“One thing all these fundamentalisms have in common is that they are, ultimately, reactionary. They exploit identity not as a starting point to connect with the rest of humanity but an end point, from which the rest of humanity is excluded. Devoted to eternal and exclusive truths, they brook no dissent and tolerate no debate. What matters most to fundamentalists is not what you do but who you are. Regardless of how many good deeds you perform, a Christian fundamentalist will only recognize you as a fellow human being up to a certain point unless you too are a Christian fundamentalist – beyond that you are just one more sinner.
For fundamentalists insist that we privilege just one identity above all others all the time. Since this is not how most of us live our lives, we tend to ignore them. The price for breaching their codes, they warn us, is banishment; the prize for conforming to them is belonging. But since, under normal circumstances, they are not a part of a community to which most of us would want to belong and they have no power to deliver on their threats, they have nothing we want or fear.” – Gary Younge, “How to fight reactionaries” – The Guardian Weekly – August 25-31, 2006
Younge makes some excellent points here. Christian fundamentalists have a hard time realizing that the moral umbrella they are living under isn’t inclusive, and in fact it is not representative of anything taught to Christians in the New Testament. I am no fundamentalist, but I admit to having looked at someone before and labeling them as “just one more sinner”. This passage from Younge’s recent article is broad, but I am going with this in a political direction. If someone disagrees with fundamentalists they instantly condemn that person and scream at the top of their lungs, “Traitor!”
This sounds a lot like Donald Rumsfeld when someone suggests a troop withdrawal timeline for the war in Iraq. He often comes up with answers that skirt around the issue by relating the ongoing quagmire to an unprecedented event in the middle of the last century that is in no way related to the current quagmire, but Rumsfeld has said before, “I don’t do quagmires.” For Rumsfeld, a U.S. troop withdrawal from Iraq “would be the modern equivalent of handing postwar Germany back to the Nazis.” This poor illustration not only fails to bring to light the sense of urgency for a resolution in Iraq, but by saying this Rumsfeld has shattered a number of previous statements. Before those are brought in, let us try to categorize the last Rumsfeld quote for what it is: a prediction, a statement concerning foreign policy, diplomacy, and certainly the issue he is addressing is a predicament, therefore a quagmire.
How are we supposed to take this man seriously after we have heard all the following come out of his mouth? “I don’t do predictions.” “I don’t do foreign policy.” “I don’t do diplomacy.” And, “I don’t do quagmires.”
Asked in February of 2003, how long the conflict in Iraq would last, Rumsfeld made another prediction, “It is unknowable how long that conflict will last. It could last six days, six weeks. I doubt six months.”
It is clear that Rumsfeld hasn’t known the answers to many of the questions that have come his way in the last four years. He has been quoted as saying, “If I know the answer I’ll tell you the answer, and if I don’t, I’ll just respond, cleverly.” Answering cleverly would show skill and resourcefulness. The answer would also be marked by wit and ingenuity. Try again, Donald.
Here is another passage I highlighted from today's Guardian.
“A "bingo wing" is an unattractive wobbling underarm, seen on bingo players as they wave their arms around excitedly.” - Emine Saner, Thursday August 31, 2006.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Unemployed No Longer
I fooled you. I still don't have a job. However...
There has been new light shed upon the job search this week. Whether it is good or not, I do not know. Nonetheless, I have succumbed to the big, green coffee giant and have applied at one of their many Longmont locations. I have an interview with them on Friday. Although this is the first interview I have had all summer long it is hard to get terribly excited about it, but after months of looking around and a lot of advice I have discovered that experience is all that a company is looking for. Unfortunately they don’t need someone to analyze 18th century English literature, or the early American novel. The only place I can get hired to do that is at a university and I need two more degrees to make that a realistic option.
I walked into an employment agency today. Based on the appearance of the place, I almost turned around and walked right out but I was pleasantly surprised by the service I received. The place looked like a gutted saloon. Its hard wood floor covered with a thin layer of light brown carpet. The furniture was sparse and all of it an ugly wood finish like the baseboard and trim work of houses built in the 80s. The walls are covered in cheesy employment posters and a free calendar with loads of ads surrounding the field of dates with scribbled in appointments.
After some preliminary paperwork I was led to a back room filled with shabby cubicle walls. The agency wanted to see what I could do. Well, they must have a lot of brilliant people in there because first I had to alphabetize, sort numbers into the right range, spell some words, and perform addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division. This all was depressing at times, but I took it casually for the most part and considered all these tests as little personal challenges. There was no difficulty in completing any of them, but there was fun to be had when I tried to see how quickly I could finish.
The real fun began when I had to take a typing, data entry, and Word proficiency test on a ten year old computer. This beast was still running Windows 97. You had to punch those keys for the computer to input the correct letter. I was able to plunk out 57 words per minute and almost 8000 keystrokes in an hour for data entry. I forgot to look at the proficiency printout and that was my one disappointment after leaving today.
Lastly, I watched a safety video in case I am hired for manual labor, although I told them I wasn’t interested in that work. The video addressed personal protection equipment, or PPE, electricity safety, cleaning of the worksite, and emergency procedures. There were a whole variety of people in the video. I was captivated by their feeble attempts at acting. Where do they get these people? Were they aspiring actors from the East coast who were making their way to Hollywood, but only had enough money to get as far as Oklahoma? Now they make a living off of safety videos and television infomercials by moving dumbly and expressionlessly throughout “hazardous” situations and “real” worksites.
There has been new light shed upon the job search this week. Whether it is good or not, I do not know. Nonetheless, I have succumbed to the big, green coffee giant and have applied at one of their many Longmont locations. I have an interview with them on Friday. Although this is the first interview I have had all summer long it is hard to get terribly excited about it, but after months of looking around and a lot of advice I have discovered that experience is all that a company is looking for. Unfortunately they don’t need someone to analyze 18th century English literature, or the early American novel. The only place I can get hired to do that is at a university and I need two more degrees to make that a realistic option.
I walked into an employment agency today. Based on the appearance of the place, I almost turned around and walked right out but I was pleasantly surprised by the service I received. The place looked like a gutted saloon. Its hard wood floor covered with a thin layer of light brown carpet. The furniture was sparse and all of it an ugly wood finish like the baseboard and trim work of houses built in the 80s. The walls are covered in cheesy employment posters and a free calendar with loads of ads surrounding the field of dates with scribbled in appointments.
After some preliminary paperwork I was led to a back room filled with shabby cubicle walls. The agency wanted to see what I could do. Well, they must have a lot of brilliant people in there because first I had to alphabetize, sort numbers into the right range, spell some words, and perform addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division. This all was depressing at times, but I took it casually for the most part and considered all these tests as little personal challenges. There was no difficulty in completing any of them, but there was fun to be had when I tried to see how quickly I could finish.
