My Return From the Dead.

The semester is almost over. I will soon find a lot more time to write. New blog entries are forthcoming.

I am the modern Lazarus.

Things That Kids Like Me Like #1: Ecto-Cooler

People are predictable. Kids like me -- and by "kids like me," I of course mean young adults of vaguely-indie, vaguely-artsy, vaguely-pretentious persuasions -- all like the same things. This is the first installment in what I expect will be a regular series that examines the things that we like-minded people enjoy. For example, I present:

The Hi-C Ecto Cooler.

Anyone in and around my demographic can fully appreciate its cultural importance. It was a greedy, money-hungry attempt to cash in on the popularity of Ghostbusters, slapping a bastardized image of Slimer on the package to push product -- but these kind of politics didn't matter at the age of 8.

The cafeteria hierarchy of juice boxes said a lot about a person, and not only of their value as a beverage connoisseur, but also of their value as an individual.

Minute Maid and Juicy Juice were nice, safe choices, if not a little boring. Students who drank this tended to not have any strong opinion on anything one way or the other.

Kool-aid fulfilled an essential dietary need for young children: fruit juice that didn't include any actual fruit in it. Ice cream sandwiches didn't grow from the Earth; ergo, anything that did grow from the Earth must be its exact, diametrical opposite and couldn't possibly be good.

Soda was only drank by bullies (and, perhaps, future diabetics). It was best to steer clear of these kids. And interestingly, it was the soda-drinkers who never had guardians come on Open House night, or for PTA meetings, or for parent-teacher conferences. I realize now, looking back in retrospect, anyone who brought Mountain Dew to school invariably came from a broken home, most likely one with a history of domestic abuse. This is established fact, I'm sure.

Capri Sun and Squeeze-Its were ultra-hip because, technically, they weren't juice boxes at all. One was a pouch and the other was a plastic bottle, respectively. It was the most cutting-edge of lunchbox technology. This proved you to be a radical, counterculture free-thinker. You very literally thought outside the box. But your hipster points were automatically deducted if you had to have a teacher help you open your Capri Sun (the tip was to make the initial puncture quick and decisive; any waffling on your part resulted in a dulled point at the tip of your straw).

And if you drank Mott's, you were a bitch-ass Momma's boy.

But nothing outranked Ecto Coolers. It tasted good. It had a beloved, recognizable fictional character on the front. It took two great things -- refreshments and Ghostbusters -- and combined them; even at that young age, we understood the appeal of killing two birds with one stone. It didn't necessarily guarantee cool, but it certainly solidified it.

These days, it's reached ultimate cult status. It's one of those rare cultural phenomenons that transcend racial, gender, musical, and political divides. Upon mere mention, it invokes immediate nostalgia. It is universally loved. It's become something of a social fail-safe; anytime you're at a party or on a date or hanging out with friends (assuming we're dealing with 20-something year olds here) and the conversations hits an uncomfortable lull, you can ask "Hey, remember when everyone used to drink Ecto Coolers?" This will undoubtedly spark at least another half hour of spirited discourse.

I don't much drink sugary drinks these days, but if it were still around, I'd make an exception.

It's Got a Back Beat, You Can't Lose It

I like to think I have a fairly eclectic taste in music.

I enjoy the indie hip-hop of Atmosphere; the pitch-perfect vocals of Whitney Houston; the gangsta rap of N.W.A.; the soft, sentimental plucking of James Taylor; the electronic remixing of MSTRKRFT; the undefinable genre-bending of Beck.

But in the end, my one true, audible love is two guitars, a bass, and a drum kit. Regardless of whatever form it takes, be it indie or emo or college or surf or prog or grunge or pop-punk or nerd or post-hardcore, this is my musical preference -- it's what we all would colloquially call "rock and roll."

What I've always found interesting, though, is how ridiculous a term it is. Rock and Roll. Or even worse, Rock N' Roll. It just sounds silly. I don't often utter those particular words in that particular order...at least not unironically. Whenever making polite small talk to a person I've just met, I always seem to be confronted with the incredibly complex question of "what do you listen to?" I'll take a moment to collect my thoughts and proceed to give some long-winded answer, mentioning specific bands that I'm fond of, as well as the specific movements and sub-genres and styles and record labels they belong to. But I'll never actually answer "rock and roll" (on a side note, "rock and roll" is the second least-hip, least-informed answer you can give in this situation; the first being "everything," because as we know, anyone who listens to "everything" doesn't listen to anything good).

Rock and roll. The problem is, it's such a disingenuous phrase. Like a phrase that's trying too hard, somehow. It looks and sounds foolish. I can barely say it out loud without grimacing, without laughing, without feeling the corners of my mouth instinctively pull into an arrogant sneer. I'm not entirely sure why this is. Who knows, maybe I've just reached the point of no return as a music fan, the point when my own snobbish elitism will never allow me to enjoy anything ever again.

I think this can all be best summed up, best articulated, by Billy Joel. The other day,"It's Still Rock and Roll To Me" came up on my iPod, and that's exactly what I'm talking about. First, the song sucks. Second, and most importantly, Billy Joel doesn't have an edgy, rebellious bone in his body. I mean, he wrote "Uptown Girl." He's safe and radio-friendly and inoffensive (however, this isn't to say I don't like Joel at all, because "Piano Man" is one of the greatest sing-along songs ever). So it's just so perfectly and conveniently ironic that he wrote a song that tried to justify how his music actually is rock and roll (which it isn't) and that he felt the need to specifically mention it in the title (which is never a good thing). It's along the same lines of, if you have to say that you're cool, then you're probably not cool...or something like that. Anyway, the term "rock and roll" has become a joke, a caricature of its former self. Linguistically, it's evolved into something very different than its origin. It's one of those words, similar to rad or boss or word or true, that are said ironically by people who actually have a clue, and unironically by everyone else.

And I don't think I've ever used the phrase "rocking out" (as in, "I'm rocking out!") either. At least not sincerely.

Disclaimer: Chuck Berry wrote the song "Rock and Roll Music" and Ryan Adams titled an album "Rock 'N Roll" spelled backwards, but I actually don't have a problem with either. Go figure.

