Neuroses make you fat

The other night was pretty warm.  A balmy and delightful night outside, especially for March, but in my office the heat was still on or something.  I had opted for a long-sleeved shirt, and I was feeling the heat.  So I decided I wanted something cool to drink.  Specifically, a mocha frappé from McDonald's.

Mmmm.

So I drove to McDonald's, got in the drive-thru lane, and waited.  The person in front of me (whose window apparently didn't work, so she had to open her door) was taking her sweet time, but I didn't mind.  I find I'm very patient when I'm on company time.  Eventually I overheard some exchange between her and the McEmployee about how something wasn't working.  I am 60 percent sure they were discussing the milkshake machine.

I started to worry.  Could the milkshake machine be required to make frappés?  I didn't know.  This was a concern not only because the satisfaction of my McCraving was now at risk, but because I hate being told that I cannot get what I ordered.  It makes me feel vulnerable.  Weak.  It makes me into someone who is unable to get what he wants, and must now live the shameful life of someone who everyone knows is nothing but the disappointed shell of a human being.

It also screws up the script I have carefully constructed for the occasion of this brief transaction.  I don't do well off-script.  And I'm caught so off-guard by all this that I continue to order things the can't provide.  I once tried to order a Mocha Frappé and was told that their various machines were down and the only drink they had available was iced tea.  So I asked for a vanilla milkshake.  Sorry, they can only give me iced tea.  So I asked for a Coke.

"I'M GETTING A MASTER'S DEGREE!" I wanted to squawk at the cashier, who no doubt expected to find my mommy's phone number stapled to the front of my shirt when I rolled up.

No-window lady pulled forward, and it was my turn.  Panicking, worried I could not get my frappé, I reached blindly into my bag of McDonald's ordering scripts and said, "I'd like a large number one with coke."

Mm... wait, what?

This was not what I craved.  It was not something I wanted.  Having had supper a couple hours earlier, I wasn't even hungry.

I ate it, along with a large helping of self-loathing.  Then I spent the remainder of the night trying not to throw up.

Can crime prevention be OK?

In April 2011, Constable Michael Sanguinetti of the Toronto Police Department said that women should "avoid dressing like sluts" so they do not become victims of sexual violence.  This sparked a wave of "Slutwalks" in Canada and the United States, in which protestors object to the "blame the victim" mentality and stake the claim that they should be able to dress however they want, and that society should not say sexual violence is "OK" if the victim is "asking for it."

I'm not saying they're wrong, or that there isn't a societal problem.  But let's not jump all over anyone who tries to offer people tips for how to avoid becoming the victim of a crime.

Constable Sanguinetti is not a great standard-bearer for law enforcement on this one.  He most definitely should not have used the word "slut" in his remarks.  But accusing him of "excusing rape" is sort of missing the point of what he said.  He didn't say, "If you get raped, you were asking for it."  He said something that is generally known across the board--that how you dress, walk, and generally present yourself affects your chances of becoming the victim of a crime.

If I tell people that they should keep their cars and dorm rooms locked, I'm not excusing the crimes of opportunity that might more likely occur if they don't.  If someone steals your radio, that's a crime regardless of whether your car was locked.  If someone walks into your room and pee on your floor (yes, that's a real thing), that's a pretty big deal whether or not your room was secure.  They're not treated any differently.

It would be one thing to tell a woman who had been raped that it was her fault because of how she dressed, but it's another thing entirely, in the context of offering tips on crime prevention, to suggest measures that certain ways of dressing might increase the chances of being raped.  It's up to you what to do with that.  Not unrelatedly, statistics also show that women with long hair are more likely to be raped.  Does saying that mean I'm saying women should not have long hair?  No.  It's just a fact.

We should live in a world where nobody has to fear sexual violence, regardless of how he or she is dressed.  Heck, we should live in a world where nobody has to fear property being stolen, regardless of whether he or she locks his or her car.  But until we do, let's not demonize people who are offering people advice on how to be more secure.

All the people who share my interests are hot women

Quick, imagine some nerdy gaming expert giving you the scoop on the next great video game.  What's he look like?

Some chubby dude with beady eyes, greasy hair, thick glasses, and a T-shirt that says something you don't get?

Them?

I keep seeing all these tech/gaming shows or clips in which some slim, long-haired, attractive young woman alternates between playing cutesy-naive and chatting about the latest nerd news, being sure to drop comments that assure us she's played the game.  And all I can do is stare incredulously, one eyebrow raised so I look like a stroke victim, thinking, this is not reality.