The real fun began when I had to take a typing, data entry, and Word proficiency test on a ten year old computer. This beast was still running Windows 97. You had to punch those keys for the computer to input the correct letter. I was able to plunk out 57 words per minute and almost 8000 keystrokes in an hour for data entry. I forgot to look at the proficiency printout and that was my one disappointment after leaving today.
Lastly, I watched a safety video in case I am hired for manual labor, although I told them I wasn’t interested in that work. The video addressed personal protection equipment, or PPE, electricity safety, cleaning of the worksite, and emergency procedures. There were a whole variety of people in the video. I was captivated by their feeble attempts at acting. Where do they get these people? Were they aspiring actors from the East coast who were making their way to Hollywood, but only had enough money to get as far as Oklahoma? Now they make a living off of safety videos and television infomercials by moving dumbly and expressionlessly throughout “hazardous” situations and “real” worksites.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Life's Best
Nine days since my last blog is long, too long. What I have been writing hasn't been complete enough, or public enough to put up on the blog. Here is an excerpt from my retelling of a great night last weekend. It was a Sunday, the rains came to Longmont, but it didn't put us indoors for one minute--another reason my friends are so great. That night ranks near the top in all the summer nights.
It was during this time (Sunday night) that it dawned on me again, what we have is so unique. We are not just friends, we are family. That sounds so terribly cliché, but it is true. When one of us has a problem WE fix it. We don’t leave people behind. The love is always there, and it will always be unconditional. We do what we want. We have our loving families. Sometimes things aren’t always perfect at home, but that has driven us more to make things right with our other family. Love, listening, thought, talking, and silence are the toppings on an already immense bond that we share, our love for and relationship with Jesus.
Whatever happens, wherever we go, however far we are from one another, we will always have one another. We will always have these summers. We will always have this time. The time that we had for each other, fellowship, love, memories, and life. As this summer comes to an end I know that it will be my last as I have known them. I will welcome change, and it is coming, but I have lived these most awesome months at home again and again wanting this fellowship to flourish, to expand to the far reaches of this country and this world. We know what has truly made our time together amazing, and we always need to share that love, and the love we have had for each other, with the next strangers we come into contact with.
It was during this time (Sunday night) that it dawned on me again, what we have is so unique. We are not just friends, we are family. That sounds so terribly cliché, but it is true. When one of us has a problem WE fix it. We don’t leave people behind. The love is always there, and it will always be unconditional. We do what we want. We have our loving families. Sometimes things aren’t always perfect at home, but that has driven us more to make things right with our other family. Love, listening, thought, talking, and silence are the toppings on an already immense bond that we share, our love for and relationship with Jesus.
Whatever happens, wherever we go, however far we are from one another, we will always have one another. We will always have these summers. We will always have this time. The time that we had for each other, fellowship, love, memories, and life. As this summer comes to an end I know that it will be my last as I have known them. I will welcome change, and it is coming, but I have lived these most awesome months at home again and again wanting this fellowship to flourish, to expand to the far reaches of this country and this world. We know what has truly made our time together amazing, and we always need to share that love, and the love we have had for each other, with the next strangers we come into contact with.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
London on my Mind
I miss reading the posters and advertisements in Tube stations, riding the tube during rush hour and touching twenty strangers at the same time, riding the W7 through North London suburbs, and the public transportation system. I loved people watching, not being in the United States, living in an inexhaustible city, casually strolling into an art gallery and seeing masterpieces for free, sunsets on the Thames, and the British accent. I want to stare at the ceiling in St. Paul’s Cathedral while listening to the organ on a Sunday evening. How about a stroll along Fleet Street sticking out in my college grunge getup? I loved feeling out of place on the Tube if I wasn’t reading something. There is something enchanting about that city. I felt smarter when I was there, or at least like I was getting smarter at a much quicker rate than I am now in the States.
Glimpses of streets, buses, and Tube stations ignite memories of the summer past. An unforgotten headline scrolls through my head: Terrorist attacks on the London transportation system kill 52. I step onto the train anyway. The terror is not forgotten, but it does not control. You like this about the Brits—just like the New Yorkers, they have moved on. You had to move on, that is why you still came to London after last summer’s attacks. Two weeks pass and you know moving on and flying across the pond was the best thing you have ever done with your life.
I miss going to Piccadilly Circus and not feeling like a tourist, observing the mannerisms of internationals gawking at this vast city, being full of pride after giving someone directions, knowing my way around, using a shortcut, and watching lost people; remembering I was overwhelmed by directions when I arrived here.
I want to get a hot chocolate and stroll through the city on a cold evening. I want to walk in one direction for miles knowing I will eventually find another Tube station; a portal right back to the familiar. I want to be caught gawking at shoppers on Oxford Street. A walk from the Tower to the Tate Modern would be nice. Cross Millennium Bridge to St. Paul's, take the Central Line to Holborn, switch to the Piccadilly Line, take the W7 from Finsbury Park, sit upstairs, halfway back in a window seat on the left, and count the pubs on the way to the bottom of Muswell Hill.
Occasionally a stroll through Leicester Square at night finds another movie premiere and a lot of celebrity idolizing. I take part for a while, if I enjoy that person’s work. If I don’t, I might hang around anyway, if I know it will be a good story. Hang around too late and I might find myself running through the West End to watch the Royal Shakespeare Company perform As You Like It at the Novello—from the dress circle.
I want to take the Eye to the top, but not pay for it, and take even more pictures of Parliament, St. Paul’s, Canary Wharf, and the Post Office Tower. Reading Saturday, by Ian McEwan, was even more enjoyable because I walked on the streets mentioned between the book’s covers. Depart for Russell Square on the Piccadilly Line, take the 150 steps to the top instead of waiting for the lift, walk out those tight legs and breath in the cold air as you follow the right side of the square for a block, take a right, take a quick left through a courtyard in front of the college for Oriental and African American studies, take a right at Malet Street, go into the University of London Union, and buy a Guardian for twenty-five pence at the discounted student rate.
Walk through the Portobello Market in Notting Hill and wonder what the fuss was about. Barter with someone for a jacket in Camden Town, but don’t end up buying it. Try to get it for a tenner before you walk away. Quickly walk away after the seller gets pissed off at you for asking. Act like the Tube is broken and walk for an hour in no specific direction. Order a warm pint of Broadside beer at a pub. For your birthday your co-workers will buy the pints after work in Clapham.
Ride the Tube to Zone 6 because you haven’t been there. Take in every last sight of London for life as you ride the Piccadilly Line to Heathrow—above ground this time. When you step off British soil promise yourself a return trip; maybe even a return stay.
