I am no role model nor would I like to be considered one. But, there are a few habits and practices of mine that should, nonetheless, be adopted universally. I've compiled a list of a few of these universal maxims.
I am not the only one who does these things, but I am the one who is about to list them for you so the history books will one day give me the credit. I beat you to it, so there.
1. Pay at the Pump
Welcome to the 21st century, ladies and gentlemen! We have a lot of amazing things here in the 21st century, not the least of which are credit cards and gas pumps that take them. Truly, inserting one's plastic into the slot of a pump and quickly withdrawing it is nothing short of capitalist intercourse. There is no reason why one should ever have to leave one's car sitting at the pump while one goes inside to pay. There are, in fact, only two reasons why anyone should ever enter a gas station: a. to use the restroom during a long car trip and 2. to purchase cheap candy to smuggle into the movie theatre. And when doing either of those things, one should pull into a parking spot at the gas station, not leave one's car sitting at the pump.
2. Reusable Bags
Yes, it's ecologically responsible and blah blah blah but really the best reason to do it is because nothing quite beats the feeling of superiority you get when you go through the checkout with reusable bags. Regardless of what you are purchasing, people will actually look up to you for using reusable bags. Even if you're purchasing nothing but a tray of sushi and two silk ties (true story) they will think you are a good human being. I'm fairly certain that you could purchase a stack of porno mags, a case of batteries and a box of Toaster Strudel while using cloth bags and the cashier would still say "How responsible of you!" And, of course, you get to look down on everyone who isn't using them*! It's awesome. You may be inferior to them in every other way (as I usually am) but when it comes to the grocery checkout lane: You are officially their better if you are using reusable bags.
3. Donate
I don't care what it is: money, time, blood, other bodily fluids . . . Whatever. Just give something you don't have to** to someone you don't know.
4. Listen to Radio Lab
This isn't a matter of opinion here, people. I'm not just trying to tell you that this is a good show. It can actually be objectively proven to be the best show ever created. I mean, I really like This American Life but that's an opinion. It is a scientifically verifiable that everyone in the universe should be listening to Radio Lab.
5. Do Not Turn In To The Center Lane
Turning in to the center lane does not solve any of your problems, it just delays them. Having a hard time turning onto the street? That sucks. But you know what sucks even more? Trying to merge into busy traffic from a dead stop with the potential of someone going the other direction coming into your lane at any moment. Just don’t do it.
6. Take a Course in Logic
Why is Gym Class required but Logic optional? And sure, PE has its merits but I truly believe that if everyone took a course in Logic the world would be a much better place. Think of how much better equipped people would be to deal with difficult problems if they had a background in Logic. This should be a core class along with Science, English and History. Middle school, high school, college . . . people should even have to take a test in Logic when applying to work at a video store.
7. Make an Ass of Yourself
I don’t expect everyone to take to it quite as well as I have, but I do think that everyone should do this at least once a day. It doesn’t have to be a large scale “Mission Accomplished” kind of self-ass-makery, it could be something as small as using the phrase “self-ass-makery” in a blog. At any rate, the world would be a better place if everyone made an ass of themselves from time to time.
So there you go. These are seven rules that I live by and, though I would not recommend living as I do under any other circumstances, if everyone were more like me in the above ways the world would be a better place.
*I realize that if this were universally adopted the feeling of superiority would be moot. That is why it is ever so important that you start this practice as soon as possible, that way the early adopters will always be able to rub that fact in the noses of all the Johnny Come-Latelys. And for the record, I beat you to it, so there.
**Giving to a church, while technically a donation, doesn't really apply for this particular rule since the threat of damnation for not giving is an act of coercion and therefore it's not really giving something you don't have to.
09 May 2008
22 April 2008
Off Season Rant
It’s been a long time since I blogged. Sorry.
I recently found something I had written down in a notebook a while ago . . . and by a while, I mean either last December or a year before that. I’m not really sure. Anyway, I’m sure at the time I intended to do something more with it, but in rereading it I was pretty happy with it, so I’m going to leave it how it is. Enjoy.
I was sitting in the lobby of the theater, which is the primary job of a House Manager if all is right the world, when I heard someone trying to get in the lobby doors. This is not untypical, even at a quarter after eight for a show with a 7:30 curtain. What can I say? People are rude and don’t understand how disruptive it is for live theater when someone walks in 45 minutes late. I got up to see who it was tugging on my lobby door, shaking my head with disgust at the rude bastard, whomever it might be and screwing on my “I’m disappointed with you as a human being” face. Through the glass doors I saw an enormous man, easily my height , maybe even taller, in a Santa suit.
“WTF?” I thought to myself.
Behind him stood a middle-aged woman in glasses and frumpy attire. Not frumpy Mrs. Claus attire, just regular frumpy. Not unlike what many of the women who volunteer as ushers at the theater wear.
When the behemoth Santa saw me, he waved one gloved hand while the other clutched a fist full of candy canes. Suffice it to say, I was suspicious.
I pushed the door open the same way I always do when some kind of degenerate is trying to get into the theater and I want to act polite but not inviting. I said, “Can I help you?” And though he could have just as easily crushed me with his massive frame, he thrust a candy cane at me and said “Merry Christmas!”
The way he said it suggested to me that either he thought I thought he was really Santa or he thought he was. Not wanting to burst his bubble and have to deal with an enraged 7ft. tall schizophrenic in a fake beard, I said “What, uh, what’s going on, uhm, Santa?”
He immediately dropped his guise and said “I had a thing at the Kid’s Museum [next door], just stopped by on my way to the car.”
“Ah. Alright. Well, thanks for the candy cane.”
“No problem,” he said waving good-bye, “Happy Holidays!”
Now, ‘Happy Holidays’ is my preferred winter salutation. I’m a card carrying member of the ACLU, I don’t think it’s overly PC to be respectful of the fact that other people don’t necessarily celebrate the same holidays—I think it’s just the right level of PC. But Santa saying it? Santa?! How weird is that? It’d be like Zombie Jesus saying “Happy Pagan Fertility Celebration” on Easter Sunday. But, y’know, like a 7ft. tall Zombie Jesus with a frumpy mute female sidekick*.
The whole thing left me feeling incredibly unsettled, but hey, free candy cane, so who am I to complain?
*It’s been a while since I read the Biblical accounts of the resurrection—does Jesus have a frumpy mute female sidekick?**
**Actually, given the great disparity between the various “gospel” accounts, it’s entirely possible that in Mark Jesus had a frumpy mute female sidekick and in Luke he had a fast-talking midget in leather pants as a sidekick and in John Jesus actually is a fast-talking midget in leather pants.
Seriously people, those of you who actually believe the Bible is true need to read the various resurrection stories and, with a straight face, explain to me how it could be possible that all four of them is true. Really, I dare you.
I recently found something I had written down in a notebook a while ago . . . and by a while, I mean either last December or a year before that. I’m not really sure. Anyway, I’m sure at the time I intended to do something more with it, but in rereading it I was pretty happy with it, so I’m going to leave it how it is. Enjoy.
I was sitting in the lobby of the theater, which is the primary job of a House Manager if all is right the world, when I heard someone trying to get in the lobby doors. This is not untypical, even at a quarter after eight for a show with a 7:30 curtain. What can I say? People are rude and don’t understand how disruptive it is for live theater when someone walks in 45 minutes late. I got up to see who it was tugging on my lobby door, shaking my head with disgust at the rude bastard, whomever it might be and screwing on my “I’m disappointed with you as a human being” face. Through the glass doors I saw an enormous man, easily my height , maybe even taller, in a Santa suit.
“WTF?” I thought to myself.
