On Scrapbooking

When I was a boy, I was a motor-head. I worked on cars. I went to car shows. I fantasized about cars. I subscribed to car magazines…But when I became a man, I put away childish things, and I socked all my attention into the girls draped over the cars in those same magazines. That impulse, too, came to pass, and now I’m an old married man.

It is not so different for most people. Instead of cars, my brother was a sports fanatic. He can still rattle off statistics from any major sporting event ten or twenty years back. My cousin was a letterman in every sport—his letter jacket was weighted with brass bangles and patches. Now, he has a bad back, and he’s content to sit it out on the sidelines or the couch. A co-worker is very involved in fishing, and to this day he makes lures and excuses to go fishing regularly.

For some folks, however, an innocent interest can become a fixation. These hapless souls find their lives governed, their time and purchasing powers under the complete control of their obsession. Like smarmy drug traffickers, commercial vendors sprout up on every street corner, eager to cater to the need, whether it be jewelry, baseball cards, used books, or…the most addictive mania of all: Scrapbooking.

It begins with a simple book you glue pictures and mementoes into, but it evolves into so much more. One usually discovers Scrapbooking-gone-mad too late. First, the wife will be a little preoccupied, flipping through magazines. (They have names you will never understand, unless you’re on the inside.) Then, she’ll have a fender-bender making an impulsive turn toward a scrapbook store. A phone call or two will go un-returned. A meal will be missed. Some bills will go unpaid while “hobby expenses” in the family budget grow like the national debt. Sooner or later, she will be at a crop on your anniversary, or she may miss a child’s birthday for a good online auction of scrapbook supplies. Your children and pets often will have their hands or paws “inked” for a cute print on a scrapbook page. Eventually, strange things end up missing, only to be incorporated into a scrapbook: your driver’s license, a letter from a friend, a candy wrapper. I recently woke to find my wife hovering over me with scissors, cutting a lock of my hair to scrapbook.

One would be wise to listen for some warnings, too. Alas, I was not attentive, but now, in reflection, I can easily document these snippets of conversation that should have led me to intervene:
Stand over here, honey, the light will work better for a photo.
Oh, and can I get an extra French fry box-thingy for my scrapbook.
Would you wear this? it will coordinate better with my page.
Let’s visit [city-of-choice], I hear they have a nice, new scrapbook store.
Let’s go to the zoo/carnival/fair/camping/city-of-choice…new stamps I like.
We should celebrate Kawanza; there’s so many neat stickers for that holiday.
Let’s buy the blue house, it will match some papers I’ve been planning to use.
I think we should have another girl, ‘cuz there’s some cute new dye cuts out now.
Can we reenact your mugging? It would make a clever scrapbook page.
Can we save the [placenta, umbilical cord, circumcision remains] for my scrapbook?
I can’t attend [your commencement/our wedding/your internment]—scrap crop today.

I did an Internet search, and there is no 12 step recovery program out there. Either the field is too new, or as I suspect, one simply cannot recover. They do have their own support groups, called “crops,” which are strange soirees of paper cutting and picture snipping. Smells of hot glue and bizarre fixatives hang in the air. They speak of coluzzles and xyrons and sizzix and sizzlets—words that would tongue-tie Dr. Seuss himself. These scrappers huddle over their work, clucking and chattering with one another, comparing pages and products and prices—sometimes to the wee hours of the morning…then come the scrapbook retreats, and then the conventions…some rumor there may be Scrapbooking resorts and monasteries.

I have hauled supplies and machines to these scrapbook get-togethers, then been shooed away. Scrapbookers are addicted, yes, but they are also people of great passion for preserving memories, telling stories, sharing family and folklore with one-another. One without the passion has no place at a crop or a camp. I feel much more secure back at my house, at my computer, aimlessly surfing the Internet for some hobby of my own which might be so rewarding.

Temporal Mechanics Union

Temporal Mechanics Union
Please come to my concert! I'm doing all I can to muster up a good crowd for what should be a great show!

Greeeeeeen Acres is the place to be!

