I am convinced that Purgatory, if it exists, is really one long, never-ending single-file line. It must be a line of people holding court documents, vehicle registration forms, class enrollment sheets and drop requests. The more time goes by while you're in a line, the more your blood pressure rises like a barometer before a storm. But just as your patience is tested to superhuman and divine levels, you move up one spot. Your patience resets and your blood pressure takes a 'fiver.' I bet even God has to deal with waiting.
The paradox is of course that you never get so angry that you walk out of line or so belligerant that nobody wants to assist you once it is your turn. And it's a whole new level of mind fuck when you're past the point of no return: past the first one-third of the line. How can you leave?
The only thing 'single-file' running through my mind when standing in line is that I should remember to slit my wrists in a single-file motion. I would, except I'd probably have to wait in line at the ER. And of course, you can't slit your wrists a second time. That would mean you didn't do it right the first time around, and if the ER nurse catches on, you'll be given even lower priority and hence pushed further down the list of immediate medical attention.
People waited in line to buy Sony's new game console, only to be shot at by mocking passerbys with paintball guns. Homeless people were paid an average of $100 to stand in line for eager gamers. Imagine how much power the typical bum had at one point. He could stand in line, then halfway through turn to another person behind him and auction off his position to a higher bidder, a gamer that was even more hardcore. If the bum was smart enough, he'd notify the original bidder to provoke a counter offer. The economics of convenience.
I tried adding a class today for the Spring semester. The computer system said I had not saitisfied the pre-requisites, which is of course, false. I had taken the required course my first quarter of community college, almost six years ago. The only reason for this mishap was the Admissions and Records department of the university had failed to enter all my community college coursework into the system. Mind you, I actually transferred in the Spring of 2007, plenty of time for them to have added the courses by now.
Naturally, I endured what all students seem to endure. I like to call them 'labor pains.' I did drop-in advising to choose my classes, had to wait for my exact hour of registration to add courses officially, then be set back because I did not meet the requirements for a class. Really, the error message should say that the staff is too unorganized to process your request, but that your tuition is still expected in full (sorry, no credit cards in person but no Visa online!) by December 19th else you will be dropped from the semester.
How convenient that money is the highest priority. The system has no problem checking for that pre-requisite. In fact, if being kicked out of all courses was somehow a positive service, the university should be lauded for such an advanced computer system. The process is fully automated, so I don't have to do a thing. A message is even sent out electronically notifying me of the withdrawal. The process should make the cover of Time Magazine and be a prelude to accounting systems set up in developing countries.
I stood in line for the Records counter, only to be told that "oh man, reqs (pre-requisites) are a whole different ball game!" - keep in mind all counters have access to the same exact system - and that I have to go to Evaluations to verify that I can take the course for Spring. I did just that, and had to wait for 35 minutes just to be told that I could go back to the Records line, because it is clear that I have met the requirements but that my credits just haven't been entered. Splendid, we were on the same page.
Now, I am generally a polite and peace-loving individual (internalized irrationality aside) but I have an allergic reaction to standing in a line that I have already been in when all I need is to be told that I can finally add a class and, sorry for the inconvenience. Not when the wait is roughly an hour and a half. Not if the Admissions line had catering. I just can't degrade myself like that.
I did manage to add all my courses within a few hours of being eligible to enroll for the following semester. This is perhaps the second time I have ever done that. Previously, I would be oblivious to the enrollment dates and add classes at the start of the term, so that I would have to sit in each class I wished to add, obtain an add code and whore my counterfeit student eagerness so the professor remembers that I was on the wait list, goddamnit.
I would be lying if I said I didn't miss the written petitions to professors, department heads and deans that always seemed to give me an edge and the add code I needed. I should teach a course as guest lecturer on how to do such things, how to get the hand that feeds to wipe your mouth when you're done eating.
I would do all that but I'm sure I'd have to stand in a line just for guest lecturers, with a different system that scans for pre-requisite professional experience and buy a separate parking pass, sold at an obscure office located (in)conveniently off-campus.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Friday, November 16, 2007
UGG-ly
"Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months." - Oscar Wilde
He should be writing this one.
I've noticed a fashion trend that, unlike others that go off a cliff to die, has made a comeback. A 'comeback' means said trend had gone into remission, the perfect term to use since the similarities between it and cancer are absolutely inherent.
