A friend of mine just sent me a link to a story about a cool trick temporarily available on the "Newsweek" internet site. If you type in a portion of the secret code for the old Nintendo game "Contra" (up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right B, A, select, start), then the front page switches to in-depth coverage of a fictional zombie attack.
I haven't tried it yet, but it sure sounds fun. The forwarded article also mentioned that the Contra secret code trick has been fairly regularly used in similar tricks since the creation of the internet. In fact, that's why the article caught my attention. I love the fact that a secret code for a semi-obscure game on an out-dated video system remains in popular consciousness 20 years later. Among those of us in the original Nintendo generation, I think this tells us something about ourselves. I used to think this particular brand of nostalgia was just a rite of generational passage, but the more I think about it, the more I think it's actually something much more.
First, just a quick note about the video game. I've never been a video game junkie, but I did own a used copy of "Contra," and a friend once shared its secret code with me (if you entered the code at the start of the game, your character got 30 lives instead of the usual 3, making successful completion of the game almost assured).
The game (which consisted of people shooting at you as you navigated as series of obstacle courses in the effort to purse some noble but vague cause) was so difficult that without the secret code, almost no one could complete it.
Which is why whoever programmed the secret code to enable 30 lives scheme was a genius. Had the code allowed for 300 lives, it would have been so easy as to be a pointless achievement. But most the great majority of players, 30 lives allowed for just enough of a challenge to be compelling, but enough margin of error to ensure they rarely failed. It was a still a challenging pursuit, but is was almost guaranteed to end in success.
Isn't that what we all want in life?
Wouldn't it be great if that code worked not only for a video game, but for everything? Imagine if you could just punch in a code and get 30 shots at whatever opportunity you had upcoming. I might blow one job interview, but I'm pretty sure I could make a good impression once in 30 tries. I might have said something regrettable in an argument last week, but if I got to do it over 29 more times, I would have phrased my thoughts more eloquently. I could have done the right thing instead of the wrong; been the hero instead of the goat; minded my own business when I interloped; helped someone instead of acting selfishly. And I certainly wouldn't have wasted money on that seemingly cool gadget I saw on that infomercial.
Here's the thing: people don't regret failing to do the things that never seemed realistic anyway. People regret the opportunities that just slipped by, the chances they should have taken, but didn't, the one bad decision that started an avalanche of unintended consequences. If we all had 29 do-overs, that would never be an issue. The dreams just out of our reach would be just inside them. I think that's part of the reason widespread nostalgia for this video game still exists 20 years later. We all identify with the promise that code represented.
Most of us would love a long line of do-overs. And the compelling thing is that life would still seem somewhat challenging, even if we had them. There are some things I could never pull off (winning an Olympic medal, being the life of the party, politely eating pasta) no matter how many attempts you gave me. So 30 chances wouldn't turn us into superheros who lived boring lives because we were incapable of being challenged. It would just let us accomplish everything within our abilities, and generally with the peace of mind to know we had a few chances left to spare along the way. It sounds lovely.
I know there's a reason God doesn't want us to live like that. We'd all be overly pleased with ourselves, and we'd never have the chance to grow by learning from a meaningful failure.
But I'd sure like another shot at that case I lost in January. There's no way I'd lose it 29 more times.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Gym People
Some places just bring out the worst in people. But nowhere does this phenomenon occur quite to same degree as at the gym.
We have quite a cast of characters at ours. The most prominent example is Mohawk Trainer Guy. He's a short, stocky Asian guy (with Mohawk) who is almost always there, wearing his trademark jeans and flip-flops. Without fail, he is accompanied by a (different) slim female protege who he somehow conned into paying him for a personal training session. Best I can tell, the sessions consist of two elements: (1) Mohawk Trainer Guy trying to make trainee laugh during the middle of exercise in the hope of getting her number later; and (2) Mohawk Trainer allowing trainee the privilege of watching him work out alongside her in a cartoonishly exaggerated, grunt-filled manner, in the hope of getting her number later. One time, I saw him, trainee in tow, doing "sprints" back and forth across a 10-foot wide corner of the gym for an extended period of time, grunting for all he was worth all the while. The trainee, no doubt paying good money for this endeavor, looked as if she was strongly considering bolting for the door. Strangely, I never see him with the same trainee more than once.