Though it may be premature, for something could still go awry in the closing, yesterday we bought the farm! (Not in the colloquial, the literal...The farm I've always wanted!) It has about 5 acres of woods, 6 acres of pasture, a swell little home, several out buildings and four garage bays.
Indeed, I am like ol' Oliver Douglass and my wife is a bit like Lisa. I may be "citified," but I think I can still turn some soil and make something happen. Lora, like Lisa, is a bit reluctant, for she's never lived in the country before. (If you know Green Acres, you also may remember how they had to scale a pole to use the telephone--likewise, our mobile phones don't "get good tower" out there, unless one marches to the high end of the pasture.) Whitewater is no Hooterville, but it will have to do.
Overall, this is so much better than I even dreamed of a couple years ago, when I thought I would move to/take over the family homestead out in ugly ol' Ulysses. Sure that place had heritage, but this place has trees! With any luck, I can transfer some of the vibe from my dad's farm to my farm. I hope to be able to raise my boys like I was raised, but better! I can't wait to get them into 4H, to buy some livestock, to live on the land...
Amazing how things fall into place, too. Just yesterday evening, I was listening to Fresh Air on NPR when I encountered a brilliant agri-bio-theorist, Michael Pollan. He has a swell new book out (which I ordered moments ago) The Omnivore's Dilemma.
Among other things, he suggests that eating return to the sacred relationship it once meant with the land, that every meal should be an expression of our relationship to what keeps us alive. He suggests conscious living, sustainable agriculture, and conscientious consumption. As I transition back to my agrairian roots, I hope to put such theories into practice. (I already have a great garden designed, and I've found a good source for chickens and windmill parts.)
At last, it might seem, I may be able to live closer to my values. For the next month, during closing, all these mights and maybe's are going to drive me mad, but I'll just work off all the angst by packing a few boxes.

Mad Science

Yesterday on Science Friday, an NPR program I seldom miss, the discussion centered on medical advances and what may be on the horizon. It was timely, for just that same morning, I'd had a 1/2 hour conversation with a student about cyberkinetics (brain chip implants) featured in her research essay. For lunch, I spent another 1/2 hour brainstorming a research paper on animal-to-human organ transplantation. I read related blogs daily, and encountered one just yesterday (again) on how eyes work, how they may be "bionic" in the future, and how virtually all vision problems will be conquered in our lifetime, unknown to the next generation. WOW there's so very much going on in medical-technical applications and advances!
Neurotechnology is about to break out. So will advances in stem cell exploration and celluar if not complete organ manufacturing. Designer traits and implanted thoughts are NOT science fiction anymore. Just last week someone was able to generate an internal organ, a bladder, for installation in a person. (Personally, I would have chosen a more flattering organ, not wanting my name to be permanently associated with a bladder; he claims it was one of the easier to make.)
A caller to Science Friday raised a good issue: artificial, bionic limbs and implants, newly-generated or animal-transplanted organs...all of it is grossly expensive to research and practice. The actual 'body modification' might cost and individual a hundred thousand dollars. The caller was puzzled, himself an MD, that so much money is going into research for the benefit of so few. He claimed basic health care needs are not adequate nor available for all, even in the US. His point was refuted, the counter argument running something about it being a matter of distribution rather than access.
I think there's much more to it than that. Someone stands to gain (financially) from engineering expensive eyes. I hear the coins chinking in the temple of technology, like a jackpot payout of jingle bells. I smell money, and not the old wallet, butt sweat, dog-eared dollar--big money (like those 2ft x 5 ft checks you always see being awarded to folks). I can taste the bitter beer of big business, and it's making me girn (not to be confused with grin, no not at all).
Though I love my technology, I don't know that I want so much of it incorporated into my body. I don't want to be a cyborg. I don't want to compete with cyborgs. I don't even know what to think of those who's upgrades are wholly organic rather than mechanical. It all feels a bit like grafting a sixth finger on a pianist's hand. It changes everthing. It plays plate techtonic tap dances with what was once a level playing field.
...and all this is to say nothing of the future of full-blown genetic engineering and the potential of human cloning. That, I guess, will have to wait for another post.
I'm now of an age when I can say I saw things coming. I'm happy I can get it in writing on this blog, so later on down the road, as many of these come into the news again (and ultimately to fruition) I can say "I told you so."

Spring means More Stuff

Yes, it's garage sale season, and most every weekend, I'm out there picking over other people's stuff. It's more than a hobby; it's an obsession. The darker side is the Estate Sale, where one picks through the remains of the dead. At least, I guess, it's not as commercial as a flea market. And hey, I'm not buying retail. Reduce, re-use, recycle...and all that. I burrow through some of the nastiest stuff, spend a tank of gas every weekend, work up quite a sweat in the summer, and seldom to I ask, "for what?" (though my wife does, if I go solo and return with a truckload).

We would like to get our own home again, something in the country. Something with outbuildings, like I grew up with. Of course, the truth is, I likely just need more space to store more stuff. On that, I leave you with insighful words from George Carlin:

A house is just a pile of stuff with a cover on it. You can see that when you're taking off in an airplane. You look down, you see everybody's got a little pile of stuff. All the little piles of stuff. And when you leave your house, you gotta lock it up. Wouldn't want somebody to come by and take some of your stuff. They always take the good stuff. They never bother with that crap you're saving. All they want is the shiny stuff. That's what your house is, a place to keep your stuff while you go out and get...more stuff!