I'm not saying that people who are women, or people who are attractive, or people who are both, cannot be experts on tech and gaming.  (Though I'm not prepared to admit that I believe these hostesses are.)  I am saying that I feel this is not an accurate representation of the demographic.  Am I really to believe Attack of the Show's implicit claim that the majority of the people who share my interests are women who, when not playing Mass Effect, are posing for Maxim?  Or that at least two of their contributing reporters just happen to have posed for Playboy?  (No, those are not links to Playboy.)

I get that this is an attractive illusion, but does it really ring true for the audience?  Because me, I just feel a little insulted.  If I'm going to watch a show that purports to be "TV's only source for all the stuff I care about," I think there's a reasonable expectation that the host will look more or less like me.

On the other hand, I guess G4 doesn't want to be holding up a mirror to a bunch of gamers.  Because if I see a guy that looks like me reviewing Skyrim, I'm going to be thinking, "I need to turn off the X-Box and go for a run!"

Oh, and why is G4 covering the World Naked Bike Ride?  Does their audience care about it, or do they just care about Sara Underwood in pasties?  (Yes, that is a link to pictures of Sara Underwood in pasties.)

Finally, what's with Candace Bailey yelling out to the studio audience that she's a virgin?  Is that to connect with the target demographic?  Hype up her innocent, sexualized-yet-sexless persona?  An unscripted moment of truth?  Any sociologists up in here?

(Sorry, I couldn't find a video clip of the moment I'm referencing, though I did find the eight million ChaCha questions that nerds all over America submitted asking if it's true.)

*For the record, like most of G4's audience, I know Sara Underwood and Olivia Munn were in Playboy because I saw them on TV and Googled them--as opposed to knowing they're on TV from the reverse process.)

The kind for clothes, not the small metal disc

I do not, in my moments of experiencing life, think, "I will blog about this later," which means that by the time I think "This would be cool to document photographically," "this" is a thing past.  So I am sorry, but this post is not accompanied by pictures.  I am not her or her.

(The latter is my second cousin, whom I haven't actually seen since I was like I don't know seven.  Gotta love internets.)

I have been without a washer/dryer in-house since my last year of college (and that was a one-year island in a six-year stretch of laundry rooms and lavadarías).  I have been fortunate, though, in having friends who have this equipment, and who don't point out that my detergent contribution does not balance out my use of their facilities.  Recently, those friends all moved away.

This got me seriously considering taking advantage of those washer/dryer hookups in my apartment.  Obstacle: I am poor, and twenty-five years of mommies, paid services and generous friends have left me with a firm belief that the ability to wash one's clothes is not the sort of thing that should cost six hundred dollars.

Solution: Steal the washer some friends left in the basement of their rental.  This was a process that involved using a co-worker (Mark) for his truck and said co-worker's cousin for his dolly.  Many curses and a near-decapitation later, the machine had been moved from a basement on the west side of town to a second floor on the east.  There was still no dryer (the available one was gas, and our hookup purely electric), but that is only the second-most important part of the set.

Problem: We broke the washer.  We did a lot of hauling it on its side, and we banged it around a lot, including a good six-inch drop while going down some steps.  Your phone, unless it is an iPhone, is made to survive a six-inch fall.  Washers are not.  (Consider that force is a function of mass.)  Somewhere in there we broke a stabilizer, which is the part of the washer that distinguishes it from an earthquake simulator.

Running the washer with a broken stabilizer loosed the drain hose or something, because after two loads there was suddenly water coming out from underneath during the spin cycle.  Annoying in your concrete basement; unacceptable on carpet and tile in your second-floor apartment which is owned by a water-paranoid landlord.

Now, occasionally I get all caught up in gender roles and decide I am going to fix something.  Usually this does not go well.  I pried the back off the washer, adhering to the "screw it, I'll just rip this off and worry about it later" school of thought.  Not finding anything visibly amiss, I decided to run it open to see if I could spot the leak.

I sure as heck did something wrong, because now all water input poured directly out onto the floor, and I have no idea why.  Also, I could not get it back together without liberal use of duct tape.  Also, don't plug your washer in with wet hands, because it will shock you and you will cry, and that will not help you feel like a manly Mr. Fixit.

New solution: Snag a 20-year-old washer (and a nice dryer) from my co-worker's co-worker (it's sort of like a second cousin), who is getting a new one.  I spent my Saturday moving various boxes and washer-dryers for various people to make this score, making me feel like Link trading his way to the magnifying lens in order to open the Wind Fish's Egg.

A couple replaced hoses and a minor repair involving a twisty-tie later, all is set.  Except what to do with the first washer?

