Blaaaugh

Divide and dissolve

2009-04-20T21:12:00.000-07:00

So here I was in Bellingham for one of my week-end visits, made more frequent of late by the combination of a long-distance relationship and cheap airfare. The week-end had passed well and it was Monday, my day of departure. Getting back to the airport was going to be a bit iffy, though, as Michele was back down in Seattle working away and my mom was doing same here in the 'ham. But don't worry - I'd got things all figured out. My sister and Woodley also happened to be up for the week-end; they had driven up the coast, and so would be able to drop me off at the Food Co-Op, whence my plan was to meet Brian Russell at The Home and visit a bit before being driven to the airport. Simple enough.

I departed as planned from Liz and Woodley at the Food Co-Op. I began walking up the street towards The Home, but was arrested in that purpose next to the WECU by one Monica Simmons, a friend from back in high school whom I haven't seen in simply ages. We fell to chit-chat, and before I knew it a passing postal worker was calling my name. It just so happened that I had paused in the very route of BJ, a pal from my post-college Bible study. After a brief exchange of hails he was back to work, but a moment or two later, yes, a tap on the shoulder, and the one and only Evan Day, a family friend and fellow Flying Colorist, was standing before me. That makes five - Liz, Woodley, Monica, BJ, and Evan - in as many minutes. Adding in the fact that after a bit more chit-chat I would return from this serendipitous street corner to my original plan of meeting Brian Russell, I figure that I've set a new P.R. for happening across friends from all the different walks and times of my life.

I feel that, over time, this blog is becoming a trifle Bellingham-heavy, and I have a vague feeling that this trend should be avoided. It's not truly representative of my life these days -- I certainly don't spend hours each day pining away for the motherland -- nor is it all that interesting subject matter, for who really wants to hear me lament my elsewhereness? Nevertheless, the High Street Coincidence has somewhat renewed my desire to find a way home again, since where else than Bellingham do things like that occur?

Where else indeed. As soon as I landed I was given a ride back from the Oakland Airport by Jeff Widman.

Music of the moment:

Waterdeep's recent album, Pink And Blue, manages a thing that few albums can in that it is both a bit of a disappointment and it is one of my most listened-to albums week after week. How do these two facts coexist? Well, the truth (by which I mean my opinion) is that Waterdeep write excellent songs, even when the complex arrangements and virtuosic fretcraft of yore are replaced with a misguided candy-coating of DIY production tricks. What I'm trying to say is: buy this album, but buy Sink or Swim and To Chase Away The Birds first.

In other news, I've been listening to Tower Of Power's older stuff quite a bit recently. Urban Renewal and Back to Oakland are both smokin' soul-funk. If you've never heard them before, these albums are highly recommended. Cue the Pandora.

Sing "Other People"

2008-11-17T19:18:00.000-08:00

I have a habit. It is sometimes a good and sometimes a bad but most frequently lies pretty well on the fairway of the habitspace: it is to tell other people's stories.

I'm not sure when or why I realized that other people's lives are more interesting than my own, but it is certainly true that, when I do make a go at small talk, I tend to commence the majority of my sentences with the lead-in of "I know someone who..." Query me regarding my interests and I will dredge up a couple, ask me about my work and I will tell you that it is going just about as well as it ever does, inquire regarding my family and you will get the basic facts, but if the conversation is to bend towards anything more delightful and instructive that bend will almost certainly take an angle away from self. You may hear Mickey's thoughts on feeling fat, for example, or an exaggeration on the subject of Adam's clumsy squirrel, a treatise full of Timothy's philosophy or a guidebook to Brian's more recent escapades. Those scars on my tummy, though? You'll have to ask someone else for the tale.

I was reminded of this tendency today as a coworker recounted the conversation he had with a friend at one of our partner companies.

He called her up, them not having chatted in a while, and asked her how her day was going. She said not very well as her dog had just died. He replied that he was sorry to hear that and continued on that vein for a few minutes, asking how old was the poor thing, speaking about how these things hit everyone pretty hard because you get so attached, telling about how he remembered that one time he had a dog that he liked very much... at this point she asked him what he was talking about dogs for, she said that her dad had died.

It will be a long time before my coworker rings his friend up again. Looking on the bright side, though, the awkwardness of his position has added another arrow to my second-hand repertoire.

Music of the moment:

Did I already tell you about Skip James? Yes? Well, then - nothing new to report. Perhaps another trip to the library is in order.

Life to false metal

2008-10-16T20:29:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I...

Woke up and wasn't too groggy.
Went for a run and was faster than before.
Drove up 280 and thought about the wonders of God.
Worked all day and never got bored.
Drove down 280 and listened to a Power Rangers episode on the radio.
Picked up Eric from 307 and brought him to The Bungalow.
Made pasta for dinner and put some cheese on top.
Hung out with the Graceland fellows and basked in their wisdom.
Went to bed and had a nice rest.

And today was pretty much the same.

[Editor's note: Yes, a Power Rangers episode, in addition to which on my drive home I heard an amazing gong-show version of people failing to sing the alphabet song in different musical genres, as well as multiple exhortations from the Pirate DJ to donate to KFJC. Bay area college radio cannot be beat.]

Music of the moment:

I've been playing a lot of guitar recently and have been listening to some early blues players, who are great fun to play along with. On a recent trip to the library I picked up a compilation of early recordings by Skip James, and they are absolutely stellar. Also noteworthily excellent library finds have been Ry Cooder's early albums. Wonderful stuff.

My car makes me sin

2008-09-15T18:46:00.000-07:00

Unlike the celebrated Marley, PontiAnn was not dead to begin with. There was no question. It was last week, maybe Tuesday, [editor's note: it was actually much longer ago. I have a bad habit of starting these posts and leaving them unfinished] and I was driving my 33 1/3-mile commute, weaving into and out of the cloudy hills surrounding our national interstate system's two hundred and eightieth highway, and the only hint of coming menace that I noticed was that the fuel gauge was running on the low side.

This was not unusual, nor was it a problem -- I might not have had enough petrol to get back home, but there is a no-name gas station two blocks from the office in Daly City, which, though the numbers on the sign out front rarely match those on the actual pump, provides plentiful petrol at the people's price. What struck me as unusual at this pit stop, the fillip of the fill-up, as it were, was the manner in which, upon re-entering my car, jotting down the miles traveled, the gallons purchased, the legal tender extracted, and cetera, I turned the key to the "start" position and the car failed entirely to perform that simple task. It was as if, instead of "start", I had turned the key to "do nothing for a while, then make sickly whirring noises."

I debated asking for a jump from a passer-by. I had cables, but then, I also had AAA, and supposed as well that the battery dying abruptly in this way may signal deeper automotive distress than a mere loss of charge. When the Big Yellow Truck arrived, therefore, I voiced these concerns and was dully told not to worry about it too much, given a jump, and instructed to drive around for a bit, which I did before heading the two blocks to work.

My office is conveniently situated directly adjacent to a seven-story parking structure which was fairly full by the time I pulled into the gate. I parked as close to the ground as possible, which turned out to be the fourth story, and shut the car off. Just to see what would happen, I turned the starter again. Rrihw. Rrihw. Ah well, I'd just get a jump from a coworker at lunch and take the car to a shop.

Or so I thought. I found a nearby ignition shop online all right but the attempted jump that was to have gotten me there failed, as did a tap at the end of the day from my boss' pickup from which we had hoped to get a more wallopful kick-start. Oh well. I informed the parking lot security that they had not lost a parking slot they had gained a Bonneville and headed mass-transitward.

Arriving the next day on the Early Train, I put another call in to AAA, who assured me that another truck was on its way. Promptly after hanging up I put yet another call in to AAA, who assured me that the fact that I had just locked my keys in my car would prove but a minor inconvenience. And in fact it did.

What proved a much greater inconvenience, however, was the fact that, though I had mentioned the height requirements of the parking structure, the truck that arrived was two inches too, too large for the job. We decided that the best way to overcome this new challenge would be to push the car down. So, with the aid of the tow truck driver and a couple of very helpful chaps from building security, I spiraled my way, sans power breaks or steering, down between the rows and rows of sports cars and hybrid SUVs, most of which are worth, in my cursory estimation, more than my life.

Once we got to the ground floor the jump proved a trifle and I was on my way to the ignition shop, where I dropped off l'auto and made the two mile hike back to work. All set. The end of the workday saw me making the return journey to pick up the beast, which, apparently, had just needed a new battery all along. Unfortunately, new batteries cost money, and it was only after I had arrived at the shop that I learned of their policy of not extending credit to shady characters holding little plastic cards. I had left my checkbook at home that morning, so I was about to start the sad trek to the nearest train station when the kindly shop attendant told me that I could take the car and bring a check in the morning. I thanked him and was on my way.

When I arrived at home, I was meticulous in ensuring the working-orderness of everything. I tried the locks a couple times, tried turning off and turning on the car, made sure that the lights were working -- I wanted to make sure that, when I came back to the car in the morning, I wouldn't have any difficulties.

When I came back to the car in the morning, I had difficulties. Apparently, in my zeal of checking-over-ness, I had departed from my standard routine enough to have accidentally left the spare set of keys in the "on" position (though with the car turned off,) which had kept enough electricity flowing to completely drain the new battery.

This was at about seven o'clock in the morning, so I phoned up Mickey, who I know to be a truly good friend, the kind who would only laugh at me for about ten minutes before giving me a jump.

Allotting about 10 minutes for him to arrive, therefore, I was faced with a new problem. The jumper cables that I had fortuitously purchased before driving the car down to California had been sitting in the trunk ever since, and the manual lock on my trunk has been broken since I got the car. This is normally fine -- I can use the button to pop it open, but my car was made in an era when mechanically trivial things that could be made vastly more complicated and less reliable via the miracles of electricity were made vastly more complicated and less reliable via the miracles of electricity, and as we all know dead batteries are more or less electricity's Achilles' Heel.

Fortunately, the folks at Pontiac had the foresight to install a second access to the trunk, via the rear seats. This is not the kind of useful now-we-can-fit-all-sorts-of-things-in-this-boat fold-down-the-whole-seat access, however. Instead, those clever product designers seem to have been anticipating my very situation, for the aperture has approximately the cross sectional area of a man's shoulder.

After blindly fishing around for several minutes, I struck against something plastic and snaky, and soon I had extracted the goods. This was about when Mickey arrived, and, after a false start and a ten-minute let's-just-see-if-it-works charge from Mickey's 626, I was finally on my way to the Daly City again.

And have had no problems with it since.

Music of the moment:

I have recently been re-discovering a few outstanding albums.

Howe Gelb's 'Sno Angel Like You is a standout, a beautiful blend of slacker desert folk with (what else?) gospel choir harmonies. The great thing about this piece is the wholly unique feeling that one gets at all of its moments, a feeling that this strange music is simultaneously a meticulously crafted labor and a lazy shambles that will fall to pieces as soon as one of the tenuous guitar chords holding it together snaps.

Rich Mullins's The Jesus Demos is probably more familiar to you. These are a handful of demos that were recorded shortly before his death (R.M.'s, not... well, you know) and thematically centered on an exploration of Christ from divers perspectives. I generally steer clear of the genre that is variously called CCM or Christian Pop or just That Commercial Dreck, but this album is one that I have found myself singing the songs of again and again throughout the years in spite of myself.

Finally and most famously, The Talking Heads's Remain In Light recently catchyed its way into constant play on my office computer for about a week and a half, and I am someone who never listens to anything on repeat. The thing that I find entrancing about this album is its incredible texture -- each of the songs, the dance numbers at least, are a bubbling mess of energy that is somehow coherent, a spin of endless repetition that is somehow complex enough to hold the attention indefinitely. Add to that lyrics that have found a permanent place in the coveted land of my IM status quotes -- a tough arena to crack -- and you have yourself a classic. Which, in fact, it is.

(All of us in a room)

2008-07-08T18:53:00.000-07:00

I held off a long time before making a blog for myself. I had my reasons. I had, rather, my reason: I was afraid of blogs, and, in a broader sense, afraid of a culture that suggests that an admirable form of expression is one that allows someone like me, someone who needs twelve heaping wallops of humility and more than a dash of selfless thought, to start the first four sentences of his admirable expression with a personal pronoun, then to line up his Is next to a pile of music he likes, comics he likes, people he likes, web sites he likes... So I was afraid of it, and still am, just like I'm afraid of Facebook and Last.fm and all the rest, because I already start all my prayers, like my blog posts, with I, and that's more than far enough down that road.

I have a whole rant about that, a rant that makes me feel superior to other people and therefore which I guiltily like to give with little or no provocation, but I won't give it here because a) Well, I won't list the reasons; the irony hangs heavy as it is. I won't rant about that because that is not the point of this post, it is merely the initiator.

So, skipping back to the end of the first sentence (see paragraph 1,) let's just insert the following and forget that little transpiration that, you know, transpired. Er, hem.

When I started this ig/noble experiment, what had tipped me over the edge from nay to yay was reading other people's blogs that were genuinely beneficial. Okay, I admit - it was only one blog, but it was enough. Being therefore convinced that if one stuck to content sure to delight and amuse, or possibly instruct, that one could at least avoid the soul-diffusing perils of punting his ego into a wallless internet, I embarked with the intention of keeping my segoul as contained as contained as possible. I would tell stories, share my thoughts, but only so far as other people might reasonably be expected to be interested in, and I would always be more eager to share about someone else than about myself.

Likely. Why do I write in this ridiculous prose?