Behind him stood a middle-aged woman in glasses and frumpy attire. Not frumpy Mrs. Claus attire, just regular frumpy. Not unlike what many of the women who volunteer as ushers at the theater wear.
When the behemoth Santa saw me, he waved one gloved hand while the other clutched a fist full of candy canes. Suffice it to say, I was suspicious.
I pushed the door open the same way I always do when some kind of degenerate is trying to get into the theater and I want to act polite but not inviting. I said, “Can I help you?” And though he could have just as easily crushed me with his massive frame, he thrust a candy cane at me and said “Merry Christmas!”
The way he said it suggested to me that either he thought I thought he was really Santa or he thought he was. Not wanting to burst his bubble and have to deal with an enraged 7ft. tall schizophrenic in a fake beard, I said “What, uh, what’s going on, uhm, Santa?”
He immediately dropped his guise and said “I had a thing at the Kid’s Museum [next door], just stopped by on my way to the car.”
“Ah. Alright. Well, thanks for the candy cane.”
“No problem,” he said waving good-bye, “Happy Holidays!”
Now, ‘Happy Holidays’ is my preferred winter salutation. I’m a card carrying member of the ACLU, I don’t think it’s overly PC to be respectful of the fact that other people don’t necessarily celebrate the same holidays—I think it’s just the right level of PC. But Santa saying it? Santa?! How weird is that? It’d be like Zombie Jesus saying “Happy Pagan Fertility Celebration” on Easter Sunday. But, y’know, like a 7ft. tall Zombie Jesus with a frumpy mute female sidekick*.
The whole thing left me feeling incredibly unsettled, but hey, free candy cane, so who am I to complain?
*It’s been a while since I read the Biblical accounts of the resurrection—does Jesus have a frumpy mute female sidekick?**
**Actually, given the great disparity between the various “gospel” accounts, it’s entirely possible that in Mark Jesus had a frumpy mute female sidekick and in Luke he had a fast-talking midget in leather pants as a sidekick and in John Jesus actually is a fast-talking midget in leather pants.
Seriously people, those of you who actually believe the Bible is true need to read the various resurrection stories and, with a straight face, explain to me how it could be possible that all four of them is true. Really, I dare you.
26 January 2008
An Open Letter to the Asshat Who Stole the Tape
Asshat Who Stole the Tape:
What's the deal, man? That tape may not have looked like much to you, but it was an important part of the workings of this box office and you just freakin' took it! WTF? Do you know how long it took us to find the right thing to prop the door open just enough to make for easy entrance without suggesting to people that it's okay for them to come in? I mean, we tried door stops but those never work. They're more trouble than they're worth. But that roll of electrical tape fit perfectly in front of the door jam and kept the jar open just the right amount. It didn't slip out like a shitty little door stop-- it did it's job. For months the Little Roll of Tape That Could helped to improve the lives of all of us who come and go from the box office. But tonight, while I was selling concessions to your classmates and classmates parents and maybe even your own grandmother, you stole the freakin' tape! C'mon, man, that's just wrong. This petty act of theft makes me irrationally angry! At this point, even if you brought the tape back, I'd probably still call the cops on you. I'm actually considering calling Campus Safety and asking them to search everyone as they leave the theatre. Even if you didn't know the full significance of the tape, you sure as hell knew it wasn't yours. It's not like you saw it there on the floor in front of the door and thought: "Oh, man, that must be where I dropped my roll of electrical tape! After all these years, we are reunited!" No, you freaking saw it on the floor and thought to yourself: "I'm gonna be a huge douche bag and steal a roll of tape that I know doesn't belong to me just so I can upset the good people in the box office who were nice enough to sell me a ticket even though I paid in quarters*! BWAH-Hah-hahahahahaha! Mine is an evil laugh!!"
You bastard. Seriously. What are you going to do with that tape? Tape something? Make a shiny black wallet for your emo girlfriend?
Y'know what? I don't really care because whatever you're doing with it, it's not as important as the job it was doing here. Even if you're doing something awesome with it like repairing a space shuttle or curing cancer, it still doesn't justify what you did. There's other tape out there, man, but we need this one. You sonovabitch.
And the part that really burns me (other than the fact that we have to find something else to prop the door open and until we do I'll have to keep getting out my key every time I want to open the door) is that before this happened I was in the middle of writing another blog. I haven't blogged in like a month and you came and pissed me off so much that I couldn't even finish the one I had started. I don't want to waste my precious blogging time on haranguing you but you know what? Now I have to. Fuck you. Asshat.
You have brought shame upon the Catholic Secondary Schools of Grand Rapids because of this foul deed. I don't think I can trust any Catholics anymore, thanks to you. Don't you have a god or something that's supposed to stop you from doing douche-y things like this? I mean, isn't The Virgin Mary looking down on you with shame in her immaculately conceived heart? And you know what else? That tape you stole equals one more thorn that pushed it's way into Jesus' soft flesh and sent hot sacrificial blood into his holy eyes, stinging them badly as he hung on the cross lo those many years ago. If you listen real hard, I bet you can hear him crying because of it. I'm not going to judge, because it's not like the Jesus and I are all that tight, but I think we can all agree that the safe bet is that he'll damn you for all eternity for taking that tape. At least he would if there were any justice. Which, apparently, there isn't because if there were justice the tape would still be holding the door open rather than being put to whatever nefarious task you're planning on using it for! I hope you enjoy your tape more than you would have enjoyed eternal bliss. Fucker.
Goddamn it. This totally ruined my night. And I know by saying that, I've made the deed all the sweeter for you, but I can't help it. It's gonna take a while for me to get over this, if I ever do. Man, you're just such an asshat! You probably brought candy into the theatre, too and you're gonna drop your Junior Mints on the carpet and then step on them. Bastard.
I hate you more than I've ever hated anyone.
Sincerely,
~Dave
*I have no reason to believe that the thief and the person with quarters are one and the same-- except, of course, the obvious fact that both acts could only be perpetrated by a complete douche.
What's the deal, man? That tape may not have looked like much to you, but it was an important part of the workings of this box office and you just freakin' took it! WTF? Do you know how long it took us to find the right thing to prop the door open just enough to make for easy entrance without suggesting to people that it's okay for them to come in? I mean, we tried door stops but those never work. They're more trouble than they're worth. But that roll of electrical tape fit perfectly in front of the door jam and kept the jar open just the right amount. It didn't slip out like a shitty little door stop-- it did it's job. For months the Little Roll of Tape That Could helped to improve the lives of all of us who come and go from the box office. But tonight, while I was selling concessions to your classmates and classmates parents and maybe even your own grandmother, you stole the freakin' tape! C'mon, man, that's just wrong. This petty act of theft makes me irrationally angry! At this point, even if you brought the tape back, I'd probably still call the cops on you. I'm actually considering calling Campus Safety and asking them to search everyone as they leave the theatre. Even if you didn't know the full significance of the tape, you sure as hell knew it wasn't yours. It's not like you saw it there on the floor in front of the door and thought: "Oh, man, that must be where I dropped my roll of electrical tape! After all these years, we are reunited!" No, you freaking saw it on the floor and thought to yourself: "I'm gonna be a huge douche bag and steal a roll of tape that I know doesn't belong to me just so I can upset the good people in the box office who were nice enough to sell me a ticket even though I paid in quarters*! BWAH-Hah-hahahahahaha! Mine is an evil laugh!!"
You bastard. Seriously. What are you going to do with that tape? Tape something? Make a shiny black wallet for your emo girlfriend?
Y'know what? I don't really care because whatever you're doing with it, it's not as important as the job it was doing here. Even if you're doing something awesome with it like repairing a space shuttle or curing cancer, it still doesn't justify what you did. There's other tape out there, man, but we need this one. You sonovabitch.
