Like a Rock

I have a running joke with my wife about the fact that I can't float on my back in the pool. Well, she thinks I'm joking when in fact I'm completely serious. She doesn't believe that a person is incapable of floating in water, even though I've repeatedly assured her that I sink like a stone. I've even demonstrated the phenomenon for her, but she told me that I was doing it wrong. I didn't realize there was a right and wrong way to sink to the bottom of the pool, but I guess I've mastered it.

Well today, I was watching The Big Bang Theory, and lo and behold, Sheldon admitted to have the exact same problem! He said the issue was that he had a higher than normal body density, which sounds completely reasonable and plausible. So now, I finally have a reason for my inability to float in the pool that my wife can't refute. It must be true, because not only did I see it on TV, but Dr. Sheldon Cooper is generally accepted as a genius, so he must know more than us.

West Target Story

Something was going down in the Target today.  I walked right into the middle of a stand-off between the plus-sized mannequins and the stick-thing mannequins.  Nobody was moving, but you could feel the tension all over the entire store.  I was waiting for the two sides to start snapping their fingers as they did a choreographed dance around each other.  My money was on the plus-sized mannequins.  They looked more than capable of holding their own against the undersized and overmatched skinnier mannequins across the aisle.

Trash Days

It’s sad when you start to define your days by which waste bin goes out by the street. On Tuesdays and Fridays, it’s the trash bin. On Thursdays, it’s the recycling bin. On Mondays and Wednesdays, it’s neither; but Monday follows Sunday, and usually all of Sunday, I’m thinking about and dreading having to work the next day. So, I always know when it’s Monday! I wonder if I’d actually have any cognizant awareness of the day without the waste bin. It’s so sad.

Crucial and Perfect Point in History

Why do you think Jesus came at the exact point in time when He did? Why not thousands of years before, like directly after the fall of man? Why wait so long to finally send a Savior? Why set up a system, requiring millions of believers to perform rituals to absolve them of their sins? Why make the world wait in anticipation of His coming, instead of giving everyone the joy of it already having happened, like we have now?

Or why not thousands of years after He came, like during an era when we had cameras or cell phones to document His miracles and prove to millions that He was who He said He was? Was it because He wants people to believe by faith and not by "proof"? Or maybe because it really wouldn't matter. Even with photo or video evidence, people still wouldn't believe it. They'd say it was edited or a hoax.

What was so crucial and so perfect about that exact point in history? Was it the mid-point of life? Could we extrapolate the end of the world by calculating the time before His birth and after it? I know we'll never know the answer, but the question is still interesting to ponder.

The Turning Point

I was reminiscing this morning about my job. After a series of disappointing stops along the way, I remember how much I loved my job when I first started. I was excited to find a place to use my various skills and talents and a place that valued my ideas and innovative thinking.

But I also remember the turning point, the exact moment when it changed to an unpleasant working experience. My boss, KE, was a great boss. He encouraged me, entertained my suggestions, and rewarded my successes. With him, I felt like I finally had found fertile ground to put down roots. We quickly became very close, having like-minded ideas about the direction of the team, and I truly believe that he enjoyed having a confidant and buddy in the team. And when we unexpectedly found ourselves as a single-car family, he graciously volunteered to pick me up for a carpool.

It was on one of those car rides home that KE mentioned that he was bouncing around the idea of having a co-manager to help him with the ever-growing demands of the team. We threw around some high-level ideas on the responsibilities of the role, something we often did during our rides. And then he surprised me by telling me that he was considering me for the position.

I was ecstatic and speechless. It was the culmination of all that I had desired and been working toward for years. My dream was to manage, to find a way to give back to the team and give people a better manager experience than I had had throughout my career. But I also realized that it wasn’t a done deal yet, so I tried to keep my hopes under wrap until I knew for sure. Later that night, I texted KE with some additional questions and ideas about the role, trying to imagine how I could fit into it. His response was, “I don’t think we should talk about it anymore. I shouldn’t have mentioned it to you. That was my mistake.”

In the end, the role never came to be, and I was not to live my dream of being a manager. Actually shortly after, a new person was brought on to manage the team, and KE was demoted. But it wasn’t the loss of the opportunity that stung, I’m mature enough to understand corporate politics and how fickle this world is. It was the wall that KE built between us. After that car ride, he went out of his way to separate the business from the personal. I was cut off from his inner thoughts and from the privilege of what happened behind the scenes. Without warning, I became just another contributor on the team.

We stopped carpooling, as the awkward tension grew between us. We stopped eating lunch together. We pretty much stopped talking, unless it had to do with a normal boss-peon interaction. And as the wall between us grew, I found that I had lost the one person that had believed in me, in my potential, in my ideas. I no longer had his favor or encouragement. And without that, this became just another job like any other that I had worked. A job filled with disappointment and politics. I watched undeserving person after person get promoted to leadership, while I languished underutilized and unsatisfied on the sidelines.

I sat like this, becoming more and more bitter, for three years until another chance finally presented itself. But by then, it was too late. The damage was done. I was no longer the hopeful enthusiastic person that I had been. Everything was now jaded by that one moment, that one ill-conceived response from the man that I had looked up to and respected.

I ultimately took the job of manager, because I didn’t feel there was a better option for the team. I felt like they deserved better than what they’d been experiencing for the last six months. I didn’t take it because I wanted to lead; that part was gone, broken by the machine that had once held such promise. But some small part of me still felt like I could use the opportunity to make a difference in people’s lives. And then another turning point happened at the hands of the same man.

I was struggling with a situation with a couple of my team members, and I reached out to KE for advice. He had moved on to another company months before, but we had kept in touch after he’d left. His response to my text was, “Well, you’re the one that wanted to be a manager. Welcome to leadership.” Instead of taking the opportunity to mentor and guide me, instead of making amends for the hurtful way he’d handled that moment so many years ago, he took one more opportunity to jam the knife through my barely-beating heart. And with that stroke, he severed the last cord that bound us. I haven’t really talked to him since.

