Picture a meeting in which Robert's Rules of Disorder are used and where people are weighed, measured and fitted like the noble births of the middle ages.
I'm looking forward to the ending ages.
I attend college to collect knowledge. In MGMT I learned that "any human resource problem can be resolved if you can kill the employee". Perhaps I am taking it out of context as the professor drew parallels between The Heist and strawberry pickers - for there are parallels - but it may just be that there is truth to it. It worked for the mob and it works for the cartels now.
In history I learned that a kind word gets you pretty far in life. Al Capone said that you can get even further with a kind word and a gun in hand.
In quantum computing I've learned that my professor's shirt isn't yellow. Or it is yellow. It's yellow as a conventionally accepted truth but it isn't yellow as an absolute truth. This implies a localized truth a la Heller's twisted worlds. It is here that I also learned the benefits that cigar smoking has had on science and the advancement of a non-existent field of computer science - quantum computing. Contradictory I know but nonetheless both completely true and absolutely false.
I collect stories and from these stories - as I am learning now in my statistics class - we can derive something greater. If my stories are my sample I'm deducing the population.
[5:16:38 PM] Jocelyn says: know one of those song and dances where two people with the assistance of alcohol tell eachother things and it's all bullshit?
Yes. Yes I do. They happen every day. We love exercising the control that just the right combination of words and sentences afford us. A thrill to be so carefully splinter the others mind and tantalize them with a carefully afforded shyness. A coy word - tease - and a smile to make her swoon.
But he means it...
Yes he does. Sometimes. Most of the time our low RAM capacity is focused on keeping it all straight and not letting the house of cards illusion fall apart. Even without the social lubrication it can be difficult.
I also collect coins, currencies and watches.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
Toast
Clink. Clink. Clink.
The best man stands up, tails and all, with a half raised flute of cheap crystal and a butter knife in hand. Someone hands him a mic and the big band (one of three) grows quiet. It shrinks loudly.
The bride gives the groom a quick hug mostly because she loves him. She's also concerned. I can see in her eyes that she's concerned that the half-tucked dress shirt the best man is sporting and the flush of his cheeks indicates that this toast will be too interesting.
And. Scene.
A great Mexican poet named Guillermo Aguirre Fierro once wrote the Bohemians toast. A prose narrative dedicated to the one woman that drunkards can always come back to. The one that puts up with a drunk mans lack of shame, stench and pain. A woman who appreciates the grotesque out of pure love. He goes on to say that he does not toast those who provide warm bodies and willing lips. He does not toast those tartlets bought on street corners for a dime or two nor does he toast the women we've pursued and fallend madly in love with. In a heart-wrenching tone and with a quivering voice he extolls:
"yo brindo, por mi madre, bohemios." - a toast, to my mother, fellow bohemians...
Perhaps it is my fathers love for this piece of art that I have dedicated a short lifetime to giving toasts. It starts with a flute and ends, one always hopes, with a quiet and reflective calm.
You want to meet everyones expectation, quickly greet those expectations with a kiss and a handshake and then trip their expectations and then run past them.
I want to give a toast to make us laugh and cry. To reminisce with a forward looking stance. One that is just long enough to make a point but short enough to carry some weight. A toast is meant to be heard by dozens of intent listeners. Everyone hanging on to your every word. I hope to never give a toast in a room. By myself. My only company a bottle of Jack and my words.
A toast is a graduation speech. A toast is one of the last chances a grown man will ever ever get to stand on a pedestal. To preach his beliefs and impart a little bit of back-cover wisdom on a crowd.
I want a wedding toast.
---
We always knew Jack would end up like this - a ball and chain that he'd bedazzle just to confuse us. You see, Jack and I lived on the same hall freshmen year of college. His room and mine were direct opposites to our size. We were an unlikely pair - a northeastern conservative kid and a liberal Mexican. And we had a blast. We would play midnight football, pick each other up when we fell (due in large part to these annoying things called stairs) and go to the gym together. That's pretty much how he got huge. (Pause). Jack was my brother. And we rushed and pledged and he convinced me of the unthinkable every night. I hated pledge. And every night we would come back, he would sit with me and talk me through the unwinding psychological process that it was for me. That semester I met a girl who would end up serving Jack more than me. Because of her Jack me Patricia. I hoped at the time that my Cupid's arrows would work in just the right way. All of us being here today tells me that my aim was true and my arrows pure. ANd they grew close - Jack and Patricia. You look at them and you see stability. A rock. In an environment in which most of us, myself included, get easily downtrodden by the jabs of life, Jack and Patricia always found it easy to stand above it all. They are the dandelion flakes floating, ever so gently, above the rising sea of confusion (that's probably global warming reclaiming its territory). The Greeks used to say - may the gods keep the wolves in the hills and our women in our beds. Interesting how they never mentioned their friends. With that in mind I'd like to say, Patricia, you're an angel for taking someone like Jack - who's been the nicest and naughtiest boy in his prime. Jack. You got lucky man. You once told me that this was the only relationship worth cultivating. That the relationship you build with a significant other is the one that will stand the passage of space and time (I elaborate only to make you look good - NOTE TO SELF: wink at Jack). Like the constant gardener and as I raise my glass - Jack, my friend, brother, you just found a perfect flower.
The best man stands up, tails and all, with a half raised flute of cheap crystal and a butter knife in hand. Someone hands him a mic and the big band (one of three) grows quiet. It shrinks loudly.
The bride gives the groom a quick hug mostly because she loves him. She's also concerned. I can see in her eyes that she's concerned that the half-tucked dress shirt the best man is sporting and the flush of his cheeks indicates that this toast will be too interesting.
And. Scene.
A great Mexican poet named Guillermo Aguirre Fierro once wrote the Bohemians toast. A prose narrative dedicated to the one woman that drunkards can always come back to. The one that puts up with a drunk mans lack of shame, stench and pain. A woman who appreciates the grotesque out of pure love. He goes on to say that he does not toast those who provide warm bodies and willing lips. He does not toast those tartlets bought on street corners for a dime or two nor does he toast the women we've pursued and fallend madly in love with. In a heart-wrenching tone and with a quivering voice he extolls:
"yo brindo, por mi madre, bohemios." - a toast, to my mother, fellow bohemians...
Perhaps it is my fathers love for this piece of art that I have dedicated a short lifetime to giving toasts. It starts with a flute and ends, one always hopes, with a quiet and reflective calm.
You want to meet everyones expectation, quickly greet those expectations with a kiss and a handshake and then trip their expectations and then run past them.
I want to give a toast to make us laugh and cry. To reminisce with a forward looking stance. One that is just long enough to make a point but short enough to carry some weight. A toast is meant to be heard by dozens of intent listeners. Everyone hanging on to your every word. I hope to never give a toast in a room. By myself. My only company a bottle of Jack and my words.
A toast is a graduation speech. A toast is one of the last chances a grown man will ever ever get to stand on a pedestal. To preach his beliefs and impart a little bit of back-cover wisdom on a crowd.
I want a wedding toast.
---
We always knew Jack would end up like this - a ball and chain that he'd bedazzle just to confuse us. You see, Jack and I lived on the same hall freshmen year of college. His room and mine were direct opposites to our size. We were an unlikely pair - a northeastern conservative kid and a liberal Mexican. And we had a blast. We would play midnight football, pick each other up when we fell (due in large part to these annoying things called stairs) and go to the gym together. That's pretty much how he got huge. (Pause). Jack was my brother. And we rushed and pledged and he convinced me of the unthinkable every night. I hated pledge. And every night we would come back, he would sit with me and talk me through the unwinding psychological process that it was for me. That semester I met a girl who would end up serving Jack more than me. Because of her Jack me Patricia. I hoped at the time that my Cupid's arrows would work in just the right way. All of us being here today tells me that my aim was true and my arrows pure. ANd they grew close - Jack and Patricia. You look at them and you see stability. A rock. In an environment in which most of us, myself included, get easily downtrodden by the jabs of life, Jack and Patricia always found it easy to stand above it all. They are the dandelion flakes floating, ever so gently, above the rising sea of confusion (that's probably global warming reclaiming its territory). The Greeks used to say - may the gods keep the wolves in the hills and our women in our beds. Interesting how they never mentioned their friends. With that in mind I'd like to say, Patricia, you're an angel for taking someone like Jack - who's been the nicest and naughtiest boy in his prime. Jack. You got lucky man. You once told me that this was the only relationship worth cultivating. That the relationship you build with a significant other is the one that will stand the passage of space and time (I elaborate only to make you look good - NOTE TO SELF: wink at Jack). Like the constant gardener and as I raise my glass - Jack, my friend, brother, you just found a perfect flower.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Hernandez
I'd love to speak with the dead. Not the sixth sense way but more like Isabel Allende type way. Speak with the greats - Curie, Jackson, Kennedy, Confucius and Gandhi. I'd need a new lifetime, another lease on life to speak with the dead. Who said I wasn't a fan of irony.
We're in an age were the greats are still undiscovered. Given there is some academic excitement about Tukey and Siegel but they have not reached the status of greats. Brown (of the Dan persuasion) is not oft quoted for his literary achievements. His formulaic and tired prose is more reminiscent of a cheapened Fleming - a great on his own right. Perhaps the question would become if Rowling or Paulson will be the quoted luminaries of tomorrows research books.
The true objective right now is becoming one who is paraphrased. Who's ideas are completely twisted to fit the particular fad-induced theory. Anyone can become a footnote. It's easy. So much of the academic research today consists of hundred of footnotes, endnotes and paraphrased citation with a key interspersed original thought here and there. Eventually a new article becomes another one of the footnotes in the most symbiotically stable processes ever.