He's relatively harmless (unless you're the trainee), but the constant grunting gets annoying. But his grunting has nothing on that of Air Guitar Guy. The first time I saw AGG, he was strumming (and singing) along to a Jimi Hendrix song on the gym radio, which seemed somewhat understandable. He was very nice and chatted me up in between riffs, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt, at least until he started doing the exact same musical routine to he next song, which was something along the lines of "Love Life Us Up Where We Belong." I see him often, and he always spends more time pretending to be a musician and trying to make friends than he does working out. Although, to be fair, when he does work out, he grunts loudly enough to make up for his lack of activity otherwise. He is a 120-pound weakling, but his lungs are strong, that I know.
I can laugh at both of these guys. But what is not remotely funny, and shouldn't even be legal, is High Shorts Guy. HSG is a middle aged light-skinned man who insists on wearing shorts that barely cover his posterior. He wears the same set of skin tight floss-length shorts for every workout, which inevitably includes lunges, leg lifts, or some similar cringing-inducing skin-exposing exercise, invariably performed directly in front of me. I think he gets some bizarre sexual satisfaction from it. It's either that or he's hoping people will eventually give him money to buy new pants. There can't be any other explanation. There just can't.
Here's my point: why do people lose all semblance of common sense and social etiquette the minute they walk through the front door of a gym? I doubt High Shorts Guy goes to work wearing a tank top every day. Air Guitar Guy can't possibly strum to his car radio nonstop while he is driving. If Mohawk Trainer Guy worked at Subway, I can't believe he'd insist that customers watch him make his own sandwich as he was making theirs, nor would he grunt when he reached for the olives.
But there's something about walking into a gym that makes people lose their minds. Every gym has at least one Cell Phone Work Out Guy, who doubly annoys by both exposing you to his lame conversation (that could totally have waited half an hour until the workout was done) and by needlessly taking up valuable workout equipment as he does. Every gym has a Way Too Comfortable Naked Old Person, who lounges around the locker room in the buff as though it were the tea parlor of a nudist colony.
It's as though some people walk into a gym for a brief escape from every day life and think that concept includes the right to escape from all sense of social normalcy. Other people walk in for a work out, and just tune out the rest of the world.
I had an encounter with one of these Oblivious Guys last week.
I was doing some shoulder lifts in front of a rack of dumbbells (by which I mean weights, not the crew I've already described). There are 8 dumbbells on this rack, which is surrounded by a large, open floor, presumably so that eight people can use this weight set simultaneously. But not if Oblivious Guy has anything to say about it.
In between sets, I walked over to get some water, and I hadn't yet moved two feet in that direction before some dude takes the exact spot where I was standing, the exact dumbbell I was using, and throws his towel over the the entire front half of the weight rack, rendering half of the 8 weights on it inaccessible.
Post-hydration, I walk back over to the weight rack. Oblivious Guy has finished his set, but he's now leaning, arms spread eagle, over an entire side of 4 x 4 weight rack, with his towel draped over the other side. The combined effect shuts out about 6 of the 8 dumbbells from use. I stand behind him and wait a good 2-3 minutes, but nothing happens. He notices me waiting but does not move or acknowledge my presence. He just leans on the rack.
Finally, I just walk around to the other side of the rack, deftly avoid the hanging towel, and grab dumbbell near the bottom that's 10 pounds too heavy for me. I step a few feet to the side and start an abbreviated set. Meanwhile, Oblivious Guy stops resting on the rack and walks around to the side I'm standing on so he can lean against the rack from that direction. Shortly thereafter, he, for no apparent reason, takes two steps in my direction, almost bumping into me as I finish my set just in time to step around him.
I put my weight back on the rack, and he grabs it and starts a set of the exact same exercise I was doing. His towel, of course, remains draped over the entire rack.
I manage to re-grab my original weight from the front side, and finish my workout shortly before Oblivious Guy (who now has a stack of 4 differing weights sitting uselessly at this feet) grabs it, and adds it to his collection, only to resume leaning against the weight rack. Long after I left that section of the gym, I looked over and noticed that he kept his towel draped over the rack, and all five weights at his feet, only using one, until his workout was complete.
Oblivious Guy couldn't have done better if he were actively trying to antagonize me, but I really don't think he noticed me at all. He showed no signs of ill-will, never changed expression or even acknowledged my existence the entire episode. He was just working out and nothing, or no one, else mattered. In Gym World, people do that. It was as though I was completely invisible; my existence wholly unremarkable and not worthy of the slightest notice.
I bet that never happens to High Shorts Guy.