(if anyone has not heard the entire bit on "stuff" it is well worth downloading)

Spring

Here's a little ditty from my favorite author, Tom Robbins, from his book Villa Incognito. I think it's a good ode to spring:

April. Spring was on the land like an itch. The whole countryside seemed to be scratching itself awake--lazily, luxuriously, though occasionally scratching so hard its nails hit bone, that old cold calcium that lies beneath our tingles. Tiny frogs, raked into alertness, were being scratched from muck and mud. Tiny buds, as bright as blisters, were being scratched from hardwood. The trees themselves, as juiced on sap at Tanuki [an Ancestoral Animal being in the novel] ever was on booze (though the trees had a great deal more dignity), were scratching long blue notes from the sky.
A thousand insects tested their motors, anxious for this year's grand prix of nectar and blood. Crows that had looked so black against December's drifts now found their stark menace diluted, the tints of spring doing to them what Technicolor was to do to Boris Karloff. No mild yellow ray had sweetened their spooky cries, however, and the crows went right on auditioning for the demon role in some imaginary Kabuki, their squawk periodically obliterating both peep and buzz. Those caw calls must have had a bugling effect, because nature was definately out of bed and getting ready to put its shoulder to the wheel.

Garage Sailing

Outside Looking In: Garage Sailing

Flowers are blooming, lawns are greening, and, at last, the signs of preseason Garage Sailing are beginning to show. Now, I am an English teacher and “sailing” is not a misspelling, rather a specific (and wholly correct) use of the verb sail. Of course, the term is traditionally coupled with nautical pursuits, but it is not limited to such, to wit: “to start out on a voyage or journey; to move along or progress smoothly or effortlessly.” Thus, “sailing” is a more concise and descriptive term for “going around to garage sales hunting for bargains.” Indeed, the practice of Garage Sailing is an adventure in the free market, and if done with some forethought, it can be even more. I would like to see Garage Sailing as an Olympic summer game, the basis for a reality television show, or at least elevated to a higher status in our American pop culture.

The casual observer could start with the Garage Sale sign. These handspun, garish icons of what’s still right in our free economy are just beginning to pop up everywhere. Their kin, real estate and political signage, may market mansions and mayors, but they are not true Americana. Those other signs (frustrations for avid Garage Sailors) are manufactured, printed, properly permitted and posted by regulation. The signs of Garage Sales, however, are a randy hodgepodge of creativity.

Sometimes, when my budget can take no more Sailing, I’ll simply cruise and admire the advertising for Sales: the hand-painted T-Shirt tacked to a fence, the refrigerator box standing at the center of an intersection, the wanna-be graffiti artists spray painting of country blacktop. This is American spirit at its zenith. This is among the best of our culture’s industrious, creative expression.

All this promotion is not for naught.

Like many underrated bastions of pop culture—Roller Derby, board games, roadside points of interest—the Garage Sale is often disregarded. Some snub them for their lack of presentation, cringing at the jumbled, dusty, assemblage of miscellaneous merchandise. These same folks then turn around and pay much more for the same goods at swanky antique stores and emporiums. Garage Sales may be a bit humble; a good Garage Sailor may have to stumble and rummage through hazards an OSHA inspector would condemn. I offer, however, that an honest Garage Sale is free enterprise at its finest: frank person-to-person transactions without gimmicks, sales staff, taxes and red tape. The Garage Sale is the next best thing to a barter economy.

Some stigma stems from our disposable lifestyle. Our culture is ever-more inclined to “just junk it.” Instead of finding the intrinsic value, say, in a used egg carton, we tend to trash it. (Why not knit some together with yarn, a pie plate in the bottom, and make a trash can? Use that carton at Easter for a decorative egg container. Save an egg carton for your own garage sale to use as a change tray.) At best, if some object like an expensive brass elephant is no longer in vogue, people have a tendency to wrinkle their noses and relegate the goods to their own garage sale. Often such stuff stores up until it is overly burdensome, dirty and constantly in the way. Some people just can’t take it anymore and call a thrift store to haul it away. (These hapless souls, alas, are missing out on the social and economic dividends of hosting their own garage sale.) A lot of negativity builds up toward those piles of unwanted, yet valuable, goods. I would offer that these bad vibrations can carry over to one’s whole perspective on Garage Sales.