And my tenure as the manager of this team has been bad ever since. I regret the decision to take the job. I loathe going to work every day. I don’t feel respected by the team or the organization. And in three years, I haven’t been able to accomplish a single idea or goal. My time as the leader has been unremarkable and forgettable.

This is not what I imagined it would be like so many years ago, when I was a bright-eyed and naive consultant, yearning for a chance to make a mark on this world. It has been eight and a half years of walking down a gravel road barefoot, while a crowd of people, lining both sides of the road, have pelted me with rocks and garbage. And I can’t help but wonder if all of it might have turned out differently if one man had chosen a different response to my text.

Practicing Being a Goose

The weather this week has been a little cooler, dropping down to the 50s at night and only creeping up into the high 70s during the day. As the world prepares for approaching winter, I have noticed that the large population of Canadian geese that make their home here in Dallas have started to form up into flocks. Every afternoon, you can see them practicing their v-formations in preparation for flying south. Their distinctive honks ring out above the din of city life, calling out adjustments and instructions. It truly gives a sense of transitioning into the Fall.

High-End Citizens

The area that we live in contains a lot of high-end cars; like Maserati, Audi, Lexus, Lamborghini, Ferrari. Even teenagers that look like they’ve had a license for all of ten minutes are driving around in Mercedes and BMWs. And the weird part is that not only do you see the sports version of these, driven by men going through a mid-life crisis I assume, but you see a lot of SUV versions. Families going to dance class or soccer practice in an Audi SUV. We’re talking about a $70,000 car for every-day use.

After observing a large subset of the people driving these expensive cars around, I have come to one very factual conclusion. There are two kinds of people that drive Audi SUVs…successful single people and successful married people.

I guess they don’t necessarily have to be successful. They could have spent every dime they’ve ever made on that car in order to appear successful. Okay, so there’s two kinds of people that drive Audi SUVs…single people and married people. That comes from weeks of meticulous observation and study, so you can take that statement on face value. It’s true, trust me.

Just Sing

I remember the first time I sang in front of another human being. I was riding in the car with CW, and a good song had come on the radio. I was scared and hesitant, because I wasn’t sure if she’d think I sang well. But she was my best friend, and she’d never judged me before. If I was ever going to take the risk, this was the time and place to do it.

So, I went for it. CW started singing with me, and she had a beautiful voice. When the song ended, she said, “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you sing. You have a nice voice. You should try out for the choir.” I was caught completely off guard. Not only didn’t she make fun of me, but she actually encouraged me to share my voice with the world. Now, she could have just been polite, but it was the response I needed.

After that, I started being more bold, singing in front of other friends. And every one of them took the opportunity to sing along with me. It’s like they were waiting for me to go first. Like my vulnerability gave them courage. I know I’m not a superstar, but I also know I’m not the worst singer on the planet. And my courage has grown and grown.

I sang in front of an audience a few years ago, which was my only “public” concert (one song at my father's church). But mostly I sing at the house for my son. Lucky for me, he loves to sing too, and I think my example gives him courage. My mom brags about my voice and tells me all the time that I sound good, although she might be a little bias. But it doesn’t really matter, because my experience has been one of love and encouragement. I didn’t need to be afraid to share my passion for singing. And now I share it with people whether they want to hear it or not!

Blood Brothers

When I was a senior in high school, I was in an art class. I had gotten into it to fulfill my humanities elective, but I truly loved the class. Even after I had fulfilled my elective, I continued to go because it was a great outlet for my artistic nature. And because I had met some amazing people that were fun to talk to.

My favorite medium was sketching with pencil. I loved the challenge of creating contour and texture with different pressure and darkness. I found myself sketching all the time at home too, and my girlfriend enjoyed creating art with me. So, when the school posted a contest to have your artwork entered into the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo, we both submitted a piece.

The theme was supposed to have something to do with cowboys, ranching, the Old West, etc. Which made sense since it was going to be at the rodeo. My girlfriend’s sketch was of a wrinkled old cowboy, titled aptly “The Old Man.” Mine was a portrait of the faces of an American Indian and a cowboy both staring off into the distance in opposite directions…from different worlds yet connected. I called it “Blood Brothers.”

I was very nervous, because I’d never entered an art contest, nor had I ever displayed my work publicly before. It turns out that it was completely unwarranted. I was selected as one of three finalists whose work would be sent to the rodeo. Unfortunately, my girlfriend’s work did not make the cut, so it was a bittersweet victory. She was very supportive of me though.

I didn’t actually attend the rodeo, so I never got to see my work displayed. But I was notified a few weeks later that I had one First Prize, which was really second place. I think someone that had painted a realistic picture of a longhorn actually won Grand Prize, so it’s hard to be upset. Not bad for my first and only art contest.

Mega Roll

I was sent to the store today to buy toilet paper. I really don’t understand all of this mega roll crap. Every brand is touting that there rolls are bigger than their competitor’s, and that each roll is equal to four normal rolls. If every roll now is a mega roll, then isn’t that a normal roll? If you can’t find a “normal” roll, then why do they keep referring to it by comparison?! And what was the point of increasing the size of the roll of toilet paper to the point that it no longer fits on the dispenser? If it can’t turn because it’s mushed up against the wall, then it’s useless. This is especially perplexing when you have an emergency and desperately need a few sheets of paper only to have it rip off a single sheet at a time.

With Distinction

Anybody who knew me later in life might be surprised to find out that I wasn’t a very good student when I was younger. But I was a C student at best.