We have quite a cast of characters at ours. The most prominent example is Mohawk Trainer Guy. He's a short, stocky Asian guy (with Mohawk) who is almost always there, wearing his trademark jeans and flip-flops. Without fail, he is accompanied by a (different) slim female protege who he somehow conned into paying him for a personal training session. Best I can tell, the sessions consist of two elements: (1) Mohawk Trainer Guy trying to make trainee laugh during the middle of exercise in the hope of getting her number later; and (2) Mohawk Trainer allowing trainee the privilege of watching him work out alongside her in a cartoonishly exaggerated, grunt-filled manner, in the hope of getting her number later. One time, I saw him, trainee in tow, doing "sprints" back and forth across a 10-foot wide corner of the gym for an extended period of time, grunting for all he was worth all the while. The trainee, no doubt paying good money for this endeavor, looked as if she was strongly considering bolting for the door. Strangely, I never see him with the same trainee more than once.
He's relatively harmless (unless you're the trainee), but the constant grunting gets annoying. But his grunting has nothing on that of Air Guitar Guy. The first time I saw AGG, he was strumming (and singing) along to a Jimi Hendrix song on the gym radio, which seemed somewhat understandable. He was very nice and chatted me up in between riffs, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt, at least until he started doing the exact same musical routine to he next song, which was something along the lines of "Love Life Us Up Where We Belong." I see him often, and he always spends more time pretending to be a musician and trying to make friends than he does working out. Although, to be fair, when he does work out, he grunts loudly enough to make up for his lack of activity otherwise. He is a 120-pound weakling, but his lungs are strong, that I know.
I can laugh at both of these guys. But what is not remotely funny, and shouldn't even be legal, is High Shorts Guy. HSG is a middle aged light-skinned man who insists on wearing shorts that barely cover his posterior. He wears the same set of skin tight floss-length shorts for every workout, which inevitably includes lunges, leg lifts, or some similar cringing-inducing skin-exposing exercise, invariably performed directly in front of me. I think he gets some bizarre sexual satisfaction from it. It's either that or he's hoping people will eventually give him money to buy new pants. There can't be any other explanation. There just can't.
Here's my point: why do people lose all semblance of common sense and social etiquette the minute they walk through the front door of a gym? I doubt High Shorts Guy goes to work wearing a tank top every day. Air Guitar Guy can't possibly strum to his car radio nonstop while he is driving. If Mohawk Trainer Guy worked at Subway, I can't believe he'd insist that customers watch him make his own sandwich as he was making theirs, nor would he grunt when he reached for the olives.
But there's something about walking into a gym that makes people lose their minds. Every gym has at least one Cell Phone Work Out Guy, who doubly annoys by both exposing you to his lame conversation (that could totally have waited half an hour until the workout was done) and by needlessly taking up valuable workout equipment as he does. Every gym has a Way Too Comfortable Naked Old Person, who lounges around the locker room in the buff as though it were the tea parlor of a nudist colony.
It's as though some people walk into a gym for a brief escape from every day life and think that concept includes the right to escape from all sense of social normalcy. Other people walk in for a work out, and just tune out the rest of the world.
I had an encounter with one of these Oblivious Guys last week.
I was doing some shoulder lifts in front of a rack of dumbbells (by which I mean weights, not the crew I've already described). There are 8 dumbbells on this rack, which is surrounded by a large, open floor, presumably so that eight people can use this weight set simultaneously. But not if Oblivious Guy has anything to say about it.
In between sets, I walked over to get some water, and I hadn't yet moved two feet in that direction before some dude takes the exact spot where I was standing, the exact dumbbell I was using, and throws his towel over the the entire front half of the weight rack, rendering half of the 8 weights on it inaccessible.
Post-hydration, I walk back over to the weight rack. Oblivious Guy has finished his set, but he's now leaning, arms spread eagle, over an entire side of 4 x 4 weight rack, with his towel draped over the other side. The combined effect shuts out about 6 of the 8 dumbbells from use. I stand behind him and wait a good 2-3 minutes, but nothing happens. He notices me waiting but does not move or acknowledge my presence. He just leans on the rack.
Finally, I just walk around to the other side of the rack, deftly avoid the hanging towel, and grab dumbbell near the bottom that's 10 pounds too heavy for me. I step a few feet to the side and start an abbreviated set. Meanwhile, Oblivious Guy stops resting on the rack and walks around to the side I'm standing on so he can lean against the rack from that direction. Shortly thereafter, he, for no apparent reason, takes two steps in my direction, almost bumping into me as I finish my set just in time to step around him.
I put my weight back on the rack, and he grabs it and starts a set of the exact same exercise I was doing. His towel, of course, remains draped over the entire rack.
I manage to re-grab my original weight from the front side, and finish my workout shortly before Oblivious Guy (who now has a stack of 4 differing weights sitting uselessly at this feet) grabs it, and adds it to his collection, only to resume leaning against the weight rack. Long after I left that section of the gym, I looked over and noticed that he kept his towel draped over the rack, and all five weights at his feet, only using one, until his workout was complete.