Glimpses of streets, buses, and Tube stations ignite memories of the summer past. An unforgotten headline scrolls through my head: Terrorist attacks on the London transportation system kill 52. I step onto the train anyway. The terror is not forgotten, but it does not control. You like this about the Brits—just like the New Yorkers, they have moved on. You had to move on, that is why you still came to London after last summer’s attacks. Two weeks pass and you know moving on and flying across the pond was the best thing you have ever done with your life.
I miss going to Piccadilly Circus and not feeling like a tourist, observing the mannerisms of internationals gawking at this vast city, being full of pride after giving someone directions, knowing my way around, using a shortcut, and watching lost people; remembering I was overwhelmed by directions when I arrived here.
I want to get a hot chocolate and stroll through the city on a cold evening. I want to walk in one direction for miles knowing I will eventually find another Tube station; a portal right back to the familiar. I want to be caught gawking at shoppers on Oxford Street. A walk from the Tower to the Tate Modern would be nice. Cross Millennium Bridge to St. Paul's, take the Central Line to Holborn, switch to the Piccadilly Line, take the W7 from Finsbury Park, sit upstairs, halfway back in a window seat on the left, and count the pubs on the way to the bottom of Muswell Hill.
Occasionally a stroll through Leicester Square at night finds another movie premiere and a lot of celebrity idolizing. I take part for a while, if I enjoy that person’s work. If I don’t, I might hang around anyway, if I know it will be a good story. Hang around too late and I might find myself running through the West End to watch the Royal Shakespeare Company perform As You Like It at the Novello—from the dress circle.
I want to take the Eye to the top, but not pay for it, and take even more pictures of Parliament, St. Paul’s, Canary Wharf, and the Post Office Tower. Reading Saturday, by Ian McEwan, was even more enjoyable because I walked on the streets mentioned between the book’s covers. Depart for Russell Square on the Piccadilly Line, take the 150 steps to the top instead of waiting for the lift, walk out those tight legs and breath in the cold air as you follow the right side of the square for a block, take a right, take a quick left through a courtyard in front of the college for Oriental and African American studies, take a right at Malet Street, go into the University of London Union, and buy a Guardian for twenty-five pence at the discounted student rate.
Walk through the Portobello Market in Notting Hill and wonder what the fuss was about. Barter with someone for a jacket in Camden Town, but don’t end up buying it. Try to get it for a tenner before you walk away. Quickly walk away after the seller gets pissed off at you for asking. Act like the Tube is broken and walk for an hour in no specific direction. Order a warm pint of Broadside beer at a pub. For your birthday your co-workers will buy the pints after work in Clapham.
Ride the Tube to Zone 6 because you haven’t been there. Take in every last sight of London for life as you ride the Piccadilly Line to Heathrow—above ground this time. When you step off British soil promise yourself a return trip; maybe even a return stay.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Bearskin Rug Rudeness
The neighborhood garage sale was yesterday. Mom and I made $103.50. We split it 50/50, but in the time it took us to raise that money some interesting things went down on Allen Drive.
The bearskin rug was our hot item. The sale wasn’t supposed to start until 8 am. Mom kept turning people down because it wasn’t 8 yet. Finally, at 7:30 we were being swamped by customers. One of the first customers Chris turned away was a man who was interested in the bearskin rug we had marked for twenty bucks. We told him to come back later. We didn’t promise him any bearskin rug action. So, when Chris started allowing customers to buy up the products the first one to go was the rug. A man didn’t bat an eye at the now raised price of thirty dollars. We will never know how much that rug was really worth, but I said, after the fact, we should have marked it at fifty dollars.
The saga of the bearskin wasn’t over. The original shopper that came by for the rug returned at 8 am. He said, “Where’s the rug?”
“We sold it. Sorry,” Mom said.
“So much for character,” He said as he spun around.
My mom just blew him off by saying, “Yeah”.
She continued talking with a customer but I was watching this guy’s every movement. I was so stunned that he could be so rude to someone that hadn’t done anything to him. He walked back to his car and said, “At least I don’t lie.”
My ears were pretty perked up by now and I was intent on catching every last word this jackass was going to say before he got into his car.
“What a bitch,” the man said as he slipped behind the wheel.
Immediately after that I started walking toward him and he caught my gaze which was not going to leave until I saw him out of my sight. For a few seconds he had to look down to put the key in the ignition, but he frantically glanced up to see my approaching frame. I was getting more fired up with each step.
He pulled away quickly in his crappy car, but the best car a flea market stand owner could afford. And that was exactly what he was. He came to buy cheap goods and sell them at exorbitant prices to his dishonorable, silly, flea market-going-brethren.
I pointed to the direction he should go, that way, away from this house if he didn’t want to get punished. I gave a casual middle finger to his rearview mirror. I don’t think he ever saw it, but he was the most deserving of any middle finger that I have ever doled out.
Even now, more than twelve hours later, I am disappointed that was all I did. I should have yelled at him immediately when he slimed my mother with that derogatory term. He was a lucky man yesterday. That is all I can say.
The bearskin rug was our hot item. The sale wasn’t supposed to start until 8 am. Mom kept turning people down because it wasn’t 8 yet. Finally, at 7:30 we were being swamped by customers. One of the first customers Chris turned away was a man who was interested in the bearskin rug we had marked for twenty bucks. We told him to come back later. We didn’t promise him any bearskin rug action. So, when Chris started allowing customers to buy up the products the first one to go was the rug. A man didn’t bat an eye at the now raised price of thirty dollars. We will never know how much that rug was really worth, but I said, after the fact, we should have marked it at fifty dollars.
The saga of the bearskin wasn’t over. The original shopper that came by for the rug returned at 8 am. He said, “Where’s the rug?”
“We sold it. Sorry,” Mom said.
“So much for character,” He said as he spun around.
My mom just blew him off by saying, “Yeah”.
She continued talking with a customer but I was watching this guy’s every movement. I was so stunned that he could be so rude to someone that hadn’t done anything to him. He walked back to his car and said, “At least I don’t lie.”
My ears were pretty perked up by now and I was intent on catching every last word this jackass was going to say before he got into his car.
“What a bitch,” the man said as he slipped behind the wheel.
Immediately after that I started walking toward him and he caught my gaze which was not going to leave until I saw him out of my sight. For a few seconds he had to look down to put the key in the ignition, but he frantically glanced up to see my approaching frame. I was getting more fired up with each step.
He pulled away quickly in his crappy car, but the best car a flea market stand owner could afford. And that was exactly what he was. He came to buy cheap goods and sell them at exorbitant prices to his dishonorable, silly, flea market-going-brethren.
I pointed to the direction he should go, that way, away from this house if he didn’t want to get punished. I gave a casual middle finger to his rearview mirror. I don’t think he ever saw it, but he was the most deserving of any middle finger that I have ever doled out.
