Logan's Blog

The Great Outdoors

        There's a forest behind the boys' dorms.  Literally, it's like an acre of land.  It has some trees, a little creek, and, a small hiking trail.  But to some of the guys it feels like paradise.  Today I spent three and a half hours, just walking around, splashing around in the river, and hanging out with my buddies, who were doing the same thing as me.  I caught a fish, caught a frog, caught some tadpoles, caught a toad.  It was one of the funnest days I've had since I got off the Appalachian Trail.  Also, although yesterday was a rainy and altogether scary event, today wasn't humid at all.  It was a great day, and although I didn't catch any fish worth keeping, the three and a half hours were well worth it.

It rained

    Today was the most epic, rainiest, awesome day that I can personally remember ever seeing ever.  When, at 2 am this morning, I was awakened by a flash that seemed to originate from behind my eyeballs, that had its beginning in my very soul, my first thought was, "Shoot!  I don't have my dog tag."  But then I realized that this isn't the 1950s and I'm not my grandfather, so I pulled myself together and admired the storm for one, even two minutes before going back to sleep.  It was a mixture of REM's "End of the World" and MUSE's "Supermassive Black Hole."  But, as I said, I soon drifted off to sleep and thought no more of such things.
    When I woke, however, I squinted into the dark, early-morning mist through my window and realized that it was still dumping buckets.  Groggily, I wondered at the hour, and whether I had enough time to get in my workout before meditation.  I looked at my cellphone:  11:30 a.m.  Whoah.  Clearly, I had overslept through the storm of the year. 
    The downpour continued right through lunch, and my midterm, and afternoon meditation, and the abortive game of mud football that some people partook in.  It continued as I walked to dinner, and as I walked back to the dorms, and has just now, at 8:11 pm, ceased and desisted.  What does one say about something like that?  How do you describe sixteen hours of pouring rain?  You can't except by degrees and comparisons:
-In 'Nam, supposedly, soldiers dealt with those conditions every day, and had to fight a war in it.
-In rainforests, entire ecosystems would die if it weren't for almost-constant rain
-Unicorns were left off the ark, and even those magical creatures couldn't tread water for forty days and forty nights

Rest in peace, mystical unicorns.  As for the rest of us creatures, appreciate the rain when it comes.

Manny Being Manny

    People aren't big on sports at this campus, but I am.  Today's post is on sports, so if that doesn't appeal to you, allow your attention to wander freely:  In fact, go outside and get some sunlight or something.  (It looks like this, in case you've been on your computer for so long you've forgotten:)

    For those that are still reading, I want to talk about Manny Ramirez:

