Pistol Whipped

Yesterday after lunch with a new friend, he says, "This is going to sound weird, but have you ever fired a gun?"

Er... yeah... it is weird, and yes, I have.

I wish I could say I was stunned to silence or had some other surprised reaction, but I wasn't. As my friend was explaining that he meant at a firing range, adding that he has an acquaintance who took some gun safety courses and started going to a firing range and now my friend is thinking it might be fun, I am scrambling to explain that as a Southerner, I am no stranger to guns.

On later reflection, I am a little disturbed by my behavior. My friend made it clear that he has no desire to hurt anyone or anything, and I know he means it. I also hastened to clarify that most of my experience with guns involves hunting, which I am not too keen on. I'm just not a killer. But here we were talking about researching where we could go and how much it would cost, and I can't say I had seriously considered what I was talking about.

Certainly, it can't hurt to know how to handle a gun. You never know when that might be useful knowledge. And it could be interesting to take on the challenge of becoming a good shot. So as long as it's safe and in controlled conditions, why not? I am not bothered by the idea of what my friend proposed. I'm even starting to hope he follows through with the plans. What concerns me is that none of these reasons crossed my mind in that moment. I was merely making every effort to convince my friend that I think the idea is cool when the truth is, I've never thought of it at all and wasn't really thinking about it then.

Am I that desperate for male companionship that I would take up a hobby that involves playing with deadly weapons without a single thought just to please a new friend?

Apparently, I am.

And now I remember...

why I don't stay out late drinking on weeknights anymore.

Please! Do you have to read that loudly?

So, THAT's a Vicissitude

Yesterday was certainly a Monday, in more than the calendar sense. You know what I mean. It seems that Mondays are often a little dodgy. Maybe the two days off on the weekend makes us forget the routine we endure the other five days a week, or maybe our pitiful struggle against that routine requires us to blunder as much as we can on Mondays in some vain attempt to pretend this isn't our real life. I don't know. But I do know that I wanted to crawl back into bed after my shower yesterday morning, and the day only got worse as it progressed.

First, I'd had a bad Friday. The center I work for hosted an installment of a seminar series being funded by a government research agency. I'd been working out the logistics of the seminar for months and thought everything was ready. And in all honesty, most of it came off well. But somehow I misplaced a presentation remote control on Thursday, and it was simply not to be found on Friday. I spent half the day, and almost all of the seminar time, searching my office and everywhere else I could think of with no success. Consequently, I faced an unpleasant experience on Monday morning when I had to confess my negligence and attempt to make restitution to the university.

But even before I got to work, I was hit by a car when I was riding my bike to campus. I was going straight in the bike lane when a Toyota Pruis pulled into the road from a side-street and drove right into my path. So much for caring about the environment. The driver was obviously oblivious to his. No one was hurt; the driver turned in the same direction I was going, and I saw him in time to slow up and try to dodge his car. So, I just bounced off his front, drivers-side bumper lightly and continued to bump along the side of his car until he stopped. Neither of our "vehicles" received any damage either, but it shook me up a lot, as I'm sure you can imagine. The guy had glanced my way; I saw his head turn. But he clearly doesn't understand the difference between actually looking both ways and just going through the motions. I let off a string of expletives that would make a sailor blush, and the driver was clearly frightened. I would have felt badly for him if he hadn't almost killed me. I nearly turned around and went home right then.

But I didn't. And I was swamped with work when I got to the office. There were all sorts of things to do to wrap up the seminar, and my boss is in France or Spain or some other European country where he is no help to me. Then a friend canceled lunch plans on me last minute, and I had a major assignment due for one of my classes after work.

Fortunately, I had arrangement to meet up with some old school mates down the pub last night. (It's not really a pub, but I can pretend pretty well.) In keeping with my desire to change my social situation, I've been reaching out to acquaintances where I can, and it paid off last night with a few pints of Newcastle and some lively conversation. So what seemed like a disastrous day ended up on a positive note. And if it hadn't been for my effort to make some alterations in my life, my friends would not have known I was still in town, and I would have spent the evening watching t.v. and feeling down on the living room sofa while DW worked on lesson plans in the study.

Yes, my friends, change is good. And don't let anyone tell you differently.

Be Like Me

One of the classes I'm taking this semester is on management. Each week my classmates and I read chapters from the textbook and post answers on the course Blackboard site to questions posed in the text.

