It Ain't what You Thought

The thing I'm gonna complain about now that I'm in Wheaton, that is. Thanks to those of you who placed bets on this one--thanks for your confidence in my ever-loving optimism--but I won't complain about the weather. Understand that for the past two weeks I have loved the weather.

#1 complaint about Wheaton so far.....................................Nobody freakin' says "bless you" when you sneeze! I sneeze all the time, in many varied circumstances and surroundings, so I feel my experience has been rather scientific, and I'll be darned if I've gotten more than one or two "bless you"s since I've been here. Would somebody please explain this disturbing phenomenon? Rob? Josh? Anyone?

Get Your Spoon Memorabilia Here

Do you need a Boss audio mixer/recorder? A gently used TV? A twin bed (or two)? How 'bout a JVC stereo receiver? I don't need 'em anymore; I'm moving to Wheaton--a place where space is limited. I'm selling all my crap today (Sat) from 8-5. VIPs by appointment after hours. Call me for directions.

Very Nice!

If I had money to spend and felt persuaded to spend it wisely, I think I might invest in one of these puppies, the 2008 Honda Accord Coupe. Yep, I'd probably take that consulting job my uncle offered me and be first in line at the Honda dealership. I'll take it in black, please.

Ah, who am I kidding? I don't have a consultant uncle. The best Accord I could hope to afford for the next few years was made in '88. So goes the life of a college student who's best job ever has been waiting tables. Guess I'll keep driving my soon-to-be-rusty Ranger.

More pics of the new Accord here.

Remembering the Good Old Toons

Decisions, Decisions

Well, I paid Wheaton $300 to secure a spot in their hallowed halls this fall. I'm still trying to talk myself into it, but I haven't talked to a single person yet who didn't enthusiastically support the decision.

Wheaton's campus looks exactly like a college campus ought to look: great old architecture, beautiful landscaping, and a meticulously groomed football field. I didn't get to have any meaningful conversations with staff or faculty while I was there, but I think most professors' resumes speak for themselves. Also, as both the cheesy, squeaky-clean tour guide and the hip, dredlocked admissions counselor pointed out, Wheaton has some of the best college food in the nation.

Here's a picture of the Wheaton Mastodon (for Blogbarger). Chris, let's be sure to go to Metro Diner before I leave town to share a couple of Masterburgers.

Thinking of Thunder

But not the aural variety that has proved so plentiful lately here in Dallas. I'm contemplating a Thunder of a different kind.

In spring I visited Beloit College; a Richland prof had promoted me there and everyone was friendly, but the school didn't fit. Wheaton College sent me two "you're good enough for us but so many others are better than you" letters relegating me to their admissions waiting list (odds: not so good). I began to commit my mind and heart to the University of Texas, and two Fridays ago I spent the day as a Longhorn: driving to Austin in the morn, meeting with advisers and breaking the UT experience into palatable pieces, and rockin' back to Dallas with Jack and Meg White and Josh Homme in the eventime. I had left before the mailman (or "person person" as the Kuceras used to say) could deliver my missives and returned after dark.

I pulled into my driveway, unloaded my mailbox, walked inside. I found a larger than average piece from Wheaton, and as I turned it over, I could read its bold message through the translucent envelope. "Welcome to Wheaton."

All I wanted to do since I started the transfer process was to attend Wheaton. So many benefits: leave Mexas, return to midwestern culture, nearness to friends and family in Chicago, Minneapolis, and Des Moines; academic giants professoring the classes, Christian instruction to nourish my skeptic's heart and foggy mind; a local Giordano's to nourish my grateful digestive system. But too many quasi-rejections later I had given up on every bit of it and focused on the great city of Austin and its 4 1/2-star academic institution. Now I have an unbelievably tough decision to make--be a Longhorn or join the Thunder--and the blessing of having to choose between two top notch schools.

I head to Wheaton on Friday to check it out.

Logging on as a Longhorn

I'm typing these very letters and words from the giganormous University of Texas at Austin library. I don't even know what this thing's officially called, but it's so big, it probably has three names. Looking over my shoulder, I can see computer terminal #129 all the way in the back of the room. This ain't no Richland College lib'ary, my friends. This is the real deal.