And the part that really burns me (other than the fact that we have to find something else to prop the door open and until we do I'll have to keep getting out my key every time I want to open the door) is that before this happened I was in the middle of writing another blog. I haven't blogged in like a month and you came and pissed me off so much that I couldn't even finish the one I had started. I don't want to waste my precious blogging time on haranguing you but you know what? Now I have to. Fuck you. Asshat.
You have brought shame upon the Catholic Secondary Schools of Grand Rapids because of this foul deed. I don't think I can trust any Catholics anymore, thanks to you. Don't you have a god or something that's supposed to stop you from doing douche-y things like this? I mean, isn't The Virgin Mary looking down on you with shame in her immaculately conceived heart? And you know what else? That tape you stole equals one more thorn that pushed it's way into Jesus' soft flesh and sent hot sacrificial blood into his holy eyes, stinging them badly as he hung on the cross lo those many years ago. If you listen real hard, I bet you can hear him crying because of it. I'm not going to judge, because it's not like the Jesus and I are all that tight, but I think we can all agree that the safe bet is that he'll damn you for all eternity for taking that tape. At least he would if there were any justice. Which, apparently, there isn't because if there were justice the tape would still be holding the door open rather than being put to whatever nefarious task you're planning on using it for! I hope you enjoy your tape more than you would have enjoyed eternal bliss. Fucker.
Goddamn it. This totally ruined my night. And I know by saying that, I've made the deed all the sweeter for you, but I can't help it. It's gonna take a while for me to get over this, if I ever do. Man, you're just such an asshat! You probably brought candy into the theatre, too and you're gonna drop your Junior Mints on the carpet and then step on them. Bastard.
I hate you more than I've ever hated anyone.
Sincerely,
~Dave
*I have no reason to believe that the thief and the person with quarters are one and the same-- except, of course, the obvious fact that both acts could only be perpetrated by a complete douche.
24 December 2007
2007's Christmastime Rant
The new issue of Wired magazine has an article explaining, using real science, how Santa Claus operates in our modern world. Part of it involves elves working for the NSA to find out who is naughty and nice. Apparently, the Patriot Act has helped out Santa’s endeavors a great deal. At least it’s good for something, right? And then there’s the part about scads of elves delivering the presents-- should they be caught by a child, they inject them with something that makes them forget, puts them to sleep and makes them dream of sugar-plum faeries. Which, strictly speaking, Wired people, is not really real science.
And while I kind of enjoy the image of presents being delivered by a covert, semi-corrupt government agency made up of tiny people in pointy shoes, this is the kind of crap that comes out every December and just drives me up the wall. I mean, is this necessary? Do we need to justify, under the guise of science, a fairy tale that we teach children in order to make sure they behave? How ridiculous can you get?!
Also, why is it that every time they do a story on the news that states the oh-so controversial opinion that Santa Claus may not be real, they have to issue a disclaimer to give parents an opportunity to shuffle the kiddies away for a few minutes. Freakin’ NPR does this! Which is patently absurd, because the only way a child young enough to believe in Santa Claus is ever going to pay attention to what’s on NPR is when you tell them not to listen. The rest of the time NPR just hums in the background as the dulcet toned white noise of the adult world.
Frankly, I think it’s irresponsible for major news outlets to, with a wink and a smile, play along with this myth every year from November to January first. They can’t talk about mall Santas, instead they need to talk about Santa’s helpers at the mall. Rather than talking about the real, tragic and terrifying consequences of global warming they jokingly give us images of Santa in a bathing suit and suggest that he might have to relocate soon because the polar ice caps are melting at a rapidly increasing rate. Of course, they neglect to mention that by the time Santa has to move, everyone and everything living on earth is done for, thus making a naughty/nice list moot. And while I feel for Santa in that moving an operation so large must be a difficult task, at least he won’t have to worry about setting up a functional toy shop because all the kids, good, bad, poor and rich will be dead! But thanks, Today Show for making jokes about Santa Claus in a speed-o rather than explaining the real and dire consequences of Global Climate Change. Really, I much prefer that children get a little giggle out of their morning news than begin to get some idea about how terribly the last few generations have hosed them—let’s wait until they’re old enough to not be able to do anything about it before we explain to them how their children will never get to make a snowman. Keep ‘em in the dark for as long as you can, that’s what I always say!
Which reminds me: Hanukkah. The festival of light. Eight freakin’ days for this holiday. Christmas is, what, one and a half? Hanukkah is eight days, but do any of the Gentiles out there know when Hanukkah even is? “It’s right around Christmas, right?” Right—but only if you count the entire month of December as being “right around Christmas.” Hanukkah has been over for two weeks! And yet, every time someone finds out you’re Jewish, I bet they still say: “Happy Hanukkah!” That’s like a Canadian saying to an American “Happy Independence Day!” on July 20! Get with the times, people. And, just for the record, “Happy Hanukkah” is not equivalent to “Merry Christmas.” Christmas is the big holiday of the Christian year, Hanukkah is, well, not so much for the Jews. So quit acting like it’s a fair trade, because it is not. You ignore the rest of their sacred holidays all year, and only acknowledge Hanukkah because you think its like “little Jewish Christmas” so when you say “Happy Hanukkah” they’ll give you the reciprocal pleasure you so desire and wish you a merry Christmas. Well nuts to that.
Why is it that every year around this time we start hearing complaints about greetings? “The ACLU won’t let us say ‘Merry Christmas!’” Bullshit. The ACLU is kind of all about letting everyone say anything they want—so long as it doesn’t infringe on the rights of others to do the same. What I don’t get is: what’s the problem with “Happy Holidays”? Pretty much everyone is celebrating at least two Holidays between the end of November and the beginning of January. There’s always Thanksgiving and New Years, if nothing else. Of course, if you’re not American and/or you are Chinese, you don’t really even have those two holidays—but as we showed in the 1940’s Americans aren’t too bothered by ignoring the rights of Asian peoples when it benefits the greater good. But then, that’s just one of the many ways we’re assholes.
So “Happy Holidays” is about as close to inoffensive to about as many people as you can possibly get. Some non-religious people even get irritated by “holidays” because it technically means “holy days” and, of course, there’s no such thing as a “holy day,” but frankly, those people are curmudgeons and need to buck up. Most non-religious people accept “Happy Holidays,” “Merry Christmas,” or even “Happy Hanukkah” for whatever ends it was intended. If it’s said as an attack, as it seems “Merry Christmas” increasingly is, then they’ll be offended, but if it’s meant nicely, it will be taken as such. It’s like when someone says “Bless you” after a sneeze. The worst is when I say “Happy Holidays” and someone corrects me with “Merry Christmas.” No, damnit, I said what I meant, now have some happy freakin’ holidays, okay?!
But, and I can’t stress this enough, why can’t we just say “Have a nice day?” Because, above and beyond anything else, each “holiday” is a day. And whether it’s a “holi” or not, I’m a big advocate of everyone spending each of their days happily. I feel like it’s silly to change the way we greet each other because some day we see as especially important is coming up. That’s like correcting strangers on your birthday when they say “Hi.” ‘Oh, no, sir, ‘tis my special day today and so I ask that you greet me appropriately with a ‘Happy Birthday.’ Now, try again.” And maybe there are people who do that, but I think we can all agree, that if there are people out there who behave like that, they are most assuredly douche bags.