So I've done better and I've done worse, and frequently, especially over the last couple of years, I've done even better by not doing at all, but I would like to get back a bit of my original intention if possible, and also to capture a bit of something that I've found alternately distasteful and essential in the blogs of others: the ability to keep in touch with someone without actually keeping in touch with him. As meaning to that end, therefore, I present to you: the life of Rob. Part IV. Chapter 3. On Bungalows.

When Tim Butler visited I heard that this was to no longer have been The Bungalow. That would have been a shame. Not that I have any particular affiliation with the name - in fact, the plan as it was stated was to retire the jersey and find another as soon as Jeremy, my esteemed predecessor, departed - but it does have its claims, which cannot be disposed of lightly. And so the name has stuck.

Now in The Bungalow we are three: myself, with whom I suspect you are familiar, and two others, with whom I intend to acquaint you.

I met Mike first, only a quarter into my freshman year. I don't remember what he was doing at the time, though I have my suspicions that it had something to do with schooling. He was one of the seven or so regular attenders to a little group called Reformed University Fellowship, which some guy in Testimony named David Scudder had gotten me to go to (this was after he took me to a bowling alley, where I met someone named Mickey and we had our first dance, but that's another story entirely.) Mike was quite a friendly guy, and so I talked to him a bit at RUF, which, if you are familiar with my peculiar shyness you may know, is not something I always do around people whom I have met only once or twice or thirty times. That, then, is how I got to know Mike.

Mike has been a resident of The Bungalow for a year now, maybe two. His hallmarks in the house are the motorcycle out back, exciting (read: violent) movies, and delicious, delicious meals from Trader Joe's, which I suspect are delicious by argument of the scents that waft therefrom. One of the wonderful things about The Bungalow is how well each of us its residents fit together with the others, and Mike is the one of us three who is best at being at home here, that is to say, at using the house like a home. His predecessor was the aforementioned Tim, who was here at the time with Jason, who is still here, thereby completing the circle.

I met Jason later and in more hazy circumstances than Mike's. I do believe that the first time we met it was at a party for some holiday during which I felt exceptionally uncomfortable, as I tend to at parties for some holidays. At the time I had a beautiful moment when I departed from my social torpor long enough to realize that the gentleman next to me was attempting to discuss bodhràn playing technique. A good moment, as I remember it.

Jason and I have plenty of good moments still. Aside from being a drummer, he is a model housewife and gently keeps those of us in check who may otherwise be wont to shirk our domestic duties. He initiates movements to the tune of "let's paint the living room," "today we should run speaker wire under the house," and "I think that we should leave that wall clear, for lo, I have a projector, and lo, there shall be a projection." He also subscribes to The Economist, the only putable news source in the house, and thereby plays a bit part in shaping my mind to the world.

Jason, then, is good at making the home, Mike is good at using it, and me, well, I suppose I'm best at sharing it - advertently or not (the drum set I think takes care of the inadvertent sharing.) My domestic duties in this respect, such as have shaken out, mostly consist of inviting people over, piping weird music, and usually speaking reason to the dishes afterwards.

That, then, completes The Bungalow. Such as it stands today, in any case. God knows, but I am blessed to be here.

Bonus post (woo) -- I drafted the below and saved it a while ago, but for some reason never got around to posting it. Watch your mirrors.

I was talking with Michele (on the in-ter-net!) and the subject of Ten Easy Steps To Doing Well In All Areas Of Life came up (as it so frequently does.) I thought hers pretty solid, but not having a witty blog to put them up on I thought I'd post them here as a warning to others who might consider making lists of things for me:

1. know michele
2. eat well
3. visit kacie and michele
4. have a witty blog
5. learn to make hummus
6. get hours of sleep each night
7. get rid of your facebook account
8. keep a journal
9. get vitamin D
10. read the classics.
11. Figure out the on/off functionality of your cell phone

So there you have the prescription. Get your hours of sleep and call me in the morning.

[Editor's note: I have since hung up on her and probably a couple of other people while trying to retrieve call-waiting calls. I am not doing so hot on #11, which I think might have been the initiator of this list. Can't quite remember.]

Music of the moment:

Hoo boy, lots to report! First off, I finally acquired both of the recent Waterdeep / Chaffer Family albums, and both are quite good. I'm not good at thoughtful reviewing, but suffice it to say that, given their history of excellence, there was a lot of room for disappointment; yet no disappointment ensued. [Editor's note: Okay, maybe a little. To Chase Away The Birds is a spectacularly good album.]

I've also been listening a good deal to David Bowie's album "Heroes". It's been noted already that this is a great album, and, originally interested in its instrumental, soundscapey tracks and not much impressed with the likes of Beauty and the Beast, I've been surprised by how long the album as a whole can hold my attention as I keep putting it back in week after week.

Finally, have you heard of Amy X Neuburg? No?? I hadn't either, until a few weeks ago I was listening to KFJC on my way to church and this insane, layered vocal piece came on and started talking to itself. It was so unique and intriguing that I just sat in the church parking lot listening to it through to the end, and that doesn't happen too often with me and the radio, so I figured it must be something particularly worth checking out. Turns out that I was right! Give one of her albums a spin if you can get your mitts on one; the most recent is also the most interesting to listen to, though (because?) it is somewhat less accessible than the others.

The swamps of home

2008-03-19T21:41:00.000-07:00

It has been almost a year since I last visited here. Some have pondered these things in their hearts, no doubt, and I myself find same a bit unsettled by this long silence. What might it mean? Much of significance has undoubtedly happened in my life in the intervening months, and yet, however interventionist the months have become, I fail to view the ever-shifting commonplace as I once did. I no longer see life, for example, as even resembling a series of diverting vinaigrettes suitable for public display and amusement.

In place of that ideal, I'm coming into a newly distressing interpretation for the foregone queries of What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up. The problem is that I always paid more attention to the "want to be" part of this question, but the effect of the progression of life to my thoughts thereon suggest that a far more important thing to ponder may be "when you grow up?" An awfully crabby way to pose the question, but still, more pertinent.

Or perhaps it is not a matter of which is the more pertinent question. Perhaps these two are merely at increasing odds with one another. In a sense, what I want to be may be precisely to not be when I grow up. At least, not the way that I think of growing up.

I have a job now, did I mention? A good steady one, involving all the important aspects: smart people, nodding, meetings, com-put-ahs, pieces of various pies, the whole nine tails. Unfortunately, like most jobs it involves me being in not-Bellingham. And if there is any place that is good for growing but not up, for maturing dependently, for becoming more like the person that I would like to be, it is Bellingham.

I think there is something real about that town. Or maybe it is just home. Or maybe it was just a mistake to read Howards End. I'm not sure which, but as I was flying in after having been away for such a long time I was looking out the plane's windows at islands that have hung on my walls for years I know that I felt the most profound sense of joy that I can remember feeling. There is something substantial about that place, no doubt about it. A messy business.

This past summer-into-fall I learned a lot and thought a good deal more than I am used to. I don't have as much fun now, despite having many good friends about, for which I am ever thankful; I don't think about life as much or at least in the right way; in fact, in terms of personal anything, I'm stagnant. My mom calls the present my two+ years of military service, which I understand even though it is probably an overstatement. I'm sure I will love... business, and in fact I do like my job a lot. But even so, being in the land of not-Bellingham, it happens to not involve any of the most important elements of life-in-Bellingham-over-the-past-half-year.

Starting to see where I'm going with this? That's too bad, because in reality this whole thing has been one awfully chewy lead-up to another edition of... Things I Like An Awful Lot About The Past. And here they are, a stream of consciousness arriving right on time and in no particular order, that will mean very little to most people, but which I will look back on in the future and smile:

- "Hey, you! You with the face!"
- "Ya pay your money, ya take your chances!"
- Having long and real conversations with and constantly learning from a man who is far wiser than I will ever be.
- Living in the same town as Emily for the first time in who knows how long (I do! Four years!)
- Getting to know Megan, Erek, Tara, and loads of other important, wise, accepting, amazing people much better.
- Spaghetti sauce.
- Helicopter.
- Seeing Mrs. Short on Sundays.
- The taped sermon/talk about the woman at the well by, I forget his name, that Int'l House of Prayer guy.
- Once, I was but a learner...
- Playing chess with Jared.
- Drives to Birch Bay.
- Nathaniel's work schedule -- it turns out I am a morning person after all.
- Songs throughout the day... including but not limited to:
"Don't you know, we are cows!"
"I neeeeeed a nap!"
"We are lovely and slooooow; don-t-cha-know we are cows."
"Into the woods! Into the woods!"
"You are my masking machine, somethingsomething oooonly sev-en-teen."
"Raindrops keep falling on my head..."
"Get Evan to do it, dear Ro-ob, dear Ro-ob; get Evan to do it, his musc-les are big!"
- NO TRESPASSING WATCH YOUR MIRRORS
- The wind storm blowing waves out of Birch Bay. That was such a great day.
- Walking past the automatic garbage can that said bwaah.
- Thursday
- Listening to the audiophile system at that one place in Fairhaven with Brian and Jeff W.
- Lafeen's
- Playing drums, getting better, and people putting up with it.
- Michele's surprise visit.
- Working with Brian, who once again showed without exaggeration or pride that he is better than me in everything.
- "What does this have to do with my mother?" "Ev-ery-thing!"
- Fantasy football
- Fantasy child-rearing
- The Amazing Race
- Apple pastries
- Judging the clarity of the day by whether or not we could see the Olympics.
- Being introduced to various songs by The Smothers Brothers, Victor Borge, etc.
- An IMPERIAL STAR DESTROYER
- Trying to sell the Death Star that came with it.
- "... cookie?"
- Looks askance from all the more, um, normal contractors.
- The fact that all of my stories now start with "So this one time Nathaniel and I were talking..."

[Editors' note: We believe that the omission of "I don't like it when Rob talks to me!" from this list is a grievous error, a word which we have just learned is spelt with only a single 'i', and we will not let it happen again.]

There are, of course, the bright spots of my current situation as well. They are fewer, but still:

- Pancakes
- The Bungalow
- Building the aforementioned Death Star... while watching The Star Wars Holiday Special... and The Muppet Show Featuring Mark Hamill.
- Frinners
- The incredible Edwin, against whom there is no comparison.
- Card games
- Running, and the fact that it doesn't kill me.
- Popcorn!
- Living near the to-be-Woodleys.
- 280
- Mickey, Kristen, Beth, and everyone else who has ended up here in not-home.

...And the list continues to grow. Anywhere but up.

Music of the moment:

Following hard on the heels of a Nick Cave binge, I recently found myself listening to Damien Jurado's Where Shall You Take Me? non-stop, enough to make me go out and buy more of his stuff. Since then I have been completely entranced with Rehearsals for Departure. His voice is incredible -- the way i described it to a friend is that it sounds like something that comes from a point outside of his head, then has to filter its way back in before it can come out at the right spot. This is especially true high in his range, and can be fleeting as his voice changes a ton depending on dynamics and pitch and instrumentation. Another name for my list of "If I could sound like anyone, I would choose..."

Speaking of which, I also have a couple new Favorite Songs Ever. If you'll kindly take my word that they stop my in my tracks and entice me to turn up the volume every time I listen to them, I won't go into any further explanations. They are "Hail, Mary" by Shearwater and "The Wishing Tree" by The King's Singers. Gorgeous.

Corrections

2007-03-02T14:24:00.000-08:00

Have you ever come to a sudden realization of how you behave, of how you have been behaving for a really long time without even thinking about it, but, now that it comes to mind, it really is a little bizarre? Things like noticing for the first time that, when you walk through the arcades of the quad, you take unnaturally long steps in order to take one step per grid space? Or that when you open an outward-swinging door you habitually give a too-weak push with your hand and a helpful shove/kick with your foot in order to get the door fully open?

I have.

I was reading through the Daily recently when my eye happened upon a small errata box that they had thrown in due to some fallacious quotage in a past issue. Now, I was not particularly interested in anything in the Daily that day, just as I had not been particularly interested in anything in the Daily for the past several, which span surely encompassed the article therein corrected. But when I glanced upon the correction, I was riveted. I read it carefully, trying to reconstruct in my mind the original article in full detail in order to make sense of the apology. As I was doing this, I came to a realization of the aforementioned type: a) I always do this when I see corrections in papers, even if I would have had absolutely no interest in the original article, and b) I have no idea why.

The consistency with which I pursue newspaper corrections is especially baffling to me considering that, usually if not always, articles of this type are embarrassments, either to the paper or to the article's subject. For example, in the particular correction I was reading, the tale was told of how some student or other, instead of heroically helping out in a tense situation, had in fact, according to many readers of the original article who had phoned, e-mailed, sky-written, etc. the paper, drunkenly gotten in the way of authorities who were actually trying to resolve the continuingly-vague hullabaloo. To sum up, the correction pretty much made everyone connected with the article unhappy. The paper was embarrassed. The student was embarrassed. I was embarrassed for them. The score was negative everybody, all because I felt an urge to read this correction.

And this always happens. There is no case that I can come up with in which reading a correction about an article in which I have no objective interest is a good thing. Now, I do believe that such corrections are good and necessary to preserve truth and honesty and accountability in media and lots of other things that everyone agrees are good things; it's in the act of random, disinterested people like me reading them that their value shifts to the socially questionable. And yet I read on.

Discuss.

Music of the moment:
I was invited to cover for another DJ on KZSU recently and Ben Savage joined me for the aural fête. While setting up the rough playlist for the show, I was checking out Hush records and I stumbled upon Super Xx Man, a music therapist at the Oregon State Hospital's maximum security wing who also puts out folksy albums every now and again.