On any given day of the week, I can walk around my university campus and spot at least 17 pairs of UGG boots. Either it's been snowing in the Bay Area or it was unanimously decided that the hideous footwear would be symbolic. Are the pink pairs for breast cancer? There's black, tan, pink and I bet an impending, more artsy palette to come: terracotta, sage, taupe. When I see a pair I can't even say "Ugh" anymore because of the irony. I am left scraping the back of my subconscious for a term that's onomatopoetically indicative of the nausea I am feeling.
The female gender has pulled a fast one on itself. Typically, females cannot stand to wear the same thing as another female, especially a peer. Females also wear things based on the comfort it provides. This can only mean the boots are so incredibly comfortable that the fact that one in ten girls are wearing them goes unnoticed.
However, there is a solution to this chronic eye sore. Somehow, designers must convince gang members to wear them based on color affiliation. Within a week, pink UGGs will have the same law enforcement warning as a solid red hoodie. For once, I am actually endorsing gang involvement. They are people too, afterall. And to give them a chance to give back to the community they keep taking from, to have a hand in student "re-education" ? It's a self-healing wound. I know I wouldn't get shanked.
He should be writing this one.
I've noticed a fashion trend that, unlike others that go off a cliff to die, has made a comeback. A 'comeback' means said trend had gone into remission, the perfect term to use since the similarities between it and cancer are absolutely inherent.
On any given day of the week, I can walk around my university campus and spot at least 17 pairs of UGG boots. Either it's been snowing in the Bay Area or it was unanimously decided that the hideous footwear would be symbolic. Are the pink pairs for breast cancer? There's black, tan, pink and I bet an impending, more artsy palette to come: terracotta, sage, taupe. When I see a pair I can't even say "Ugh" anymore because of the irony. I am left scraping the back of my subconscious for a term that's onomatopoetically indicative of the nausea I am feeling.
The female gender has pulled a fast one on itself. Typically, females cannot stand to wear the same thing as another female, especially a peer. Females also wear things based on the comfort it provides. This can only mean the boots are so incredibly comfortable that the fact that one in ten girls are wearing them goes unnoticed.
However, there is a solution to this chronic eye sore. Somehow, designers must convince gang members to wear them based on color affiliation. Within a week, pink UGGs will have the same law enforcement warning as a solid red hoodie. For once, I am actually endorsing gang involvement. They are people too, afterall. And to give them a chance to give back to the community they keep taking from, to have a hand in student "re-education" ? It's a self-healing wound. I know I wouldn't get shanked.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Kaleidoscope Logic: The Sky is Blue
Female Logic
"Wow, the sky really feels blue today."
Stoner Logic
"Dude, the sky looks like the OCEAN! Craaaazy! I'm hungry..."
Republican Logic
"We have no evidence that the sky is actually blue."
Democrat Logic
"The blue sky is what drives immigration to this country. Keep America's skies blue."
Communist Logic
"Your sky cannot be more blue than HIS sky!"
Non-profit Logic
"We keep the sky blue for everyone! And we can't do it without your donation!"
Wallstreet Logic
"Fears of red and green have kept investor confidence high in the color blue. "
Intelligent Design Logic
"The sky is like a giant mood ring reflecting mother nature's temperament."
Scientologist Logic
"Everytime a member joins the Church, the sky turns blue."
Undergraduate Logic
"My professor says the sky is blue."
Graduate Logic
"I know the sky is blue, I've seen it for myself."
Doctoral Student Logic
"I wonder if the sky can turn other colors?"
Tenured Professor
"Of course the sky is blue, it was my idea. You can purchase the book I wrote on the topic at the student store. It is required reading for the course."
"Wow, the sky really feels blue today."
Stoner Logic
"Dude, the sky looks like the OCEAN! Craaaazy! I'm hungry..."
Republican Logic
"We have no evidence that the sky is actually blue."
Democrat Logic
"The blue sky is what drives immigration to this country. Keep America's skies blue."
Communist Logic
"Your sky cannot be more blue than HIS sky!"
Non-profit Logic
"We keep the sky blue for everyone! And we can't do it without your donation!"
Wallstreet Logic
"Fears of red and green have kept investor confidence high in the color blue. "
Intelligent Design Logic
"The sky is like a giant mood ring reflecting mother nature's temperament."
Scientologist Logic
"Everytime a member joins the Church, the sky turns blue."
Undergraduate Logic
"My professor says the sky is blue."
Graduate Logic
"I know the sky is blue, I've seen it for myself."
Doctoral Student Logic
"I wonder if the sky can turn other colors?"
Tenured Professor
"Of course the sky is blue, it was my idea. You can purchase the book I wrote on the topic at the student store. It is required reading for the course."