The problem wasn’t that I was stupid or anything. It was that I was unmotivated. There was no incentive for me to get good grades. My brother had the same issue, and my parents used to give him money, the amount varying based on the grade he got. But that didn’t work for me. I was never driven by money like my brother was. That’s not how I defined success. Nor was I driven by things either. No material thing that my parents dangled in front of me worked to get me to focus on my grades. My drive came from within, and until I had a cause worth trying for, I wasn’t going to try at all.

Fortunately, the school, and God working through them, came up with a new program when I was in the third grade…The Honor Roll. It had three levels, similar to the cum laude system in college. Level 1 was a blend of As and Bs. Level 2 was all As and no more than 2 Bs. And Level 3 was straight As. Not only would you be recognized in front of the whole school, but you’d also get a certificate with your name in calligraphic writing, forever immortalizing you on paper. The two higher levels came with other rewards as well, such as a free pass on one homework assignment and lunch with the principal, but I didn’t care about that. I wanted the recognition and affirmation. I wouldn’t realize it at the time, but that should have been an early indicator that one of my love languages was “Words of Affirmation.” But I digress.

That year I buckled down and finally focused on my school work. I wanted to be on the honor roll. I wanted to hear my name called out at assembly…to be one of the chosen few set apart as greater than the rest. Now that I read that out loud, I realize that I could have easily become a super villain. Fine line I guess.

When the first six weeks report came out, I had done it…all As and Bs…Level 1. I can’t recall now if my parents acknowledged the accomplishment or made a big deal about it. Frankly, I didn’t really care. As funny and duplicitous as it sounds, their praise didn’t do it for me. No cheering fans or roaring crowds would scream my name because of what they said. I needed the public to know. But praise dies down and fades into silence. I was a junky that needed more. I had to get back that feeling.

So, the next six weeks I did it again…and the next…and the next. By the end of the school year, I was up to Level 2. Better, but still not enough. The best words and loudest cheers still came for the top level. I wanted to be on the Principal’s Honor Roll. And when fourth grade rolled around that’s exactly what I set my sites on accomplishing.

And after the first six weeks, I had done it. I had reached the pinnacle of my small, unknown private school’s mountain. I was finally counted with the best of the best of the couple hundred people that attended that school. In my small corner of the world, I was elite. I doubt now that the cheering and applause was as glorious and raucous as I heard it in my mind, but I didn’t care. Those random strangers adored me!

But every Napoleon has his Waterloo, every William Wallace has his Falkirk. And the second six weeks, everything came crashing back to reality. I ended up with an 89.4 in reading. No amount of coaxing or begging would move my teacher to change it. I offered to do an extra assignment, retake a test, anything…to no avail. The hardest part to take was that I wasn’t an entire point away. I was but a mere tenth of a point away. I missed getting straight As by the smallest possible fraction.

As I reminisce about it now, I’m convinced that God sent that moment to humble me. I had grown too cocky and self-reliant, and I had missed out giving praise back to the One that made it all happen. But just like a blacksmith can make a sword stronger by first tearing it down and folding it on itself, God used that moment to make me better. I was no longer motivated by the recognition of others, but by an innate drive to be better. I no longer cared about the tangible rewards or being better than other people. My reward came from challenging myself to be better than myself.

I never got another B in elementary school or junior high. I graduated as the valedictorian of my eighth grade class. I’m sure there was applause and praise along the way, but I didn’t hear any of it. Nothing someone could say either good or bad could be more than I said to myself. My identity was no longer in man but in the One who made me.

I would go on to get all As and Bs in both high school and college. I graduated with honors from both. It’s amazing to think back at how much that honor roll changed the entire course of my life. In ways I could have foreseen, and in ways I couldn’t. It made me a better student, but God used it to make me a better person too.

NOTE: Did you know that “cum laude” is Latin for “with distinction”? It is the first level of graduating with honors. The second being magna cum laude (with great distinction) and third being sigma cum laude (with highest distinction).

Courage Over Regret

I have very few regrets in life, but one of them is how I went through high school. I never put myself out there and experienced things. I merely trudged the halls a quiet, reclusive, unknown person. People annoyed me, so I limited my contact with them. I was introverted and cynical. But that’s more a by-product than the cause. In truth, I was afraid.

In high school, I always wanted to sing and act. My best friend even tried to get me to join the choir with her, but I could never get up the courage to audition. What if they rejected me? What if I was the only one not to make it? What if I wasn’t good enough? I was afraid to fail. And if I couldn’t be guaranteed of success, then I wasn’t even going to try.

To this day, I still have no idea if I had what it takes to make it. I don’t know how singing and acting might have changed the entire course of my life. I don’t know because I never tried, and that’s one of my great regrets in life. I sat on the sidelines, or on the stoop behind the temporary buildings to be more precise, while everyone else put themselves out there.

I was on the soccer team, well I was the water boy for the team, but even that was more forced on me rather than a choice. When I was sitting with the guidance counselor signing up for classes, she asked me if I played any sports. I replied soccer and baseball. She told me to pick one, and I picked soccer. I had no idea that that meant I was agreeing to try out for the team. I thought she was just trying to get to know me better.

The only thing I really picked for myself was to join the Christian Student Union, and even that was terrifying. I loved it, but I was intimidated by all of these amazing people that sang better than me, knew the Bible better than me, and had a faith stronger than me.

There were just so many choices that I could have made, and I didn’t…choir, theater, cross-country running, the football team, yearbook committee, taking photographs. I didn’t care about drinking and partying like some people. That wasn’t my thing. But I wish I’d been more involved. I wish I’d had the courage to at least try.

