the relative theory of practicality

I had a hard time falling asleep the other night (a nap at 9:00 pm, no matter how short, will do that to you). Around 1:00 am, as I read the last pages of In Dubious Battle, I started fleshing out an idea I got Sunday night as I was looking at satellite images of Montreal on Google Maps. More on that later.

Earlier today I was perusing different graduate degree programs at ASU. Why is it that anything I have any interest in studying has no application in the real world? Or won't provide any benefit to my current job/career path? Why can't I get a master's degree in French just because I want to? Never mind that the only thing I could do with that is maybe teach; never mind that I'd make considerably less money doing that than if I stuck with what I'm doing now.

I don't regret getting an undergrad degree in accounting, not for a second. Would I regret getting a master's degree in something less practical like American literature or geography? I really doubt it. At this point though, I feel like the only reason I would get a master's degree is because I feel like I shouldn't leave this life without one. Maybe when I feel like having a certain master's degree would benefit my career or life in general, maybe that's when I should tackle it.

So the other night when I couldn't fall asleep I thought about giving away (selling when possible) all my stuff (i.e., records, books, CDs, most of my music gear) and moving to a big city. Or rather, a city with a bike/pedestrian friendly downtown area. Just for the summer. From May to September or October. San Francisco comes to mind. So does Montreal. I'd try to make friends with random people I'd meet while frequenting whatever city's public transportation as well as other atmospheres and venues that don't exist here in Mesa. I'd take an hour or so to run every morning. I might find a job somewhere but I wouldn't work for more than four hours a day. I'd ride my bike or just walk around the city, exploring, really getting to know my surroundings. I'd read a lot, write a lot, and take a lot of photos.

I think about doing all that, and suddenly, a master's degree in French doesn't seem so impractical.

your already cold mind

I read somewhere that Alcatraz was the only prison in its time to have hot showers. This was so the inmates wouldn't grow accustomed to cold water, which would facilitate escape through the hypothermia-inducing waters of the San Francisco Bay.

The hot water heater at our house is currently non-operational. I got in the shower Friday morning and the water was too cold to do anything but wash my hair. Friday also happened to be a record-breaking 100+ degree day here in the Greater Phoenix Metropolitan Area. While the water was still a bit chilly, the weather was perfect for a quick dip in the pool. I stayed in long enough to get used to the cold water, which made taking a cold shower bearable.

This photo turned out much better than the ones I tied to take of Alcatraz, which shares the Bay with this iconic landmark.

So until the water heater is fixed, if I want a shower I've got to go for a quick swim first.

== == == == ==

If there's one thing I've learned over the past year, it's that life is much easier, more enjoyable, and [insert any positive superlative adjective here] when you involve other people -- be they family, friends, or even complete strangers. For that reason, when my buddy Buster invited me to contribute to his blog, I was happy to accept. Read my inaugural post here.

of serendipity and San Francisco

There's one experience I had as a teenager that I remember more vividly than many others. It wasn't the most life-changing or noteworthy thing that ever happened to me. I can't really explain why I remember it so well.

It was St. Patrick's Day 2001, and I was a senior in high school. There were eight of us -- my brother Matt and six of my best friends and I -- waiting in a line that wrapped around the west side of the Bill Graham Civic Auditorium in San Francisco, California, around 3:00 pm. We had traveled far that weekend (far for us, we were but teenagers) to see our collective favorite band, Weezer.

Trevor brought his guitar. As most of us were in bands at the time, and we were all avid show-goers and music lovers (evidenced by the distance we had just traveled), it was a normal thing us to entertain ourselves by sitting down with a guitar and belting out songs (most by Weezer) till we were blue in the face and sore in the fingers. However, we were nervous that our brand of fun wouldn't be readily accepted on the streets of San Francisco so we strummed the guitar quietly and our voices were hesitant.

Then something happened we didn't expect. People in the line ahead and behind us began singing along. And a small group formed around us. Others began shouting requests, b-sides like "Jamie" and "You Gave Your Love to Me Softly," not just the hits like "Say It Ain't So" and "The Sweater Song." I don't know which would be the dependent variable in this case -- our voices or the crowd -- I just know that as one grew larger so did the other.

== == == == ==

Exactly ten years later -- which happened to be this past weekend -- I once again found myself in San Francisco. The serendipitous occasion was the wedding of my college buddy Zach.

Not only was it great to be back in Bay Area (where I had since lived for a three month internship in 2008) but it was even better to see so many great friends that I don't see often because of the distance between us all. (Maybe we should all get married more often.)

== == == == ==

The St. Patrick's Day 2001 concert was Weezer at their best. While the concert was memorable -- how could I forget seeing "The Good Life" and "Only In Dreams" live for the first time? -- I feel like the event itself will be forever overshadowed by the spontaneous sign-along that happened before the show. When you make your own fun, sometimes it just goes better than when others try to make it for you.

== == == == ==

After the wedding reception last Friday night we -- a group of friends, less than a dozen total -- boarded a train in South San Francisco for the hour-long ride back to our hotel across the Bay in Concord (if you want to sound like a local, pronounce it like conquered). We were in good spirits from the wedding and one another's company so I guess it was only natural for us to break out in song as we sat together on the train.

