If you go to a MegaGym like I do with Megasized Locker rooms and you've ever been MegaFrustrated trying to find which locker you put your stuff in... here's an idea for you.
Take some red or brightly-colored nail polish, and paint a happy face on your lock. Two eyes on top (duh!) and a smile on the bottom.
I honestly have NO idea what originally possessed me to try this, but let me just say, it's turned out to be wonderfully helpful. Plus, even after all these months, I still smile whenever I pull my lock out of my gym bag :-)
Wednesday, January 15, 2003
Monday, January 13, 2003
Racism, victimhood, and American culture
People wonder why middle-class black students still have these low grades and scores. There's no reason to wonder. Part of it is that there's an element in black culture that is a legacy of racism, and another part of it is that there's no reason for that to go away, because everywhere a black person turns, they're given a pass. That has to stop.
- John McWhorter quoted in an interview with Salon.com
Within the span of a few pages, McWhorter shuns prominent black leaders, shoots down affirmative action, calls Britney Spears black, and much, much more.
He does not hold back, and his interview makes for both fascinating and frustrating reading.
On one hand, at least some of McWhorter's assertions make a lot of sense. Wouldn't it be more logical, after all, providing college scholarships to a poor white kid with uneducated parents over a well-off black kid whose dad is a doctor?
But on the other hand, McWhorter is quick to offer criticisms but ultimately unable to come up with much in the way of solutions on his own. And indeed, it's neither a sign of bravery or brilliance to question the character and 'leadership' of folks like Al Sharpton, even from a fellow black.
McWhorter's basic message -- that blacks need to move beyond victimhood and take personal responsibility for their success -- certainly has substantial merit. But without attention paid to equally deep and related issues, McWhorter's sentiments seem to be as stark and painful as a diagnosis without a prescription.
Pagination... oh boy oh boy! :D
This blog is now paginated! In non-geekspeak, that means that from the front page or any category page, you can 'go back' in time by following links to page 2, 3, etc., until you reach the last entry in that section!
I know this may seem like a 'duh' kind of thing, but in the world of blogs, it's surprisingly revolutionary!
You'll see the new 'navigation' system on the top and bottom of all blog pages. Let me know what you think (about this or anything else BLADAMwise!)
Oh, and I added a goofy-fun "Who said this?" feature on the right-hand side. Scroll down :-)
I know this may seem like a 'duh' kind of thing, but in the world of blogs, it's surprisingly revolutionary!
You'll see the new 'navigation' system on the top and bottom of all blog pages. Let me know what you think (about this or anything else BLADAMwise!)
Oh, and I added a goofy-fun "Who said this?" feature on the right-hand side. Scroll down :-)
Sunday, January 12, 2003
Senior moment(s)
This is really embarrassing.
A friend of mine told me today, "Janice said hi!"
I blinked. "Janice? Uh... I'm really drawing a blank here."
"You know, Janice from New Hampshire! She hung out with you last Sunday, or maybe it was the Sunday before... red hair, really great body... she even referred to you by full name!"
I sometimes barely remember what I did a couple of days ago, much less a week or two ago... but forgetting someone like that? And how would she know my full name anyway? It's not like I introduce myself to dancers that way, or many other folks, for that matter.
I don't know whether I'm more annoyed or worried about this. I'm 31. I shouldn't be going senile yet. Sure, I meet a lot of people while dancing, but given that this one knows my full name and specifically told a friend of mine to say hi, I'd say that it seems like I'm losing it. Ack. I really need to take my vitamins more often, I guess. That and get more sleep.
A friend of mine told me today, "Janice said hi!"
I blinked. "Janice? Uh... I'm really drawing a blank here."
"You know, Janice from New Hampshire! She hung out with you last Sunday, or maybe it was the Sunday before... red hair, really great body... she even referred to you by full name!"
I sometimes barely remember what I did a couple of days ago, much less a week or two ago... but forgetting someone like that? And how would she know my full name anyway? It's not like I introduce myself to dancers that way, or many other folks, for that matter.