Eye Five

Back in college, JT and I used to play a game called Torin’s Passage. It was a single-player game, so JT would control the character, and we’d work through the puzzles together. I don’t really remember much about the game other than the graphics were pretty cool for that time. But I do remember this one part where our character came across these two snails, Slim and Slime. They were giving us a hard time, insulting and making fun of us. Every time they’d throw out an insult, they’d say, “Eye Five!” and then they’d slap their eyeballs together. For some reason that had JT and I in stitches. To this day, neither of us can hear someone say, “Give me a high five,” without attempting to correct them that it is in fact an Eye Five.

Vertigo in a Bottle

I had vertigo today, and I was really dizzy. I had to sit down most of the day because every time I stood up, I felt like I was going to fall over. My head felt like it weighed twice as much as normal, and I was having a hard time keeping it “balanced” on my neck. The weirdest sensation was when I was walking and then I’d stop moving. My body would stop, but it felt like my head was still moving forward with inertia. I would have to “catch” it and try to balance it, moving back and forth as it wobbled from side to side. I imagined I looked like one of those performers balancing a plate on a stick that was balanced on their chin.

The worst part was that I had a lot of meetings today where I had to be on camera. A few of them were even interviews. The room was moving around me the entire time, so that I’m sure I looked like I was high on some psychedelic mushrooms. When I told CC about this, he suggested that some people might actually pay for that sensation. If I could bottle it, I might be able to make a fortune. We started laughing as we created an entire marketing campaign for our new product, “The Essence of Man.”

Feel like your life is boring, like you’re stuck in a rut? Liven it up a little with The Essence of Man.

Have meetings become like a monotonous chore? Try The Essence of Man, and you’ll never experience a meeting the same again.

Do women have you feeling like your life is spinning out of control? Take The Essence of Man, and it really will be.

I surmised that we wouldn’t even need a real product, just a placebo. We could bottle up sweet tea and sell it, using suggestive marketing. I’m sure people would feel the effects anyway, just because we told them that they would.

The One-Eyed Giant

When I was in elementary school, there was a stigma attached to wearing glasses. Kids made fun of those who had to wear them, calling them “four eyes,” or “nerd,” or some other equally stupid and hurtful name. Lacking the self-confidence that I have now, I desperately didn’t want to be in the line of fire. So each year when they’d bring an optometrist to our school to conduct an eye exam, I’d make sure to position myself toward the back of the line. Then, as the kids in front of me went through their tests, I’d memorize the eye chart. So that by the time it was my turn, I could recite it off without having to actually see it.

At the time, my adolescent brain told me that this was a good thing. But what I didn’t know was that my actions prevented the doctor was diagnosing the fact that I had an inherited astigmatism (my mom has the same issue). Essentially, I am blind in one eye. This affects my ability to reconcile objects at a distance. It wasn’t until I was in high school that it was identified, and I did get glasses at that time. But apparently had it been caught earlier, corrective lenses might have actually fixed or lessened the issue.

To add insult to injury, I inquired about LASIK surgery after I graduated from college. But apparently I wasn’t a viable candidate. One because my issue was only with one eye, and two because my eye had gotten so bad that they’d have to remove too much of the eye to correct the shape. Again, I might have been eligible had I been wearing glasses all along and kept the problem from getting out of hand.

The strange thing, and I actually had an optometrist tell me this, is that my depth perception issues should have prevented me from playing sports. Especially sports like baseball and basketball that require judging objects at a distance. But I played both sports and wasn’t bad at either one. I was even a center fielder on my baseball team, where I had to track and catch a lot of fly balls. Although, I wasn't the most consistent hitter, which makes sense now.

With basketball, I figured out that I had taught my brain how to judge distance by trial and error. I would take the same shot over and over until I made it. I would then file away a mental index of what the shot looked like and how much power I’d have to elicit to make it there. The rest was muscle memory.

I still play basketball occasionally, and it usually takes me a little time to get my shot going. I have to “map” out the court and the shots, so I can repeat them over and over again with success. But mostly I rely on layups and short jumpers.

It’s amazing how the brain will adapt to overcome a shortcoming. I do wear glasses now, but not all the time. Apparently, my brain now has two sets of visual patterns. It adjusts and adapts how it sees to whether I’m wearing my glasses or not, so that I can be successful either way. Personally, I think it’s a survival instinct. My brain is adapting to keep me alive. Well, it’s a theory anyway.

SIDE NOTE: Because of my condition, I would always choose the handle "Cyclops" whenever my stepfather and I would play computer games. I thought the one-eyed giant from Greek mythology seemed an apt choice.

This, of course, came from Polyphemus the Cyclops described in Homer's Odyessy, which I was reading in school at the time. Polyphemus was the son of Poseidon, who Odysseus and his crew encountered on their journey home from the Trojan War. The cyclops catches Odysseus and his crew trying to steal provisions from his cave and blocks them in with a huge stone. Foregoing hospitality, Polyphemus starts to eat the crew two men at a time. Odysseus gives him some strong wine that he acquired earlier on his journey, and when the giant asks his name, Odysseus tells him that it's "Nobody." 

When Polyphemus falls asleep that night, Odysseus and his remaining men stab him in the eye with a wooden stake. Polyphemus calls out to his brothers to assist him, saying that "Nobody has hurt me." Thinking that he's gone crazy, the other Cyclops refuse to come to his aid. The next morning when Polyphemus lets out his sheep to graze, he feels their backs to make sure that the men aren't trying to escape in the process. Odysseus and his men tie themselves to the underside of the sheep and thus escape to continue their journey.

Wednesday...Wednesday, What Went Wrong?

When I was in elementary school, my favorite day of the week was Wednesday. All of my friends liked Saturday, or Friday because it was like Saturday Eve. But not me. I liked Wednesday. This was because we had music class on Wednesdays, and that was my favorite class.

Long after I left elementary school, I still liked Wednesdays. I guess I hung on to the old memories and positive endorphins that Wednesdays always evoked. Now, I like Mondays and Fridays, mostly because those are the days of the week that I have the least meetings. It’s funny how something so trivial can drive such an important emotion.

