80's music fans, reveal thyselves

Try this quiz out. (Many thanks to KW for this.)

Me read stuff

I haven't read that much Dickens. The little I should have covered was assigned in high school., which was during (one of) my illiterate period(s). So I picked up David Copperfield to give Dickens a go. The story traces David's adventures and relationships from birth through his mid twenties. To reveal the tiniest bit of the storyline, David's father dies before his birth, and his mother's demise follows while David is still a child with no siblings. Therefore, the book mostly focuses on David being left alone in the world and seeking love beyond his lost parents. Dickens traces his story through childhood, adolescence, young adulthood, and into his mid-to-late twenties. The epilogue extends the picture much further, but that is obviously a quick sketch. It amounts to a large-scale coming-of-age story.

The remarkable thing about the book is that the stories are basically human scale. What I mean by that is that Dickens doesn't use many overtly outlandish plot lines, with some notable exceptions mostly involving disparate characters intertwining their stories along the road. What he does use--maybe more effectively than any author i've ever read--is colorful characters. The characters are vivid and mostly believable, but the believable traits are slightly exaggerated to drill home points. Plus, the various places in England that he talks about (Dover, London, Canterbury, Yarmouth) aren't more than 100 miles from each other (which I understand isn't negligible when you're using horses for transportation), yet the worlds he describes are so distinct. I think that's a difficult thing for an author to capture; it's much easier to contrast Jerusalem with London.

It's kinda cheesy, but I admit that I really fell for David's character. I think I neglect my childhood days too often, but the young David's fears and innocence made me remember things I hadn't thought of in over a decade. There's something pretty moving about reviving instances from childhood that seemed forever gone. As he matures, I admired his loving, level-headed, measured perspective on all the crazy characters he interacts with, but also his passionate sense of justice. David Copperfield rarely becomes combative, but he will battle perceived evils when necessary. His greatest strength, in my opinion, was his ability to strip away BS and see humans at their core levels. He also makes dumb mistakes along the way, but there's always wisdom gleaned from the failings. Another draw was how Dickens carefully described Copperfield's development up to his mid-to-late twenties. Since I fit snuggly in that demographic, I could closely relate to his earlier struggles and the sense of finally getting things (somewhat) figured out by that age.

One sidenote that the book made me consider: when English people moved from the motherland to one of their colonies far overseas (and this could apply to so many people, in so many locations and points in history), especially Australia in the mid 1800's, that often meant they'd never step foot on England's soil again. When you said goodbye to friends and sailed away, it could mean that was the last time you'd ever see their faces again. Letters could be exchanged, but that's no replacement for seeing somebody in the flesh. It's hard for me to grasp that sort of finality. The modest adventures I've had in the American north, east, and midwest since college have taught me that I rely heavily on knowing I'll see my friends and family in the near future. I can be away, but only for so long before the feeling of disconnection trumps the jewels of discovery.

Another conversation

BLOG: Dude, you can't just disappear like that. That's not how this thing works.
PHIL: Oh, man, you know...work, family, all that stuff.
BLOG: You have no family. It's debatable whether you have a job.
PHIL: You have no manners.
BLOG: You have no reason to keep talking, so shut it. Listen, we used to be tight, man. We used hang out like every day.
PHIL: I'm right here, aren't I?
BLOG: Right here?! You've visited maybe twice in the last 11 months. And those were for ridiculous, self-involved political peptalks that don't have any right on these pages. Keep your panaceas to your delusional self, buddy!
PHIL: Whoa, now that's pushing it, pal!
BLOG: [grunt] Alright, alright. Look, I've got some pent up frustration and it comes out ugly sometimes. But you don't have to face the disappointed friends and family that visit, hoping for something interesting, only to find a mildewed entry from last June. You don't have to watch as they visit, once, twice, maybe three times then throw in the towel. Do you have any idea what that kind of rejection is like?
PHIL: Girls didn't like me in high school.
BLOG: They still don't. Look, don't try to get funny on me. We used to BE something, man. We used to have [swallow]...readers....
PHIL: Yeah...
BLOG: READERS MAN!!! Don't you see!
PHIL: I'm telling you, I'm rolling with the overarching plan. Big things in the works, you know, but they take time. Sometimes it's a period for public expression, sometimes not.
BLOG: Alright wise guy, enough of the lines. Tell your personal journal it's gonna take some hits for awhile and let's get this thing going again. I'm not asking for every day. Just give a little love once in awhile.
PHIL: I don't see any readers stopping by, to be honest. We've been dropped from every blogroll that ever paid any attention.
BLOG: I don't give a damn about blogrolls! You just worry about punching some keys before you're swollen with arthritis, alright?! Listen, it's for your own good.
PHIL: I know.
BLOG: Okay. Get outta here. SCRAM!!

Rejoining

I had written something lengthy, but it didn’t feel right. It dwelt too much on expressing anger and frustration on the effect Clinton’s negativity has had on the storyline and, indeed, polls over the last two months.