Other cool discoveries were Neko Case, who apparently is a pretty popular country/indie songwriter, though I had never heard of her, Birdsongs of the Mesozoic, who play a wonderfully unique fusion of modern classical and progressive rock, with elements of jazz and percussion-centric jams thrown in, and, speaking of percussion-centric jams, Rusted Root, who play Grateful Dead-like ditties but with more of a world-percussion emphasis. Great stuff, minus the slightly annoying modern rock vox.

Root for the home team

2007-01-19T18:53:00.000-08:00

This past Winter Break, like its cousins before it, was yet another rousing success. Some day, when I am old and miserly and have a desk job in some big city, my only joy in life the habitual throwing of wreaths at carolers unwise enough to happen upon my doorstep, I will likely be haunted one night by the Ghost of Winter Break Past, who will reform me by reminding me of the poignant joys of childhood and young-adulthood in the absolute magnificence of Bellingham. Bellingham, in short, is a great town, and it's really too bad that I don't get to spend more time there.

One of the main reasons that Bellingham is so excellent is the fact that, every time I'm home for any length of time, I get from one to five calls from friends wishing to do something a little out of left field. Which doesn't mean all that much, since for me left field extends essentially from the front doorstep outwards, inclusive of all possible events therein, but some are out to the warning track at least. A few years ago, for example, Peter called me up wanting to know if I was free for the evening and wanted to go kayaking. I said sure, and I'd be over at such and such a time. When I got there, the plan was fleshed out in a bit more detail: we would be kayaking out to an island in Chuckanut Bay, so named because it is a body of water enclosed by a roughly arch-shaped mass of land that encroaches into the gap on both sides, and building ourselves a pile of flammables, which we would subsequently set to burning and roast some good old raw meat over like the manly men that we were.

Needless to say, we were hampered in this pursuit by a few minor details. First, some idiot (me) decided that I would be a good pick for the back of the two-man kayak, which, as you know, is responsible for steering the vessel around tricky obstacles like the shore. This delayed our arrival on the island by a number of minutes, which span was quickly eclipsed by the delay caused by, yes, the flint flying from our lighter (the only a-firing apparatus we had had the forethought to bring along) and onto the shell-sandy beach, from which the hope of recovery was nil. Ultimately, we gave up trying to build a fire from the dampened kindling through application of our Boy Scout knowledge and headed homeward, utilizing a significantly more direct route, where we fired the meat up in a very manly oven and told all of our travels.

This year, on the other hand, Peter had planned for s-u-c-c-e-s-s (that's the way you spell success! Evergreen, anyone? Anyone? Okay, never mind.) I got the call - "Hey Rob, we're going to try for another Manliness Outing. Coming?". Oh yes. This time we were heading out in the bleak mid-Winter, so the plan was to traipsepass down to a fire-pit located on the shores of the same Chuckanut Bay, a secluded spot nestled up against a cliff and requiring a spot of downhill hiking through someone or other's no doubt private property, causing some little speculation amongst the troops as to how Peter had stumbled across the place, but I suppose that he has his completely legal methods that wouldn't come under censure of any form if Mrs. Day happened to peruse this blog, so just move along there.

This was all divulged, of course, when we convened at the Day household, where, after receiving our marching orders, we displayed our divers wares and preparations for the journey, like a troupe of Oregon Trail parties hobnobbing at Chimney Rock. I had been told to bring "something to eat", so I had with me a bag stuffed with rosettes that "didn't taste quite right", according to my mother their creator, who had given me permission to dispose of them however I saw fit. Others had their own useful tidbits: some potatoes with garlic, a few onions, not a few slabs of the requisite raw meat just dripping with Pure Manliness, a couple guitars, a wagon tongue, and, by request of some of the less Puritanical members of the expedition, tiny cigars and a honking gallon-or-so flagon of what I'm told was very good winter ale. Thusly burdened, we set off into the darkness.

When we arrived at the head of the downward trail, we broke into two groups, the drivers of our two vehicles parking the cars down the road a ways with the intent to catch up with the four of us passengers as we wended our way to the coast.

Soon after embarking on said wending, we came across our first minor hitch. It seemed that, of our three flashlights, two were with the drivers and one was left to guide the hikers along their way. This was all right so far as it went, though it did result in slightly inhibited progress as we stumbled along. I myself was in the back of the pack, more feeling than seeing my way through a particularly narrow bit of pathing, when I heard before me a thump, followed by a "yeah, I'm okay" from Miles, who had been helped to his feet.

Soon thereafter, however, it became clear that something was amiss. There was a funny scent in the air, and Miles requested that the light be shined in his direction, because he "felt something funny." The light turned, revealing a downpour of precipitate ale raining down from the crushed flagon hidden carefully beforehand in the nether regions of Miles' pack by some well-meaning prankster.

Now, here is an interesting social experiment: take a group of sensible, mature, reasonable young men, present them with a backpack from which is emitting a steady shower of very good winter ale, and see how they react. If they immediately empty their water bottles, retrieve some cups, open the pack, and begin to scoop out all the beer they can reasonably save, regardless of contamination from such minor elements as a dirty jacket or assorted camping-type tools, while making reassuring comments like "It's all right -- I'll just strain out the glass shards with my teeth," then they are a pretty good approximation of my circle.

After all the salvaging we thought productive, we had recovered approximately a liter and a half of the stuff, and had come up with a number of very plausible explanations for Miles and David to give to their parents when asked why their respective jeans and jacket/backpack smelled like they had been drowning their sorrows together via a seedy downtown pub.

The rest of the night went comparatively smoothly, with opportunities for much manliness all around, enhanced by the fact that we had no plates upon which to rest our roasted raw meat or flatware therewith to skewer and raise into ourselves. The moral of the story: you really don't know how excellent beef can be until you have overcooked it illegally over a fire on someone else's property, added it with potatoes and roasted onions to a cup with a sordid history in ale-recovery, doused the whole in hickory barbecue sauce, and eaten it in highly unsanitary handfuls of pure joy.

It's enough to make one wish that the Ghost of Winter Break Yet To Come had a little more material to work with.

Music news:
Over break, I was limited to CDs in my physical possession (aww...), and further, to music that my mom would not find terribly inclement. Being thusly restricted to legitimately good music, I re-realized what an absolutely excellent band Waterdeep is. Seriously - amazing stuff. My current favorite album of theirs is "To Chase Away The Birds", but all albums are good. The cheapest Waterdeep album around, "Everyone's Beautiful", is available from ChristianBook.com's surplus bin for $0.99.

If you'd prefer your music free, there is a SUPERIOR album up for free download from Earthsuit, makers of the excellent album "Kaleidoscope Superior", who disappeared from the world shortly thereafter but have recently resurfaced with a different lineup under the thin guise of MuteMath. Anyway, this album is a fan club release of which around a thousand prints were made initially and which has now been made available for legal public download. It is very good, though a bit gritty in parts. In short, highly recommended.

Penultimately, there are some great tracks up for free grabs from Denison Witmer, who shares last names with Greg, so you should check him out (Denison. His music. Check it out.)

Finally, Miles Mattix, of Beer Flagon Crushing fame, now has a Purevolume page. Here's hoping he keeps on writing, recording, and posting.

The fashion focus

2006-07-24T17:45:00.001-07:00

I went to a dance the other day.

I don't have internet at the flat these days, so to get my fix I must needs withdraw to the more conditioned air of Stanford's Green, which, I may add, is all right by me as the temperatures continue to flirt shamelessly with a century. I was, therefore, sitting at my terminal casting about the seas of the IM buddy list for some sage advice regarding what literary works I should pursue next, having just come off a rather protracted Wodehouse binge and feeling the need for some meat and potatoes, or perhaps even nails and glass shards like back in high school, when Tina sprung the suggestion of my heading over to Roble for a spot of spectatorial Swing Time, Dance Libre, and the rest of the mainline troupes as a part of the Waltz Week, or whatever that seven day choreographical orgy was clept, festivities.

I may state without blush before my intimate public that I was perhaps a trifle hesitant. A proximity to dancing for me combines seamlessly the rather distinct offenses of giving in to peer pressure (peer pressure is for me what the German army is to Indiana Jones or what Stormtroopers are to Luke Skywalker - an adversary with a strongly inverted proportion of apparent force to actual effectiveness) with treading on holy ground. I have mentioned the Dancing Set before in these pages, and the peculiar effect of their singular wonderfulness still lingers.

But maybe it was that residual wonder, combined with my recent philosophic shift more towards the by golly why not school of thought, combined with the fact that it would possibly be Tina's last public Dance Libric exhibition, combined with the fact that I didn't have anything better to do that convinced me to go. Maybe.

I had promised my mom that I would call later that night, so I had to slip out at the half, but what I did see was quite interesting. There were some dances, yes. I think that Tina might have even been in a couple of them. It was rather difficult to make out the specifics, for it was mostly Richard Powers' most excellent vest that I found myself eyeing for the duration of the hour. Lands, what a wonderful outfit! Slightly baggy white shirt, slacks of unknown pedigree, and a beautiful grey vest to top it off - natty forty ways from the jack.

It was not soon after I had made the inevitable decision to purchase up the region's thrift stores' entire supply of natty vests for my own personal use that I went over to the Jeff / Eric / Gavan residence for a spot of Catan and general hobnobbery. Eric, I suppose, had never seen my pocket watch before, and he commented that the combination of pocket watch with paper clip chain (the original done broke a time ago and I figured that this, if ever there was one, was not a time for duct tape, though I may have been mistaken) was perfectly suited to me, combining, as it did, "classy" with "ghetto".

And I thought to myself, h'm, I don't know if I've ever thought of myself particularly in the twin classy/ghetto light before. I suppose I would be the last person to apply either adjective to myself. This thought was followed soon after with who am I kidding - it was not two days hence I decided I was born to discover and purchase three to five dollar vests at Value Village for the purpose of berobing myself in their ghetto classiness whenever possible.

In conclusion, if you are perusing your local thrift rack and you just happen to spot a tweedy vest-like specimen peeking out from between the short-armed jackets and asymmetric sports coats just you be thinking of me.

CGR - 9.0; working and not being at school is doing good things for my mental outlook, if not my physical being.

Music o' the moment - The Appleseed Cast's Peregrine album. Very good rock music, not quite out there but not quite mainstream either. I don't know quite what to say about this album that might make you want to rush out and buy it - it's quite soundy, it's creative, yet it's completely listenable, even ambient if need be and to someone who is not opposed to just a bit of noise leaking through the outer senses.

Write to me when you're in Siberia

2006-06-14T21:46:00.000-07:00

I'm not going to lie. This hasn't been the best of years. Sometimes it's seemed that every half-full glass has been a dribble to boot.

As an inherently lazy person, it's hard to conceive of the idea that life just consists of more work every year from here on out, harder to imagine that I won't ever have another Summer break. Call me pathetic but that doesn't sound like fun at all. In light of this prevailing frumpiness, I figured it would be good show to switch to cheeriness brights and to put up a few of my favorite moments and just favorite things in general of this year for reflection. Please do let me know if there are any that I missed.

- Watching Eraserhead with plenty of stuffed animals.

- My third game of ultimate banana.

- Golf ball sized < He's not got pants on < Let's run it through the B.D.S.

- Jumping in puddles when it was rainy and I was in the mood.

- Tina, Peter, and Rachel making me think in their collective way.

- Wandering around downtown Bellingham with Miles, Peter, and Zach.

- Ninja Turtles at Adam's arcade night.

- Walking to class with Allie.

- Every single time Mickey retold the "you don't feel fat" incident.

- Tina calling me an excellent drummer regardless of veracity.

- Listening to Thy Is A Word And Feet Need Lamps for the first time and catching the reference in each song.

- Getting an A+ in a, well, not real, but EE class. Go team Air Drum.

- Co-founding (technically, reviving) Bachelors Till Rapture.

- The OvalPress regulars.

- Rolling a desk loaded with free office supplies across campus with Ben.

- Learning the Hannah and Co. started a rival drawgroup quote blog.

- 112 hour weeks in Alaska last summer.

- Getting the letter from Michele and getting the letter from Emily.

- Seeing that my mom chose the poppy picture for May.

- Mia joining OvalPress.

- Not being able to keep myself from smiling while reading Patrick's blog.

- Sandals.

- Hanging out with friends on April 4th.

- Adam asking me to drum at his wedding.

- Finishing Mickey's sentences and vice versa.

- The 103 candy bowl.

Music of the moment: Woven Hand. Really pretty goth/blues/roots/americana from David Eugene Edwards, former frontman of 16 Horsepower. It's worth looking up a free song download or two from either 16HP or Woven Hand (find them at Paste or Sounds Familyre) to see if the Denver scene is your bag. I personally find it to be quite delightful.

Summer considerations, A through S

2006-05-17T18:11:00.000-07:00

My mom has an exceptionally low view of the blog medium, seeing in it nothing but an amplifier and sounding board of the ego. She has rejected my suggestion that people like to keep up with one another and know what other people are thinking and going through and the like since, if that were really the case, there are legion other media through which communication can be established, and all of them require some degree of mutual attention, as opposed to a blog's unique and singular focus on one individual. This, combined with the fact that I really never read my friends' more personal blogs, prompted me to made a conscious point when I started this thing of not turning it into one of "those blogs" that might be interpreted maternally as in any way reprehensible. In this pursuit I've met with varying degrees of success, hampered mostly by the facts that a) she's right and b) I'm full of myself.

I've actually been sitting on a fully typed-up and ready post in which I whine on and on about my electrical engineering related woes, but I've been holding off on while I weigh the restrictions above and the fact that I can't imagine reading that kind of a post on anybody else's blog against the allure of getting it out of my system. Life is hard when one doesn't have conversations on any deeper level than where people are planning on living next year. Though not as hard as it would be if one frequently did.