However, a novice can overcome such nose wrinkling and angst. I’ve now lost count of how many people I’ve taken out on a weekend only to behold the transformation. We’ll pull up with all the other poorly parked vehicles, size up the teeming mass of madness, and my guests will offer to sit this one out. I tell them an anecdote of some treasure I’ve found amongst the trash, coax them from the car, and lead the way. The first sale or two, they may not even touch the merchandise or make small talk with the sale’s host. They return to the car, digging for their sanitizing hand gel, shuddering. I’ll buy a little something like an old Life magazine, remarking on the amusing ads or the coverage of some dated fashion. An eyebrow raises.

A few stops later, maybe I find a complete 30 gallon aquarium setup for under $10. I recount a few purchases I’ve made, subtly pointing out the difference between retail and Garage Sale prices. Questions begin. The novice starts to notice the GAP clothing in mint condition, the toys of their childhood, the uniquely handcrafted chichi lampshade… Soon, gaining his legs, I find him picking through old albums and smiling at the memories they bring. The excitement begins with some rare find or great bargain. It is fueled by some creative quibbling I’ll do on his behalf to further beat down a price. I know when I’ve made a Sailor of someone when they start leaving me messages, asking when they can go again. Some will call with calendar updates on city-wide sales or up-coming auctions. Some will call me, on a given weekend, from their mobile phone, asking for directions as they seek to find some obscure address where a bargain might be waiting. A true convert can soon spot a good sale from the signage, the write up in the paper, the traffic at the sale.

I once broke in a newbie and hooked him so thoroughly we could not stop shopping. We trolled two city-wide Garage Sales and many individual sales. Altogether, I set a personal record of 45 drive-bys (not every Garage Sale is worth getting out for) and 47 actual stops. It took the rest of the weekend to retrieve all the stuff we bought that would not fit in or on my Suburban. His wife may not like me much, as she curses his knick-knackery, but he continues as an avid Garage Sailor to this day.

Fortunately for me, my wife is my navigator and crew, one of my earliest converts, and together we mount the high seas of low prices every weekend of the season.

DejavaBOOM

The handsome Hitler youth (on the left) is my father, when he was a wee lad, maybe what, five? Wow, he looks an awful lot like my son (if my son were so well groomed). Dejavu back at you, I need another cup of coffee--BOOM. How can it be that generations can so parallel? Just as my dad died, my son came into his own (well, he was about a year and two weeks old, but he seemed to lack definition until just about the time my pop went by the way of the weasel).

I used to dislike pictures of kids. Now I find them mesmerizing. Glimpse that guy there...so positive, so full of light and hope...so much potential packed into those tiny shoes. Kids are utterly empathetic, though they've lived little, they love much. That boy in the picture reared me, and now I'm rearing my own, and yet sometimes learning more from my son than I think I impart on him.

I'm going to be a personal historian. It was one of my dad's dreams to document all the family's anecdotes, not just their genealogy, but their stories. I want to do that for our family, but I also want to help other families do the same. From requiring my students to interview the elderly, I've confirmed, time and again, that there are riches in story telling that go untapped. Whenever I spy pic's like the one in this post, my family or any other, I wonder about the context. I wonder about what transpired in that person's life after the snap. Even in the case of my father, much of the story is forever lost. What can be retrieved from documents, friends, family, memories and memoirs--all of it is stained and strained. Maybe it's better that way. Undiluted, objective information would be bland. Colorized by loved ones, any life can pop off the page. I can hardly wait to start on a client.

Blase Malaise

Those darn French:
Blase (un-interested due to frequent exposure, derv. from to cloy ...to be chronically hung over). Malaise (vague uneasiness, discomfort). Who could say it better!

(And I don't even like French)

Funked out. Spent. Here.

On writing like a telegram, I heard Western Union has gotten rid of their age-old telegram service. Alas. For those aurally inclined, I found an interesting morse code generator at one of my favorite sites Generator Blog (see link in margin).

So, what gives? (I love 50's slang)
I suppose I'm morose from my performance at work. Love my job, hate my self-critic. I've been at it over 20 years, and I still think I could do better. (Hell, I still lesson plan, even!) Then, even on the days I feel I've done my dead-level best, the proof is not in the pudding. This is one of the hazards of being in a field where results and logic are fuzzy. If I were counting widgets passing on a belt, say, I could measure productivity and success with ease. So long as I am in a field working with others, no matter what I may do, how I may deliver, they may not get it.

This is not to say I'm blaming the receivers, nor the code. I keep the accusatory finger pointed at the sender, that is code-speak rhetoric for...me.

On good days, I see it as a challenge. I rise early (literally, usually about 4am) and set my mind to opening their minds. I scheme and skew and sweat and stew...I give it my all, my dead-level best (I even dress for success these days)...and then...

crickets...silence so deafening I can hear my pulse in my ears...unregistered, unmitigated, vacuous...ignorance. Sometimes, it's even confirmed by questions so fundamental it takes tact to address them nicely. So, I always (like today) take the blame and then sit and reflect over what I could do better.