The most heinous offense perpetrated around this time of year, though, are the people who want to “Take back Christmas” or “Put Christ back in Christmas” or “save Christmas.” What a bunch of hooey this is. You can’t take back something that wasn’t yours to begin with. This holiday has been celebrated for centuries, long before Christians co-opted it. And sure, it went by other names before, but all of the trappings of Christmas are pagan. Christmas tree? German tradition. They’d put candles on the tree because it was the darkest time of year and celebrate the return of the sun (that’s with a “u” not an “o”) using an evergreen, which was a symbol of how, even in darkest night, nature lives on. Yule log, stars, wreaths and gifts? All pagan. Even the virgin birth pre-dates Christianity. Ever heard of Mithras? Okay, maybe not, but the early Christians had. If anyone is going to take back the holiday, it should be the pagans. We should be celebrating Saturnalia or the earth’s axial tilt if we’re going back to the true reason for the season. But you know what? No one is going to do that. Sure, some of us staunch supporters of the separation of church and state might object to an unconstitutional establishment of religion, but we’ll also defend the free practice of your religion. Do some Pagans and tongue-in-cheek Atheists celebrate Solstice? Sure. And you know what? We can do it without taking away your Christmas.
There’s room enough this season for any freakin’ holiday you want to celebrate. Christmas does not need saving. The Constitution needs saving, sure, but Christmas is doing just fine. So, enjoy whatever you want to celebrate this time of year, I hope it’s wonderful. And let the rest of us celebrate whatever the hell we want to celebrate too!
Have a nice day.
And while I kind of enjoy the image of presents being delivered by a covert, semi-corrupt government agency made up of tiny people in pointy shoes, this is the kind of crap that comes out every December and just drives me up the wall. I mean, is this necessary? Do we need to justify, under the guise of science, a fairy tale that we teach children in order to make sure they behave? How ridiculous can you get?!
Also, why is it that every time they do a story on the news that states the oh-so controversial opinion that Santa Claus may not be real, they have to issue a disclaimer to give parents an opportunity to shuffle the kiddies away for a few minutes. Freakin’ NPR does this! Which is patently absurd, because the only way a child young enough to believe in Santa Claus is ever going to pay attention to what’s on NPR is when you tell them not to listen. The rest of the time NPR just hums in the background as the dulcet toned white noise of the adult world.
Frankly, I think it’s irresponsible for major news outlets to, with a wink and a smile, play along with this myth every year from November to January first. They can’t talk about mall Santas, instead they need to talk about Santa’s helpers at the mall. Rather than talking about the real, tragic and terrifying consequences of global warming they jokingly give us images of Santa in a bathing suit and suggest that he might have to relocate soon because the polar ice caps are melting at a rapidly increasing rate. Of course, they neglect to mention that by the time Santa has to move, everyone and everything living on earth is done for, thus making a naughty/nice list moot. And while I feel for Santa in that moving an operation so large must be a difficult task, at least he won’t have to worry about setting up a functional toy shop because all the kids, good, bad, poor and rich will be dead! But thanks, Today Show for making jokes about Santa Claus in a speed-o rather than explaining the real and dire consequences of Global Climate Change. Really, I much prefer that children get a little giggle out of their morning news than begin to get some idea about how terribly the last few generations have hosed them—let’s wait until they’re old enough to not be able to do anything about it before we explain to them how their children will never get to make a snowman. Keep ‘em in the dark for as long as you can, that’s what I always say!
Which reminds me: Hanukkah. The festival of light. Eight freakin’ days for this holiday. Christmas is, what, one and a half? Hanukkah is eight days, but do any of the Gentiles out there know when Hanukkah even is? “It’s right around Christmas, right?” Right—but only if you count the entire month of December as being “right around Christmas.” Hanukkah has been over for two weeks! And yet, every time someone finds out you’re Jewish, I bet they still say: “Happy Hanukkah!” That’s like a Canadian saying to an American “Happy Independence Day!” on July 20! Get with the times, people. And, just for the record, “Happy Hanukkah” is not equivalent to “Merry Christmas.” Christmas is the big holiday of the Christian year, Hanukkah is, well, not so much for the Jews. So quit acting like it’s a fair trade, because it is not. You ignore the rest of their sacred holidays all year, and only acknowledge Hanukkah because you think its like “little Jewish Christmas” so when you say “Happy Hanukkah” they’ll give you the reciprocal pleasure you so desire and wish you a merry Christmas. Well nuts to that.
Why is it that every year around this time we start hearing complaints about greetings? “The ACLU won’t let us say ‘Merry Christmas!’” Bullshit. The ACLU is kind of all about letting everyone say anything they want—so long as it doesn’t infringe on the rights of others to do the same. What I don’t get is: what’s the problem with “Happy Holidays”? Pretty much everyone is celebrating at least two Holidays between the end of November and the beginning of January. There’s always Thanksgiving and New Years, if nothing else. Of course, if you’re not American and/or you are Chinese, you don’t really even have those two holidays—but as we showed in the 1940’s Americans aren’t too bothered by ignoring the rights of Asian peoples when it benefits the greater good. But then, that’s just one of the many ways we’re assholes.
So “Happy Holidays” is about as close to inoffensive to about as many people as you can possibly get. Some non-religious people even get irritated by “holidays” because it technically means “holy days” and, of course, there’s no such thing as a “holy day,” but frankly, those people are curmudgeons and need to buck up. Most non-religious people accept “Happy Holidays,” “Merry Christmas,” or even “Happy Hanukkah” for whatever ends it was intended. If it’s said as an attack, as it seems “Merry Christmas” increasingly is, then they’ll be offended, but if it’s meant nicely, it will be taken as such. It’s like when someone says “Bless you” after a sneeze. The worst is when I say “Happy Holidays” and someone corrects me with “Merry Christmas.” No, damnit, I said what I meant, now have some happy freakin’ holidays, okay?!
But, and I can’t stress this enough, why can’t we just say “Have a nice day?” Because, above and beyond anything else, each “holiday” is a day. And whether it’s a “holi” or not, I’m a big advocate of everyone spending each of their days happily. I feel like it’s silly to change the way we greet each other because some day we see as especially important is coming up. That’s like correcting strangers on your birthday when they say “Hi.” ‘Oh, no, sir, ‘tis my special day today and so I ask that you greet me appropriately with a ‘Happy Birthday.’ Now, try again.” And maybe there are people who do that, but I think we can all agree, that if there are people out there who behave like that, they are most assuredly douche bags.
The most heinous offense perpetrated around this time of year, though, are the people who want to “Take back Christmas” or “Put Christ back in Christmas” or “save Christmas.” What a bunch of hooey this is. You can’t take back something that wasn’t yours to begin with. This holiday has been celebrated for centuries, long before Christians co-opted it. And sure, it went by other names before, but all of the trappings of Christmas are pagan. Christmas tree? German tradition. They’d put candles on the tree because it was the darkest time of year and celebrate the return of the sun (that’s with a “u” not an “o”) using an evergreen, which was a symbol of how, even in darkest night, nature lives on. Yule log, stars, wreaths and gifts? All pagan. Even the virgin birth pre-dates Christianity. Ever heard of Mithras? Okay, maybe not, but the early Christians had. If anyone is going to take back the holiday, it should be the pagans. We should be celebrating Saturnalia or the earth’s axial tilt if we’re going back to the true reason for the season. But you know what? No one is going to do that. Sure, some of us staunch supporters of the separation of church and state might object to an unconstitutional establishment of religion, but we’ll also defend the free practice of your religion. Do some Pagans and tongue-in-cheek Atheists celebrate Solstice? Sure. And you know what? We can do it without taking away your Christmas.
There’s room enough this season for any freakin’ holiday you want to celebrate. Christmas does not need saving. The Constitution needs saving, sure, but Christmas is doing just fine. So, enjoy whatever you want to celebrate this time of year, I hope it’s wonderful. And let the rest of us celebrate whatever the hell we want to celebrate too!