So, depending on the voice coming from over which shoulder wins out, you may or may not be hearing me whine about EE in the near future. But that doesn't matter, because that's not what this post is about. This post is about advice. Summer advice.

I present these facts for your consideration:

a) Brian is painting houses with Nathaniel in Bellingham.
b) They need another.
c) I can take the job if I want it.
d) I sooooooo want it.
e) Dude, it's Bellingham.
f) And Brian! And Nathaniel!
g) Michele and Emily are there too.
h) So are legions of other awesome people too numerous to count.
i) But I am completely and utterly incompetent, paint-wise.
j) Trim? What's trim?
k) No, I'm serious - the last time I had a job involving manual labour I regularly smashed up baseboards and stapled my thumb to things.
l) Okay, so I only stapled my thumb once.
m) But still.
n) I'm worried that I'd mess things up enough that they'd start to get a little ticked off at me and regret that they'd hired me.
o) Which would certainly be worse than not taking the job.
p) Furthermore, I have a standing offer from my current employer, Picaboo, to work here in Palo Alto over the summer.
q) And I would probably be able to continue working there indefinitely, though I don't actually know that.
r) Yes, it has been pointed out to me how ironic it is that I work for a photography/scrapbooking/publishing company. Deal with it.
s) 'q' is a funny letter.

So, then. Advise.

Music of the moment: Elvin Jones. Enough said.

Songs will write the words

2006-04-04T00:11:00.000-07:00

I saw yet another bloggy gimmick on Patti's. And since I'm all about gimmickry, here it is.

Musical 8 ball:
Put iTunes (or whatever you use to listen to music) on random, ask the question, press next, and see if iTunes answers your question with the song you get... (don't take answers that don't make sense)

1. What is missing from my life?
Little Pony - Count Basie Orchestra

2. Will I find love?
Love Finds You - 4HIM
Yeah, but will I find love?

3. Will I become rich?
He Watches Over Thee - Luxury

4. Does someone have a crush on me?
Me - PfR
What the?

5. What should I do with my life?
Blitz - Audio Adrenaline

6. Am I good looking?
(They Long To Be) Close To You - Erroll Garner
I'm beginning to question the veracity of these answers.

7) When am I most happy?
Immersion - Roadside Monument
Yeah, most un-veracous. Definitely questioning.

8. What is my biggest regret?
Discretion - Pedro the Lion
Man, remember that time I was discrete? Total bummer.

9. How does the world see me?
Satisfied - PfR

10. What do my friends really think of me?
Broke in the Head - Bleach

11. Will I have a happy life?
Abolish The Racist White Overclass - White Trash Inc.
I think that's a 'no.'

12. How can I make myself happy?
The Lord's Rest - Danielson Family
From the album "Tell Another Joke at the Ol' Choppin' Block", which is also a good answer.

13. How will I die?
Spoon - Cadet

14. Do I act my age?
At Play in the Fields - Mokave
Wheee!

15. What type of tattoo should I get?
Wait - Shaded Red

16. What is my spirit animal?
Watermelon Man - Herbie Hancock

17. Do I like pain?
Running Away - Luna Halo

18. Is there anyone else like me out there?
Just a Man - Supertones
A watermelon man?

19. Do I love to party?
Sometimes Within Me - Take6
I'm a party in my mind.

20. Where should I move to?
Bush - AbZolute Zero

22. Will I ever be president?
Revolution - Jars of Clay

23. What is fun for me?
That Certain Kind of Woman - The Denver Gentlemen

23b. Wait - What 'certain kind of woman'?
Queen Esther - Guardian

24. Will I ever learn to fly?
Darn That Dream - Miles Davis

25. What is my super power?
Shuffleboard - Jacobstone

26. What is some good advice for me?
Dance after killing an elephant - Traditional Monzoli

A dawn's lens

2006-03-30T22:21:00.000-08:00

When I went walking in the rain
'Twixt Moonbeam's, Green, and Meyer
The puddles splashed up on my leg
(And sometimes even higher.)

My duct-tape shoes flipped, flapped, and flup
And caused me pedal scarring
But I could never give them up
Without my conscience sparring.

Now, Adam knows I know not care
and never have been fussy
But he could never bear to ne'er
not see my feet clad thusly

Though he has seemed to understand
their values economic
He's quite fond of the reprimand
that they're unergonomic.

And so he has stood stolid by
Whilst he has watched me fix 'em,
And kept the secret in his eye
that he did fix to nix 'em.

So now, instead of duct-tape flops
with moulds and holes and leakin'
I wear instead a pair of Crocs
bright orange as any beacon!

Music of the moment: The Danielson Family's "Tell Another Joke at the Ol' Choppin' Block". Unapologetically bizarre psychadelic folk music. I don't recommend it until you are well steeped in indiedom. I myself like it a lot.

CGR: 3.5

The power of music

2006-03-19T16:50:00.000-08:00

I ordered a Glen Velez CD a while ago on eBay. I got it because I'd seen Velez and Handance live at Western Washington University (man, but I miss being in close proximity to a good percussion program) and they were fantastic. I didn't pay that much attention to the specific album I was bidding on, since it was mostly the name I was buying and this was the cheapest Glen Velez work available. I was kind of surprised, therefore, when I got it in the mail and read the cover:

...wow. So that's why my life force feels so active all of a sudden. Who knew?

CGR: 0.9

And it came to pass

2006-03-08T00:50:00.000-08:00

When I was in high school, I didn’t really get the opportunity to miss anything until my senior year. I didn’t know many people who more than one year older than me except my friends from church, and church people never really go away (hi, Jeff!) On the other hand, my scholastic circles were chock-full of elder-by-one-years, so I took a rather big hit going into the fourth quarter (I took another rather big hit going into my senior year, but that’s a different story altogether.) All of a sudden, our goofy doo-wop men’s ensemble was down to a quartet. Our knowledge bowl team was shorthanded and almost didn’t almost take first place. Our lunchtime conversations were no longer dominated by Mario, famous assassins, and prideful pseudo-socialism (Okay, so we still talked about all those things. But without the conviction of those who had gone before.) Of a sudden my dependence on the status quo was exposed and I found myself missing.

In college, missing has come a year early. I’m not that surprised; my relationships here span generations instead of classes, and (as is the case for most everybody in college) I am no longer bound through my coursework to fraternize with my own class in preference to any other. But, though it is not a surprise, it is still a sad thing to realize that a time has passed that will never come again. There are activities I will never again take part in. Things I will never again experience. Spectacles I will not witness. To be specific, I don’t expect to ever again be present at a Dancing Birthday.

I always loved Dancing Birthdays; they have been a part of Stanford life ever since I came here. Nearly every person I look up to here and every person I knew here before I came is a dancer, and thus at a Dancing Birthday all the great thinkers and wise counselors, all the sympathetic ears and careful critics, in short, all the heppest cats I knew would gather for a few hours and talk and laugh and eat Asian cake and, yeah, dance.

Now, most of my friends assume that simply because I a) think performance dance is one of the least appealing art forms devised by mind mortal or eternal and b) stubbornly and unreasonably refuse to even think about taking a social dance class - that I don’t like dancing. In most cases, this assumption is completely accurate, the one exception that I am aware of being the Dancing Birthday. Something about this hallowed event, whether it is the extremely high regard in which I hold the participants, the good nature in the air, or the fruit in the middle, sanctifies. I love the pivots. I love The Waltz; I love seeing the birthdayee dancing with his or her closest kith in turn, and I love the notion that the event gives that this is something extremely special that only happens once a year. Perhaps it is and perhaps it isn’t, but that’s the impression I always get. Moving, I find it.

Or found it, because this year there have been no Dancing Birthdays. The immortal Dancing Set has moved on as one to bigger and better things, things that are usually located off-campus. Things that show increasing partiality towards formality of dress. Things, that is to say, that I am incapable of attending.

On the other hand, look on the bright side: I have a really keen yodeling teddy bear.

Music of the moment: “Self Portrait” by Max Roach. You can download a live ensemble rendition of this piece on Pete Lockett’s webpage (as advertised in the sidebar. Ooh, sidebar.) but the original Roach recording is the best I’ve heard. It’s a very understated, tight, and musically beautiful solo that comes off much better than even the flashiest fireworks that Roach is capable of. If you’re out Bellingham way you can check out the CD “Max Roach: To the Max!”, a Max Roach best-of, from the public library. If you’re not out Bellingham way you can pick it up used for like a bajillion dollars on Amazon. It might even be worth the price.

CGR: 0.7

Look! An egress!

2006-01-07T01:20:00.000-08:00

Once again I find myself keeping same awake by going through my friends' blogs and xangas. And once again I am going to draw material from Jenny's (hi Jenny!), because it is just so much fun. In fact, I'm not in a particularly creative mood, so this entire post will consist of an excerpt and my comment; the former, because it probes deep the mind of the g.s., and the latter, because I think it's a nice little vignette and worth republishing.

(Excerpt from December 13 post on the subject of random observations)
"During one of my last interviews there was this Iranian/Canadian kid who kept annoying me. Not because he was annoying, but because every time we approached a door he would step out and open it, and insist that I go first. And then every time we reached an elevator he would stick his arm out to block the elevator from closing and insist that I go through before he did. So maybe "annoying" isn't the word I was looking for. I was touched by the thought. But it felt so weird!"

(End excerpt, segue to response.)
Wait - that sort of thing can be viewed as abnormal? Odd? ... Annoying? I was once indirectly chastized for not holding the door open for a lady; it was bright outside and my eyes didn't adjust until after I had entered the building and had not held the door open for the woman who was attempting to pass through in the opposite direction but whose progress seemed to be being hindered by a rather obstructive me. As I remember, she muttered something about the youth of today and brushed out. Conclusion: the choice for a graceless fellow is one between annoying others and causing them to see you as the youth of today. Oh bother.

(Back to the present.)
Any thoughts from out there in radioland? In the words of Why Doesn't Cathy Eat Breakfast?stop projector, discuss film.

Music of the moment: Right now I'm in the process of loading a bunch of CDs onto the home laptop. Currently being ripped is The Violet Burning's 1998 album "Demonstrates Plastic And Elastic". This is far, far, far and away the band's best album, and consequently the radio will only play songs from their others. Grr KLOV.

CGR: 2.0

Ring in the Newberg

2006-01-03T00:04:00.000-08:00

Ah sweet midwinter and the grand winter festival contained therein. Along for the ride with the annual commemoration of the our savior’s birth and, if you will be honest with yourself, probably only modestly linked with same in a philosophical sense, comes a wonderful time of breaks, gifts, rain, friends, sugar, home, family, feasts, and with it all, tradition. My little and immediate penultimate has accrued a number of holiday traditions throughout our twenty odd years together and, inspired by a friend’s recent post (hi Jenny!), I will now attempt to make a top 9 list of some of the more interesting, important, and, umm, interesting.

So here it is, the Top Nine Majors Family Holiday Traditions, In No Particular Order Despite Being Numbered In A Manner That Might Suggest That They Are Indeed In Some Particular Order:

9) My grandma started making Crab Newberg (Newburg? Apparently it’s spelled both ways…) every year for Christmas Dinner way back in the days of yore. It is an addictive dish, probably owing to the full dozen egg yolks and heaping cup of butter that the recipe calls for. Which is a good thing, because Newburg leftovers last longer than the post-Thanksgiving turkey marathon.

8) My mom has a cloth advent calendar consisting of a nice cottagey picture, a series of numbered pouches, and a small stuffed mouse head designed to hop from pouch to pouch with the passage of days like a vagabond joey. Christmas would not be complete without it.

7) Neither would Christmas be complete without drinking at least one cup of eggnog out of our cavernous and more than a little creepy Santa Head mugs.

6) O Come O Come Emmanuel, which we sing before our candle-lit dinner every Sunday of Advent. I try to do the bass harmony every time, and fail just as often. I don’t know why it is so hard.

5) Complaining about the cold, wet, miserable conditions while cutting down our own Christmas tree at some random tree farm. I don’t think we’ve been to the same tree farm more than twice.

4) My sister and I arguing over who will get to light/blow out the candles this time.

3) One Christmas, of a year which most likely fell into what could be considered the “middle school” period, I received a set of socks from my aunt Barbara. Not being known at that time for my flawless tact, I may possibly have given the impression that I was unenthused by the greater podiatric comfort potential that this boon afforded me. I have received socks from her family for Christmas ever since.

2) It is an old family tradition (perhaps stemming from the English eighth?) to consume a soupçon of oyster stew come suppertime, Christmas Eve. Every year my sister and I have been forcefully encouraged to drink deep the bitter cup, a practice that I credit for my long life, good health, and gag reflex. Hardy makes the claim that the difference between a true tradition and a mere reenactment is the enjoyment inherent in the event. A reenactment will often be marked, that prosit suggests, by a certain gusto and overall willingness to take part from the enacters’ corner, whereas a true tradition will be performed simply out of obligation and a sense of need. The latter is certainly the case when the annual downage of the O.S. is considered, and one could posit the addendum that, heck, if we had to suffer through it then our kids sure aren’t going to escape. Something about building character. Immortality.

1) Seeing friends who I haven’t seen in too long. After life at Stanford, it’s nice to travel again in circles where YWAM DTS participation is more common than college enrollment, where peers get married and nobody is weirded out by it, where friends arrange a formal party during which a couple of retired missionaries tell their story and the adolescent-to-twentysomething partygoers not only listen respectfully but enjoy it, where going to the local brewery to hear a jazz combo is commonplace, where one can do nice things for one’s female friends simply because they are friends and sans any complicated connotations, where deep and theological conversations are held around a table piled high with illegal fireworks, where Eraserhead and Dr. Quadratic mean something, or where hundreds of other interesting, commendable, but often overlooked ways of life are manifest. God bless Bellingham, I love it here.