The Same Again

A common ice breaker question that I’ve been asked quite a few times is, “If you had to eat the same meal every day for the rest of your life, what would it be?” The question in and of itself is ridiculous and unrealistic, because any meal, no matter how much you love it, would eventually get old. But what if we relegated the question to only a week? That’s a much more manageable timeframe. Most people would still get sick of the same thing every day for a week, but I think that we can all agree that we could endure it for that short amount of time.

Back in the summer of 1989, my family took a vacation to Washington DC. The trip was crammed full of historical landmarks and museums. The White House, the Smithsonian, Monticello, Martha’s Vineyard, Ford’s Theater, the Lincoln Memorial…all the usual suspects. But what I remember most about that vacation was the food court in the subway.

Every day we’d stop for lunch at the food court, and every day I’d ask for the same thing. No matter how hard my dad tried to convince me to explore something new, I only wanted a cheeseburger with mayonnaise. For ten straight days, that’s what I ate. And for ten straight days, I was in heaven. I didn’t tire of it. In fact, my yearning for it grew stronger every day. I started to look forward to it. It was the highlight of my day. Surrounded by all of this history, and the highlight was a mediocre cheeseburger on the subway.

So, I know the answer to the question of what I’d eat every day for a week. I lived it, and after all these years, my answer is still the same. Although, now I’ve also added pickles to give it some zing!

Break With Reality

There are times when I’m feeling very introspective and closed off. At those times, I don’t feel like talking or interacting with anyone. I just want to be. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be around people. I actually love going to stores, malls, parks…anywhere with people and just watch them. Observing their behaviors as they navigate their lives is calming. It’s like I can step outside whatever is going on in my own life and allow myself to be carried away in dozens of others, for just a moment. And sometimes I need those breaks with reality to help me face reality again.

Cereal Faux Pas

There are two kinds of people in this world. Those that open the cereal box flap toward them, and those that open the cereal box flap away from them. And apparently, I’m the only one that does it correctly.

This may not seem like a big deal, but it affects which end the bag is opened (unless you’re one of THOSE people that open the bag all the way across), which affects whether the box is poured from the left or the right.

I’m not trying to harp on this, but there’s just a way that this whole process feels more natural! And the way everyone else does it is not it! So get it together, people, especially if you’re going to open my cereal box. Because after you leave, I’m stuck with a backwards box of cereal. I mean sure I guess I could easily pull the bag out and turn it around, but it’s the principle of the thing!

UPDATE: Apparently, there’s actually three kinds of people. If you’re like my brother, then you open the box from the bottom, so you can get the prize before anyone else. That’s just wrong, but it also explains why none of my cereal boxes had prizes in them!

Reverend Moonshine

Apparently, my great grandfather, my grandmother’s father on my mother’s side, was a Methodist minister back in the 1920s and 1930s. I never knew him, as he died when my mother was still young. My grandmother never spoke about him to me, and now that she’s gone too, I can’t ask her about him.

I know that being a Methodist minister isn’t that unusual or newsworthy, but it’s the fact that he was also an illegal moonshiner that starts to spice up the story a little bit. Apparently, he would make the alcohol on his farm in East Texas and then distribute it to the surrounding area. These practices became even more widespread during Prohibition; when the possession, sale, and distribution of alcohol was prohibited in the United States. My grandmother, just a little girl at the time, and her siblings would ride along on the back of the truck, holding onto the moonshine kegs to make sure they didn’t fall off.

I really couldn’t believe that this kind of stuff happened in my family’s past; but I guess when you have 13 kids, you resort to any means to keep all of the mouths fed!

Patricia

Back in high school, I used to dream of finding a wife. I wanted that sappy, adoring kind of love, where you couldn’t get enough of each other. A love where you stole secret, or not so secret, kisses, held hands, cuddled, and took every opportunity to make “contact” when they walked by. A love where she lit up my life just by being in the room. Someone I wanted to be with, do things with, and couldn’t wait to see again. And every night I fell asleep wondering what it would be like to hold her in my arms. To feel her warm body pressed against mine, fitting perfectly with mine like a jigsaw puzzle.

So one day, I asked my stepmother to buy me a pillow that I could hold in my arms at night. I wanted to get used to sharing my space and cuddling with another “body,” so that when my wife came along, I’d be practiced. I didn’t want a standard sized pillow, because that wouldn’t give the feel of a human being, so I asked her for a bigger pillow.

In my mind, I imagined bigger meaning longer. But she interpreted that to mean literally bigger, and she brought home a square pillow that was two and a half feet by two and a half feet. It was black with red and pink tropical flowers on it, like it had a very Hawaiian shirt feel to it. The pillow, that I named Patricia for some reason, was massive. She took up most of my twin-sized bed, leaving very room for me in it. I guess it was a good thing that I was so skinny in high school, or I might have ended up on the floor while Patricia took the bed!

It took some getting used to, having Patricia in the bed with me. The first couple of nights, she actually ended up on the floor. I’d find her in the morning in a crumpled mess next to the bed. Then, it was hard because I had to sleep in the same position all night to hold onto her. After that, I started flipping from side to side and taking her with me, but I justified this by believing that in my future life, my wife wouldn’t ideally fall off the bed because I wasn’t holding her. And if I needed to roll over, then she could too, and we could switch roles.

So, I fell into a happy rhythm with my gigantic pillow. And when I went off to college, Patricia went with me. And when Patricia finally wore out, I got a new pillow, Patricia 2.0. She even became a running joke with my college roommates, but I didn’t care, because deep down I knew I was practicing for greater things.