Have a nice day.
18 December 2007
Why I should never answer the phone
Just moments ago, an older gentleman called the box office. This is an almost exact transcript of our conversation:
Me: Circle Theatre Box Office, this is Dave.
Caller: Hi, is this the Circle theatre?Me: Yes.Caller: Okay. Do you get matching funds from AT&T?
Me: Excuse me?
Caller: If I make a donation to you do you qualify for matching funds from AT&T? You’re a non-profit, right?
Me: Yes, we area non-profit. I’m not familiar with the AT&T matching funds set up and the person who could answer your question is not in the office right now. I can transfer you to her voice mail so you can leave her a message and she’ll call you back.
Caller: What’s her number so I can call her later?
Me: It’s 632--
Caller: Hold on, let me get something to write it down on.
[pause while he gets paper and I ponder why he would have asked for a number without having a way to write it down]
Caller: Alright. What’s the number?
Me: 632-2997
Caller [matter of factly]: 632-8557.
Me [gently correcting him]: No, 632-2997.
Caller: 5589?
Me [clued in to the fact that this man is hard of hearing]: No, 2. And then 9, as in the number after 8.
Caller: 45--?
Me: No, no. 632 . . .
Caller: 632-5?
Me: No. 632. Then another 2.
Caller: 632-2
Me: Yes. Nine. Nine
Caller: 632-855?
Me: No, 632-2 Nine, as in 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9
Caller: 1,2,3,4,5?
Me: No. Nine. En. Eye. En. Ee. Nine.
Caller: Eff Eye Vee Ee? 8758?
Me: No it’s—Let me put you on hold for a second, I’ll see if I can get better reception.
[places call on hold, makes gesture of frustration to non-existent gods. Takes off headset, picks up handset.]
Me: Can you hear me any better now?Caller: Hold on one second.
[pause]
Caller: Alright.
Me: Can you hear me any better now?
Caller: So it’s 632-8597?
Me: No, no it’s 632
Caller: 632? We can agree on that?
Me: Yes. And then another two.
Caller: Four?
Me: No, six three two two [taking deliberate care to pronounce both twos exactly the same.]
Caller: 632-2
Me: Yes! And then the number nine.
Caller: Five?
Me: No, nine. The number after eight?
Caller: Eight?
Me: No, nine.
Caller: Oh, nine!
Me: Yes! And then another nine.
Caller: Five?
Me: No, another nine. Just like the number I just gave you. Between 8 and 10.
Caller: Nine. Is that right?
Me [almost too excited to speak]: Yes! And then seven.
Caller: Seven. Okay, good. And who will I be talking to there?
Me: Her name is Joni.
Caller [as if it were an entirely reasonable name]: Gorby? Like ‘Gee Oh Are Bee Why?’
Me: No, Joni. Jay Oh En Eye.
Caller: ‘Cause I’m wondering if you qualify for the AT&T matching donation thing and I think you do, but you’ve got some kind of number that I’ll need—
Me: Joni will be able to give that to you.
Caller: Well real good. Thanks.
Me: Circle Theatre Box Office, this is Dave.
Caller: Hi, is this the Circle theatre?Me: Yes.Caller: Okay. Do you get matching funds from AT&T?
Me: Excuse me?
Caller: If I make a donation to you do you qualify for matching funds from AT&T? You’re a non-profit, right?
Me: Yes, we area non-profit. I’m not familiar with the AT&T matching funds set up and the person who could answer your question is not in the office right now. I can transfer you to her voice mail so you can leave her a message and she’ll call you back.
Caller: What’s her number so I can call her later?
Me: It’s 632--
Caller: Hold on, let me get something to write it down on.
[pause while he gets paper and I ponder why he would have asked for a number without having a way to write it down]
Caller: Alright. What’s the number?
Me: 632-2997
Caller [matter of factly]: 632-8557.
Me [gently correcting him]: No, 632-2997.
Caller: 5589?
Me [clued in to the fact that this man is hard of hearing]: No, 2. And then 9, as in the number after 8.
Caller: 45--?
Me: No, no. 632 . . .
Caller: 632-5?
Me: No. 632. Then another 2.
Caller: 632-2
Me: Yes. Nine. Nine
Caller: 632-855?
Me: No, 632-2 Nine, as in 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9
Caller: 1,2,3,4,5?
Me: No. Nine. En. Eye. En. Ee. Nine.
Caller: Eff Eye Vee Ee? 8758?
Me: No it’s—Let me put you on hold for a second, I’ll see if I can get better reception.
[places call on hold, makes gesture of frustration to non-existent gods. Takes off headset, picks up handset.]
Me: Can you hear me any better now?Caller: Hold on one second.
[pause]
Caller: Alright.
Me: Can you hear me any better now?
Caller: So it’s 632-8597?
Me: No, no it’s 632
Caller: 632? We can agree on that?
Me: Yes. And then another two.
Caller: Four?
Me: No, six three two two [taking deliberate care to pronounce both twos exactly the same.]
Caller: 632-2
Me: Yes! And then the number nine.
Caller: Five?
Me: No, nine. The number after eight?
Caller: Eight?
Me: No, nine.
Caller: Oh, nine!
Me: Yes! And then another nine.
Caller: Five?
Me: No, another nine. Just like the number I just gave you. Between 8 and 10.
Caller: Nine. Is that right?
Me [almost too excited to speak]: Yes! And then seven.
Caller: Seven. Okay, good. And who will I be talking to there?
Me: Her name is Joni.
Caller [as if it were an entirely reasonable name]: Gorby? Like ‘Gee Oh Are Bee Why?’
Me: No, Joni. Jay Oh En Eye.
Caller: ‘Cause I’m wondering if you qualify for the AT&T matching donation thing and I think you do, but you’ve got some kind of number that I’ll need—
Me: Joni will be able to give that to you.
Caller: Well real good. Thanks.
27 November 2007
Heathens Take Manhattan: Part V: Prologue
I was up most of Monday night. Lots of yelling, mostly crying. A love triangle I had found myself in had reached its inevitable conclusion with me on the outside and the other two points forming a love line. They were my only two close friends and I made the mistake of falling for one of them. Ryan, Cindy and I were close. They helped me through one of the darkest, self-pity soaked periods of my life. And because I wasn't used to having a girl who liked me, even as a friend, I fell for Cindy. I thought I was in love. And, of course, she fell for the more attractive and confident of the two of us-- which was not me.
It shouldn't have, but somehow it did come as a surprise to me when I found out that they had become more than friends. It destroyed me. My world crumbled. In one fell swoop I had lost the only two people I trusted, the two people who meant the most to me. In my mind, my world had been as devastated as my mom's was when her husband of twenty-five years left her for a chamber maid in Pittsburgh. Oh, to be 19 again . . .
I got up after a long, sleepless night and poured a bowl of Cap'n Crunch. I still remember how it scrapped its way down my raw throat. I waited until it was late enough in the morning to call Cindy. As I dialed I turned on the TV in my bedroom. I listened to her phone ring while on the screen smoke was issuing forth from one of the twin towers of the World Trade Center. No one knew what had happened, certainly no one knew why or had any concept of how our lives, all our lives, were about to change.
Cindy answered the phone; she said "A plane just flew into the World Trade Center." "I know," I said, "I just saw that." It was right then that a second plane hit. "That's crazy," I said, shaking my head. And then I turned off the TV. I didn't want it to distract me from the important issue I was dealing with.