I don't know whether I'm more annoyed or worried about this. I'm 31. I shouldn't be going senile yet. Sure, I meet a lot of people while dancing, but given that this one knows my full name and specifically told a friend of mine to say hi, I'd say that it seems like I'm losing it. Ack. I really need to take my vitamins more often, I guess. That and get more sleep.
Saturday, January 11, 2003
Who's on first? Gas is on second.
I decided to Do the Right Thing and avoid lazily making myself a frozen dinner tonight. Instead, I whipped out various spices, veggies, and knives, and decided to make a grand creation in my very own oven.
Ten minutes after throwing this soon-to-be-delicious tray into the oven (which was shocked to see something that WASN'T a frozen pizza!), something prompted me to check on it, and bo and lehold, it wasn't the slightest bit hot.
And yes, I had remembered to turn on the oven!
And whew... I could smell the unlit gas, too. Blech.
But this was just the start of my troubles.
Figuring that it was just a pilot light problem, I got down on my knees with whatever-you-call-that-funky-flame-thrower-lighter-thingie, determined to show the oven who was boss.
Apparently I was demoted.
My roommate had no better luck. We both spotted what LOOKED like the right thing to light, but it wasn't lighting.
We knew that we had three choices: Call a repairperson (expensive), call our landlord (who'd return our call, if we were lucky, a few weeks later), or call PG&E, our local utility company. We opted for the latter.
Figuring that we might just have some sort of blocked gas pipe leading into the oven, I though it was worth having someone from PG&E take a look... especially since there was always the possibility -- albeit remote -- that there was a gas leak somewhere.
To my surprise, they agreed to send someone out this evening. They couldn't give me a time, but hey, I wasn't planning on going out anyway. I was exhausted from a heavy workout at the gym, and never did get my nap in, so I was happy to stay in and take it easy.
By the time midnight rolled around, though, I was getting dang tired, and my roommate had already decided to turn in, since she has her church (singing) gig in the morning. I called PG&E to ask what was up.
ME: I assumed that "tonight" meant sometime before midnight. Can you give me an estimate of when I can expect to see someone here?
PG&E: Uh, sorry, sir, we don't have any additional info. But someone should be there tonight.
Sighing, I realized that I wasn't getting any additional info from them, so I hung up.
An hour later, I had finally had enough. I figured if our apartment hadn't gone kaboom yet today, we could safely wait until sometime tomorrow. So I called PG&E back to reschedule the visit.
ME: Hi, I'd like to have a service visit rescheduled, please. [requisite providing of info, blah blah blah]
PG&E: I'm sorry, sir, we can't do that. You reported something to us that could be a potential gas leak, and for liability reasons, we can't come tomorrow.
ME: Liability reasons? What do you mean?
PG&E: Well, sir, if something happened overnight after a postponement of service, we would be liable for the accident. This is considered an emergency due to the nature of a gas leak.
ME: But if it was really an emergency, you'd have had someone here 6 hours ago, now, wouldn't you?
PG&E: Well, sir, yours is considered a class 20 emergency. If it had been a class 10 emergency, we would have gotten someone there sooner.
ME: Okay, okay. Um, so when can I expect someone here then?
PG&E: Hmm... let's see... well, it's looking like probably sometime tomorrow. But I can't say when. Maybe morningtime?
ME, looking for object to bang my head against: Okay, so you're telling me I can't reschedule for tomorrow, but in all likelihood, no one is coming until tomorrow. Fine. Could you at least have someone call as they're leaving to come here, so I can get out of bed if necessary?
PG&E: No, I'm sorry, we cannot do that. Given your potential gas leak, you should under no circumstances be using the phone because of the possibility of sparks igniting, and so we would be liable if we called you.
...
I think I'm going to go back to microwaving frozen dinners.
Ten minutes after throwing this soon-to-be-delicious tray into the oven (which was shocked to see something that WASN'T a frozen pizza!), something prompted me to check on it, and bo and lehold, it wasn't the slightest bit hot.
And yes, I had remembered to turn on the oven!
And whew... I could smell the unlit gas, too. Blech.
But this was just the start of my troubles.
Figuring that it was just a pilot light problem, I got down on my knees with whatever-you-call-that-funky-flame-thrower-lighter-thingie, determined to show the oven who was boss.