Recently the topic of one of the chapters was on decision making, and one of my classmates made the following remark:

This topic makes me think of an interview I heard on NPR about how people arrive at their decision on what candidate to vote for on election day. The interviewee (he was a journalist) argued that people like to think that they arrive at their decisions because of facts they know about the candidate. However, most people, when it comes down to the moment of truth, will vote for the candidate they intuitively identify with the most. I thought this was pretty interesting.

I thought it was pretty interesting too. I really prefer to think that I do make my choices based on the issues, but maybe I just mean I choose the candidate whose stance on issues is similar to my own, in other words, the candidate I "intuitively identify with the most." Now perhaps there is some difference between intuitive identification and intellectual agreement, but it's a fine line.

I also recently heard Hilary Clinton refer to Barack Obama's campaign as a Cult of Personality, an assertion that is not entirely without merit. Take this report for instance. If we can accept these claims, then certainly there are some who are a little over-enthusiastic about the senator from Illinois, don't you think? However, I'm not sure that Clinton's followers are any less zealots; they just adhere to a different cult, the cult of the double X chromosomes. Oh, I'm not saying that there are not substantial, legitimate reasons to support her, but when I read an editorial or a letter to the editor in the paper that praises Clinton, 8 times out of 10 her gender is the primary selling point.

So, if we accept that we vote based on personality, perhaps we should look into the personalities of the candidates more. Check out this site. I'm not sure how scholarly it is, but you have to admit it's interesting.

Tho' much is taken, much abides.

When I was young, I was a loner. Not exactly a rebel, but an isolationist of sorts. I was the kid who sat in the back of the room and scowled with disdain at the ridiculous drama of teenage life. I read Malory and sci-fi novels and wished I could be anywhere but where I was. If there had been a Goth movement or a trench coat mafia at my small suburban high school, I would have been part of it... if I were a joiner, which I most definitely was not. Even that alternative lifestyle seemed ritualistic and hypocritical, and I just preferred to do things for a reason, not because others did them. I did have some people I hung out with and called friends, but when high school was over and we all went separate ways, I realized they were habits, not friends. I'd always known them and never imagined not spending time with them. It was that simple.

After high school, I came to know what loneliness was. No longer able to interact with people out of habit, I spent almost all of my time alone, when I wasn't at my dreadful fastfood job. I gained 60 pounds and perfected the art of wallowing in self pity.... until I wised up to the fact that no one was forcing this life upon me. I could change it at any time.

So, I got a new job, lost weight, learned to dress better, and started college. I made many friends and began going out all the time. I'm not saying it was all bliss and roses, but I was pretty happy. I'd never considered myself a social person before, but as long as I got some "me" time to read or watch a movie to recharge my energies, I enjoyed having an active social life.

This pattern continued for over a decade. Then, Darling Wife and I move here to Northern CA. I never really got into the rhythm of things here. There were many people in my cohort at the university that I liked, and they seemed to like me. I spent a lot of time with them. But I can't say I ever considered any of them to be friends. This is mostly my fault. I didn't allow myself to connect with them. I didn't want to. Whenever I could get away from school, I preferred to spend time at home or on an outing with DW. I enjoyed our little cocoon. So once I left my Ph.D. program, I lost all contact with the only people I knew here. I didn't anticipate how lonely this would make me feel.

You may recall that I mentioned a new friend a few months back. Our friendship was the most random connection. He was a computer support guy in the university dept where I work as a part time admin assistant, and he came to my office to fix a minor problem with my PC. We started talking, and soon meaningless smalltalk led to a decent conversation. So, I suggested we grab a pint sometime to continue it. Over the past weeks, I have come to value his friendship a great deal, more than I could have foreseen at the time. You can imagine, then, how I felt to learn that his position with the university was a temporary appointment and he would be leaving at the end of February. I attended his farewell party Friday, and though we have made promises to stay in touch, I am too experienced with the ways of the world to expect much.

It's true, we hardly ever saw each other at work anyway, but today, I sit at my desk with a profound sense of loss and isolation. But just as I did those many years ago, I am starting to think the answer is to lighten up... make some changes. And this time, my starting position is already better off because I am not alone. I have DW.

One of the great things about life is the ability to change it, don't you think? I am ready to smite the sounding furrows. Care to join me?

Sometimes they do come true

It finally happened. Last weekend, I brought our new puppy home.

This was no mean feat. As some of you know, the entire process has been a lengthy one. After convincing Darling Wife that she wanted a Scottish Terrier... :)

....we had to save the money to buy one and take proper care of him. We also had to find a breeder we liked. This involved months of web searches, telephone calls, and letter writing. And when we did finally find one, we waited and waited, but her dog did not go into season. Then she recommended another breeder in Michigan who had puppies available.