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
A La Carte Ethics
I attended the UN film festival where a showing of "The Devil Came on Horseback" forever carved a parking spot in my soul. I have known about the genocide in Darfur but did not devote the passion - passion usually reserved for quoting your favorite movie or arguing the hypothetical of a confrontation between, say, Eddie Winslow and Theo Huxtable - necessary to educate myself and, more importantly, to educate others.
I do recycle. I buy food for homeless people, either taking them into the restaurant to order what they want or delivering to them a requested meal. I am aware of blood diamonds and biofuels. What I am not aware of is the motive to show counterfeit interest and acute sympathy. I couldn't tell what percentage of the viewers at the same showing of the film walked away feeling insignificant, that the world and its problems are far greater than them and theirs. I've determined this sensation to being fundamental to a change in attitude toward civic duties and societal obligations.
In the age of iPhones and video messaging, photo blogging and podcasting, the ability to communicate a crisis or even what flavor Vitamin Water we're chugging is the exact same. It's the same because the infrastructure to communicate is the same and the effort to package and send out either message is the same. But Facebook, Myspace, eBay and ESPN occupy our attention and I would bet our business there is not time-sensitive. Well, except for the 4th season of Nip/Tuck DVD, but that's what Buy it Now! is for.
It is impossible to care about everything and devote the same effort to all causes, and that's the point. People must collectively care so as to form a rotating schedule of sympathy: I look after battered wives, my neighbor gives food to the homeless, and so forth. We have it all covered. It's not enough to give away money since no two people will choose to spend that money for the same cause in the same way, and hence the idea of an organization putting your dollars to 'work' means your monetary contribution carries the personality of an e-Card while the written word still carries infinitely more charm.
I do recycle. I buy food for homeless people, either taking them into the restaurant to order what they want or delivering to them a requested meal. I am aware of blood diamonds and biofuels. What I am not aware of is the motive to show counterfeit interest and acute sympathy. I couldn't tell what percentage of the viewers at the same showing of the film walked away feeling insignificant, that the world and its problems are far greater than them and theirs. I've determined this sensation to being fundamental to a change in attitude toward civic duties and societal obligations.
In the age of iPhones and video messaging, photo blogging and podcasting, the ability to communicate a crisis or even what flavor Vitamin Water we're chugging is the exact same. It's the same because the infrastructure to communicate is the same and the effort to package and send out either message is the same. But Facebook, Myspace, eBay and ESPN occupy our attention and I would bet our business there is not time-sensitive. Well, except for the 4th season of Nip/Tuck DVD, but that's what Buy it Now! is for.
It is impossible to care about everything and devote the same effort to all causes, and that's the point. People must collectively care so as to form a rotating schedule of sympathy: I look after battered wives, my neighbor gives food to the homeless, and so forth. We have it all covered. It's not enough to give away money since no two people will choose to spend that money for the same cause in the same way, and hence the idea of an organization putting your dollars to 'work' means your monetary contribution carries the personality of an e-Card while the written word still carries infinitely more charm.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
London Bridge
In California? Not a chance. It would come crashing down - excuse me, 'falling down,' in case the Royal Crown subscribes to this blog - every second Tuesday. Besides, paying another toll to cross a bridge other than the Golden Gate feels like paying alimony to your ex wife and her sister.
I have a friend who grew up around Miami and swears the regular hurricane evacuation warnings were less threatening than the unpredictable and less frequent earthquakes of California. To this, I call bullshit, and raise him one Bonnie, one Charley, a Frances, Ivan and Jeanne. One tropical storm and four hurricanes - four of a kind. The WSOP doesn't get that kind of action. This was all in one goddamn hurricane season.
To my loyal religious nuts: all five hit the Bible belt of Florida, so please can the Judeo-Christian natural disaster immunity theory that's supposed to explain why a great tsunami hit Indonesia (the poor sinners!).
Now, Loma Prieta was devastating but the advances in modern construction mean many homes can withstand quakes of 7.0 (sometimes higher for larger structures). But would these champion edifices survive Category 3 tropical storms? Not unless they were underground. So, I fail to see my buddy's preference and think that was more his nostalgia talking than his logic. I guess I am liable to miss California earthquakes - come on, not the MLS soccer team - if I move to Hawaii and live on an active volcano.
Really, though, ask a Californian if they are bothered by a little rumble. We consider it a cold shiver, a chronic condition of our beautiful state, followed by a succession of cute hiccups. A small price to pay to have a coastline envied by the rest of the world, Kindergarten Cop as our governor, a progressively backwards city that bans plastic grocery bags but has simultaneously atrocious public transportation and impossibly rare parking spots, a ball team that will never make it to the NBA finals and Prius drivers whose conservationist contributions are dwarfed by their irritating habit of clogging the carpool lanes, thus negating their purpose entirely for the rest of the population that does try to commute with other people.