Final Jeopardy! (Catching Up)

9/3

Category: American History

Clue: In the last week of the John Tyler administration, this republic was offered statehood.

Answer: Texas

I know absolutely nothing else about former President John Tyler, but I have a ton of family in Houston and San Antonio, so I did get this right.



9/4

Category: Historic Journals

Clue: On January 18, 1972, he arrived at a tent near the Pole and found "a record of five Norwegians having been there."

Answer: Robert Scott

I had no idea. Upon a quick Wikipedia search to fill in my apparent gap in knowledge, it appears that Scott and the rest of his expedition crew perished on their way back home to Britain due to extreme exhaustion and exposure to cold -- serves them right for stumping me.



9/5

Category: Alliances

Clue: The Quadruple Alliance began in 1813 against this country; in 1818, it let this country in and became the Quintuple Alliance.

Answer: France

In the Final Jeopardy! round, they give contestants (and viewers) 30 seconds to answer. I would think, even if I couldn't come up with the correct answer (which was the case here), that half a minute should be enough time for me to pick a country, any country, as at least a wild guess. Instead, I spent those 30 seconds dumbfounded.

9/8

Category: The Vatican

Clue: A statue of this man is being erected inside the Vatican's walls near where he was locked up in 1633.

Answer: Galileo.

Haha, it's nice to hear that the Catholic Church is finally willing to honor Galileo after they imprisoned him for the remainder of his life for proposing something as ridiculous as the Earth revolving around the Sun.

And I didn't actually know the answer to this one, so I'll deflect this minor detail with two bits of vaguely-related but otherwise completely tangential useless trivia: 1) Vatican City is smaller than the state of Rhode Island and 2) Galileo was the only current day, "pop culture" celebrity that John Milton referenced by name in his epic poem Paradise Lost.

9/10

Category: Brand Names

Clue: To feature its "Strong Enough To Stand On" product, in 1964 Schwayder Bros., Inc. changed its name to this.

Answer: Samsonite.

I love buying stuff, so I thought I'd get this one, no problem. But I guessed Krazy Glue. And has anyone ever bought luggage at the airport? I mean, they have the boutiques and they sell them there, so there must be a market for it...

9/11

Category: Lines from 19th Century Novels

Clue: "My two natures had memory in common, but all other faculties were most unequally shared between them."

Answer: The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

Very easy. "Two natures" was a dead giveaway. And I've noticed there seems to be a small misconception among the general populace regarding Mr. Hyde -- many people are under the impression (maybe because of film adaptations, maybe because they've never read the novella) that Mr. Hyde was some monstrous, towering Incredible Hulk-like creature. But actually, he was smaller in stature than Dr. Jekyll -- very short and stumpy.

9/12

Category: Royalty

Clue: It's the name of today's longest-ruling family in Europe, in power for most of the last 711 years.

Answer: Grimaldi.

Again, did not know. All that could come to mind was Prince Charles and the Queen Mum. My self-esteem and sense of self-worth is slowly diminishing. And in case it ever comes up during a dinner party or any other social gathering, "regicide" is the execution of a King (or whoever is in charge of whichever monarchy) after a conviction of wrong doing.

Final Jeopardy! 8/29, 9/1

8/29

Category: Ancient Times

Clue: Plutarch's chapter on Romulus quotes this much later man as saying, "I love treason but hate a traitor."

Answer: Julius Caesar

This was easy. Ancient times --> Romulus --> Rome --> "traitor" --> Caesar. It's a pretty obvious, straightforward deduction. Two of the contestants thought it was Cicero, which I suppose is a decent guess if you're just taking a wild stab at any important Roman names that come to mind. They both got the nationality right, at least.

And most people who think they hate anchovies don't realize that it's an ingredient in authentic Caesar salad dressing. Raw eggs, too.

9/1

Category: Inventors

Clue: In 1894, in his West Orange lab, Thomas Edison shot this sport, the first ever sporting event ever filmed.

Answer: Boxing match

In 9th grade Film Class, the first stuff we learned at the beginning of the year -- long before we got around to watching any actual movies -- was the historical and technical side of film-making: Eastman Kodak, celluloid, the Kinetograph and Kinetoscope, blah blah blah. And of course, Thomas Edison. It was actually a really fun class taught by a teacher was very passionate about the subject, so I've since retained that little bit of useless trivia. That, and the early, grainy footage of the guy with the rad handlebar mustache sneezing in front of the camera.

Also, according to everthing I've read and heard, Edison was an asshole -- an aloof, cut-throat, backstabbing, idea-thieving, self-aggrandizing asshole. Not that any of it is a bad thing, I'm just saying.

The Hiearchy of Monsters

This is an unscientific ranking of ghouls, from best to worst:

1) Zombies - For everyone in and around my general demographic, this is the universal favorite. In whatever form it takes, either the serious (Night of the Living Dead, 28 Days Later, Dawn of the Dead), the satirical (Shaun of the Dead, The Zombie Survival Guide), or somewhere inbetween, (Dead Alive, Re-Animator), people have a strong fondness for the rotting, flesh-eating Undead. I suppose there might be some deep-rooted, psychological reason for this (it wouldn't be Freudian though, because he believed we would actually be terrified to see a return of the dead; so maybe it'd be Jungian), perhaps due to some painful longing to see lost loved ones again...but I'm not positive about that. What I do know, however, is that Zombies look really cool. And that's probably the biggest and simplest reason why we like them so much. They're all rad-looking, with sunken eyes, gangrenous skin, and tattered clothing (it's funny how Zombies are hardly ever naked; they always still have like 1/2 of a shirt left, or 1/3 of a pair of pants). As far as physical appearances go, they're hard to beat. And that's probably why it's the perennial last-second, default Halloween costume. It's incredibly easy -- a small-sized, long-sleeved cowboy shirt; frayed, 29-waist cut-off jeans; a little bit of make-up; a vacant stare and, there you have it, Zombie Indie Kid.

