The Pit: Part II

The Pit: Part I

Slam down the peanut butter and jelly, devour the banana, inhale the entire pack of fruit snacks in a single mouthful…it’s time to roll! Lunge to the backdoor, apologize to dad for running in the house, nudge the screen a couple times to awaken the black lab snoozing on the other side, wait for him to contemptuously move his restive dog-days bulk from the comfort of a shady and cool metallic screen door, and rush to the bike rack.

Ahh, the bike!

Now, few material possessions quite defined a nine year old like his dirt bike. First of all, did he have a dirt bike? Some kids chose ten-speeds, a few had only scooters or rollerblades, one or two were solely skateboarders, some denied the thrill of wheels and spent their summers in basketball and baseball camps. So the pool narrowed significantly right away. But let’s be honest with each other, the real crème de la summer’s crop--rich or poor--had a dirt bike. Now among us brave and noble souls who concentrated our attention on the world of the dirt bike, there were really two tiers.

The top tier had notable characteristics: these were the kids who had the pegs on the back and on the front tires. Instead of a web of spokes, you would only see the svelte blades of five chrome supports jutting from the central wheel to it’s rubber tire. So hot, so hot. These kids had frames that weighed an ounce, exhibited more fancy silver metal, and probably showcased the coolest dragon and skeleton designs a grade schooler could ever want. For them, the brakes weren’t even a question: hand-operated.

I found my place among the prosaic ranks of the simpler models. There were no pegs on my bike. I dealt with a forest of rusting spokes and my parents would have killed me had I removed the red reflectors that screamed “uncool”. My red huffy was a bit heavier than ideal and couldn’t claim much for design. And, of course, the brakes were foot-operated, so I wasn’t wooing any fans on that front. In short, it was a working man’s bike. It didn’t dazzle at the get-go, but it put me in the game and that’s all you really needed. I couldn’t flash it on the blacktop but it was sufficient to make me show up.

Besides, the real beauty came later because here was a world where merit competed vigorously with hardware to establish one’s rank. And maybe that was one of the core wonders of our dirt bike world: a first glimpse at the tug-of-war between having and earning. We learned that some who had still earned. We learned that some who didn’t have were afraid to earn. We learned that some who had couldn’t earn. We learned that to have a little was enough to let us earn alot. These were pivotal lessons that only the philosophy of adulthood can encapsulate in words, but maybe, just maybe, they impressed themselves upon a nascent and untamed thread of understanding that children surely develop earlier than they’re given credit.

But that’s all peripheral, so back to the important stuff...Grab the bike, pop the kickstand, open the back gate, make sure the dog doesn’t get out, close it, and you’re almost there.

One last obstacle: Mr. Krell (RIP), our septuagenarian once-and-future-lawyer neighbor was likely watering the northern half of our driveway and any cars that might be sitting there, so the exit down the side of the house had to be fast and furious. If you’ve ever imagined a bass-voiced crow with a bullhorn grinding away at his own vocal cords with a rusty chainsaw, then you’ve started to imagine Mr. Krell’s neighborhood-rattling throat-clearings. Good lord, those things came less from the bottom of his bowels and more from the bottom of a Rancour’s den! But the real problem lay less in his phlegmy effusions, and more in his loquacious ramblings and insistence on a fourth grader having determined the exact progression of his collegiate and graduate school training, combined with atleast a solid understanding of the economic state of various professions and how that should influence the early workplace maneuverings. So, needless to say, you had to tear at breakneck speed down the side of the house and across the driveway and allow Mr. Krell nothing more than a salute in-passing or you’d surely be roped in for an hour.

Now there was only one more stop before The Pit: Tim Snell’s house to rendezvous with your comrade in bikes.

A Challenger for Duct Tape?

This stuff is pretty cool and worth checking out. The artist is Mark Jenkins and the medium is packing tape.

The Pit (Part I)

If you awoke on a summer morning in my part of eastern Washington state in the late 80's, you were greeted by the warm, dry rays of a vibrant sun prebaking our sub-alpine heights. The air there carried a virginal quality as the putrid fumes of humidity wielded no power and the 2500 foot elevation thinned the molecules. Pine trees salted the air with their cleansing aromas and grasshoppers occasionally contended with the sparrows for a piece of the aural action.

For a fourth grader on summer vacation, this was perpetual bliss. The tetherball courts at the elementary school were empty and no yellow balls hung on the ends of those metal chains. The bells still rang in the school building because the principle forgot to turn them off for
the summer months. Times tables and cursive-writing disappeared into the hazy past. The water balloon fights during the last week of school were over which, unfathomably, the teachers had allowed and even encouraged. The classroom and recess world faded away into a distant memory as the present utopia of summer vacation blossomed before us.

For someone in my oppressed state, wrathful parents never ceased their tyranny so daily chores took precedence over an early start. First, their was laundry to fold in the cold basement where you could actually get goose bumps from the dark chill. Down in that hidden
world, green luminescent letters dotted the screen of our dual floppy-disk drive Macintosh computer in the next room where Below the Root, Snakebite, and Word Munchers capitalized upon their much needed respite from over-eager children and amused parents. If you glanced in there, you'd think Slimer was hiding behind a closet door.

So, there was laundry to fold, there were bathrooms to clean with buckets of hot water and pinesol, carpets needed vacuuming, lawns needed mowing, patios needed sweeping, dogpoop needed shoveling, and flourbeds needed weeding. Oh, the onerous weeds! Day in and day out
those weeds proliferated with a vengeance unrivaled by the ravaging Hun armies. Not only were the bigger ones sheathed in a coat of microscale razors, but the little ones refused to part with their roots and multiplied overnight like the beheaded Hydra.

But once these chores were done, there was nothing to stop a nine year old from reaching his promised land: The Pit.

The Pit: Part II

Sushi Guy

Walk into any inexpensive sushi bar in the city. Grab a table. Sit down. Imagine for a moment that you've avoided that nefarious soul who haunts your maki dreams; imagine that you're safe. But alas! Try as you might, he'll find you. Whether through karmic (in)justice or the premeditated viciousness of a sadist, this gentleman will slither into a booth within earshot and unveil his poisonous fangs.

You know, of course, that I'm talking about Sushi Guy.

Sushi Guys come in all sorts of exterior variations which makes them difficult to tag on a quick scan of the room. Among the most prevalent, however, are the ones I codename Marcus: seniors in college, normally some background in theatre, caucasian, undersexed, wearing short-sleeve button-ups that scream "just try to call me an engineer, you plebian who's utterly oblivious to meaning of the japanese symbol plastered on my undershirt!".

Marcus always brings 'friends' to sushi, but never another Marcus. When this man is in his element, the room's not big enough to share. With barely concealed contempt, he cringes as his novice underlings order their California and tuna rolls but he also knows that everything is proceeding perfectly according to his plan.

And now he's on. This is the moment he's been savoring for days: The Order. First, he sets the menu down. Who needs a superfluous piece of paper when you practically invented the cuisine (in your dormroom). Marcus then asks the waitress about her personal favorites in the restaurants. When she replies that everything is "really good" but she especially "prefers the eel and octopus" he gives the knowing answer that he "always enjoys the eel cuts" from this restaurant but can only savor the octopus with heavy-salt soysauce and his "doctor advised against" excess sodium. Sadly, he must "opt for low-sodium" soysauce and, therefore, couldn't "do justice to the octopus".

[Here he steals a smug glance at his friends who hide behind recurrent sips from water glasses that have skyrocketed in appeal. He interprets that as tacit fawning over his exhibition of expertise. He proceeds.]