But if home is where the heart is, my heart prefers a fault line.
I have a friend who grew up around Miami and swears the regular hurricane evacuation warnings were less threatening than the unpredictable and less frequent earthquakes of California. To this, I call bullshit, and raise him one Bonnie, one Charley, a Frances, Ivan and Jeanne. One tropical storm and four hurricanes - four of a kind. The WSOP doesn't get that kind of action. This was all in one goddamn hurricane season.
To my loyal religious nuts: all five hit the Bible belt of Florida, so please can the Judeo-Christian natural disaster immunity theory that's supposed to explain why a great tsunami hit Indonesia (the poor sinners!).
Now, Loma Prieta was devastating but the advances in modern construction mean many homes can withstand quakes of 7.0 (sometimes higher for larger structures). But would these champion edifices survive Category 3 tropical storms? Not unless they were underground. So, I fail to see my buddy's preference and think that was more his nostalgia talking than his logic. I guess I am liable to miss California earthquakes - come on, not the MLS soccer team - if I move to Hawaii and live on an active volcano.
Really, though, ask a Californian if they are bothered by a little rumble. We consider it a cold shiver, a chronic condition of our beautiful state, followed by a succession of cute hiccups. A small price to pay to have a coastline envied by the rest of the world, Kindergarten Cop as our governor, a progressively backwards city that bans plastic grocery bags but has simultaneously atrocious public transportation and impossibly rare parking spots, a ball team that will never make it to the NBA finals and Prius drivers whose conservationist contributions are dwarfed by their irritating habit of clogging the carpool lanes, thus negating their purpose entirely for the rest of the population that does try to commute with other people.
But if home is where the heart is, my heart prefers a fault line.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Corporate Newspeak Presents:
A new addition to the Corporate Newspeak dictionary was silently inaugurated: 'Starbucks.' It nearly carries the grammatical weight of other household names that can take on multiple parts of speech, e.g. "Google it." Its utterance lights up the eyes of the loyalists who have formed a cult and subculture behind it. It's the dirty little word that happens to mean the same thing in every language.
I encountered this corporate insult on my trip to Istanbul. Hoping to see merry little Turks of the old and new generation sipping on their internationally renowned beverage, I was disgusted to see them instead carrying the familiar plastic cups called 'Venti' and 'Grande' and filled with more nauseating vocabulary: frappe, soy, non-fat. The land of divine coffee should not tolerate defectors.
Turkish coffee comes in one size (small). No soy or honey or nutmeg to pollute the essence. No advertising required; consumption is worldwide. If Americans from the South started denying their own signature bbq in favor of say, Korean bbq, there'd be an awful lot of violence and hurt feelings. Emergency federal aid would be set aside for per-capita therapy. The Korean economy would flourish and Kim Jong Il would upload to YouTube a video of himself giggling over untouched cornbread and brisket.
So invasive is Starbucks that, in front of their second most famous mosque (Sultan Ahmet or Blue Mosque), was the equivalent of an American coffee crack house. In fact, on their most famous boulevard, their very analog of the Champs Elysee, were THREE such crack houses, all within the entire one and a half mile stretch of road. McDonald's couldn't get away with such an imposing and blatant presence.
And the underlying foundation for a corporate infestation on a global scale: ubiquity. We are a culture driven by the pursuit of convenience and consistency. Coffee or any caffeinated alternative is consumed daily by every Social Security number in America. The rest of the planet will play catch up because every trend set by corporate America reaches even the Third World. The Japanese obsession with Americana means they should be the first to conform, and so it will go: Venti Wasabi Latte (with extra wasabi), Mocha-curry-ccino, then Kung Pao Soy Frappe. If Starbucks can parody itself and still sell, the Vatican will accept gift cards as penance.
I encountered this corporate insult on my trip to Istanbul. Hoping to see merry little Turks of the old and new generation sipping on their internationally renowned beverage, I was disgusted to see them instead carrying the familiar plastic cups called 'Venti' and 'Grande' and filled with more nauseating vocabulary: frappe, soy, non-fat. The land of divine coffee should not tolerate defectors.