As someone who has been accepted to UT, I have the awesome privilege of using my electronic identification number (or EID as they say around here) to sign in to the uni's computers. Nice, especially since I haven't given UT a gosh-darn dime, registered for a single class, or even payed the deposit. Yet here I sit, using this fine academically-purposed Dell (by the way, Blogbarger, the faculty get Macs around here for some reason) for something purely un-academic.

Welp, I should probably track down that philosophy advisor before he takes off for the weekend. Hook 'em...us!

Sueños

I'm really liking my new job. I love working with people again, serving others face to face, and providing a product I really believe in. In fact, this job is reaching into recesses of my mind that few others ever have.

A few nights ago dreamt that I was waiting tables at the Porch. I woke up in a half-daze and sat up on the end of my bed, believing I was sitting on a table at work. "Should I be sitting on a table when I have guests mid-meal?" I wondered. "And shouldn't I be wearing pants?"

A couple days later I dreamt that I was riding along in a car with some of my co-workers when we got pulled over. Instead of giving the cop his license and insurance, the driver grabbed a gun, gut-shot the man, and drove us off down the road. I don't remember who else was in the car, but the driver happened to be the one person I work with that's made a racist comment since I've started. I wonder at the psychology of that coincidence.

And lastly, two days ago, I woke up in the middle of the night anxiously wondering if I really ought to be dozing when I had open checks on the tables. Then I realized it might be a dream. But I had to deliberately reminded myself of each individual check that I had closed at the end of the night before I could drift peacefully back to sleep.

Ready to Give Up

On web browsers doing what they're supposed to do. Firefox delets my bookmarks every time it installs an update; the "back" button on IE takes me to pages I've never visited. Netscape is dead (but it was ugly even in life). Opera...sounds a little fay. Does Safari work on a PC?

Update: An Open Invitation

Or: "When I Look at the Television, I Wanna See Me Starin' Right back at Me."

I got pretty bummed when I found out I'd be working the high-top tables in the bar tonight. Self-seating at these tables means less food and more drinks, often ordered at the bar. That can equal a lot of work and not a lot of reward.

I didn't make much money, but I did luck out. TXA 21 came by to do a profile of the Porch and they sat in my section. Plus, super chef and co-founder Nick Badovinus was working and I got to interact with him throughout the night. Of course, the TXA people loved the food. And I got some camera time. Tune in Sunday at 6pm for a show called "DFW 10" to check it out.

I work Wednesday (the 30th), Sunday, and Monday. I hope to see you soon!

An Open Invitation

Alright, guys, I'm hoping to make you an offer you can't refuse. I just got hired at the Porch, the latest buzz-worthy Simon/Badovinus restaurant. I wait tables and I need practice. I don't want to be the guy who forgets to refill Mark Cuban's water glass next time he comes in. So here's the deal: Come in and have a meal at the Porch, request me as your server, and be my very own VIP. Our food is fabulous, the kind of stuff mom would make if she were an executive chef. Here's the kicker: you don't have to tip me. No, you don't. If you come to my restaurant, don't you dare tip me. I just want to see some friendly faces.

Come on over and have some brisket sliders, a grilled three-cheese sandwich and a cup of homemade tomato soup or a plate of braised short rib stroganoff. Or grab a 14oz cut of medium-rare prime rib and side of smoked ham mac'n'cheese to share. And give our farmer's market cobbler a try before the peaches go out of season. Sandwiches start at $10. I work tonight (the 22nd), Thursday (24th), and Sunday (27th). We open at 5; here's the map.

Tired

I’m tired.

I’m tired of being physically worn out, sleepy, spent. I’ve exhausted every desirable permutation at Starbucks and can’t drink Gachet’s swill anymore.

I’m tired of procrastinating. I’m tired of last-minute, late-night, half-assed (or less) efforts. I’m tired of substituting Amp for sleep. I’m tired of turning in rough drafts the day the finished product is due.

I’m tired of being unable to express it. I’m tired of not being able to write about it. I’m tired of making a concerted effort to avoid “be” verbs, of employing alliteration (it’s a cheap trick), and of relying on a thesaurus. Tired of reading shit on the internet that’s written in passive voice and of wondering if I’m really any more talented than the jokers who contribute awful prose to Wikipedia. I’m tired of censoring myself. I’m tired of being slow to speak, slow-witted, a slow reader, and slow at my work.