Six years later, I don't remember a damn word of that conversation-- the conversation I forced her to have while the world was changing around us. It's no wonder that she still hates me. I do too. I'm not filled with the self-loathing bull shit I spent ages 6 through 21 stuffing myself with, but I am deeply ashamed about how I behaved that day. I’m reminded of a girl I used to work with who, when a friend of hers was found dead, exclaimed: "Another one of my friends is dead . . . why does God keep doing this to me?!" Part of it can be chalked up to the self-centeredness of youth, but it's no excuse. I was too concerned with my own life to care about the lives of thousands of others.
After I got off the phone with Cindy, I turned the TV back on. It was only then that some of the import of this day started to break through my thick shell of self-importance. I watched as two people, holding hands, did the one thing they could do, and leapt to their deaths. Of all the images from that day, that's the one that sticks with me most clearly. I'm sure there was no audio, but somehow I can still remember the sound of the impact.
I watched all through the afternoon. I watched the towers collapse, I watched as ash and debris chased hundreds of human beings down the street. I remember the replays, the five seconds of video that they began replaying around 10am and didn't stop for another two weeks.
A lot has changed since that Tuesday morning. We all know how the world changed, the thousands of lives lost, heroes made and killed in the same day, the fear and paranoia that gripped our country, the president who used it to drive us into a war and the unquestioning public who let him. At the risk of sounding like that self-centered nineteen year old, I've been through a great deal of personal change since then too, which understandably has received far less press coverage than the rest of the world.
Initially, I supported the president, goose-stepped my way down the street with an American flag on my arm. I had a "God Bless America" sticker in the window of my car and scoffed when a friend of mine said that "the things Bush is doing now will bring about the Apocalypse."
Gradually, though, along with the rest of the country, I started to come to my senses. By the time Colin Powell was on TV showing grainy photographs and claiming that this was proof of WMDs in Iraq, my reasoning had returned. One of the worst fights I've ever had with my mother was about the impending war. She asked what I would do if I were drafted, I told her there was no way I was going to be forced to go kill people just because that idiot wanted to go to war. She told me that I needed to respect the president, and if I were drafted, it'd be my duty to God and Country to serve.
It was around this time that my faith in both God and Country waned. I had been struggling with my religious indoctrination for a while—this was my "I just don't like organized religion" phase—but the events of 9-11 and everything that followed, told me that I couldn't just be a conscientious objector, I needed to decide what I really believed. And I found that I really just didn't believe and thus began my angry atheist phase.
To this day, I still love my country, but I loathe sentiments like "I love my country." Nationalism has been mistaken for patriotism—so much so that I can't even stomach the term "Patriot" anymore. I'm a Thomas Paine Patriot, not a George Bush Imperial Nationalist.
In the wake of 9-11, many Americans (who clearly missed the point) became more religious, more xenophobic. I, and an impressive amount of others, went the other direction. Step by step by step. Which eventually lead me to New York City.
The CFI conference was held in World Trade Center building #7. Up on the 40th floor, the first night of the conference, I looked down and saw what I assumed to be a construction site. And, of course, it is a construction site, but there’s much more to it than that.
The next morning, along with a group of future leaders of the secular movement, I visited Ground Zero. There's not a whole lot to see, but then I think that might be the point. Some of what is there is vitriolic rhetoric that turned my stomach. Maybe I'm wrong, but I feel like referring to those killed on 9-11 as "The Heroes of September 11, 2001" is disingenuous (which is not to say that many of them were not heroic). I guess "victims" just made it sound too much like we were victimized and we can't have that . . . it would make us feel vulnerable.
Up close, Ground Zero looks pretty much like any other snail's pace construction site. But it's not. Standing there, the tendency is to look down at what is there-- I forced myself to look up and see what wasn't there. The footage from that day ran through my head. I saw those people holding hands, I saw the smoke, heard the cries. Standing there, at the site of the defining tragedy of my generation (and possibly even our nation's history) I felt a profound guilt.
I've spent the last six years feeling guilty for how I acted on that day, but being there the guilt slammed into me like never before. I wanted to tell how sorry I was, but I knew there was no one to tell. The people I needed to apologize to weren’t there. So I let myself experience that guilt-- let myself wallow in it until it was all I could do to keep myself from screaming. It wasn't just the guilt of six years, it was the guilt of a wasted life, of wasting life itself when so many people had it taken away from them. The guilt consumed me, it overpowered me and I let it. I encouraged it. And then, I stopped.
While I will carry the shame of how I behaved on September 11th for the rest of my life, I needn’t be ashamed of what I’ve done since then, what I’ve become and what I’ll do in the future.
A lot of the way I've acted since that day has a lot to do with the way I acted on that day. Not to sound too Catholic or anything, but my guilt informs a great deal of my motives. On that day, all I cared about was myself. Now, my perspective is more global. And while I've been a loud mouth for the better part of two decades, it's only been in the last five years that I’ve been an activist. A lot of that, too, has to do with losing a belief in the hereafter,—when you believe only in the here, there is all the more motive to make the most of it and make a difference while you can.
Looking out at the buildings that should have been there, I made a vow to myself. I suppose if I were religious it would have been a prayer. But I told myself: “This is it. This is your chance. From here on out you can’t just fuck around. You’ve been here, you’ve had your little nadir point, now it’s time to do something. Existential crises are all well and good, but now it’s time to do something about it.”
I’m not going to pretend like it was some kind of epiphany—this wasn’t the fulcrum around which my life pivots. I wouldn’t have been there in the first place if I needed an epiphany to show me the way. Instead, I see it as a moment of rededication, like every time I tell my wife I love her. It showed me that this is important, that this life is important and that the causes I believe in are worth fighting for. It is hard and I’m often not very good at it, but I need to keep trying and I’m going to keep trying to do what’s right, to make my mark, and to help.
It shouldn't have, but somehow it did come as a surprise to me when I found out that they had become more than friends. It destroyed me. My world crumbled. In one fell swoop I had lost the only two people I trusted, the two people who meant the most to me. In my mind, my world had been as devastated as my mom's was when her husband of twenty-five years left her for a chamber maid in Pittsburgh. Oh, to be 19 again . . .
I got up after a long, sleepless night and poured a bowl of Cap'n Crunch. I still remember how it scrapped its way down my raw throat. I waited until it was late enough in the morning to call Cindy. As I dialed I turned on the TV in my bedroom. I listened to her phone ring while on the screen smoke was issuing forth from one of the twin towers of the World Trade Center. No one knew what had happened, certainly no one knew why or had any concept of how our lives, all our lives, were about to change.
Cindy answered the phone; she said "A plane just flew into the World Trade Center." "I know," I said, "I just saw that." It was right then that a second plane hit. "That's crazy," I said, shaking my head. And then I turned off the TV. I didn't want it to distract me from the important issue I was dealing with.
Six years later, I don't remember a damn word of that conversation-- the conversation I forced her to have while the world was changing around us. It's no wonder that she still hates me. I do too. I'm not filled with the self-loathing bull shit I spent ages 6 through 21 stuffing myself with, but I am deeply ashamed about how I behaved that day. I’m reminded of a girl I used to work with who, when a friend of hers was found dead, exclaimed: "Another one of my friends is dead . . . why does God keep doing this to me?!" Part of it can be chalked up to the self-centeredness of youth, but it's no excuse. I was too concerned with my own life to care about the lives of thousands of others.
After I got off the phone with Cindy, I turned the TV back on. It was only then that some of the import of this day started to break through my thick shell of self-importance. I watched as two people, holding hands, did the one thing they could do, and leapt to their deaths. Of all the images from that day, that's the one that sticks with me most clearly. I'm sure there was no audio, but somehow I can still remember the sound of the impact.
I watched all through the afternoon. I watched the towers collapse, I watched as ash and debris chased hundreds of human beings down the street. I remember the replays, the five seconds of video that they began replaying around 10am and didn't stop for another two weeks.
