Thursday, October 29, 2009 :::
Somewhere between the movie theater, library, Chipotle, church, and the dog shelter, I'd be able to circumvent Halloween and all its festivities entirely, or so went the original plan. Saturday was supposed to be the one day of the year when the public appears where you least expect it--on your doorstep--and the solution to compulsory candy distribution would be poetic, if nothing else: run straight into the proverbial gunfire and spend the day not on Hulu.com, but outside, immersed in the public at large.
Something happened, though, when I stood in line at the supermarket, waiting as the fellow behind me finished coughing into the back of my head, cringing as the children in the adjacent line sniffled at funereal levels, and, in a fitting finish to this special tenth circle of hell, gazing in horror as the woman in front of me presented a quarter-inch stack of coupons to the cashier.
What began as one problem--how to avoid Halloween--quickly became two, with my original solution now operating at cross-purposes to, oh, the desire to refrain from waging germ warfare on myself. Suddenly the movie theater transformed from a place of entertainment into a breeding ground for a new, improved superstrain of flu. Chipotle, a casual fiesta of pathogens in each tub of medium salsa. The library, now a repository of ancient variants of H1N1 tucked within every dusty page. The animal shelter, ground zero for a terrifying dog flu outbreak. And church? Well, you may recall from Sunday school the story of Jesus healing the lepers, but I certainly don't recall service ever being held in leper colonies.
Deadpan once asked me whether I suffer from agoraphobia, upon which I scurried off to hide in the closest available nook. Before doing so, however, I brushed off the question as ridiculous, explaining how it wasn't open spaces that repulse me, but what actually fills the space that sets me on edge. Put me on a Swiss mountaintop, and I will spin around deliriously, much in the style popularized by Julie Andrews. Put me on the same Swiss mountaintop with Julie Andrews and the von Trapps, and I will likely dig a hole in said mountaintop and die in it. Perhaps this is agoraphobia, then. But here, now, in today's biohazardous landscape, my general avoidance of people may be the cure for once, rather than the curse.
Posted by Ben at 11:17 PM
Tuesday, October 27, 2009 :::
Decades from now, when a particularly virulent strain of Martian flu crash lands in New Mexico by way of meteor, triggering an epidemic of startling proportions, you will likely find me in a fortified attic, tin foil hat securely fastened to my skull, with a multipurpose shotgun walking stick in one hand and a plate of nachos in the other. Oh, the newscreens shall herald a vaccine, no doubt, developed just in time to ward off this space-age sickness, but I will not partake of it. I will instead take to homespun remedies, throwing myself wholeheartedly into my noble work as I combine flax seeds, moss, and oregano into smokeable form.
That's where my current trajectory is headed, at least. I tend to avoid doctors. Sure, I'll grab some contact lenses from the optometrist, even visit the dentist every six months, but it's been years since my last general checkup. It simply feels like I'd be looking for trouble, you know? And let's not get started on the customs seemingly designed to confound: the long wait times, admonishments, uncertainty of what exactly is covered by insurance, and the privilege of booking a future visit.
The main objection to it all, I realized, is actually closer to our discussion about academia in that healthcare, like the ivory tower, is an institution that's just not incented to answer the questions it seeks to solve. Certainly I understand the Hippocratic Oath, or the modern variant thereof, and I believe doctors themselves have the best intentions. But what if there were a breakthrough vaccine that inoculated you against, say, 50 strains of flu rather than just three? I can't imagine the makers of cough syrups, lozenges, and decongestants would be too pleased. Or what if a mad scientist blended fluoride with nanomachines for the ultimate in dental care, leading to a precipitous drop in toothpaste used, floss purchased, and cavities filled? Would the ADA stamp that shit?
Ever since high school, I've tried to steer away from this grid, and luckily I've met wise individuals every step of the way, oracles who suggest alternatives to popping pills from the word go. I've refrained from flu shots for two years now, spurred by secret intel from Earth Chick about the diabolical additives mixed into every batch, and I feel great. I've got to be honest, though. The recent coverage on vaccination shortages, along with the storm of coughing that covers approximately everywhere, has made me consider hunting down a dose a few times now. But then I come to my senses and vow to stick to the basics: washing my hands, breathing through my nose as much as possible, getting ample sleep, and, most importantly, continuing to bite my nails. It's a habit I developed in second grade, and I'm convinced it's beneficial to my health. It's like having my immune system party with a whole mess of petri dishes.