To create something new that predates normal thought. Harder than it seems. Writing up the bylaws to some conference named after the city - pick one, Doha, Kyoto, Bretton-Woods - is easy, however time-consuming. And by this standard Geneva is the big easy. Create an institution to establish greatness.
Think of Euro - a rivaling currency. If someone unites the arab world under a caliphate - an empire with the capital and man power to rival China or the U.S. Or consider the giant Petrobras in Brazil - a pseudo-guvernamental institution to build a company to rival BP or Exxon.
I want to be named Hernandez in posterity. For it were just Diego then I'd be a popstar and a full name is reminiscent of the obits. But a last name in reference to my 4 currency world markets or the rebirth of Mexico. It's Emerson's simplicity.
Hernandez.
We're in an age were the greats are still undiscovered. Given there is some academic excitement about Tukey and Siegel but they have not reached the status of greats. Brown (of the Dan persuasion) is not oft quoted for his literary achievements. His formulaic and tired prose is more reminiscent of a cheapened Fleming - a great on his own right. Perhaps the question would become if Rowling or Paulson will be the quoted luminaries of tomorrows research books.
The true objective right now is becoming one who is paraphrased. Who's ideas are completely twisted to fit the particular fad-induced theory. Anyone can become a footnote. It's easy. So much of the academic research today consists of hundred of footnotes, endnotes and paraphrased citation with a key interspersed original thought here and there. Eventually a new article becomes another one of the footnotes in the most symbiotically stable processes ever.
To create something new that predates normal thought. Harder than it seems. Writing up the bylaws to some conference named after the city - pick one, Doha, Kyoto, Bretton-Woods - is easy, however time-consuming. And by this standard Geneva is the big easy. Create an institution to establish greatness.
Think of Euro - a rivaling currency. If someone unites the arab world under a caliphate - an empire with the capital and man power to rival China or the U.S. Or consider the giant Petrobras in Brazil - a pseudo-guvernamental institution to build a company to rival BP or Exxon.
I want to be named Hernandez in posterity. For it were just Diego then I'd be a popstar and a full name is reminiscent of the obits. But a last name in reference to my 4 currency world markets or the rebirth of Mexico. It's Emerson's simplicity.
Hernandez.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Ricco Suave
I love uncomfortable situations. I'm awkward, get flustered on the phone and have the sense of humor of an anvil. Some people might say I'm a charmer.
I want to own a dog named Cat Stevens.
A guy is a charmer when he can hold quasi-intelligent conversation with someone who surpasses him in stature, presence or wit. This basically translates into any girl. Not only must we focus on the eyes but we have to resist every primal instinct we have. The urge to hold the girls face between our hands and give her a kiss. Une petite bise.
And most guys will have a set of stories they like to tell - much like the heartwarming first date story you tell about yourself as a naive young child. "So there I was, 5 years old, my first conscious moment on a plane and I looked out the window and saw the wings. I turned to my mom and with a frown on my face innocently asked when the plane would start flapping its wings". And hopefully youll have a wingman with you.
Being charming is easier when you have your buddy structure in place and Troop 423 of the Eagle Scouts of America makes a representation.
The underlying mantra is simple: she comes first (it's also a best selling book). Make her smile. Make her feel comfortable. Be funny and push the boundaries of the appropriate a la Hank Moody. Going big is high risk and high reward. I like to do what Sorkin wrote about: too big to fail. Given that might just be a genetic accident of faith by which I grew to be a foot taller than my national average AND both of my parents.
Throughout the charming experience the reminder is that the guy threads on dangerous waters. We can end up being the leader of a cargo cult in the islands of southeast Asia with a sequined love nun. We can be left with the awkward silence, lose momentum, say just the wrong thing at just the wrong time.
I don't believe in the game. I don't believe in negs, anchoring or pretending to be too cool for school.
I'm a nerd who loves math, science and business. I'm a 6-6 Mexican with a penchant for operatic singing and alt-rock music. I DO like walks on the beach. I like dates on April 25th because it's not too hot and it's not too hot. I enjoy Tarantino as much as an indie flick about a bright cleaning service (in general, I find that good movies have the word sunshine in them).
If you find a guy who's a "charmer" or a charming guy I can say this: we're not always full of it. There are times when we're being wholeheartedly honest. Because we love women and the effect they have on the electric impulses coursing through our synapses (what little we have left after years of evolutionary self-destruction). Believe in him.
He'll get in touch.
I want to own a dog named Cat Stevens.
A guy is a charmer when he can hold quasi-intelligent conversation with someone who surpasses him in stature, presence or wit. This basically translates into any girl. Not only must we focus on the eyes but we have to resist every primal instinct we have. The urge to hold the girls face between our hands and give her a kiss. Une petite bise.
And most guys will have a set of stories they like to tell - much like the heartwarming first date story you tell about yourself as a naive young child. "So there I was, 5 years old, my first conscious moment on a plane and I looked out the window and saw the wings. I turned to my mom and with a frown on my face innocently asked when the plane would start flapping its wings". And hopefully youll have a wingman with you.
Being charming is easier when you have your buddy structure in place and Troop 423 of the Eagle Scouts of America makes a representation.
The underlying mantra is simple: she comes first (it's also a best selling book). Make her smile. Make her feel comfortable. Be funny and push the boundaries of the appropriate a la Hank Moody. Going big is high risk and high reward. I like to do what Sorkin wrote about: too big to fail. Given that might just be a genetic accident of faith by which I grew to be a foot taller than my national average AND both of my parents.
Throughout the charming experience the reminder is that the guy threads on dangerous waters. We can end up being the leader of a cargo cult in the islands of southeast Asia with a sequined love nun. We can be left with the awkward silence, lose momentum, say just the wrong thing at just the wrong time.
I don't believe in the game. I don't believe in negs, anchoring or pretending to be too cool for school.
I'm a nerd who loves math, science and business. I'm a 6-6 Mexican with a penchant for operatic singing and alt-rock music. I DO like walks on the beach. I like dates on April 25th because it's not too hot and it's not too hot. I enjoy Tarantino as much as an indie flick about a bright cleaning service (in general, I find that good movies have the word sunshine in them).
If you find a guy who's a "charmer" or a charming guy I can say this: we're not always full of it. There are times when we're being wholeheartedly honest. Because we love women and the effect they have on the electric impulses coursing through our synapses (what little we have left after years of evolutionary self-destruction). Believe in him.
He'll get in touch.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
The holy trinity
I've tried writing this many times now and due to the sensitivity and specificity of the space/time continuum it is now or never.
RUSH.
This is my favorite time of the year to be young, to be excited, to be happy, to be reckless, to be restless, to be where I am and who I am. The set is stage on this globe theater of ours for a level of revelry that would make Baccus cringe. The gods - with their hammers and winged helmets - have nothing on us when playing this game.
Asher Roth tried describing and mocking and idolizing everything that a college fraternity is supposed to be. Movies like Beta House, Animal House, Going Greek, Freshman Orientation (and a hundred others that will, unlike Animal House, never reach cult status and will never amount to anything better than a mediocre comedy playing on the same sex gags that a litany of other movies have used before them). Rush is different.
Appropriately named, it's a rush of blood to the head. A rush to the head of trepidation. It is a time when I get to teach, share war stories and show people why I am happy to be a part of what I am. For the endless source of support, stability and a state's best.
For it would be a shame if I avoided the intoxicating portion of rush. Meeting hundreds of fresh new faces as eager to get to know you as you are to get to know them, taking picture over food that appears magically and for free by a girl named Wendy. And while we may not provide the Puerto Rico trip to the deep end of the a pocket, we do offer a little more - or I like to think so.
Ill attempt the lane hand-of from time to time preying on a rush's mention of their local minor league baseball team to call over one of the guys and say, "Hey, Andrew meet Rushie Eager, HE LIKES BASEBALL! Sick, aight ill catch up with you guys in a bit". At best Andrew will do the best of my awkward transition and salvage what will other wise be the wreckage of an uncomfortable silence. At worst the rush will inquire about my odd and quirky character hoping to make a joke and the silence will be a post-mortem one.
I live for the smiles. I sound like a social worker talking about UNICEF but it's true. The smiles on people as I know they enjoy our house, our environment and our company.
Oh, wait, and then, there's pledge.
RUSH.
This is my favorite time of the year to be young, to be excited, to be happy, to be reckless, to be restless, to be where I am and who I am. The set is stage on this globe theater of ours for a level of revelry that would make Baccus cringe. The gods - with their hammers and winged helmets - have nothing on us when playing this game.
Asher Roth tried describing and mocking and idolizing everything that a college fraternity is supposed to be. Movies like Beta House, Animal House, Going Greek, Freshman Orientation (and a hundred others that will, unlike Animal House, never reach cult status and will never amount to anything better than a mediocre comedy playing on the same sex gags that a litany of other movies have used before them). Rush is different.
Appropriately named, it's a rush of blood to the head. A rush to the head of trepidation. It is a time when I get to teach, share war stories and show people why I am happy to be a part of what I am. For the endless source of support, stability and a state's best.
For it would be a shame if I avoided the intoxicating portion of rush. Meeting hundreds of fresh new faces as eager to get to know you as you are to get to know them, taking picture over food that appears magically and for free by a girl named Wendy. And while we may not provide the Puerto Rico trip to the deep end of the a pocket, we do offer a little more - or I like to think so.
Ill attempt the lane hand-of from time to time preying on a rush's mention of their local minor league baseball team to call over one of the guys and say, "Hey, Andrew meet Rushie Eager, HE LIKES BASEBALL! Sick, aight ill catch up with you guys in a bit". At best Andrew will do the best of my awkward transition and salvage what will other wise be the wreckage of an uncomfortable silence. At worst the rush will inquire about my odd and quirky character hoping to make a joke and the silence will be a post-mortem one.