Turkish coffee comes in one size (small). No soy or honey or nutmeg to pollute the essence. No advertising required; consumption is worldwide. If Americans from the South started denying their own signature bbq in favor of say, Korean bbq, there'd be an awful lot of violence and hurt feelings. Emergency federal aid would be set aside for per-capita therapy. The Korean economy would flourish and Kim Jong Il would upload to YouTube a video of himself giggling over untouched cornbread and brisket.
So invasive is Starbucks that, in front of their second most famous mosque (Sultan Ahmet or Blue Mosque), was the equivalent of an American coffee crack house. In fact, on their most famous boulevard, their very analog of the Champs Elysee, were THREE such crack houses, all within the entire one and a half mile stretch of road. McDonald's couldn't get away with such an imposing and blatant presence.
And the underlying foundation for a corporate infestation on a global scale: ubiquity. We are a culture driven by the pursuit of convenience and consistency. Coffee or any caffeinated alternative is consumed daily by every Social Security number in America. The rest of the planet will play catch up because every trend set by corporate America reaches even the Third World. The Japanese obsession with Americana means they should be the first to conform, and so it will go: Venti Wasabi Latte (with extra wasabi), Mocha-curry-ccino, then Kung Pao Soy Frappe. If Starbucks can parody itself and still sell, the Vatican will accept gift cards as penance.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Nostalgia Toxicity
Mankind has suffered a silent epidemic since it was able to record and preserve thought. Golden years and greatest hits, high school reunions and wardrobes from a more physically active and youthful time, we have setup a museum exhibit of nostalgic memories in our subconscious, and our continuous pursuit to recapture the disposable novelty of first experiences lead by the treasure hunter's map of memory is a neverending exercise in frustration. How can today's decisions be made when we marinate our minds in a distillation of our best times? We trim the fat when we want to remember but forget what we had to work with. We try to make the pain of the past transparent to ourselves but, if pain is the best teacher, why can't we remember where the lesson came from?
Given enough time, novelty is inevitably replaced with nostalgia, either for the sake of reminding at least one other human being where we came from or for reminding ourselves. It is our need to be recognized that drives this behavior. We want to look into a mirror to see the best of what once was but want to use the same mirror as a window with a view of the horizon, but the transition is far less sublime. The transition is rooted in the present.
Experience is a package, not a stock configuration with optional add ons. You can't walk away with the premium wheels and leave the outdated car behind. What would be the point in that? Even worse, expecting those wheels to fit a different car. Yet, we overdose ourselves on nostalgia and it has reached toxic levels. Toxic, because we don't want to acknowledge hardship, and if we don't acknowledge it from verified experience, we can't prepare ourselves for it in the road ahead, taking for granted our accomplishments. Pain co-exists, in harmony even, with the best experiences we will have.
Given enough time, novelty is inevitably replaced with nostalgia, either for the sake of reminding at least one other human being where we came from or for reminding ourselves. It is our need to be recognized that drives this behavior. We want to look into a mirror to see the best of what once was but want to use the same mirror as a window with a view of the horizon, but the transition is far less sublime. The transition is rooted in the present.
Experience is a package, not a stock configuration with optional add ons. You can't walk away with the premium wheels and leave the outdated car behind. What would be the point in that? Even worse, expecting those wheels to fit a different car. Yet, we overdose ourselves on nostalgia and it has reached toxic levels. Toxic, because we don't want to acknowledge hardship, and if we don't acknowledge it from verified experience, we can't prepare ourselves for it in the road ahead, taking for granted our accomplishments. Pain co-exists, in harmony even, with the best experiences we will have.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Free, at last!
I haven't had a nice dinner in a while. I haven't been treated to a nice dinner even longer than that. However, last night I got a two-fer: filet mignon and calamari steak dinner, complete with fried rice and orange sherbert dessert. Now, what I had to endure to enjoy the evening:
A long, arduous day driving to a client's office to set up a new computer. An old man, one you'd want to call 'grandpa' right off the bat for his good demeanor. I mean, he was a 'Gilbert.' How could you not want to help the guy out? Oh yeah, and he was deaf. Not 'hard of hearing' deaf, but "my left ear sits here for decoration" deaf. Ok, a challenge.
I set up his webcam so he could video chat with his niece, enlarged his icons and text so his tired old eyes would know where to look when he wanted to check his email, and declined an invite to lunch so I could expense one of my own on the company.
Client 2: Mr. "Bleeding edge technology, watch me install Office 2007 and lose all compatibility with synchronization plugins." Yes, let's adopt software that's only a few months old and that other developers are trying to keep up with. You, sir, are a beta tester. We call these ID10T errors...