2) Werewolf (aka the Wolfman) -- We all love a good martyr, and Werewolves are the reigning marytyr kings of the Monster World. They don't transform into unholy half-wolf/half-human creatures because they want to; it's because they're cursed to. It's not like they disembowel people of their own volition (that would make them cold-blooded murders, and generally unlikable), it's just that pesky full moon's fault. Their condition, their Werewolfdom, was thrust upon them -- assuming of course that you subscribe to the gypsy, Eastern European folklore popularized by Hollywood: victim is simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, getting bit by a pre-existing Werewolf -- a burden that they're forced to live with, the pall of it all hanging heavy on their conscience and their heart. For real, we eat that maudlin shit up for breakfast. We love our tragic figures. We love anyone who shoulders the load of an unfair destiny. We sympathize and empathize (as much as you can empathize with someone turning into a mythical wolf-like creature, at least) with their supernatural plight. And this is because it represents the grievances we have with the physical maladies and deformities we have in our own lives. We can relate with everything that plagues us -- the big, fat nose; the gaping underbite; the multiple sclerosis; the searing foot pain caused by fallen arches; the cleft palate; the speech impediement; the hunched curviture of the spine...we have so much in common. Life has dealt us all some unfair hands, but don't despair -- the Wolfman understands us.

3) Ghosts -- I don't even know if I believe in an afterlife. And for the sake of argument, supposing that there is, I'm probably just as likely to be reincarnated as a tree or an elephant or a dental hygienist as I am to become a floating, wailing, transparent specter (and for the record, if I ever did become a spirit, I wouldn't want to be a lame, nondescript-looking Casper kind of ghost; I would want to be like the ghost of Jacob Marley in Dickens' A Christmas Carol, carrying around all of those noisy, heavy chains as an eternal punishment for being such a misanthrope...it's very Sisyphean). But my cynicism and disbelief notwithstanding, I love a good ghost story. The eerier and creepier, the better. Like the lady who haunts room 219 at the local hotel because she hung herself from the shower head; or the little girl (wearing a typical Victorian-era Sunday dress, naturally) that died of tuberculosis and can be regularly seen playing hopscotch in the backyard garden of her childhood home; or the wandering hitchhiker who still appears on the shoulder of a lonely highway, accidentally struck and killed by a wayward driver on a particularly dark and rainy and slippery night. It's all bullshit. The people who insist on seeing these kind of things also happen to be the same kind of people who believe in it. Of course there are always the ones who try qualifying their stories with "Oh man, I was never the type to believe in ghosts, but there was this one time..." But if you asked them, honestly, if they believed in an afterlife or God or Christianity as a whole before their supposed sighting, they will almost always sheepishly answer, yes. In other words, they're predisposed to see ghosts. If I jump into the middle of the ocean expecting to see sharks, I'm probably gonna see something that kind of, sort of, looks like a shark. That's just how your mind is hard-wired to work. But despite my status as a relative non-believer (and I say "relative" to hedge my bets; hopefully if I remain noncommittal enough, Jesus will cut me a break and still let me into Heaven should I be wrong haha), I still find ghost stories completely fascinating. It speaks to my curious, macabre side. A really good ghost story will always make me hesitant to go the bathroom at night by myself.

4) Vampires - Kids who read copious amounts of Anne Rice novels (I'll give them Interview with the Vampire, but that's about it) are weird and ugly, but for the most part, vampires are still generally cool. But lets make a distinction here; frankly, the Hollywood version of Count Dracula -- the thin, pasty effeminate man, mincing and prancing around in a satin cape, sucking people off -- is actually kind of gay. But Vlad the Impaler, the real-life, historical figure that likely inspired Bram Stoker's novel? He was one of the baddest men ever. I stop and drop everything I'm doing whenever a documentary of his airs on the History Channel. Vlad was no joke, his favorite form of torture being impalement. Anyone who crossed his authority was sentenced to having a wooden stake driven through their body, starting at the anus and then slowly tearing its way through the their mouth. Being the kind soul that he was, Vlad was sure not too sharpen the stake too much, as to not give his victim the benefit of a quick, merciful death. He was known to watch these impalings while eating dinner, feasting on their spilled blood in a golden chalice. He probably thought it gave him supernatural power, bestowing him the strength of his fallen victim or something out-there like that. What a crazy, vampiric, maginificent psychopath that Vlad was.

5) Wendigo - This is underrated, under-appreciated darkhorse rounds out my Top 5. According to Native American mythology, anyone who consumes human flesh can suffer the mystical transformation into a Wendigo. For the Algonguin tribe of the Canadian wilderness, this myth was mostly a cautionary tale to deter people from murder and breaking taboos (the taboo in this case being canabalism). But much like the Werewolf, the Wendigo can also become a very sympathetic, tragic figure. There have also been stories of men getting lost in the woods, usually becoming incapacitated somehow, perhaps by badly spraining an ankle, falling down a deep ravine, or getting a foot caught in a bear trap. Either way, the man is completely immobilized and is unable to return to the confines of civilization. Days will pass by; soon, it'll be a week. He sustains himself on nearby berries and bugs, collecting rain water the best he can with overturned leaves. But the air is getting colder and his body is growing weaker. Someone will eventually find him, but he realizes that if he doesn't act in the mean time, he will die. So with his pocket knife in hand, he decides his only hope is eating some of his own flesh...and then, Wendigo. You feel for him because he's being punished for the natural human emotion of survival. You're horrified by the idea, but you can also identify with him because if placed in the same situation, you might actually do the same (not me though, as I'd probably just give up and die).

And these are the other monsters that didn't make the cut:

Mummies - They're like the dumber, lamer version of our standard non-Egyptian Zombie, all those stupid strips of bandages hanging everywhere. No one's afraid of being chased by King Tut. If anything, I'd be more scared of the curse that comes along with disturbing a Mummy's tomb than the actual Mummy itself. And no, I haven't seen a single one of those Brendan Fraser movies.