I’m tired of waking up three days a week and doing a lonely job that only sorta pays. I’m tired of not being a morning person, of starting late and lazily ending early. I’m tired of slowly losing my sanity—laboring alone with my only thoughts and fragments of Fergie songs stuck in my head.

I’m tired of apologizing to my Lord every time I utter the word(s) goddamnit. I’m tired of saying goddamnit. I grow weary of trying to not sin, of forever losing the same battles, of my sinful nature. Mostly I’m tired of seeing large breasts with delicate, translucent skin poised to burst out of tank tops and partially unbuttoned blouses and so tired of trying not to stare.

I’m tired of these eyes that don’t see clearly, these yellow teeth, these knobby knees. I’m tired of this flesh.

I’m tired of struggling to form thoughts in a cloud, the meaning always hidden just beyond the fog. I’m tired of having to hear an idea, watch a film, or read a poem twice just to identify the subtleties that everyone else sees. Tired of being powerless to form a decent question or original thought.

And I’m tired of losing points when I do get it right—when I omit a comma after an introductory “and” or answer that Nixon wasn’t formally impeached. Tired of being rebuked, attacked, or punished on the rare occasion that I assert myself, go with my gut, or say what I really feel. I’m tired of being misunderstood, of being incapable of making you understand. I’m tired of my own self-protection, my own distrust.

Tired, too, of wanting to cry and remaining unable or unwilling to. I’m tired of feeling sorry for myself when friends are uprooting families and crossing oceans, when family members are counting the days until parents die, and when friends of friends are running from emotional abuse. I’m tired of being helpless to Free Tibet, Save Darfur, save even a single soul, or do positively anything else worth a damn. I get uncomfortable talking for more than ten minutes about anything that will perish with this world.

I’m tired of not knowing what to do with myself, of not wanting to work hard enough to contribute anything. Of my lack of passion. Of not being the Cool One, Talented One, or Fun One.

Guys, I’m tired of uncertainty, of not knowing the future but having to make decisions that affect it. I’m tired of making decisions based on money. Tired of being too poor to afford more than two pints a month at the Ginger Man.

I’m tired of only eating food that can be microwaved at home. I’m tired of fried food everywhere else. Tired of worrying about calories.

I’m tired of bitching. I’m tired of being all talk and no action. I’m tired of writing “I’m tired.” It must be awful to read.

I need a vacation.

So Fresh I'm not sure what to Make of It

Tonight, whilst perusing the Drudge Report, I clicked on a link promising a video--unauthorized by Barack Obama but allegedly produced by his minions--analogizing Hillary Clinton to Big Brother a la 1984. What I got was Apple's Macintosh introduction commercial reworked with Clinton's face and voice in place of Mr. Brother's. Here's the video:


The ad would have been extremely effective except for one thing: I tend to deconstruct advertising, and something in the video caught my eye and distracted me completely. Right around the 41st second, I noticed something that could not have possibly been in the original Apple commercial--in the Clinton version the Runner wears what looks like an iPod on her waist. There's no way Apple was working on anything resembling the iPod back in '84, right?

I checked the original, and the iPod does not appear. Of course it doesn't. But somebody sure put forth a lot of effort to get it into the new one. Are we looking at new footage or frame-by-frame Photoshopping? More importantly, why add it to a political piece at all? What kind of conspiracy are we dealing with here?

The original Apple ad (L) and the same frame from the modified version.

Move Over, Mii

Oh, the joys of console gaming. One never knows which one to buy. If you want HD graphics with the potential to wander into the Uncanny Valley plus a built-in Blu-Ray player, the Playstation 3 is the only way to go. If you want fun, motion-interactive games a grandmother could play, the Wii's your best bet. If you frown on floating-point calculations and prefer a GPU with L2 cache, an HD-DVD add-on option, and you're addicted to Halo, why Microsoft has a nifty little box called the 360 you might want to check out. Choosing just one system proves difficult, because there are so few points of comparison.