Tonight, he declares, he will only dine on nigiri and carefully selects each of the following (all japanese terms have been translated into english, but Marcus has capitalized upon his two quarters of high-school japanese and the 'Japan in World War II' history class he took last year to deconstruct the Japanese language and reassemble it into something resembling an eastern-flavored spanish): salmon roe, spanish mackerel, halibut, two abalones and, of course, sea eel (through notable stealth, he managed to fetch the menu again). Actually, "since everyone else seems to think it a good idea", he decides that a tuna roll is necessary so "he doesn't feel out of place" but, if it's not too much trouble, could he ask for brown rice on the roll, because he heard "that was how it was traditionally served." Although the waitress is covertly drilling a hole through his appalling head with her flashing eyes, her face is serene and she offers a polite smile to the group, and another polite nod to Marcus as she departs. Marcus was too busy to notice her eyes.

His entire 'presentation' proceeds at a decibel-level just above arena rock and just below a jet engine from 15-feet.

Marcus basks in the glory of his victory. His friends sip the last of their water and start crunching ice. You, seated two booths away from Marcus, try to calm your fury with warm sake and continue the conversation you forgot you were having. That conversation, my friend, is gone forever.

Dotted lines

Listen to the brambles and gravel crunch underneath the tires as you pull away from the curb. Feel the engine spit and gurgle while it awakens from its nap. See familiarity slip away in your rearview mirror as you round the corner. Taste the gusts of air sneak in through an open window. Smell diesel and hot asphalt and oak trees and dry grasses blend into a perfume of motion.

The road opens its arms and welcomes you into its universe.

What outwardly lookes like escapism is, in reality, an avenue to real introspection. You get to it by getting away from it. This is widdling away the distracting minutiae and focusing on the bigger picture.

This is the crucial combination of meditation's repetition and adventure's novelty: Dotted lines and whitewater. Dotted lines and skylines. Dotted lines and diners. Dotted lines and rolling green hills. Dotted lines and pink semis. Dotted lines and old friends in new lives. Dotted lines and new friends. Dotted lines and revelations, large and small.

Connection from disconnection.

Let me engage in this world, but remind me why I'm doing what I'm doing. Yank me away from my world and let me see another existence. Strip away preconceptions and blase dismissals. Usher me back to my world refreshed and enlightened.

I never found in a church what I find on the road. Maybe our church just doesn't have a roof.

So, here's to you, Caretaker of Ruth.

4 notes

1. Those subway and sewer vents in downtown are veritable chasms whispering my siren song. I'm not convinced that I won't plummet to my demise some day walking over those evil grates but I'll be damned if i'm not gonna risk it. I've observed the plight of my chewing gum and it's not pretty. But that's why I carry around my Mary Poppins umbrella. Well, one of the reasons I carry around my Mary Poppins umbrella.
2. The NBA playoffs are no longer my friend. I had three teams that I was really excited about watching. All three lost last round. Not only that, they either played half-ass or suffered the pangs and arrows of outrageous officiating. The only thing I can fall back on now are my childhood sweethearts, the Utah Jazz, which captivated every soon-to-be-five-eleven-white-kid-from-spokane-washington back in the day. But Mr. Stockton and his crew broke my heart too many times in adolescence for me to lightly dig those pompoms out of storage.
3. I swallowed a bug while running today. That little bastard bee-lined straight for my non-existent tonsils and fulfilled his kamikaze pledge. Although I'm not convinced that dying in a violent phlegm tornado is really that honorable, I must commend him on his aim.
4. I didn't really have a fourth point. But, damn, the first three were really good. Really, really good.

Tip of the day: ovens and renting

If you're like me, you're still stuck on the final legs of renting as you prepare to invest in your own palatial estate. Here's one thing to watch:

When you move into a new place, open up that compartment below the main oven chamber where many people store baking sheets, etc. Maybe, just maybe, some creative folk inhabited the apartment before you and thought it might serve as a nice receptacle for a stack of papers. Really, who could blame them? Then maybe, just maybe, you'll turn on your gas stove for a few minutes and soon find your apartment engulfed in heavy smoke. Perhaps next you'll attempt, unsuccessfully, to control the smoke and see the pleasant warm glow of orange flames issue forth from underneath your gas stove. Ooooh, delicious! In a wild, wacky, cool-aid style twist of events, maybe you'll then get the opportunity to visit with the local firefighters as they isolate and quench this nifty fire.

I've heard these stories so, kids, always keep an eye out for those little practical jokes your lovable ex-tenants might have concocted.

Cicadas are coming!

Cicadas are coming! Cicadas are coming!
Hear them stomping their feet to battlecry drumming,
I fear bulbous red eyes; here’s a shiny doubloon,
Stop the swarms of doom from excavating my tomb!

The scientists lie and declare that they’re harmless,
Anxiety, stress; I’m becoming a Pharm mess!
They will steal young children and hold them for ransom,
They will devour your face, nomatter how handsome.

For seventeen years they have been hatching their plan,
But don’t let them eat me with their monstrous wingspan,
For seventeen years they have been plotting my death,
Give me electrocution or poison by meth.

Yeah, yeah, you prune the treetops and aerate my soil,
You claim to minimize bugs through ravenous toil,
Sing your own praises you contemporary plague,
Tell your all-male chorus it’s an onerous nag.

I dodged you back in DC and hail from the west,
So this will constitute my inaugural test,
Call me an alarmist, extremist, curmudgeon
But if need be I’ll slice ‘ya, dice ‘ya, and bludgeon.

Strategic walking: showdown on sedgwick street

I had a terrifying experience on the hard streets of Lincoln Park the other day. There I was, minding my own business while en route to the train. And that’s when I saw that two-bit jackal of a walker: me.

You see, I walk a lot. I live in cities, mostly rely on trains and buses for longer trips, then fill in whatever gaps this public transportation can’t cover by trekking on foot. I like walking. It’s how I learn about neighborhoods and see the underbelly of bridges and figure out what’s in all those stores with crowded signs that I couldn’t interpret at 30 mph.

So I’ve had a lot of practice and I take pride in having honed a pretty smooth walking style that maximizes my flow and the flow of those around me. Having diligently studied the art for years, I’m keenly aware of different walking styles and I’ve worked to adapt my own approach to any circumstances.

For instance, in the subway stations and streets of New York I was a darter: you’re dealing with a swarm of people who’re out for blood, so you can’t expect anyone to yield to you. Plus, there’s rarely room to forge your own path on the perimeter of the flow so you have to work in the same spaces as the masses. That means you take the openings when you find them. You move fast, often laterally, and always have your eyes two or three people ahead to gauge the plans of those in your vicinity.

In Washington, I played the perimeter game. It's a more conservative place, so although the sidewalks and subways might have pedestrians, you could normally squeeze a bit of space to yourself on slightly riskier terrain, i.e. streets and rumble strips next to the subway tracks. It was a little dangerous, but the rewards were plentiful so if you kept your head, you’d move swiftly and safely beyond the masses.

Here in Chicago, I haven’t quite developed my local style but I’ve performed relatively well by varying my approach with a given neighborhood. All was going swimmingly until the other day:

You see, I was playing the rumination card during a mid-morning stroll, so I had my head ducked a bit and hands tucked safely in the pockets. My pace was brisk, but not dangerously so. I snuck a surreptitious glance ahead on the sidewalk-which is a crucial element of this advanced walk style. Sure enough, I spotted somebody approaching me directly about 50 feet ahead.

No big deal. The alarms didn’t blare immediately because my sentinels didn’t sniff any trouble. They’ve since been replaced. So I resumed my downward glance but was startled a moment later by some shuffling gravel ahead.

This joker was moving faster than anticipated! My nerves tingled slightly as I quickly glanced upward, still trying not to make any direct eye contact. At this moment, I realized that I’d have to make the first move to prevent certain peril. If I did it now, this guy probably wouldn’t pay any attention to our awkward situation and we’d pass each other anonymously and safely. No harm done. We still had about 35 feet of separation at this point but were closing on each other rapidly. I mustered my courage and veered slightly to the right, thinking this would suffice for a close, but safe pass.

To my horror, I realized he had made the same veer to his left. Outrageous, I thought, as we raced directly at each other. Having faced this uncomfortable situation a few times before, I felt certain there was still time. 25 feet. Alright, we both made the early calculation that this scenario could be troublesome, I thought, so we’re both going to make an equally quick decision to take the second move. This dude’s legit, but If I play my cards right, I let him make this second dodge to his right to avoid the collision. It may give him the glory, but it lets us both walk another day.