Dr. Frankenstein's Monster -- The ramifications of playing God, of creating life out of which there previously was no life, and then shunning that creation when it doesn't turn out to be exactly what you expected makes for a phenomenal psychological thriller (thank you Mary Shelley), but it really doesn't scare me. That scene when the Monster, desperate for human contact, finally decides to reveal himself to the family he had been watching from afar and that he had fallen in love with, only to have them recoil in horror when they see how hideous he is...that breaks my heart, but it doesn't exactly chill my bones. Oh, and if you want to sound like a pretentious bigshot know-it-all, be sure to correct anyone (smugly, of course) whenever they refer to the Monster as "Frankenstein" -- that is incorrect. The doctor who created it was named Victor Frankenstein, but the Monster itself had no name.

Bigfoot/Yetti/Abominable Snowman; Loch Ness Monster -- These fit under the same category; they're "monsters" in the same sense that Leprechauns, or the Tooth Fairy, or the Easter Bunny are "monsters." So yeah, they aren't monsters at all. There are people who actually hunt these make-believe, figments of imagination...and they all need real jobs.

Surprise

McCain chooses Gov. Sarah Palin as VP running mate

Wow. I did not see that coming at all.

It's definitely an interesting choice and I commend McCain for thinking (way) outside the box for his Vice President, but I have to question how well she meshes with the overall tone of his campaign. If the GOP's insist that Barack Obama is unqualified for office because of his age and lack of experience, what does that say about a 44-year-old, no-name Governor (of Alaska, no less; as beautiful as it may be, it's barely a U.S. state) with a practically non-existent political resume?

It's risky, but I'm always appreciative of the unconventional. This is what I'm loving about the 2008 Presidential race -- everything is so unprecedented. Keep bucking that trend, guys (and girls).

Final Jeopardy! 8/19, 8/21-8/22, 8/25-8/28 (or, I Am Falling Behind)

8/19

Category: State Capitals

Clue: One of the 2 state capitals whose name ends with the Greek word for "city."

Answer: Annapolis

Easy. Two of them got Annapolis, which is what I answered (the other possible answer being, of course, Indianapolis). The third kid was way off and thought it was Sacramento. He needs to spruce up his Greek. Socrates must be rolling around in his hemlock-infested grave.

8/21

Category: Famous Americans

Clue: In 1773 he wrote, "The heart of a fool is in his mouth, but the mouth of a wise man is in his heart."

Answer: Benjamin Franklin

This was another easy one, mostly because Benjamin Franklin was one of the few Americans who was actually writing anything at all -- let alone anything of any significance -- at that time. The concept of "American Literature" really didn't existed at such an early date. And one of my favorite things that Franklin ever wrote was the letter "Advice on the Choice of a Mistress." He argues that when choosing the right person to have an affair with, always pick an older woman over a younger girl. And he really does bring up some good points.

8/22

Category: U.S. Government History

Clue: This man cast the first tie-breaking vote in U.S. history.

Answer: John Adams.

I honestly didn't know. And I couldn't even come up with a guess in time. One of the contests just wrote down "Adams," but they couldn't accept it as a correct answer because there's two Adams' -- both John and then his son John Quincy Adams -- to distinguish from. Haha, she tried to get sneaky. And I always heard such amazing things about that John Adams TV series, but I never bothered watching it. This was mostly due to two reasons: 1) I don't have HBO, and 2) I didn't feel like it.

8/25

Category: American Thinkers

Clue: "I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude," he wrote in a chapter on solitude in an 1854 work.

Answer: Henry David Thoreau

Easy.

And, theoretically, going out and living in a cabin on Walden pond to live deliberately and suck the marrow out of life and all that transcendental stuff truly is a beautiful pursuit. But unless I get internet access in the middle of the woods, there really is no practical use to it.

8/26

Category: The 7 Wonders of the World

Clue: Philo of Byzantium called it a ploughed field "above the heads of those who walk between the columns below."

Answer: Hanging Gardens of Babylon.

I had no idea. I only knew of 2 of the 7 Wonders of the World off the top of my head -- the Great Pyramid of Giza and the statue of Zeus at Olympia -- neither of which were the right answer. Whenever there's any kind of countdown (The Old Seven Wonders of the World, the New Seven Wonders of the World, AMC's 100 Greatest Movies, Rolling Stones' Top 100 albums of all-time, etc., etc.), I always sympathize with whoever and whatever just misses the cut. After all, there really isn't any considerable difference between #100 and #101. Somewhere, Stonehenge is fuming.

8/27

Category: U.S. Presidents

Clue: Only 50 years old when he left office, he was our nation's youngest ex-President.

Answer: Theodore Roosevelt.

I didn't know the answer and I didn't realize he was so young by the time his tenure ended. I thought it was going to be one of the useless Presidents, like, oh I don't know, Rutherford B. Hayes.


8/28

Category: Famous Austrians

Clue: The home on Vienna's Domgasse where he lived in hte 1780s was reopened amid fanfare in January 2006.

Answer: Mozart.

Ahh, I should've gotten that one. And I haven't seen Amadeus in a while.

I Can Confidently Say That All I Ever Wanted To Be In Life Was A Beatle

Growing up, I wanted to be a Beatle in the very literal sense -- in that I wanted to be a famous musician. Now, as an adult, the lack of a band, an album, and any association at all with the recording industry leads me to believe that I did not become a musician. But hardly the quitting type, I still to strive to be a Beatle, this time in the very figurative sense -- in that I want to enjoy all of the other substantial (and slightly insubstantial) non-music benefits that come along with the term. At face value, a "Beatle" refers to a Liverpudlian pop sensation; but I think it's safe to say that the word has long entered our cultural lexicon as a synonym for successful. I want this to apply to myself. And I imagine that most other people, if they have any kind of drive or ambition, aspire for the same thing. We want to be Beatles. It makes perfect sense. They are pinnacle achievement, personified. Think about it -- everything they had, we want. Observe:

They were rich, we want to be rich. After a messy, prenuptial-less divorce, Paul McCartney is still practically a billionaire. And even with EMI Records and their manager Brian Epstein taking a considerable chunk of their change back in their playing days -- and then of course, splitting the final paycheck four separate ways -- they all had already amassed a sizable fortune before any of them turned 25 years old. I want that kind of cheese. I want the kind of wealth that essentially trivializes life, that makes the entire world my personal plaything. It's not just being able to have anything, it's more being able to make anything happen. Reserving an entire day at Disney World for just me and my closest friends, forcing the Olive Garden to cook me chicken fried rice and Lo Mein, visiting a zoo and taking an endangered species (is Ling-Ling the panda bear still around?) home with me as a pet...these are the perks of being that kind of rich. I imagine it's the closest thing to being omnipotent, to being God Himself -- having the authority to will anything into existence. I bet Lennon had that kind of clout.