Apparently I was demoted.
My roommate had no better luck. We both spotted what LOOKED like the right thing to light, but it wasn't lighting.
We knew that we had three choices: Call a repairperson (expensive), call our landlord (who'd return our call, if we were lucky, a few weeks later), or call PG&E, our local utility company. We opted for the latter.
Figuring that we might just have some sort of blocked gas pipe leading into the oven, I though it was worth having someone from PG&E take a look... especially since there was always the possibility -- albeit remote -- that there was a gas leak somewhere.
To my surprise, they agreed to send someone out this evening. They couldn't give me a time, but hey, I wasn't planning on going out anyway. I was exhausted from a heavy workout at the gym, and never did get my nap in, so I was happy to stay in and take it easy.
By the time midnight rolled around, though, I was getting dang tired, and my roommate had already decided to turn in, since she has her church (singing) gig in the morning. I called PG&E to ask what was up.
ME: I assumed that "tonight" meant sometime before midnight. Can you give me an estimate of when I can expect to see someone here?
PG&E: Uh, sorry, sir, we don't have any additional info. But someone should be there tonight.
Sighing, I realized that I wasn't getting any additional info from them, so I hung up.
An hour later, I had finally had enough. I figured if our apartment hadn't gone kaboom yet today, we could safely wait until sometime tomorrow. So I called PG&E back to reschedule the visit.
ME: Hi, I'd like to have a service visit rescheduled, please. [requisite providing of info, blah blah blah]
PG&E: I'm sorry, sir, we can't do that. You reported something to us that could be a potential gas leak, and for liability reasons, we can't come tomorrow.
ME: Liability reasons? What do you mean?
PG&E: Well, sir, if something happened overnight after a postponement of service, we would be liable for the accident. This is considered an emergency due to the nature of a gas leak.
ME: But if it was really an emergency, you'd have had someone here 6 hours ago, now, wouldn't you?
PG&E: Well, sir, yours is considered a class 20 emergency. If it had been a class 10 emergency, we would have gotten someone there sooner.
ME: Okay, okay. Um, so when can I expect someone here then?
PG&E: Hmm... let's see... well, it's looking like probably sometime tomorrow. But I can't say when. Maybe morningtime?
ME, looking for object to bang my head against: Okay, so you're telling me I can't reschedule for tomorrow, but in all likelihood, no one is coming until tomorrow. Fine. Could you at least have someone call as they're leaving to come here, so I can get out of bed if necessary?
PG&E: No, I'm sorry, we cannot do that. Given your potential gas leak, you should under no circumstances be using the phone because of the possibility of sparks igniting, and so we would be liable if we called you.
...
I think I'm going to go back to microwaving frozen dinners.
Drinking and causality
Here's info on yet another report that suggests drinking is good for one's health. Though far be it from me to protest the conclusions, I do have to admit to lingering doubts surrounding issues of correlation and causality.
It seems to me, frankly, that people who have the interest, time, and money to engage in moderate nightly drinking are probably those more apt to lead generally healthy lifestyles and have more positive outlooks in life.
For instance, so much has been made about the French having fewer heart attacks than Americans, and wine consumption is usually the 'reason' cited. But did it ever occur to folks that maybe the French have fewer heart attacks than we do because they're simply less stressed? After all, they've traditionally enjoyed delightfully long, lingering social meals... no doubt in part because their culture doesn't look kindly upon 80 hour work weeks, either.
Perhaps these alcohol / heart attack studies took stress levels into consideration, but if not, I'd seriously question their conclusions.
It seems to me, frankly, that people who have the interest, time, and money to engage in moderate nightly drinking are probably those more apt to lead generally healthy lifestyles and have more positive outlooks in life.
For instance, so much has been made about the French having fewer heart attacks than Americans, and wine consumption is usually the 'reason' cited. But did it ever occur to folks that maybe the French have fewer heart attacks than we do because they're simply less stressed? After all, they've traditionally enjoyed delightfully long, lingering social meals... no doubt in part because their culture doesn't look kindly upon 80 hour work weeks, either.