I did eventually get married, but it didn’t quite turn out the way I imagined so long ago back in high school. I don’t snuggle up to my wife every night, and she doesn’t snuggle up to me. Mostly we keep to our own respective sides of the bed. I found that having someone’s head laying on your arm for extended periods of time will actually make it fall asleep. I didn’t have this issue with Patricia because she weighed virtually nothing. So, in the end it wasn’t practical.

I actually still sleep clutching a pillow, unable to stop after so many years of training. I do this even when I travel. My arms feel empty otherwise, and I can’t sleep. But due to the awkwardness of having to ask my wife to give my gigantic pillow some space, I have had to downgrade to a much smaller model. The current version has been with me for so long that she’s been molded into a more body-like shape. Patricia has become like Linus’ blanket for me, a source of comfort and peace so that I can relax. Not what I intended so many years ago, but life rarely goes as planned.

Alaskan T-Shirt

I used to work with a guy who would randomly wear an Alaskan t-shirt to work. It was just an ordinary blue t-shirt with a big picture of a mountain and the word “Alaska” on the front, but it was odd because he dressed so nicely ever other day. Thinking that he was just trying to loosen up a little, I made a comment one day that it was good to see him going more casual. To which he replied that it was laundry day and everything else he had was dirty. After that, I always laughed and teased him when I saw him wearing that t-shirt…must be laundry day.

The Alaskan t-shirt has now become my euphemism for laundry day. Whenever someone says they were doing laundry, I always ask if they were wearing their Alaskan t-shirt. It’s also my assumption when I see someone who normally dresses a certain way randomly wearing different clothes one day. So, I’ll ask them if it’s laundry day and they had nothing else to wear. Which is probably more relevant if someone randomly gets more casual in their dress, but I also do it if someone randomly gets dressier too!

The New Rug

I texted my spousal unit about a recent purchase I had made, and this is how the conversation went.

Me: I bought a new rug today.

Spousal Unit: Why would you buy a toupee, you’re not bald?

Me: No, it’s for upstairs.

Spousal Unit: That’s usually where you put a toupee, yes.

Me: Why are we talking about toupees?! You’re starting to make me feel self-conscious! I’m talking about a rug, as in a floor covering for my office upstairs.

Spousal Unit: Oh, well why didn’t you just say so.

Me: Sigh…

One-Armed Tan

It’s funny, but I remember back in the ‘80s and ‘90s that there was a phenomenon of the one-armed tan. It was always the left arm, because that’s the arm that the driver would hang out the open window. It was weird to see one arm darker than the other, but everyone accepted it too, probably because they had the same tan.

This phenomenon went away around the millennium when the self-tanning craze took hold. People became so obsessed with an “even” tan that no self-respecting person would be caught dead with a one-armed farmer. That and with global warming, people no longer drive around with their windows open. And even if they do, you rarely see an arm hanging out getting a little more sun than the other side.

My One Day as a Pirate

When I was in seventh grade, I was taking an elective art class. During one of the assignments, we were coloring with colored pencils. I guess I pressed too hard, and the tip of the pencil broke off…and flew right into my eye! The teacher tried to help me get it out by splashing water into my eye. She tried eye drops. She tried to see if she could get it with her finger. But nothing worked.

Finally, she called my mom to come get me, and I was rushed to the eye doctor. The optometrist used a giant cotton swab to gently fish this broken piece of leaf out of my eye. Unfortunately, because it had stayed in there so long and moved around a lot, I had severe scratches on my eyeball. So, he had to put some special drops in my eye to protect it and allow it to heal. The other unfortunate thing was that the drops wouldn’t stay in my eye on their own, so I had to wear an eye patch for the next 24 hours.

While it may sound cool at first, I mean who wouldn’t want to look like a pirate for a day, it was in fact the exact opposite of cool. This thing was white, not black, and didn’t come with a sweet skull and crossbones or even a giant ruby. And it was unceremoniously taped to my face instead of having a strap that went around my head. I looked stupid. And being that kids are cruel at any age, I talked my mom into letting me stay home until I could take it off.

So, my one day as a pirate was a disaster. Instead of riding free on the ocean waves, feeling a salty breeze against my face, and smelling the burnt odor of gunpowder as my ship took down a trading vessel…I spent it on land, cooped up at home, sleeping. Oh well, at least I still have use of my eye. 

Organic Alarm Clock

I have an internal alarm clock that is so precise that it wakes me up at exactly 6:00 am every morning, whether my wife sets her alarm or not. Of course, I should also note that it also wakes me up at precisely 11:56, 1:30, 3:20, and 4:44 every night to pee too. So, maybe not such a great internal clock after all.

House Arrest

Most days I feel like I’m on house arrest. I may go an entire day, or even an entire week, without ever leaving the house. I go upstairs to my office to work. I go downstairs to eat, play, and get away from work. But I never leave the house.

It’s not so much that I miss people, although sometimes I do. It’s not that I want to go back to the office. It’s that I want to go out and do something fun. I want to take a vacation. I want a change of scenery, but in a personal way, not in a work way.

This issue is that my wife goes to work. So, all she wants to do is come home. She’s tired of being out and about, and she wants to relax at home. So, we’re constantly at odds with what we want. Therefore I bend and give, so we stay home, and my imprisonment continues. All I’m missing is an ankle monitor!

The Mooch

It’s interesting how a simple, random act can change the entire course of your life. Or was it really random at all? Was it God putting things in motion that He knew you’d need later? This is the story of how I met my best friend, my roommate, and my brother through one of these events.

I was in my first semester in my new major, having recently given up on Mechanical Engineering to pursue computer programming. As a Computer Science major, we had to take various programming language courses. Attached to the lectures were labs, where we received homework assignments to complete under the guidance and tutelage of a teaching assistant. It was during the very first lab that my lab partner TD and I got stuck. We had no idea how to even start on the assignment, much less complete it. After fruitlessly going around and around on it, TD decided to see if he could find someone to help us. So, he set off while I continued to puzzle through the question. He came back a few minutes later holding the answers to all of the questions. Apparently, he’d not only found a hint, but he had managed to mooch the entire assignment off an innocent, trusting guy in our class. Ironically, I would find out later, that the answers weren’t even correct, and that our benefactor had no idea how to do it either.