*sigh*

Resignation from Adulthood

Here's something I found at Media Education Foundation, though even that is not the original source...I've read it before, but in light of current entries here, it seemed (sad, but) relevant:

"Today I submit my resignation from adulthood. I decided to go back to being six years old. Today, I want to believe that candies are better than money because you can eat them. I want to leave my home without worries, put down my guard, and not be afraid of the sound of silence. I want to go back home for a nice hot meal. I actually want something to eat. I want to hug my parents. I want to help them both. I’m not sure what has happened, but somewhere along, I matured. Someone forced me to grow up.

Maybe I have learned too much. I have learned about pain, about sickness, about death. I’ve learned of a world where they know how to hurt and they do so. Today, I want to go back to knowing just about colors and fairy tales. It was then that I was truly happy. Today, I would like to believe that there’s no weapon more powerful than a smile. I wish to go back to trusting grown ups. I want to believe that anything is possible, and go back to being six years old. Today I am eight years old."

Stuck on Time

Maybe it's because I celebrated a birthday last week. Maybe it's because my time always seems in short supply...but I have been dwelling and musing over time more than ever.

Here's where I want to spend my time, how about you?

• sleeping (to get over this cold)
• reading (likely for escape, but I'd like to think for enrichment, too)
• writing (I miss it so!)
• talking w/wife (unless kids are asleep, this is nigh-impossible)
• purging guilt (for the little things, like not flossing, not walking the dog, etc)

...but I've lately had such a tremendous heart-swell of something like...pre-grief(?) that it's almost been unbearable. (I've always had a tendency to worry about every potential alternative outcome of something, long in advance--even though I know worry is a worthless emotion, knowing I cannot affect the future so don't sweat it, knowing...but lately, oddly, I've been grieving-in-advance.)

This would make little sense to anyone who is not a parent. Four years ago, I would have stopped reading this about right here.

I grieve (and literally grieve) my sons growing up. I fuss and fester and sweat and sigh...for I know that they are going to outgrow me. The unconditional love I currently bask in is temporal, and knowing that, I miss it already. Someday, the kids won't think dad's so cool. They won't go through separation anxiety when I go to work (or even to the next room in the case of the 6 month old). They will some day rather play with friends, hang out with girls, jack into their iPods and computers and whatever other electronic preoccupations the world has conjured.

Currently, nothing makes my eldest more happy than a wrestling match or a good book. He will spend hours with me just on a walk, constantly talking, telling stories, etc. Honestly folks, I've never known anything remotely like the love of a child. It is addictive. It is likely selfish of me to be so moved by it, but I am! Maybe the wife and I will simply have to keep making more kids, so I can get my fix.

The pre-grief took an even darker turn, one that makes my soul twist and moan: death. I lost my best friend, my first-cousin Brenda, when I was 11. I've lost many relatives since, most recently my father...but to lose a child! How does one endure? One of my best buddies fathered a child who was burdened with an illness denying him any muscle control--poor baby couldn't even swallow or breathe. This friend of mine (and his wife) provided 24 hour in-home care for the infant to his death at the age of four. My in-laws had a son who lived to be 13, struggling with leukemia for the last several years of his life. That type of loss would lead me to gnash my teeth and curse the gods and...well, I hate to imagine what else.

The other night my kid fell off his bed, even with these rail-bumpers up. I heard the thump, I bolted from bed, and found him on the floor holding his head. What if his neck had broken? What if he'd landed on some sharp toy and punctured his heart or something?! These moments of absolute fright are likely to increase, as he becomes more adventurous. I know that. When he's a speck in the sky descending from a perfectly good plane, skydiving, what will I do? Run to catch him when he lands? When he's [insert long list of stupid things I've done] and I'm not even there--how will I cope?

Parenthood is the absolute. Don't get me wrong. I love my family with white-hot, mad-cow loyalty...but I really don't think I knew what I was getting into. The responsibility is one thing. The whole-hearted vulnerability is something else. Yes, it's worth the trade off, for those moments when I feel I've made their lives better, or we've shared a laugh...but the pain--eeesh! And the pre-pain/grieving--I simply have GOT to get over that!

Head Cold

So, I'm brain dead, but today I have an excuse: a head cold. It makes me wonder over strange things when I'm all punked out like this. For instance, why does this ever-recurring issue have to be a head cold. Why couldn't I get a cold in some other, less essential part of my body? And...are people the only ones who get such an illness? I've never known a sloth or a rabbit or an elephant to have a head cold. (And I've been to the zoo plenty of times...never seen it yet!)