But a few exist. Sony and Nintendo noticed the raging success of Xbox Live and created their own online networks. Nintendo's Wii even introduced customizable characters that serve as proxies in certain games. They resemble cute, animated weebles as they hop toward fly balls and bounce around tennis courts. I thought the concept was clever even though function clearly took priority over form. And then I saw this video.

Darn Unreliable Sixth Sense

My sixth sense failed me today, in a pretty significant way. No, I'm not talking about that sixth sense. I'm talking about the real one: the ability to sense where the parts of one's body are. There's no slick monosyllabic word for this sense, and that's probably why it hasn't been added to the list of sight, sound, touch, taste, and smell. It's real nonetheless. It's the sense that allows you to close your eyes, stretch out your arms, and touch your index fingers together (go ahead, try it--I just did).

Anyway, as I surveyed my first pool today, I cursed the wind storm that had deposited a layer of dust on the plaster of every single on of my pools. The dust means I have the awesome privilege of vacuuming every square inch of every pool--doubling the amount of work it takes to get the job done. I thought it couldn't possibly get any worse. But a little bit later I was transferring leaves from my pool serviceman's net (or "rake" as we say in the biz), things got worse as sense numero seis let me down.

I readjusted the placement of my right foot and stepped not on solid ground as I had expected, but in seven-foot-deep water. Time slows down when you're a pool serviceman and you realize you're about to go all in on a watery hand. I quickly realized what was happening and had just enough time to think "oh gosh, this is the big one, the one that ruins my cell phone" and desperately lean to the left. The slow-motion lean did the trick. It was not "the big one." Only my right leg got soaked. Disaster averted. Final verdict: squishy sock for the rest of the work day (my backup socks were in the laundry).

SNL Digital Shorts

If Saturday Night Live stopped going live and converted the entire 90 minutes to Digital Shorts, I think they'd have a real hit show on their hands. Whoa, that sentence reads like a Jackie Harvey column. Anyway, here's the latest:


Check out that last shot. Some of you might recognize it.

Christmas Grumblings

I'm not a big fan of the Christmas season. It stresses me out. I don't know whom I should buy gifts for, how much I should spend, or what to purchase for the few lucky souls that I deem worthy of my munificence. I loath the cultural takeover America has pulled on Christmas.

Celebrate Christ's birth? Sounds like a great idea to me, maybe something the reverent should emphasize more on a daily basis and dissassociate from a single, arbitrary day. Give gifts to remind each other of God's gift of salvation to us? Yes! I'm down with that, but why do we feel pressured to go into credit card debt to do so? I'd rather give (or get) one thoughtful gift than several pricey ones.

The drive to shower each other with presents compels us to drive to the malls where we realize that everyone else in the city has decided to meet us there for some fun "crowding around the Rock/Pop A-D section" and "standing in check-out lines." The worst part of this arrangement, however, is the soundtrack.

I don't like Christmas music, folks. Now I do enjoy singing the occasional "Joy to the World" or the "cradle song" version of "Away in a Manger" (but who knows that one anymore?) one Sunday morning out of the year, but the rest of it stinks. I got "Winter Wonderland" stuck in my head the other day when I was cleaning pools and seriously contemplated putting my finger in a spinning impeller just so I could have an excuse to go home. The most vile Christmas tune ever perpetrated upon the innocent public, however, has got to be "Feliz Navidad." What a pretentious piece of tripe! That tune is so horrible yet catchy, and the way the lyrics are sung with an affected Spanish accent just grates on the intellectual nerves. (Gary Wabshaw, wherever you are, I hope God makes a special place in purgatory for you. Thanks to you, I cannot listen to "Feliz Navidad" without mentally singing "Fleas on My Dog").

Fortunately, back in 1965, Charles Shultz hired the Vince Guaraldi Trio to come up with some music for "A Charlie Brown Christmas." That music remains fresh and fun forty years later. It redeems (although I wouldn't say justifies) the whole awful Christmas genre. I love it. I don't know why I haven't bothered to buy a copy.

Time for me to do some shopping! I almost look forward to it. Why? Because I am blessed to have several people in my life who not only give thoughtful gifts, but several thoughtful gifts (I'm talkin' 'bout you, Amanda--and others). The kindness of my friends and family inspires me to give back and pay forward. That's my motivation to wade through the Christmas crap.