Music of the moment: Sufjan Stevens’ “Illinois”. This may be the best album I’ve ever heard. Too bad he’s so good that he’s liable to become popular. Download some free tracks from Sounds Familyre and Amazon.

CGR: 4.3

Crud

2005-11-07T21:30:00.001-08:00

Which book of the Bible are you?

You scored as Anselm. Anselm is the outstanding theologian of the medieval period.He sees man's primary problem as having failed to render unto God what we owe him, so God becomes man in Christ and gives God what he is due. You should read 'Cur Deus Homo?'

Anselm

87%

Karl Barth

73%

Martin Luther

53%

John Calvin

53%

Jonathan Edwards

53%

Charles Finney

33%

Augustine

33%

Paul Tillich

27%

J�rgen Moltmann

20%

Friedrich Schleiermacher

13%

Which theologian are you?

...and another quiz labeled me an Anabaptist. Yipes.

Circumvention

2005-11-07T13:57:00.000-08:00

My sister is doing fine.

What? I didn't know that you had a sister! Does she go to Stanford? Rob, you never tell me anything!

Okay, maybe I'll start a different way. Er-hem:

All my life my circle of friends has effectively been a subset of my only and elder sister's circle of acquaintances. That being the case, I've never had to introduce to anyone the notion that my familial bonds included the sororal. When I arrived at Stanford, I (creature of stubborn habit) persisted in my historical methods and never really bothered to think about the fact that Liz, transferring to Stanford from Tufts University in the same year as my freshman, didn't actually have as wide a sphere as I was wont to take for granted.

Which perhaps explains the peculiar surprise I am met with when I let my friends in on her existence. Most people just don't understand how I can possibly have known them for two and a half years and yet never have let slip that my sister also attends this fine institution.

Well, I do, and she does. She is in her fifth year and does all the normal things that a fifth-year biology-turned-psychology major should. She kitchen manages at Slav Dom, plays tuba in the LSJUMB now and then, and on special and exceedingly rare occasions has minor organs removed before they rupture.

Last Friday was one of those special and rare occasions, and this time the operation du jour was an appendectomy. If you're wondering whether I should be divulging medical information about my sister in so public a forum, then ask her sometime about my involvement with a certain chair. In any case, in she went to the Stanford Hospital and with a goodly touch of the grace of God the procedure came off. My sister is doing fine.

I know this because, loving brother that I am, I was concerned and put aside all of my previous obligations in order to be by her side all of Saturday. Well, all except those for dinner with my roommate at five thirty. Oh, and that lab meeting from two until four. And sleeping until noon and my long lunch and wasting some time online, well, I'd say that I devoted a solid half hour to her. At least. Fraternal hall of fame, here I come.

In retrospect, perhaps it was punishment for this mismanagement of priorities that I unknowingly left the hospital on the opposite side of that which I entered on. As I mentioned, I had a dinner date with Mickey at five thirty at Lag, and I was already going to be considerably late. It was getting dark and I didn't quite recognize my surroundings, but then again that whole area looks the same and it has been my experience that, when on foot, one generally reaches one's destination much faster if one gets one's bearings while in transit. So off I went.

I soon came to a largeish parking structure. Ah hah - my intuition serves me well. I'd passed by this parking structure on my way into the hospital, so Lag would be to my right, almost in a straight line from the far corner of the garage.

With a bit of back-alley maneuvering I made my way to the peculiarly-difficult-to-achieve far side of the parkade. That done, I set off in the direction I calculated to be closest to Lagward. I wasn't too worried about the specific direction, because I knew that I would soon be able to realign myself with the aid of familiar surroundings. On the off chance that I was completely off course, I could quickly correct myself once I caught sight of Hoover Tower.

I think what first tipped me off that my plan was not as sound as first suspected was when I came suddenly upon the intersection of Sand Hill Road and El Camino Real. As it turns out, the Stanford Hospital has two parkades, one on either side of the main building. And, of course, the "far right corner" of structure A leads one in a considerably different direction than the "far right corner" of structure 2.

ETA: 5:45
Yea, verily TA: 6:45

I guess I'll try to be a better brother in the future.

Music of the moment: Death Cab for Cutie. Band from Bellingham. You may have heard of them.

CGR: 0.9

The patriarch game

2005-10-27T12:40:00.000-07:00

I want to share something cool with you, but to get to it you’ll have to agree to wade through a really nerdy preface with me. Deal? Sweet.

Eric Chu and I were talking a while ago about how one could, with the magic of signal processing, model a person as a simple impulse response system. The theory was that, given a known initial state, a person's impulse response could be used to predict the behavior of that person. Though this idea has a few minor problems (People are pretty clearly time variant, only a gifted few approach linearity, and what would an ideal impulse be, anyway? I had some back and forth about that with Mickey in Alaska. Ask him to tell you about it some time.) it provides a useful model for thinking about one's own reaction to the world around. That is to say, I feel that the vast library of impulse responses I have collected throughout my lifetime makes in me an excellent predictor of my own response to new inputs. Inputs unencountered can be approximated as a composite of previous impulses with known responses, and thusly one can predict one's own reaction to pretty much any new situation.

No really - I'm serious. And I'll tell you why. I saw my dad on Tuesday.

Well, not really. But there was a guy at RUF who reminded (if that's the right word) me very much of my dad. He (the RUF-goer mysterious) didn't even really look terribly like him (the loved paterfamilias). He just, I dunno, was reminiscent. And what is creeping me out is that that made me, well, joyful. Weird, huh?

This really bothers me because it is an entirely unexpected reaction. Working my theoretical, subconscious impulse-composition magic, I would expect myself under the circumstances to feel interest, not happiness, and certainly not something so exotic as joy. And yet there it was. In all its pseudopsychoanalytical glory, and in response to something as bizarre as seeing someone who for some inexplicable reason made me think of my father.

The question then is, what does this say about me personally? Because apparently I don't know myself near as well as I had hoped, and that in the end is what is both awful and exciting.

Music of the moment: "Ghosts" by Sleeping At Last. I love drummers who do creative things with six eight.

[Editor's note: After posting this I discovered that this excellent song is available for free download from PureVolume.com]

Chamra/Guspa ratio (CGR): 0.8

Shaving face

2005-09-24T23:03:00.000-07:00

I'm taking a poll: what should I do with my face and the hair thereon? Keep the soul patch? Grow back the beard? Imperial? Fu Man Chu? Chops? Clean shaven? Died blue? Cast your votes now!

Best survey ever

2005-08-28T18:45:00.000-07:00

Okay, okay. I've stooped to posting yet another web survey result. But trust me. This one is worth it. Observe, for instance, the many eerie similarities between me and Tesla. Fear of human contact. Death ray. It's all there.

You are Nicola Tesla, inventor of the Tesla Coil!

A minister's son from Simljan in Austria-Hungary, you were precocious from an early age. At three you could multiply three-digit numbers in your head and calculate how many seconds visitors to your home had lived. In awe of your older brother Dane, you shot a pea-shooter at his horse, causing it to throw him and inflict injuries from which he later died. This tragedy haunted you ever after. You frequently suffered bouts of illness with hallucinations throughout your life. During one affliction of cholera, you encountered the writing of Mark Twain, with whom you were later to be close friends. Later, another, this time mystery, illness inexplicably heightened your senses to a painful extent, only relenting when you hit upon the idea of the alternating current motor.

You developed an aversion to human contact, particularly involving hair, and a fear of pearls; when one would-be lover kissed you, you ran away in agony. Later, you insisted that any repeated actions in your day-to-day life had to be divisible by three, or, better yet, twenty-seven. You would, for example, continue walking until you had executed the required number of footsteps. You refused to eat anything until you had calculated its exact volume. Saltine crackers were a favourite for their uniformity in this respect. In the midst of important work, you forgot trivial details such as eating, sleeping or, on one memorable occasion, who you were.

Your inventions, always eccentric, began on a suitably bizarre note. The first was a frog-catching device that was so successful, and hence so emulated by your fellow children, that local frogs were almost eradicated. You also created a turbine powered by gluing sixteen May bugs to a tiny windmill. The insects panicked and flapped their wings furiously, powering the contraption for hours on end. This worked admirably until a small child came along and ate all the creatures alive, after which you never again touched another insect.

Prompted by dreams of attaining the then-ridiculed goal of achieving an alternating-current motor, you went to America in the hope of teaming up with Thomas Edison. Edison snubbed you, but promised fifty thousand dollars if you could improve his own direct-current motor by 20% efficiency. You succeeded. Edison did not pay up. It was not long until you created an AC motor by yourself.

Now successful, you set up a small laboratory, with a few assistants and almost no written records whatsoever. Despite it being destroyed by fire, you invented the Tesla Coil, impressing even the least astute observer with man-made lightning and lights lit seemingly by magic. Moving to Colorado Springs, you created a machine capable of sending ten million volts into the Earth's surface, which even while being started up caused lightning to shoot from fire hydrants and sparks to singe feet through shoes all over the town. When calibrated to be in tune with the planet's resonance, it created what is still the largest man-made electrical surge ever, an arc over 130 feet long. Unfortunately, it set the local power plant aflame.

You returned to New York, incidentally toying with the nascent idea of something eerily like today's internet. Although the wealthiest man in America withdrew funding for a larger, more powerful resonator in short order, it did not stop you announcing the ability to split the world in two. You grew ever more diverse in your inventions: remote-controlled boats and submarines, bladeless turbines, and, finally, a death ray.

While whether the ray ever existed is still doubtful, it is said that you notified the Peary polar expedition to report anything strange in the tundra, and turned on the ray. First, nothing happened; then it disintegrated an owl; finally, reports reached you of the mysterious Tunguska explosion, upon which news you dismantled the apparatus immediately. An offer during WWII to recreate it was, thankfully, never acted upon by then-President Wilson. Turning to other matters, you investigated the forerunner of radar, to widespread derision.

Your inventions grew stranger. One oscillator caused earthquakes in Manhattan. You adapted this for medical purposes, claiming various health benefits for your devices. You found they let you work for days without sleep; Mark Twain enjoyed the experience until the sudden onset of diarrhoea. You claimed to receive signals in quasi-Morse Code from Mars, explored the initial stages of quantum physics; proposed a "wall of light", using carefully-calibrated electromagnetic radiation, that would allegedly enable teleportation, anti-gravity airships and time travel; and proposed a basic design for a machine for photographing thoughts. You died aged 87 in New York, sharing an apartment with the flock of pigeons who were by then your only friends.

Ridiculed throughout your life (Superman fought the evil Dr. Tesla in 1940s comics), you were posthumously declared the father of the fluorescent bulb, the vacuum tube amplifier and the X-ray machine, and the Supreme Court named you as the legal inventor of the radio in place of Marconi. Wardenclyffe, the tower once housing your death ray, was dynamited several times to stop it falling into the hands of spies. It was strangely hard to topple, and even then could not be broken up.

Which Historical Lunatic Are You?

Doctor my guise

2005-08-27T21:56:00.000-07:00

Have you ever gone under the knife? I have. Quite a few times, actually. It's an interesting experience. They give you a little something, you slide subtly into the deep and dreamless, you come to all achy, and you have a little chat with the surgeon.

I have been thinking recently of this little chat. In the past, I've always related to my surgeons as I felt a patient ought to relate to his doctor, vis. with heartfelt but just slightly distant gratitude. Surgeon/Rob exchanges, that is, have generally gone something like this:

Surgeon: "You're quite lucky to be alive."
Rob: "Err."
Surgeon: "We had to use twenty stitches, sew up a laceration in your stomach, sell one kidney on e-Bay, and replace your left eye with a mechanical replica which is just as functional as the original but can also make great chili and fries in a pinch."
Rob: "Thank you."
Surgeon: "You know, usually people don't require such extensive surgery for a paper cut."
Rob: "Yes."

And so on. Terse from one corner, decidedly un-terse from the other. I have often wondered why (aside from some sort of medical code or liability issue) the surgeon does not simply say "you've been fixed" and move on. I mean, who is this person? It was just a surgery, like hundreds of other surgeries he's performed. Why is he so chatty about it?

But then I got to thinking. And this is what I thought: "Self," I said to myself, "This man - or quite possibly in today's equitable world woman - has just come out of a small room after several hours of poking around in your insides with a pair of forceps. She (or perhaps he) has seen more of you than you would ever desire to see. This poking included, but was not limited to, sewing up a hole in your stomach!!!" I may have appended a few "gosh-durnit"s, even. That's how moved I was at this epiphany.

The point is that I now view my several surgeons in a different light, and should I ever have the opportunity to be operated on again, I will try to be much more understanding of my operator's point of view. Perhaps our conversation will run more along these lines:

Surgeon: "You're quite lucky to be--"
Rob: "Do you ever have dreams about what would happen if you accidentally sewed your watch up inside of a patient?"
Surgeon: "Err."

Music of the moment: "Cogent" by Rodney Kendrick, from his wonderful CD "Dance World Dance", which you can borrow and listen to for free if you happen to have access to any of the fine and deceptively unassuming public fronts of the notorious Whatcom County Library System.

Quotes from Alaska

2005-08-25T22:10:00.000-07:00

For those of you who simply can't believe it (Mickey), yes, this is indeed my fourth blog post this month. But, lest you erroneously presume this new-turned leaf to be commendably so, I direct your attention to the humble fact that the increase in posting frequency has been paralleled by an undeniable cheapening - a sort of change hardly of a good sort.