They got laid a lot, we want to get laid a lot. This one's self-explanatory. If the prospect of sex isn't your primary reason for living, breathing, and being, then you're probably doing something wrong.

They were famous, we want to be famous. They're universally-known. I'd wager that even those African tribes who communicate with that clicking language have some kind of translation for John, Paul, George, and Ringo. People know exactly who you are even though you've never met them before in your life -- that's the ultimate self-esteem booster, that's how you know you're a somebody. I can barely begin to fathom that kind of exhilarating notoriety. I want to be a bigshot.

They had artistic credibility, we want artistic credibility. The body of their work is listener-tested, critic-approved. Their merit as artists is tried and true. They were perceived to be the best at their craft. And I know that to at least some degree, we all -- even the most practical and utilitarian amongst us -- want to create. The urge to paint, to sing, to sketch, to perform, to write, to build is intrinsic in us, it's primal. Having simply lived and died is hardly enough; artistic acclaim can go a long way in validating your existence. That album you record, that movie you film, and that fresco you paint can be tangible evidence that you made some kind of difference.

They had long hair, we want long hair. This may or may not be gender-specific, but as a guy, I understand the very simple concept that longer is more hip and shorter is less hip. There will inevitably come a time -- it's not an exact science, it could come at four or six or eight weeks; it's subject to change -- when I look in the mirror and I'll notice that my front bangs are encroaching my line of vision, the tufts around my ears start doing that little flip thing that they do, and the back gets really shaggy and starts weighing heavy on my neck. My brain thinks it's time for a trim, but what does my brain know about cool? It'd probably give me a buzz cut every few days if it could. I regret nearly every haircut I get, ultimately pining for what used to be. Just stay the course, that's the way to go.

They were innovators, we want to be innovators. Whether it's visually (the aforementioned mop-top haircuts; matching suits), compositionally (sculpting Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band as an all-encompassing concept album and consequently lifting the entire bar of standard for albums as an art form), or technically (I believe the opening of "I Feel Fine" was the first instance of amplifier feedback appearing on a recording), the Beatles are credited -- sometimes mistakingly, most of the time deservedly -- for being the first to have ever done certain things. The first, as in unprecedented. Everyone wants to create something new, be the very first to introduce brand new ways of thinking or doing. This is definitely not exclusive to artsy, flighty Liberal Arts majors; surgeons want to invent new operating room procedures, lawyers want to spearhead new legal cases, chemist want to make molecular discoveries -- basically, anyone who puts any pride in their craft eventually wants to break ground.

Astronaut, Fireman, Batman -- these are all things a lot of us say we want to be when we grow up. But that's just borne from youth and naivety. I mean, fighting fires is a noble cause, but it doesn't seem like any kind of fun to me. When we grow a little older and get a better grasp of exactly what we want out of life, we realize that what we really want to be are Beatles...and everything that comes with it. At least that's the conclusion I came to. I think it describes every possible whim I could ever have, be it inspired by the financial, superficial, artistic, or philosophical. It just kind of says it all, succinctly and completely.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Final Jeopardy! 8/18/08

Category: Shakespearean Heroines

Clue: The name of this heroine known for her filial devotion is probably derived from Latin for "heart."

Answer: Cordelia

Anything literary is obviously going to be easy for me, but it's still Teen Tournament week, so it's even easier than usual.

And poor Cordelia. She loved her father so much, and for what? Nothing. She got cheated out of any of King Lear's stuff. What a rip-off.

"I eat success for breakfast...with skim milk."

TV Guide has already tricked me a couple times.

There's a show on the Food Network called "Heavyweights." It's basically a documentary that explains how all of our biggest brand names (McDonalds, Pepsi, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, etc.) became the powerhouse institutions they are today. It's fairly interesting, but whatever, that's beside the point. What really annoys me is how whenever I see it listed, I always think it's the movie "Heavyweights," the 1995 Ben Stiller fat camp comedy. They really should do something to clear up the confusion. I like the latter so much more than the former, so it makes me run the entire gamut of emotions -- absolute delight, then sobering disappointment. It's a who's-who of young, husky Hollywood: Kenan from Kenan & Kel; Goldberg from The Mighty Ducks; and, umm, that other fat kid who randomly shows up in things sometimes. It's great.

I know the movie plays on the Disney channel every once and a while, but in the meantime, here's a compilation of all the best scenes. It'll do for now.

Holly Hox, Forget Me Nots

People are too modest when it comes to their own self-worth. Either that, or they're just excessively insecure. Whenever discussing an old acquaintance -- a friend, classmate, co-worker, whatever -- that they may have not seen in a long time, they always follow whatever they have to say about that person with the completely unnecessary qualifier of "Oh yeah, so-and-so was a really cool kid, but they probably don't remember me..."

They probably don't remember me, I doubt they still know who I am, I'm sure they've forgotten all about me. I hear this stuff all the time, but I don't see how it can ever possibly be true. At least, I hope people don't actually believe this. Hopefully they're just being paranoid. They'd be best served to stop being so hard on themselves.

Who knows, maybe I'm the weird one, maybe I'm just so much more observant and retentive than the average person. But I really doubt that. Who are all these people? And how are they (allegedly) so forgetful? I don't buy it. I wager that most people are like me; ergo, most people remember almost everything.

I can recall most things about the people I've come across in my life: names, faces, likes and dislikes, allergies, funny anecdotes, embarrassing moments. My mind is like a bear trap, snapping shut the moment I meet you; there's no escape, you're in there for good. I suppose certain things may get a little foggy over the years, some of the more obscure things like shoe size or Zodiac sign. But for the most part, the mere passage of time won't make me forget that your entire existence.

