Wednesday, November 27, 2002
How very unrelaxed I am.
It started, I think, during the night; once I realized that the next day would be chock-full of last-minute work, terrible traffic, bad timing, and a trunk filled with turkey-making preparations, my eyes sprung open and would not close. During an early project meeting this morning, I was on my first cup of coffee when I felt like I was driving cross-country very late at night: wired and tired at the same time. I've had this feeling countless times before, as I'm sure anyone could similarly attest; it's that fuzzy, grainy, empty-stomach sensation touched with a hurried urgency and a healthy dollop of mania. During college, my most vivid memories are street scenes, rushing upon the streets of NYC's East Village with a coffee in hand and a pack full of books, attempting to finish that last bit of typesetting on the paper due after lunch - a meal I would invariably spend hunched over a self-service copier at the neighborhood Kinko's. This caffienated feeling colored my impressions of these memories, and despite the fuzziness it imparted, the details of the world seemed razor-sharp against my perception during these times. Damn, that was good stuff. Perhaps someday I'll write about it - something better than this tripe.
So, that's the state I'm in, as I prepare for the weekend. Ninety-six hours away from work, but no respite in sight; how does that happen? Even ignoring my actual job for the moment, there are still pieces of furniture to be painted, an apartment to be cleaned, and a syllabus to be created for a course that doesn't even exist yet. Not to mention the bills, the laundry, and all the other things that we do every day. It's difficult to imagine that the time that does become free, by some luck, is often filled with tasks we set for ourselves - these are our interests, the desires that drive us; these core activities often take on more of the character of "work" than work ever does by itself.
Still, I suppose, things could be worse: I could be inspecting Iraqi government facilities during my holiday, making the world safe for George Bush, wasting my time on hidden threats while North Korea breaks bread at a "Welcome to the Nuclear Club" luncheon at the Pyongyang Hilton. Ah, America - let's make our policies more militaristic and more globally aggressive, why don't we? I mean, really - in the absence of all our noise-making, what else would the great media machine have to talk about? The dangers of deep-frying your turkey? I'm sure they'd think of something; after all, for the last five months Bush's saber-rattling has succeeded in distracting coverage from the US military's mishap in South Korea that killed two teenage girls. It's only, as it turns out, his late apology that makes the cover story.
Well, enough of all that. I'm frying my turkey, damn it all to hell; after all, it's quicker. Happy National Shopping Holiday, everyone.
It started, I think, during the night; once I realized that the next day would be chock-full of last-minute work, terrible traffic, bad timing, and a trunk filled with turkey-making preparations, my eyes sprung open and would not close. During an early project meeting this morning, I was on my first cup of coffee when I felt like I was driving cross-country very late at night: wired and tired at the same time. I've had this feeling countless times before, as I'm sure anyone could similarly attest; it's that fuzzy, grainy, empty-stomach sensation touched with a hurried urgency and a healthy dollop of mania. During college, my most vivid memories are street scenes, rushing upon the streets of NYC's East Village with a coffee in hand and a pack full of books, attempting to finish that last bit of typesetting on the paper due after lunch - a meal I would invariably spend hunched over a self-service copier at the neighborhood Kinko's. This caffienated feeling colored my impressions of these memories, and despite the fuzziness it imparted, the details of the world seemed razor-sharp against my perception during these times. Damn, that was good stuff. Perhaps someday I'll write about it - something better than this tripe.
So, that's the state I'm in, as I prepare for the weekend. Ninety-six hours away from work, but no respite in sight; how does that happen? Even ignoring my actual job for the moment, there are still pieces of furniture to be painted, an apartment to be cleaned, and a syllabus to be created for a course that doesn't even exist yet. Not to mention the bills, the laundry, and all the other things that we do every day. It's difficult to imagine that the time that does become free, by some luck, is often filled with tasks we set for ourselves - these are our interests, the desires that drive us; these core activities often take on more of the character of "work" than work ever does by itself.
Still, I suppose, things could be worse: I could be inspecting Iraqi government facilities during my holiday, making the world safe for George Bush, wasting my time on hidden threats while North Korea breaks bread at a "Welcome to the Nuclear Club" luncheon at the Pyongyang Hilton. Ah, America - let's make our policies more militaristic and more globally aggressive, why don't we? I mean, really - in the absence of all our noise-making, what else would the great media machine have to talk about? The dangers of deep-frying your turkey? I'm sure they'd think of something; after all, for the last five months Bush's saber-rattling has succeeded in distracting coverage from the US military's mishap in South Korea that killed two teenage girls. It's only, as it turns out, his late apology that makes the cover story.
Well, enough of all that. I'm frying my turkey, damn it all to hell; after all, it's quicker. Happy National Shopping Holiday, everyone.
Tuesday, November 26, 2002
Bored, I think.