So we had to start the process all over again with this breeder. Once we'd decided to take a puppy from this breeder, there was the issue of how to get him here to CA. We did not want to fly him by himself in cargo. That's a bit too much for a puppy to go through alone. Would you put a baby in a box and stick it into an airplane's cargo hold for hours? I don't think so. And while a puppy is not exactly a baby, in many ways it amounts to the same thing. So I decided to fly to MI and pick him up and bring him back with me in the cabin. However, flights to Grand Rapids, MI from central CA are not cheap. I ended up opting to fly to Chicago and crash with a friend for a few days instead. The flight was significantly cheaper, and my friend generously offered to play chauffeur to me and my new family member, picking me up at the airport while it was still dark and driving us around Lake Michigan in the wee hours during the middle of winter. Now, that's a good friend. But coordinating her schedule with mine and the breeder's proved even more difficult, and when we eventually worked it all out, it still meant me getting almost no sleep for three days, and all I saw of Chicago was my friend's apartment and one truly great pizza place.


But all's well that ends well, right? Fergus has been home with us for a week now, and he is proving himself to be all that we wished for. We've been having so much fun -and I had so much school work to catch up on- that this is the first chance I've had to sit down and share the good news. Who knows when I'll take the time again, but fear not; my blogging days may be fewer, but they aren't gone yet. And they won't all be about our adorable new pal.

The Law of Club and Fang

There is a beehive hanging in
the lower branches of a tree on campus, right in front of a classroom building on a main route. I noticed it one morning as I walked to work and was rather surprised that no one else seemed at all interested in it. It was a rather large stalactite with waxy combs pointing toward the ground and bees buzzing around in cliched activity. Weren't people afraid of being stung? But as I looked about, I guessed the students scurrying hither and thither were all too busy talking on their cell phones to notice this peculiar phenomenon in their midst. I stood alone in the crowd and watched it for several minutes more, certain that the campus facilities crew would locate it after a few days and remove it from my observation.

But as the days passed, the bees remained, and I began to suspect that they had gone unremarked. After all, the campus is really large, and the olive harvest was underway. The facilities crew couldn't be everywhere at once. I started to think I had a duty to report it. What if someone were stung? The location of the cluster made it only a matter of time before someone accidentally bumped it or purposefully behaved in some manner the bees would perceive as threatening, and then it would not be a matter of a single sting, it would be a massive defensive attack. And aren't some people seriously allergic to bee stings?

I didn't know what steps to take, so I searched the university's website for assistance and contacted the campus authority on bees and apiculture. He was happy to talk with me, but his response was not what I expected. He explained that it wasn't a beehive but an "open comb cluster," and it was likely the result of a late-season swarm. When a beehive becomes overpopulated, a new queen is born, and then the old queen takes a portion of the hive and attempts to relocate. This is called swarming. Scouts are dispatched to find a new home in a log or other protected space, while the remainder of the swarm clusters onto a temporary residence on a branch or side of a building. If the scouts are successful in time, the cluster moves into their new residence, and a new hive is formed. But if the scouts can't find a place or they take too long, the bees can't resist the urge to make combs and start producing honey, even in their unsuitable location. The result is an open comb cluster, and it means doom for the nascent colony.

The bee expert told me that the cluster would not have had time to produce enough food to see the bees through the winter and no beekeeper would want them because he would have to feed them all winter at great effort and expense. So, unless the cluster was actually bothering someone, nobody would trouble themselves with it. He went on to tell me that the open combs would leave the bees exposed to the wind, rain, and cold of winter until they starved to death or were eaten by birds.

So the bees remain in the tree, unnoticed and uncared for... except by me. Every time I pass, I see fewer and fewer of the insects clinging to the outside of the combs. Sometimes I search the ground beneath the cluster to see their small, shriveled bodies curled up in death. Why do I do it? I don't know. They're just bugs, right? And stupid bugs at that. They did this to themselves. Why didn't they find a better place to live? ...but I cannot stop. I cannot not look. And each day I scrutinize the tangled group remaining , desperately seeking movement from within the dark mass, and I say a little prayer for those that survive.

Disorientation

It is February, right? I hear tales from my sister, sister-in-law, and friends that contain mysterious phrases like "negative seven" and "wind chill factor," and I know that I once had some concept of their meaning. There was a time in my life when I even told such tales. But as I struggle to recall the sensations, the memories associated with them remain shrouded in the mists of "what was long ago," and I can't exactly bring them into focus. They are blurred at the edges of reality like a dream.

