Thursday, March 26, 2009 :::
Secondhand Rants will return on Thursday, April 02.
Posted by Ben at 6:18 PM
Tuesday, March 24, 2009 :::
One symptom of bachelor life, especially noticeable after weeks and weeks of not vacuuming, is that nature will begin to work itself around you. Cobwebs will never cross your path directly, for example, instead wending alongside your daily route, cordoning you off from parts less visited. Spiders know better. Pill bugs cluster just out of sight, almost respectfully, and if they die, say, on the mantle, they'll do so behind a clock. Look down at the floor, and you'll notice dust congregates in a pattern, borne by powerful currents of routine to frame a walkway.
I've been trying to make the townhouse more livable and just plain presentable, and this weekend marked the first serious cleaning of the year. It was the whole dog and pony, Dyson on full roar, Lysol spritzer wielded furiously, and when the air cleared there was the immediate benefit of reclaimed space. I basically rediscovered my living room, you know? I could finally sit on a couch without plunging headfirst into webbing. More importantly, though, I'm now able to add to the scholarship of domestic upkeep.
For one thing, spider shit? Damn near impossible to scrub out. Of greater interest, however, is the distinction between organizing and cleaning, and why I do far less of the latter. Organizing involves the rearrangement of matter: corralling stray magazines into a neat stack, or putting pots and pans into the cupboard. I like organization. I gravitate toward this state. Cleaning, on the other hand, calls for the destruction of matter. You don't want to herd all that grout, algae, and cooking grease into an orderly pile, after all. You want to destroy it. That's just violent, which I find offensive, since I'm real peaceable.
Cleaning also tends to require more effort, and here we arrive at the heart of the matter. I'll rearrange the stuff on my bathroom sink all day long--actually, I probably wouldn't do that--but when it comes to wiping it down, I can wait for weeks. Why? Because I'll trot out the cleaning supplies, scrub away, and then, days later, it'll be dirty again and it's, like, why did I even bother? Now, say I let the toothpaste residue build up for a month. I'll expend the same amount of effort fetching the cleaning supplies, scrub a little harder, and the payoff will be even bigger. This is because the difference between sparkly cleanliness and monthlong build-up is greater than the difference between sparkly cleanliness and weeklong build-up. It's a feel thing.
My kitchen island currently has a canister of oatmeal sitting neatly next to a tub of sugar and a bottle of vitamins. The surface itself, however, is covered with salt, sugar, oregano, Parmesan, dried spaghetti sauce, and milk. Sure, this probably isn't ideal for the surface, but hey! It's a slab of stone. What's it going to do? Secretly I'm hoping these substances will react to form a new mineral or something. But even if that doesn't happen, I'll feel that much more accomplished when I finally do get around to cleaning it.
Posted by Ben at 11:34 PM
Thursday, March 19, 2009 :::
Today is a red-letter day, the letter in question being a crimson "E" for "exercise," because I spent a whole hour or so outdoors. Under the sun! Engaged in physical activity far beyond the scope of typing. Instead, I stood in place and swung my arms, much as cavemen likely did back in the day, at a driving range in preparation for tomorrow, the first tee-off of the year. The goal I set two nights ago could be attainable, I'm not exactly sure, but in between flashes of despair today I realized the push for a certain score might not be a sustainable reason to continue playing.
It's back to skill acquisition for me, specifically obtaining the one thing that's farthest from my mind on the green: equanimity. The word itself is relaxing. Like "grit," "texture," and "sanctuary," it's one of those nouns that sounds like what it defines. Calmness. Quiet in the storm. I'm usually focused during a swing, though the focus is informed by any number of nerve-racking things. Is every part of my body positioned correctly? How on earth did the group behind us catch up? Why am I so enraged?
The last time I played a round was two-and-a-half months ago, after which my blood pressure most certainly increased. Clubs, balls, tees, shoes--along with the mud encrusted on them--went straight into the closet. Now that I've had some time to breathe, however, I'm hoping this new slant will make a difference. Equanimity. Seems like it'd be useful on and off the course. I need it. Didn't have much of it at the range today, when I found myself thinking, "You fucking ball." So, I guess the opposite of that.