This post will serve as a rather timely example, in fact, as I will henceforward forgo the creation of mine own material whatsoever, instead falling back upon a select anthology of quotes I collected in Alaska. Hope you enjoy watching me sell my bloggy soul as much as I enjoy watching you watch me.

"Maybe somebody cut themselves [Editor's note for all my SAT students: sic.] shaving and put the tissue on the wrong face."
-Mickey, on the mysterious presence of small pulpy globs on the bathroom mirror

Justin: "I've never dated a white girl."
Wesley: "I wonder what it's like?"
Rob: "Yeah. Me too."

"If it weren't for education, I'd be dumb."
-Somebody whose name I failed to jot down

"I'd marry Wesley."
"Why?"
"Because he's Chinese."
-Mickey, while discussing the hypothetical scenario of himself as a girl

"What if you confused the taste of mint with the idea of increasing?"
-A rumored musing of one of Sherrie's friends

"I'm taking a vote: should I pop my pimple now, or wait a week?"
-Justin

"No! I'm going to praise you publicly so that you don't get anything in heaven!"
-Mickey (to Wesley)

"This kid - the closest thing he's ever seen to a knife fight is when I threw a Taco Bell spork at him."
-Chris Cha

"Same scent, different nostril."
-Chris Cha

"Can we talk about math *and* girls?"
-Justin, upon becoming fed up with math talk

Chris: "How many of you know teenagers in your school right now who are making a difference in your community?"
(hand raised)
Chris: "What are they doing?"
Hand-raiser: "Community service."

Rob: "Mickey! Wake up! It's 7:20!"
Mickey (not drowsily in the least): "Hmm... that worked well." (promptly falls back asleep.)

Brian: "I got saved tonight."
Justin: "That's like the eighth time!"

Music o' the moment: "Drive" by R.E.M. Aah, the ol' requisite Namesake Band.

Quick question

2005-08-15T22:02:00.000-07:00

Q: Why does water make that white-noisesque sound when you're heating it up but before it boils? You know the sound I'm talking about. What makes it?

Music of the moment: Buddy Miller. One of the best country artists I've ever heard.

Let's play taboo

2005-08-12T23:53:00.000-07:00

Why is it that certain subjects are banned from polite society? For example, I just got back from Alaska where, in the Korean company I kept, I could have carried on for hours about bowel movements and the color of my stool without raising a censorious eyebrow. However, now that I am back in Bellingburg I find my conversational latitude somewhat restricted. Where does such restriction come from?

In addition to poo, I have found from experience that it is for whatever reason frowned upon to discuss one's warts and possible remedies thereof before any audience but that of fellow sufferers. Again - why? Mind you, there are plenty of heinous things I could discuss. The methods a housecat employs during and following the dismembering a bird, for instance. Or the state of my cuticles. The Chair Incident, even. World Hunger. AIDS. Overpopulation. The Apprentice. But not warts. Anything but that.

While on the subject of strange and unpleasant topics of conversation, have you ever considered what it would be like to be a family practitioner? Bear with me. At first one might think such an occupation pleasant - helping people all the time and all that. But consider: as such a doctor, the only contact you would have with the vast majority of the humanity you encounter you encounter a good deal short of midseason form. Mr. Johnson you know as the grumpy old man with a urinary tract infection. Little Billy is always crabby and feverish. Mrs. Carmichael insists that you inspect the yellow spot under her fourth toenail. Seems that that would give one a rather dim view of the future prospects of our fine species. And a dim view of the future prospects of our fine species being something I would rather avoid, I think I should be rather disinclined to pursue that particular occupation.

But that won't stop me from making a terrible doctor pun.

Q: What do you call it when the tough job market causes children's doctors to seek other forms of employment?
A: Pediattrition

Ha!

Music of the Moment: I am enjoying Jars of Clay's "Much Afraid" album once again. Wonderful, wonderful music - in fact, nearly perfect to my naive ears.

Weighing Anchorage

2005-08-01T22:55:00.000-07:00

Well there I went again - months and months with nary a blog post or update. Just goes to show that you all should be striving hard to make my life more interesting, funny, and, ultimately, worthy of being shared. I look forward to seeing what you cook up.

Right now I am plowing my way through a month of teaching SAT skills from a Christian perspective to Korean kids in Anchorage, Alaska (Motto: Look! It's Alaska!). This is an entirely new experience for me in more than one way. For one, before this I'd never spent any more time here in Anchorage than the occasional hour waiting in the airport on my way to Fairbanks, which experience led me to believe that Anchorage was a city primarily occupied by stuffed polar bears and disembodied antlers. Now that I have spent nearly a month here I can finally write that flawed assumption off as a gross error; there are also moose. Or, as my mom likes to call them, caribou.

In addition to the wildlife, this town/city/hamlet has proved to contain its due complement of people. People of all shapes, sizes, and backgrounds. People diverse in heritage and culture. A tapestry of humanity. Korean humanity, from my experience.

I am the first Caucasian (What does that mean, anyway? Where is Caucasia?) to teach at Alaska Oriental Mission Church's Vision Summer School program in it's long history, and I am bearing the banner of diversity proudly by refusing to shave my beard and by giving my students test problems involving characters such as "Sven" and "Tojvo". A tough job, but someone's got to do it. Not that I'm not absorbing a good deal of Korean as well. I have ceased to become uncomfortable when feces are brought up in polite dinnertime conversation, have temporarily surrendered in my efforts to refuse "more food!" ("How can you not eat this?"), and have consumed more spiced and pickled cabbage over the past three weeks than in my entire previous life and the lives of all my second and third cousins combined. As you might have inferred, life here revolves largely around food. And, if I may say so myself, I am getting durn good at them chopstick thingamajigs.

Speaking of my students - which, if you recall, I was some time ago - who knew that I'd ever be called upon to teach SAT skills? And who would have thought that one could forget that much grammar so quickly? Past participle? Subordinating conjunction clause? Fortunately for me, the chilluns have basically had zero grammar thus far, so if I get stuck and don't know what I'm talking about, I can pretty much make up anything I want to. I try to stay within the bounds of probable truth, but honestly, how many of us, when called upon, could give a really good definition of "gerund phrase"? Let he who has never stretched Strunk & White throw the first stone. [Editor's note: My kids were awesome. Superfine. Just... a little hard up in the grammar department. But nevertheless a model class. Don't want to give the impressionable reader an erroneous impression of the impressive impression they impressed upon me.]

I mentioned that I was teaching SAT skills from a Christian perspective, and you may very well be wondering exactly what I meant by that. Well, to be honest, very little. Most of the classes here are divided between math, English, and Camp Sunday School (thank you, David.) Unfortunately, I have found it very difficult to blend SAT skills aptly with Christianity, so I have hitherto stuck to my technical job description of Joe SAT. However, one of the other high school teachers here (Actually, Ryan Hsi's brother, if that means anything to you) is going to be giving a presentation of the gospel message tomorrow, so I'm making my kids read Romans in preparation. Not that I really expect any of them to carry it through in its entirety, but the assignment has had the wonderful side affect of forcing me to read Romans at a faster pace than my usual chapter-a-day. And my goodness but it all falls together much more nicely when taken as a whole. Chapter 8: wow. I feel that I am finally beginning to see the Biblical approach to works and faith, as opposed to the Sunday School approach. This comes after a longish period of not really feeling that I was being shown anything new in the Bible (never a good sign.) I'm not going to expound upon what I've been learning (except to say that, for someone who grew up in the church, you'd think that it would have occurred to me to look into this earlier. Ah well.), but I highly recommend sitting down and reading Romans fast enough to catch the whole argument. And after you finish that you might want to take a gander at First John. Ooh, and Job. Ecclesiastes. Heck, the whole book's a classic.

The motivation for my recent scriptural searching has not entirely been my obligation to my class, though. A large factor has been my proximity these past three weeks to Mickey, who not only teaches in the room next door to me, but also shares a room with me in our host family's house. Dang, but I am looking forward to this coming year. I've never known someone so addicted to knowing just where he stands on matters theological, and knowing where as many pastors as possible stand as well. And he can solve a Rubik's Cube. And tell math jokes. As well as frequently saying things along the lines of "No! I'm going to praise you publicly so that you don't get anything in Heaven!" and "You don't *feel* fat, you just *look* fat." Mickey Sheu, my roommate. I am truly blessed.

So anyway, besides all that, life up here has been pretty ho hum. See you in a few months.

Music of the moment: Aww heck, just go to pastemusic.com and download everything. It will save me time evangelizing.

I want to be a cult

2005-05-07T15:18:00.000-07:00

I hate performance artists. And their art. It's sort of a general rule of mine, sprouting from years of modern-art cynicism and a steady diet of Doonesbury. But despite my strong bias, I have to admit that every once and a while a group of performance artists grab my attention with something particularly awesome. 'Project Brav New World' is just such a work.

BNW is being performed by a group of experimental artists here at Stanford who wish to answer "a single, vital question: What happens when a Cult of Personality appears around a certain individual, overnight, without His knowing?" To answer this question, they have taken to (what else?) the prominent display of giant, Maoist visages of Vice Provost of Undergraduate Education John Bravman around campus. They've hung their work in MemAud, in front of MemChu, by the Clocktower, and FroSoCo, and are starting to fund this massive propaganda with Bravman tee shirt sales. I'm buying one.

Oh - here's a link to an article written by the group. Sorry I couldn't find a picture. I'll post one if I ever do.

Okay, now I'm less impressed

2005-05-04T16:09:00.000-07:00

Your Inner European is Irish!

Sprited and boisterous!

You drink everyone under the table.

Who's Your Inner European?

I'm impressed

2005-05-04T16:00:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I know these things are becoming more and more cliched. Whatever.

You Are 20 Years Old

20

Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe.

13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world.

20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences.

30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more!

40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax.

What Age Do You Act?

in case you're interested

2005-03-08T15:35:00.000-08:00

continuingsaga.blogspot.com

I learned how to make pretty hyperlinks just for this. Please contribute; you know you can do better than me. If a lot of people jump on I might add new threads. Maybe rhyming couplets...

Music of the moment:
Soul-Junk. Lo-fi Christian indie hop. Not much else like it out there. I like that they mention Havalina Rail Co. in their liner notes. Also impressive is their list of scripture references for each song.

Pre-break token post

2005-03-05T23:31:00.000-08:00

My oh my, but it's been nearly a quarter since I posted last. Seems the fickle tides of the EE workload are sweeping me out to Cs and I just don't have the time to be clever as I used to. I'll try to have some worthwhile experience over Spring Break to make up for it.

As a token post, though, a couple of cool things happened to me just recently:

Anecdote The Former - A few days ago I went to a blood drive at Roble. They had a radio set on some San Francisco station playing to keep the patients happy, and I was mildly amused when I entered to notice that the song playing at that particular moment was "I Will Survive". I was more amused when the next song the DJ happened to pick was Matchbox Twenty's "Unwell". A little bit after that, some people from Roble came in and asked if they could borrow the radio, so off it went. Just before I left, though, they put it back on. The song that was playing as I left: "Doctor My Eyes".

Anecdote The Latter - Having recently sold a little piece of my soul yet again to the psych department, and weighed down with the resultant pocket-hole burnage, I decided to go to the SImps end of quarter show yesterday. It was definitely worth the money for three very good reasons. The opening act was one reason: Down With Gravity, the Stanford juggling club (of which my friend and dormmate Daniel Jacobs is one of the three members) put on a great show. If you happen to be one of the Stanford people reading this, you should definitely make the effort to go watch them on Fridays as they dink around at White Plaza. The second reason was the SImps show itself. It was absolutely fantastic. I won't go into details, because these things are always strangely unfunny in the retelling, but suffice it to say (What a weird expression, by the way. What a weird word) that it was the best SImps show I've seen yet, and I've seen a handful. Maybe they have a video. But I digress - the third reason that I consider it well worth the five-minus-a-special-Jeff-is-the-house-manager-discount-of-one dollars that I put forth for the experience is this: During intermission, I saw a girl wearing a black T-shirt. On the front was a picture of a covered wagon and the words "You have died of dysentery".

Music of the moment: "Candle Killing Light" by Michael Knott, off of "Life of David" (Four stars)

I've been going on a bit of an eBay binge lately what with all the soul-sellage. Life of David is one of the several prettygood CDs I've picked up, along with works by The Normals, Chasing Furies, Havalina Rail Co., Fleming and John, Bill Mallonee, Poor Old Lu, and other spectacular bands that you've never heard of. I highly recommend them all. Especially The Normals' "A Place Where You Belong" and Chasing Furies' "With Abandon" (har). Those are now my two favorite rock albums ever. Christian music that's actually better than secular music - craazy. Go ahead and listen to them off of my AIM shared files, and I'm sure that you will agree.

Round and round

2005-01-05T18:46:00.000-08:00

Deciding firmly against spending the money for a New Year's Day airline ticket, but needing as much as ever to get back down to school, I recently embarked on a twenty two hour long bussage with one Jeffery Russell. Surprising as it may sound, there were in fact occasional moments of boredom which marred the otherwise rapt fascination of the journey. Desiring to keep these unpleasantries to a minimum, Jeff and I took to occupying ourselves with a couple of word games, which I thought it might be worth broadcasting to the whole earth on this blog because I do things like that.

The first game involves asking questions which play off of a famous person's last name. The questioner asks a question to which the obvious answer is "No - [person's name]!" So if one asked "Did Collateral actor have a bumpy flight?" the response would come "No - Tom Cruise!". You get the idea. Here's a sample of some of the more entertaining queries:

Q: Is nuclear physicist for you?
A: No - Enrico Fermi!

Q: Did American inventor have his daughter for lunch?
A: No - Thomas Edison!