Posted by Ben at 11:24 PM
Thursday, October 22, 2009 :::
Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, October 27.
Posted by Ben at 12:00 AM
Tuesday, October 20, 2009 :::
In every compelling story, there are themes that repeat--shared not only from page to page, but from book to book as well. Think of the last great novel you finished. There was likely conflict, where characters struggled with themselves, each other, against forces beyond their control, and perhaps they triumphed in adversity. Or maybe they failed, only to find redemption. Maybe the narrative touched on some lofty idea, like sacrifice, or something as inevitable as growing up: how a generation loses its innocence, then makes peace with a changed reality.
One theme you probably didn't find, however, was comfort, at least in any appreciable quantity. After all, how wretched would it be to slog through a few hundred pages about someone who's largely content? It would make a terrible tale. A tale like my own, truthfully, because “comfort” aptly describes where I find myself. There's a roof over my head, too much food, relatively good health, employment--so on and so forth, and certainly I am grateful.
But at the same time, it's not enough. It's an existence on loop, bookended by ringing alarm clocks. Obviously I'm not wishing for conflict or an opportunity to sacrifice. I'm not intent on divesting myself of all my worldly goods or, let's be honest here, even sharing them, and it's not like volunteering more frequently is particularly appealing to me.
No, I suspect the answer lies in learning. Yes, learning. It simply strikes me as one possible way to break the loop. Engage myself. Get some dormant axons firing. And since formal schooling is entirely out of the question, it appears books are my main recourse. Books! Those ancient devices powered by paper-based technology. I was recently inspired to read, and that's basically the plan right there. Read more. Fill my head with succulent pieces of knowledge, let them marinate, and possibly even act on them. It's a terrifying thought.
Posted by Ben at 11:59 PM
Thursday, October 15, 2009 :::
Last year, right around this time, I stood before my front door, arms very likely crossed, puzzling over how precisely to prepare it for Halloween. Intrepid candyseekers would come knocking in a matter of days, and already neighbors were decorating their exteriors in a slow arms race to deploy as much demonic paraphernalia as possible. Escalation happened on a smaller scale, of course, because townhouses simply offer less surface area for the gauche, and should your plastic Grim Reaper or animatronic Hannah Montana encroach on your elderly neighbor's yard, well, prepare for real hellfire.
But decorating wasn't my concern. It's not exactly my wheelhouse, you could say. Foreclosed on that house years ago, in fact. Instead, I was trying to decide whether it was worth the effort to sweep all the cobwebs off my porch. Usually I enter through the garage door, you see, which leaves the front stoop largely unused, with naught but the occasional pizza coupon distributor or religious pamphleteer ambling over it. The cobwebs weren't the issue, though. Heck, people purchase synthetic webbing, so why pass on the authentic stuff? No, the problem was the wicked-looking spider that had set up shop right next to the doorbell.
In another time, another place, the homeowner's association would have marveled at the startling attention to detail, perhaps awarded me duly for my festive, naturalistic Halloween sensibilities. This reality dictated, however, that a lawsuit would be the only reward awaiting me, were the spider to poison some hapless trick-or-treater. I quickly cleaned things up, driven by the threat of liability. And then, when Halloween day arrived, I disappeared, like a ghost who hates Halloween.
Don't get me wrong. I love candy. I just don't love buying bags and bags of it. To feed to strangers. Who ring the doorbell regularly, jarringly, throughout the day. So they may be served candy! It's the kind of logic that could only be engineered by Satan or the Hershey Company. I decided I wasn't going to invest in this holiday, so I disengaged. Drove off. Left a house devoid of individually wrapped chocolates.
I may appear to be a dick here. I wish to disabuse you of this notion. What I just described might sound like a Halloween celebrated by objectivists, where the day could only be improved with candles and Ayn Rand's finest works splayed all over the couch. I don't think I'm being selfish here. If I knew you, and you wanted candy, I would buy you a fucking kilo of Sweet Tarts. Halloween simply strikes me as an odd social contract, an unhealthy one to boot. Why not choose a day in November instead, when I can freely knock on your door, brush past you to your kitchen, and help myself to, like, chicken or something?
