The Accountant's Catharsis

I finally figured out why I chose to study accounting.

Sure, it pays well. Yeah, I'll be able to live anywhere in the country and find a job. And one day, of course, it will allow me to provide for a family, or at least for myself. While this is what attracted me to to accounting, it's not why I chose it.

I guess I could study something that I actually enjoy, like English or Sociology or even French. So why not study one of those subjects? Because they require opinions. They require thought. And they require emotion. Feeling. And emotion and feeling are things that, frankly, I've had quite enough of. I chose accounting because somehow I knew that I would need something in my life that would provide an escape from disappointment and hurt, happiness and love.

Numbers don't feel. They don't hurt if you neglect them. They don't swell with joy when you tell them you love them. They don't care if you hate them. When you touch them you can't send a chill down their spine because you can't touch them and they don't have spines. Numbers don't feel; they simply exist.

The Payoff

Before I came here to California one of the things I was most excited for was to go to legit band shows. Having spent the better part of last year in Idaho, I've definitely been hurting for quality live music. However, due to long hours at work, few show-going friends, and not many familiar bands passing through the Bay Area, I went almost three months without going to a show. So, when I found out Jimmy Eat World would be coming to San Jose, I resolved to go, even if it was in the middle of the last week of tax season.

Last night I snuck out of work early, changed into show-appropriate attire in my car, and drove to the venue, a small arena on the San Jose State University campus. After taking a leak in the men's room (in which two women oddly-but-not-so-oddly-in-a-Northern-California-type-of-way also decided to relieve themselves) I hiked down the steps to the floor. I was somewhat late but still early enough to catch the end of Dear and the Headlights' set. And I'm glad I did because who should I see on stage rocking bass? None other than Rajiv Patel.

I was surprised to seem him but at the same time I wasn't. In an effort to get his attention before he packed up and walked off stage, I quickly became "that guy" and forced myself to the front. After a few minutes of yelling and dirty looks I finally got his attention. He packed up his gear and joined my on the floor, scoring me a bottle of water and orange. Paramore played well ... not my style, but they played well, even if their singer did rip off lyrics from "One Armed Scissor" by At The Drive-In.

For Jimmy Eat World I started off on the floor but after two songs Rajiv snuck me backstage.
When I was on the floor, it seemed that Jim had lost his man boobs; but watching from the side of the stage, much closer, I could see they were still there and, in fact, larger than ever.

I really enjoyed the set -- Big Casino, Sweetness, Crush, Dizzy, Always Be, Blister (glad Tom is still singing, as rarely as he does), Work, Your New Aesthetic, Authority Song, Here It Goes, Kill, Just Tonight, A Praise Chorus, Pain, Bleed American, Get It Faster, and Let It Happen ... for the encore: Hear You Me (Rajiv and I rocked together arm-in-arm on this one), Futures, and I almost thought I would go the entire show without hearing The Middle, but alas, it was their final song. It would've been awesome to hear a Static Prevails song, but I wasn't expecting it so it wasn't a big loss.

Thanks to Rajiv, I definitely got a bit more than I bargained for this time around ... but having seen them eleven times before, I see it simply as the payoff for my years of devoted fandom.

The original Mr. Stevens

And I'm definitely not talking about Sufjan...



The hair, the shirt, the beard, the pants, the pre-song banter, the song, the decade ... I wanna be Cat Stevens.

A few things I just don’t get

License plate frames. You buy a car from a dealership. A few weeks later you get the permanent plate in the mail. When you put the new plate on, you reattach the dealership’s license plate frame. Why? Free advertising for the dealership that made you pay too much for the car you’re driving? Now, I’m not talking about the frame your folks got you when you graduated from South Kentucky University, or the one that says, “My other car is a pirate ship.” By all means, keep those (of course, I’d never have one myself). It’s the dealership frames I don’t understand. Especially one as revealing as the one I saw the other day from No Credit Check Auto Sales.

Business letters. Specifically, the closing right before you sign your name. “Very truly yours,” I don’t even know what that means, but it might just be a polite way of saying “Give me more money.” “Sincerely,” has become so ubiquitous and trite that you might as well be signing “Insincerely”. “Best,” Now this one I kinda like because it’s so vague. Best what? Sure, the recipient of the letter might think it means something like “Best wishes” or “Best regards,” but as the writer of the letter, I like to think it means “I’m the best”.