Perhaps these alcohol / heart attack studies took stress levels into consideration, but if not, I'd seriously question their conclusions.
Sort of bad days, lindy like, and unrequited "like" like
Today was not a good day.
I rolled out of bed late and already cranky, since taking melatonin apparently succeeded in making me have vivid not-so-nice dreams and sleep fitfully throughout the night
Not long after arising, I had a phone conversation with a friend of mine -- who, bless her heart -- meant well but was disarmingly blunt. After inquiring about the possibility of working at her company, she told me that they get 800-1000 resumes PER DAY and that I'd have no chance in hell of even being seriously considered for a position there. I applied anyway, dammit.
Apparently out of masochism, I looked at my bank balance online. Well, at least it wasn't negative. Close, but not quite. But let's just say I better get a job soon. Or learn how to rob banks. Or marry rich. Or to be on the financially safe side, perhaps all of the above.
When it was time for me to attend the "9:20 Special" lindy hop dance I usually frequent on Thursday nights, I was none too eager to go. From past experience, when I'm already having a particularly bad day, I tend to sadly carry this with me into dancing... acting shy and basically sulking in a corner.
Unsurprisingly, my evening at the 9:20 began just like that. I went in, faking a smile, and sat in the corner, preparing to have a lousy time.
I failed. Despite getting stuck briefly with the follow from hell during a snowball, I ended up having a darn good time against my will. Within moments of sitting down, I already had one fine follow ask me to dance. Shortly after that, another one. One particularly stunning follow that I hadn't seen before thanked me for the dance and smiled "That was wonderful!" Another hugged me after I proudly pulled off a decently challenging up-tempo dance and gushed, "That was awesome! I love your style!"
I was reminded that -- at least on my on nights -- I may not be publicly loved, but I'm at least well-liked. And while I was a bit jealous watching throngs of women fighting over the chance to dance with one of the birthday boys (my jam suffered from, ahem, some rather dry spells in contrast), I was and still am grateful that I can still make quite a few women smile in an evening.
After calling it quits around midnight, I ended up walking a particularly talented and attractive woman ("Lucida") to her car and we ended up having the following exchange that, among other things, reminded me of just how much I miss college.
LUCIDA: I'm not going to meet guys anywhere else [other than at Lindy Hop events], I mean, what else do I do? I'm not a bar girl.
ME: Really? I mean, in contrast, you know I'm a total bar stud. Major bar player material.
LUCIDA, almost tripping over herself in laughter: Uh, yeah Adam, riiiiiight! But seriously, I haven't been single in five years. FIVE YEARS! And these guys that ask me... I never know if they like me, or they just want to get into my pants.
[It was incredibly tempting to run with this, but I thankfully resisted saying something crude and stupid.]
ME: Okay, I know what your problem is. You've got to quit being a lazy ass... time for YOU to start doing the asking.
LUCIDA: I do! But none of the guys I like... like me back. It's really hard, you know? Well, I liked this one guy, but he was a jerk. Jerk!
[Once again, the cynical me was sorely tempted to pantomime some violins. The girl's not been single in 5 years, and she's whining about a comparatively short dry spell? Gimme a break.]
ME: I know what you mean. Sometimes you really like someone in the lindy scene... you know, a crush or whatever... and then you get to know them, and you go, damn, what was I THINKING?!
Lucida paused for a moment that -- to me, at least -- felt like an eternity.
There was, indeed, a delicious irony of my statement... since I, like every other guy *I* know of, had a crush on her until realizing that it was a hopeless cause.
But she didn't catch this, right?
If she had, though, I bet she was amused in an Alanis Morrisette kind of way.
And now we were at her car.
"Thanks," she said, non-commitally.
"Goodnight, Lucida."
I wonder if she's as self-aware as I am whenever I'm dancing with her or sometimes even talking to her. She's not my type. I'm not her type. We don't even dance well together. I don't even have fantasies about her, because I think I'd internally chuckle at the incongruity of the idea before getting too excited.
But that doesn't matter. I still say stupid things to her (yes, much stupider than apparent from the exchange above)... like a tongue-tied school boy. The antithesis of Mr. Suave... Mr. D'oh!