Mark suggested we put it in the alley and see what happens, assuring me someone would claim it.  I was dubious as to whether this would happen, but agreed with him on the point of "we can always claim no knowledge of this and hope nobody saw us leave it."  So in the alley I abandoned my first washer, awaiting a my fine for illegal dumping.

It was gone within hours.  Hours.  Hauled away, presumedly, for scrap.

But isn't that impressive?  A box filled with washers of the other variety, sure, easy pickings.  But what took us a week of planning, two people, a dolly and a truck, someone else seems to have accomplished as an afterthought on their way home.

There is an ecosystem here in Richmond--I've known that since I noted that my recyclables were always collected long before garbage day.  Lurking out there in the alleys, unseen in the daylight, are the scrappers.  The scavenger class.  The Jawas of the Whitewater Valley.  Like piranhas on a cow, they make off with what would seem to be challenging targets.

I have a tickling desire to start a series of experiments to see what they'll take.  I'm thinking a box labeled "used hypodermic needles and scrap metal."

Concerning the spelling of my (nick)name

This came up on another blog I write for, and I didn't want to waste their time with it.

My name is Nicolas.

N-I-C-O-L-A-S.

As you may have noticed, there is no H.  Many miss this, and spell my name with an H.  That's OK.  I understand.  My parents were cruel and decided to spell my name as if I were some sort of frenchman.  It's not your fault that it's an uncommon spelling, and I don't blame you for the oversight.  I've been known to spell "Lindsey" with an A or forget the H in "Meghan" (but seriously, Meghan?).  It's considerably more annoying when someone hands me a sign-up form on which I write my name, and then I find I'm in the system as Nicholas.  Like, yeah, I spelled my own name wrong.  Thanks for catching that.

Jackass.

"Nicolas or Nick?" teachers would always ask.  "I don't care," I told them.  "I don't care" was frequently interpreted as "Nick," because in America we are always in a hurry and cannot waste time with extraneous syllables.  I became accustomed to this, and started telling people I was Nick.  "Nicolas" became reserved for doctor's appointments and angry mothers.  The only downside to "Nick" is that my last name also starts with a K, and the words kind of blend together when I'm introducing myself.

Nick has always been spelled with a K.  The "normal" way, y'know?

Always, that is, until my freshman year of college, when Dr. Weller started addressing me as "Nic" in e-mails.  He even said my name differently.  Usually the K at the end is pretty hard.  Weller would leave it almost silent at the end, so you could hear that there was no K.  "OK," I thought, "cool."  I'm used to my full name being spelled differently; it only seemed right that my nickname would be different too.

A girlfriend picked it up.  Then her dad.  And without known cause, like a virus mysteriously leaping cities, suddenly it was everywhere.  In the Church.  In the blogosphere.  On Facebook.

Presumably, my use of the name "Nicolas" on Facebook left room for ambiguity as to the spelling of my nickname, and the Latiny spelling encouraged people not to use a K.  I never told anyone not to, yet it seems to be the trend.

I still sign my own name as "Nick."  That's how it's always been, and I refuse to be one of those people who suddenly insists his name is different from what it's always been.  I know a Sonya who suddenly became Sonja.  Not for me.

I encourage others to continue their modified spelling, telling them there's no correct spelling of a nickname.  I like it.  I just can't do it myself.

(I guess this actually makes me just like Sony/ja, who continued to introduce herself as Sonya while asking everyone else to call her Sonja.)

Now you know.

The ethics of multiple universes

My friend and host, Tucker, her son and I watched Source Code the other night.  Starring Jake Gyllenhaal and Vera Farmiga, it's one of those thrillers with a sci-fi twist that manages not to be sci-fi.  It's a fun watch, which is probably why nobody liked my constant philosophizing.

Spoilers follow (don't worry, you don't care).

So the premise of the movie is that a terrorist attack has destroyed a commuter train in Chicago, killing dozens of people.  Authorities suspect that it is a precursor to a much larger attack, so they need to find out who's behind it.

Luckily, there's Source Code, a top-secret military project that is able to take the consciousness out of an almost-dead blown-up helicopter pilot (Gyllenhaal) and put it into the body of someone on the train, hours earlier.  They can do it for eight minutes at a time, and the goal of each eight-minute mission is to find the identity of the bomber so they can catch him in the present.