    Ok.  I am confused, angry, and slightly hurt.  I refuse to believe it.  It just doesn't make sense.  If Manny "The Latin Lethargio" Ramirez can get caught juicing, who isn't doing it these days?  It's not like I care, in the sense of "the purity of the game," or anything like that.  Major League Baseball is entertainment, and a business.  I understand that.  It's just that my entire perception of the bigs is altered.  Sportswriters, players, coaches, trainers, announcers; how many of these guys know what's going on, foster an environment in which (it seems clear now) you simply can't compete without being on the juice? 
    And honestly, am I to believe that this all began ten years ago?  Before this, ballplayers were only cutting "acceptable" corners, only popping greenies and scuffing the ball?  I know that steroids have only become technologically viable recently, but what kind of stuff was kept quiet back in the day?  Why are so many ex-ballplayers so ambivalent about steroid use today?
    Before Manny, it was possible to believe that there was only a subculture of HGH in baseball: a devoted and persistent culture, to be sure; but still, something that allowed, say, Bob Wickman to have a succesful career.  But now it appears that cheeseburgers are the exception, rather than the rule; and that's sad.
    You know what?  It's been a week, and I still can't come to terms with this.  I thought I was ready, but I'm not.  It's just... reality itself has changed.  Now, even the so-called good guys, even the guys who don't DO steroids, you have to wonder, they know about it don't they?  Is every single ballplayer in the Major Leagues, individually, helping to protect steroid-users?  I understand that people wouldn't exactly shoot up in the clubhouse, but there have to be signs, don't there?  When your thirty year old cleanup hitter has more bacne than your teenage son; that wouldn't tip you off if you were a manager?
    I don't know.  I think I'm sick of the media, though.  I'm considering boycotting my favorite sports website, Sports Illustrated dot com.  I hear a new breathless report every day, always using phrase like, "It will be interesting to see how history treats steroid users."  Okay, number one:  From Day One, the media has told the fans how to feel about steroids.  It's BAD BAD BAD; that's all we've been told.  It's a scandal, it's a blemish, it's horrible, it's worse than the Black Sox Scandal.   From day one, the media has told us what supplements are and aren't okay to take.  From day one, they've told us which ballplayers are ALL AMERICAN HEROES and which ones are DERISIVE FRAUDS.  Heck, from day one they've assured us that athletes- never held to a high standard for intelligence- KNEW what they were putting into their bodies.  So, it won't be "history" that determines how steroid users were treated; it will be reporters, the very ones making vapid statements about history. 
    This is old hat, but let's get more content.  Let's get a reporter talking about scenarios in which an athlete could mistakenly take a female fertility drug, and the likelihood of that.  Let's have more intelligent information on how a world-class athlete trains.  We know Michael Phelps consumes 8,000 calories a day; is Derek Jeter's training regime really classified?  Heck, let's hear about the relationships these reporters have with the athletes; was every single reporter really as shocked as they claimed to be about the 'roids? 
    Anyway, though, I'm just sitting in my room, listening to Mrs.  Robinson and trying not to be ironic.  Also, I'm imagining what it's like to be Albert Pujols right now.  I wonder how it feels to have the perhaps outdated hopes of an entire fanbase resting on your shoulders?  I'd sleep like garbage if I was him.  But I guess that's why I'm not a world-class athlete.  Also, I don't juice.

Shopping Online

    I just re-discovered online shopping the other day, and boy, credit cards sure do rock.  I can't believe how awesome it is to just go online, purchase a copy of Watchmen for seven dollars, and then sit back and wait for it to arrive in a couple of days.  I don't mean to suggest that the experience is addictive, but I hug myself and rock forwards and back, happily giggling every time I think about it.
    Really.  It's taken me four and a half hours to get this far in my post, because I can't sit still for all the fantasizing, dancing, singing, and general glee that I'm experiencing.  Why was I spinning in circles, singing "I feel pretty?" for the past half hour?  Who cares?  I just know that I love online shopping, and that it takes me beyond the clouds, and that I'm naming my firstborn child Amazon.  I'm really hoping for a boy.
    I used to think that online shopping was something to be done in moderation, but I now realize that it's something you can drink with every meal.  It's like water, but with more shipping and handling.  And water doesn't offer "Mr. Bean: The Ultimate Collection."

        I've taken to walking around town, picking up empty bottles so I can redeem them for five cents each at Hy-Vee, so I can pay off my credit card, so I can BUY MORE STUFF online.  It just STILL amazes me that I can buy Jung's complete works, a couch, several bottles of salad dressing, designer jeans, and of course Mr Bean all in the same place, all within fifteen minutes, often for less money than retail.  Not to get philosophical, but more than 99% of all the major world wars took place before the implementation of Amazon.  Just something to think about.

Haircut

This is me six months ago, around the time of my birthday:

This is me now, six months later:

Notice any difference?  I'll give you a hint:  I haven't cut my hair in almost half a year!

That's right, now that you see it, you're probably kicking yourself, saying, "How did I not see that?"  It's okay, it's one of those things where you have to see me every day to really notice the difference. 

Anyway, I came to a cross-roads at some point today, at which time I decided that I'm not cutting it.  Like, until I graduate.  Or until it bothers me. 

Happy Mother's Day!

Today is mother's day... pick up the phone and call your mother!