Posted by Ben at 11:56 PM
Tuesday, October 13, 2009 :::
A secret revealed, if I may: whenever the post stamp reads 11:59 PM, it's a sure sign I'm logging into Blogger at a wholly unreasonable hour, fiddling with the very time-space continuum itself to ensure our discussion falls on a Tuesday, such is the need for posterity. It's actually 1:27 in the morning on the fourteenth of October, in the year of our Lord two-thousand-nine, and I'm at the tail end of an evening flush with alcoholic enrichment. It feels like I just finished a seminar on drinking, in fact, and were I to grade myself, I'd dole out a solid “C.” An effort was made, but there remains much room for improvement.
Alcohol, along with all its odd little customs, is still foreign to me, and at times it feels like I'm a pilgrim in an unholy land. First, let's talk about taste. Certainly it's a subjective matter, but the buck has to stop somewhere, right? Even though our tastebuds differ in sensitivity, they're still tastebuds in the end, and it simply boggles the mind how anybody can honestly claim something like scotch is delicious. It's an acquired taste, you might say. Acquired from where, though? An unmarked van behind the Red Lobster with a driver in a trench coat? I've heard it's an old people drink, and after sampling some tonight, I've got to believe the elderly are actually mixed into this horrific concoction.
Taste aside, there are a few other reasons for imbibing. There's the social aspect. Here, the ritual of shots is a qualified spectacle, where groups of people partake in feats of synchronized swallowing. I mean, shit. Do you see this pattern occurring anywhere else in the known world? Let's say you were dining at a tapas joint. The party next to you orders a round of cheese plates. The food arrives, it's shared evenly, and then-- And then faces are buried directly into plates in a mad rush to eat as quickly as possible. It'd be grotesque! Similarly, I don't believe monkeys congregate around a puddle of rainwater and then pound back the stuff in concert. Nor would the pythons who wish to eat said monkeys wait for even distribution, then gather in a circle for simultaneous digestion.
And finally there's the potency of alcohol. This is the primary reason for imbibing, obviously, and it's here I've made the most progress. For me, it's an exploration of my limits. Let's be clear: I've yet to wander anywhere near hangover country. I'm dealing solely with buzzes at this point, which, since I'm usually so high-strung, primarily serve to normalize me. After a drink or two, driving seems manageable enough, though serious curves require just a bit more focus. I've also discovered I'm largely immune to the Asian flush, possibly because I think I'm white. And tonight, here, a mojito, two-thirds of a Long Island iced tea, and a half-dozen exploratory sips later, I've managed to avoid chaining, like, three nouns in a row, followed by a string of Bs. Truly it is a miracle, and there shall be rejoicing unto the ringing of my alarm clock.
Posted by Ben at 11:59 PM
Thursday, October 08, 2009 :::
Should you ever find yourself needing dirt, well, I know a guy. Saw a curious sign flanked by trees, as I drove back home yesterday, with "DIRT AVAILABLE" seared across its face, done real professional-like in bold font, with an actual phone number under the product offering. I've yet to call, but I imagine they take check, credit card, and possibly pine cone as well. I don't know! I don't know how the pine cone market has fared in this wretched economy.
But we're here tonight to discuss an entirely different market, and before we parted ways we spoke about fitness. I should clarify I'm going nowhere near weights. There simply isn't a reality in which I'd willingly choose to lift and drop heavy pieces of metal repeatedly. I'm not looking to get ripped. Fit is fine, and this same train of thought extends to what appeals to me. I'm not looking for smokin'. I mean, certainly there's a minimum threshold of attractiveness--she's got to have a full set of teeth, for instance--but extroverted and smart are the two things I absolutely need.
There's something else that's equally important as getting back into shape, I mentioned on Tuesday, and it's far less tangible. In the past few months, I've plugged into the alumni association, church, and a marketing association with varying degrees of disappointment, all in service of a single question: "Which group is right for me?" It may be a valid inquiry, but what I really should be asking is this: "Why is it so difficult to connect?" I'm no longer sussing out the right community for me. There could be a local club of bloggers who maintain sites that are never to be mentioned in public, and I'd quit in two weeks flat. No, I'm trying to figure out why I'm communing. For me, there's this sense of relief whenever a tie is severed. And yet, everywhere I look, there seems to be this fundamental need to connect.