I live for the smiles. I sound like a social worker talking about UNICEF but it's true. The smiles on people as I know they enjoy our house, our environment and our company.
Oh, wait, and then, there's pledge.
Friday, January 8, 2010
The Fifth Profession
The family sat around a circular table. The restaurant was housed in one of the old turn-of-the-century houses that populate downtown Guadalajara. The houses, characterized by sumptuous gardens, elongated floor-to-ceiling windows, high ceilings and sweeping staircases are reminiscent of French and Spanish architecture. The exterior design looks like a defensible castle of the proper stature for a Baron, maybe a Viscount but certainly not an Earl.
The family comes here often, they have a regular table.
The place is full. The muted clang of silverware on Spanish China join the symphony of sounds in the restaurant - a bossa nova version Guns'N'Roses, hushed conversations and politicians laughing. And the restaurant, much like the city is built on politicians.
How to spot a politician: Brooks Brothers suit, cuff links and laughter. The top button on their shirt is undone.
The family son checks the safety, returns a meaningful look at his father and smiles at his cousin's joke.
1, 2, 3 bodyguards inside. Discrete gray polyester blend suits slightly wide at the shoulders to avoid showing the tell-tale gun-holster. Same, standard issue haircut popular among them. They probably call themselves close-protection officers and pride themselves in noticing small and irrelevant details. 10 steps to the door, principal is 20 steps away. Some of them might even read 10 peso cop novels and picture themselves valiantly loading the principal into a bullet-proof car as they return cover fire.
The men outside have an obvious military stance - something no amount of tailoring can detail away.
At least two of them have no military training. One of them has ordered soup. The other has a pillar in his line of sight to his charge. They're probably disposable John Does picked up from the wrong side of the tracks. The promise of a pay check, a suit and a gun go a long way in this country.
Eveyrone in the family knows what this is about. They no longer wonder at the private security pick-up truck outside labeled "Seguridad Privada" obviously weighed down by armored metal. All family members are wearing hunting ear plugs and continue on with their lunch of Vizcaine salmon. The capers are particularly good this year.
A quick trip to the bathroom reveals 2 more men outside.
Would you like a bottle of wine sir? Yes, says the father, '97 Gran Coronas.
This is the height of this city's society - carefully protected by "trained" men. The innocent couple in the far left corner of the restaurant has a moment of understanding. They grasp the situation they are in and understand where the city money goes. She smiles at their predicament. He brought her here to celebrate his promotion - he is now head of human resources for the state police.
Drinks come to the table, courtesy of the owner who knows the family. They patriarchs play golf together Saturday mornings. Ellios the Spaniard they call him. He retains an air of Spanish aristocracy that 50 years of Mexican bureaucracy have failed to expunge. He has the Spanish and Mexican flag hang side by side in the center of the room. He understands who the Saint Peters of his culinary church are and does the round. A cursory pat on the bank, a snap at the waiter to bring more wine, kiss on the cheek for the wife or mistress and a sincere thanks.
Some countries are built on the foundation of revolutionary ideas or guns. This was a country built on the bellies of politicians.
The family pays the check, waits for the sons go ahead and leaves.
Just another day in Paradise.
The family comes here often, they have a regular table.
The place is full. The muted clang of silverware on Spanish China join the symphony of sounds in the restaurant - a bossa nova version Guns'N'Roses, hushed conversations and politicians laughing. And the restaurant, much like the city is built on politicians.
How to spot a politician: Brooks Brothers suit, cuff links and laughter. The top button on their shirt is undone.
The family son checks the safety, returns a meaningful look at his father and smiles at his cousin's joke.
1, 2, 3 bodyguards inside. Discrete gray polyester blend suits slightly wide at the shoulders to avoid showing the tell-tale gun-holster. Same, standard issue haircut popular among them. They probably call themselves close-protection officers and pride themselves in noticing small and irrelevant details. 10 steps to the door, principal is 20 steps away. Some of them might even read 10 peso cop novels and picture themselves valiantly loading the principal into a bullet-proof car as they return cover fire.
The men outside have an obvious military stance - something no amount of tailoring can detail away.
At least two of them have no military training. One of them has ordered soup. The other has a pillar in his line of sight to his charge. They're probably disposable John Does picked up from the wrong side of the tracks. The promise of a pay check, a suit and a gun go a long way in this country.
Eveyrone in the family knows what this is about. They no longer wonder at the private security pick-up truck outside labeled "Seguridad Privada" obviously weighed down by armored metal. All family members are wearing hunting ear plugs and continue on with their lunch of Vizcaine salmon. The capers are particularly good this year.
A quick trip to the bathroom reveals 2 more men outside.
Would you like a bottle of wine sir? Yes, says the father, '97 Gran Coronas.
This is the height of this city's society - carefully protected by "trained" men. The innocent couple in the far left corner of the restaurant has a moment of understanding. They grasp the situation they are in and understand where the city money goes. She smiles at their predicament. He brought her here to celebrate his promotion - he is now head of human resources for the state police.
Drinks come to the table, courtesy of the owner who knows the family. They patriarchs play golf together Saturday mornings. Ellios the Spaniard they call him. He retains an air of Spanish aristocracy that 50 years of Mexican bureaucracy have failed to expunge. He has the Spanish and Mexican flag hang side by side in the center of the room. He understands who the Saint Peters of his culinary church are and does the round. A cursory pat on the bank, a snap at the waiter to bring more wine, kiss on the cheek for the wife or mistress and a sincere thanks.
Some countries are built on the foundation of revolutionary ideas or guns. This was a country built on the bellies of politicians.
The family pays the check, waits for the sons go ahead and leaves.
Just another day in Paradise.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Hanging out in sweats by the pool - an entry on Mexico
It's good to know that my country is changing. A dynamic place is far less static than electricity anyway.
Talking about the horrible things happening is stuff for the news networks. Talking about the great things happening in my country is stuff for the politicians through public service announcement.
How else would the people know how good their country is doing?
It's the attitude that Mexico is the mob and the mob is fickle. True on the mob's part, unfortunately we have drug cartel's. Sicily never made it big in MX.
As I've said before Mexico is a catholic country. Business is conducted through the godparent system - not Puzo, again, Sicily, not big - where your best friend and business partners will invariably be your kids' godparents. The term is compadre. We're a country with high aspirations and we're in a hurry to prove it to the world by building high apartment buildings. Who needs office space?
The truth is - not that everything before has been a lie because it wasn't - but I love my country. I love the hidden gems that can be found in 100 foot waterfalls in the middle of a forest or a jungle. I love the valleys filled with small towns where all the houses are painted in two colors: burgundy and white. I love the pine forest and the avocado orchards that cover whole states.
I love the warmth on the coldest day of winter. I love the fact that we have flea markets that run through 4 miles of city and in which you can buy everything from Costco brand wine to lobster to an oxygen tank. I love the fact that the second largest indoor market in Latin America is in my city and that it is named, in english, Market Liberty.
Where was I going with this?
Perhaps it was that people are people wherever you go. Human beings, I find, are simple in nature, no matter how tangled they try to get the web to be. But there's something about my people. An ebullient warmth or maybe its just giddiness of personality. I'm afraid that's changing but I hope to fix that. Or write a book to save my country and hopefully the world.
Call it: Ambicion Mexicana.
Talking about the horrible things happening is stuff for the news networks. Talking about the great things happening in my country is stuff for the politicians through public service announcement.
How else would the people know how good their country is doing?
It's the attitude that Mexico is the mob and the mob is fickle. True on the mob's part, unfortunately we have drug cartel's. Sicily never made it big in MX.
As I've said before Mexico is a catholic country. Business is conducted through the godparent system - not Puzo, again, Sicily, not big - where your best friend and business partners will invariably be your kids' godparents. The term is compadre. We're a country with high aspirations and we're in a hurry to prove it to the world by building high apartment buildings. Who needs office space?
The truth is - not that everything before has been a lie because it wasn't - but I love my country. I love the hidden gems that can be found in 100 foot waterfalls in the middle of a forest or a jungle. I love the valleys filled with small towns where all the houses are painted in two colors: burgundy and white. I love the pine forest and the avocado orchards that cover whole states.
I love the warmth on the coldest day of winter. I love the fact that we have flea markets that run through 4 miles of city and in which you can buy everything from Costco brand wine to lobster to an oxygen tank. I love the fact that the second largest indoor market in Latin America is in my city and that it is named, in english, Market Liberty.
Where was I going with this?
Perhaps it was that people are people wherever you go. Human beings, I find, are simple in nature, no matter how tangled they try to get the web to be. But there's something about my people. An ebullient warmth or maybe its just giddiness of personality. I'm afraid that's changing but I hope to fix that. Or write a book to save my country and hopefully the world.
Call it: Ambicion Mexicana.
Like the real slime shady once said...
I'm back on the airwaves (internet breakers).
The tourism industry was once the next big thing - and then bad stuff happened, we destroyed natural reserves, flights got expensive, awkward and generally hellish. I enjoy being felt up by a butch-looking security guard dreaming about Henry's (that's Henry VIII) passion for extra toes.
Now man has built islands, giant sail-buildings, privately financed rockets and crystal stemware.
There is one form of tourism that is cheap, reliable and a wild ride. It doesn't require you to prep a picnic basket or bring helmets for the bike ride (happy) montage. I'm talking about looking within.
You don't need to look for Oedipal complexes, worry about having married your brother's wife (again with the Henry thing), or preoccupy yourself with the possible craving for fava beans (Clarice).
I did this myself. And came to several, if wildly unconnected and inconsequential conclusions so allow me yet another moment of self-indulgence.