So, thinking I was the better man, I sucked it up and maintained my course. But the fires of Hades burned for me that day because this half-wit refused to take the move that I handed him on a silver platter. Instead, through his gross negligence and brazen unwillingness to make the second sway, we were careening headlong towards each other with precious seconds ticking away.

My god, I thought, this could be it. I thought back to all the training I’d done the previous years to get to this elite level of walking. Could it really all be for naught?

12 feet. 12 feet separated me from this cold-blooded killer. He’ll probably take a swipe at my knee as he passes, level me with an elbow to the temple, or poke my eyes out with a fork and leave me writhing on the cold, hard cement to be put out of my misery by a passing Fed-Ex truck, I thought. Why, oh Why?!!

Knowing it was now or never, I dropped the act and faced this insufferable fool with straight eye contact. But oh no! Oh lord, those eyes! Those eyes burning with a manic expression of fury and fear; those eyes were my eyes. This fool wasn’t a ravenous blood-thirsty contract killer out for nothing but another obituary and a stack of cash. This was just a poor novice thrown into a walk-off he’d never dreamed could have such high stakes!

6 feet. I went even farther right, he went even farther to his left. 4 feet. A shriek, a holler, bystanders covering their children’s eyes to prevent permanent trauma. Hands out of pockets, a slide to the left on loose gravel followed by an unimaginable, pivot-foot-270-degree-hop-from-the-off-foot carried out in unison like a synchronized swimming pair performing for their lives in front of an otherwise bored shah looking for two additions to his head-on-a-pike collection for the terrace of the summer palace. Scheherazade, your spirit lived with us that day.

My heart skipped a beat as I felt the cold wind of his being pass within a centimeter of me. Breath held and senses numbed, we looked at each other as if in slow motion as we dusted off our shoes and backed away slowly. There were no laughs, there was only terror. A tragedy was averted by the tiniest of margins and we were shaken beyond comprehension. I’d lost my cool, my reputation was blown in this neighborhood and I’d never walk with the same bravado that turned heads on passing buses. I was done here.

That walk could have ended it all. The rumination strut is out for now. I’ll have to rethink my entire Chicago strategy. As for that poor fool, I can only hope that he has the sense to take a gift the next time it’s offered. Maybe, just maybe, it’ll save his walk and his life.

Some Chicago shots

Picture this: an introduction to life in Chicago.

How kool is your skool?

This post is like a bad infection that I really need to just belch out so I can get on with my life. This is another topic that would take a dissertation to do justice to it (not to mention it presents the dual peril of bothering friends and making me look preachy), so I hesitated about even mentioning it. The demons won’t go away, however, so I lay myself down on the chopping block…

You see, I read this article the other day that everyone else on earth, apparently, read too. I was excited because it expressed some of the visceral thoughts I have about education in America. If you’ve read my last couple posts, you know this is an issue on my mind.

The ultimate message, and the conclusion I have reached over the last few years, is this: there are incredibly gifted kids that don’t end up as undergraduates at elite colleges. This isn’t (mostly) to detract from those elite schools, but more a statement about 1) how other schools are attracting phenomenal students because it’s getting crowded at the top, 2) an acknowledgement that some bright minds simply don’t blossom (academically) during the high school years, and 3) that some sharp and driven minds don't ever find their real outlet in school. Futhermore, although this guy doesn’t say if he agrees with me or not, in my opinion, far too much emphasis is placed on standardized test scores.

Actually I can’t relate to the students he discusses who are rejected from Harvard, but have unbelievably accomplished stats. What I relate to is the author’s experience and the attitude he has about his own kids. The former do research for NASA while in high school and travel in Europe with orchestras during the summers. He and I worked in pizza restaurants, shoveled gravel, or put in sprinkler systems. Like his kids, my friends and I learned life lessons during high school by skiing on the weekends instead of doing pre-calculus homework and reading history textbooks.

My problems rest much more in undergraduate education than with graduate education. I think graduate programs do a better job of sniffing out the best candidates based on a broader set of considerations. Also, if you’re getting an advanced degree from any school, you’re probably quite driven and likely have an active mind. Furthermore, what you become during your undergraduate years (and afterwards) has much more to do with who you are, while what you become during your high school years has more to do with what you were born into.

Elite undergraduate schools serve an important role. There needs to be a place where the truly brilliant and the truly driven (or some combination of both) can congregate and push the limits of human thinking. But let me say two things: while the wealthy in this country have such an enormous advantage in training their children for these overemphasized standardized tests, getting their children into elite summer training programs, privately influencing high-level people with control over admissions, and offering to forfeit the entire $50,000 for a year in school instead of asking for grants and loans, this is simply not a meritocracy and you cannot be assured that you are giving every bright student the right consideration. Again, this doesn’t apply to everyone from wealth, but we do have a problem here. Secondly, don’t think for a second that you have such a monopoly on the best minds. You will soon be paying more attention to schools that right now fall below your radar.

To answer upfront any speculation about bias, I’ll give the disclaimer that my SAT scores were better than average but certainly not adequate to compete for the top schools. The one quite competitive school I applied to (still, a notch below the best) didn’t particularly like me and slapped me back to their waiting list. These realities haunted me for years and when I awakened intellectually in college my victories were tempered by ruinous memories of underperformance and rejection at the age of 17. Seventeen years old. It took me many years to see beyond this.

When given the chance at another standardized test (GRE), I knew deep down that it would not serve as an adequate measure of my intelligence. However, I wanted to forever quell any lingering doubts about my capabilities on this front. It was personal. So I signed up for that test, got all pumped up, memorized some vocabulary, looked over a bit of high school math, went in there, freaked out, and froze up in the middle. The computer generated scores that said I was pretty mediocre. But this time, I wasn’t having any of it. Pissed off at the world, I marched back in there, showed that test who was boss and sat back for my scores. But when the computer spat out scores that supposedly told me I should apply to really competitive grad schools, I felt anesthetized. Was this really any moment of elation?

No. Not really.

“What an empty metric”, I thought to myself as I walked the DC streets back to work. I know so many sharp thinkers with truly novel ideas who wouldn’t score well on that test for one reason or another. Or what if like me, they had a bad experience the first time and never reconciled that with another test? So I thought back to high school and how before my our schoolwide SAT prep courses (sorry, mom!) my friends and I would take beer bongs, then show up and make people laugh instead of memorizing lists of vocabulary and reviewing how to deal with an arctangent. A couple months later, we came in one Saturday morning, were convinced that we weren’t that smart by a really long test, and called it good. Maybe one or two of my friends took it again. Most of us didn’t. We had other high school stuff to attend to, just like countless other high school kids across the country. I also think back to my college years when I encountered some bonafide brilliant people that forever changed my perspective about what intelligence is and how we measure it. For various reasons, these kids weren’t at Stanford.

What I’m trying to say here is that as someone who’s scored both underwhelmingly and quite well on standardized tests, I hope I have atleast a balanced opinion (although, yes, my argument that graduate schools are more balanced with their admissions would fit nicely into my scoring history…don’t worry, I see you). When you’re 25, you have likely developed the maturity and wisdom to know that standardized tests simply cannot encapsulate the breadth of an individual’s intellectual capabilities. But when you’re 17 years old, it’s different. This metric has been so overemphasized as to devastate swarms of great, young thinkers and instill a hideous arrogance in a few others.

Although I do think genetics contributes partially to an individual’s level of intelligence, research is amassing that suggests their experiences (nurture) are atleast, if not quite a bit more so, important in molding a 17 year old’s mind. So, please, let us all stop freaking out so much about who ends up in what undergraduate school and what a kid scores on a test at the age of 17.