Sometimes I'm amazed at the clarity and vividity of my memories, so bright and sharp, as if they were painted in oil pastels. But then I remember that's just how our memory banks work. Sentimentality is subjective, but physiology is not; your neurological system is about as likely to forget a person, place, or thing as your cardiovascular system is to suddenly forget to make your heart beat. You're hard-wired to seize these moments and not let go. Give people some credit, they haven't forgotten you. Nothing short of brain damage (and I suppose a night out binge drinking, but that's a whole other story) would allow that to happen. And odds are, they're probably capable of telling you a lot about yourself -- more than you'd realize. Simply recalling that someone is, in fact, alive and does, in fact, exist is so rudimentary, it's the absolute bare minimum. Unless they're just that callous and cold-hearted (or perhaps, that inattentive), people have retained much more about you than you know, surely capable of reenacting entire conversations you've shared, as easily as they could recite their own phone numbers.

And I don't play favorites with my memories. Length of association, degree of friendship, level of familiarity -- I've noticed that it tends to have little to no affect on how intensely I remember someone. Best friend, prom date, playground bully, kid I met one time at a house party -- it's all about equal to me. I even have deep recesses of my mind that I save specifically for lasting memorials of random strangers I see on the street. Maybe I'm overlooking one or two instances (and I doubt that I am), but I can't think of a single time when someone's told me that they knew exactly who I am and that I wasn't able to completely reciprocate the favor. I may specialize in the minutia of day to day life, but I'm not alone. People are like sponges, soaking in everything they come in contact with. I know that everyone is touched/entertained/haunted by the thought of the things they've seen, just as much as I am.

The misconception that "they probably don't remember me..." is weak and groveling. It's a cop-out, because unless we're dealing with an Alzheimer's patient, it isn't true. You're doing both people a disservice; you're short-changing their ability to retain very fundamental information, and you're short-changing your own ability to make lifelong impressions on people that have met you. Haha, get confident, stupid.

Final Jeopardy! 8/14/08

Category: African Americans

Clue: As U.S. Solicitor General in the 1960s, he won 14 of the 19 cases he argued before the Supreme Court.

Answer: Thurgood Marshall

Whoops, I was wrong. I thought it was Clarence Thomas.

And on the subject of Thomas, the first two things that always come to mind for me are pubes and Coca-Cola.

These Are The Games of the XXIX Olympiad

My scattered, trivial thoughts on the 2008 Beijing Olympics thus far:

- I would hardly consider water polo a sport that's respected and revered amongst most people, but it's actually really fun to watch. And I imagine even more fun to play. The match between U.S.A and China was really exciting.

- The "Redeem Team" beat Angola 97-76 the other day, and D-Wade led the team in scoring again with 19 points. After all the problems with his knee and shoulder the past couple of years, it's a great to see he has his trademark lift back. He's running and jumping so effortlessly again. It looks like he's definitely got the spring in his legs back.

- I wonder what the monetary value of a gold medal is? I imagine that's a serious piece of cheddar hanging from their necks.

- I love the Olympic theme song. I can't even get mad when NBC takes a commercial break -- I'm still unsure of how I feel about the new Free Credit Report commercial; I've only seen it once, so I'm gonna have to look it up and YouTube and peep it a couple more times before I can fairly judge -- because that just means I'll get to hear it again. It's so inspirational. There's just something so visceral about it, stirring up competitive emotions at the very core of your being. It makes me want to mount a pommel horse. And if it isn't his nickname already, we really need to start referring to composer John Williams as "The Hitmaker."

- I'm biased because I'm a sucker for Asian graphics -- walking into an Asian supermarket, I want to buy everything I see, and not because I'm particularly fond of fermented shrimp paste, but because I love the awesome crazy cartoon character on the jar -- the Beijing mascots are infinitely better than the mascot we designed for the 1996 Olympics in Atlanta. I mean, the Whatizit? Ugh, we have no taste.

- I cannot wait for the Men's 100-meter final. Tyson Gay can become "The Fastest Man Alive." That's seriously one of the illest nicknames imaginable. I used to be really fast when I was little, then I got slow in my teens, and now I've kind of leveled off at what I guess could be considered slightly above average speed. So clearly, I never fulfilled my aspirations to be a world-renowned track star. But if I did, I would've done it up O.G. like Michael Johnson, running my meets while wearing a gold necklace and gold shoes.

- About that Iranian swimmer who refused to compete against an Israeli swimmer...come on guy, give it a rest. It's the Olympics, two measly weeks every four years. It'd be nice to see petty rivalries take at least a brief respite. But I guess that's what raving mad fanaticism and political posturing does -- on top of clouding all sense of honor and rationality, it also ruins good sportsmanship, too. And here's the thing, if you hate a nation that badly, compete against them and beat them. That's how you're supposed to do it.

- I love the Olympics, and if you don't, it's probably because you run like a girl.

- Today, I heard the Caesars' "Jerk It Out" twice, once when I was at Pasquale's for lunch and then again playing over the PA system during the Men's beach volleyball match against Argentina. It's nothing important, but I just thought that was a neat coincidence after not hearing that song one time over what's probably been years now.

- A friend of mine said that Michael Phelps is "like a shark when he's in the water." Yeah, pretty much.

- These particular competitors are obviously experts, but do children normally practice archery? Like in P.E. class, or at those secluded sleep away summer camps in the woods? I don't know if they actually do, or if this it's a misconception that I've dreamed up. Or maybe it's just TV, because I remember a couple of episodes of Salute Your Shorts that showed some of the campers casually using bows and arrows. I know that I wouldn't want to be within 1,000 feet of any stupid kid shooting off arrows.

- This doesn't apply so much to Kobe Bryant and LeBron James because they're established household names already, but it amazes me that for most Olympic athletes, this is the absolute pinnacle of all their hard work. Sure, there's stuff to do inbetween -- training, preliminaries, qualifying tournaments, etc., etc. -- but they essentially live for these two weeks of competition, and that alone. Their only opportunity for self-actualization comes once every four years. That's gotta take an unbelievable amount of sacrifice and discipline.

- I don't know an awful lot about architecture (other than that I don't really like Frank Lloyd Wright), but the Bird's Nest and the Water Cube are awesome.