Restaurants

    For most of my working life, I've been in restaurants.  I love the work, aside from the hours.  I love the people, love the dynamic of working closely with four or five of them in a hot room for eight hours.  I love the roles that people take on, almost always caricatures of their jobs:  the executive chef, with his sage-like wisdom and knowledge of the food; and politician-like ability to almost, but not quite, completely misunderstand what's going on sometimes.  I love the waitresses; even the most cynical can't help displaying the alternately matronly and flirtatious role she often takes with her customers.  By the same token, I love male waiters, constantly hovering somewhere between your best friend and your forsworn brother.  I love the wide-eyed dishwasher, taking it all in, constantly the brunt of jokes, but working uncomplainingly for his seven dollars an hour.  And of course I love the regular cooks, the guys slaving over a hot stove, burning the heck out of themselves eight hours a day, staying until two a.m. to close up on weekends and hanging out too much together after work because who else is up at two a.m. besides other restaurant people?
    Of course, this is my ideal of a restaurant, my ideal of a place where everybody still cares somewhat about their job and doesn't cut important corners.  I've worked at a place where I was the only person older than fifteen or younger than seventy.  I've also worked places that might show up in revisionist history: full of incompetence and inexcusable misconduct.  I guess my ideal for a restaurant environment is still the first place that I worked in high school, the place I worked for two years before moving out of town.  That's the place that I still see when I think of working in a restaurant, of living and working the demanding hours of a cook.
    Anyway, I bring all this up because I was eating at a place in town, George's, that reminded me so strongly of my old place, Roberto's, that I was nearly moved to apply for a job.  It had the same Italian bistro decor and feel; same old-dough smell; and same well-stocked salad bar visible upon walking in.  It had the same deceptively high prices for deceptively tempting-sounding food.  It featured the same frank, flirtatious, waitresses saying "WHAT?" loudly when I mumbled my order, as though they couldn't hear, and then winking, and then laughing because I'd fallen for an oldie but a goodie.  The same cooks looking hard-worked but competent strode through the dining room, emerging from the freezer thirty seconds later with huge blocks of mozzarella cheese and cans of tomatoes.  The food was the same conceptual triumph as my old place, still well-cooked, and still made with love, as we used to say; still properly trimmed and well-presented and of course tasty.  The owner still lounged outside, drinking iced tea and asking the customers was everything alright when they left in the non-obstrusive way that owners should be able to pull off.
    I almost applied, but I didn't and here's why:  I still left the same crappy tip I used to get waiting at my old restaurant.  Twenty percent of eight is still a buck fifty.  Forty hours a week, it's not the worst living in the world, but you still gotta work your forty hours.  Forty restaurant hours.

To-do

To-do list for a postmodernist whose wife is reading over his shoulder:

1) Perform base animal functions: eat, sleep, excrete, etc.
2) Write essay suggesting that 95% of all literature would be better written on Twitter, or not at all (har!)
3) Invite Professor Johnson over to mobilize
3) Clean out gutter
4) Mow lawn
5) Groceries
6) My turn to cook this week.  Casserole tonight?