Even in this snot and drug-altered haze, I have to say: better a head cold than allergies. Better allergies than emphysema...better that than pushing up daisies, I guess. Nonetheless--ugh!

Cold medications make things taste like coins. (Yes, I've tasted coins. Suck on one like a lozenge sometime. You'll learn.) If you swallow a coin, someday you'll truly be worth something, my dad once said. Even without adding to your net worth through ingestion, you're worth something: When we total the monetary value of the elements in our bodies and the value of the average person's skin, we arrive at a net worth of $4.50! says Cool Quiz. And snot tastes like...don't get me started on snot. Sometimes it's a bit like oysters, othertimes more like Moo Goo Gia Pan sauce, if you ask me. (It's something no one ever wants to talk about...I just can't understand that!

I just sneezed. Ever seen someone sneeze when sitting in a shaft of sunlight? Nasty. Everytime we sneeze without covering our mouths (and even then, truth be told) we broadcast all this nasty moisture, everywhere! If you're really bored, you should look up the tradition of why we say "Bless You" when someone sneezes--bizarre. It's almost as bizarre as some mythical beliefs for the sources of snot, but I won't go there. Make it your own personal webquest. It's really nasty!

Enough for now. I think I'll take a nap on my desk.

10 day drought

Though I don't know that anyone much checks this blog, I apologize for the lapse. I've been writing in other blogs, hardcopy journals and grading paper like mad. No promises, but today..I'm back!

Sleep and time annoy me. Technology terrifies me. That said, I love a good nap. I power nap when I can, usually 10 minutes gets me along fine. I usually sleep from 10pm to 4 or so am, get to work by 5, but alas, don't return to my family until about 5pm (or later when obligated). There's a new movie coming out (another one) where somebody can literally manage time with a remote. Not a new idea, but a good one. I so wish I could do this, to make very second with my loved ones just last and last. Friday, I had a class period that was so good, I would replay it a dozen times a day, if only I could. THAT technology would be great...

...or would it. Everyone wishes they could relive moments, fast forward through a few, put life on hold now and then...but would we really want to? There is much to be said for living in the moment, not regretting the past, not getting too nostalgic over anything already done nor fear anything yet to come. To live thusly, one needs no technology, only attentiveness (and maybe a blog or journal to record the moments and reflect on them). If we really had technology to manage time, I think it would be awful, for we would get spoiled and self-consumed even more than we are as a culture.

Bottom line: live NOW.

FutureWire - exploring future thought, emerging technologies and trends

Another great site that I spend too much time reading. This one is from a futurist, and is loaded with intriguing ideas of where our future might be going. Good reading. Thought provoking.
FutureWire - exploring future thought, emerging technologies and trends

BeJesus Begone!

MIT Advertising Lab: future of advertising and advertising technology

This site is now one of my favorites, and if you have a head for advertising and the future, it should be one of yours, too. It scares the BeJesus out of me to think that advances in technology now make it possible to beam sounds into your skull directly, while someone standing nearby won't hear a thing. Ads can be tailored to individual's profiles. Cell phones can interact with television broadcasts, etc. There's no cautioning "Hey, folks, it's coming." The (old) news is, it is already here!

"I think I love you"

In my innocence, that might be read, say, kindergarten, I loved everyone equally. It was a beautiful thing. We would celebrate by stuffing each other's hand-decorated shoe boxes with hand-crafted cards, then we would stuff our faces with goodies brought in by someone's mother. It did not matter what the cards said, for we could neither read, nor write.

When the skill of self-expression came to me, I was King of Hearts for a day. I could express myself with anonymity and zeal. No matter how unapproachable girls were, no matter what chasm of social class separated us, on that one day, they were helplessly, whole-heartedly mine, at least until they learned who I was. I stuffed their desks at recess, then spent the day reveling in their swooning and cooing over my cards. Unfortunately, my desk typically hosted lint balls and unspent pencils, even at the end of the day. This was the era of my "check yes or no," Valentine, and to me, no response at all was an even more damning reply.

Some schools have banned the practice of exchanging Valentine's cards for varied reasons. One claim is that the practice is inconsiderate of some people's faith. It is also argued by some that not all kids can afford to buy cards and candies, so it just isn't fair. Others, likely administrators who had the empty desk like me, condemn the ballot box popularity contest of Valentine's: "We don't want anyone going home broken hearted."

I am no policy maker, but I can offer a warning. Unrequited love can drive one to madness. In my quest for Valentine validation, I become a love junkie. I had to have it, had to get it, win it, make it. For years, Valentine's day was more than a celebration to me, it was a call to action.