Even now, more than twelve hours later, I am disappointed that was all I did. I should have yelled at him immediately when he slimed my mother with that derogatory term. He was a lucky man yesterday. That is all I can say.
Friday, July 28, 2006
The Ledger of Your Decisions
Sister has a wedding to attend in December. She is a bridesmaid. The only ticket she could get for her flight to Colorado was for December 20th. She will stay here until the 26th. Her husband will not fly out. They will not spend Christmas together. Why? Dad reports, “They don’t want to spend the money.”
Sister corrects Dad on the phone, “We can’t spend the money.”
Brother remembers Sister buying a $328 Coach purse two weeks ago. The Coach purse was meant to alleviate the pain of Sister not getting a house in California. The purse didn’t ease the pain. A roundtrip flight to Colorado can easily be purchased for $328.
Sister has traded a Coach purse for a Christmas with Husband. So, what does the ledger of your decisions look like?
Sister corrects Dad on the phone, “We can’t spend the money.”
Brother remembers Sister buying a $328 Coach purse two weeks ago. The Coach purse was meant to alleviate the pain of Sister not getting a house in California. The purse didn’t ease the pain. A roundtrip flight to Colorado can easily be purchased for $328.
Sister has traded a Coach purse for a Christmas with Husband. So, what does the ledger of your decisions look like?
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
The Left Side of My Desk
To the left is the HP printer that my parents gave me for Christmas in 2003. My computer at the time couldn’t even be used with it because it didn’t have USB 2.0 ports. Not to worry, my birthday present ended up being this nice Dell that I am using right now. The printer currently has an issue, it doesn’t print. I need to get that fixed, but I have no income. Having no income has put a hold on lots of purchases, necessary maintenance, or improvements. The paper tray is folded up. Two pieces of paper lay on top of the printer. Did you know the UK uses a different size of paper for their default? It is called A3.
A small frame holding a picture of Kate sits on top of the printer. It was taken last summer when we went to dinner at the Grand Lux Café on Michigan Avenue in Chicago. It is one of my favorite pictures of her. I look at it everyday and think, dang, she is hot and I am lucky.
Behind the picture is a piece of old artwork from airbrush class my senior year in high school. I used the airbrush to make a cone, circle, a folded piece of paper, and a square look three dimensional. Was I successful? The circle turned out wonderfully, but the others not so much. I don’t know why it is out really. Mom probably found it in one of the piles in this room or the basement.
A circular painting of Notre Dame rests in a black wood frame in front of the printer. The painting has a gold border that is accented nicely by the red background of the frame. The parents got me the painting in Paris. Mom even has a photo of the painter on the Seine.
To the right of the painting is my Franklin electronic dictionary. This thing is amazing. It houses thousands of words. Franklin provides entertaining games and a thesaurus on it as well. You can’t forget the trusty flip cover that protects the screen from scratches and the buttons from spillage I suppose.
Tucked under a corner of the dictionary is a coaster that says “Goose Island, Drink Local” on it. You may not know this, but I collect coasters. I must have extras of the Goose Island coaster, which is why I have been using it on my desk.
To the right of the coaster is a candle that I used a lot in Laramie. It is the Cotton Blossom scent from The White Barn Candle Co. Kate gave it to me. I am not going to lie; I really enjoy the scent of it. I don’t use it that much anymore. The house just doesn’t stink like an apartment with at least three college guys in it all the time.
Next you have your random Post-it note pad. Next to that are some used business cards that could probably be tossed. The businesses on them didn’t want me. I will file them away in one of these drawers thinking I will probably use them again, when in reality I won’t.
I now have an Oregon Coast, rubber coaster. The design has a lighthouse shining its rays out to the ocean against a dark night sky. Two black rocks lay next to it. Kate brought them from the Japanese Gardens in Portland.
A Central Presbyterian Church pen rests on top of my calendar which rests on top of the Daily Times-Call Classifieds from Monday, July 24, 2006. There was an advertisement in them for a Virtual Job Fair online. I visited the website and quickly realized that I don’t want to answer phone calls all day long, deliver milk for the Longmont Dairy, or drive forty-foot long public transportation buses. The paper is another discarded tool of the dead-end job search.
Below the paper is one of many Bibles I have. This is a pocket Bible; slim, made of bonded, red leather, and has a button clasp on it. Zondervan published this New International Version. This Bible has been with me since I really became serious about my faith in the high school days. I flip open the front page and read this note, written on the first page, from a youth pastor long removed from my everyday life, “Bryce: May God’s words always direct your life. Philippians 4:8 – 10/3/00.”
A small frame holding a picture of Kate sits on top of the printer. It was taken last summer when we went to dinner at the Grand Lux Café on Michigan Avenue in Chicago. It is one of my favorite pictures of her. I look at it everyday and think, dang, she is hot and I am lucky.
Behind the picture is a piece of old artwork from airbrush class my senior year in high school. I used the airbrush to make a cone, circle, a folded piece of paper, and a square look three dimensional. Was I successful? The circle turned out wonderfully, but the others not so much. I don’t know why it is out really. Mom probably found it in one of the piles in this room or the basement.
A circular painting of Notre Dame rests in a black wood frame in front of the printer. The painting has a gold border that is accented nicely by the red background of the frame. The parents got me the painting in Paris. Mom even has a photo of the painter on the Seine.
To the right of the painting is my Franklin electronic dictionary. This thing is amazing. It houses thousands of words. Franklin provides entertaining games and a thesaurus on it as well. You can’t forget the trusty flip cover that protects the screen from scratches and the buttons from spillage I suppose.
Tucked under a corner of the dictionary is a coaster that says “Goose Island, Drink Local” on it. You may not know this, but I collect coasters. I must have extras of the Goose Island coaster, which is why I have been using it on my desk.
To the right of the coaster is a candle that I used a lot in Laramie. It is the Cotton Blossom scent from The White Barn Candle Co. Kate gave it to me. I am not going to lie; I really enjoy the scent of it. I don’t use it that much anymore. The house just doesn’t stink like an apartment with at least three college guys in it all the time.
Next you have your random Post-it note pad. Next to that are some used business cards that could probably be tossed. The businesses on them didn’t want me. I will file them away in one of these drawers thinking I will probably use them again, when in reality I won’t.
I now have an Oregon Coast, rubber coaster. The design has a lighthouse shining its rays out to the ocean against a dark night sky. Two black rocks lay next to it. Kate brought them from the Japanese Gardens in Portland.
A Central Presbyterian Church pen rests on top of my calendar which rests on top of the Daily Times-Call Classifieds from Monday, July 24, 2006. There was an advertisement in them for a Virtual Job Fair online. I visited the website and quickly realized that I don’t want to answer phone calls all day long, deliver milk for the Longmont Dairy, or drive forty-foot long public transportation buses. The paper is another discarded tool of the dead-end job search.