Oblivious Guy couldn't have done better if he were actively trying to antagonize me, but I really don't think he noticed me at all. He showed no signs of ill-will, never changed expression or even acknowledged my existence the entire episode. He was just working out and nothing, or no one, else mattered. In Gym World, people do that. It was as though I was completely invisible; my existence wholly unremarkable and not worthy of the slightest notice.
I bet that never happens to High Shorts Guy.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Sports Make Me Feel Old
The last of my childhood heroes said good-bye last week.
Ken Griffey Junior was my hero, and not just in a sports worship kind of way. He was the only historically dominant hitter of the past 20 years never associated with steroids. His refusal to jump in the same moral sewer with those he competed against (Bonds, Sosa, McGuire) is the reason he finished his career number 5 on the all-time home run list rather than number one. He chose integrity over the drugs that could have kept him healthier (in the short term) and added a few years to his career. The world needs more people like that.
His retirement last week, at age 40, has made me reflect. It also made me feel old. Most of the consequences of aging I was prepared for. I knew that a day would come when my joints would ache some days for no apparent reason, that I'd start to get fat if I ate everything in sight, and that I'd find today's chart-topping music extraordinarily dumb. What no one ever told me is that someday I would lose my childhood heroes, and no one would replace them.
One of the fun things about being a baseball fan was checking the box scores every morning to see if my guy hit a home run. That part of the game is dead to me now; I still love my team, but there's no individual on it who is anything more to me than a baseball player who happens to play for my team.
This has now happened to me in every single sport. I lost Dan Marino in football, and it's never been the same. It was exciting again when my old college pal Shaun Alexander was dominating the league, but now he's out of the league too. We graduated together at Alabama and shared some great conversations along the way. And he's now too old to play. So what does that say about me?
I've now lost, to at least some degree, a reason to care in almost every single sport. For different reasons, I identified with both Andre Agassi and his wife Steffi Graf, but since they've retired I can't maintain an interest in tennis. Evander Holyfied has been too old to be a serious boxer for a decade, and no one else has summoned my interest. The basketball player I most modelled my game after, Allen Iverson, retired this year as well.
Of course, I knew the day for all these things would come, but I somehow expected that when one favorite player left, another would be there to pick up my rooting interest. It worked that way, to some degree, when I was a kid. Before I was an adult, it wasn't that hard to find people to model myself after. No one ever told me it no longer works that way once you have an office job. I'll never again have cause or opportunity to dream of being The Next Ken Griffey Junior, or anyone else. I'm now past the age where my favorite player can double as a role model. There may be other players I admire for various reasons, but it will never quite be the same.
Soon, I'll be reduced to rooting for the few remaining players roughly my age, as some lame attempt to squeeze out the last remnants of my youth by proxy.
After that, I'm not sure what happens.
I just know I'm not prepared for it.
post script:
The aging phenomenon is, I think, one reason why college sports loyalties never die. There's a link between you, your favorite school, and everyone else who chooses to go there, that never goes away. Our colleges don't change very much, even after we leave, and we take comfort in thinking that whatever attracted us to our school of choice attracted its current players too. So we can continue seeing ourselves in these athletes, giving us a personal link that eventually goes away at the professional level.
While pro sports eventually make us feel old, college sports do the opposite. It's a much more uplifting story. If only football season would hurry up and get here...
Ken Griffey Junior was my hero, and not just in a sports worship kind of way. He was the only historically dominant hitter of the past 20 years never associated with steroids. His refusal to jump in the same moral sewer with those he competed against (Bonds, Sosa, McGuire) is the reason he finished his career number 5 on the all-time home run list rather than number one. He chose integrity over the drugs that could have kept him healthier (in the short term) and added a few years to his career. The world needs more people like that.
His retirement last week, at age 40, has made me reflect. It also made me feel old. Most of the consequences of aging I was prepared for. I knew that a day would come when my joints would ache some days for no apparent reason, that I'd start to get fat if I ate everything in sight, and that I'd find today's chart-topping music extraordinarily dumb. What no one ever told me is that someday I would lose my childhood heroes, and no one would replace them.
One of the fun things about being a baseball fan was checking the box scores every morning to see if my guy hit a home run. That part of the game is dead to me now; I still love my team, but there's no individual on it who is anything more to me than a baseball player who happens to play for my team.