- There's something so calming and reassuring about Bob Costas. His presence on camera puts you at ease. If I were on my deathbed, I would want him to read my last rites. It's as if he were built specifically for television, which makes sense because he kind of looks like an android.

Final Jeopardy! 8/12/08

It's Teen Tournament week, so most of the questions are fairly easy. But if nothing else, I guess it helps dumb people boost their self-esteem...

Category: Characters in Books

Clue: This character says, "It's Christmas Day! I haven't missed it. The spirits have done it all in one night."

Answer: Ebenezer Scrooge

Yeah, no kidding.

And while A Tale of Two Cities, David Copperfield, and Great Expectations get all of the critical acclaim, A Christmas Carol is easily my favorite Charles Dickens novel.

And I love both the Disney and the Muppets adaptations of it.

What I Had For Lunch 8/12/08

Pepperoni pizza from Pasquale's.

There aren't too many individual words in the English language that can be combined to make a phrase that arouses so much deep-rooted, guttural euphoria in all of us than "pizza" and "party." I'm a full grown adult now, but just the thought of one still makes me smile like a madman.

On Legacy

There's been lots of talk on legacies between friends lately -- take a look at Angelica's blog post here -- and I feel I have more to add to the conversation:

I need a group of personal acquaintances (friends, family, lovers, co-workers, neighbors, classmates, rivals) to contribute to my posthumous biography. I'll need them to provide the standard biographical requirements of a documentary -- thoughts, opinions, anecdotes -- but it's important for them to not excessively gush over me and not exclusively sing my praises. I don't need them all to wax poetic on how nice, caring, talented, loving, generous, and wonderful that I (supposedly) was. I'm sure my Mom could provide all of that on her lonesome. But too much of that mushy, saccharine stuff would be boring. I don't want this to be a eulogy; I want a fair and brutally candid account of my life.

What I really need is people who resented me, begrudged me, hated my guts. They'll have to be passionate about their disdain, willingly voicing their complaints both in print and on camera. If I'm lucky, maybe a TV crew (I'm thinking this could air on the History Channel) can get shots of them desecrating my grave. They'll cast doubt on my public perception, blurring what would otherwise be a pristine image, forcing future generations to decide if I were an artist or a scumbag or both.

I'm interested in getting a wide spectrum of negative opinion, running the entire gamut. I'll need these people (and I'd like to thank them all in advance, from the bottom of my heart) to corroborate the fact that I was mean, weird, condescending, creepy, distant, overrated, cold-hearted, petty, and just the tiniest little bit mentally ill.

They'll have to recount personal stories of their past experiences with me. I've already scripted the perfect fictional anecdotes, so hopefully they'll be, more or less, similar to these:

A neighbor: "I don't remember ever seeing him go outside during the day. His house was always so eerily quiet, like a tomb, like a mausoleum right in the middle of a suburban cul-de-sac. I don't think I can even recall ever waving to him through the window, his blinds were always sealed shut. I'd notice that his car would be gone sometimes, his newspaper picked up, and his garbage cans dragged to the curb. So he obviously came out sometime, I'd just never actually see it. I thought that was strange."

An ex-girlfriend: "Yeah, we had a fun together, but he was kind of cheap."

A former friend: "He had this annoying habit of making plans, and then breaking them off at the last second. We were supposed to see a movie or grab a bite to eat, then something would come up and he wouldn't be able to make it. And he'd do this habitually. It happened a lot. I secretly presumed that he did this on purpose. It's as if he got off on being a flake and messing with people. Either that, or he had some weird social phobia."

Another former friend: "I remember one time he got this really bad haircut. They took too much off. I jokingly told him that it looked retarded, just goofing on him, just busting his balls a little bit. And he got really mad about that! I don't know why he took it so personally. And here's the funny thing: he never spoke to me again after that. Let's just think about that for a second, he held a lifetime grudge over a stupid joke."

A co-worker: "He was always late for work. It'd be, like, 15-20 minutes after the hour and he'd just be pulling into the parking lot. Under any other circumstance, I wouldn't care what he does. It's a free country. He's the one running the chance of getting fired, not me. But with the way our system was set up, one person would always have to relieve another person. If you wanted to clock out, someone else would have to clock in...y'know, pretty typical stuff. And of course, I'd always get stuck working the shift that ended just as his shift started. I'd confront him about it, but he'd just mutter some half-hearted apology about traffic being bad or something other lie. He was actually a pretty fun guy to work with, it's just this one habit of his was so rude and inconsiderate."

Another ex-girlfriend: "He never complimented me on anything. I was never pretty enough, or thin enough, or smart enough. And whenever he did say something nice to me, it always seemed insincere. Like he was mocking me, like he was secretly laughing at my expense to some inside joke that he had with himself. It was actually very hurtful. It was really fun breaking up with him."

A classmate: "He had such a high opinion of himself. He thought he was this incredible writer -- like he was the next Fitzgerald or Faulkner -- but to be honest, he was kind of a hack. Now he was decent, don't get me wrong, but not nearly as innovative and original as he thought he was. It's, like, whenever he'd pitch to us this great new idea for a novel he wanted to write, it was basically just a rip-off of The Catcher in the Rye; whenever he had a new idea for a screenplay, it was basically just a rip-off of Garden State. Heh, it's funny, the only thing he ever seemed capable of doing back then was that stereotypical 20-something-year-old coming-of-age story...and it was always based on something else that'd already been done. And I don't want this to seem like sour grapes, I'm glad he became successful. Some of his stuff is okay. But shit, he was pretentious."

The stories have to be incriminating. They have to be kind of funny, kind of pathetic, kind of disturbing. They'll cast me in a light not made up of stark whites and blacks, but more muddled shades of gray. This is exactly why Tom Hanks isn't an interesting human being. He's adored by all. Everyone loves him. I don't think I've ever heard an associate of Hanks' relate a single story of him ever resisting arrest, or cheating on his wife, or getting into a barroom fist fight. His record is so spotless, his character so beyond reproach, that I bet you'd be hard-pressed to find an old kindergarten classmate that could admit something as harmless as him eating paste as a kid. I'd hate for that to happen to me, to be a historical footnote that has no other points of interest other than being a historical footnote. I don't want to be Tom Hanks.