-I physically hate black jelly beans. I like drawing a line connecting a scatterplot's data points. I write about what I know. I know very little so I write a lot. I drag on singly interesting points into interesting conversations. I have memories, both terrible and great that I wish never to forget. I question the silly things like the phrase "Down the rabbit hole". I inform people that the mad-hatter was mad because of the mercury in the hats' lining. I listen to songs obsessively. I can have the mind of a hipster and a pop-culture snob and a geek of the fourth dimension. Se habla espanhol.
Perhaps its that being home gives me a perspective that I sometimes lose. I like being grounded once in a while - taking the plane - or the ship as Romeo used to say - off of auto-pilot and braving the runway on my own.
It's an interview with the id? ego? superego?
The tourism industry was once the next big thing - and then bad stuff happened, we destroyed natural reserves, flights got expensive, awkward and generally hellish. I enjoy being felt up by a butch-looking security guard dreaming about Henry's (that's Henry VIII) passion for extra toes.
Now man has built islands, giant sail-buildings, privately financed rockets and crystal stemware.
There is one form of tourism that is cheap, reliable and a wild ride. It doesn't require you to prep a picnic basket or bring helmets for the bike ride (happy) montage. I'm talking about looking within.
You don't need to look for Oedipal complexes, worry about having married your brother's wife (again with the Henry thing), or preoccupy yourself with the possible craving for fava beans (Clarice).
I did this myself. And came to several, if wildly unconnected and inconsequential conclusions so allow me yet another moment of self-indulgence.
-I physically hate black jelly beans. I like drawing a line connecting a scatterplot's data points. I write about what I know. I know very little so I write a lot. I drag on singly interesting points into interesting conversations. I have memories, both terrible and great that I wish never to forget. I question the silly things like the phrase "Down the rabbit hole". I inform people that the mad-hatter was mad because of the mercury in the hats' lining. I listen to songs obsessively. I can have the mind of a hipster and a pop-culture snob and a geek of the fourth dimension. Se habla espanhol.
Perhaps its that being home gives me a perspective that I sometimes lose. I like being grounded once in a while - taking the plane - or the ship as Romeo used to say - off of auto-pilot and braving the runway on my own.
It's an interview with the id? ego? superego?
Friday, January 1, 2010
The Universe in a Pistachio Shell
I'm no physicist but I understand the basic idea behind Schrodingers cat and the relativity of time (both sci-fi and the real world's).
Now before I go on I suppose it would be expected that I write about 2010. About New Year hype and celebration. The year just started and we'll have 364 days to discuss the mysterious and inevitable crawl of time.
There is a principle that interests me regarding the relativity of time that requires no light-speed space ships or trance-inducing machines. There is no concern regarding me losing bone density in space or worrying about the one toilet breaking down. That's a true NASA catastrophe: the only bathroom up there and it breaks down you can't really try to sneak in to the local McDonald's.
The farther we get away from civilized society time gains a peculiarly slow drawl. You've experienced it when you go to the beach or out in the country? You might read, hike, swim, eat lunch, wonder about dinner and text with all your friends fearing you'll be left out because you're "out in the boonies" and all before 4pm.
Time in the city is never enough. The Upton's asphalt jungle eats away at time and space leaving me with a feeling that the 24 hour day is reduced to something more like 16 or 18 hours (numbers arbitrarily chosen after careful analysis).
So the goal this year is to simulate the forest inside the city. Not a park - a cheap substitute - but the environment.
And I have 11 other resolutions.
Now before I go on I suppose it would be expected that I write about 2010. About New Year hype and celebration. The year just started and we'll have 364 days to discuss the mysterious and inevitable crawl of time.
There is a principle that interests me regarding the relativity of time that requires no light-speed space ships or trance-inducing machines. There is no concern regarding me losing bone density in space or worrying about the one toilet breaking down. That's a true NASA catastrophe: the only bathroom up there and it breaks down you can't really try to sneak in to the local McDonald's.
The farther we get away from civilized society time gains a peculiarly slow drawl. You've experienced it when you go to the beach or out in the country? You might read, hike, swim, eat lunch, wonder about dinner and text with all your friends fearing you'll be left out because you're "out in the boonies" and all before 4pm.
Time in the city is never enough. The Upton's asphalt jungle eats away at time and space leaving me with a feeling that the 24 hour day is reduced to something more like 16 or 18 hours (numbers arbitrarily chosen after careful analysis).
So the goal this year is to simulate the forest inside the city. Not a park - a cheap substitute - but the environment.
And I have 11 other resolutions.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Mexican Politics
An institution based on the fair ideals of democracy, freedom and union. With laws created almost a hundred years ago to which we have only added. Not value unfortunately.
We are a country that is still to politically energized to hope for constant growth with a small deficit. A large portion of the population attempts to behave in a leftist manner without understanding the underlying masters like perhaps Marx and Engels once were. Instead the leftist movements here are relegated to the poorest, most uneducated parts of the country. Also the parts of the countries governed by formerly para-military black ops that have now gone rogue and chanced their names from Zetas to "the people".
And the young minds (hopefully bright) of the educated Mexican burgeoisie gather around a plate of soft bread, oil and vinegar and glasses of wine to talk. All the while looking over their shoulder to make sure no one from the wrong side of the tracks (read drug lords or wannabes alike) is taking offense. You don't want a grenade thrown at you or worse a tail later in the night.
They talk as the lights grow dim, the salad bar closes and more people trickle in to the restaurant for drinks. It's always the same disparate tone. It's frustrated and full of self-deprecating humor. Our politicians have the power to wield influence and money as they see fit. Nepotism is a mass produced dietary supplement.
The radio in the background breaks from salsa/cumbia adaptations of Beatles and Guns'n'Roses hits to allow for the government commercials. They tell the people (not The People from the U.S. Constitution but The People as in "la gente" from the Mexican forms) of all the great things they do. Of Singer's solution and how good it will be once it's done and set up. Huh, maybe I should make copies for the Senate. Talk about the Tanned Man's burden.
The evening wraps up and the girls who have not let go of their purses since they sat down work their way down that rabbit hole looking for cash to pay with. Plastic isn't all pervasive here yet. People still use money for their day to day transactions. Terminals are brought to the table if you do use a card to show you how much they're not going to try to steal your info. Whew, comfort, security.
The bill is paid. Hugs and kisses go all around and everyone parts each walking as non-chalantly as possible.
And I wonder what part of Mexican politics still makes sense. Why the change we often talk about isn't here and why we "aren't the change we want to see in the world".
We're afraid. And not the Coach Carter afraid. The I'm afraid-for-my-country-and-the-future-of-it afraid.
Afraid :)
We are a country that is still to politically energized to hope for constant growth with a small deficit. A large portion of the population attempts to behave in a leftist manner without understanding the underlying masters like perhaps Marx and Engels once were. Instead the leftist movements here are relegated to the poorest, most uneducated parts of the country. Also the parts of the countries governed by formerly para-military black ops that have now gone rogue and chanced their names from Zetas to "the people".
And the young minds (hopefully bright) of the educated Mexican burgeoisie gather around a plate of soft bread, oil and vinegar and glasses of wine to talk. All the while looking over their shoulder to make sure no one from the wrong side of the tracks (read drug lords or wannabes alike) is taking offense. You don't want a grenade thrown at you or worse a tail later in the night.
They talk as the lights grow dim, the salad bar closes and more people trickle in to the restaurant for drinks. It's always the same disparate tone. It's frustrated and full of self-deprecating humor. Our politicians have the power to wield influence and money as they see fit. Nepotism is a mass produced dietary supplement.
The radio in the background breaks from salsa/cumbia adaptations of Beatles and Guns'n'Roses hits to allow for the government commercials. They tell the people (not The People from the U.S. Constitution but The People as in "la gente" from the Mexican forms) of all the great things they do. Of Singer's solution and how good it will be once it's done and set up. Huh, maybe I should make copies for the Senate. Talk about the Tanned Man's burden.
The evening wraps up and the girls who have not let go of their purses since they sat down work their way down that rabbit hole looking for cash to pay with. Plastic isn't all pervasive here yet. People still use money for their day to day transactions. Terminals are brought to the table if you do use a card to show you how much they're not going to try to steal your info. Whew, comfort, security.
The bill is paid. Hugs and kisses go all around and everyone parts each walking as non-chalantly as possible.
And I wonder what part of Mexican politics still makes sense. Why the change we often talk about isn't here and why we "aren't the change we want to see in the world".
We're afraid. And not the Coach Carter afraid. The I'm afraid-for-my-country-and-the-future-of-it afraid.
Afraid :)
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Se habla espagnol
Me gusta pensar que escribo desde el exilio.
Pero la verdad es que esta maquina que uso, que me gustaria imaginarme que es una vieja maquina de escribir - del tipo en el que se atoran las teclas y la cinta se desgasta facilmente - me impide hasta el ligero placer de la egne.
Entonces calculo los beneficios y puntos adversos de escribir anos cuando me refiero al periodo de tiempo elapsado en 365 dias. Considero el problema que postula el decir "Papas comi" y convencer al lector que este humilde servidor no es un canibal sino alguien limitado por la dificultad de poner acentos en este teclado americano (estadounidense?).
Quizas sea los efectos de un dulce ponche de granada con nuez picada pero hoy determine algo que solo hoy me sentiria capaz de dictaminar. La gente grande -no, no los gigantes sino la gente vieja de alma y no de cuerpo - habla solamente de tres cosas: sus enfermedades que tuvieron, las enfermedades que se imaginan que tienen y sus nietos que se casan. De vez en vez tambien hablan de los muertos que pasan y los que vienen.
Hoy por segundo dia consecutivo platique con un pistolero. Un verdadero jefe de jefes (como la cancion) que en algun distante pasado bajo al cacique local del llano en llamas a punta de pistola. Y ahora le renta su rancho a una compania americana. Quien dijo que el capitalismo americano no existia en mexico o habia fallado?