This has now happened to me in every single sport. I lost Dan Marino in football, and it's never been the same. It was exciting again when my old college pal Shaun Alexander was dominating the league, but now he's out of the league too. We graduated together at Alabama and shared some great conversations along the way. And he's now too old to play. So what does that say about me?
I've now lost, to at least some degree, a reason to care in almost every single sport. For different reasons, I identified with both Andre Agassi and his wife Steffi Graf, but since they've retired I can't maintain an interest in tennis. Evander Holyfied has been too old to be a serious boxer for a decade, and no one else has summoned my interest. The basketball player I most modelled my game after, Allen Iverson, retired this year as well.
Of course, I knew the day for all these things would come, but I somehow expected that when one favorite player left, another would be there to pick up my rooting interest. It worked that way, to some degree, when I was a kid. Before I was an adult, it wasn't that hard to find people to model myself after. No one ever told me it no longer works that way once you have an office job. I'll never again have cause or opportunity to dream of being The Next Ken Griffey Junior, or anyone else. I'm now past the age where my favorite player can double as a role model. There may be other players I admire for various reasons, but it will never quite be the same.
Soon, I'll be reduced to rooting for the few remaining players roughly my age, as some lame attempt to squeeze out the last remnants of my youth by proxy.
After that, I'm not sure what happens.
I just know I'm not prepared for it.
post script:
The aging phenomenon is, I think, one reason why college sports loyalties never die. There's a link between you, your favorite school, and everyone else who chooses to go there, that never goes away. Our colleges don't change very much, even after we leave, and we take comfort in thinking that whatever attracted us to our school of choice attracted its current players too. So we can continue seeing ourselves in these athletes, giving us a personal link that eventually goes away at the professional level.
While pro sports eventually make us feel old, college sports do the opposite. It's a much more uplifting story. If only football season would hurry up and get here...
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Mixed Blessing
Some people don't mind getting sick. It's a built-in excuse to take it easy for a few days. Most people who know me well (and know that I generally welcome any excuse to be inactive I can find) might assume I'm one of those people. I used to be.
But now, I absolutely hate being sick. It's partly because I don't get sick unless I get some monster illness that I won't be rid of for weeks, it's partly because I tend to live my life behind schedule anyway, so there's no time built in for six days in bed, but it's mostly because I just hate the feeling of missing out on life. But that's also the one silver lining to it: I never appreciate life more than when I don't feel well enough to live it.
As I mentioned in another post, I've had a stomach virus for 6 days that has left me weak, dehydrated and on all-liquid diet since Monday. It's finally going away. But I noticed something last night. At the end of the usual Saturday night, I start to think about, sometimes dread, the workday challenges that will face me after one more day off. Last night, 5 days into a life-sucking stomach virus, I noticed that I wasn't praying God would take that laundry list away. I was just asking to get well so I could face it.
I find myself doing this most everytime I've been ill for a few days. Those administrative tasks around the house and difficult calls at work suddenly don't seem so bad when compared to the prospect of shuffling around like a zombie for a 7th consecutive day. I'll take my problems if I can just feel alive enough to face them.
Yesterday, I was thinking of all those things I normally take for granted but haven't been able to do in the last week (like consume food in non-liquid form, go the gym, go out for coffee, have a glass of wine, or a trip to the bookstore).
The one good thing about being sick this long is that it re-focuses your priorities. And you never have quite the same zest for life as when every bite of solid food is a cause for celebration...
But now, I absolutely hate being sick. It's partly because I don't get sick unless I get some monster illness that I won't be rid of for weeks, it's partly because I tend to live my life behind schedule anyway, so there's no time built in for six days in bed, but it's mostly because I just hate the feeling of missing out on life. But that's also the one silver lining to it: I never appreciate life more than when I don't feel well enough to live it.
As I mentioned in another post, I've had a stomach virus for 6 days that has left me weak, dehydrated and on all-liquid diet since Monday. It's finally going away. But I noticed something last night. At the end of the usual Saturday night, I start to think about, sometimes dread, the workday challenges that will face me after one more day off. Last night, 5 days into a life-sucking stomach virus, I noticed that I wasn't praying God would take that laundry list away. I was just asking to get well so I could face it.
I find myself doing this most everytime I've been ill for a few days. Those administrative tasks around the house and difficult calls at work suddenly don't seem so bad when compared to the prospect of shuffling around like a zombie for a 7th consecutive day. I'll take my problems if I can just feel alive enough to face them.
Yesterday, I was thinking of all those things I normally take for granted but haven't been able to do in the last week (like consume food in non-liquid form, go the gym, go out for coffee, have a glass of wine, or a trip to the bookstore).