But he's not a mere observer.  He can get up, go places and find information that his host didn't know.  He can even deactivate the bomb or get the pretty girl across from him off the train--though he's told that this doesn't actually change anything.  If it does have an effect, it's on a different reality than his own.  This would fall under the many-worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics: every time he changes something in the past, a new universe is created in which those events occurred.  If we assume this is the case, it's not a great leap to assume a new universe is created every time he goes back, since all he has to do is breathe in a slightly different pattern or say one word differently to create a new reality--even if it's practically identical to one that was already created.

We do eventually get confirmation that this is what is happening, because after he completes his mission and allows the people running him to capture the bomber, he insists on going back one last time to try what he has so far failed to do: save every person on the train.  He knows it doesn't mean anything; he just wants to do it.  At the end of this mission, Vera Farmiga agrees, his mutilated body will be taken off life support.

Naturally, Gyllenhaal rocks it.  He disarms the bomb (both detonators this time), apprehends the bomber, and calls in the authorities.  He also sends a quick e-mail and calls his father, who already thinks him dead, to speak with him one last time.  He asks the pretty girl out, and at the end of the eight minutes, just as Farmiga is taking him off life support, kisses her passionately.

And then... he keeps kissing her.  Apparently when his body finally dies in his reality, his consciousness doesn't snap back.  He gets to remain in his new body with his new identity.  He teaches everybody on the train a valuable lesson about enjoying life by paying a grumpy guy $100 to do a stand-up routine, then skips work and goes to Millennium Park.

Meanwhile, the Vera Farmiga of that reality is just starting her day when she gets an e-mail.  It's from Gyllenhaal.  "You should be seeing a story about a thwarted terrorist attack.  You and I stopped it together, and Source Code works better than you ever imagined."  See, while in his reality he only managed to stop the second attack, in this new reality, he stopped the first one, too.  This is how we know it's the multiple universes thing and not just a meaningless eight-minute simulation.

Still with me?

There are some ethical concerns here.  Firstly, what happened to the guy whose body he took over?  Has his consciousness been permanently replaced by Gyllenhaal's?

But the real question I was left with was, is his use of time-travel ethical?

With the exception of the last instance, every time Gyllenhaal goes back, the train is destroyed.  So every time he is creating another universe in which the terrorist attack--and the much larger second attack, which supposedly destroys downtown Chicago--occurs, all in the name of stopping one of the attacks in the reality he's from.  He is ensuring the bigger attack happens a half-dozen more times, across all realities, in the name of stopping it from happening once in his reality.

The question is, do people in other realities have standing?

My friend Sam, a philosophy major I met here in California, suggested that another consequence of considering the moral standing of people in other realities is that it can serve to de-value the suffering in our own reality.  If there are infinite realities with infinite people suffering infinitely, does one person suffering here even matter?  If such de-valuation is a danger, should that be used as a point of argument for caring only about our own reality?  Or should we have a "prime directive" that forbids interfering with other realities (and would essentially outlaw Source Code, since it does just that)?

Steve?

Lest you think me a good person

I saw Crazy Carl again today.  I was just rounding the corner at the bottom of my street, headed for the store to buy some tortilla chips because mine were missing and the two bags I found were stale.  Not "oh these are stale" stale, but "I can't swallow this so instead I will spit it into the trash" stale.  And there was ol' Carl, wearing the same clothes as before.  I didn't check to see if he bought new socks with my money.  Instead I tugged my baseball cap lower across my eyes and sped past him.  There was a bit of a crowd there, thanks to the bus stop, and his gaze was cast downward, so I think I got away without him recognizing me.  Or at least without him knowing I recognized him.

As I returned from the store, I looked cautiously about.  No Carl down the street.  No carl visible around the corner (the two glass walls of the café allow for such foresight).  I turned onto my street and there he was, up the road, walking towards me.  I immediately (and obviously) changed direction and bolted across the street.  I didn't feel quite secure on the other side, though, so I actually walked three blocks out of my way so as not to pass him.

Not that I'm afraid of Crazy Carl, even with his pipe (the metal hitting people in the head kind, not the crack kind).  I just wasn't feeling another hour-plus conversation.

Oh my god I hate OSX Lion

I read that people aren't very impressed with Lion, so I decided not to upgrade.

Then, I read that Lion includes support for tools that extend the life of solid state drives and for encrypting the entire hard drive.  Since both of these things seem very useful for my Air, I decided to go for it.  I can take some ugly applications.

Not that I have a big "tech blog" type following, but I have to grouch about all this, so here goes.

Ridiculous scrolling

When I first booted up my computer after installing Lion, I was greeted by an "upgrade assistant" screen telling me how to scroll.  "Duh," I thought.  I tried to scroll, but with no success.  I tried closing the program, but it warned me that I shouldn't, making me wonder if there was more to the tutorial.  It took me a good five minutes to figure out it was telling me to scroll the other way.