Un hombre de casi 90 con la lucidez y vivacidad de uno de 60. El dice que el ponche es su ama bendita y entre codornices y moronga se nos fue la tarde en escuchar sus historias.
De esas gentes de antagno que le dicen a los doctores medico.
Me gusta el pasado cuando vive frente a mis ojos. Las memorias un reliquio, y mas si de trasfondo se encuentra un bosque de pinos, de camino hay una carretera que mezcla la terraceria, el empedrado y una carretera federal que esta 2/3.
Y de postre un taco de frijoles.
Pero la verdad es que esta maquina que uso, que me gustaria imaginarme que es una vieja maquina de escribir - del tipo en el que se atoran las teclas y la cinta se desgasta facilmente - me impide hasta el ligero placer de la egne.
Entonces calculo los beneficios y puntos adversos de escribir anos cuando me refiero al periodo de tiempo elapsado en 365 dias. Considero el problema que postula el decir "Papas comi" y convencer al lector que este humilde servidor no es un canibal sino alguien limitado por la dificultad de poner acentos en este teclado americano (estadounidense?).
Quizas sea los efectos de un dulce ponche de granada con nuez picada pero hoy determine algo que solo hoy me sentiria capaz de dictaminar. La gente grande -no, no los gigantes sino la gente vieja de alma y no de cuerpo - habla solamente de tres cosas: sus enfermedades que tuvieron, las enfermedades que se imaginan que tienen y sus nietos que se casan. De vez en vez tambien hablan de los muertos que pasan y los que vienen.
Hoy por segundo dia consecutivo platique con un pistolero. Un verdadero jefe de jefes (como la cancion) que en algun distante pasado bajo al cacique local del llano en llamas a punta de pistola. Y ahora le renta su rancho a una compania americana. Quien dijo que el capitalismo americano no existia en mexico o habia fallado?
Un hombre de casi 90 con la lucidez y vivacidad de uno de 60. El dice que el ponche es su ama bendita y entre codornices y moronga se nos fue la tarde en escuchar sus historias.
De esas gentes de antagno que le dicen a los doctores medico.
Me gusta el pasado cuando vive frente a mis ojos. Las memorias un reliquio, y mas si de trasfondo se encuentra un bosque de pinos, de camino hay una carretera que mezcla la terraceria, el empedrado y una carretera federal que esta 2/3.
Y de postre un taco de frijoles.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Finally a love story with a (not so) happy ending
Romantic comedies are pretty up there as far as landmark achievements of our generations. Right alongside teriyaki sauce and crocodile tears.
An even more improved version of them is the subtle mix of a guy flick and a romantic comedy. Think Wedding Crashers and/or Mean Girls and maybe the Ugly Truth?. Either of them include the same predictable series of corny stories and predictable twists along with sufficient guy humor to function. Toss in a couple of drinking scenes and a well backed montage and two very enjoyable hours are to be had.
Assuming you even watch the movie.
But the inherent problem with them is the happy ending. Escapism works only to a point. We stop believing the cheap stucco facade sold by the mass media (listen to me sound like an angry zealot).
I just spent the afternoon talking to a man, a former pistolero, who believes in everything from spiritual entities (evil ones of course, the kind that feed on our life energy) to U.F.O.s. He capped his whole story - one that included a treasure hunt into which he fell into some sort of trance as he was possessed by the treasure's owner - by claiming that it was a dangerous to believe in everything.
That it was just as hard for a mind to be open to the possibility of believing as it was for a mind to remain open to the possibility of not believing. Interesting.
He then talked about blue people. And we discussed what I thought was simply the height of computer science with perfect geometries and a basic story line with the usual values present in the softer side of human nature. He talked of the orient and philosophies that I'd once read about in bits and pieces of Lieh Tzu. It made sense, right down to the symbolism in their tattoos.
These screen writers and authors are getting too good.
So I believe, if only for 120 minutes, the lies carefully disguised as an alternate truth. Kavalier and Clay certainly channeled this sort of thought and energy into a superhero before this. But Autumn and Summer proved to me that these realities often come closer to depicting our own reality than is comfortable.
My name is Tom. And 500 now means something to me.
An even more improved version of them is the subtle mix of a guy flick and a romantic comedy. Think Wedding Crashers and/or Mean Girls and maybe the Ugly Truth?. Either of them include the same predictable series of corny stories and predictable twists along with sufficient guy humor to function. Toss in a couple of drinking scenes and a well backed montage and two very enjoyable hours are to be had.
Assuming you even watch the movie.
But the inherent problem with them is the happy ending. Escapism works only to a point. We stop believing the cheap stucco facade sold by the mass media (listen to me sound like an angry zealot).
I just spent the afternoon talking to a man, a former pistolero, who believes in everything from spiritual entities (evil ones of course, the kind that feed on our life energy) to U.F.O.s. He capped his whole story - one that included a treasure hunt into which he fell into some sort of trance as he was possessed by the treasure's owner - by claiming that it was a dangerous to believe in everything.
That it was just as hard for a mind to be open to the possibility of believing as it was for a mind to remain open to the possibility of not believing. Interesting.
He then talked about blue people. And we discussed what I thought was simply the height of computer science with perfect geometries and a basic story line with the usual values present in the softer side of human nature. He talked of the orient and philosophies that I'd once read about in bits and pieces of Lieh Tzu. It made sense, right down to the symbolism in their tattoos.
These screen writers and authors are getting too good.
So I believe, if only for 120 minutes, the lies carefully disguised as an alternate truth. Kavalier and Clay certainly channeled this sort of thought and energy into a superhero before this. But Autumn and Summer proved to me that these realities often come closer to depicting our own reality than is comfortable.
My name is Tom. And 500 now means something to me.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Responsorial Psalm
I'm coming from a rat and squirrel high induced by the celebration of Christmas in a catholic country and the historical licences taken by a man I finally see as a genius. Kill Jack part one and two never did it for me.
To spark thought is a writer's greatest achievement.
--
My thoughts on abejas doradas (though not really a reply).
Spanish poetry is filled with sadness of people awkwardly reinventing their identity. Even now. From a Peninsula known for great cathedrals, famous banishment of entire cultures and cultural assimilation to politically strong-willed countries who fail to realize that their uncomfortably p.c. status as the second world will remain so until we grow politically tired.
That is neither a comment on their quality of character or prose. Both of which depict a sometimes terribly melancholic past.
A great English teacher of mine and I once engaged in a conversation regarding peace. Octavio PAZ i should say. Paz argued in his masterpiece that Mexicans (and through extension all formerly conquered countries of the explorador/conquistador kind) are the product of la chingada or rape. The problem is that we have taken this thesis to heart though it didn't come through the same literary channels for all. For some it came through cheap government propaganda that would make the author of a little red book cringe. Now we sit back and use it as an excuse for mediocrity. That's why I listen to the reality once depicted by Jaime Sabines.
My thoughts on the new Samsonite travel bag.
While I agree that rational thought is often too much of an ideal, I do think travelling with a toothbrush in your back pocket and a double sided jacket is a good ideal if only because it lets you free to do a lot of shopping at your destination of choice. To even further my otherwise over-extended analogy, I travel with carry-on only means that I have some but I work hard at allowing the possibility of the future to jump in fron tof me at all time.
To be devoid of baggage might, I agree, indicate a lack of emotional connection which can be disturbing at best. No body wants a machine (except that guy from "Say Hi to Your Mom" who was "In love with an android but so what?").
--
As a final parting thought I would like to point out that my writing for the next couple of weeks is written from exile (from which of the two countries I currently limbo between I'm not quite sure). There's a place in Dante's paradise for people like me. And I'm sure Moore (Chris not Sicko) could include satirical elements in his next overly enjoyable piece.
To spark thought is a writer's greatest achievement.
--
My thoughts on abejas doradas (though not really a reply).
Spanish poetry is filled with sadness of people awkwardly reinventing their identity. Even now. From a Peninsula known for great cathedrals, famous banishment of entire cultures and cultural assimilation to politically strong-willed countries who fail to realize that their uncomfortably p.c. status as the second world will remain so until we grow politically tired.
That is neither a comment on their quality of character or prose. Both of which depict a sometimes terribly melancholic past.
A great English teacher of mine and I once engaged in a conversation regarding peace. Octavio PAZ i should say. Paz argued in his masterpiece that Mexicans (and through extension all formerly conquered countries of the explorador/conquistador kind) are the product of la chingada or rape. The problem is that we have taken this thesis to heart though it didn't come through the same literary channels for all. For some it came through cheap government propaganda that would make the author of a little red book cringe. Now we sit back and use it as an excuse for mediocrity. That's why I listen to the reality once depicted by Jaime Sabines.
My thoughts on the new Samsonite travel bag.
While I agree that rational thought is often too much of an ideal, I do think travelling with a toothbrush in your back pocket and a double sided jacket is a good ideal if only because it lets you free to do a lot of shopping at your destination of choice. To even further my otherwise over-extended analogy, I travel with carry-on only means that I have some but I work hard at allowing the possibility of the future to jump in fron tof me at all time.
To be devoid of baggage might, I agree, indicate a lack of emotional connection which can be disturbing at best. No body wants a machine (except that guy from "Say Hi to Your Mom" who was "In love with an android but so what?").
--
As a final parting thought I would like to point out that my writing for the next couple of weeks is written from exile (from which of the two countries I currently limbo between I'm not quite sure). There's a place in Dante's paradise for people like me. And I'm sure Moore (Chris not Sicko) could include satirical elements in his next overly enjoyable piece.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Baggage Check?
20yearolds are at an awkward stage in life. We're the young adults. The future generation they spoke of. Our whole life ahead of us. Ok, maybe like 4/5ths.