So, I have a couple things to say to some people who aren’t reading this:

Elite colleges (and their students…a number of which are my friends): First of all, I’m sorry but you place too much emphasis on standardized test scores. But much more importantly, there’s something else. Most of you are filled with exceedingly bright, hardworking people. I commend that. Really, I do. You, however, need to keep in mind that there are other kids in schools you wouldn’t suspect with marvelously nimble minds who, for one reason or another, didn’t draw the attention of the big names when they were 17 years old. You might be surprised to find out how little separates you from a number of those kids. So quit namedropping and keep innovating!

High schools (including teachers and parents): for the love of god, stop placing so much emphasis on these standardized tests. Instead, try to instill a love of learning in the students and teach them why learning is important and enjoyable. I promise you this will pay off eventually. Are you looking for kids who get accepted into flashy schools or are you trying to produce people who will make a real difference in the world? (no, they are certainly not mutally exclusive, but you get the picture) In my opinion, the focus on test scores distorts young minds and will backfire in the end. Not to mention, if a kid falls in love with learning on his/her own terms, the right scores will follow. This may not happen at the age of 16 or 17 because there’s lots of distractions while high school kids grapple with the transition from adolescence to adulthood including a maelstrom of physical, emotional, and mental challenges. But it will happen and that success story will trace its roots back to the foundational education you offered. And my last point, we need more innovation and less rote learning. We need analysis, not automatons. Creativity should not be squashed, but encouraged. Please, please work on this.

My two buddies from high school English class are both at Harvard now. Another brilliant friend from high school was working on installing refrigeration systems, last I heard. A couple friends have PhD’s in physics from MIT and Stanford, a couple others are budding artists working lame day jobs to pay the bills. A few people are going to medical school, a couple are farming, and some are learning about raising families while trying to excel professionally, too. The thing is, I don’t care what you are, where you are, or what you’re trying to become so long as you’re working hard to get there, applying your mind, and have a reason for what you’re doing.

If you have the opportunity to study at the best institutions in the world, damn, take it! If I get that chance, I’ll do the same thing. But just as those cherished acceptance letters wouldn’t cement my contribution to humanity, neither would a degree from a state school mean my thinking couldn’t be the most innovative around.

So, yeah, shake what your mama gave you, because she’s not gonna shake it for you.

Yes, it's quite nice

Alright, time to flesh out a couple things, lest this URL decay into a rant space. We’re still in serious-mode, so let’s discuss entitlement today.

The topic of entitlement is a precarious one to broach. I hesitated before mentioning it in my last post for two reasons: 1) it raises hackles regardless of your background, and 2) the side issues associated with it are nuanced and complicated.

But put quite simply, living in New York pushed this topic to the forefront of my mind because you can’t escape the disparity between the top and the bottom. The city is a small space so you see everything. Furthermore, the rich are richer and, often, the money is older. To a lesser degree DC had a similar effect, but it was less directly focused on economics and more on prestige of job (which, I think, is eventually related to economics).

You can’t quantify the concept of entitlement. It’s really a behavioral issue obliquely related to number-friendly stats like economics and race. But what you can do is cringe at the way it distorts a human being’s persona.

Wealth is not the inherent evil here. The ‘bad’ wealthy aren’t bad because they’re wealthy. Just as an Hispanic child of illegal immigrants in East LA can’t dictate or change his origins, neither can the caucasian daughter of a Manhattan Hedge Fund manager growing up in Darien, Connecticut. Furthermore, there’s nothing evil about being a ‘Manhattan Hedge Fund manager’ or a caucasian (I hope!) or a daughter (although I might argue differently at times).

What I’m talking about here are over-privileged individuals who are never taught as children--and never take the responsibility to learn as adults--that they’re just lucky and not inherently better. This starts with an upbringing defined by the best schools, the right type of sophisticated language spoken, interacting with influential people, and the leisure-time to process all this cherished information. What follows are overinflated and overhyped test scores (another post), the corresponding colleges to which they’re admitted (also another post), the types of graduate programs they’re admitted to, and the types of companies who hire them. Guess what, then you start back at the beginning with the next generation.

I want to state very clearly that this doesn’t apply to every individual born into wealth, who succeeds in school and thrives professionally. This applies only to individuals like that who don’t have the insight know that many others could accomplish similar things given the right opportunities and who consider this ‘success’ their birthright. That’s entitlement and that’s what I’ve seen too much of over the past couple years, especially in the young professional world of Manhattan.

I have nothing against wealth. I hope to be rewarded nicely (money being a significant part of that compensation) for my contribution to humanity’s progress. I plan to work for my wealth and I plan to enjoy it once it arrives. I, overall, align with capitalists who think that competition and reward are key ingredients to a thriving society. If someone who’s earned their wealth deems it important to invest in their children’s futures, that’s their prerogative and should be respected. The onus, however, first falls upon them to instill in their kids that they shouldn’t rely upon inherited privilege. Furthermore, once those kids transition to adulthood, it’s then the children’s responsibility to act in a way that consciously acknowledges the inequalities from which they’ve benefited. They don’t need to feel badly, they only need to be aware and respectful.

The side issues here are apparent and abundant. To name a few: nature vs. nurture, standardized testing, racial disparity, and broadly, education. Before I stick my neck out and spout about other things I don’t take the time to defend, I’m gonna put a cork in it.

Hopefully that wasn’t too ranty.

Rant rant. Ranty ranty roo. Raaaaant. Rant.

Amen.

The State (Illinois) of my Union

If you're one of the few I've talked to lately, you might want to save your current optometry prescription and not read this. Even if we haven’t spoken lately, you still might want to save your prescription and not read this. To put it mildly, life has been eventful lately and I haven’t been able to keep in touch with most people. I wanted to record for myself what I've been up to, so if I can compound that endeavor by updating a few people on my story, excellent.

Here’s the thing: I don't particularly enjoy long phone conversations. Don't take it personally because it doesn't matter with whom I'm speaking. I don't like the slight delay in transmittance; I don't like that the entire non-verbal element of communication disappears. These are issues that VOIP and bluetooth simply can't settle. The next generation of videochatting portable devices might suit me better. But guess what, this is not Tokyo, nor is this Seoul. For now, if I can cover the overarching picture here, our (shorter) phone conversation can be much more interesting for us both.

So you're left with this: too many paragraphs on a moribund blog. Take it or leave it. Excuse me, you're drooling...no, the right side...got it.

And then there was New York.
In the fall of '05 it became apparent to me that DC was not my ideal city. I liked many things about that city (some great people, a plugged-in/turned-on professional environment, improving social scene), but it boiled down to this: on the ever-paramount front of personal happiness, the cons outweighed the pros and I'd seen other places that endeared themselves to me more. So a relocation was in order. It would take nearly a year, and another position within my company, before I rolled away from DC with my meager possessions and charged northward to New York City for a new adventure.

First of all, what a phenomenal city! To wake up and step into the pulse of that metropolis is an exhilarating feeling, something I'll forever be glad to have experienced as a resident. Take solely the island of Manhattan. What a spectacle to witness the energy and brainpower from around the globe that has descended upon a skinny rock at the mouth of the Hudson River. Block after block after block teems. And I'm not just talking about Wall Street (which doesn't teem after hours, incidentally!), Little Italy/Chinatown, Greenwich Village, and Midtown. I'm talking about the whole damn island. I worked way up near 170th street in an area that isn't even included on most Manhattan maps. This area was alive with swarms of people at all hours, and that's just one example of an oft-ignored part of the City that's bumpin'. The city's alive on the surface and its underbelly is crisscrossed with a hidden world of trains that never sleep. Viewing the skyline from Brooklyn never failed to make my heart beat in appreciation of the ingenuity and vitality that erected those forests of buildings.

[If you love history and have about 15 hours of free time on your hands, I can't express enough how incredible is Ric Burns' PBS documentary "New York: A Documentary Film". Starting with the arrival of the Dutch in the early 17th century, this 8-disk series traces the history of New York City throughout the last 4 centuries (from the arrival of the Dutch until post 9/11). The narrative is engaging and the paintings, photos, and videos visually capture how old and rich is the fabric of that city.]