On every laptop trackpad that has been made since the invention of two-finger scrolling, you scroll down by dragging two fingers downwards (towards your body) and scroll up by dragging two fingers upwards (away from your body).  Down is down, up and up.  It makes sense.

As of OSX Lion, though, you drag up to scroll down and down to scroll up.  This is to mimic the "flick" type gestures you use on your iPhone (if you were duped into getting an iPhone).  The thing is, that's actually intuitive when you're actually touching the image.  The trackpad is separate from the screen, so there's no desire to act like you're "flicking" the image or document.  Nobody who has ever been born has difficulty grasping that you flick one way on a touchscreen phone and the other on a computer trackpad, but Apple decided to solve a problem that didn't exist and drive everybody absolutely crazy.

(You can turn this off in settings, but still.  Really?)

Ugly sidebar, and what is this Finder??

Remember when iTunes used to have nice, color-coded icons on the navigation bar?  That was before iTunes 10 came along.  Now the rest of the Apple navigation experience has gone the way of gray icons, either to make sure it takes me longer to do anything or to ensure those using black-and-white monitors aren't getting a lesser experience than everyone else.

Also, launching the Finder now defaults to a new "All My Files" view, laughing in the face of all my organization efforts.

And while I'm on frustrations with launching Finder, once I finally locate the gray "Applications" icon and click it (reaching the point I'd already be at in Leopard), I find I'm unable to "modify" (move) any of the core applications.  See, I spent an obscene amount of time building folders into which to sort all my applications and installing custom icons so those folders could look pretty on the dock.  Here, look:

In a new-agey move I bet Apple would appreciate, I made all the folder names verbs.  "Browse," "Communicate," "Organize," "Enjoy," "Edit," "Write," "Play."  It's been one of the rare times such effort proved well-spent, because I love it.  Only now, I can't put Address Book, iCal, etc. into those folders, because they can't be "modified."  So now I have to go with aliases, complete with ugly arrow icons and a cluttered Applications folder.

Vomit-inducing ugliness


Take a look at iCal:

And Address Book:

This is for people who remember with longing a day when we actually used physical calendars and address books.  And bought the most hideous ones possible.  This might be cute on the iPhone, which favors cuteness over functionality, but it has no place on my computer.  And there's no option to turn it off, either, which means as soon as I post this blog I'll be hacking my computer.

OH, and I forgot Launchpad.  You click it, it shows you all your applications.  In case you're one of those people who only uses your computer six times a year and doesn't have more applications than can fit on one screen.  Also, when did they become "applications" and not "programs?"  Damn you, Apple.

Anyway, I want my old operating system back.

He's on to me

I recently failed to get a job because I haven't finished my Master's degree (don't tell my freelance writing clients; I lie to them).  Apparently when it comes to directing a college residence hall, the difference between qualified and not qualified is a seventy-page thesis on the interplay between the Bible and American exceptionalism.  (And I imagine this is one of those blog posts that will be set to "private" next time I apply.)

Anyway, I was all set on this job, which would have represented a decent lifestyle change for me.  First, I would have had lots and lots of money (by my standards).  Second, I would have moved into the provided apartment.  I put a lot of energy into thinking about these changes, and now I find the thought of returning to same old apartment, same old (actually less) pay, same old everything to be somewhat unpleasant.

I've been seriously considering moving, just because I think I could use a change of pace/scenery/environment.  I have no real issues with my current apartment; I just feel a pull to move on.  There's a pricy apartment in the depot district that has been sitting empty for quite a while, which I've been considering trying to score at a deep discount.  I've seen a few good apartments show up on college mailing lists (though they are mostly bigger places for which I'd need a roommate).  And my current landlord has some other places at similar price points, but I'm kind of wanting to shoot for a higher quality unit than he generally provides.  Anyway, I've gotten some encouraging remarks on this potential venture.  Bekah is supportive, probably because when it comes to my eccentricity, she has to choose her battles.  Brandi is supportive because she is even more eccentric than I am.  Mother (nope, no website there) is supportive because she wants me to find some roommates and lower my housing costs (probably not gonna happen).