The wind is currently rattling the corrugated steel walls of my academia-governmental universe. Being new to this whole Southern California life, I'm not sure if these are the infamous Santa Ana Winds themselves or simply what the buzzword hungry weatherpeople would call, "Santa Ana wind conditions;" so, you see why I'm confused. But all cluelessness aside, the LA valleys are really getting a beating these last few days. With forty thousand people in northern LA County without power this morning, it would seem that nature is yet determined to convince us all to move back to where we came from. Which is, if I'm not mistaken, New York State. Nevertheless, I persist, perhaps to my detriment. At any rate, I made the mistake of leaving my car windows down yesterday and was rewarded for my trouble with a carload of pine needles upon my return. How nice, and how surreal. But at least it's not 70° and sunny. Again.
It's times like these I'm most cognizant of the fact I spend my days working in a structure that most closely resembles a largish tin box. Corrugated, of course. It's like working in a lunchbox - or, more appropriately and less sarcastically, a warehouse - only that it's supposed to be a high-tech, preferably clean, scientific laboratory. Somehow it made sense to convert this building from its former, more utilitarian purpose to a structure fit for the work demanded of it. This, then, is what you get when an organization such as this runs out of room before it runs out of money. Instead of building a new structure, one is modified to suit at a considerably greater expense. And as such, it would seem that windows and interior walls would not suit the purpose we have been charged to fulfill - for this building has none. What it does have, however, is the most powerful air-conditioning system ever developed; designed and installed, no doubt, to keep the equipment cool. It has the added benefit of keeping the engineers quiet, for conserving body heat is an all-consuming affair.
But why all the boredom? Well, it's Tuesday, and that's what happens, I guess. I'm doing three things with two hands and yet still, somehow, I need more. Perhaps I'm not exercising the right part of my brain. Or perhaps, as I supposed aloud last night, I have some sort of attention-deficit problem - who could tell? At times it feels as if I would need the services of a vast army of eager assistants to simply get done the things I'm merely interested in doing, no less the tasks I must undertake. What becomes of work when there's no room for all the play? Or, more to the point - what happens at the boundary or work and play, especially when that boundary begins to blur? Synthesis, my friends, synthesis - let us re-cast our lives on our terms, for our purposes.
We're shifting paradigms all over the $#@!ing place. For now, though, science awaits.
The wind is currently rattling the corrugated steel walls of my academia-governmental universe. Being new to this whole Southern California life, I'm not sure if these are the infamous Santa Ana Winds themselves or simply what the buzzword hungry weatherpeople would call, "Santa Ana wind conditions;" so, you see why I'm confused. But all cluelessness aside, the LA valleys are really getting a beating these last few days. With forty thousand people in northern LA County without power this morning, it would seem that nature is yet determined to convince us all to move back to where we came from. Which is, if I'm not mistaken, New York State. Nevertheless, I persist, perhaps to my detriment. At any rate, I made the mistake of leaving my car windows down yesterday and was rewarded for my trouble with a carload of pine needles upon my return. How nice, and how surreal. But at least it's not 70° and sunny. Again.
It's times like these I'm most cognizant of the fact I spend my days working in a structure that most closely resembles a largish tin box. Corrugated, of course. It's like working in a lunchbox - or, more appropriately and less sarcastically, a warehouse - only that it's supposed to be a high-tech, preferably clean, scientific laboratory. Somehow it made sense to convert this building from its former, more utilitarian purpose to a structure fit for the work demanded of it. This, then, is what you get when an organization such as this runs out of room before it runs out of money. Instead of building a new structure, one is modified to suit at a considerably greater expense. And as such, it would seem that windows and interior walls would not suit the purpose we have been charged to fulfill - for this building has none. What it does have, however, is the most powerful air-conditioning system ever developed; designed and installed, no doubt, to keep the equipment cool. It has the added benefit of keeping the engineers quiet, for conserving body heat is an all-consuming affair.
But why all the boredom? Well, it's Tuesday, and that's what happens, I guess. I'm doing three things with two hands and yet still, somehow, I need more. Perhaps I'm not exercising the right part of my brain. Or perhaps, as I supposed aloud last night, I have some sort of attention-deficit problem - who could tell? At times it feels as if I would need the services of a vast army of eager assistants to simply get done the things I'm merely interested in doing, no less the tasks I must undertake. What becomes of work when there's no room for all the play? Or, more to the point - what happens at the boundary or work and play, especially when that boundary begins to blur? Synthesis, my friends, synthesis - let us re-cast our lives on our terms, for our purposes.
We're shifting paradigms all over the $#@!ing place. For now, though, science awaits.
Monday, November 25, 2002
Where to begin?
Again I treat this blog, a labor of love, as work; after putting it off all weekend, I return today only to find that I have no news left. Where does it go? Well, even the stubbornly dense can learn from history: some of my news now disappears into my new digital voice recorder from The Sharper Image. It's like a high-tech version of a old-style snail-mail "inbox." Throw it right in there, and it's sure to be forgotten about. I think it was comedian Jerry Seinfeld who once extolled the virtues of the telephone speed-dial function, as I will attempt to paraphrase:
In the very American tradition of "not my fault," such an action has become a true fait accompli: it's like passing the buck to an inanimate object.