But for a real taste of New York, hop across either the Hudson or the East River and check out the surrounding areas. To the west you've got northern New Jersey. Up above you've got the Bronx, Westchester and swanky Connecticut. Go east and you're trekking through Queens or Brooklyn, then the NYC satellite communities, then the real Long Island. If Manhattan is the engine, herein is the fuel. If Manhattan is the dish, herein is the spice.

The real ethnic neighborhoods and Bohemian enclaves are in the boroughs. When you want something authentic and unadorned with needless (and expensive) frills, head across one of New York's incredible bridges (arguably, my favorite structures in the City). Such places can be found in Manhattan, but they're not easy to spot (actually, in parts of Brooklyn and Queens--some of which I know fairly well--this same scenario is already transpiring in its nascent stages, but nowhere near the same level). Instead, in Brooklyn and Queens it's pretty common to walk out of a subway and hear most people speaking another language. I remember one adventure-walk I took during my last round of unemployment (disturbingly, not too long ago!) in Brooklyn where I wandered into the Hassidic Jewish neighborhood. I honestly thought I was in a movie as throngs of bearded men with enormous hats briskly crossed streets with hands clasped pensively behind their backs and women clad in garments reminiscent of catholic nuns rushed by escorting their bountiful offspring in strollers. In my neighborhood of Greenpoint Brooklyn you might initially scoff at any claim of diversity because many people are white. But soon, you'll realize that you can't understand a thing anyone's saying because they're all speaking Polish! Oh, and about 4 blocks down is a heavy concentration of Hispanic families and Spanish reigns. This is just one example. In essence, if cultural and ethnic diversity is a driving factor in your decision to move to New York, you are absolutely choosing the right spot. Know, however, that your interests will likely draw you away from Manhattan into the other boroughs (and northern New Jersey).

I lived in two neighborhoods in Manhattan and two neighborhoods in Brooklyn. Everywhere felt very urban. But in Manhattan your beer will cost $7 and fries don't come with that burger. [And beware of the cheapest spots, including a buffet Indian restaurant that sometimes unintentionally adds roaches for extra flavor--I'm not kidding, I saw a worker scoop a roach out of a tub of curry chicken, shrug his shoulders and say, "welcome to New York!"]. In Manhattan, you'll see Hispanic and African American women pushing strollers with pasty white kids inside. Guess what, those women probably don't live there, and if they do, they likely live up in Harlem where prices are creeping up fast and traditional communities are dissolving. Head to NYU where the unshaven, tight-jeaned hipsters relax in Washington Square. But don't ask too many questions because the conversation stops at the Trust Fund.

Everywhere, you feel this incessant rush to be the most hip, secure an apartment deal, make your train, see the new club, and on an on and on. These things can be productive or destructive. The rush leads to things moving at a lightening pace. If you have the right personality and your sh*t’s together, you're plugged in and cruising. But the rush also allows less time for digestion and contemplation, so you start to wonder if your lightening progress is moving in the right direction. You need a break from New York to thrive in New York.

Manhattan is large enough and complex enough to maintain a real sense of ethnic diversity. Beware, however, because even the last bastions of this are disappearing faster than you'd believe. The same apartment my aunt rented a decade ago in the East (Greenwich) Village is now renting at atleast twice that rate if not more. Most of the newcomers are white professionals. Manhattan is being overtaken by over-compensated white kids whose name-brand degrees bought them positions at Goldman Sachs and midtown Hedge Funds. Trust me, I see my own cynicism and don't particularly like it. Many elements of gentrification are positive (not to mention that I know some great, hard-working people with those ‘name-brand’ degrees for whom I have a lot of admiration): dangerous areas transform into safe, clean neighborhoods; more businesses are attracted which generate new jobs; schools improve; these improvements spur improvements in adjacent neighborhoods and the movement spreads. But lets be honest, an overwhelming number of one race from similar socio-economic roots is represented and an overwhelming number of professions are not represented. In my opinion, this is a travesty for the city. The groups that give New York (and any other locale) its flavor are flocking across the rivers into the other boroughs. Manhattan is for the wealthy, period. I think there's more than one way to improve a neighborhood and I can't help but think these are short-run wins instead of long-run wins.

So here's the thing about New York, in my opinion you need atleast one of the following to really be happy there today (in order of decreasing importance): lots and lots of money, a connection for housing, the ability to get away, or family and friends in close proximity.

I had basically none of these things (to a small extent, the last), which eventually made the city unappealing. Although other factors contributed, it came down to one crucial fact: New York is prohibitively expensive for the lifestyle it affords someone on my budget. It's a world-class city that attracts the best and the brightest from across the globe. Its rich history is enchanting. If you consider the boroughs and northern New Jersey, it's gotta be one of the most diverse areas on earth. But in order to live there, people of modest means must move farther and farther from the epicenter. Manhattan itself just feels like too much of an elite museum. I didn't move to Manhattan to grow rich in the financial game (although I did, unsuccessfully, interview for some finance jobs because I thought it'd be interesting to see that world from the inside). What really attracted me was the cosmopolis itself. I wanted culture and cutting-edge creation. I found some of that but it was mostly outside Manhattan. Manhattan is now almost exclusively for high-end (brow?!) culture, but I often find that profoundly less interesting, not to mention profoundly less accessible! I prefer to see the workhorses on the ground floor fighting for their passions instead of those being handed their entitlement. I scratched the surface on the Brooklyn scene and liked some of what I saw. But Brooklyn is still really expensive and it's far enough away from the big, pretty buildings to make me question what I was doing there. I felt like I could really plug into some neighborhoods but never had any hope of plugging into the city itself...and wasn't quite sure if I wanted to anyways.

My aunt lived in Manhattan for a couple decades spanning roughly the mid-70's through the mid-90's. Many of those years were spent as a social worker in the Lower East Side. She sometimes lived in penury but always lived happily. She speaks with unadulterated fondness about the ethnic food, the bazaar of different people, and the creative vibe that dominated. I can't help but think that her New York was quite different from mine. Namely, one could still reasonably expect that such an existence be Manhattan-centric. Today, that is not possible without a flush bank account or a nice connection, which already implies a disruption of the demographics. If you have those things, Manhattan is still an incredible place. But please, know that it’s different today than it was yesterday and, please, don’t rent!

So…..what?
I wasn’t alone in my analysis of New York. K’s likes/dislikes aligned with mine as our adventure together continued. Hers is a saga in and of itself that isn’t mine to share here. Suffice it to say, revelations only come if you’re willing to stick your neck out and test the water. And once they do arrive, it takes a whole new reserve of strength to face the barrage of doubts from others and transfer those schemes into reality. She’s done this in grand-fashion over the last year and I couldn’t be more proud of her.

So we repaired to the nearest pub and took stock of our scenario in the only suitable fashion: over a frosty pint.

For me, the professional consequences were foremost on my mind. New York will always be there and my roots were relatively shallow, so extricating myself was simple on most fronts. However, although I had some real issues with my position at Columbia, the educational opportunities alone made such a position (which was nearly impossible to land, and I only secured after 6 months of persistence) tough to relinquish. Also, I would be dealing with a 4-month blight on my resume and likely heading towards another bout with unemployment. But here’s a crucial bit of self-knowledge I’ve gained in the post-college years: location is absolutely critical for me. There are many jobs and great academic programs I won’t even consider if that involves living in an unappealing location for a significant length of time. My second position at the National Academies in DC was phenomenal in many ways, but I still stepped out onto streets that didn’t embrace my full potential for inspiration. New York is not unappealing in an absolute sense, but it quickly becomes so given insufficient resources.