A lot has changed since that Tuesday morning. We all know how the world changed, the thousands of lives lost, heroes made and killed in the same day, the fear and paranoia that gripped our country, the president who used it to drive us into a war and the unquestioning public who let him. At the risk of sounding like that self-centered nineteen year old, I've been through a great deal of personal change since then too, which understandably has received far less press coverage than the rest of the world.
Initially, I supported the president, goose-stepped my way down the street with an American flag on my arm. I had a "God Bless America" sticker in the window of my car and scoffed when a friend of mine said that "the things Bush is doing now will bring about the Apocalypse."
Gradually, though, along with the rest of the country, I started to come to my senses. By the time Colin Powell was on TV showing grainy photographs and claiming that this was proof of WMDs in Iraq, my reasoning had returned. One of the worst fights I've ever had with my mother was about the impending war. She asked what I would do if I were drafted, I told her there was no way I was going to be forced to go kill people just because that idiot wanted to go to war. She told me that I needed to respect the president, and if I were drafted, it'd be my duty to God and Country to serve.
It was around this time that my faith in both God and Country waned. I had been struggling with my religious indoctrination for a while—this was my "I just don't like organized religion" phase—but the events of 9-11 and everything that followed, told me that I couldn't just be a conscientious objector, I needed to decide what I really believed. And I found that I really just didn't believe and thus began my angry atheist phase.
To this day, I still love my country, but I loathe sentiments like "I love my country." Nationalism has been mistaken for patriotism—so much so that I can't even stomach the term "Patriot" anymore. I'm a Thomas Paine Patriot, not a George Bush Imperial Nationalist.
In the wake of 9-11, many Americans (who clearly missed the point) became more religious, more xenophobic. I, and an impressive amount of others, went the other direction. Step by step by step. Which eventually lead me to New York City.
The CFI conference was held in World Trade Center building #7. Up on the 40th floor, the first night of the conference, I looked down and saw what I assumed to be a construction site. And, of course, it is a construction site, but there’s much more to it than that.
The next morning, along with a group of future leaders of the secular movement, I visited Ground Zero. There's not a whole lot to see, but then I think that might be the point. Some of what is there is vitriolic rhetoric that turned my stomach. Maybe I'm wrong, but I feel like referring to those killed on 9-11 as "The Heroes of September 11, 2001" is disingenuous (which is not to say that many of them were not heroic). I guess "victims" just made it sound too much like we were victimized and we can't have that . . . it would make us feel vulnerable.
Up close, Ground Zero looks pretty much like any other snail's pace construction site. But it's not. Standing there, the tendency is to look down at what is there-- I forced myself to look up and see what wasn't there. The footage from that day ran through my head. I saw those people holding hands, I saw the smoke, heard the cries. Standing there, at the site of the defining tragedy of my generation (and possibly even our nation's history) I felt a profound guilt.
I've spent the last six years feeling guilty for how I acted on that day, but being there the guilt slammed into me like never before. I wanted to tell how sorry I was, but I knew there was no one to tell. The people I needed to apologize to weren’t there. So I let myself experience that guilt-- let myself wallow in it until it was all I could do to keep myself from screaming. It wasn't just the guilt of six years, it was the guilt of a wasted life, of wasting life itself when so many people had it taken away from them. The guilt consumed me, it overpowered me and I let it. I encouraged it. And then, I stopped.
While I will carry the shame of how I behaved on September 11th for the rest of my life, I needn’t be ashamed of what I’ve done since then, what I’ve become and what I’ll do in the future.
A lot of the way I've acted since that day has a lot to do with the way I acted on that day. Not to sound too Catholic or anything, but my guilt informs a great deal of my motives. On that day, all I cared about was myself. Now, my perspective is more global. And while I've been a loud mouth for the better part of two decades, it's only been in the last five years that I’ve been an activist. A lot of that, too, has to do with losing a belief in the hereafter,—when you believe only in the here, there is all the more motive to make the most of it and make a difference while you can.
Looking out at the buildings that should have been there, I made a vow to myself. I suppose if I were religious it would have been a prayer. But I told myself: “This is it. This is your chance. From here on out you can’t just fuck around. You’ve been here, you’ve had your little nadir point, now it’s time to do something. Existential crises are all well and good, but now it’s time to do something about it.”
I’m not going to pretend like it was some kind of epiphany—this wasn’t the fulcrum around which my life pivots. I wouldn’t have been there in the first place if I needed an epiphany to show me the way. Instead, I see it as a moment of rededication, like every time I tell my wife I love her. It showed me that this is important, that this life is important and that the causes I believe in are worth fighting for. It is hard and I’m often not very good at it, but I need to keep trying and I’m going to keep trying to do what’s right, to make my mark, and to help.
Heathens Take Manhattan: Part IV: My Generation
One of the best parts of my weekend in New York, and something I've just barely touched on so far, was getting to meet, and hang out with some of my fellow student activists from around the globe*. CFI flew a whole slew of us out and, sadly, I didn't get to spend a lot of time with everyone, but the ones I did get to know were awesome-- way more awesome, in fact, than those of you who aren’t them. Sorry, but it had to be said.
When I flew in on Thursday, Sarah was the only other out-of-towner around, so I gave her a call and she very easily directed me from airport to bus to subway to hostel. This girl had been in town all of two hours longer than me and she was walking around like a pro. All weekend, she was the one person who always knew how to get from point A to point B . . . I'm pretty sure that's her mutant power.
Sarah, being both a good traveler and a vegan, came equipped with a list of vegan friendly restaurants that we'd be near. Without her, it's entirely possible that I would have starved on the streets of New York. Actually, I take that back, without her, I would have never found my way to the streets of New York and would have starved sitting in LaGuardia, mulling over a map and trying to figure out just what the hell a "borough" is.
And then there was Alon. Alon met up with Sarah and me to see The Drowsy Chaperone (which he hated and Sarah and I enjoyed). Alon lives in New York, though he's originally from Micronesia. I'm not sure there's much I can say about Alon that isn't already destined to be in the history books . . . Let me just throw this little fact at you: The guy is 17 years old and a grad student in mathematics** at Columbia. He's a living encyclopedia. Just don't ask him to figure out how much you're supposed to tip . . . because he will-- to the eighth decimal point.
Roy, from UCLA, is also a little tyke with a big brain. Roy is awesome-- even though he's also a math dork. He and Nidia (also awesome, also a math dork, only she has pink hair which Roy does not) both showed up at the hostel just as Sarah and I were heading out for breakfast Friday morning so the four of us ended up doing the city together. In Central Park we found a long division problem that someone had written in the dirt. All three of my companions stopped and marveled as if it were a hieroglyph found on the side of a mountain. I think they were actually more impressed with the dirt long division than they were with most of the things we saw at the MOMA. Math dorks are funny that way.
Somewhere along the way we picked up Ben (the George Harrison of math dorks) and Shalini (who is half my age and twice my IQ) and I found myself in the unenviable position of being the sole English major in a pack of math dorks.
We all made our way to the Natural History Museum where, after much struggle, we finally caught up with Alon again. Let me tell you, if you're going to go to the Natural History Museum, the way to do it is with a bunch of Freethinking math dorks. Freethinking math dorks with cameras, to be precise.
Now, rarely am I the smartest person in the room but I'm also not often the dumbest guy in the room. Hanging out with Sarah, Roy, Nidia, Ben, Shalini and Alon, I was, without question, the dumbest guy in the room. That experience was not to be alleviated all weekend until the flight back to Grand Rapids***.