There was no extreme, no boundary I would not cross. In seventh grade, for example, though I had never spoken to her, I determined Reletta Meeks was my One True Love. I skipped class seventh hour to buy her a dozen fresh roses (and where I come from, plant life of any kind is rare, so those roses came at a premium—around $45 in 1970's currency). I bought her a silver locket (another $50), and I even had it engraved with the anthem of the day, "I think I love you," Partridge Family lyrics sure to melt her heart. How did I, in middle school, afford such extravangces? I sold my comic books and pop bottles…all of them.

Things only escalated from there. The worst was likely the triple threat Valentine's day, in college, when I also learned of entropy. I was in a long distance relationship, fueling the fire with irresistible love letters. I was dating two girls on opposite sides of the city, from very different walks of life, certain they would never cross paths. And..I was still practicing the anonymous "enamortization" of the women of the world, at this time by sending loving praises to those I deemed typically unflattered by others. In simple terms: I sent Valentines to ugly people, hoping they would walk with a spring in their step, thinking I was doling out good vibrations.

On that particular Valentine's Day, I had the long distance love at arm's length, and I had the two local girls scheduled on either side of the actual Valentine's Day itself. Instead, and this baffles me even to this day, I scheduled a nice dinner with the spouse of a friend who was in Desert Storm (with his permission, even giving his wife a gift he had directed me to issue her in his stead). In my mind at the time, I thought I was being an ambassador of amore. I did not even foresee the potential of misrepresentation until it was on top of me.

One of the Unflattered was a research librarian and a pretty good sleuth. She happened to track me down with her own gushing confessional just as I was excusing myself from the company of local girl #1, late to pick up the soldier's wife. The confessional turned confrontational. The dinner with the soldier's wife was interrupted when a waitress-friend of local girl #2 berated me in public. Returning to my apartment, my head spinning already, I had no idea what I was in for. My long distance love, who had not only crossed Kansas but also my boundaries by letting herself in, was perched on my couch, by the telephone. She was dressed to kill, but was more in the mood for murder than a night out. She punctuated our last argument frequently by playing incriminating voice mails over and over.

Yes, I had been a jerk. My knee jerk reaction to the above, however, made me even more the fool. Like goths who populate our schools now, I went into a melancholy beyond measure. For years, I blacked out the holiday, boycotted it entirely. The mention of it would raise a bile in my stomach and curt curse words from my lips. Love was not to be had on a holiday, not to be earned with scraps of paper and commercial appeals. So dark were my thoughts on Valentine's Day, I came to chide those who did participate. I scoffed at everyone buying flowers and chocolates. I was the Grinch of Valentine's Day…and my mailbox went as empty as my heart.

I can attribute some my behavior to grade school valentine exchanges, and if the practice creates more monsters like I was, then I am all for taking it out of schools. If only it could be so kind and democratic as it was in kindergarten, all our lives…then I would say make every day Valentine's Day!

Thanks to time and reason, I now have the love of my life. Perspective has taught me that love is not manufactured nor purchased. There is no gimmickry nor infatuation fueling it. True love, for me, was a surprise. It popped up when I was not pursuing it. It blooms in her every gesture. It is amplified in the unconditional love radiating from our children. This love thing comes from thin air, not a greeting card. It becomes tangible over a home cooked meal, which is more tasty than anything in a heart-shaped box.

A site for your eyes

Sometimes there's nothing like a well-rendered image to brighten one's day. This is one of those sites I could spend all my idle hours on. Give it a glimpse. Worth1000.com http://www.worth1000.com

The Fifth Element

Perhaps my favorite movie, The Fifth Element is such a good sci-fi adventure! It follows traditional story lines (boy gets girl, unlikely hero rises to save the world) and yet it does it all tongue-in-cheek with a heavy dose of humor. Cast members include Bruce Willis and Chris Rock, so how could it go wrong. If anyone reading this has yet to see The Fifth Element, rent it!

If I were to have a tattoo, this might be it, the symbols of the four elements: fire, water, air and earth (reminds me of the band, Earth, Wind and Fire).

Always Watching...

My parents were conspiracy theorists. Someone was always reading their mail or watching their whereabouts. They went through a UFO phase, a tri-lateral commission phase…ultimately sticking with a fear mongering version of fundamental Christian faith which sought signs of the endtimes in everything from tea leaves to television.

Doubtless, some of that has worn on me and worn off on me.