Life in New York is a battle…but it's not that I'm afraid of a battle. Nothing comes easy…but I'm not asking for an easy road. All I'm asking for is to find a battle worth fighting. And I know this might sound harsh to some dear ears, but I couldn't justify fighting the battle in New York. The spoils of that war were insufficient for the sacrifice. I have too many priorities that couldn't be met by that city (at this time) and I wasn't willing to pay the astronomical price to indulge just a few of my passions. Perhaps I'll reside in New York at another point, but I'll either have lots and lots of money, a connection for housing, the ability to get away, or family and friends in close proximity. Either the first or the second, combined with either the third or the fourth, would be absolute requirements. For now and into the indefinite future, a couple yearly visits will suffice.

Therefore, it was a surprisingly easy decision for K and I to decide it was time to go.

But where?

Which brings me to Chicago, literally.
The answer was simple: Chicago.

Here are the characteristics for my ideal home:
A cosmopolis, first and foremost.
Four distinct seasons.
The juxtaposition of quaint neighborhoods and a thriving, vertical downtown.
A significantly sized and clean body-of-water/river.
Relatively-affordable, interesting, clean, safe, decently-sized housing.
Few rainy days; give me snow over cold rain.
Mind-blowing architecture.
An encompassing network of public transportation.
Incredible food.
History.
An eclectic, thriving, worldly, educated, unpretentious populace.
Great, distinctive, comfortable coffee shops.
Great, distinctive, comfortable pubs.
World class universities.
A promising economy.
Bike friendly and pro-physical fitness atmosphere.
A place where I feel comfortable yet constantly challenges me.
Clean, abundant park space.
Easy access to the outdoors.
Easy access to mountains.
Easy access to the ocean.
Athletic teams.
Affordable, abundant flights to my hometown.
Affordable, abundant flights to everywhere else on earth.

It’s funny because (I don’t think I’m exaggerating here) Chicago is just not on the radar screen of most people on the West Coast. We west coasters relish our society, lifestyle, and the unparalleled natural beauty outside. When most of us think about possible other cities in the US that might satisfy such high (and unique) standards of living we have fairly predictable list of possible choices (Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Diego…maybe some inland choices like Denver, Austin, Salt Lake City…then the few east coast selections such as Boston, Brooklyn, the Research Triangle, or possibly DC. This might sound preposterous to people from elsewhere, but I really don’t think Chicago is a city that most west coast people consider as livable, even given it’s immense population and popularity as a sports-city and history hub. I think most of us heard the words ‘midwest’ and ran screaming away from the Chicago brochures…especially eschewing the thought of ‘eclectic’ and ‘worldy’ fitting the bill.

[I was actually hesitant to even mention this, but let’s be honest, this thing doesn’t have the circulation of the Washington Post (or the Fort Washington Post)…]

Homies, if you haven’t already realized, think again! I can safely say that Chicago satisfies, to a greater or lesser degree, 22 of the 24 criteria above. And no, Wisconsin doesn’t have the Cascades, Rockies, Sierras, Chugach, or Alaskan Ranges, but it’s downright gorgeous up there and it’s pretty close. Seriously. There’s even a few mounds that people ‘ski’ down! And as for the other missing criteria, parts of Chicago’s north-side waterfront could easily be mistaken for southern cali’s beaches, minus the five-footers. Trees and parks are everywhere, cool neighborhoods abound, downtown is accessible and energetic yet not chaotic, the trains run above ground (something anyone who’s ridden the dark subways of NYC will appreciate immediately), if you enjoy cold/snowy winters the weather is phenomenal. The prices are big-city level, but not outrageously inflated ala NYC and parts of San Fran and Los Angeles. If you have important people that live east or west but don’t travel much, you can’t beat the location and accessibility/price of flights. Furthermore, you’ll see all kinds here. Quite simply, the city kicks complete ass and will likely blow you away. But, shhh, don’t tell anyone. This is our 9.4 million person secret (entire metropolitan area; 2.9 million in the city itself).

On my PDL preferences list, the only other American city that contends with Chicago is San Francisco (Philly would rank highest of the East Coast contenders). But, hey, the location and lifestyle I’d want in San Fran (not extravagance) puts me back in the NYC economics dilemma, not to mention I really like my seasons. There’s a reason Chicago just won the US bid for the 2016 Summer Olympics. It’s down to a handful of global contestants (Rio de Janeiro, Madrid, Prague, and Tokyo look like the real competition) and I’m guessing Chicago is at the top of that list.

After visiting Chi-town many times in the last couple years, I’d totally fallen for it. After realizing this, I could never think of New York as anything more than a stop along the way to either here or San Fran. For the reasons above, Chicago was the obvious first choice.

Who knows how long I’ll be here but I can tell you this: my quasi-wandering over the previous 3 years has been a deliberate effort to educate myself on other parts of the country and determine where I’d most like to settle for a few years and build something. Chicago is very likely the place where I sacrifice the least and gain the most. The international phase of my life will probably have to wait for another degree or some unexpected professional opportunity. Whether this involves consistent traveling or even living abroad for awhile, it will come, I promise. You see, my life is intended as one ever-improving adventure and I think Chicago is where I will mold that reality in the near-future. In Brooklyn, I finally gained a small taste of stability (and the opportunities for growth that stability affords) and I decided I was too impatient to wait for the next step along the way. I knew what I wanted, I knew it would benefit me immensely in the long run, so sacrifices and seeming-insanity were small prices to pay in the short run!

So, yes, I now live in Chicago.

Can you spell ‘career’ for me, please?
Let’s return to the near-term sacrifices. Namely, I now find myself again faced with the dilemma of unemployment. This has been a recurring theme of my post-college experience. I’ve moved numerous times and tried a number of jobs. Chicago is just the latest iteration of this script. You have to be willing to pay the consequences to undertake the path I’ve taken. It’s definitely not for everyone. In fact, I’m not sure I’d recommend it to many people. That’s not a statement of superiority/inferiority. It’s simply a concession that I needed to learn lessons in this manner and others may not need to do so. Because of my mobile lifestyle, I’ve surely sacrificed the consideration of many cool employers who don’t like my unintelligible resume. I also haven’t focused on further schooling which bumps that back a few years. Amen.

For years I’ve been struggling with finding direction. My profession has taken a backseat to geographical exploration, friendships and relationships, and generally establishing a personal philosophy. Without that foundation, I’d be building something structurally unsound (feel free to vomit at this point). My ultimate vision was never compromised, but this (professionally speaking) side stuff had to come first.

So now I’m here with some time on my hands, and I’m wondering what the hell am I doing with myself?! I tore through Po Bronson’s book that’s been sitting on my shelf since Portland, I took online character/skills/aptitude tests, I consulted family, I bought a career-counseling book. All of this has been helpful to expand my vision, but it’s also a bit overwhelming and convinces me that there’s no easy answer. My interests are varied and complex and there’s lots of other people like me with voracious appetites. Maybe I’ll see a Career Counselor but a few hundred bucks seems like a lot to an unemployed dude (exercise, find the logical flaws in Phil’s argument).

The underlying staples of my universe are rationality, objective analysis, creativity, good-conscience-productivity and humor. But these characteristics can fit into so many professional outlets. It’s both a confusing and exciting experience to simultaneously—and quite seriously—consider each of the following paths/careers within a five-day span: physics PhD, biophysics PhD, financial analyst, space lawyer, intellectual property lawyer, MBA, international relations, engineering PhD, Biomedical Engineering PhD, Computer Science PhD, journalist, novelist, actuary, restaurateur, teacher, psychiatrist/psychologist, architect, graphic designer.

Has anyone else gone through this career exploration phase? Probably most, to some degree. By no means have I reached any life-altering decisions, but it has been a productive period of introspection.

Phil, wake up to the rest of the globe!
Unexpectedly, what’s helped me most recently is picking up another book I’ve been meaning to read; this one having nothing to do with career exploration.

Quite simply, please listen to this: if you have not read Thomas Friedman’s book, “The World is Flat: A Brief History of the Twenty First Century” (2005), pick this book up soon.

For anyone who even takes a few minutes to glance at the news headlines each day, the content is nothing unexpected: India, China, and Eastern Europe are rising and the global playing field is being leveled. The genetic lottery of being born middle-class (or better) in the US will soon not prove as meaningful. We all know this, kind of.