Colleague calls to offer me dinner for my patience in dealing with Client 2. I accept, and sit at a nice table sandwiched between the two wives on my left and my colleague and his buddy on the right. To my left, I hear the words 'Braxton contractions' and 'depo shot.' To my right, I hear: "Can you believe that dumbass had to sell his Lambo because the sub-prime market tanked?"
I decided to disable one of my five senses. Fortunately, it is only the remaining four that come in handy at dinner time.
The chef, 'Dimitrios,' Mexican - it is customary of Kyoto Palace employees to assign themselves names mismatched with their real ethnicity - made the best fried rice I had ever had, but each item was cooked sequentially, so as I am listening to the science of birth control cycling and current trends in the loan industry I can only focus on the calamari steak bubbling from its own moisture and the sexy, marbelized filet mignon being seasoned to my liking.
I did enjoy every bite. I made sure each piece of meat had garlic butter on it and each grain of rice stuck between my teeth so my gums could siphon off the flavor before it was properly digested. Granted, that much sodium and fat could make asbestos taste like a French pastry, but I knew what I was eating. And I knew it was free.
A long, arduous day driving to a client's office to set up a new computer. An old man, one you'd want to call 'grandpa' right off the bat for his good demeanor. I mean, he was a 'Gilbert.' How could you not want to help the guy out? Oh yeah, and he was deaf. Not 'hard of hearing' deaf, but "my left ear sits here for decoration" deaf. Ok, a challenge.
I set up his webcam so he could video chat with his niece, enlarged his icons and text so his tired old eyes would know where to look when he wanted to check his email, and declined an invite to lunch so I could expense one of my own on the company.
Client 2: Mr. "Bleeding edge technology, watch me install Office 2007 and lose all compatibility with synchronization plugins." Yes, let's adopt software that's only a few months old and that other developers are trying to keep up with. You, sir, are a beta tester. We call these ID10T errors...
Colleague calls to offer me dinner for my patience in dealing with Client 2. I accept, and sit at a nice table sandwiched between the two wives on my left and my colleague and his buddy on the right. To my left, I hear the words 'Braxton contractions' and 'depo shot.' To my right, I hear: "Can you believe that dumbass had to sell his Lambo because the sub-prime market tanked?"
I decided to disable one of my five senses. Fortunately, it is only the remaining four that come in handy at dinner time.
The chef, 'Dimitrios,' Mexican - it is customary of Kyoto Palace employees to assign themselves names mismatched with their real ethnicity - made the best fried rice I had ever had, but each item was cooked sequentially, so as I am listening to the science of birth control cycling and current trends in the loan industry I can only focus on the calamari steak bubbling from its own moisture and the sexy, marbelized filet mignon being seasoned to my liking.
I did enjoy every bite. I made sure each piece of meat had garlic butter on it and each grain of rice stuck between my teeth so my gums could siphon off the flavor before it was properly digested. Granted, that much sodium and fat could make asbestos taste like a French pastry, but I knew what I was eating. And I knew it was free.
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Inventions
I was thinking of creating the world's first Short-Term Memory Foam.
Imagine a pillow that never remembers your shape, such that every time you lay your head down it is as if a freshly fluffed pillow - handled by an equally imaginary french maid necessary to complete this imagination - has been waiting to receive the full weight of your tired head.
What is the point of current memory foam technology? I don't want to lay in a bed that feels used. That is a fancy evolution of the prison-mattress, squeaky spring, unverifiable crime scence-DNA feeling you get at motels that charge extra for toilet paper. I want to forever preserve the feeling of joy without the need to preserve the expectation of it. You feel something for the first time so soothing that memory scrambles to hold onto the sensation, and you forever crave and try to go back to this feeling.
I am looking at ad spots between 12:30 am and 4 am PST, at which point usually the Emergency Broadcast System comes on all channels of the universe except the ones airing Dianetics and Oxyclean. Slowly, I will compete with other infommercials and eat into their time slots, either reselling it to them at "capitalist competitive pricing" or looping my now 4 hour slot of time to induce Dejavu in insomniacs and sleep walkers. Besides, they were my inspiration.
Imagine a pillow that never remembers your shape, such that every time you lay your head down it is as if a freshly fluffed pillow - handled by an equally imaginary french maid necessary to complete this imagination - has been waiting to receive the full weight of your tired head.
What is the point of current memory foam technology? I don't want to lay in a bed that feels used. That is a fancy evolution of the prison-mattress, squeaky spring, unverifiable crime scence-DNA feeling you get at motels that charge extra for toilet paper. I want to forever preserve the feeling of joy without the need to preserve the expectation of it. You feel something for the first time so soothing that memory scrambles to hold onto the sensation, and you forever crave and try to go back to this feeling.