You see it in bars, at church, during a marketing association meeting, online, even when paying for your stuff at a Target. I'm sure you've experienced this, where the person behind you complains under her breath about how the line is too long, and it's expected that you commiserate. Total strangers, empathizing about the trivial. A woman did exactly this in a checkout line last week, and at first I withheld attention, then relented when I wondered if she was simply having a bad day. But just as I was turning around, she slammed, like, a 100-pack of Summer's Eve wipes onto the checkout belt in a huff, and this little social conundrum instantly solved itself. It wasn't the purchase itself, mind you. Hey, we all have our things. It was how the purchase intersected with her foul temperament. Some Venn diagrams are meant to be avoided.
So, the question. Movement on this front, unfortunately, can't be measured by a scale, so it's going to be a work in progress. I will keep you appraised of any revelations. You may be assured of it. In the mean time, I'm focusing on good health. It's the straight and narrow for me. I went to a business outing a few hours ago and ordered a salad for dinner--a salad!--and I feel like a goddamned saint right now.
Posted by Ben at 11:57 PM
Tuesday, October 06, 2009 :::
Setups may look convenient, even inviting on the surface, but beneath the gloss beats a cold truth: if the first date takes a wrong turn, goes south, it's not just you, but the very architects of the setup who are culpable. The collateral damage here seems too great. When King Calm and Lady Cheerington described, in broad strokes, the person they had in mind, I was certainly intrigued. The facts, they said, were these: she's in a band, has highlights, works as a barista on the side, is Caucasian, and--this would make one of us--likes Asians.
If only I had met her on my own accord, a month or so down the road. I say this because, suspect nature of setups aside, there are two things I must address before I put myself out there. I know what I need to do, obviously. But were I dropped into the market, say, right this minute, there would promptly be a product recall. The first order of business is to get back into shape. I don't think is an unreasonable request, like asking for a pony, then asking the pony itself to assist me in exercise. And the second order of business? Well, you'll just have to return here on Thursday, won't you?
On the subject of health, I logged a solid four hours of tennis this weekend. The physical improvement is there, and there comes a point when it's easier to ignore a cheesesteak for fear of scuttling your progress. The work is far from complete, however, at halfway from my target weight, or another two-thirds to go until I achieve the mystical "college weight." But it is work I gladly do.
The company health screen today told a wretched story, where the fruits of my traditional aversion to sunlight and general movement came to bear. There were numbers, high numbers, and talk of pre-hypertension, followed by admonishments delivered by flabby people clutching medical apparatuses. It was like a parable in the making. But my final assessment score was real enough: 78. That's a C+, which, contrary to academic custom, wasn't helped at all by office hours.
Posted by Ben at 11:43 PM
Thursday, October 01, 2009 :::
The secret to a solid, sustainable health regimen, as any dietician will tell you, is a complete lifestyle change, a total overhaul of your fundamental beliefs about food and exercise, reinforced by small, rewarding milestones. Or some such shit. You may recall how I inaugurated my recent push for better vitals with a four-mile walk, and since then I've made significant progress in forgetting about the greenway. The path may have collapsed into a sinkhole, for all I know, and I will be left to forever wonder what it would be like to walk another four miles.
I've turned instead to some reliable staples these past few weeks: stress, forgetting to eat meals entirely, fistfuls of vitamin C drops, and tonight, nine evaporated pounds later, it feels like momentum's finally on my side, rather than in my sides. There's still a long ways to go, of course, and I've caught myself thinking a lot about fries lately. Cheddar fries. Chili fries. Waffle fries. Curly fries. Steak fries. Fries with barbeque sauce, garlic remoulade, or even fries left marinating in the leavings of other fries. But thinking it shall remain, because with a health screen right around the corner, one that may affect my insurance premiums down the road, I'd do well to remain on my best behavior.
What I have been working back into my existence--and doctors may even approve of this--is exercise. Nine golf clubs have been relegated to the closet, traded happily for one trusty tennis racquet. I clocked in two hours last Sunday, and I'm looking forward to a few more this weekend. I'm still trying to find my serve, which I suspect has atrophied under the weight of a hundred nachos, but there's been progress. I remember why I like this part of the ritual--two nervous bounces, the quiet, then the sudden crack.
Even the grueling moments are strangely appealing. I'm still royally out of shape, winded within minutes, and yet there's something about being a set and a half deep, arms heavy, legs on fire, and steeling myself to play another point. It's the satisfaction of perseverance. That reminds me of a new phrase I learned last week. It's a linguistic curio fresh from New York that's simultaneously coarse and delicious, if only in a figurative sense.
Posted by Ben at 11:56 PM