Open Mic Night

    Open mic night is tonight.  I love going to this MUM event, partially because the talent is off the charts and features diverse acts ranging from acapella gibberish to stand-up comedy to the usual scream-until-your-lungs-bleed garage rock bands.  All very tasteful.  But I mostly love going because I enjoy imagining what I would do if I had the time, talent, initiative, and social ingenuity.
    For example, I like to believe that I could absolutely slay an audience with a reading of my childrens' book, Fat Bob, but instead of actually reading it like a mature adult, here's how I would do it:
"Hi, um, gulp," I'd say, audibly swallowing.  An inauspicious start, to be sure, but something easily remedied, especially with the supportive audience that usually shows up to open mic night.  "Hi..." I'd say, then flush bright red.  Then I'd pause for ten seconds.  Then, I'd press a button and release a hidden stream of water, making it look like I'd wet my pants, much like Will Ferrel did a few years ago on Saturday Night Live.  "I'm here to, uh," I'd start, hopefully to be drowned out by nervous laughter or sympathetic groans.  Sweat pouring down my face, hot and damp under the spot light, I'd press on bravely, voice quavering, face red.  I'd mumble and stammer my way through a couple of paragraphs, increase the water stain on my pants, and garner cheap laughs my accidentally doing improper things like nervous burping and making the microphone squeal.  Then, however, suddenly and without context, I'd develop a strong and stern speaking voice: 
    "...but suddenly, forced to choose between boyish notions of independently existing essentiality and the hard fact of Maria's transitory 'love,' Bob found that his text books had prepared him for nothing, nothing!  They'd always portrayed pragmatism as a lifestyle choice, as a positive, as something one did!"  And here my voice would descend, sadly and sharply, but with the air of one who has lived life and had examined all of his choices with steely-eyed tunnel vision.  The air of one who had sculpted his manhood with an iron will and an unbreakable, unresisting, yet unconquerable vision of what is right and what isn't.  "But here," I'd start, glowering at the now-hushed, expectant audience, "here Bob found pragmatism only to be the absence of truth- and, if he looked deep within his heart, it wasn't even truth; it was simple obeisance: Pragmatism was the simple doing-away with of obeisance.  And this is what he told his friends later, after telling Maria what he'd always known he must.  They misheard him, being rather dull; and that is why he came to be known as "Fat" Bob.  But Bob didn't mind, because he knew the important thing:"  and here I'd look right at the audience sternly but with bright eyes, and "accidentally" drop my script.  I'd bend over, "accidentally" knock over the microphone, fart loudly, flush crimson, wet my pants a bit more, and then straighten up and pretend like I was trying to act like nothing had happened.  I'd finish up by mumbling for another five minutes.

Or here's another idea:

-A juggling act

Or:
-  A musical act, in which I'm not only the lead guitarist but the lead singer; and I sing a song that doesn't neccesarily appeal to people lyrically (althought the lyrics, being written by me are of course top notch), but it hits them somewhere deeper.  The young men leave with their vision a little clearer and their aim a little truer; the women leave as more discerning, generous, and spiritually grounded beings; the old people leave with their step a little bit lighter; and the children feel they've added yet another friend to their all-embracing circle of love.

I haven't worked out the specifics yet, but I definitely like the band idea.  I'm taking music classes at the YMCA, so I'm expecting to make my open mic debut any day now.

And if, maybe, I'm not quite as good as I like to imagine I would be, MUM is a great place to make mistakes; and enough legitimate talent exists at open mic to make up for any big-headed dreams I might acquire.

   

Avocados

    Here at MUM, there are a few things people agree on.  Okay, I don't know if that's true.  But there is one thing that all people agree on, and that's avocados.  I don't know what it is about avocados that acts as such a unifying force, but I haven't met anybody here who doesn't absolutely melt at the sight of that green, ripe, semi-fleshy vegetable (fruit?)

    Now, I know I made a statement when I began this blog to the effect of, "I'm not a fan of doing 'research,' so I'm not going to do it;" but for once, I broke that rule and consulted the good-as-gold WIkipedia.  According to wikipedia (which by the way is at the center of this controversy), avocados:

-are also known as the crocodile pear, presumably because people cry with joy whenever they eat one.
-may have been cultivated for more than eleven hundred years, based on evidence of ancient jars shaped like them and such fables as the spanish Jason y lo Aguacate Oro, which some set up as an alternative to the quest for the golden fleece.
-give a boost to "good" cholesterol, and a giant "thumbs down"to bad cholesterol, which makes sense to some people, so I go along with it.
-used to be used in an alcholic drink, advocaat, which probably tasted just as gross as it sounds.
-can be grown as houseplants, so you can go to sleep with an avocado watching over you, if that's something you choose to do.

Basically, avocados are perfect; and that's why people love them so much around here.  Personally, I love them, love the taste, and if anybody has a spare avocado plant, I'd be willing to take it off their hands.  I'd call him Jason.