I am looking at ad spots between 12:30 am and 4 am PST, at which point usually the Emergency Broadcast System comes on all channels of the universe except the ones airing Dianetics and Oxyclean. Slowly, I will compete with other infommercials and eat into their time slots, either reselling it to them at "capitalist competitive pricing" or looping my now 4 hour slot of time to induce Dejavu in insomniacs and sleep walkers. Besides, they were my inspiration.
Essential Quotes
"When you can look at yourself without comparison, you are beyond comparison." - J. Krishnamurti, Freedom From the Known
"Curiosity is a willing, a proud, an eager confession of ignorance." - Leonard Rubenstein
"The world must be all fucked up when men travel first class and literature goes as freight." - One Hundred Years of Solitude
"God is a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh." - Voltaire
"I only got two things in this world, my word and my balls. I don't break 'em for nobody." - Scarface
"Whenever cannibals are on the brink of starvation, Heaven, in it's infinite mercy, sends them a fat missionary." - Oscar Wilde
"Curiosity is a willing, a proud, an eager confession of ignorance." - Leonard Rubenstein
"The world must be all fucked up when men travel first class and literature goes as freight." - One Hundred Years of Solitude
"God is a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh." - Voltaire
"I only got two things in this world, my word and my balls. I don't break 'em for nobody." - Scarface
"Whenever cannibals are on the brink of starvation, Heaven, in it's infinite mercy, sends them a fat missionary." - Oscar Wilde
Pharma Fear
I remember when the promise of strong bones and vitals came in two Wilmas and a Bam Bam. Maybe a slice of Kraft singles and some Ovaltine. As long as you got your daily dose, you'd be climbing walls and breaking other children's bones in no time. "10 million strong.....and growing." Well, we grew the fuck up. Now, things have changed a bit.
My health goals are now beyond climbing the water fountain so mom doesn't have to lift me by my Huggies. I have a new vocabulary: free radicals, organic, enzyme, intracellular, anti-inflammatory.
I take fish oil - anti-inflammatory - and Co-Enzyme Q10 (cardiovascular health), some Echinacea plus Goldenseal (immune system boost) and Resveratrol (anti-aging, anti-oxidant and anti-viral). I'm an honor student at Pill Popping University. I can pop them by feel; no need for even color coding, the weight of the pill tells me what it is. They have the convenience of pop tarts, and after sliced bread, that's saying a lot.
But it's natural, they say, an extract. Well, what happens when the intake of a natural compound becomes supernatural? Doesn't that affect the body adversely? I can take 20g of fish oil a day, but can I realistically eat 9 fish filets in 24 hours? I couldn't even eat that many fish sticks. Of course, the companies are telling us how much healthier we could be if we downed 4 tabs, 2x daily with meals @ xxx mg per tab. I am wondering if this isn't just a big ploy to destroy our stomach lining then claim in 20 years that there's a new wonder extract that's supposed to rebuild your stomach walls.
I propose Adult Flintstones. Sort of like Saved by the Bell: College Years. You'll buy them for the nostalgia and that'll guarantee a bit of short term consumer loyalty for the manufacturer. "10 million strong and growing...old." New slogan, same impact. There is nothing more reliably exploitable than nostalgia. "Rich, Chocolatey Ovaltine...Now with Vicodin!" there could be a new class of health maintenance drugs. Now, I just need some stoner VCs to think how cool this idea is and I'll make so much money off my generation I could buy Rupert Murdoch himself.
My health goals are now beyond climbing the water fountain so mom doesn't have to lift me by my Huggies. I have a new vocabulary: free radicals, organic, enzyme, intracellular, anti-inflammatory.
I take fish oil - anti-inflammatory - and Co-Enzyme Q10 (cardiovascular health), some Echinacea plus Goldenseal (immune system boost) and Resveratrol (anti-aging, anti-oxidant and anti-viral). I'm an honor student at Pill Popping University. I can pop them by feel; no need for even color coding, the weight of the pill tells me what it is. They have the convenience of pop tarts, and after sliced bread, that's saying a lot.
But it's natural, they say, an extract. Well, what happens when the intake of a natural compound becomes supernatural? Doesn't that affect the body adversely? I can take 20g of fish oil a day, but can I realistically eat 9 fish filets in 24 hours? I couldn't even eat that many fish sticks. Of course, the companies are telling us how much healthier we could be if we downed 4 tabs, 2x daily with meals @ xxx mg per tab. I am wondering if this isn't just a big ploy to destroy our stomach lining then claim in 20 years that there's a new wonder extract that's supposed to rebuild your stomach walls.