Below the paper is one of many Bibles I have. This is a pocket Bible; slim, made of bonded, red leather, and has a button clasp on it. Zondervan published this New International Version. This Bible has been with me since I really became serious about my faith in the high school days. I flip open the front page and read this note, written on the first page, from a youth pastor long removed from my everyday life, “Bryce: May God’s words always direct your life. Philippians 4:8 – 10/3/00.”
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
The Bling
The blog is a good place to load some photos of the ring. The photos don't do this ring justice. You don't get the bling bling factor, but for those of you that haven't seen the ring yet this is the best that I can do.
Engagement, Facebook, and a Drive By
I proposed to my girlfriend, Kate, on Friday. She said yes. Woo hoo.My new favorite pastime is removing friends of mine on Facebook. The people I am removing are merely acquaintances. I think most Facebook users talk to less than half of their Facebook friends on a monthly basis. For me, there were/are a lot of Facebook "friends" that I will never talk to again in my life, or I have no interest in talking to them.
When I run at night, even in Longmont, I think every car that drives by me is going to mow me down. This is a direct result of watching violent movies and hearing about Compton. Darn.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
A Baby Story and More
TLC was on the television and it was lunchtime at the Perica household. Megan was watching the television before Bryce came in from caulking the house. He sat down at the table, disappointed that Megan was watching A Baby Story on TLC. Lunch was a ham sandwich with a dill pickle. Dill pickles and ice cold milk is one of Bryce’s favorite food combinations.
With nothing to read and a boring program on the TV, that Megan was infatuated with, lunch was going to be interesting.
Bryce thinks shows like A Baby Story and A Wedding Story are some of the saddest shows cable television has to offer. The programs are clearly marketed to women. There is nothing wrong with this, Bryce thinks, but he still doesn't like watching them. He sat at the table waiting for Megan’s overemotional reaction to something seen time and time again on television, a baby.
Here it comes. Even though he has been averting his eyes for the last ten minutes he can hear the baby crying. Finally breaking down, he looks at the TV. The doctors reached into a woman and pulled her kid out. The baby was pissed, probably because he was covered in red goop and he smelled. The males at the table nearly gagged on their lunch and immediately averted their eyes once again.
Bryce sneaks a glimpse at Megan. There are tears in her eyes. A Baby Story made her cry. This is so unfathomable to Bryce. He draws his lips tightly together and his eyes grow to an enormous size. He looks back out the window. Yeah, he is a guy. Megan is a girl, but the difference between the two never ceases to amaze him.
Later on at lunch…
“Greeley Bee (Megan’s dog) is going to have such a good weekend,” Megan says.
“Oh yeah, why?” Dad inquires.
“She is going to her best friend’s house, and she is going to see her boyfriend.”
Bryce bats his eyes, dumbfounded.
“Is Greeley fixed?” Dad asks.
“Yes.”
“What was the problem?” Bryce asks.
This prompts a short chuckle from Dad.
Casual dog discussion continues and eventually Megan comments on how Greeley looks so much like her parents.
“Now, c’mon, a dog is a dog,” Dad says.
“Nah ah. Greeley has her mom’s legs and face, and her dad’s eyes,” Megan testifies.
Bryce thinks that things couldn’t have been weirder once A Baby Story made Megan cry. Bryce was wrong.
With nothing to read and a boring program on the TV, that Megan was infatuated with, lunch was going to be interesting.
Bryce thinks shows like A Baby Story and A Wedding Story are some of the saddest shows cable television has to offer. The programs are clearly marketed to women. There is nothing wrong with this, Bryce thinks, but he still doesn't like watching them. He sat at the table waiting for Megan’s overemotional reaction to something seen time and time again on television, a baby.
Here it comes. Even though he has been averting his eyes for the last ten minutes he can hear the baby crying. Finally breaking down, he looks at the TV. The doctors reached into a woman and pulled her kid out. The baby was pissed, probably because he was covered in red goop and he smelled. The males at the table nearly gagged on their lunch and immediately averted their eyes once again.
Bryce sneaks a glimpse at Megan. There are tears in her eyes. A Baby Story made her cry. This is so unfathomable to Bryce. He draws his lips tightly together and his eyes grow to an enormous size. He looks back out the window. Yeah, he is a guy. Megan is a girl, but the difference between the two never ceases to amaze him.
Later on at lunch…
“Greeley Bee (Megan’s dog) is going to have such a good weekend,” Megan says.
“Oh yeah, why?” Dad inquires.
“She is going to her best friend’s house, and she is going to see her boyfriend.”
Bryce bats his eyes, dumbfounded.
“Is Greeley fixed?” Dad asks.
“Yes.”
“What was the problem?” Bryce asks.
This prompts a short chuckle from Dad.
Casual dog discussion continues and eventually Megan comments on how Greeley looks so much like her parents.
“Now, c’mon, a dog is a dog,” Dad says.
“Nah ah. Greeley has her mom’s legs and face, and her dad’s eyes,” Megan testifies.
Bryce thinks that things couldn’t have been weirder once A Baby Story made Megan cry. Bryce was wrong.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Coach Purse
Megan and Colton aren’t buying the house. California is just too damn expensive, but then again, so is a Coach purse. Megan needs to feel better. Megan shops to feel better. Megan buys another Coach purse to feel better about not being a homeowner. Megan spends $328 on a purse and tells Mom, “Oh, once you have one of these, Mom, all you will want are Coach purses.”
Megan and Mom get home from shopping. Bryce asks, “What’d you buy?”
Megan lifts the Coach out of the bag. The bag is in shades of brown and has the trademark ‘C’ all over the inner lining.
“How much was that?” Bryce asks.
Megan suppresses a giggle. There is a slight lean to her mouth and a raised eyebrow that tell Bryce she is not excited to tell him the price, but she still has pleasure in doing so.
“C’mon, how much, Megan?” Bryce inquires again.
“Three hundred and twenty-eight.”
Bryce is having a hard time being polite.
“Three hundred and twenty-eight dollars?”
A guilty smile and a small nod accompany Megan’s, “Mm hmm.”
Bryce doesn’t know where to start, so he doesn’t. There are so many reasons this is wrong, disgusting, and sad. All he can muster is, “That’s ridiculous.”
Bryce thinks of what this means. The words consumerism, materialism, greed, lust, and Californication come to mind. He thinks a little more and ‘therapy’ comes into his mind. Is this beyond ‘therapy’? There must be something that can reverse this, like the Rogaine for shoppers and spenders. Whatever it is, it needs to be more powerful than everyone in Megan’s immediate family telling her that the Coach purse is not going to make her feel better or solve anything.
Bryce realizes a Coach purse does solve something, the problem of being a homeowner; it just gets rid of that option.