The one good thing about being sick this long is that it re-focuses your priorities. And you never have quite the same zest for life as when every bite of solid food is a cause for celebration...
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Running in Circles and a Programming Note
Just got back from a 5-day vacation on the beach, rested and refreshed, to immediately get an evil stomach virus that will wipe out all the refreshment and mental peace the vacation provided. Isn't life funny that way?
We spent so much time running in circles. Take my last month: to counteract the toll of a stressful period of daily life (the annual spring heavy workload and the stress of the flood), I took a carefree, hedonistically sleepless vacation filled with great times, great food and great friends. It was exactly what I needed to life my spirits enough to face the burdens in front of me anew. But the price paid for that was a compromised immune system, which led to decline in productivity upon my return to work. And by the time I'm healthy enough to tackle it, things will have piled up so much that I'll soon feel just as stressed and overburdened as I did when I first decided I needed that vacation. So I'll plan another one down the road, and the cycle will repeat. I almost always get sick during or immediately upon a return from a vacation, even the low-key relaxing ones.
I'm not saying vacations are pointless. I think the memory of recent good times helps one get through the harder ones. But these cycles just go to show there's a yin for every yang. The mind needs an occasional break in routine to keep my sanity, but the body craves normalcy. Just as my body sometimes needs to skip church on a given Sunday to ensure a restful day, but I feel my spirit suffering for the next week when I do. Everything in life is a trade-off. If you do one thing, you are, by definition, missing out on something else.
Anyway, I haven't gotten to post much lately, but assuming my recovery from this Stomach Death Curse of Doom doesn't take too long, I should be back in the swing of things relatively soon. Hopefully by the weekend at least.
I'll see you then.
We spent so much time running in circles. Take my last month: to counteract the toll of a stressful period of daily life (the annual spring heavy workload and the stress of the flood), I took a carefree, hedonistically sleepless vacation filled with great times, great food and great friends. It was exactly what I needed to life my spirits enough to face the burdens in front of me anew. But the price paid for that was a compromised immune system, which led to decline in productivity upon my return to work. And by the time I'm healthy enough to tackle it, things will have piled up so much that I'll soon feel just as stressed and overburdened as I did when I first decided I needed that vacation. So I'll plan another one down the road, and the cycle will repeat. I almost always get sick during or immediately upon a return from a vacation, even the low-key relaxing ones.
I'm not saying vacations are pointless. I think the memory of recent good times helps one get through the harder ones. But these cycles just go to show there's a yin for every yang. The mind needs an occasional break in routine to keep my sanity, but the body craves normalcy. Just as my body sometimes needs to skip church on a given Sunday to ensure a restful day, but I feel my spirit suffering for the next week when I do. Everything in life is a trade-off. If you do one thing, you are, by definition, missing out on something else.
Anyway, I haven't gotten to post much lately, but assuming my recovery from this Stomach Death Curse of Doom doesn't take too long, I should be back in the swing of things relatively soon. Hopefully by the weekend at least.
I'll see you then.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Moral Dilemma
I'm often torn between my desire for peace, harmony and forgiveness and my desire to make the world a better place by pointing out the shortcomings of others.
Take St. Louis (And I would gladly give it you). The city has some wonderful qualities (great architecture, wonderfully distinctive neighborhoods, and a whole lot of free attractions), but its citizens are widely regarded as the most parochial in the nation. No matter how old you are, it's a regular occurance to be asked where you went to high school, and if the answer is not somewhere in the St. Louis area, you will be immediately dismissed. This happened to me about once a week when we lived there.
Depite our "outsider" status, we were there for 2 years and I thought we made some strong friendships in that time. But, living up to the parochial stereotype, everyone we know there seemed to forget us the minute we left town.
It actually started even before we left. On our moving day, we were confident we had a team of volunteers from our church to help. Instead, precisely one couple and one close friend managed to show. Even our pastors stood us up. One pastor had promised to show up and help, and the other told us he had a slight conflict, but would be there late. We never heard from either of them. And we've hardly heard from anyone since.
This was particularly startling when the flood waters hit. I had several concerned messages from people at the church we left in Alabama 5 years ago, and our current church in Nashville has been terrifically supportive. But not a single word from St. Louis. Even among our dozens of facebook friends.
Our old church has an internet message board where people regularly post prayer requests and make small talk. Prayer requests are posted there all the time. There's no mention of us, or even Nashville, anywhere on it.
I still have a user account on that forum. I can't tell you how badly I want to start a thread on it saying:
"Not that anyone asked, but we're doing just fine thank you. But if you aren't too busy in your own self-absorption, maybe you could throw a prayer or two towards Nashville, because it appears that one here has thought of that. And by the way, how self-absorbed can you people possibly be?"