The thing is, my landlord is pretty awesome.  He's a full-time landlord so by nature he is a sneaky bastard, having me sign a paper certifying the apartment was clean before I saw it (it wasn't) and a lease agreement stipulating that post-move-out cleaning costs are my responsibility (non-standard), and trying to charge me $20 for the privilege of renewing my lease (I decided to go off-lease rather than pay).  But he is also as friendly and helpful as I can imagine a landlord being.  Any issue I have (like thinking my stove is too hot or thinking there's a wiring problem because a light switch I didn't know about is turned off) prompts an immediate visit from his handyman, Micah, or whoever else is needed.  No charges, ever.  No charge to replace my screen, to charge for locking myself out of my apartment, no charge even when my idiocy surely earned them a bill from the electrician.  The final balance is I'm a fan, and I always recommend his property service to new people.

In the latest infraction against common indecency, Terry actually had the nerve to pick up my water and trash bill for me, knowing I'm out of town.  That's right--even though he's still paying the city for trash pickup and sewer fees, I get a pass on it this month.  It's like he knows I'm thinking about moving, and wants me to feel really guilty about it.

I guess that is a sound business strategy.

The Bible and sexy women

"True or false," Crazy Carl quizzed me, "the Bible says do not kill."  (Crazy Carl did not know my profession.)

True, I told him, and Crazy Carl gleefully told me I was wrong.  He tried to go on but I pressed him, telling him the Bible most certainly said that in both Exodus and Deuteronomy.  No, he told me, that's a common misconception.  The Bible really only says "do not commit murder."  I told him it all comes down to how you choose to translate ratsach (רָצַח).  That shut him up.

Actually, it really, really didn't.  He challenged me to a quick game of "Is it in the Bible" (which he failed at--see below).  He asked about a couple of sayings I can't remember, which were easy nos, along with "money is the root of all evil" ("the love of money is the root of all evil," 1 Timothy 6:10).

He then launched into a lesson on lust.  "The Bible says something about your neighbor's wife," he said, and I supplied him with the word "covet."  "Covet, that's it," he said.  "It doesn't say don't lust after her."

Actually, I told him, Jesus says in the Sermon on the Mount that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully commits adultery in his heart.  I think he did a complete one-eighty on what he was going to say, because he started talking about how useful that is, because obsession is self-defeating.  Then he said he would definitely sleep with Catherine Zeta Jones, but she's married to Michael Douglas and that man is crazy.  So the Bible really gives good advice.

In the (very long) "women Crazy Carl finds sexy" portion of our conversation, Nadia Comăneci came up.  I'd never heard of her, but Carl informed me she was the first gymnast to score a perfect 10 in the Olympics and that she had scored a 9.5 the day after drinking a cup of bleach--just to prove her superiority.  The first is true (1976), but I could find no reference whatsoever to the second story.  She did cut her hand on a bar, get a blood infection, leave the hospital against doctors' orders and score a 9.95, so maybe that story just morphed.  A lot.

Hep C, tetanus, and cat scratch fever

I should say a word or two about Crazy Carl's appearance and mannerisms.  He was dressed in a tattered long-sleeved shirt and the dirtiest blue jeans I have ever seen.  He had blue eyes, a beard, and reddish brown hair swept up and back sort of like they do on TV (it never works for me), though he was clearly in need of a haircut.  And he danced.  Danced like a person with ADHD who was hopped up on caffeine and really had to pee.  He'd lunge forward into my space, or sort of stumble to the side, but he was always moving.  I spent most of our conversation trying to figure out what he was high on or missing, but I think in the end he was just a little bit drunk and a little bit crazy.

When I told him I was drinking a chai tea, he immediately launched into a story about a time he'd been in Santa Cruz and had hepatitis C.  He hadn't gotten it from a dirty needle or anything--he'd gotten it when (perhaps high on some other drug, he joked) he'd bathed in the river while the tide was going out.  Apparently while the tide is going out in Santa Cruz, they dump all sorts of septic overflow into the river, and it has the nickname "Hepatitis C River."  (I should reinforce that I am not vouching for any of Crazy Carl's information.)  I told Crazy Carl I would really strongly advise against bathing in any body of water that was actually called "Hepatitis C," but he said he'd had antibacterial soap and he figured he could just get himself wet and then quickly scrub himself down.  But in any case, he wound up with hep C.

So he was sick, and miserable.  And begging for change so he could get a clean pair of "knickers" (when I encountered him, he was looking for socks).  A woman offered to buy him some food, but he told her he was sick and didn't want anything to eat.  She then insisted he try drinking some chai, which she provided.  And it made him feel better.

That was one of the three times Crazy Carl has been ill.

A second was when he got tetanus.  He was in the middle of telling me how I could get tetanus when I cut him off and told him I'd been immunized.  He told me that just meant it wouldn't kill me, and then said if he scratched me with a tack that was even slightly bent to expose the iron, that should be considered assault with a deadly weapon.