Our repertoire consisted mostly of off-key 90s jams, interspersed with tunes from other decades, and rarely did we finish singing an entire song. I think most of our fellow passengers were indifferent to our potentially obnoxious musical outbursts but there were two who vocalized their opinions. One middle-aged man found our singing off-putting even though he kept a good sense of humor about it. Another passenger, a college age girl, thanked us for an entertaining ride as she disembarked the bus.

The next morning we took the train back to San Francisco for a day of sightseeing and touristy activities. About halfway to the City (don't call it San Fran or 'Frisco) who should step onto the train? The very same girl who voiced her appreciation of our musical stylings from the previous night. Of all the trains, of all the cars, she ended up in ours less than 12 hours later.

Of course, we beckoned her to come sit by us and we got to know her a bit as we made our way into the city. She helped us find our way around the city, and in the evening she even came out and hung with us for a bit. I don't have many 'small world' experiences; it was cool to be a part of this one.

== == == == ==

It goes without saying but I'll say it anyway: I'm anxious to get back to the "city by the bay." Thanks again, San Francisco.


Additional Reading: "I Left My [unconditional love for Weezer] in San Francisco" by Trevor: Trevor's account of our San Francisco Weezer adventure

I wanted to have a line from a Lady Gaga song as this title but I don't know too many of her songs, so I couldn't come up with one that fit

I rarely remember my dreams. But last night I had a dream that I was being held hostage by Lady Gaga. Which was almost as memorable as the time Carl Winslow tried to eat me.

Everyone knows -- and it's well established in the hit documentary dream film Inception -- that you never really have an explanation for how you get to the place you're at in your dream -- your dream just starts there. This dream was no different. I'm alone at my mom's old house that she just sold. It's the middle of the night and I'm in the family room. The lighting in the house reminds me of Christmastime when we'd turn off all the lights and leave on the the Christmas tree lights on. (Sigh.) Except there is no Christmas tree.

I'm sitting by the fireplace. In the fireplace there is an egg carton. Don't ask me how, but somehow I know that in the egg carton there is a bomb. And somehow I know that this bomb was planted by Lady Gaga, and unless she gets what she wants, she will detonate the bomb.

Her demands are that I deface a rare original painting by painting over it. The painting I'm supposed to ruin is by John Steinbeck. I oblige her and paint a clown over the painting and it looks pretty darn good. Deep down inside I must know it's not a big deal that I paint over this supposedly rare painting; it has to be fake because homeboy Steinbeck was not a painter, he was a writer. So really, the joke is on Gaga.

At that point Lady Gaga herself shows up. I'm disappointed to see her wearing a frumpy maroon t-shirt and faded mom jeans with her hair in a pony tail. I mean, it's Lady Gaga. When has she ever looked like she could blend into a crowd? Disappointing.

That's all I remember of the dream.

Naturally, I was curious what this all could mean. So I consulted dreammoods.com. Everything was so vague -- any old interpretation could fit -- so I dismissed it. But I woke up singing "Bad Romance" to myself. So here's the simplest -- and most likely -- explanation for this dream: I was incepted to have Lady Gaga stuck in my head.

speaker

I think I've mentioned here before that Speaker for the Dead is probably my second favorite book. If I haven't, I'll say it now: Speaker for the Dead is probably my second favorite book. That said, nothing saddens me more than when I hear of people reading Ender's Game and they don't bother to read Speaker for the Dead. What saddens me more than that (even though I already said "nothing saddens me more") is when people do read Speaker for the Dead and they don't like it as much as Ender's Game, or worse, they just don't like it. What saddens me equally as much as the first thing that saddens me is when someone starts reading Ender's Game and a year later (give or take) they still haven't finished it (you know who you are).

Speaker continues the story of Ender's Game protagonist Andrew "Ender" Wiggin in his travels as Speaker for the Dead -- a type of humanistic 'preacher' who recounts the deeds and misdeeds of the deceased as a way for the departed's loved ones to find truth, understanding and reconciliation in the wake of death.

About a year ago I decided to put my neglected Audible.com subscription to good use by downloading the complete Ender Saga (there are nine novels and countless short stories that make up said saga). They're fantastically produced, and according to Orson Scott Card himself, having the stories read aloud to you is the optimal medium for experiencing these books. At the end of some of the books, OSC provides an ad-libbed afterword explaining how the book came to be and so on. I love what he says at the end of Speaker:

If you really understand someone well enough to speak for them when they’re dead, you will end up – probably – loving them. Now, that’s a pretty bold thing to say – because what if you had to speak for the death of Adolph Hitler or Joseph Stalin or somebody like that – but I really think that if you knew enough about them you could at least understand how they got set on the road that led to the terrible things they did. And you don’t pull any punches, you name their sins for what they were, you talk about their flaws, you talk about their horrible choices, the viciousness, the violence, whatever they did. But you also say, "But at one point, this was a child. At one point this was a kid who wept, or a kid who wanted to be loved, or a kid who tried to well at this or at that." You look at the war experiences that shaped Adolph Hitler, or you look at the deep hunger for influence or control that drove Joseph Stalin in his childhood, and it doesn’t excuse anything, but it makes the person comprehensible. [...] You don’t eradicate them, you don’t glorify them either, you just face them for what they were, good and bad – you understand how it is a human being could get to where they are.