But it strayed from my real intention:

I simply, and shortly, want to say that my support for Obama’s campaign remains stronger than ever. Through all the smears and daggers, he has shown himself to be a person of integrity, level-headedness, open-mindedness, and carefully reasoned intellect. Even through his self inflicted gaffe, he embraced the notion of being human and having faults. The fault was never an underlying elitism, as anyone who perceives human beings for what they are can attest to. The fault was a mish-mashed phrase erroneously tooled to one audience that brutally shielded good intentions. So this, combined with an all-out Clinton/McCain assault, brought to an end the messiah-era that really needed to go. No human should be glorified in superhuman terms as Obama was briefly during February. This eventually does harm to everyone involved because it’s unsustainable.

What has only crystallized my support is how he handled the injection of racism, elitism, classism, patriotism and any other division-sowing ‘ism’ imaginable. In each circumstance, he as lain down the foundation for long-term healing. He has addressed nuance, complication, and humanity. It has cost him short-term in polling, but the long-term wins will be enormous.

Obama isn’t a messiah, but he is a real person with uncanny capabilities and passion for progress. I’m not interested in the former, but I want the latter worse than anything.

The movement that I wholeheartedly support was always driven by individuals at the grassroots. In the intervening months, I think many of us have remained too passive about our support and we need to rejoin the fray. In whatever way you deem fit, I encourage you to actively get involved in this campaign again. I also encourage you to focus less on exchanging punches and more on promoting the optimism that will actually accomplish policy shifts and cultural shifts that will propel us forward.

Why not? A personal plug: Barack Obama

Family, friends, foes, funkadelic-fiends,

At the risk of conveying unearned (and unwanted) self-importance, I think this presidential election is too important to remain close-lipped. My influence is scarce, if existent, but I figure it's worth doing anything in my power to get out a couple votes.

If you favor a rigidly conservative agenda, you needn't read on. Our differences are likely unbridgeable right now, and we can chat later (plus, you can't vote in the primaries of interest, anyways...Correction, you CAN vote in a few states' democratic primaries if you forgo your vote in their respective Republican primary). On the other hand, if you're anywhere from moderate to liberal, Independent to Democrat, I urge you in the strongest words to vote for Barack Obama in your respective state's Democratic caucus/primary.

I don't consider myself a political expert, by any means. Some of you far outpace me in your obsession with these things. I have, however, followed the campaigns closer-than-most in the last 3 months. Before that, I read what the newspapers told me. We could argue about the almost imperceptible policy differences that separate Obama and Clinton (such as Health Care approaches, if illegal immigrants should get drivers licenses with their citizenship, what world leaders they'll converse with in the first 12 months of their administrations, etc.), but those aren't the distinguishing items between the two candidates.

I'll even spare you my heartfelt stump-speech that does explore the differences between the two: that sound judgement (ie. Clinton voted to authorize Iraq; Obama made an historical speech against doing so) and character (Obama's ability to galvanize the electorate is uncanny) eclipse #years of Washington/political involvement…that no (wo)man is an island, and any president will have legions of policy aides and advisers helping them make decisions, not to mention the legislative apparatuses that temper any executive's ruling fist.

I'll just say this:

IF IT'S CLINTON VS. MCCAIN, MCCAIN IS VIRTUALLY GUARANTEED TO WIN IN NOVEMBER. On a personal level, I can't even claim this would be Armageddon. I like McCain's candor and perseverance compared to Clinton's disingenuous political-persona-of-the

-moment. His policies, however, have gravitated dangerously to the conservative end of the spectrum that's devastated our country over the last 8 years. Although the Republican base has been hesitant to jump behind McCain, they're increasingly willing to do so. Unless Mitt Romney pulls some miracle out of his deep pockets on Tuesday, McCain will essentially secure himself the Republican nomination.

The crucial point is this: even with McCain's gravitation rightward, he maintains his maverick credentials and will likely sweep moderates and independents his way in a general election. Meanwhile, Hillary Clinton, and the unavoidable baggage that comes from her husband's administration, so inspires the ire of significant decisive voting blocs, that her polarizing effect will only catalyze the flood of votes going McCain's way.

On the other hand, Barack Obama has the personal appeal, demonstrated ability to sponsor legislation that bridges the left/right divide and, most importantly, a clear stance against the Iraq war, which will likely once again vie with the economy as the defining issue in the general election. IN EFFECT, OBAMA VS. MCCAIN ALMOST CERTAINLY GOES TO OBAMA. As a matter of fact, adding to the tally of high-profile endorsement for Obama is President Eisenhower's granddaughter (recall, he was a Republican president) in an op-ed piece published in today's Washington Post. And I quote: "If the Democratic Party chooses Obama as its candidate, this lifelong Republican will work to get him elected and encourage him to seek strategic solutions to meet America's greatest challenges. To be successful, our president will need bipartisan help." That's indicative of the kind of moderate support Obama is gathering.

I'm voting for Obama on his own merits. That decision was made before this race became so incredibly close and fluid. Never has a politician inspired me with such a potent combination of intellect, candor, and charisma as has Obama. But if that's not enough, or if you disagree, please atleast think strategically about your vote. Your vote for Clinton could ring the death knell for Democrats' chances in November. With every passing day, Obama closes the slight lead Clinton maintains in the polls, but Super Tuesday, and the subsequent round of states in early February, is closing in fast.

If you agree with this, GET OUT AND VOTE IN YOUR STATE'S DEMOCRATIC PRIMARY/CAUCUS! Talk to your friends and family too. I'm not personally spearheading any of this, I'm just playing my small part. I've been inspired by other people who've already played their small part and I want to keep this movement going.

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.