Eyebrows. At this point in human history eyebrows serve no purpose. “Not true, they keep sweat out of your eyes!” Of course they do, but who sweats nowadays? Professional athletes? I wonder what the professional athlete-normal human being ratio is. OK sure, there are plenty of professions that require a bit of physical exertion. But as technology advances, it’s only a matter of time before robots replace the world’s manual laborers, thereby rendering eyebrows obsolete. Chances are your eyebrows already are.

Trampling Out the Vintage

The other night I finally finished The Grapes of Wrath. Not my favorite by John Steinbeck, but still a worthy read, and definitely an excellent portrayal of America during the Great Depression. The book is about the Joad family, who are booted off their Oklahoma farm as a result of the dust bowl. They make their way to California in search of work, finding only desparation in its place. (That really makes you wanna read it, right?)



I love how this book is written. The odd chapters (1, 3, 5, etc.) are short, 3 or 4 pages, and provide a general description of the Great Depression, the Dust Bowl, and the challenges the homeless migrant families faced as they headed west. These chapters put the story in context and usually foreshadow the even chapters. Then, the even chapters (2, 4, 6, etc.) are a telling of how one family in particular (the Joads) respond to these challenges.

The book's ending is quite abrupt and, at first glance, anti-climactic, which is something I'm learning to expect and appreciate when it comes to Steinbeck novels. I won't spoil the it for you, but what I got out of this book, especially the ending, is that human dignity is most effectively obtained and imparted while debasing oneself in the service of another.

If you're gonna read only one John Steinbeck novel in your life, read East of Eden. If you're gonna read two, try The Grapes of Wrath.

Your kids can walk to school.

Not sure know why parents don't realize this. For years I've lived across the street from a junior high school. When I'd leave for school (college school) every day, backing out of my driveway was always a chore thanks to the mobile baracade of SUVs and minivans lining the street. Going to school in Idaho has been a bit of a break because I always walk to class. But since I've been here in California I've witnessed a similar phenomenon on my way to work: a snake of cars slithering through an elementary school parking lot. Sure, it's not a big deal here because I don't have to sever the snake to leave my house; I just find it strange that so many children need a ride to school.

Let's think about this. There are, what, two to three junior highs (or middle schools, if you will) per high school? And the same number or more of elementary schools per junior high? That's anywhere from 6 to over 12 elementary schools per high school. I'll agree, not every high school is within walking distance, but when the elementary to high school ratio is so high, there will almost always be an elementary school, and very likely a junior high as well, within walking distance of any house.

It's especially ironic here in Nor Cal, where liberalism is the church of state and everyone's greatest fear is global warming. If your kid is perfectly capable of getting to school her own (she has two functional legs), why waste precious resources and pollute the air by driving her to school?

Parents might argue that's it's unsafe to have their kids walk to school. Well, if you all made your kids walk there'd be more kids on the road, making it far less likely for your kid to be abducted -- odds are it will be someone else's kid, so what are you worried about? Honestly, the world is a dangerous place, but the sooner kids learn how to live in that world, the better. The one place they won't learn that is in the backseat of a minivan.

I dream in color TV

I rarely remember my dreams, but lately, in all the ones I do remember, I'm hanging with characters from TV shows. Sunday night I was at the mall, enjoying a meal in the food court with Jim Halpert, Pam Beasley, Michael Gary Scott, and Dwight Kurt Schrute. Last week I dreamt that I was back on the Lost island -- I say 'back' because it's the second Lost dream I've had. In the first, I was hanging with Locke in the hatch, season two style. In the one I had last week, Ben had been replaced as chief of the Others by some unknown person who immediately enlisted Sawyer to carry out seemingly random kidnappings among the other island survivors. For the end-of-the-episode twist, this mysterious personage was revealed as my friend Marliett, which, if you knew her, would be one of the best twists of plot in Lost history. Of course, let's not forget about Carl Winslow the Cannibal that I blogged about earlier.

I just can't wait for the night when I find myself in cut-off shorts ("There are dozens of us!") painting myself blue with Tobias Funke. Or maybe working a shift at the Banana Stand with George Michael (no, not the 80's pop star). Perhaps I'll find myself appearing as a wisdom dispensing David Bowie in one of Bret McKenzie's freaky dreams ("Am I freaking you out, Bret?").