Megan and Mom get home from shopping. Bryce asks, “What’d you buy?”
Megan lifts the Coach out of the bag. The bag is in shades of brown and has the trademark ‘C’ all over the inner lining.
“How much was that?” Bryce asks.
Megan suppresses a giggle. There is a slight lean to her mouth and a raised eyebrow that tell Bryce she is not excited to tell him the price, but she still has pleasure in doing so.
“C’mon, how much, Megan?” Bryce inquires again.
“Three hundred and twenty-eight.”
Bryce is having a hard time being polite.
“Three hundred and twenty-eight dollars?”
A guilty smile and a small nod accompany Megan’s, “Mm hmm.”
Bryce doesn’t know where to start, so he doesn’t. There are so many reasons this is wrong, disgusting, and sad. All he can muster is, “That’s ridiculous.”
Bryce thinks of what this means. The words consumerism, materialism, greed, lust, and Californication come to mind. He thinks a little more and ‘therapy’ comes into his mind. Is this beyond ‘therapy’? There must be something that can reverse this, like the Rogaine for shoppers and spenders. Whatever it is, it needs to be more powerful than everyone in Megan’s immediate family telling her that the Coach purse is not going to make her feel better or solve anything.
Bryce realizes a Coach purse does solve something, the problem of being a homeowner; it just gets rid of that option.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Etheldene Randomness
Etheldene Avenue. This was my street for three months. This is where my host family lived in one of these five bedroom houses with one bathroom. The cars are always parked like this. There are no garages. Tight spaces call for tight parking. Many of the cars I had only seen on a video game until I walked up this sidewalk on January 13th. I was so lost. I was so new. I knew nothing about the place I was in, but everything I thought about for the next three months was part of an effort to become familiar with this vast city. I walked this street hundreds of times and each time I felt a little more like I owned my own section of the neighborhood. It was different over there. I don’t typically take pride in the street I live on, but I wanted to over there. It was my own little patch of London, and knowing it inside and out made me feel more like a local. The sidewalk across the street is where all my journeys began and ended. I usually left the house at 8 and froze while walking down this street without a coat. I looked inside any house that didn’t have their curtains drawn. Some were simple, others were packed full of stuff and furniture. A number of them had plasma televisions on the wall. I kept track of where certain cars were parked to see where certain cars lived. I memorized the names of them and any distinct features on the car. I wanted to see how the house I lived in differed from the others on the block. I think I ran by Chris Cooper not far from here one day. I took this picture walking up from Park Road where I caught the W7 to Finsbury Park. The bust stop is just a hundred yards behind the point at which I stood to take this picture. The W7 came down the hill from Muswell Hill Broadway every 3-7 minutes. It took me through Hackney, Crouch End, and on to Finsbury. I sat up top on the left side usually halfway back. I was early enough on the route that it wasn’t too difficult to get a window seat. After a few stops the bus filled up with business men and women. Everyone wears wool over there and I really stuck out on some days when I was wearing the orange Mountain Hard Wear shell. I watched the seats fill up in front of me. Someone sat with me on most of the morning trips. The silence of everyone on the bus got to me sometimes. You couldn’t tell if all of us were going to a funeral or our jobs. I was happy though. The bus unloaded us at the Finsbury Park station that is serviced by the Piccadilly and Victoria lines which are blue and light blue on your tube maps. Loads of business people funneled into a circular tunnel that banked slightly to the right as it moved underground. I really was the only student out in the boonies with all these rich, successful people, except of course any other students in the same program as me. I rode in carriages stuffed full with men and women in suits and business attire. I was the one grunged out person. My pants for the trip consisted of three pairs of Carhartts that I alternated for weeks at a time before they were cleaned. The Carhartts were great because they stayed clean and any top looked halfway decent with them. I fit in a little more once I put on a nice pair of leather shoes, a zip up, high-collar sweater, and my European carryall. The carryall I bought at Topman on Oxford Street. I haven’t worn it since then, but I miss it. Why can’t Americans dress nicely and get over men wearing purses? I love rocking the man purse. Tuesday, June 27, 2006
A Visit
It will never be like it was before. The carefree freedom that comes with childhood has come and gone and I childishly half expect to return to those years on Monte Carlo Place every time I am with Trey. We have passed through the teenage wasteland, and it was beautiful. Now I am face to face with a man who I shared boyish dreams with, half expecting them to never come true, but they have. He has married (married before me), followed his dreams, been true to his heart, and has copied no one to become himself. There are only traces of the boy I left behind in 1999. There are only traces of that friendship that was forged while living next-door to each other for eight years. I am forced to wander around and pick up the pieces of my friendship with him and run with them. We don’t get as far as we used to with reminiscing. There is so much in the dark…too much. We can only grasp for the friendship we used to have that adulthood and responsibilities have now stolen from us. I can tell our hearts scream with desire for things to be like they were. We were so close. Neither one of us took our friendship and shattered it on the floor, but each day, week, month, and year that have passed beginning with the day I moved away from Fort Collins has slowly eroded away what had been building up for eight years. I wrote back in 1999 that a part of me died when we left Fort Collins. I used to think that was foolish thinking, but it wasn’t; I couldn’t have been more right. Trey and I were that close for a reason. God brought us together. I wonder if God’s purpose for our friendship has expired? Are we just wasting time trying to jumpstart this old car? Friendship is so delicate. We didn’t mean to alienate ourselves, but we did, and in the end the truth is this, the way it was before, that was the part of my heart that died the day I left Fort Collins. How sad. I can’t change it. I can only hope that things return to what they were, but after seeing Trey today, that stranger that I considered a brother so long ago, I realize that the past we have is only attainable through those sudden explosions of remembrance, bouts of laughter, long sighs, and smiles. What lies ahead of us is completely up to us, and entirely unknown because it will be wholly different than what lies behind us. That isn’t what we want, but it is what we are getting. And I feel we will make do and see what the purpose of this next friendship serves.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Drive-up Banking
I don't go to the bank that often because I don't have a paycheck, but every once in a while I get small amounts of the green stuff coming my way from odd jobs. Actually, this check was blue, not green. So, the drive-up teller at the bank is not a place I visit often, but I still know how to approach the three lanes ahead of me. It isn't hard. I choose the shortest line.
For example, today I drove up and there was already a car in the first lane. There was also a car stopped behind that car while the other two lanes were open. I was presented with two spots without anyone ahead of me. Easy, I chose lane two. This happens a lot. Are people blind? I just think it is one of those weird instances where people are afraid to take the initiative. Call me a fool. Make fun of my presumption all you want. I think I am right on this one. This even sounds absurd to me, but oh well. We are so used to being herded around like cattle and following one another that I think we are a little scared when we don't see a queue where there should be one. Yes, those two empty lanes are there to serve you. Don't be afraid. You aren't going to get shot if you decide to bypass the one or two cars ahead of you for a shot at being in the front of the line.