Q: Is Canadian Prime Minister an honest buck?
A: No - Pierre Trudeau!

Is boxer windward?
No - Muhammed Ali!

Is atomic explorer a fascinating conversationalist?
No - Niels Bohr!

Does British Prime Minister prefer tiled roofs?
No - Margaret Thatcher!

Did grunge singer starve his wife?
No - Eddie Vedder!

The second game we played consisted of coming up with clever combinations of movie titles, then imagining what a movie with that title would consist of. Some of our finer moments:

-Ocean's Twelve Angry Men

-Snow White and the Seven Years in Tibet

-A Clockwork Orange County

-Sixth Sense and Sensibility

-Godfather of the Bride

-My Best Friend's Three Weddings and a Funeral

And now it's your turn! You'll find that once you pick up one of these games with a friend it's impossible to stop, so long as you both remain sufficiently bored. You'll think you're done, then half an hour later someone will come up with something clever and it'll start all over again. Like the wheels on the bus, it goes round and round. Round and round. Round and round. Er, let me know if you come up with anything amusing.

Music of the moment:

So, I just got Aaron Sprinkle's first album, and on the inside of the insert I was amused to find this: "If you are dissatisfied with the music on this project for any reason, Organic Records will be happy to replace your purchase with something more to your liking. Please return this CD, along with a description of the music style you prefer, to the following address: [address, etc.] Thank you for trying Organic Records' products. We hope they have encouraged you in your faith."

Is that awesome or what? By the way, I was in no way dissatisfied by my purchase. Aaron Sprinkle is amazing - His CDs are some of the few that I own for which I would willingly pay full price. They're that good. Buy them.

Digging Deep

2004-11-12T18:37:00.000-08:00

As it turns out, the Testimony website this year will contain only a bit of a "best of" in the survey response / cast bios section. Sad, because I spent a good long time on that survey, both authoring and responding. Anyway, lest this gem of insight be lost forever, I'm going to go ahead and post it here, as well as on my website. So here it is. Everything You Never Wanted to Know About Rob - The Testimony Website Survey Unabridged.

-What voice part are you?
Bass

-What is your favorite voice part?
Tenor

-If I could have anyone's voice, I would choose...
Steven Delopoulos (of Burlap to Cashmere)

-What year are you?
Sophomore

-Would you rather people mistook you for someone significantly older or younger?
Older still.

-What is your major or intended area of study?
Electrical Engineering

-What major would you definitely not pursue?
Anything having to do with art, foreign language... Used to be Electrical Engineering. Hmm.

-What is your ideal job?
Staffperson at a small music store. I'd get to hang out with drums, handle expensive drums, look through drum catalogues, talk to drummers and other musicians all day, it wouldn't be too high stress. What an excellent job. Barring that, I would also like to be a world famous conguero.

-What is your favorite class at Stanford so far?
Introduction to World Music

-What’s the weirdest thing you've done so far at Stanford?
Stood on a table and played djembe in a Branner raid during orientation week. Or when I helped a friend with a presentation by giving a conga demonstration IN MEMORIAL COURT!!!

-What is your birthday?
May 19, 1985

-What is your height?
6'2"

-If you could have your own television show, what format would it be?
Game Show

-Tell us about your family. How many siblings do you have?
I have one sister, a senior here at Stanford

-Where's your hometown?
Bellingham, Washington

-Have you ever lived overseas?
Nope

-What is your favorite color?
Well, since I've gotten to Stanford, the color orange has sort of been imposed upon me, so I guess I'm cool with that.

-What is your favorite bible passage?
Isaiah 30:21 - "Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, 'This is the way; walk in it.'" Such a beautiful picture of God's enduring grace, even in our enduring disobedience. I love Isaiah.

-Do you have a favorite song?
Tough call. The Turtles' "So Happy Together"? Moxy Fruvous' "King of Spain"? Stavesacre's "Gold and Silver"...

-What kind of music do you like?
All sorts. Most of what I own is obscure Christian rock, with a good bit of old style latin and jazz mixed in. Some oddball world music and the requisite classical library to round it all off, and there you have it.

-What kind of music do you hate?
I tend to not like rap, mostly because of the swearing. I don't like country (sorry, but it's true.) Musicals sometimes get on my nerves. Pop can be good, but it's touchy.

-What’s your favorite time of year?
Summer, when I can go home and see my friends.

-Have you ever played any sports?
Does tee ball in first grade count?

-Have you ever broken any bones?
Yes. My leg, my collar bone, and most notably all four bones of my forearms AT THE SAME TIME!!!

-What is your favorite thing to do when it rains?
Cup of soup, mug of hot cider, and an entertaining read. Either that, or jump in puddles. Depends on if one is inside or out, you know?

-What is your favorite children's book?
Tough call between "Through the Looking Glass", "The Great Brain", "The House at Pooh Corner", and "The Phantom Tollbooth".

-What is your favorite comic strip or cartoon character?
Hobbes (close second: the Looney Tunes sheepdog)

-Tell us your most embarrassing story.

-How about the stupidest comment you've ever made?
It's not like the stupidest thing ever, but recently what with the school year starting and all, I've found myself introducing myself not a few times to people who I definitely already know, but whom I seem to have temporarily forgotten. Awkward, one finds it.

-What’s your favorite game?
Right now, good old contract bridge. Just wish I could get more of it in. Also, I've been very impressed with "Total War: Rome", from the little I've seen and the slightly more I've heard.

-What’s your least favorite chore?
I hate cleaning bath tubs. So awkward. So much scrubbing.

-Do you play any instruments?
I'm sloooowwwly learning how to play congas, and I can plunk out a few things on guitar.

-What’s your weirdest pet peeve?
I can't stand it when people tap on desks and stuff. This is weird because I am constantly tapping on desks and stuff.

-How many stuffed animals did you bring to college?
Right now, I've got six. A big help is the fact that a couple of my friends have taken to sending me a stuffed animal every month. Because they are awesome.

-What is hanging on your dorm room wall?
Let's see... Three Yamaha Mallets posters, two frisbees, a frame drum, a hat, a stuffed duck hand puppet sitting on the hat, three small Van Gogh prints from a calendar, a weekly schedule, a picture of Bellingham, some maps of the NorthWest, and some assorted art posters.

-Do you like things minimalist or froofy?
Closer to minimalist.

-What is your most entertaining way to procrastinate?
I like to dink around on my drums or check out peoples' blogs and other webthings. Updating my AIM profile and fiddling with iTunes also take up a good chunk of my free time.

-What’s your favorite website?
Right now, it's mine (www.stanford.edu/~rmajors), because it has links to everything worth seeing.

-How do you get around campus?
On my feets.

-What’s your most memorable driving story?
So, when I was in driver's ed, I once had a drive in which I was learning to navigate one-way streets. I had made a series of left turns from one way street to one way street (and thus into the closest lane), when suddenly I turned left and the street turned out to not be one way. So there I was, with three lanes of oncoming traffic. My instructor made some indistinguishable utterance and jerked the wheel over rather ambitiously, and soon enough I was in the right lane again. But it rattled me. Hoo boy.

-Have you ever been lost?
Yes. Once, Brian Russell and I set off to find Kirkland, armed only with an address of a store there and the knowledge that it is "somewhere between Bellingham and Seattle." After many hours worth of excellent storytelling material, we finally made it. For those of you who don't know, Kirkland is not actually between Bellingham and Seattle (at least not in the usual way.)

-What’s your most well hidden personality trait?
My certain je ne sais quoi.

-What do you wish people knew about you?
That all I really want in this world is a pair of flaming orange pants.

-When in your week are you the happiest?
I'd say Thursday around dinner. Right after E40 lab, and I'm freeeeeee.

-What else am you involved with on campus?
RUF, a little this and that in the fellowship community.

-What do you most wish you could get involved with on campus?
KZSU. It is my dream to have my own radio show. I'd like to play in a band, too.

-What brand of toothpaste do you use?
Whatever's cheapest. Right now, that appears to be "Colgate Fresh Confidence With Whitening Gel (Helps Eliminate the Bacteria that Cause Bad Breath)"

-If you were an ice cream flavor, which would you be, and why?
I would be Mango Sherbet, with a topping of sweet chile sauce. Hardly anyone knows it exists, and it tends to repulse those who encounter it. It's strange, a little zesty, and certainly not for everyone. An acquired taste which is loved by a very few. Unforgettable and outrageous. Orange. All that, plus it leaves a jangly taste in your mouth.

-What is the most addictive junk food ever?
Cheez-its, I do believe.

-What is your favorite on-campus food?
The cheese blintzes they have at brunch every now and again aren't bad, but I recently had some peach cobbler out of Stern that was absolutely to die/kill/major-in-electrical-engineering for. It was so amazingly fantastic, you cannot even begin to imagine. I was, in short, duly impressed.

-What is your favorite planet besides Earth?
What with Cassini and all, it's got to be Saturn.

-If you could choose the ideal number of keys to carry around with you, balancing functionality with convenience, what would it be?
Three. Four, if they come with a car.

-Do you like clowns?
I never met a clown I didn't like.

-What is your least favorite question on this survey?
There was nothing wrong with this survey. It was brilliant - the subtle nuance, the bold proclamation, the ducking, weaving, and other rhetorical jinking. Whoever wrote this thing is a sheer genius. And dashingly handsome, to boot.

That's it! Now you know the answers to all those questions you always thought would be too awkward to ask.

Song of the moment:
"Obsession", by the David Crowder Band. So, I really don't like recorded worship music. At all. But nevertheless, this is a gem of the genre. Like Amy Grant's "Somewhere Down The Road". I hate music that sounds remarkably like it, but for some reason I can stand this one song. Not only that, but I enjoy it. Huzzah.

PS - Does anyone know where the dc Talk song "My Will" comes from? It's on a few best-ofs but not on any of their CDs. What was it first on?

And then I found ten dollars

2004-10-23T01:09:00.000-07:00

Now that the awkward pause is successfully broken (props to Mickey. Whatever props are. Some kind of structural support? Why would Mickey need them? Speaking of which, it's a good thing I've firmly resolved not to launch into any digressions, or this parenthetical remark would just go on and on with no sign of stopping. Bad to worse, bad to worse. Yes, I'm glad I had that foresight), I feel I may begin. I do realize that my recent efforts to keep this blog updated have been somewhat less than whelming. For the longest time, I believed that this was because nothing interesting had happened to me in the interim. But then I realized, hey, none of the stuff I've ever written about before was interesting, so what's the big deal? In fact, I have now not one, not two, but three distinctly-uninteresting-to-the-point-of- blogworthiness rants. Pretty swish, eh?

All right - first off: Rain. Rain? Yes, the weather these days in the greater Stanford area has been a bit damp. I would call it "sunny with occasional cloudbreaks", possibly escalating at times to "sprinkling", but it seems that California breeds a much more limited meteorological lexicon: here, it is either "sunny", "cloudy", or "clinical depression". It starts to rain, and straight off you'll find everyone running about complaining about the weather and how dismal it is making life and so on and so forth. Now, I do try my best to not feel above this sort of thing, because that can become both rather overbearing and rather inconvenient (for instance, when it's forty degrees, sometimes one likes to be able to forget the fact that this isn't considered cold where one comes from, at least for long enough for one to put on a jacket. Or long pants.) Yes, I do try to put that behind me, but when in response to the drizzling our RA sends out a link to a weather website to the dorm list just so that people can see what rain looks like on a weather radar, or when a fire drill is postponed "for the safety of the residents" until the conditions become "more clement", well, suffice it to say that I am wearing my shorts with pride.

But enough with that. Second on my sundry list: Deep questions. As you almost certainly know, I am on the leadership team for Testimony this year. Every year after auditions the group goes on a post-audition retreat, one of the goals of which is to get everyone acquainted at least enough to learn everyone's name so that later, instead of saying "one of the basses is sharp", we can be specific, saying instead "Ben is good looking". To that end, I had the unenviable charge of 'icebreakers' for the aforementioned event.

One of the undeniable conclusions that I believe I can draw from my experience in this life is this: nobody really thoroughly enjoys icebreaking games. They're useful, sure, but stiflingly awkward. This being, apparently, a fundamental fact of the universe, and therefore not to be trifled with, I decided to not fight it by trying to come up with some new, somehow entertaining name game, instead going the easy route and just coming up with some probing questions to ask people.

Between myself and some timely help from friends over instant messenger, I eventually found myself with quite a list. Unfortunately, I didn't bother to save this list after printing it and since I burned the original in Recreational Book Burning, it is now sadly no more. A few questions have stuck with me, though, due largely to the fact that I was given them by other people and found them quite clever and stick-with-one-y. Here they are, along with my personal answers to each. So you can get to know me I suppose. Without all the awkwardness of actually asking me. Right-o.

Q: If you were a super villain, what would your super power be?
A: I think that my ideal super-villain power would be Super Rhetoric. Think about it - I could bend the will of anyone to my own. Imagine the evil possibilities. Run for president? Convince the DOL to give me a driver's license? Endless.

Q: What were your three favorite Halloween costumes of all time?
A: So, we didn't tend to put too much effort into our Halloween costumes as kids. I did have one rather elaborate get-up, though. You see, my sister, being, as she was, a girl, always wanted to dress up as some sort of princess or fairy or the like. One year, she decided she was going to be the tooth fairy, and I was going to be the tooth. And the tooth I was - a big white tooth-shaped box with two plump little arms sticking out the sides wondering how in the world it was going to hold all its candy when it couldn't even bend his elbows. Excitement all around.