Deep Thoughts, by Jack Handy

Contrary to what most people say, the most dangerous animal in the world is not the lion or the tiger or even the elephant. It's a shark riding on an elephant's back, just trampling and eating everything they see.

As we were driving, we saw a sign that said "Watch for Rocks." Marta said it should read "Watch for Pretty Rocks." I told her she should write in her suggestion to the highway department, but she started saying it was a joke - just to get out of writing a simple letter! And I thought I was lazy!

One thing kids like is to be tricked. For instance, I was going to take my little nephew to DisneyLand, but instead I drove him to an old burned-out warehouse. "Oh, no," I said, "DisneyLand burned down." He cried and cried, but I think that deep down he thought it was a pretty good joke. I started to drive over to the real DisneyLand, but it was getting pretty late.

Forget Santa Claus...

The greatest 80s band ever--Styx--is coming to town. (Props to my wonderful girlfriend Amanda for the heads-up). Now you might disagree with me about their precise status as the greatest, but who can deny the alternatively relaxing and rocking power of "Come Sail Away"? Who can listen to "Lady" without being moved? Who can resist the awesome persuasion of "Mr. Roboto"? Who among us has cannot identify with having "Too Much (clap clap) Time on [Our] Hands"? Styx dives into our souls and surfaces to express our most basic needs--"Gimme a job, give me security"--and our innermost spiritual desires--"Show me the way/Take me tonight to the river and wash my illusions away!"

Oh Daniel DeYoung, what angelic vocal overtures! Oh the depths of the riches of the wisdom of using synthesizers to rock!

Those of you who would not deign to give audience to Nugent (I guess that would be all of you), now is your chance to redeem yourselves. Join me in Fort Worth on January 20th for a night you will not soon forget. A paltry $12 is all you need to experience the magic. To paraphrase Ray Stevens, put your cares on ice--it's cheap at twice the price.

Great, Meaningful Moments in Modern Art (Continued)

I gotta say that I was being completely sincere when I ascribed the words "great" and "meaningful" to Paul Klee's "Revolution of the Viaduct." There are only simple shapes and colors on the canvas, but is that all there is to this work? Upon closer examination, the painting reveals more than meets the eye. It seems that Klee (pronounced "clay") might have been trying to say something about individuality and non-conformity, possibly in response to the rise of the Nazi party in his homeland, Germany.

Each shape resembles a cut-away section of an ancient Roman aqueduct. Each differs from the others in size, shape, color, and apparent distance from the viewer. But Klee gives us clues that he is thinking beyond mere geometry and perspective here. The serifs at the bottoms of the figures are reminiscent of feet, and transform the columns into legs. The differing lengths of the legs create the illusion that the figures are mobile, and they are coming toward us.

It would seem, then, that the arches are standing in for people, but why did Klee choose to paint human beings instead? His visual subject must be considered. Roman viaducts were rigid structures comprised of dozens or hundreds of columns and arches—all uniform in size and shape. Each arch yielded itself to the whole, and the structure was strong as a result. As an allegory to society, the ancient viaducts meant glorification of the whole and de-emphasized the individual. Klee seems to be suggesting something different: that society consists primarily of individuals.

Each figure is individual; no two are alike. Their different postures and varying degrees of motility suggest attitude and will. Klee has constructed a society that values the individual and is only loosely unified. His society derives strength from its diversity, however, and the gold, warm colors and illusion of motion suggest that it is advancing toward us, irresistibly and inevitably. Furthermore, his figures may do as they please, and while they do march toward us as a group, they will not be conformed. These seem to be the major themes of the work: individuality, non-conformity, and celebration of strength in diversity.

Klee might also have been responding to German National Socialism (he painted the work in 1937-38). His arches defy the Nazi ideal of a homogenous super-race. The arches also stand in contrast Nazi architect Albert Speer’s uniform design of the 1936 Olympic Stadium in Berlin. Finally, the title of the painting might be a twist of Nazi propagandist Heinrich Himmler’s statement that the Bolshevics and Jews made up a “revolution of subhumans.”

Klee once said his goal was to paint the human spirit. In “Revolution,” he has done it as a celebration of individuality and a rejection of all that would quash it.