The Sharper Image, it should be mentioned, is the true epitome of a place that sells things that we don't need: "The Sharper Image: We Sell Crap." Ironically, it is also the number one answer to the question, "Where do I shop for this person who likes gadgets?" I would add, incidentally, that I still have not encountered a satisfactory description for a "gadget." It's like the term "tinker." What the hell does that mean, anyway? It sounds like a euphemism for sex with an android. At any rate, I was able to use a number of old, accumulated gift certificates for my recent purchase of the recorder, a rare useful item. Apparently, TSI certificates never run out. This is fortuitous; since everything there costs twice as much as it should, it will take the average gadget-tinkering person approximately five years to save enough money to purchase a keychain flashlight. Knowing TSI, of course, said keychain flashlight will probably uncork wine bottles and serve as an emergency roadside beacon, as well.
And finally, lest I keep you in suspense:
As the Fates cast their die late Friday evening, the Beavers (?!) of Caltech bested Cooper by a single point in overtime. After a succession of last-second, ping-pong three-pointers that lifted every butt in the house, it was the sharply unbalanced fouling that put the game in the bag for the Beavers. And what a game - I laughed, I cried, I screamed at the top of my lungs; I was stared at intently by the unblinking chorus of undergraduate Tech students and loudly defended the socio-economic origins of my brethren:
It should be stated at this point that while I stand by my particular brand of anti-establishment ranting and raving, I must carefully consider the tableau played out during the game. Present were all the trappings of a contest of pride, a game of representation: Steve Baker talked up the supporters, the teams had their faces on, Tech students wore sponsored footwear and the cameras recorded every moment, both triumphant and despondent. And the crowd - myself included - loved every minute of it. It was a magnificent contest, to be sure; in retrospect it seems almost unfair to ask, "was it worth the hype?" Especially so, in fact, because it may have simply been my own problem in the first place to find fault with all the publicity.
Perhaps I'm just jealous; the only filmed evidence of my years playing soccer includes an empty beer bottle and a lopsided grin. So be it, then.
Again I treat this blog, a labor of love, as work; after putting it off all weekend, I return today only to find that I have no news left. Where does it go? Well, even the stubbornly dense can learn from history: some of my news now disappears into my new digital voice recorder from The Sharper Image. It's like a high-tech version of a old-style snail-mail "inbox." Throw it right in there, and it's sure to be forgotten about. I think it was comedian Jerry Seinfeld who once extolled the virtues of the telephone speed-dial function, as I will attempt to paraphrase:
"What's with those speed-dial buttons? I mean, you put the number in there, and it goes right out of your head. You can't even dial the number anymore - you've got to use the speed-dial. And don't even think about trying to call from a different phone - once the number's in there, you'll never be able remember it. And it makes room for other things, too: you punch in the number to the pizza place down the street, and poof! - you've got your phone number to the house you lived in when you were six."
In the very American tradition of "not my fault," such an action has become a true fait accompli: it's like passing the buck to an inanimate object.
The Sharper Image, it should be mentioned, is the true epitome of a place that sells things that we don't need: "The Sharper Image: We Sell Crap." Ironically, it is also the number one answer to the question, "Where do I shop for this person who likes gadgets?" I would add, incidentally, that I still have not encountered a satisfactory description for a "gadget." It's like the term "tinker." What the hell does that mean, anyway? It sounds like a euphemism for sex with an android. At any rate, I was able to use a number of old, accumulated gift certificates for my recent purchase of the recorder, a rare useful item. Apparently, TSI certificates never run out. This is fortuitous; since everything there costs twice as much as it should, it will take the average gadget-tinkering person approximately five years to save enough money to purchase a keychain flashlight. Knowing TSI, of course, said keychain flashlight will probably uncork wine bottles and serve as an emergency roadside beacon, as well.
And finally, lest I keep you in suspense:
As the Fates cast their die late Friday evening, the Beavers (?!) of Caltech bested Cooper by a single point in overtime. After a succession of last-second, ping-pong three-pointers that lifted every butt in the house, it was the sharply unbalanced fouling that put the game in the bag for the Beavers. And what a game - I laughed, I cried, I screamed at the top of my lungs; I was stared at intently by the unblinking chorus of undergraduate Tech students and loudly defended the socio-economic origins of my brethren:
"So what if California could eat New Jersey? What's it to ya, anyway? Put some socks on, sandal boy."
It should be stated at this point that while I stand by my particular brand of anti-establishment ranting and raving, I must carefully consider the tableau played out during the game. Present were all the trappings of a contest of pride, a game of representation: Steve Baker talked up the supporters, the teams had their faces on, Tech students wore sponsored footwear and the cameras recorded every moment, both triumphant and despondent. And the crowd - myself included - loved every minute of it. It was a magnificent contest, to be sure; in retrospect it seems almost unfair to ask, "was it worth the hype?" Especially so, in fact, because it may have simply been my own problem in the first place to find fault with all the publicity.
Perhaps I'm just jealous; the only filmed evidence of my years playing soccer includes an empty beer bottle and a lopsided grin. So be it, then.