What this book does, however, is detail the incredible extent to which this has already happened (not to mention that this book considers the world as it was way back in late 2004 and things have been changing at light-speed since), the reasons it has happened, and the long-term consequences for Americans. It’s just a nice summary of lots of important stuff and I think any American entering the workforce or considering more schooling should read it.

This book is phenomenal because it does two things. First of all, it will alarm you and scare you. Secondly, it will inspire you. Friedman isn’t issuing a call to nationalism. Instead, he’s telling America that we need to work our asses off to remain global leaders (even global players) in most industries. He focuses a lot on science and engineering because they traditionally have driven markets and will do so to an even greater extent in the future. But really, it’s the same for any professional endeavor (accounting, law, marketing, healthcare, etc.). He thinks, and I agree, that everyone benefits from a flattening world, including Americans, but we’re just going to have to work harder to really benefit. There’s going to be some uncomfortable times during the transition for people of all ranks and we’ll need to iron out political policies that allow for the much-needed transition but also cushion those being adversely affected and get them back in the new ballgame.

For individuals, it’s going to get more competitive because there’s more people being educated around the world and most of them have greater appetites than you and I. Most of them will accept less for their work. What that means is that we need to actually take advantage of our world-leading education system and continue to improve ourselves. This doesn’t mean you have to go get an engineering PhD (although we do need those). It means that instead of killing your mind with laziness, go learn something that challenges you and gives you the tools to create something novel or contribute something impressive. It might not even be a traditional degree, but instead a combination of skills that are unique (aka, a cartoonist who understands basic computer programming and speaks Polish). That sort of thing.

So where this leaves me now is convinced of a couple things. First of all, the world is becoming progressively more tech-driven and I don’t want to drown in this. I want to participate. It has re-inspired my natural attraction towards science and instilled the pursuit with more meaning. I haven’t been able to focus on any field for graduate studies because anything outside of science leaves a huge part of me unfulfilled, yet anything in science takes a significant amount of dedication and will shield me from other things I’m interested in for awhile. But now, I’m finally at a point where I can look longer-term and understand that in order to participate in this world in a meaningful way, you must receive more specialized training. Once you have that, then you can spread your creative wings and attempt to combine all your interests.

Secondly, I don’t have to have the grand-scheme picture entirely figured out right now. My uber-career might be in an area not even envisioned right now because things are moving so fast! Instead, I just need to learn something and apply myself. I know a PhD physicist who’s working in financial analysis in Manhattan right now. He has no regrets about lost time and he loves what he’s doing. He also loves what he studied. The key was that he took it to another level. For him, that meant getting a PhD. What he’ll have in common with someone else doing something completely different is just that they both applied their minds and their energy. Maybe they both read Friedman’s book, or maybe they were his case-studies for success!

So I had a second interview at U of C today working in research that coordinates a medical unit with engineers, chemists, and physicists. That sort of cross-disciplinary work is the wave of the future and I love it both philosophically and for the way it promises to benefit humankind. It’s a microcosm off the integration happening globally. Again, that’s something I don’t want to fear, but something I want to partake in. So whereas awhile ago I might have dwelt on being stuck in a lab and missing other opportunities, now it seems an amazing opportunity for me to improve my knowledge of many branches of science, enhance my tech skills, apply myself creatively, and work towards some yet-undefined ultimate expression of myself. Plus, there’s always time after work for the other interests.

So the U of C thing would be phenomenal and hopefully it'll happen. But the workforce is cutthroat right now, so maybe I’ll be working for a staffing agency next week answering the phone for some VP as I make my appointment with the career counselor to formulate Plan B. Hopefully not, but we’ll see.

And finally, there’s this bloggy thing.
Some periods are for me and only for me. I'm actually quite careful with what I'll spill on a blog. With some topics, I have no problem communicating through this medium with candor and openness. The nauseating length of this post offers proof. Sometimes, however, instead of interpreting the world on these pages I need to have the liberty to extricate myself and process more privately.

2006 was not for this medium. Many reasons contributed, which I won’t discuss here. I don’t foresee disappearing like that again anytime soon. Sorry to all my loyal fan (singular). I’m still deciding where I want to take this thing. Maybe less topical and more creative stuff at times. Probably not daily posts, but atleast weekly. We’ll see.

Please, stay tuned.

time, again

795 miles

Voyages '04

Here's a set of pics I transfered from Snapfish to my Flickr account recently. They're from my Alaska/West Coast/Driving-across-country/DC adventures in 2004.

Morning exercise

Out the door, down the steps, outside and begin. Okay, walk briskly and start to angle. Over the left shoulder check for traffic and quickly peer back to the right. Go. Hop up the curb, position your strides over the vents and listen for whooshing trains, feel for gusts of air. Nothing, sweet! Whip around the corner and down the steps. Keep listening. Around 12th step grab wallet from back pocket. Avoid that puddle, it’s slippery and nasty. Keep walking while simultaneously removing farecard. Okay, you hear something so don’t screw up when swiping card. Firmly and swiftly slide the card with the flat bottom resting snugly along the brushed steel plates. Nice! You’re through and sure enough, there’s a white spotlight 30 yards down the track coming to a halt. Sprint! Don’t slip, avoid the people walking towards you, don’t step too close to the edge but do run a bit closer to the edge because the conductor needs to see you. Fifteen yards, ten yards, the announcer didn’t see you and he’s ringing the bell. Lunge, grab the door, let it clamp down on your arm, let it momentarily re-open, and go! Alright you’re in.

Breathe.

Now the truth is you’re not positioned well. You really need to be two cars towards the middle because that’s the closest spot to the best stairwell. Walk down the moving train, keep your right arm in touch with the ceiling railing. Whoops! Damn good thing for that right arm. Apologize to the lady you bumped, congratulate yourself for not embarrassing yourself worse, half-jokingly curse the universe for trains unexpectedly slowing, and keep moving. Avoid pondering over what was on the 147 hands that held that railing in that exact spot in the last two days. Keep moving. Alright, next station now, doors opening. Sneak out past those entering, angle left and take a few sprinting strides down the train. Back in on the next car. nice. Moving. Take a look at a pair of boots with an exposed steel toe, a pair of blocky grandma shoes, a two-inch black high-heel, and a pair of sneakers with thick shoelaces all arranged horizontally. Ignore the guy preaching damnation, he was here yesterday too. Quick, breathe.

Okay, here’s the station. The train could approach from either side and you really need to be right in front of the door. You choose the left and wait. Feel how the train’s angling slightly? Good. Switch sides to the other door. Damn good thing you moved then because now there’s 15 people crowded behind you. Train stops. Waiting, waiting, and the doors open! Go! The next car over’s closer to the stairwell so you have to hurry. 11 people in front of you on the stairs. It’s a blockade. Frustration. Alright top of stairs, things open up a bit. You’ve got some work to do. The other staircases moved faster and now you’ve got about 40 people to contend with as you move along the long corridor. The path broadens a bit and you swing wide. You make three passes before the older gentleman blocks your progress. But you see this coming, gauge his velocity and that of the other gentleman to your left and slightly behind and determine if you move now, you can take the gap. You do. They guy behind’s slightly pissed but you speed up and you’re out of his way in a flash. Well executed. You’re looking at about twenty people now but they’re the elite, the jaguars, the top guns. This group you float with. Make another pass or two but mostly enjoy the fluidity and speed of this group.

Okay, but listen, or maybe feel. There’s a train approaching downstairs. Could be yours. Go! Whip around the corner, skip down the stairs, dash ahead. Crap, it’s the V. now for the agonizing few minutes of no progress. You slowly approach the spot on the platform that’ll be just right and lean against the post. Pull out the magazine and read. It’s reading time. The next train will be too packed so take as many words as you can right now. A couple lines…is that it? No. a couple lines, interesting, really, okay. There it is. Train. Let off those who are going to leave your couple square feet, claim your spot as first entrant, and go! Off with the backpack, nudge, bump, shuffle, excuse me, shuffle, no railing. Alright, you’re stuck against the door. Angle your back a bit because you have to consider the possibility of that thing flying open. Put your pressure appropriately on the two inches of the exposed door’s arch. He stepped on your foot. No worries man. Maybe read? No, no room and you gotta watch that door. Five stops. Take it in around you. All the sights sounds smells around you. It’s early but you gotta take this in right now.