It's impossible to have such a complete understanding of someone, even of those we love the most. But simply knowing that we can't understand everything, and knowing there is a motive behind each action, and believing that the majority of people are inherently good -- all that is the first step, and it's quite a large one.

how I live or die

Once every few months I wake up in the middle of the night and I can't get back to sleep. It's been one of those nights (well, it's almost 5:00 a.m., so I guess it's been one of those mornings). Usually, I'll wake up and then worry that I won't be able to fall back asleep -- and ironically, said worrying will keep me from sleeping. But tonight (this morning) there are three thoughts that are occupying my attention and keeping me from sleep -- only two of which are worth worrying about but probably not worth losing sleep over -- but alas, here I am unable to sleep. But this post is about none of those things.

== == == == ==

I wasn't born in Arizona but I proudly claim it as my home. The way I feel about Arizona is similar to how Texans feel about Texas. What others say about my state -- be it positive or negative -- I take personally.

This weekend some distant friends from my college days (I say that like they were so long ago) were in town visiting. It warmed my heart to hear them speak positively about this state I love so much.

== == == == ==

There's a saying in the church I belong to -- said mostly in jest -- that a single man aged 25 or older is a menace to society. The following is a tale of how six young men gave evidence to that theory.

A couple months ago -- I'm fairly sure it was back in October -- a few friends and I decided to take up a new hobby: model rocketry. At the time, I wasn't terribly close to any these guys. I had known most of them for a couple years but hadn't had the opportunity to bond with any of them on a deeper level. On this particular night we ended up launching rockets at one of the baseball fields at Mountain View High School.

After a good hour or two -- it had to be around 10:30 p.m. at this point -- we got a little bored with traditional rocket launching. We started launching off rocket engines by themselves, sans rocket. At one point, we duct taped two engines to a glow stick and attempted to ignite both engines simultaneously. We laughed in hearty delight at the result.

At this point we decided it was as good a time as any to call it a night (and we had just launched off our last rocket engine). As we were packing up and responsibly cleaning up our trash, we heard the rattle and clang of a chain link fence about a hundred yards away. I assumed it was another party who wanted to use the field for their own mischievous means and who was I to deny them so I ignored the noise and went back to my cleaning.

Seconds later we saw a dark figure approaching us at a run. The figure yelled, "Mesa Police! Get on the ground!"

If I could roll my eyes with my whole body, it was with that attitude that I took a seat on the grass. For the next hour four or five police officers (they all had nothing better to do) explained to us the nature of our wrongdoings. How model rocketry, while not expressly illegal, was nevertheless an unsavory hobby. How the school could press charges for our having apparently trespassed. How we as 'adults' should be ashamed of ourselves.

The school didn't press charges though I don't think I would've minded if they had -- you can't put a price on friendship and any fine I would've had to pay would've made the bond I formed that night with those guys that much deeper.

== == == == ==

It's hard to explain group dynamics and friendship. I've always been blessed with great friends (I'd like to cite the previous story as evidence). It's funny because as I kid I was more content to stay at home and play legos and watch cartoons on TV. Now I feel like I can't do anything alone.

It's strange how group dynamics change. You get close to people -- collectively and individually -- and then suddenly things are different. So-and-so starts dating someone and they don't come around as much. Someone gets a new job so they hang out less. Circumstances change and you just don't see a valued friend that much anymore. For the individual, these changes are usually for the better and I certainly don't begrudge the changes or the individual.

I feel like I live or die by my friends, be they far away or close by. It might seem weak to rely on other people so much. It's not that I don't believe in myself (though to be honest, I have my doubts more often that I'd like to admit). I guess the older I get the more I believe in mutual strength -- that strength comes from reaching out -- not from looking in. I'm trying really hard to act on that belief.

halvies, an encore

I ran a half marathon this weekend. Training for this one was tough. I injured my foot just over a year ago, and it took far too long to recover from that. Not long after the injury I got new orthotics and it's taken forever to get them properly adjusted (and they're still a little bit off). I was so scared of over-training (the cause of said injury) that I under-trained for this race.

Ice cream is hardly the best post-race recovery food, but after running 13.1 miles I felt justified in indulging.

I usually don't do races with friends -- not because I'm anti-social (OK, maybe I'm a tad anti-social), but because most of my friends don't run. For this race though, seven of us drove up to Sedona for the weekend; four of us did the Sedona Half Marathon, and three did the 10-K.

This was easily the hardest race I've done (which isn't saying much, I haven't done too many, and this was only my second half marathon). The race was mostly uphill or downhill, and having trained in Mesa, I definitely was not used to the hills -- especially going up. My time was 2:36:41, about half an hour slower than my first time -- I look forward to beating both times my next half marathon.