small donation.
(Not what he really needs, of course, but that’s not the focus of this piece. Ahem. Okay, everyone who walks past numerous homeless people every day, please raise your hand. Now, keep your hand up if you would have helped him. No, I mean taken him your home and… Yes, that’s what I thought.)
To counter that, allow me to describe another recent encounter. This one occurred on the evening walk to the station, well after dark. That’s when only the (what we’ll call) the die-hard panhandlers are out; the heavy foot traffic in Downtown L.A. is in the middle of the day, before businesspeople have gotten into their BMWs and SUVs—sometimes in their BMW SUV—and returned to their communities (where the homeless are restricted to a couple guys outside 7-Eleven), so those still there in the evening are, in a manner of speaking, more committed to their craft than those who dwell there at midday.
There were two women walking in front of me and I’d already started moving to pass them when I discerned the figure on the corner on the other side of them was a panhandler. From my position and due to the poor light I couldn’t read the sign he held, although I imagine it involved a plea for help. I didn’t have any change in my pocket (you may be noticing a pattern), but I did glance at him, curled up the corners of my mouth and nodded in some acknowledgment of him being there, which is more than the ladies did (even though he had teeth and no shopping cart). The traffic signal was already green so I kept walking out into the crosswalk, but before I got too far I heard him say in a sincere tone, “Thank you for smiling.” He sounded like he genuinely appreciated simply not being ignored.
In the past I’d received many automatic “bless you” responses from those whose pleas I’d semi-apologetically declined, but being thanked for granting him the same treatment I’d give anyone else with whom I made eye contact did make me think about things differently. It was probably the case that most people not only didn’t give him anything but went out of their way to pretend he wasn’t there.
Whatever qualms I may have with straight-up giving such people money—or rather, qualms with the authenticity of their sob stories—I have no issue with regarding them as human beings. (That is, at least up until I catch them in obvious lies that undermine their pleas.)
This is where you’re hoping I say I turned on my heel and went back and gave him some money, or marched him to a restaurant and bought him food and talked to him. Well, I can say with absolute honesty if I see him again I’ll certainly be more inclined to at least pause and find some spare change. Even if it causes me to miss the train and have to wait 20 minutes for the next one.
Admit it: A few paragraphs back you thought me heartless. And at best you were only partially correct. So there.
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