Posted by Ben at 10:52 PM
Tuesday, March 17, 2009 :::
Why golf, in all of creation, was the first thing to come to mind when spring arrived, I'm not really sure. You could say it was Pavlovian, I suppose, but then you'd be soiling Pavlov's good name, because he and his dogs were likely too smart to set foot on a golf course. And even if they did, they would've ceremonially killed themselves on the front nine, real proper-like. This is precisely what I failed to do in '08 and now, with '09 in full swing--ho ho!--I'm back on the green, none the wiser.
We didn't part amicably last year, golf and I. My descent into the sport was never willingly initiated, propelled mainly by a desire for a new corporate skill, though at one point I could've sworn I felt what passes for enjoyment on the course. Turns out it was just a crick in my neck. The more common sentiment, instead, was rage: at the interminable setup for every shot, at all the lost balls, the exorbitant cost, unbidden advice, and finally, in a perfect capstone to all these infuriating things, a misplaced iron.
But there was one round last year where I punched in a 125--15 shy of my personal goal and still a ways from that magic 100, but directionally it was correct. The goal this year is to meet and exceed that high score. Consistently. Same commitments as before: borrowed or found equipment only, shoes notwithstanding. Absolutely no professional instruction. 110, three rounds. I can almost taste the competency.
Posted by Ben at 11:28 PM
Thursday, March 12, 2009 :::
The social plan ran into its first roadblock today, in what promises to be the first of many snags, when turnout simply disintegrated. I had pictured a showing of one, maybe two dozen people at the concert on Saturday, followed by a mellow reception, but what I hadn't planned on was a complete dissolution of the event. The theater called yesterday, right around lunch time: part of the ticket money was being refunded because the reception had been cancelled, with only four RSVPs in tow.
Even then--and I demand brownie points for this--I had planned on going, until another call came this morning. It would be a party of three now, myself included, with the other two seats going to a mom and her son. Which could be a fun trip, were it not for, y'know, awkwaaard. So I tied it off. Called it: time of death, 10:32 AM. Then I tried giving away the tickets for free, only to find no takers whatsoever. Man. You'd figure a band resembling the Rolling Stones would attract something like enthusiasm, but you'd be figuring incorrectly. Now, it's on to the next thing, an opportunity directly from the G himself. And, indirectly, this blog.
Speaking of which, blogs. After reading about how the real Slim Shady did stand up--and was then put down--I realized that a blog, much like Eminem's corpus, mainly involves singing about yourself. I initially took offense at this, but then I started wondering whether Eminem blogs or uses Twitter, and how he could possibly rap about himself rapping about himself, all while beating women. A hypothesis, if I may:
Gotta yell at that bitch,
Tweet the one-four-oh.
Pimp hand on the keyboard
Pimp slappin' the ho'.
Log off!
(What)
With the missus berated,
Time to rap about myself,
Status Update's updated.
How do you top off
A Dr. Dre day?
Well, first Ima flog her,
And then Ima Blogger.
Posted by Ben at 11:03 PM
Tuesday, March 10, 2009 :::
Sure as the sun rises, I inaugurated the first true spring weekend with very little sunlight at all, tucked safely away from fresh air and clear skies at a 10 AM showing of Watchmen in a darkened theater. It seemed like a fun idea, when I decided on the showtime earlier in the week with the Cat, but it turned officially lame the day of, en route to a morning movie--based on a graphic novel, no less--when the weather was certifiably gorgeous. The nerdsweat was almost palpable. But the tickets were already bought.
In case you were considering spending hard-earned dough on the flick, don't. Although the movie itself isn't the main focus tonight, I'd be remiss if I didn't warn you. My $7.50 would've died in vain, understand. I've heard it's slavishly faithful to its source material, suggesting the printed work was a bloated patchwork of non sequiturs free from the constraints of editing or intelligible flow. It's, like, opening scene, present day. Cut to fight. Suddenly it's the 70s, with Vietnamese people exploding. Back to present day: prison riot. Shot of blue radioactive cock. Then it's off to Mars, then back to a bar in Nam--in the past, of course--and then to Antarctica. More computer-generated blue wang. Because, obviously. Repeat for three hours, after which you're left wondering what in fresh hell just happened.