We're moving past the relationships (<3)) we had as children and moving into the interesting world of dating and seriousness. Relationships that involve more than standing awkwardly side by side in a gym/cafeteria with the lights on dim and a DJ and telling each other - in detail - what they did that day.
So, um, today, this morning, like I um, woke up right? (No!) And then, like Amy called and I was like Amy gurrrrrl how you livin'? Right? (Are you sure this happened honey?) And the like my mom drove me to school and i was like sad or something because we ran out of frosty mini wheats (Dayum, I was hoping you'd bring some) but then I like saw you and it totally cleared away.... And this was all before home room.
And yet this stage of our lives still hangs on to the feelings developed during these relationships. I'll admit that sometimes these relationships turn into sweet stories that are more a coming of age tale than anything. That is of course if we forget that the "coming of age" construct is a relatively recent one.
I've seen children say I love you and mean it.
I've seen adults say I love you and lie through their teeth.
My problem is that it gets in the way. It stops people from seeking perfectly happy solutions to problems that shouldn't even be there. A healthy budding relationship has been cut short because "there's this thing with a guy/girl from back home". A THING?
A person you see two, maybe three times a year, whom with there is no formal relationship, whom with there is always an awkward moment when you greet because you dont know if you can/should go in for the kill, is not a thing.
My dear friends, what's difficult for me to understand or explain is how you could still think you are in love with someone who no longer exists. These are the years of revelations and epiphanies. That person is not the same from back then.
I fly with carry-on only.
We're moving past the relationships (<3)) we had as children and moving into the interesting world of dating and seriousness. Relationships that involve more than standing awkwardly side by side in a gym/cafeteria with the lights on dim and a DJ and telling each other - in detail - what they did that day.
So, um, today, this morning, like I um, woke up right? (No!) And then, like Amy called and I was like Amy gurrrrrl how you livin'? Right? (Are you sure this happened honey?) And the like my mom drove me to school and i was like sad or something because we ran out of frosty mini wheats (Dayum, I was hoping you'd bring some) but then I like saw you and it totally cleared away.... And this was all before home room.
And yet this stage of our lives still hangs on to the feelings developed during these relationships. I'll admit that sometimes these relationships turn into sweet stories that are more a coming of age tale than anything. That is of course if we forget that the "coming of age" construct is a relatively recent one.
I've seen children say I love you and mean it.
I've seen adults say I love you and lie through their teeth.
My problem is that it gets in the way. It stops people from seeking perfectly happy solutions to problems that shouldn't even be there. A healthy budding relationship has been cut short because "there's this thing with a guy/girl from back home". A THING?
A person you see two, maybe three times a year, whom with there is no formal relationship, whom with there is always an awkward moment when you greet because you dont know if you can/should go in for the kill, is not a thing.
My dear friends, what's difficult for me to understand or explain is how you could still think you are in love with someone who no longer exists. These are the years of revelations and epiphanies. That person is not the same from back then.
I fly with carry-on only.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Poems (Haikus, Sonnets, the works)
I've told my friends life is good in retrospect.
I'll elaborate, all in due time of course.
The power of irrational thought - sways, nudges, insanity - has been covered in a variety of texts (Sway, Nudge) and schools of thoughts (mental asylums).
In third person:
He chose a school that wasn't his first choice. Even when his first choice was a viable option. He chose to eat the last turkey leg even though it had been over ten seconds since his brain had first informed him his stomach was full. He continued playing that championship basketball game through the pain of his broken fingers (WORK THROUGH THE PAIN!).
He was a silly man. Human at best. Humans are such the best.
He's carried on with his puerile existence absorbing random facts and acts of kindness as he goes along. I've never ceased to be amazed at their capacity to connect tangent. These, um, humans, carry on in conversation for hours exploring a gamut of emotions and topics in the most perfect circular of fashions.
In the question of what came first, the chicken or the egg, the answer is that a circle has no beginning or end. Every one of us knows that. They've obviously yet to learn that.
And they carry on. And god how they write. It started out with the fastest and oldest of them scribbling away in dark, dimly lit quarters with flickering candles and the sound of matins being sung in the background. We learned that from Follet - his historical accounts, obviously fictional, were essential in providing us with understanding about the pillars of his kind.
Then it was a man. Or a woman? God how they enjoy confusing us. He wrote sonnets and stories of human nature in the shallow guise of drama or comedy. We enjoyed those thoroughly.
And then came a woman. They cover her in the movies now very often. They interpret her on stage, write adaptations of her work and even make films just about her. We'd seen this latter phenomenon before but never in this fashion. Not a documentary, a confusing account about the made up story of some potentially real situation in which they look up to her. We have decided, as a race that she wrote their manual on teasing and flirting. It's all about the teasing and not about the pleasing as some of their "ironic" tv shows put it.
Somehow this one kid enthralls me. Call him a kid, ha! A young adult playing at being bigger than himself. I understand his expressions and mannerisms. He drinks tea because he believes in waiting (learned that from the Germans). He writes out of frustration but he calls it creative inspiration. His family is small. Just him, his parents and his friends.
And he questions poetry. Or the form behind the poetry. And prose, or the ideas trapped within the prose. And yet he sits waiting.
--
Sometimes, just sometimes I take an out of body experience so see how things are really like.
It's usually scary.
I'll elaborate, all in due time of course.
The power of irrational thought - sways, nudges, insanity - has been covered in a variety of texts (Sway, Nudge) and schools of thoughts (mental asylums).
In third person:
He chose a school that wasn't his first choice. Even when his first choice was a viable option. He chose to eat the last turkey leg even though it had been over ten seconds since his brain had first informed him his stomach was full. He continued playing that championship basketball game through the pain of his broken fingers (WORK THROUGH THE PAIN!).
He was a silly man. Human at best. Humans are such the best.
He's carried on with his puerile existence absorbing random facts and acts of kindness as he goes along. I've never ceased to be amazed at their capacity to connect tangent. These, um, humans, carry on in conversation for hours exploring a gamut of emotions and topics in the most perfect circular of fashions.
In the question of what came first, the chicken or the egg, the answer is that a circle has no beginning or end. Every one of us knows that. They've obviously yet to learn that.
And they carry on. And god how they write. It started out with the fastest and oldest of them scribbling away in dark, dimly lit quarters with flickering candles and the sound of matins being sung in the background. We learned that from Follet - his historical accounts, obviously fictional, were essential in providing us with understanding about the pillars of his kind.
Then it was a man. Or a woman? God how they enjoy confusing us. He wrote sonnets and stories of human nature in the shallow guise of drama or comedy. We enjoyed those thoroughly.
And then came a woman. They cover her in the movies now very often. They interpret her on stage, write adaptations of her work and even make films just about her. We'd seen this latter phenomenon before but never in this fashion. Not a documentary, a confusing account about the made up story of some potentially real situation in which they look up to her. We have decided, as a race that she wrote their manual on teasing and flirting. It's all about the teasing and not about the pleasing as some of their "ironic" tv shows put it.
Somehow this one kid enthralls me. Call him a kid, ha! A young adult playing at being bigger than himself. I understand his expressions and mannerisms. He drinks tea because he believes in waiting (learned that from the Germans). He writes out of frustration but he calls it creative inspiration. His family is small. Just him, his parents and his friends.
And he questions poetry. Or the form behind the poetry. And prose, or the ideas trapped within the prose. And yet he sits waiting.
--
Sometimes, just sometimes I take an out of body experience so see how things are really like.
It's usually scary.
Fw:
I like walking on the outside. I like opening doors and pulling the chair for a girl. Yes, I believe chivalry is not dead but very well alive in a small sect of guys called gentleman (not to be confused with gentiles).
We have an easy battle. We often find ourselves on the battlefield metaphorically fighting against sloppy fratty jock of yesteryear with no sense of personal space or personal hygiene. You'd think it an easy fight.
It's easier for most guys not to make a move. On any given night a guy - and yes I speak solely from my gender's perspective for I write what I know yadiyadiyada - looking for "some" (some might call it hunting) can and will get some. Add liquid courage and be willing to lower your standards enough the possibilities are endless. So why try?
And yes girls will complain that all guys are like that. That we suck. That we have no idea how good a kiss might be if there's more than just raw physical need intertwined in that lip-locking. That all we are looking for is a warm body and willing lips. That it feels awful to go to a party just to have some random but hopefully friendly looking stranger grind up against them.
We know.
There's nothing to it.
I'm not trying to place blame. Far from it. A mon avis, the blame lies mostly on my gender.
In any given social interaction I know I'm expected to make the move. Ask the girl out, place my head just close enough so that she knows I'm going in for the kiss, hold her hand in public, etc. But for once I'd like her to do that instead.
Call me upside down, backward, crazy or whatever appropriately self-deprecating adjective you can attach but feminism happened. Or is happening.
A girl who is forward is often seen as aggressive and domineering. It's also a great aphrodisiac.
I know high strung ambitious women in charge of everything in their life who fall apart over a boy. They want a boy to take control over that part of their life. God bless their hearts they try really hard to be happy. Try is an operative word there.
A guy who likes a girl will move the world to see her. No excuses. Mohammed is the girl and the mountain is us. We will move mountains for the girl we like because in our minds, as cro-magnian as the other gender may see us, we have already determined if there will ever be anything else between us and you.
So be forward. I still think a guy has a right to ask the girl. Stand outside her bedroom window sitting on the hood of your car blasting music from an old boom box. Classic. But girls have that right too.
The next time you hate on us remember.
The male gender is still one of the top two genders on this planet.
We have an easy battle. We often find ourselves on the battlefield metaphorically fighting against sloppy fratty jock of yesteryear with no sense of personal space or personal hygiene. You'd think it an easy fight.