But I also want to make this clear: I don't want to be a monster. I don't want to be despised by the public. I want my fame to be laced with infamy...but just a little. I'd be crushed if any of this were allowed to overshadow my life's work. My name is important to me and I'd hate for it to be ruined. Take Joseph Conrad for example; he wrote Heart of Darkness, Chance, and Lord Jim and yet his lasting impression among many scholarly circles is that of an unapologetic racist, someone who believed one group of people (namely, his own) held genetic superiority over everyone else's...now that really sucks, that really is a shame. Being a jerk or a recluse or an eccentric shouldn't be my legacy, it should simply be one small chapter to it. That'd defeat the whole purpose. Cutting nose off, spiting face...you're familiar with the old saying. I'd hate for my maladjustment to consume me. First and foremost, my accomplishments take precedence. And any other quirks I may have are supplementary.

A Table For One

Seeing someone eat dinner alone is sad.

I've been witness to sadder things in my life -- loved ones laid into the ground, buried; Requiem for a Dream; ex-girlfriends holding hands that aren't mine. And there are other things I haven't necessarily seen firsthand that I can confidently wager are also much sadder -- citizen casualties of war; slaughterhouses and meat packing plants; the Rwandan genocide. But I don't think that makes a table-for-one any less depressing.

And make no mistake, it's definitely a shallow kind of sad. It's the kind of sad that's brought on by reading too many books, growing up in the suburbs, daydreaming too often, studying too much poetry, being too observant, thinking too much. It's something that bothers the kind of person who spends too much time in their own head. There are no tangible consequences, no catastrophic fallout, from a person sitting down to a meal by themselves. But for the oversensitive among us, you might as well tell us our that our childhood family dog was hit by a cement truck.

I just saw this today at Applebee's (a very quick aside, I hate Applebee's. It's food's lowest common denominator. I ordered the overcooked steak; it sucked. And it isn't like it's the only chain restaurant that serves painfully-generic Middle American dishes and sticks stupid, random junk on the wall...it's just the one that does it the worst). At the table next to me, a man -- older, slightly overweight, a tucked-in button-down shirt and slacks, suspenders, pocket protector with pens -- was seated by his lonesome. This immediately made me feel bad. I started to lose my appetite. Many questions raced through my mind: who will he speak to? Who will he share his food with? Who will protect his plate from being cleared if he goes to the bathroom? And how will he possibly explain himself to co-workers who see him on their way out and ask him why he doesn't have any company?

As I always do in these situations, I eavesdropped on his order (he got the bacon cheeseburgers with fries), took note of the expression on his face when his food arrived, and discreetly watched him out of the corner of my eye as he ate. I always want to see if they order something good, if they look genuinely excited when their plate is placed in front of them, and most importantly, if they appear to thoroughly enjoy their meal. This is like consolation for me; if they're having a good time, I theoretically shouldn't feel so bad. But it rarely ever comforts me.

Obviously people eat alone. If not, they'd starve. Restaurants have single seating at the bar, have those individual swivel chairs at the counter (like at Denny's, for example). So there's an expectation that eventually someone, somewhere, will sit down to lunch or dinner without companionship. That contingency was clearly accounted for, built right into the blueprint of the building. But that doesn't make me any more predisposed to go along with it. I won't do it. I'd rather make dinner plans with someone I don't much care for, sparing myself the shame and humiliation. I'd rather order the food to-go, take it home and eat where the couch or TV or microwave isn't likely to judge me. And if it absolutely came down to it, I'd rather go to bed hungry, promising to treat myself to an extra-big bowl of cereal in the morning for breakfast.

When you're seated by yourself and look out across the table, the closest thing to human contact that you'll see in front of you is the back of the person sitting at the next table over -- there's just something that seems so hollow about that. And I'd like to distinguish that there is a difference between being seated alone by a hostess at a sit-down restaurant and simply choosing to quickly eat a meal on your own, like sitting down on a park bench with a brown-bagged lunch or stopping by the cafeteria real fast inbetween classes. Somehow, the latter is just a lot less pathetic.

And all of this is ironic because I do plenty of things on my own. Playing basketball, sitting and reading at the library, taking a walk -- I do this stuff by myself all the time. I'm extremely self-sufficient, very independent. I would go as far as saying I love solitude. I'm my own favorite person, so I don't otherwise have any objection with spending as much time with myself as I can. But it just so happens, for one reason or another, eating is one of the very few activities (one of the others being watching movies at the theater) that I'd rather do with a friend.

If You Can't Beat Him, Sign Him

Pennington signs deal with Dolphins

Great move. Our team has improved overnight. Chad Pennington is a better quarterback than anyone currently on our roster -- Josh McCown wasn't able to hold down a job in Oakland, Detroit, and Arizona...three teams that could have desperately used a QB; John Beck has struggled all throughout training camp; and Chad Henne is still just a rookie -- and he's a lock to start for us from Day One.

He's a little injury prone and has a weak arm (he can't get much zip or much velocity on 20-yard out patterns), but those are about the only criticisms that I can come up with. Otherwise, he contributes a lot to the team: renowned leadership abilities, pinpoint accuracy, is a longtime starter in this league, has the endorsed approval of Bill Parcells (he was the one who drafted him out of Marshall), is experienced with Dan Henning's slow-and-steady run-based offense, very cerebral with a keen understanding of X's and O's.

He's unspectacular, but steady. And that's an upgrade for us. I can't wait until he memorizes the playbook and gets up to speed with the rest of the offense.

Twice a year, every year, Pennington would convert a 3rd-and-long by connecting with Wayne Cherbet in the flat, or hit a streaking Laverneas Coles down the sideline for a game-winning touchdown. But now, thankfully and mercifully, I'll never have to see that again. I have been spared.

What I Had For Lunch 8/9/08

Hardshell tacos (two ground beef, one chicken) with yellow rice and refried beans, leftover Subway (club sandwich) with potato chips, and pancakes for dessert.

I was starved to death.