Most of my costumes were not nearly so elaborate, though. The only other two which stick out in my memory were both last-minute scrambles. One was Mr. Yuck (for which I took a whole bunch of those Poison Control Center yucky-face stickers and put them all over myself. Come to think of it, I have no idea why our family had so many dozens of those stickers. Woah - that's really weird.) The second such costume was Leaf Man. You can guess what that entailed.

Q: If you were a man/woman (meaning the one that you're not), what would you want your name to be?
A: I would want my name to be Renée. What an absolutely fabulous name. It makes one happy just saying it, no? It has the added convenience of me not knowing anyone by that name, so it's safe to praise sans connotation.

Q: If you were going to brainwash the children of tomorrow, what would you want them to believe?
A: I think I would want to instill a greater musical tolerance into people. Because really, beyond a few acoustical basics, musical appreciation is completely subjective and cultural. It seems like life would be better if our ears could pick up more stuff as music. Then again, I don't know if listening to terrible art music is a great solution to this problem. That's where the brainwashing comes in.

Okay, that's all I remember for now, but if any more spring to mind, I shall let you all know promptly. Please do leave comments with your own answers to these and other witty questions. That would make my day, if not week.

The third point I plan to hit is my story of how I discovered KZSU, Stanford's on-campus radio station.

So, one day I was tuning my dial, beating the fuzz, splitting the beam, flipping the wax. In short, I was trying to find a radio station. Anyway, there I was, and I had found this excellent latin music station with all these horns and fiery congas and maybe even a rapper or something else, I don't know, and I was all - "hey".

Then it was over, and I thought I would have to hit the dial again when what should start playing but some classical aria for mezzo-soprano based on the text of The Jabberwocky. At this point I felt it necessary to append the suffix of "now" to the aforementioned reflection, making "hey now" in all.

I listened on, and what should the strange and wonderful silver box on my desk procure next but a sound bite from the Spatula City scene in UHF. At this point I abandoned the "hey now" endeavor, replacing it with the rare, but under certain conditions of excitement applicable, "snap!"

Then, just when I thought it couldn't get any better, they started reading a P.G. Wodehouse short story. Out of absolutely nowhere. It was wonderful. It was fantastic in the most literal. It was astounding. They have, to sum it all up, my vote.

Well, what'd I say, three? Guess this is the end. Hopefully I'll be a little more punctual in the future. Speaking of the future, a little poem recently occurred to me, and I think I'll put it up here so that I can put other stuff in my AIM profile:

The future lies before us,
on that we all agree
Likewise past comes in advance
I'm sure that you will see.
And so we know that future,
Which (it follows) follows after
Also goes before! It is
A temporal perplexor.

Anyone know a good way to fix that last line? A little slanted, I find it. Perhaps if anyone asks about it, I'll nod my head sagely and say "yes, yes. Aah, the beauty of it." And then they'll feel pretty silly, not seeing the beauty in it and all. Yeah. That's what I'll do.

Song of the moment:
"Bubble Toes" by Jack Johnson. So, Stefan heard Mr. Johnson's sophomore release, On and On, and bought it for me. A tight little album. Stefan then advised my mom to buy every other Johnson album in existence for my birthday (perhaps you think I exaggerate - I do not, for there are only two) so that I could tell him if they are any good, which they are, and if he should buy them, which he should not. Why? Because I just bought like eight CDs for under ten dollars, so why spend that kind of money on one album of good music like Jack Johnson? Supporting talented musicians? Fair enough, but I'm too cheap. Fish Fish Fish.

Fun with English

2004-07-28T13:31:00.000-07:00

My, but there seems to be such a plethora of comically bad English available to the public these days. I was just browsing over a few of my favorite websites of yesteryear, and, happening upon the Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest, noticed to my delight that the long-awaited results of the 2004 competition have been posted. In case you are not familiar with it, Bulwer-Lytton is an annual contest to which enterprising prosaists send in the worst opening lines to a work of fiction which they can devise. If you want to check it out for yourself, the webpage is http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/

On a related but side note, I was reading through my old e-mails when I found a beautifully terrible piece of real-world writing, which I thought was worth sharing:

(From Great Britain's 1989 National minimum wage regulations)
"The hours of non-hours work worked by a worker in a pay reference period shall be the total of the number of hours spent by him during the pay reference period in carrying out the duties required of him under his contract to do non-hours work."

Finally, here's what my mom got in her fortune cookie a few days ago:
"With consistency and integrity your credits are piling up."

Which, combined with our previous favorite ("You should be able to make money and hold on to it."), Does not bode excellent well.

Song o' the moment: None. I'm writing this from my mom's office computer which, while much faster than the one at home, is woefully lacking in the audio department.

A snail mail tale

2004-07-16T23:02:00.000-07:00

I recently received in the mail an official looking envelope from the Washington Secretary of State. "Dear Robert Majors" it read, "now that you're eighteen years old, you can vote, etc., so please register and here is a form and mail it in and so on." Of course, I paraphrase, but that was the gist. Quite nice of them, I thought, to give me the heads up.

Then I thought to myself, hey, wait a minute. throwing my memory way back to within a week of my actual eighteenth birthday, I remember receiving a 'birthday gift' from the Gillette company. A box with a little bit of shaving gel, and a Mach 3 (It's got three blades! Wow!) From talking to my friends, I get the impression that it's the same kit that Gillette sends to every male in the Western Hemisphere on or very near to his own eighteenth birthday. Very useful for those who never had a wisp of facial hair before they turned eighteen, but who upon rising on the first day of their eighteenth year find that overnight their faces have somehow become a rugged jungle of manly scruff. Very useful indeed, if that is the case. On the other hand, in that scenario one would probably be rather loathe to scratch the stuff off. Kind of a treasure, you know?

This led me to the inevitable conclusion that the Gillette company knows more about me than my own government. That's rather spooky. It became even spookier after I talked to Brian Russell, a friend of mine who is a registered voter and has been for quite some time (since about the time he received his razor kit, I think,) and it turns out that he got the same letter which I had received. So, not only does the government not know how old I am, but they don't know who is registered and who isn't (or at least they take less care in the business than does Gillette for a silly - and if you ask me, pretty creepy - promotion.) Personally, I think that one's age and one's voting status would be two things that the government would be sure to keep tabs on. Or at least find somewhat important. Perhaps they should hand the whole operation over to Gillette:

"Dear Robert Majors,

We here at Gillette would like to congratulate you on reaching your eighteenth birthday as a fine blue eyed, six foot two, one hundred and sixty pound, singing, conga drum playing Stanford Student-to-be who doesn't know what he wants to major in but is pretty sure that it has very little to do with psychology, French, or paint. Having underhandedly got ahold of your personal information, our Department of Spooky Marketing would like to present you with this little gift - inside you'll find your own complementary Mach 3 razor (Did you know it's got three blades? Count
em. Three! We're quite proud of that), a bottle of our new shaving gel, and a Gillette brand voter registration form. Please fill it out at your earliest convenience and mail it to our headquarters. Thank you, and good luck with your new legal and facial hair status.

Sincerely,
Your friends at Gillette"

Music of the moment - "Hanani" by the O.C. Supertones, off of their "Chase The Sun" album. Three stars for the song - though this is one of my less favorite songs on the CD the album itself is one of the best that I own.

Some practical, shmactical advice

2004-07-08T22:21:00.000-07:00

[Note: I wrote this pretty late and haven't proofread it yet. So it might be a little shaky, a little scattered. If so, just call it impressionistic and wait for me to update.]

I.
I have now been doing what might be considered 'real' work sort of full time for almost a month. Obviously, I am hugely qualified to disseminate advise concerning life in this hard world across the whole internet, for all to read and be enlightened. So, here's what I've learned:

1) Eight hours is a really long time. Better take a long lunch break, or, in my case, an hour long class smack in the middle of each day.
2) Surprisingly, the time goes faster if you don't concentrate too hard on what you're doing and instead you let your mind wander.
3) The same rule goes for effort. If you're doing something really taxing, like carrying loads of bricks up the side of a tower using only a pair of bathroom plungers and a backpack, or, even worse, pulling ivy out of your neighbor's woods, then five minutes will seem like forever. These tasks will pass more quickly if you don't try so hard.

In conclusion, to achieve one's highest quality of workday time, one must pursue the path most likely to get one fired for incompetence. Though I realize that this is a far from universal recipe for success, it may yet work for some.

II.
Noticing, as above, that work is oodles more pleasant when done mindlessly, and combining this with observations I have made in the area of workday mind-wandering, I have devised a simple task for the betterment of whomever wishes to take it up. The task is this:

Find someone you know who needs something mindless and time consuming done. Painting a house, weeding a garden, sandwichboarding for a mattress store, anything that will take at least a full day to complete. Just not pulling ivy from your neighbor's woods. Hoo boy. Next, schedule a day for you and you alone to do this task. Don't schedule anything else during this day, and don't spread the task over more than one day. When that day comes, go out and do whatever good deed it is that you've gotten yourself into. Simple, huh? But here's the fun part - let your mind wander aimlessly while you're doing your work, and check in with yourself about once every hour to chronicle these wanderings. You might be surprised at what your mind will do if you leave it alone for a while.

For my part, I have found that I can quite comfortably think about a single song for about half of an hour, even if I only heard it on the radio once and I only remember one line and that line is actually kind of obnoxious. In fact, I've pretty much concluded that there's ablsolutely no correlation between how much I like a song and how interesting my mind finds it to mull over. Other than songs, I have often found myself repeating conversations that I have had recently over and over to myself. That may be unique to me, though. Rob talks to himself.

Finally, I have decided that there is absolutely no better mechanism for absorbing one's thoughts than watching a movie the night before one will be working. For example, I have spent nearly an entire day pondering the plot of the latter half of "Mission: Impossible", and nearly as long on far less perplexing movies. I don't know why, but movies are very absorbing after one's watched them.

So go forth and do some work and tell me what you think you think.

Music of the moment: "The Boy Who Stopped The World" by Aaron Sprinkle (You can download this one and many other excellent songs for free from grassrootsmusic.com; I highly reccommend it.)

Haven't you always wanted...

2004-06-03T22:18:00.000-07:00

...your own theme music? I think it started when I watched that VeggieTales movie with Tina. You know, the one where little guys do big things, too? Well, ever since then, various candidate theme songs for Testimony persons keep occurring to me. These have ranged from the blatantly obvious (Manhattan Transfer's "Boy From New York City" = Kevin) to the slightly humorous (Riley Armstrong's "Sleep" = Lisa). Some are even hilarious, but so subtle that their brilliance may not be noticed by aught but the trained observer (The Muppets' "Boom Shaka-Laka" = Uchenna). That said, I have compiled a list of the best theme music I can come up with for each member of Testimony 03-04:

Christine = Bill Withers - "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone"
Mia = The O.C. Supertones - "Away From You"
Ssonia = Five Iron Frenzy - "O Canada!"
Karina = The Company - "International"
Jenny = The Pale - "Common Sense"
Tina = VeggieTales - "Little People Can Do Big Things, Too"
Dana = U2 - "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For"
Lisa = Curious Fools - "Angel"
Victoria = Milt Jackson's - "Little Girl Blue"
Brian = The Blues Brothers'(?) - "Soul Man"
Jeff = King's Singers - "King's Singers Rag"
David = MxPx - "Chick Magnet"
Uchenna = Once Upon A Mattress - "Shy"
Rob = Men Without Hats - "We Can Dance If We Want To"
Tony = Skillet - "Best Kept Secret"
Kevin = They Might Be Giants - "Rhythm Section Want Ad"
Jarreau = Annie - "Smile-Cast"

Well, that's as much cleverness as I can muster. Don't get the joke? Know a better song? Aren't familiar with that particular ditty? Want a CD to remember people by? Just let me know.

Song of the moment: "Stand By Me" (U2 and Bruce Springsteen. The live bootleg you can find with any friendly neighborhood Pirating software. Four stars.)

On the subject of fish, fish, fish

2004-05-27T00:32:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting in my room trying to come up with a good away message for use while I play a computer game. I put something trite up and am about to leave be when Michele IMs me and comments on the inadequacy of it all. Considering the challenge, I replace the offending prose with a nice and random little lyric concluding with the word fish.

After a while of chatting with Michele, I figure the whole away message facade really isn't getting me anywhere, especially when I'd rather chat anyway. It is dropped. Soon afterwards, Becky IMs me. Having lost the message in all of its glory, but still mentally on the theme, I sprinkle my vocabulary with the word fish throughout the conversation. Becky, thus prompted, mentions that she shall be going fishing for the first time in her life tomorrow. Of course, in preparation for the event I direct her to homestarrunner.com to watch the "Jigs and Lures" cartoon.

After watching said cartoon and discussing its finer and more esoteric points, along with a variety of other fish-related anecdotes, Becky and I come to the conclusion that fish is a very entertaining word when said several times in succession. You can try it at home - fish fish fish fish fish.

Song of the moment: "Dedication" by the O.C. Supertones (three stars)

I've often though about having a blog

2004-05-27T00:23:00.000-07:00

I've often wondered what it would be like to have a blog. A place to dump my inmost thoughts for all to read. A public forum of Robness. The concept has struck me variously as egotistical, embarrassing, cumbersome, a waste of time, and mildly amusing. It is the last of these opinions that I hold now, and so I've gone ahead and done the deed. Only time and updates will tell the wisdom of such a step.

Speaking of updates, though I imagine I'll be mostly posting random thoughts on this blog as they occur to me and as I find personally amusing, I'll also set up a few conventions. The only one which seems necessary at the moment is a little tag at the end of every post indicating the current influences on my state of mind that looks a little something like this:

What song is playing on my iTunes as I post this: "Hello Sunny Weather" by Poor Old Lu (four stars)