It's easier for most guys not to make a move. On any given night a guy - and yes I speak solely from my gender's perspective for I write what I know yadiyadiyada - looking for "some" (some might call it hunting) can and will get some. Add liquid courage and be willing to lower your standards enough the possibilities are endless. So why try?
And yes girls will complain that all guys are like that. That we suck. That we have no idea how good a kiss might be if there's more than just raw physical need intertwined in that lip-locking. That all we are looking for is a warm body and willing lips. That it feels awful to go to a party just to have some random but hopefully friendly looking stranger grind up against them.
We know.
There's nothing to it.
I'm not trying to place blame. Far from it. A mon avis, the blame lies mostly on my gender.
In any given social interaction I know I'm expected to make the move. Ask the girl out, place my head just close enough so that she knows I'm going in for the kiss, hold her hand in public, etc. But for once I'd like her to do that instead.
Call me upside down, backward, crazy or whatever appropriately self-deprecating adjective you can attach but feminism happened. Or is happening.
A girl who is forward is often seen as aggressive and domineering. It's also a great aphrodisiac.
I know high strung ambitious women in charge of everything in their life who fall apart over a boy. They want a boy to take control over that part of their life. God bless their hearts they try really hard to be happy. Try is an operative word there.
A guy who likes a girl will move the world to see her. No excuses. Mohammed is the girl and the mountain is us. We will move mountains for the girl we like because in our minds, as cro-magnian as the other gender may see us, we have already determined if there will ever be anything else between us and you.
So be forward. I still think a guy has a right to ask the girl. Stand outside her bedroom window sitting on the hood of your car blasting music from an old boom box. Classic. But girls have that right too.
The next time you hate on us remember.
The male gender is still one of the top two genders on this planet.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Phi Beta Kappa
I like to have books and essays recommended to me. Sometimes the pieces are recommended based on what my friends and/or family see as something I should read/like/appreciate. Sometimes the recommendation is based on similarity of style or theme. Sometimes it's just for the sake of having something to say.
Whatever the reason, I love it. I do the same. I consider myself a Golda of pairings. I like to put person a and b together if I think they're a match. I have an album full of mental pictures I've engraved into my mind when I introduce someone to a new type of music that I've guessed they'll love. Even my family's approving nods when they realize that I've chosen the right pairing of beef and protein for tonights dinner.
I don't believe in direct responses. In writing I have the luxury of beating around the bush, dangling the carrot in front of a literary horse. For I enjoy the simple pleasures of teasing. A quick, hungry look followed by complete ignorance. Perhaps a soft graze seeming almost accidental. I hint at things to come without actually saying it. It's difficult I'll admit and I'm not always successful so bear with me gentle reader.
Have you ever deduced something you had no way of knowing? Had your brain put together small tidbits of information and had it click without you even realizing how or why? Or notice a word you just recently learned pop into everything you read or do? How about identifying someone you've never seen?
It's how I come up with new definitions. How I invent and reinvent my thoughts into ever changing streams of consciousness.
So let me define the pack. The initial image is Buck circling within a picket of crazed dogs. In this image I am the sleeping man a couple of hundred feet away perfectly oblivious to what's happening on my camp.
The pack is a life-line. A place where a happy trekker keeps his water, trail-mix, and a compass. So as not to get lost of course.
While getting a man into the Senate or Congress costs a lot of money, keeping a man in Congress requires little to no effort. The beauty of politically tired countries is that things don't change very much from term to term or person to person. It's one of the greatest investments you can make (incumbency rate of 95%). These are leaders of a pack (a country).
The pack as a country is that its made up of an unwillingly unchosen multitude. Who's to be the leader then?
And then the problem of cliques arise, and coalitions and parties with vested and opposing interests in a wide variety of outcomes. Things stop being about delegation and about leadership.
So what's in a pack?
Whatever the reason, I love it. I do the same. I consider myself a Golda of pairings. I like to put person a and b together if I think they're a match. I have an album full of mental pictures I've engraved into my mind when I introduce someone to a new type of music that I've guessed they'll love. Even my family's approving nods when they realize that I've chosen the right pairing of beef and protein for tonights dinner.
I don't believe in direct responses. In writing I have the luxury of beating around the bush, dangling the carrot in front of a literary horse. For I enjoy the simple pleasures of teasing. A quick, hungry look followed by complete ignorance. Perhaps a soft graze seeming almost accidental. I hint at things to come without actually saying it. It's difficult I'll admit and I'm not always successful so bear with me gentle reader.
Have you ever deduced something you had no way of knowing? Had your brain put together small tidbits of information and had it click without you even realizing how or why? Or notice a word you just recently learned pop into everything you read or do? How about identifying someone you've never seen?
It's how I come up with new definitions. How I invent and reinvent my thoughts into ever changing streams of consciousness.
So let me define the pack. The initial image is Buck circling within a picket of crazed dogs. In this image I am the sleeping man a couple of hundred feet away perfectly oblivious to what's happening on my camp.
The pack is a life-line. A place where a happy trekker keeps his water, trail-mix, and a compass. So as not to get lost of course.
While getting a man into the Senate or Congress costs a lot of money, keeping a man in Congress requires little to no effort. The beauty of politically tired countries is that things don't change very much from term to term or person to person. It's one of the greatest investments you can make (incumbency rate of 95%). These are leaders of a pack (a country).
The pack as a country is that its made up of an unwillingly unchosen multitude. Who's to be the leader then?
And then the problem of cliques arise, and coalitions and parties with vested and opposing interests in a wide variety of outcomes. Things stop being about delegation and about leadership.
So what's in a pack?
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Self-Worth
Thousands of kids apply to the University of Pennsylvania every year fretting about scores, grades and extracurriculars. Don't worry, this isn't a sad sob story of how I didn't get in. Allow me to be cocky for a second.
I attend school with 10,000 undergrads, most of them smart, some, even brilliant.
And I've had the pleasure of working with them into the late hours of the night coding and decoding, writing proofs that seem redundant and looking over marketing reports trying to deduce what the next big step in computing will be. It's smartphone operating systems and what they will contribute to cloud computing btw.
I also attend Wharton. A school within a school is an interesting concept but not the subject matter of this discussion.
The Wharton Undergraduate division is a model toy of an MBA education. With grade non-disclosure and a strong cohort system, the Wharton MBA program affords (for a small fortune of course) some of the brightest business-minded beings in the world an opportunity to network. Sometimes they even learn a thing or two (I know. I've seen them in class with my own eyes).
Wharton undergrad is an attempt to replicate this. Your social capital is worth as much as the brains you may have or claim to have. There are brilliant people in Wharton.
I also attend the Engineering school - SEAS. We don't have a proper name so call us Penn-gineers.
An undervalued school to be sure. We have great professors, are nationally ranked in a variety of departments and world class labs. Even a building shaped and colored like a chloroplast. A little too much negative space for my taste.
In both schools the problem is not the quality of mind but the employment of the mind.
The leader of the pack here is definitely not the smartest guy or girl. It's the individual that capitalizes on his/her self-worth and uses it to his/her advantage. It's definitely not meant to be a negative thing. Capitalizing on what you know and who you know is something both business school (come to our Networking event!!) and the engineering school (CIS 112: a Networked Life) teach and preach. The leader of the pack knows that his/her best bet is to surround the persona created about him with those of equal or greater brilliance or cunning as it may apply. Think of a president's cabinet or a famous artist's army of reps/legal counsel/agents.
Gladwell would call them Linkers. So would technical management lore.
Half of the battle is knowing how to use your brain. How to best exploit your skills and areas of expertise is a lesson best learned young. It has been said before that practice is worth more than inherent talent.
Gladwell would call it the 10,000 hour journey.
Those who are personable are often times the ones that manage to make it big. Given, this usually correlates with an arbitrarily measure of high IQ but it requires being personable. Fortune 500 CEOs, Presidents and student leaders alike all have to combine these traits. It's not a choice. Without it there's nothing left but brains. The body cannot live without the brain. Without it we are reduced to being geeks or smart kids who don't know how to communicate their knowledge. Think of the Macbook air and ignore all possible negative thoughts that come from its image. It wouldn't be half the product it is if Jobs hadn't pulled it out of a paper envelope.
Things do not exist in the vacuum of our mind. A medium is key and that's what our leaders get. They might not be genius but they are genial and they know how to infuse their energy and life into those around them. That's what makes them.
It's all about self-worth. A combination of mind and soul(read people skills).
I attend school with 10,000 undergrads, most of them smart, some, even brilliant.
And I've had the pleasure of working with them into the late hours of the night coding and decoding, writing proofs that seem redundant and looking over marketing reports trying to deduce what the next big step in computing will be. It's smartphone operating systems and what they will contribute to cloud computing btw.
I also attend Wharton. A school within a school is an interesting concept but not the subject matter of this discussion.
The Wharton Undergraduate division is a model toy of an MBA education. With grade non-disclosure and a strong cohort system, the Wharton MBA program affords (for a small fortune of course) some of the brightest business-minded beings in the world an opportunity to network. Sometimes they even learn a thing or two (I know. I've seen them in class with my own eyes).
Wharton undergrad is an attempt to replicate this. Your social capital is worth as much as the brains you may have or claim to have. There are brilliant people in Wharton.
I also attend the Engineering school - SEAS. We don't have a proper name so call us Penn-gineers.
An undervalued school to be sure. We have great professors, are nationally ranked in a variety of departments and world class labs. Even a building shaped and colored like a chloroplast. A little too much negative space for my taste.
In both schools the problem is not the quality of mind but the employment of the mind.