I would say it nicer than that, but you get the point. It would make me feel a little bit better. But I also know I'll regret it if I do.
Still, the city of St. Louis has a reputation for insularity and indifference toward the rest of the world. That's never going to change unless someone challenges the "out of sight, out of mind" philosophy that so many people there have. It's really not about me. I want people there to overcome their regional myopia that represents the city's biggest downfall. But doing so will doubtlessly enrage a lot of folks, and fray any remaining bit of goodwill from the people there that I still care about.
So, do I outrage people to help them, or just leave it be?
Take St. Louis (And I would gladly give it you). The city has some wonderful qualities (great architecture, wonderfully distinctive neighborhoods, and a whole lot of free attractions), but its citizens are widely regarded as the most parochial in the nation. No matter how old you are, it's a regular occurance to be asked where you went to high school, and if the answer is not somewhere in the St. Louis area, you will be immediately dismissed. This happened to me about once a week when we lived there.
Depite our "outsider" status, we were there for 2 years and I thought we made some strong friendships in that time. But, living up to the parochial stereotype, everyone we know there seemed to forget us the minute we left town.
It actually started even before we left. On our moving day, we were confident we had a team of volunteers from our church to help. Instead, precisely one couple and one close friend managed to show. Even our pastors stood us up. One pastor had promised to show up and help, and the other told us he had a slight conflict, but would be there late. We never heard from either of them. And we've hardly heard from anyone since.
This was particularly startling when the flood waters hit. I had several concerned messages from people at the church we left in Alabama 5 years ago, and our current church in Nashville has been terrifically supportive. But not a single word from St. Louis. Even among our dozens of facebook friends.
Our old church has an internet message board where people regularly post prayer requests and make small talk. Prayer requests are posted there all the time. There's no mention of us, or even Nashville, anywhere on it.
I still have a user account on that forum. I can't tell you how badly I want to start a thread on it saying:
"Not that anyone asked, but we're doing just fine thank you. But if you aren't too busy in your own self-absorption, maybe you could throw a prayer or two towards Nashville, because it appears that one here has thought of that. And by the way, how self-absorbed can you people possibly be?"
I would say it nicer than that, but you get the point. It would make me feel a little bit better. But I also know I'll regret it if I do.
Still, the city of St. Louis has a reputation for insularity and indifference toward the rest of the world. That's never going to change unless someone challenges the "out of sight, out of mind" philosophy that so many people there have. It's really not about me. I want people there to overcome their regional myopia that represents the city's biggest downfall. But doing so will doubtlessly enrage a lot of folks, and fray any remaining bit of goodwill from the people there that I still care about.
So, do I outrage people to help them, or just leave it be?
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Life as a Sports Fan
I know it's unwise to place my happiness, for any periord of time, at the mercy of a group of distant strangers. I just can't stop myself from doing it.
I'm talking about being a sports fan. There's no logical reason why the athletic performance of a group of celebrities in a distant (or even local) city should have any affect on my mood. If they should happen to win, it wasn't because I did anything to cause it. I don't make any extra money or gain fame or popularity because my team wins. My team winning doesn't magically take away work assignments or the need to cut the grass. It doesn't in any material way give me a better life if my team wins, or hinder my life if my team loses. So why do I care so much?
Some people cite some vague notion of civic pride, but I don't buy it. It makes sense in a few cases (rooting for the Saints is an approriate metaphor for rooting for the comeback of the city of New Orleans), but this kind of parallel is the exception, not the rule. Besides, I know tons of Atlanta Braves baseball fans scattered throughout the South who hate the City of Atlanta with a passion.
Don't get me wrong. I can explain rationally why I like to watch sports in general. In just about every field of life, I enjoy watching people do things that I wish I could perform but can't. I like the drama and inherent storylines that come along with competition. But I don't know why I can't watch sports they same way I watch a sitcom, where I'm entertained by the spectacle, but my life doesn't hang on the outcome. I don't know why I let sports ruin my day.
The other day, after my beloved Cincinnati Reds (who I adopted as my team many years ago team for no apparent reason) blew a 6-run 9th inning lead, I was surprised to remember about 30 minutes into my moping that this turn of events wasn't actually my fault. And that actually helped.
Maybe my fandom represents some improbable dream that I couldn't fulfill on my own that I'm trying to achieve through proxy. Maybe it's a way to add meaning to my life by creating a personal connection to each game, or a way to fool myself into getting excited something to help pass the time.