At the conference I met a stunning number of new awesome people: the awesome Canadian foursome, Mara (another theatre kid!), Kristine (my fellow Overflow Room Bouncer), Chris (the revolutionary), Lucia (the Dawkins dork), Sean and Brett (our own little Okies), Byung (good ol' B), Roger (all the way from Edinburgh), Blake (who is just about the nicest guy you'd ever want to meet), and Tommy and Alex and Vikkey and Lisa and literally dozens of my brilliant (for Chris' sake, I won't say "bright"), and enthusiastic peers.
When you look at the Freethought movement, whether it’s CFI Michigan or any other group, it doesn't take a math dork to see that the average age is, well, closer to Paul Kurtz than it is to Alon and Shalini. Being at this conference and seeing so many young people who are dedicated to the cause and chomping at the bit to take on the world, made my little heretic heart pump with joy****.
This is a group of young people who absolutely defy the stereotype of the lazy, apathetic, self-absorbed idiots that our generation is so often clapped with. For the first time, at this conference, I felt really . . . hopeful, I guess, for the younger generation. When you compare the voter turn out for 18-25 year olds in the last election with the same age group thirty years ago, it’s fairly devastating. But that weekend in New York showed me that some of us haven’t given up. Most of the students I met were people who had taken the initiative to lead or, in many cases, start organizations at their schools. That’s no small feat. Adding that workload on to the already daunting tasks of school and work is a fairly quixotic endeavor and it’s so encouraging seeing so many Rationalist dreamers take it on.
As we parted ways on Sunday afternoon, I felt the same kind of feelings I had experienced years earlier when leaving church camp—only, instead of being filled with the Holy Spirit I was filled with a sense of community and purpose. We hugged all of our new BFF’s good-bye and vowed that we’d keep in touch. And I hope we do. I hope this new community we created over a long weekend in New York does have a lasting impact. I hope that as the new friends I made rise to fame and become the new voices of secular values that they remember me and, most importantly, give me expensive presents that they purchase with the advances from their book deals.
I totally promise to do the same when I strike it rich.
*Okay, mostly just the U.S. and Canada***** but Roger is from Ireland so, at the very least, there was transcontinental representation.
**I'm sure it's not just 'mathematics,’ but every time he started to explain what he studies my brain shut down and the Lollipop Guild song started playing in my head-- that's what happens when people talk math to me.
***Even my flight to Chicago was packed with Rhodes Scholars. The flight attendant was writing a dissertation on "Being and Nothingness" as she served drinks.
****Well, actually it was just blood. But it was joyous and freshly optimistic blood.
*****Which is a Native American term meaning: “Country that is much like America only with Socialism, better health care, gay marriage, and funny accents.”
When I flew in on Thursday, Sarah was the only other out-of-towner around, so I gave her a call and she very easily directed me from airport to bus to subway to hostel. This girl had been in town all of two hours longer than me and she was walking around like a pro. All weekend, she was the one person who always knew how to get from point A to point B . . . I'm pretty sure that's her mutant power.
Sarah, being both a good traveler and a vegan, came equipped with a list of vegan friendly restaurants that we'd be near. Without her, it's entirely possible that I would have starved on the streets of New York. Actually, I take that back, without her, I would have never found my way to the streets of New York and would have starved sitting in LaGuardia, mulling over a map and trying to figure out just what the hell a "borough" is.
And then there was Alon. Alon met up with Sarah and me to see The Drowsy Chaperone (which he hated and Sarah and I enjoyed). Alon lives in New York, though he's originally from Micronesia. I'm not sure there's much I can say about Alon that isn't already destined to be in the history books . . . Let me just throw this little fact at you: The guy is 17 years old and a grad student in mathematics** at Columbia. He's a living encyclopedia. Just don't ask him to figure out how much you're supposed to tip . . . because he will-- to the eighth decimal point.
Roy, from UCLA, is also a little tyke with a big brain. Roy is awesome-- even though he's also a math dork. He and Nidia (also awesome, also a math dork, only she has pink hair which Roy does not) both showed up at the hostel just as Sarah and I were heading out for breakfast Friday morning so the four of us ended up doing the city together. In Central Park we found a long division problem that someone had written in the dirt. All three of my companions stopped and marveled as if it were a hieroglyph found on the side of a mountain. I think they were actually more impressed with the dirt long division than they were with most of the things we saw at the MOMA. Math dorks are funny that way.
Somewhere along the way we picked up Ben (the George Harrison of math dorks) and Shalini (who is half my age and twice my IQ) and I found myself in the unenviable position of being the sole English major in a pack of math dorks.
We all made our way to the Natural History Museum where, after much struggle, we finally caught up with Alon again. Let me tell you, if you're going to go to the Natural History Museum, the way to do it is with a bunch of Freethinking math dorks. Freethinking math dorks with cameras, to be precise.
Now, rarely am I the smartest person in the room but I'm also not often the dumbest guy in the room. Hanging out with Sarah, Roy, Nidia, Ben, Shalini and Alon, I was, without question, the dumbest guy in the room. That experience was not to be alleviated all weekend until the flight back to Grand Rapids***.
At the conference I met a stunning number of new awesome people: the awesome Canadian foursome, Mara (another theatre kid!), Kristine (my fellow Overflow Room Bouncer), Chris (the revolutionary), Lucia (the Dawkins dork), Sean and Brett (our own little Okies), Byung (good ol' B), Roger (all the way from Edinburgh), Blake (who is just about the nicest guy you'd ever want to meet), and Tommy and Alex and Vikkey and Lisa and literally dozens of my brilliant (for Chris' sake, I won't say "bright"), and enthusiastic peers.
When you look at the Freethought movement, whether it’s CFI Michigan or any other group, it doesn't take a math dork to see that the average age is, well, closer to Paul Kurtz than it is to Alon and Shalini. Being at this conference and seeing so many young people who are dedicated to the cause and chomping at the bit to take on the world, made my little heretic heart pump with joy****.
This is a group of young people who absolutely defy the stereotype of the lazy, apathetic, self-absorbed idiots that our generation is so often clapped with. For the first time, at this conference, I felt really . . . hopeful, I guess, for the younger generation. When you compare the voter turn out for 18-25 year olds in the last election with the same age group thirty years ago, it’s fairly devastating. But that weekend in New York showed me that some of us haven’t given up. Most of the students I met were people who had taken the initiative to lead or, in many cases, start organizations at their schools. That’s no small feat. Adding that workload on to the already daunting tasks of school and work is a fairly quixotic endeavor and it’s so encouraging seeing so many Rationalist dreamers take it on.
As we parted ways on Sunday afternoon, I felt the same kind of feelings I had experienced years earlier when leaving church camp—only, instead of being filled with the Holy Spirit I was filled with a sense of community and purpose. We hugged all of our new BFF’s good-bye and vowed that we’d keep in touch. And I hope we do. I hope this new community we created over a long weekend in New York does have a lasting impact. I hope that as the new friends I made rise to fame and become the new voices of secular values that they remember me and, most importantly, give me expensive presents that they purchase with the advances from their book deals.
I totally promise to do the same when I strike it rich.
*Okay, mostly just the U.S. and Canada***** but Roger is from Ireland so, at the very least, there was transcontinental representation.
**I'm sure it's not just 'mathematics,’ but every time he started to explain what he studies my brain shut down and the Lollipop Guild song started playing in my head-- that's what happens when people talk math to me.
***Even my flight to Chicago was packed with Rhodes Scholars. The flight attendant was writing a dissertation on "Being and Nothingness" as she served drinks.
****Well, actually it was just blood. But it was joyous and freshly optimistic blood.
*****Which is a Native American term meaning: “Country that is much like America only with Socialism, better health care, gay marriage, and funny accents.”
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