The next day, I saw the same guy in my art class. Normally, I would not approach a virtual stranger and engage him in conversation, I mean computer nerds are introverts by nature. But something was compelling me to speak up. So, completely out of my comfort zone, I walked up to him after class and said, “Hey. You’re in my programming class. You helped us in the lab yesterday.” And with those simple words, a lifelong friendship was set in motion.

JT would end up becoming my best friend. We were inseparable. We worked on projects together, went for walks, took a dance class, photographed the campus, and shared everything. When he found himself homeless a semester later, I convinced my roommate to take JT in. By the end of the year, he was my soul brother…like we were two parts to one soul that had been split apart and cast into the universe. He was one of my groomsmen, and I still talk to him to this day, some twenty years later.

But as amazing as all of that is, what is more amazing is the timing of when I met him. I had just broken up with my long-time girlfriend a month before. She was the love of a lifetime, and I adored her. So, the sudden loss of her in my life utterly destroyed me. My depression had grown so bad that a week before the school year started, I found myself laying on the floor in my room, staring at the ceiling fan, seriously contemplating ending my life. And just when I needed someone in my life to lift me back up and show me that life was still worth living, that’s when God sent me JT.

He was the answer to a prayer that I hadn’t even prayed. But God knew what I needed anyway. And I’m still amazed to this day at how God used that random act of mooching an assignment to change my life…in more ways than even I suspected. JT actually introduced me to my wife as well. So, not only did God send JT to lift me back up, but he sent him to facilitate my ex’s replacement. Although it’s more accurate to say upgrade, because they aren’t equals.

Covid-19 Hotspot

Since the release of the Covid-19 vaccine, I have heard a lot of reasons why people don’t want to get it.

It’s against my religion. (I suppose there are religions out there that teach against vaccines, medicine, and any healing not brought about by God.)

I’m afraid the government will inject me with a tracking device. (I hate to break it to you, but they can already track you if they want. Didn’t you ever see Enemy of the State. Besides, why would you think you’re so important to the government that you’re worth tracking?! But I digress.)

I’ve already had Covid, so now I’m immune to ever get it again. (Again, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your immunity only lasts for six months, and absolutely has no effect on variants and mutations of the virus.)

I’m afraid the government will inject me with a sterilization agent at the same time, like they did with the polio vaccine in Africa back in the 1960s. (Seriously? I don’t even know what to do with this.)

I’m afraid that it will change my genetic makeup. (You’ve been watching too many movies. It doesn’t work like that. And are we talking about giving you superpowers, because that wouldn’t be so bad? Or are you assuming that this is all part of the social injustice movement, and black people will turn everyone black as a way to equalize things?)

I can’t spread the virus, because I don’t breathe heavily. (Uh…)

Covid isn’t real, it’s just something cooked up by the Trump administration. We won’t even hear about it after the election. (I sure hope you didn’t put money on that prediction.)

So, I’ve heard all of these reasons NOT to get the vaccine, but I just heard the funniest reason for someone to want to get it. SM was hoping to get injected with some sort of software that would turn him into his own wireless hotspot. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen, but it would have been cool. Much better than some of those other outlandish ideas. Although I guess a "Covid-19 Hotspot" could also be a place where there's a lot of reported cases. Hmmm...

The Chaise Lounge

When I was a freshman in college, my first major was Architecture. The university I attended first actually had a summer discovery program to expose you to what the curriculum would be like. We learned techniques and structural considerations, how to balance form and function, and the limitations of certain materials. We took field trips to well-known houses, museums, and businesses in the area to see architecture in action. And we had team competitions to build strong, beautiful, functional things.

The one I remember most was the final competition. We were given the task to build a chair entirely out of six 6 ft by 6 ft cardboard sheets. We could use glue to secure it, but the chair had to stand on its own. And it had to support a 300 pound man. As a bonus, we’d also be graded on aesthetics and comfort. AND the chairs would be featured on display in the entryway to the Architecture building for all of the arriving students to see and critique.

Most of the other teams built some sort of boxy, squarish chair sporting a back and various stages of armrests. Pretty basic stuff, but unfortunately not always strong enough to hold up a small pet much less a 300 pound man. Some passed the weight test only to be judged too ugly or too uncomfortable.

My team; however, had a guy perfectly suited to this profession. He had creativity and imagination, and he blended it with a firm knowledge of the limitations of every material. In a word, he had vision. He quickly concluded that corrugated cardboard is weakest when pressure is applied to the flat surface of the sides, causing the cardboard to bow and break. This is where many of the other teams failed in their designs. But if you apply that same pressure to the edge, then it will distribute it along the entire length of the cardboard.

Now, of course a single sheet is too thin to hold a large amount of weight for very long, but if you where to line up many sheets side-by-side, you could create a virtually unbreakable structure. By securing them together with small crosspieces spliced into grooves cut into the sheets, you could hold the whole structure together without adhesive of any kind.

But he didn’t stop there. He wanted something elegant and entirely different too. So, he proposed the idea of a chaise lounge, where someone could lay out on the chair and relax comfortably as well. The design gave us the ability to cut curves for the back and to support the legs, so the chair was both beautiful and ergonomically pleasing. And since each piece was a slice of the entire chair, we didn’t have the same issues that other teams had with trying to figure out how to secure the back onto the seat.

I have never been more proud of anything I’ve been a part of producing. The chair easily held the 300 pounds, and probably would have held much more. But it was also extremely comfortable and beautiful. We won the competition by a landslide, and it was in that moment that I realized that architecture wasn’t for me.