After surfing blogs for a semester, I have arrived at a theory of my own. It goes something like this:

Suppose we launched manned interstellar vessels to explore, to boldly go where
no one has gone before, to infinity and beyond…all that. What if our explorers
were to encounter an alien life form. To study them, they tried fly-by's, only
to be spotted regularly. They tried living among them incognito, only to be
outed too often. As the studied, native life form developed, they became an even
greater threat, launching their own primitive space vessels, their planet
brimming with hostility and threat of global annihilation. What's a space
explorer to do? Data gathered was scarcely completed. Sure, we knew their planet
and climate, their population trends, their mass media warbling in every
tongue…but did we really know what made them tick?
Along comes private Sneed, suggesting: "Sir, I think I've got it. Why don't we leave behind a device to collect their inner thoughts, their collective conscious, their very souls if you will."
"Sneed," sneers the captain, "We don't have such a thing. Now get back to the galley and cook me—"
"Captain, I argue that we do." Sneed straightened his uniform with a tug and continued: "In fact, all we must do is actuate it, and they will self-report more information than we could ever use."

This, then, is my theory: Aliens built the Internet. I ask you, heard of many UFO's lately? Abductions? Of course not. There is no need. All the information that was once gathered through direct observation is outmoded. All an alien species requires to study us now is a good Internet connection.

Having revealed this to the public might cost my life. If this is my last entry, you know why. If it is censored by Those In Black Helicopters or some other entity, I guess you may never know.
Otherwise, however, I urge you to post the most bogus, misleading entries about our life and times that come to mind. Drop some acid or something and then write your blog…anything we can think of to misdirect our observers attentions.

…of course, if you read many blogs, you would likely agree that most bloggers have caught on to this already.

See related Google Conspiracy.

Dental Entry II

Look in that mouth; do you see thousands and thousands of dollars in dental work? No? Good! Poor kid, never had a chance. He had chipped teeth, broken teeth, cavities, etc. and had to have it all repaired...just his baby teeth! We spent months fretting over how it might go in the dentist's chair for him, but found an excellent pediatric dentist. I wish I had his dentist. Every time he visits, no matter what goes on in there (parents are forbidden) he comes out happy-go-lucky.

Waiting for my own special treatment, I felt even more guilty about my son's poor teeth. I resolved to make dental hygiene our top priority, to make it even more a family fun activity than wrestling or playing Ninja Turtles. Then again, as I argued with my wife in the first place, "Hey, they're only baby teeth."

I'm thinking, maybe Jax will be lucky and his real teeth won't get so corrupted. He gets a second chance. Wouldn't it be great if we went through teeth like a snake does skins? Every few years, maybe, we'd lose teeth and new ones would come in. Think of the repercussions though. Colgate and Crest would be out of business, let alone all those in the broader dental industry. People would say, "what the hell, why whiten my these teeth when I'm getting my new choppers next year. I can feel them coming in already." Imagine how funny it would be to see movie stars and corporate executives missing front teeth now and then. How would it change the stereotype of "toothless trailer trash?" I wonder if our culture is so vain that someone would come out with temporary false teeth, individual units which would fill the gap while the new ones emerged...or would it become part of our pop culture. Maybe people would become better whistlers, better at spitting water through tooth gaps...

Dentists are Blue Collar

When you really think about it, what distinguishes blue/white collar? People who work in demanding physical fields with their hands--blue collar. People who work in unpleasant environments--blue collar. People who use power tools on the job--blue collar. Dentists use pliers to wrench rotten teeth from one's head. They grind teeth down, etc. with power tools, then use bondo to affix repair pieces--glorified body shop work. This epiphany came to me as the dentist used some power tool to sculpt a filling. The tooth began to get hot. I could smell it. The tool reminded me of a rotary disk sander I used when I worked in a body shop, and how I would use it to attempt to remold a botched bondo job rather than going to get a more aggressive grinder. The smell was the same--hot bondo. I opened my eyes, something I don't do from the reception desk on, typically, and saw my dentist had on a full-face plastic visor, too...not unlike ones I've worn doing body work, etc. Last year when I visited, I peeked only once, when he had a knee on my chest and he was grunting and wrenching above me. The dental assistant was holding my head in place. Nick, my good ol' pal and dentist buddy, had a maniacal, sadistic look on his face. He looked pissed. Of course, he had been fighting to pull out a tooth for over an hour (it kept breaking into smaller, more embedded fragments). I was terrified then, but Monday when I peeked, he was just a blue collar body shop bud, grinding away in my mouth.

It must have been the gas. Once I embraced Nick, the dentist, as a blue collar good ol' boy, I thought about neurosurgeons. Blue collar. All of us, more or less, are in the same colored collars. My power tool is this PC. My unpleasant environment is sometimes the classroom. My physical burden is minimal, but hey, you try carrying a stack of essays and a cup of coffee.