Speaking of deadly weapons, he totally had a length of pipe strapped to his backpack, next to the water bottle I'm pretty sure had alcohol in it.

His third illness was cat scratch fever.  He didn't go into its symptoms ("usually benign," says Wikipedia), but he described at length exactly how the bacterium Bartonella (he did not name it) gets under a cat's nails as it scratches through feces-infested sand.  He showed me how even though his nails were short, there was space underneath them where disease might flourish.  Seeing that his fingernails--and fingers--were absolutely black with filth, it wasn't exactly an academic line of thought.  He described how the cat becomes sick and more easily feels threatened.  And how all it takes is one little scratch.

And then... he scratched me.  While talking about how a scratch can pass on bacteria from under fingernails and make you sick, he reached out and scratched my arm.  Twice.

I think I can point to that moment as when I really started to lose patience with Crazy Carl.

Jesus surrenders his cloak

(A Crazy Carl story)

There is a story in the Bible that goes like this:  Jesus and his disciples were walking along when they encountered a naked man, holding a rock threateningly, as if about to throw it at Jesus.  Jesus walked up to the man, removed his cloak, and draped it over the man's shoulders, so he himself was naked but the man was clothed.  His nakedness taken away from him, the man stood stunned, and dropped the rock.  Then one of Jesus' disciples removed his own cloak and gave it to Jesus.

Crazy Carl

Does being homeless make people crazy, or does being crazy make people homeless?
I'm sure the answer is "both."

As I watch people brush by the homeless on the streets, fiercely avoiding eye contact, pretending they can't hear them clearly talking to them, it occurs to me that it must be an incredibly dehumanizing experience.  Having almost everyone you encounter pretend they can't see you.  I start to feel a little crazy if someone ignores (or doesn't hear) me once; how bad must it get after days?  Weeks?

Years?

Today I met Crazy Carl.  His name is probably not Carl.  I did not ask his name, because I thought that could lead to a handshake, and frankly I didn't want to touch his hand.  And graded on the homeless curve, he was actually pretty sane.  Possibly just a little drunk.

He asked if I would give him a few pennies if he could tell a joke that made me laugh.  I told him he was on, he told me a joke, I chuckled and gave him some change.  I probably should have walked away at that point, but instead I started chatting about how if I hadn't bought the chai I was carrying, I wouldn't have any change.  That started an hour-plus conversation that was very, very hard to get out of.

I suspect that as a result of being ignored all the time, a lot of homeless people seem really chatty once you start talking to them.  At first this was cool, but I wasn't looking for a conversation that lasted as long as an episode of Star Trek.  The thing is, I couldn't get out, because I always want to find a decent break in the conversation--and he didn't leave any.  He'd be talking about immune systems, say "but like I was saying," and then launch into something he hadn't been saying.  About religion.

Still, there was much of intrigue, which I will turn into a series of blog posts.  Not one long blog post, because studies show that on the internet people tend not to read long things.

So pretty

I don't sign my credit cards.  Instead, I write "See photo ID," hoping that cashiers will card me, or, more pointedly, the jerk who stole my credit card.  They don't.  They take my card, flip it over, read "See photo ID," and proceed to swipe the card.

So when I got a new card, I got more explicit.  "INVALID without photo ID," I wrote.  The process has not changed.  Exactly one person in the last year has carded me because of the strongly-worded statement.  I have considered disputing every charge for which I'm not carded, since technically I indicated that I don't consent to the charge.  But I doubt my credit union would be highly amused, and I would love to keep the 9% APR card I carry.  (Not that the rate matters, since I've never carried a balance.)

The other thing I do is refuse to sign my name.  Here's what I usually do on the signature line:

Most people think that's my thing.  But, as with so many of "my" (or, I bet, "your") things, it's actually carried over from a non-mutual acquaintance.  This habit I picked up from Jason Shenk when I was 18.  We walked from campus to Marsh (or was it "Low Bill's" or whatever back then?) for some snacks, and that's how he signed.

So I often sign that way.  Sometimes I draw something else.  Sometimes it's random scribbles.  Once I just drew an opaque rectangle.  Sometimes I write "No way!"  I get bolder, too, when it's one of those electronic key things.  I do it because I find it annoying that there's no security with this stuff, and this is how introverted comedians express their frustration.

Today at Safeway, I did the usual.  Unusually, though, the cashier looked at the receipt after it printed out.  Squinted carefully at it.  And then called me by name (my last name) as he wished me a good day.

Still no reaction to the drawings.

What if *that* were up?