I can’t imagine ever being able to come up with something like that or to approach the problem the way that guy did. His mind was just wired that way. I came at it too analytically and straight on, like pretty much everyone else in the class. But he saw the world differently. I don’t know what became of him, but I imagine he’s somewhere designing amazing skyscrapers in exotic places. They’re probably sporting the latest in innovation and technology, all encased in a beautiful shell.

I don’t have regrets. I loved learning about that stuff, but it wasn’t the path for me. I quickly changed my major to Engineering after that. But that wasn’t meant to be either. And I eventually settled on computers. The one thing I didn’t want to study. The one thing I told myself I’d never major in, because I was so tired of them. It’s made for a financially stable life, but I wish I had pursued something else. Something that might have made me happier. I may not have regrets about architecture, I do have regrets about playing it safe.

The Fortune Cookie

I got a fortune cookie tonight that said, “In dreams and life, nothing is impossible.” Which was all well and good until I tried to stick my elbow in my own ear.

Perception

Based on a recommendation from my mother, I have been binge watching the past seasons of a TV show called Perception. The show follows Daniel, a professor of neuroscience with paranoid schizophrenia, who helps solve crimes for the FBI. His hallucinations help him focus and see the cases from different angles, which helps him see clues or put pieces together that he might have otherwise missed. The only issue is that he’s not always sure that the “person” he’s talking to is real or a hallucination.

The show is fascinating in that it always begins and ends with Daniel giving a lecture about some aspect of the brain and how it affects how people perceive and experience the world. Obviously, the aspect being discussed becomes the central theme of whatever case he’s working on. It’s interesting to ponder how much of life is reality versus our brain’s perception of reality. Or whether things are truly real UNTIL they are perceived by the brain.

I had a psychology professor that brought up the age-old question of “If a tree falls in a forest, and nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” He went on to suggest that the answer is in fact, no. The reason is that sound is not actually sound until it’s perceived. So the tree might make waves, but wouldn’t technically be sound until those waves were received and processed.

Is reality the same? Does someone or something truly exist if nobody perceives them? And if so, how can you be sure? Because the only way to verify it is to actually perceive it, and then it could be argued that your perception of it actually brought it into being.

It’s like Schrodinger’s cat, which was a thought experiment proposed to refute the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum superpositions. Quantum superpositions claim that a quantum system, such as an atom or photon, can exist as a combination of multiple states corresponding to different possible outcomes. The Copenhagen interpretation says that a quantum system remains in superposition until it interacts with, or is observed by the external world. When this happens, the superposition collapses into one or another of the possible definite states. The thought experiment surmised that a cat locked in a box with acid and a decaying atom would exist in a state of both alive and dead until someone opened the box and observed what state the sat was actually in. The argument being that the observation itself is what caused the system to settle into one state or the other. While this famous thought experiment has been used to evoke a myriad of theories and paradoxes, I find it fascinating in the sense that it proposes things exist in an indeterminate state until observed or perceived. Therefore, reality is defined by observation.

However, further theories have gone on to define “observation.” Does that mean an outside observer, or could the object or person itself be defined as an observer of itself? Which would mean that we could bring ourselves into reality by observing ourselves. But then is it the same reality as everyone else, or our own construct? Is an inanimate object truly capable of observation? Or does it require the ability to “act” on a system? Can a brick “observe” us into reality?

I ponder all of this, because in the show they both contend that the hallucinations are real because Daniel perceives them just like he perceives a “real” person, and they’re not real because nobody else perceives them. But if observation is what makes a thing so, then both are technically true.

But the hardest thing to reconcile is the thought that I, or you, could be a schizophrenic and not know it. If someone else isn’t around to “dismantle” our hallucinations, then how would we ever know? And what if other people WERE around, but they were all hallucinations too? Could one hallucination confirm or dispel another hallucination? Then, how could you ever know what was real?

Unidentified Flying Pancakes

My wife was trying something new today for breakfast, so she decided to make these mini pancakes. But she made them in a muffin pan, so they were sort of flatish like a pancake but also sort of puffy like a muffin. The overall effect ended up looking like a UFO. So, throughout the entire breakfast, I imagined that I was some enormous cosmic deity, eating a fleet of UFOs as they came to attack me.

Pinder

PT was trying to breed her dog, so she put up a profile online to find him a girl on a site called Pinder. I didn’t even know you could do such a thing. I guess it's like Tinder, but for pets. If you're looking for a "hook-up" for your dog, then Pinder is the site for you. Who on earth came up with the idea to set up dating sites for dogs?! Do they enjoy random bootie calls, or is this more enjoyment for the humans? 

Now, all I can do is imagine PT and her dog, sitting down together to look at the responses to his profile and the dog swiping through the "hotties" with his paw.

The Bio Urn

When I die, I want to be cremated and put into a biodegradable urn with a tree seed. I want to be buried on a mountain somewhere, and as the urn breaks down, I’ll hopefully grow into a tree.

I was thinking maybe a Christmas tree. Where a bird or squirrel might make their home and raise a family. And maybe someday, someone will cut me down, drag me into their house, and decorate me. And a few weeks later, I’ll be thrown out at the curb. And I’ll be picked up and shredded into mulch. And maybe that mulch will be put out in a playground somewhere. And maybe a little boy, just like my son, will run through me, kicking his feet and sending the me flying.

And I can serve some purpose and give life and amusement, even after I’m gone. It seems like a more honorable way to go than just being stuck in a hole in the ground in a sad, depressing cemetery. Where someone feels compelled to go and stick plastic flowers that fade and fray.

And I'm not the first to think of this idea. There are bio urns available for an organic burial experience. All you have to do is supply the ashes to nourish the tree. Seems easy enough...