It wasn't about the movie, however, so much as the community attending the movie. What the Cat expressed mainly through pointing and snickering, let me describe to you with words: imagine all the denizens of your local comic book store. Now imagine them in your theater, drawn to one flick specifically. It was a clarion call to my social plan, a firm reminder to kick it into high gear, lest I find myself at a 9:30 AM showing of the sequel, alone this time, stained head to toe in Cheetos precipitate.
At the same time, I realized these people were likely more content than I was, at least during those two hours and forty-five minutes, based on the peals of communal laughter. They were part of a society, a confederacy based on unabashed geekery. Now, this particular group isn't for me. Pretending to be a wizard in Dungeons and Dragons--on Second Life, naturally--is more my thing. But I'm beginning to see the value of community. Currently I'm inclined to disengage in situations. I'm trying to replace this with a need to belong, plant a stake in the ground, and claim my place.
Posted by Ben at 11:38 PM
Thursday, March 05, 2009 :::
A solid plan, according to yours truly, takes a critical look at reality, embraces it tightly, and then anticipates a few possible outcomes. Rocket science this is not, clearly, and so my social plan came to be, starting with a frank assessment of venue. The workplace, for instance, was quickly dismissed, because it's basically what I've been doing for the past two years and eight months. I need to diversify here. Orchestra? Way too much effort. And clubs? Let's just say if I ever return to Suite, it will be as a ghost, my remains mixed into the glow stick fluid, restless spirit bent on haunting the nightclub with disdain every night. Church crossed my mind, but I'm not in the market for nice people, whether genuine or manufactured.
The alumni association, then, is where I'll begin. I figure the shared frame of reference is substantial enough. Values are probably similar. My $30 down payment on sociability went toward tickets for the first event of the year, an evening uptown at a tribute concert to the Rolling Stones. Preparations are in motion, as you can well imagine. "Jumping Jack Flash" is pumping through the speakers, with a few other fan favorites queued up. History's been skimmed. Origins of the band. Early musical styling. American influences. Drug abuse: LSD, Benzedrine, puffing the magic dragon. 90% of which will be useless trivia, but this is how I tick.
Route to the theater, check. Estimated length of the concert is two hours, reception to follow. Business casual, so going to need to fire up the iron. The parking garage will take American Express, though I'll hit up the ATM anyway. What if I bump into my boss there? That's right, Boss G, you've got your very own scenario. About the only thing that will remain unplanned is the conversation. Everything else is fair game. You may wonder where spontaneity has gone, and I assure you--I've scheduled it for sometime next month. See? Says "Spontaneity" right there, penciled onto the calendar.
Posted by Ben at 11:48 PM
Tuesday, March 03, 2009 :::
Last year was devoted to the wholesale acquisition of skills, a kick I thought I had gotten over, but if I give '09 a cold, hard look, I don't think things are going to be too different. It's the way I like to operate, I guess, with my mind settling on something--be it a skill or an idea--and marinating, turning the one thing over every which way, soaking in all the delicious angles until I get it and it's mine. You may think it's a little strange, then, that I'm currently working on the ability to stop thinking.
I was stuck behind a car packed with old people the other day, crawling along at five below the speed limit, when it struck me: how exactly do you end up oblivious in the left lane on your way to the supermarket, head full of white, your first stop likely being the produce section, where you'll molest every apple in sight before letting one rip? Why do the elderly appear to just not give a shit? They certainly seem content when they're sampling grapes from every bunch within reach. I don't believe it's apathy so much as an ability to unplug mentally and simply cruise. This may be one secret to longer life.
Practically this boils down to telling my brain to shut up whenever I start mulling over something that's not mullworthy. Now, understand I don't completely blank out thereafter. I'm not sure I'd want that, in fact. It's more a matter of dismissing the fluff quickly and moving onto more important things. Something tells me this skill will come in handy, now that the social plan has been set in motion. I put $30 toward it on Monday, in what may be my first show of monetary commitment to "hanging out" with "people" since arriving here. Community looms nigh, its terrible calculus closer than ever.
Posted by Ben at 11:51 PM