I think it's something a little deeper, though. I think, after a certain amount of time, your team's logo becomes interwoven in your soul and becomes a part of who you are. Your choice of team says something about you. Your collection of favorite teams, college and pro, reveals a fair amount about your personality.
I know a couple of Republicans who root for the Yankees and Cowboys because they appreciate that the owners of those teams worked hard to build the structural advantages that they enjoy. Other people enjoy rooting for underdogs or teams with tradition or flashy colors. The person who roots for the most geographically proximate teams from their childhood in every sport probably still lives near where they grew up. A person who grew up rooting for teams from across the nation probably does not. The person who doesn't care about sports likely hates competition and just wants everyone to get along.
Of course, I didn't think about what type of political statements I was making when I was picking favorite teams at age 7. At that point, I just wanted to follow sports and realized that the entry fee into fandom was picking a team with which to align my emotions. But one's personality has something to do with which allegiances grow stronger and which ones fade over time.
Mine keep growing stronger. I'm actually in the midst of the sports year of a lifetime. My undergrad alma mater Alabama won the national title in January, and my near-hometown New Orleans Saints won the Super Bowl in February. Both events provided a few days of glee, but months later, those outcomes no longer turn grey skies blue. As I write this, my Reds are in first place and my childhood favorite hockey team is in the NHL Finals. It's been an entertaining run, but it hasn't made my problems going away. The joy of a win is fleeting and never as gratifying as a loss is devastating.
I know this. But I'm still going to watch the next game.
It's just part of who I am.
I'm talking about being a sports fan. There's no logical reason why the athletic performance of a group of celebrities in a distant (or even local) city should have any affect on my mood. If they should happen to win, it wasn't because I did anything to cause it. I don't make any extra money or gain fame or popularity because my team wins. My team winning doesn't magically take away work assignments or the need to cut the grass. It doesn't in any material way give me a better life if my team wins, or hinder my life if my team loses. So why do I care so much?
Some people cite some vague notion of civic pride, but I don't buy it. It makes sense in a few cases (rooting for the Saints is an approriate metaphor for rooting for the comeback of the city of New Orleans), but this kind of parallel is the exception, not the rule. Besides, I know tons of Atlanta Braves baseball fans scattered throughout the South who hate the City of Atlanta with a passion.
Don't get me wrong. I can explain rationally why I like to watch sports in general. In just about every field of life, I enjoy watching people do things that I wish I could perform but can't. I like the drama and inherent storylines that come along with competition. But I don't know why I can't watch sports they same way I watch a sitcom, where I'm entertained by the spectacle, but my life doesn't hang on the outcome. I don't know why I let sports ruin my day.
The other day, after my beloved Cincinnati Reds (who I adopted as my team many years ago team for no apparent reason) blew a 6-run 9th inning lead, I was surprised to remember about 30 minutes into my moping that this turn of events wasn't actually my fault. And that actually helped.
Maybe my fandom represents some improbable dream that I couldn't fulfill on my own that I'm trying to achieve through proxy. Maybe it's a way to add meaning to my life by creating a personal connection to each game, or a way to fool myself into getting excited something to help pass the time.
I think it's something a little deeper, though. I think, after a certain amount of time, your team's logo becomes interwoven in your soul and becomes a part of who you are. Your choice of team says something about you. Your collection of favorite teams, college and pro, reveals a fair amount about your personality.
I know a couple of Republicans who root for the Yankees and Cowboys because they appreciate that the owners of those teams worked hard to build the structural advantages that they enjoy. Other people enjoy rooting for underdogs or teams with tradition or flashy colors. The person who roots for the most geographically proximate teams from their childhood in every sport probably still lives near where they grew up. A person who grew up rooting for teams from across the nation probably does not. The person who doesn't care about sports likely hates competition and just wants everyone to get along.
Of course, I didn't think about what type of political statements I was making when I was picking favorite teams at age 7. At that point, I just wanted to follow sports and realized that the entry fee into fandom was picking a team with which to align my emotions. But one's personality has something to do with which allegiances grow stronger and which ones fade over time.
Mine keep growing stronger. I'm actually in the midst of the sports year of a lifetime. My undergrad alma mater Alabama won the national title in January, and my near-hometown New Orleans Saints won the Super Bowl in February. Both events provided a few days of glee, but months later, those outcomes no longer turn grey skies blue. As I write this, my Reds are in first place and my childhood favorite hockey team is in the NHL Finals. It's been an entertaining run, but it hasn't made my problems going away. The joy of a win is fleeting and never as gratifying as a loss is devastating.
I know this. But I'm still going to watch the next game.
It's just part of who I am.
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