Okay last transfer. Roll now! Because you hear it approaching on the other track. Sprint past the shuffling group of 7, up the stairs, dash in and out of the 42nd street masses. Gauge that angle, that speed, that newcomer who’s working the diagonal. There’s motion and change everywhere but you need to digest, calculate, and act on this instantaneously if you want to take that train. A red laser line traces your zig zag for unconcerned deceased relatives to never look at, but who knows right? Somebody’s gotta appreciate this….down the steps! Crap go! It’s closing, it’s closed.

Utter despair…but you know better, sometimes it happens, sometimes…look up the train and see there’s a mash of people there….ding dong…oh my god, you get your chance as the doors open for less than a second and you lunge in. the stationary riders with their briefcases chuckle silently at the glistening sweat on your forehead in understanding. No seats, but you know about 22% of the train will clear at the next stop and you’ll have three seconds to grab a seat. It’s a long ride, you have a magazine, and damnit, you’ve earned this.

Now read, read, read.

Life in pictures: DC to NYC (9/06-2/07)

Here's my world in 41 (42) pics that explores the odyssey from DC to NYC.

Below Block City, And Beyond

The earth has careened around its fireball and glimpsed all the sights that time and galactic proximity permit since these pages were visited last. At that moment, we were plunging into the depths below Block City...

...The yawning abyss swallowed our bruised and battered protagonist who was clinging desperately to his inexplicable spark of energy. Soon, consciousness was swept away...He awoke briefly to find himself gliding gently through a spacious tube of sorts with glass walls that enclosed and guided his journey. As gravity seemed to have disappeared, he couldn't quite tell in what direction he was moving, but he had the distinct feeling it was downward. Broadcast upon the glass were human faces of every shape and color emitting such a range of emotions that one couldn't help but be transfixed by the power of physiognomy. His body gathered speed and the faces began to blur together until a strange sight greeted his eyes: his own face. He stared at the tired eyes, the sallow skin, the creased brow and knew that this person was for yesterday. And sure enough, his reflected face melted away leaving only those eyes. But the eyes morphed into the blazing stare of a stampeding buffalo, then the dual glowing optical-cavities of ignited blue lasers and, finally, into crevices upon the ever-emotive face of a cliff within a sun-drenched valley where an hour disappeared in a second and shadows taught light the power of contrast. But this was only for a moment because his body then prostrated itself to the soporific beauty of efficient, clean power taking control and beckoning him onward...

Upon awakening a second time, he found a new world deep below Block City.

Gone were the endless gray days and nauseating monotony of an uninspired grid. Here there was color, and when there was no color the chilling absolute of the void was equally invigorating in its potency. Here was black the shade of an alpine sky at dead of night on winter's eve. Here was saffron of such vividness that salivating tastebuds might eclipse your dancing retinas in its presence. There we see jade fit to bejewel a wizard's wand and a regal purple that made the breeze feel like a velvet robe. Here there was rebirth cast in the brilliant aqua of a southern sea. Glancing upward, he saw how the colors in this welcoming-cavern bled together and receded into the invisible roof as a familiar dirty-rust shade. Of course it did, he thought.

And so began his countless adventures in this magical land. To speak of every creature he encountered, every labyrinth explored, every room that revealed treasures wrought by ancient hands in ancient lands, every room that revealed future treasures wrought by future hands...all this would would take far too long. Those stories can only be told from his lips, with his mind's eye back below Block City recounting the caverns and subterranean auroras and time-tubes and exotic languages and seers and poets and mythical creatures and others just like him who were, apparently, looking for the same thing.

But understand something critical, and, please, understand it well. This wasn't a land devoid of struggle. Quite the opposite my friend. This was simply a land of illumination and heightened perception. Here the victories were fantastic and so long as the valiant struggle persisted, melancholy could be embraced as a natural companion to the reverie of glowing embers. And out of those embers sprung unbridled fury, the likes of which had been foolishly relegated to another time. Its ability to devastate revisited him and hard lessons had to be relearned. Slowly, this fury was embraced and channelled. Another spark from the embers brought joy--not the precarious mania of fear, but the wholesome, hard-won, and indestructible elation of reason.

There was danger in this land. Unctuous peddlers with silver tongues and treacherous souls roamed freely among the dark corridors below Block City. Their wares were an illusion and your servility their purpose. They wore sandals from Nazareth and tucked vipers under their cloaks. They set a ten-course, silver plated feast in your honor; they sated your tongue with the finest wines from their own fields and offered false accounts of families and victories hard-fought...all in anticipation of you leaking the smallest bit of your soul. For when this happened, they seized the precious essence with gleaming green eyes and stole away to their lairs. There they punctured, pilloried, and poisoned this jewel; they scorched and boiled it until it was unrecognizably corrupt. They proceeded to pour this foreign substance into a weapon's mold (and here was their fatal flaw) hurled it savagely at it's original source. Such things, of course, can only strike a fatal blow when delivered by the agent of origin....So these peddlers saw blood and claimed their victories, retreating to their caves under the false impression of their ascendency. But there, they immured themselves in stone to immortalize their 'victory', only to crumble to pieces completely devoid of mourners. Here, at the moment of death, did they realize they'd immured themselves long ago. The patient seers would silently sweep up the soiled remnants and scatter them in the Crystal Lake. Here, nature would begin its process of purification and rebirth. Meanwhile, the flesh wounds had healed and wisdom amassed for the besieged.

Other dark creatures lurked in the shadows, but the real power lay in the noblest of souls: Those who built reigned. It mattered not if they constructed a palace or a meal; they still reigned. Those who forged-with respect-into unchartered lands reigned. Those who guarunteed their own power by ensuring that their neighbors live with unimpeded freedom--they too reigned.

This was the intensified reality that he had lost. This was life in all its phenomenally complicated nuance. This was a celebration.

Oddly, for such an exotic realm, it allowed him to connect more intimately with his comparatively-prosaic past than he had ever done before. Childhood memories surfaced that seemed lost to the unrelenting wheel of time. The smell of pine trees and dirt on a dry, summer afternoon; musty ski gloves on a hotel heater; the sight of a friend's dog in a friend's long-lost basement; school and teachers; family and friends during another time; a thundering rainstorm; a magical snow and the innocent wonderland it brought; fleeing in terror across grassy fields from enraged 8th graders. Names like Ryan and Spencer and Davis and Deanna and McChesney and PJ and Tigger and on and on. Isn't it odd, he ruminated, to consider somebody part of your daily sphere of interaction then watch them recede into a memory? Some bitterness accompanied these thoughts; a visceral and agonizing yearning to recapture and relive those moments burned within him. The haunting reality that those days had vanished plagued him and weighed heavily upon his soul. But consider the alternative, he considered through welling tears: a haze of vague recollections scattered over a nebulous past that supposedly added-up to the flesh and bones of today...utter disconnection and, therefore, utter lack of understanding. Fair enough, Time, a truce: you can savagely claim the former minute as no longer mine to mold, but i claim that minute as mine to cherish. Furthermore, if I don't mold the next minute into something superior to the last, you win. But, Time, you won't win.

And that was that. Time had taught him a hard, but crucial lesson: to never forget and to never sleep.

So he didn't forget and he never slept. The days below Block City were, arguably, the most crucial he ever had. When he finally decided it was time to leave through a passage to the surface, he found himself far away from Block City in a land bustling with vibrancy, mystery, and promise. But he had learned never to forget. Block City lay burnished deep within his consciousness and he saluted it as he closed the portal to its underbelly.

It was a new minute.