The bankers have thought this through. They realize that the drive-up is pretty popular. This led them to build three lanes, instead of the measly one. Get this, they also made room for three tellers to work the drive-up. How marvelous. You probably sit behind the car in line because you think there is only one teller, so what is the point in getting in the second line? The bank also pays attention to when it gets busy in the drive-up. When it does, like when all three lanes have cars in them, they send tellers back to take care of the rush. So, next time when you pull up to the drive-up teller choose the open lane. You have nothing to lose. You will be served immediately, or you will just have to wait for those ahead of you to finish their business with the bank. It is also likely that someone will come to your rescue and fill one of the open teller positions in that back window. You will save time. And, I won't have to marvel at your stupidity any longer.
For example, today I drove up and there was already a car in the first lane. There was also a car stopped behind that car while the other two lanes were open. I was presented with two spots without anyone ahead of me. Easy, I chose lane two. This happens a lot. Are people blind? I just think it is one of those weird instances where people are afraid to take the initiative. Call me a fool. Make fun of my presumption all you want. I think I am right on this one. This even sounds absurd to me, but oh well. We are so used to being herded around like cattle and following one another that I think we are a little scared when we don't see a queue where there should be one. Yes, those two empty lanes are there to serve you. Don't be afraid. You aren't going to get shot if you decide to bypass the one or two cars ahead of you for a shot at being in the front of the line.
The bankers have thought this through. They realize that the drive-up is pretty popular. This led them to build three lanes, instead of the measly one. Get this, they also made room for three tellers to work the drive-up. How marvelous. You probably sit behind the car in line because you think there is only one teller, so what is the point in getting in the second line? The bank also pays attention to when it gets busy in the drive-up. When it does, like when all three lanes have cars in them, they send tellers back to take care of the rush. So, next time when you pull up to the drive-up teller choose the open lane. You have nothing to lose. You will be served immediately, or you will just have to wait for those ahead of you to finish their business with the bank. It is also likely that someone will come to your rescue and fill one of the open teller positions in that back window. You will save time. And, I won't have to marvel at your stupidity any longer.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Class isn't in Session Anymore
UNST 1000 - University Studies - Once a week I found myself in this class that lasted until noon. I was pressed for time to get some food in my body that I wasn't going to puke up before practice at 1:30. I couldn't eat that much, and plus, it was Washakie, therefore, really crappy food. What a bummer of a class to end the course series on. There is nothing here that is really all that memorable, just a sliver of what it was like to be a freshman, but that is something to hold on to. It seems like the only thing I know, or want now is to have another year of college. Naturally, it is weird to imagine a time in which I was a foreigner at that beatiful university in that beautiful state.
Monday, June 05, 2006
9/11 Morning
THEA 1000 - Introduction to Theatre - I find the first memory, of a class so long ago, interesting. Although I had a great professor for this course, enjoyed learning some theatre history, the class experience tends to be overshadowed by one morning.
I was a freshman at UW in the fall of 2001. It was September. I went to class on 9/11. I knew that four planes had gone astray; two flown into the World Trade Center, one into the Pentagon, and another crashing to a green Pennsylvania field, but I don't think I fully grasped the consequences, the ramifications of these events. Indeed, not one of us could see then how the world would change in the years to follow. If I had fully understood this calamitous event it is likely that I wouldn't have gone to the lecture late that morning. Maybe, somewhere in my sub-counscious, my walk across campus that morning was the earliest coping mechanism that I had--to get on with the familiar and to grasp for something understood. I had seen so much on TV that morning that was unspeakable, inexplainable, and completely foreign to my "world" that for an hour or two I wanted to run away from it all. I didn't get very far.
On the day of the attack no one knew exactly how many people had died. Many made educated guesses based on the number of people working in the buildings on a daily basis and so did my professor that morning. I remember him saying that there could be 30,000 dead in each tower. As we would all find out in the weeks to come that number was extremely inflated, but at the time it seemed completely reasonable; no one knew how many had evacuated the buildings, or how many were out of reach of the cascading rubble when the towers fell.
As you might expect, we didn't spend much time talking about Greek drama, Voltaire, or the Enlightenment that morning. The class was full of students, many probably trying to cope in the same way I had, having an open discussion about the days events and where the ripples of this tragedy might lead.
For me, a whole semester in this course is summed up by this memory. Although we did spend hours learning about the history of the theatre, and how actors perform certain actions on stage, it all seems to be overshadowed by the event of that semester. 9/11 seems to have this kind of effect on many of us. We will never forget the day that for some of us occupies a week, month, or even a years worth of memories.
I was a freshman at UW in the fall of 2001. It was September. I went to class on 9/11. I knew that four planes had gone astray; two flown into the World Trade Center, one into the Pentagon, and another crashing to a green Pennsylvania field, but I don't think I fully grasped the consequences, the ramifications of these events. Indeed, not one of us could see then how the world would change in the years to follow. If I had fully understood this calamitous event it is likely that I wouldn't have gone to the lecture late that morning. Maybe, somewhere in my sub-counscious, my walk across campus that morning was the earliest coping mechanism that I had--to get on with the familiar and to grasp for something understood. I had seen so much on TV that morning that was unspeakable, inexplainable, and completely foreign to my "world" that for an hour or two I wanted to run away from it all. I didn't get very far.
On the day of the attack no one knew exactly how many people had died. Many made educated guesses based on the number of people working in the buildings on a daily basis and so did my professor that morning. I remember him saying that there could be 30,000 dead in each tower. As we would all find out in the weeks to come that number was extremely inflated, but at the time it seemed completely reasonable; no one knew how many had evacuated the buildings, or how many were out of reach of the cascading rubble when the towers fell.
As you might expect, we didn't spend much time talking about Greek drama, Voltaire, or the Enlightenment that morning. The class was full of students, many probably trying to cope in the same way I had, having an open discussion about the days events and where the ripples of this tragedy might lead.
For me, a whole semester in this course is summed up by this memory. Although we did spend hours learning about the history of the theatre, and how actors perform certain actions on stage, it all seems to be overshadowed by the event of that semester. 9/11 seems to have this kind of effect on many of us. We will never forget the day that for some of us occupies a week, month, or even a years worth of memories.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Espanol - With squiggly thing over the 'n'.
SPAN 1010, 1020, and 2030 - Spanish 1-1, 1-2, and 2-1 - I am sort of cheating here, but these classes all blend together. I took all three of these courses in consecutive semesters, Monday through Thursday, and at 8 a.m. This was a painful thing to do because I was up at 5:30 for swimming or weights for the first three days of the week.
I hated Spanish. I am not going to lie. However, I am really glad for what little of the language I retained from these semesters. My limited knowledge of the language has been helpful in some circumstances.