The leader of the pack here is definitely not the smartest guy or girl. It's the individual that capitalizes on his/her self-worth and uses it to his/her advantage. It's definitely not meant to be a negative thing. Capitalizing on what you know and who you know is something both business school (come to our Networking event!!) and the engineering school (CIS 112: a Networked Life) teach and preach. The leader of the pack knows that his/her best bet is to surround the persona created about him with those of equal or greater brilliance or cunning as it may apply. Think of a president's cabinet or a famous artist's army of reps/legal counsel/agents.
Gladwell would call them Linkers. So would technical management lore.
Half of the battle is knowing how to use your brain. How to best exploit your skills and areas of expertise is a lesson best learned young. It has been said before that practice is worth more than inherent talent.
Gladwell would call it the 10,000 hour journey.
Those who are personable are often times the ones that manage to make it big. Given, this usually correlates with an arbitrarily measure of high IQ but it requires being personable. Fortune 500 CEOs, Presidents and student leaders alike all have to combine these traits. It's not a choice. Without it there's nothing left but brains. The body cannot live without the brain. Without it we are reduced to being geeks or smart kids who don't know how to communicate their knowledge. Think of the Macbook air and ignore all possible negative thoughts that come from its image. It wouldn't be half the product it is if Jobs hadn't pulled it out of a paper envelope.
Things do not exist in the vacuum of our mind. A medium is key and that's what our leaders get. They might not be genius but they are genial and they know how to infuse their energy and life into those around them. That's what makes them.
It's all about self-worth. A combination of mind and soul(read people skills).
Fe(Male) Relationships
Something to notice: the word relationships IS in the title - you can start worrying.
Let me begin with bromantic relationships. Validated by society, movies like Wedding Crashers ("Maybe it is creepy that a...promised his best friend he would never spend another birthday by himself. Yeah, that might fall under the category of creep") and the obvious I love you, Man ("Bromontana, Jobin, Tycho Bro-he"), we have been free to involve ourselves in these relationships full of brove. Some people drink vrodka now.
Interestingly enough, even the most relationship averse guys will enjoy their bro-s.
Historically this was the relationship cultivated when the ladies would play cards in the drawing room (women were and for the most part been more advanced in the field of human relationships. This is where the idea of best friends started). The men would go elsewhere, the library perhaps, and have neat scotch and smoke fine cigars. They would all laugh, discuss the business of being men then awkwardly shake hands good bye.
No more! Now we hug, pat on the back and ruffle the hair. Prolong contact for as long as possible, no drinks or cigars for an excuse (now they're just there, they've ceased being the excuse) and we'll talk. Share our fears and desires. We can share secrets (Guys, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas ok? Ok??? Dear god my wife CAN'T find out) and keep them.
And yet somehow my gender, and increasingly more the female gender as well fears the word relationship. They are all relationships.
Especially in college, people will hook-up, go on dates which they'll call casual outings with friends, hang out an inordinate amount of time but still maintain they are not in a relationship. All the while, one or two of the parties involved will develop feelings but maintain that they do not exist. They will never have THE conversation though the situation will merit it. They will maintain that all is well in their "thing".
This is the ways things are they say. I don't want the attachment. I don't want to be committed. She'd be such a drag as a girlfriend dude. We don't need to have the conversation dude. She said she was ok with things like this.
Let me clarify a couple of things
a) Human beings are dense only if they are allowed to be dense. The same way we can only get away with the things others let us get away with.
b) Deep down all human beings crave a deeper emotional connection with someone (save serial killers and even they have families)
c) Being afraid of relationships is ok but you also need to face your fears, especially the irrational ones (like the boogie man).
Wear your heart on your sleeve. It hurts like hell but it's always worth the ride.
Let me begin with bromantic relationships. Validated by society, movies like Wedding Crashers ("Maybe it is creepy that a...promised his best friend he would never spend another birthday by himself. Yeah, that might fall under the category of creep") and the obvious I love you, Man ("Bromontana, Jobin, Tycho Bro-he"), we have been free to involve ourselves in these relationships full of brove. Some people drink vrodka now.
Interestingly enough, even the most relationship averse guys will enjoy their bro-s.
Historically this was the relationship cultivated when the ladies would play cards in the drawing room (women were and for the most part been more advanced in the field of human relationships. This is where the idea of best friends started). The men would go elsewhere, the library perhaps, and have neat scotch and smoke fine cigars. They would all laugh, discuss the business of being men then awkwardly shake hands good bye.
No more! Now we hug, pat on the back and ruffle the hair. Prolong contact for as long as possible, no drinks or cigars for an excuse (now they're just there, they've ceased being the excuse) and we'll talk. Share our fears and desires. We can share secrets (Guys, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas ok? Ok??? Dear god my wife CAN'T find out) and keep them.
And yet somehow my gender, and increasingly more the female gender as well fears the word relationship. They are all relationships.
Especially in college, people will hook-up, go on dates which they'll call casual outings with friends, hang out an inordinate amount of time but still maintain they are not in a relationship. All the while, one or two of the parties involved will develop feelings but maintain that they do not exist. They will never have THE conversation though the situation will merit it. They will maintain that all is well in their "thing".
This is the ways things are they say. I don't want the attachment. I don't want to be committed. She'd be such a drag as a girlfriend dude. We don't need to have the conversation dude. She said she was ok with things like this.
Let me clarify a couple of things
a) Human beings are dense only if they are allowed to be dense. The same way we can only get away with the things others let us get away with.
b) Deep down all human beings crave a deeper emotional connection with someone (save serial killers and even they have families)
c) Being afraid of relationships is ok but you also need to face your fears, especially the irrational ones (like the boogie man).
Wear your heart on your sleeve. It hurts like hell but it's always worth the ride.
Dear School Newspaper
A nickel for your thoughts.
The school newspaper is an institution established over a 100 years ago. It is a great example of what student drive and ambition can achieve. I respect this dearly.
A year ago a student at the University of Pennsylvania was vivisected by the school newspaper. In what they displayed as journalism they proceeded to slander his name in one of the arguably most biased pieces of pseudo-writing they have ever published. They apparently forgot - like most public media outlets do - that in America you are INNOCENT until proven guilty.
We wrote a letter to the editor regarding the unilateral attack that the article mounted. The obvious question was - of the many people quoted in the article for an opinion (almost, if not all negative character references), why were none of them his fraternity brothers? The people who probably knew him best.
If you push the matter you get silence in return. They probably have non-committal expressions to divert the subject. Make you forget all together. They are bound by journalistic integrity. This I respect. I "get" confidential information.
My doubt as to why the paper went silent after that article was published is still on my mind.
We are told that letters to the editors are published based on the intelligence of the argument, the appropriateness of language and thought provoking qualities.
The man who wrote that letter was a near 4.0 GPA ivy league student who went on to Law School. Usually the kind of person who can produce a cogent line of thought. He is also one of the smartest people I have ever met.
It the secrecy surrounding the topic is related to the eventual outcome of that article's accusation. They're clairvoyant you see? How can we compete with this?
We are told to get a letter to the editor published, a valid point must be raised. And yet they set a precedent that is big brotherish at best. Silence.
As an independent institution within the university they act with considerable autonomy. Attached is a whole lot legal responsibility. The staff would do well to remember though that to those to whom much is given, much is expected.
We are also told that an outright attack to the DP will not be published. I wouldn't expect them to and I am not bothered by this. It is a logical move and no one would expect them to do so. I don't think an outright attack would be in order.
I like the DP. I read it everyday. It has funny pieces, covers Penn Athletics, includes some worldly news articles and has some insightful editorials. What I am talking about is not meant to be an attack but a comment on the practices some, perhaps rogue writers/editors may have followed in the past. The idea is to provoke thought, to wake the silent majority.
And these thoughts are all part of a technically not off-the-record conversations.
Your move DP.
The school newspaper is an institution established over a 100 years ago. It is a great example of what student drive and ambition can achieve. I respect this dearly.
A year ago a student at the University of Pennsylvania was vivisected by the school newspaper. In what they displayed as journalism they proceeded to slander his name in one of the arguably most biased pieces of pseudo-writing they have ever published. They apparently forgot - like most public media outlets do - that in America you are INNOCENT until proven guilty.
We wrote a letter to the editor regarding the unilateral attack that the article mounted. The obvious question was - of the many people quoted in the article for an opinion (almost, if not all negative character references), why were none of them his fraternity brothers? The people who probably knew him best.
If you push the matter you get silence in return. They probably have non-committal expressions to divert the subject. Make you forget all together. They are bound by journalistic integrity. This I respect. I "get" confidential information.
My doubt as to why the paper went silent after that article was published is still on my mind.
We are told that letters to the editors are published based on the intelligence of the argument, the appropriateness of language and thought provoking qualities.
The man who wrote that letter was a near 4.0 GPA ivy league student who went on to Law School. Usually the kind of person who can produce a cogent line of thought. He is also one of the smartest people I have ever met.
It the secrecy surrounding the topic is related to the eventual outcome of that article's accusation. They're clairvoyant you see? How can we compete with this?
We are told to get a letter to the editor published, a valid point must be raised. And yet they set a precedent that is big brotherish at best. Silence.
As an independent institution within the university they act with considerable autonomy. Attached is a whole lot legal responsibility. The staff would do well to remember though that to those to whom much is given, much is expected.
We are also told that an outright attack to the DP will not be published. I wouldn't expect them to and I am not bothered by this. It is a logical move and no one would expect them to do so. I don't think an outright attack would be in order.
I like the DP. I read it everyday. It has funny pieces, covers Penn Athletics, includes some worldly news articles and has some insightful editorials. What I am talking about is not meant to be an attack but a comment on the practices some, perhaps rogue writers/editors may have followed in the past. The idea is to provoke thought, to wake the silent majority.
And these thoughts are all part of a technically not off-the-record conversations.
Your move DP.
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