Maybe that's even worse than being Mr. Cellophane. Hmm.
I rolled out of bed late and already cranky, since taking melatonin apparently succeeded in making me have vivid not-so-nice dreams and sleep fitfully throughout the night
Not long after arising, I had a phone conversation with a friend of mine -- who, bless her heart -- meant well but was disarmingly blunt. After inquiring about the possibility of working at her company, she told me that they get 800-1000 resumes PER DAY and that I'd have no chance in hell of even being seriously considered for a position there. I applied anyway, dammit.
Apparently out of masochism, I looked at my bank balance online. Well, at least it wasn't negative. Close, but not quite. But let's just say I better get a job soon. Or learn how to rob banks. Or marry rich. Or to be on the financially safe side, perhaps all of the above.
When it was time for me to attend the "9:20 Special" lindy hop dance I usually frequent on Thursday nights, I was none too eager to go. From past experience, when I'm already having a particularly bad day, I tend to sadly carry this with me into dancing... acting shy and basically sulking in a corner.
Unsurprisingly, my evening at the 9:20 began just like that. I went in, faking a smile, and sat in the corner, preparing to have a lousy time.
I failed. Despite getting stuck briefly with the follow from hell during a snowball, I ended up having a darn good time against my will. Within moments of sitting down, I already had one fine follow ask me to dance. Shortly after that, another one. One particularly stunning follow that I hadn't seen before thanked me for the dance and smiled "That was wonderful!" Another hugged me after I proudly pulled off a decently challenging up-tempo dance and gushed, "That was awesome! I love your style!"
I was reminded that -- at least on my on nights -- I may not be publicly loved, but I'm at least well-liked. And while I was a bit jealous watching throngs of women fighting over the chance to dance with one of the birthday boys (my jam suffered from, ahem, some rather dry spells in contrast), I was and still am grateful that I can still make quite a few women smile in an evening.
After calling it quits around midnight, I ended up walking a particularly talented and attractive woman ("Lucida") to her car and we ended up having the following exchange that, among other things, reminded me of just how much I miss college.
LUCIDA: I'm not going to meet guys anywhere else [other than at Lindy Hop events], I mean, what else do I do? I'm not a bar girl.
ME: Really? I mean, in contrast, you know I'm a total bar stud. Major bar player material.
LUCIDA, almost tripping over herself in laughter: Uh, yeah Adam, riiiiiight! But seriously, I haven't been single in five years. FIVE YEARS! And these guys that ask me... I never know if they like me, or they just want to get into my pants.
[It was incredibly tempting to run with this, but I thankfully resisted saying something crude and stupid.]
ME: Okay, I know what your problem is. You've got to quit being a lazy ass... time for YOU to start doing the asking.
LUCIDA: I do! But none of the guys I like... like me back. It's really hard, you know? Well, I liked this one guy, but he was a jerk. Jerk!
[Once again, the cynical me was sorely tempted to pantomime some violins. The girl's not been single in 5 years, and she's whining about a comparatively short dry spell? Gimme a break.]
ME: I know what you mean. Sometimes you really like someone in the lindy scene... you know, a crush or whatever... and then you get to know them, and you go, damn, what was I THINKING?!
Lucida paused for a moment that -- to me, at least -- felt like an eternity.
There was, indeed, a delicious irony of my statement... since I, like every other guy *I* know of, had a crush on her until realizing that it was a hopeless cause.
But she didn't catch this, right?
If she had, though, I bet she was amused in an Alanis Morrisette kind of way.
And now we were at her car.
"Thanks," she said, non-commitally.
"Goodnight, Lucida."
I wonder if she's as self-aware as I am whenever I'm dancing with her or sometimes even talking to her. She's not my type. I'm not her type. We don't even dance well together. I don't even have fantasies about her, because I think I'd internally chuckle at the incongruity of the idea before getting too excited.
But that doesn't matter. I still say stupid things to her (yes, much stupider than apparent from the exchange above)... like a tongue-tied school boy. The antithesis of Mr. Suave... Mr. D'oh!
Maybe that's even worse than being Mr. Cellophane. Hmm.
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