I spent all this time in Spanish in high school thinking that I wouldn't have to take a foreign language in college. Wrong. To master my native tongue at UW I had to spend three semesters studying a foreign language. Sweet. It wasn't all that bad. I met some really cool people. I met some messed up people. My last Spanish professor really loved drinking. This is a presumption. She let me do a presentation in Spanish on my really tall, talking Treebeard doll. This one speech was the highlight of my Spanish career. Treebeard has four phrases in his memory and I converted every word into Spanish, except for the "hobbits".
Two more ebullient blogs on my coursework are coming soon.
I hated Spanish. I am not going to lie. However, I am really glad for what little of the language I retained from these semesters. My limited knowledge of the language has been helpful in some circumstances.
I spent all this time in Spanish in high school thinking that I wouldn't have to take a foreign language in college. Wrong. To master my native tongue at UW I had to spend three semesters studying a foreign language. Sweet. It wasn't all that bad. I met some really cool people. I met some messed up people. My last Spanish professor really loved drinking. This is a presumption. She let me do a presentation in Spanish on my really tall, talking Treebeard doll. This one speech was the highlight of my Spanish career. Treebeard has four phrases in his memory and I converted every word into Spanish, except for the "hobbits".
Two more ebullient blogs on my coursework are coming soon.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
The Rise of Christianity
SOC 3200 - Sociology of Religion - Here comes another book recommendation: The Rise of Christianity, by Rodney Stark. You might assume this book talks about the very beginnings of Christianity and how the faith spread, or did not spread through empires of the world, and also how it eventually came to be one of the Earth's major religions. Well, you assume correctly. It was a provocative read.
The professor of this course was a nice fellow. He had all these crazy stories about students at the Air Force Academy--he used to teach there. Unfortunately, I can't remember one of these stories right now, but I do remember having a recurring thought during the time he would share about his experience at the Academy. It would totally suck to be a student there, but I am glad there are people that do well in that setting and enjoy the strict rules, schedule, lack of freedom, and whatnot. It is just not for me.
Five courses left.
The professor of this course was a nice fellow. He had all these crazy stories about students at the Air Force Academy--he used to teach there. Unfortunately, I can't remember one of these stories right now, but I do remember having a recurring thought during the time he would share about his experience at the Academy. It would totally suck to be a student there, but I am glad there are people that do well in that setting and enjoy the strict rules, schedule, lack of freedom, and whatnot. It is just not for me.
Five courses left.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Chinese Society
SOC 3100 - Chinese Society - The Eastern trend continues. Biggest lesson learned in this class: I would consider living in China to be an unfortunate existence. Nothing in China is easy. Go ahead, assume I am spoiled, I am, but there are no excuses as to why people should be living the way they do in China. However, I did just say nothing in China is easy, that includes eradicating poverty and bringing some form of equality to this country. I am excited to read about so much growth in China, but I have some doubts about it because it seems that the elitists are simply getting richer and the percentage of people living at, or below the poverty level, is growing--this is no growth to be happy about.
An article in The New York Times a few months ago addressed the skyscraper sprawl in Shanghai. Apparently Shanghai will soon have more skyscrapers than Ney York City, but you won't be able to see that many of them through the smog. Industrial and commercial zoning is a disease in the new China that might one day suffocate all that makes China unique. They are already flying the flag of globalization. It is all good though, they are learning from the best.
An article in The New York Times a few months ago addressed the skyscraper sprawl in Shanghai. Apparently Shanghai will soon have more skyscrapers than Ney York City, but you won't be able to see that many of them through the smog. Industrial and commercial zoning is a disease in the new China that might one day suffocate all that makes China unique. They are already flying the flag of globalization. It is all good though, they are learning from the best.
Monday, May 29, 2006
The East
SOC 3050 - Japanese Society - I would say I am intrigued by the East, but one of the meanings of intrigue is having a clandestine love affair. Love is just too strong of a word, and I am not conducting this interest of mine in secrecy.
For my general education classes I needed to take some non-Western cultural courses. I alloted most of that coursework to the Eastern Hemisphere. Unfortunately, this coursework was not accompanied by a trip to the East. I haven't directly used this knowledge in my life too many times, but on occasion I am able to suprise myself with some material I have retained from lectures. This is doubly surprising. First, I remembered something that I learned in college. Second, I understood my professor's heavily Japanese-accented English. Awesome.
Silly that when I think of this course one specific memory comes to mind. When I saw The Last Samurai I recalled the story of Japan's creation that the narrator was telling. The islands of Japan are said to have sprung up when drops from a sword fell upon the Earth. I also knew on occasion when the movie got Japanese history right and wrong.
The Samurai's Garden is a book I chose to read for this class. I read it after a semester of Japanese studies, which is a drop in the bucket, but it still offered a perspective on Japanese culture and history that had not been provided through the curriculum of the class. Good stuff. Check it out sometime.*
*I feel so stuck up when I suggest movies to watch, or books to read to people for some reason. I guess I just have a hard time believing someone is going to come to this site, actually finish reading one of these blogs, and consider my recommendation at the bottom. I wouldn't be surprised if you wrote the title down on your stack of post-it notes by the side of the keyboard, but there is no effort involved in that compared to the effort involved in seeking this book out upon a friend, or stranger's recommendation, and reading it. I believe in that really small percentage of the population. That is why I say things like this.
For my general education classes I needed to take some non-Western cultural courses. I alloted most of that coursework to the Eastern Hemisphere. Unfortunately, this coursework was not accompanied by a trip to the East. I haven't directly used this knowledge in my life too many times, but on occasion I am able to suprise myself with some material I have retained from lectures. This is doubly surprising. First, I remembered something that I learned in college. Second, I understood my professor's heavily Japanese-accented English. Awesome.
Silly that when I think of this course one specific memory comes to mind. When I saw The Last Samurai I recalled the story of Japan's creation that the narrator was telling. The islands of Japan are said to have sprung up when drops from a sword fell upon the Earth. I also knew on occasion when the movie got Japanese history right and wrong.
The Samurai's Garden is a book I chose to read for this class. I read it after a semester of Japanese studies, which is a drop in the bucket, but it still offered a perspective on Japanese culture and history that had not been provided through the curriculum of the class. Good stuff. Check it out sometime.*
*I feel so stuck up when I suggest movies to watch, or books to read to people for some reason. I guess I just have a hard time believing someone is going to come to this site, actually finish reading one of these blogs, and consider my recommendation at the bottom. I wouldn't be surprised if you wrote the title down on your stack of post-it notes by the side of the keyboard, but there is no effort involved in that compared to the effort involved in seeking this book out upon a friend, or stranger's recommendation, and reading it. I believe in that really small percentage of the population. That is why I say things like this.
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