I propose Adult Flintstones. Sort of like Saved by the Bell: College Years. You'll buy them for the nostalgia and that'll guarantee a bit of short term consumer loyalty for the manufacturer. "10 million strong and growing...old." New slogan, same impact. There is nothing more reliably exploitable than nostalgia. "Rich, Chocolatey Ovaltine...Now with Vicodin!" there could be a new class of health maintenance drugs. Now, I just need some stoner VCs to think how cool this idea is and I'll make so much money off my generation I could buy Rupert Murdoch himself.
The Pick-up Artist
I sat down to enjoy a sugar-free Red Bull and chocolate chip (with walnuts!) cookie, while deciding whether or not to ask the classmate two tables away if our lab section tonight will require us to have the lab manual. I'm a gentleman, so the decision to let her finish her pizza and I my cookie came easily.
It was almost as if that very decision was being clairvoyantly observed by another guy who materialized out of nowhere. Heisenberg would've been proud. He had the "Jee golly, I didn't know I'd find you here!" innocent, introductory tone, and began with the classic: "Hey, aren't you in my (x) class?" I'm an unashamedly admitted voyeur, so this I had to watch.
Now, it's always been one of my guilty pleasures to watch people pick up on others. Ranks right up there with low budget commercials - my number one guilty pleasure - and infomercials - Oxyclean and Bowflex are top-notch. So instead of being the dude that 'cock blocks' this mortal who thinks he's going to pick up on my classmate (apparently he is a mutual classmate of both of us), I let him indulge my patience and her time.
Don't get me wrong, he was a solid 5, maybe 6 since he asked open-ended questions. Very textbook, nothing spectacular. Certainly, nothing I couldn't have come up with in my adolescence, but it was see-through. He was like a bible salesman holding a bible and asking you about sports, the weather and interest rates, all the while you are thinking 'when is he going to make the pitch?'. I was wondering if this was the current state of the dating world. It was a counterfeit pickup. A real pickup is so good the other end doesn't know what hit them. In fact, I've seen some so polished that, even as an observer, I was surprised and blown away. I can give credit where credit is due, but points are reserved for originality.
I got up to use the restroom buried inside the student center buildling, took my time to wash my hands and finished my aluminum dispenser of man-made energy, and walked back outside, only to see them still talking. At this point, I couldn't tell if she was still there and caught in a position of cordiality - we call this 'tarouf' in my language - or whether he was actually getting somewhere with his Jr. Pickup tactics.
I know engineering girls aren't usually put in the same class as poli sci or psych girls, but I expected more of a fight out of her. I'm disappointed. Maybe I should change majors.
It was almost as if that very decision was being clairvoyantly observed by another guy who materialized out of nowhere. Heisenberg would've been proud. He had the "Jee golly, I didn't know I'd find you here!" innocent, introductory tone, and began with the classic: "Hey, aren't you in my (x) class?" I'm an unashamedly admitted voyeur, so this I had to watch.
Now, it's always been one of my guilty pleasures to watch people pick up on others. Ranks right up there with low budget commercials - my number one guilty pleasure - and infomercials - Oxyclean and Bowflex are top-notch. So instead of being the dude that 'cock blocks' this mortal who thinks he's going to pick up on my classmate (apparently he is a mutual classmate of both of us), I let him indulge my patience and her time.
Don't get me wrong, he was a solid 5, maybe 6 since he asked open-ended questions. Very textbook, nothing spectacular. Certainly, nothing I couldn't have come up with in my adolescence, but it was see-through. He was like a bible salesman holding a bible and asking you about sports, the weather and interest rates, all the while you are thinking 'when is he going to make the pitch?'. I was wondering if this was the current state of the dating world. It was a counterfeit pickup. A real pickup is so good the other end doesn't know what hit them. In fact, I've seen some so polished that, even as an observer, I was surprised and blown away. I can give credit where credit is due, but points are reserved for originality.
I got up to use the restroom buried inside the student center buildling, took my time to wash my hands and finished my aluminum dispenser of man-made energy, and walked back outside, only to see them still talking. At this point, I couldn't tell if she was still there and caught in a position of cordiality - we call this 'tarouf' in my language - or whether he was actually getting somewhere with his Jr. Pickup tactics.
I know engineering girls aren't usually put in the same class as poli sci or psych girls, but I expected more of a fight out of her. I'm disappointed. Maybe I should change majors.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)