Yesterday, Darling Wife and I went hiking. We strolled through green pastures like the ones you see on the "California Happy Cows" commercials, climbed alongside a bubbling creek, and emerged atop a windswept hill covered with sage and scrub oak. The temperature was a pleasant 67 degrees Fahrenheit, and the scorching rays of the California sun brought the sweat out on both of us. It was lovely.

But I kept thinking that it was somehow unnatural. My mind asked, "Should it be this wonderfully springlike, almost summerlike, in early February?" And something from the depths of my soul answered, "Certainly not!" But it was; there could be no mistaking my senses. I know that were we to travel a short distance into the mountains, we would discover ourselves in the midst of freezing temperatures and several feet of snow. But that radical dichotomy merely reinforces the perception of strangeness.

After living here for two and a half years, I am no longer in tune with the chorus of winter wails I hear from my distant loved ones, but I am also certainly off beat with the rhythm here. Of course, I enjoyed the experience immensely... but I can't shake the eerie feeling that I am somehow off the edge of the map.

The Other Cheek

I've always had a sort of personality disorder that flares up when I consider certain issues. One part of me is hard line conservative, seeing things in black&white and thinking people should just act RIGHT! (And of course, "right" is always clear and obvious.) But another part of me is aware that societal "rules" are arbitrary and often illogical; we hold to them merely for stability, which should not always be the highest object of social action. This second part of me prefers to defend people's right to self-expression and self-determination. It is adept at observing and thinking about things rather than dismissing them out of hand.

This internal polarity has often caused me immense inner conflict. Usually, my first reaction is the conservative, judgmental one, but then what I like to think of as my more reasonable side takes over and I step back to re-examine the matter with a more scientific approach. I try to see the ramifications of the behavior and decide objectively what to think about the issue, attempting to see what the goal is and how effective the behavior is at achieving that goal. Most of time I end up with a sort of compromise, a position that acknowledges that while things don't necessarily have to be the black&white way, completely destroying established behavioral rules of a society is seldom desirable either. A good balance and some common sense is often the path I prefer.

Today as I stood at my crossing-guard intersection, I noted for the dozenth time that I see more male underwear in ten minutes of work than one can find in an Undergear catalog. As I'm sure you know, the fashionable way of wearing jeans among today's high school boys is at least three inches below the waist, and many of them have no compunction about displaying their entire back side. They waddle vulgarly like a baby with a full diaper, and many of them have to hold their waistband to keep their pants from plummeting to their ankles. There was a time when this style was limited to certain groups or subgroups, but it is widely popular among all groups today. (Although the "skinny jean" has made some inroads.)

As soon as I made the observation, my two sides were at war. The conservative portion of my psyche shook its head in disgust, thinking, "How can their parents let them go out of the house that way?" and "Why do they even bother wearing pants at all? It's not like they are covering up anything." Then my rational side kicked in with "Well, of course, it wouldn't really matter if they didn't wear pants. There is nothing innately 'indecent' about the body. It is merely a societal taboo that says it's so. Besides, it's not like these boys are actually displaying their bodies. They are, in fact, covered up. Is there any substantial, inherent difference between a pair of boxer shorts and a pair of swimming trunks, other than a slight level of thickness? It is only the idea that underwear should be worn under other garments that makes their appearance seem inappropriate... and exciting. Today's youth are pushing this boundary and challenging its legitimacy, which is more or less the job of the young, isn't it? Who is it really hurting, anyway? Stop being such an old fogey!"

But as one skinny young man of about fifteen rode past me, both cheeks and a crevice clearly visible in their entirety through his thin, white briefs or boxer briefs, I wasn't sure I wanted to side with my "rational" side. Sometimes, I think the boundary needs to push back.

Context

It's funny that at the ocean, seagulls are an awful nuisance. They try to steal my food; they rummage through unattended bags; they squawk obnoxiously; and, most disgustingly, they defecate on everything. I despise them!

But anytime I encounter a seagull elsewhere, their raucous calls and soaring wings press memories upon me of warm afternoons passed lounging at Owen Park on the Vineyard, whale-watching adventures on my first visits to Boston, or one of the best days I ever spent when DW and I visited the Harbor Islands. Sometimes, I swear I can smell the sea. All brought to me by the cry of a seaside pest, heard far ashore.

Context is a curious thing.