When I was little, I used to make my dad dangle me upside-down and carry me around the house.  It was one of my favorite things because when he did that, I didn't have the experience of being upside-down.  I simply had the experience of the ceiling being "down."  I imagined I was walking on the ceiling, navigating around light fixtures, stepping over the inexplicable foot-high walls that separated every room.

For years, I have sat--in calculus class, in dining rooms, on busses--and tried to imagine what would happen if gravity suddenly changed directions.  I'd imagine everything falling to the new down, try to estimate how badly I might be injured in the fall, look for handholds to grab on to, and plan how I might venture in the new sideways world.  Because it would be like adventuring in a new world, wouldn't it?  You probably wouldn't be able to leave the building you were in when it happened; at least, not without a ladder, which could help get to the neighbor's house.  A house across the street would now be on the other side of a deep chasm.  Billions would be dead or dying.  Do you ever make plans for the zombie apocalypse?  Yeah, me too.  But I also make plans for the gravity shift apocalypse.

Think about it.  Think about all the places you can walk now that would be utterly inaccessible in the sideways world.

Upside-down would be even worse, of course.  Particularly if you were outside.  Sometimes I lie in the grass and look up at the sky, and I make the sky "down."  I am stuck to this grass ceiling, perhaps by some upside-down-world static electricity, dangling over an endless fall.  Could I grab that telephone line on the way?  Would it support my sudden weight?  Would there be any survival strategy if I wound up clinging to a power line?  What does "grounded" mean now?

Attempts to survive a straight-up gravity reversal from outside would be futile, so I normally don't bother.  I just cling to the ceiling and look down at the sky, and enjoy the feeling.

Usually I assume other people think more or less like I do, but I've yet to meet anyone who shared these considerations.

Lawer seeks female chess player

(Playing on chess.com)

NEW GAME (72456754) - lawerz_999 vs. nico (15 10 rated)

lawerz_999: hi

nico: hey

lawerz_999: lets start

lawerz_999: u m or f

nico: m

lawerz_999: never mind

I originally made a blog post with just that, but then there was more...

lawerz_999: hay

lawerz_999: if i win i will spanking u

nico: good to know

lawerz_999: i will spanking u very hard for these play

nico: you're aware that "spanking" tends to have a sexual connotation, yes?

nico: i just want to figure out for the readers of my blog if you're trying to threaten me or hit on me. either way it's cool.

He never replied.

I changed his screen name so he can't find my blog by searching for himself.  According to his profile, he was from Egypt. I won, and was not spanked.  Be careful, residents of Berkeley, California: he thinks I live there.

Cameraz

Ok seriously I don't know how you photobloggers do it.  That entry I posted a while ago, with all the pictures?  It took me forEVER to get it all uploaded and everything.  I want to be able to snap a picture, wave my phone in the general direction of my computer, and have it appear.  Until then, you'll have to deal with mostly scribbling.

Despite this I almost took a picture of my salad tonight because it was so pretty but then my phone decided "Hey, this would be a good time to reboot."  Android phones are known for many wonderful things, but booting up quickly is not one of them.  I hope you'll forgive me for just going ahead and eating.

OK maybe you should just go to their website

The front fell off!

I posted this back in 2008 and just uncovered it while re-reading my blog (isn't that something you should never ever do?)  It made me laugh again so maybe it will do the same for you.

Wanted: late 80's Honda motorcycle in good working condition. Nothing fancy.

From: [censored]
To: Richmond/Wayne County Freecycle
Subject: WANTED: BLUETOOTH HEADSET

Nothing fancy any would do. Thanks in advance Sent on the Sprint® Now Network from my BlackBerry® 

-----

Every day, people who do not understand how Freecycle works pollute my inbox.  Look buddy, I'm pretty sure if you're sending this from a BlackBerry, you can afford to pony up and buy your own damn bluetooth headset.  And if you really can't afford a bluetooth headset, maybe you should be thinking about buying something else.  Especially since there is no circumstance on the planet that makes talking on a bluetooth headset OK.



(Technically he's not on a bluetooth headset but I bet most of you didn't notice that I'm sure you saw that already).


And finally, a bluetooth related conversation from my liquor store days:

Me:  This guy got a 40 of Budweiser, brought it over to the counter, paid for it, picked it up off the counter, and immediately dropped it on the floor.  LAKE of beer to clean up.  He got another one and I made him pay again.
Laura: I usually don't charge them if they break something.
Me: Yeah, except he did it one minute before close.  I had to re-mop the floor.
Laura: I still wouldn't have charged him.
Me: And he was talking on a bluetooth headset the whole time.
Laura: Oh, fuck him.