Thursday, January 28, 2010 :::
The way I remember it, panhandlers were fixtures on the street, practitioners of the hustle who cornered the daytime vampire market well before any of this Twilight shit, shaking down passersby for sundries and coin. Sure, they may have worked an intersection on one day, then an adjacent avenue the next, but by and large they were stationary during the act itself. Custom also dictated that solicitations occasionally were accompanied by a brief explanation for why their ill fortune now involved you, and at times not a single word was exchanged, with only the jangling of a worn Dunkin' Donuts cup to summon both sympathy and wallet.
Now, some panhandlers bucked tradition and were a little more suspect. Perhaps it was the nice shirt, or the fancy pair of shoes, or the shiny watch, or the CD player, or how the crutch-side leg was favored, but questions would be raised. Indeed, the panhandler-panhandlee covenant may even have been broken, and when you consider how this species of panhandler also tends to be the pushiest, well, what you have right there is a powder keg of indignation. It's especially volatile if you're accosted after a long day at the office because it's, like, oh, of course I should give you some money. You must be tuckered out from listening to music and standing around outside all day.
Never have I encountered a panhandler in a car, however, until today. In case I wasn't clear, this guy was asking for money while he was driving a silver compact. Only in southeast Charlotte, I suppose, can you find begging evolved to its most luxurious drive-through form, in the parking lot of a Target, no less. I was making a right onto a side street when the fellow started turning into the lot, established eye contact, rolled down his window, and then proceeded to ask whether I could help him out with some cash. I mean, really? Was the irony really that subtle? Next thing you know, I'll be expected to drop off a donation or two at his house, whenever his schedule permits. I declined, naturally, only to feel a deep remorse later in the day for having missed the chance to ask about sedanhandling. There's always next time.
Posted by Ben at 11:59 PM
Tuesday, January 26, 2010 :::
Between my poor choice of foods and general lack of sleep, I've been getting noticeably dumber, and it's a small wonder I've been able to finish this very sentence. Typing has become particularly cumbersome, transforming from something quick and effortless into a speed bump on loop. Three words deep into this post, case in point, I spelled "poor" with two p's. Twice, if you can believe it. There is a dull film encasing my head, almost as if someone took great pains to wrap an afghan around my brain.
And that someone would be me. Doctors, I've come to realize, may be onto something with the whole eight hours of rest fad. I've been averaging fewer than six, which is surely taking its toll, a fact that may be apparent to people other than myself. Take Monday, for instance, when I found myself nodding forward in a daze, in broad daylight at my desk, and there was at least one instance where I looked bewilderedly at my spreadsheet, wondering how in fresh hell I ended up in, like, cell AL5485.
Lack of sleep may also impair judgment, and accordingly I've lavished upon myself a shitload--that's five hectograms, in case you're European--of fries and cookies in the past few days. I also purchased a case of Fresca on a whim last week, effectively ensuring a minimum daily intake of two cans and untold havoc waged upon my synapses. Correct me if I'm wrong here, but I don't believe human physiology really cries out for acesulfame potassium.
But the most insidious quantity I've been consuming is routine. That's right. Routine. I appreciate it, find comfort in its welcoming contours, but there's a point, which I've clearly crossed, where the contours become grooves, then gullies, then inescapable pits. Work, television, work, television, work, television, television, work. I could be watching a thoughtful miniseries on HBO and tackling a challenging problem in the office, and yet the routine would still be there. It'd be like using the elliptical machine at the gym, day in and day out, to blunted effect. There would be nothing inherently wrong about it--indeed, it may even be laudable--but apparently you're supposed to mix up your workout. Keep your body on edge and prevent it from settling into a pattern. Or so I've heard, because let's be honest now: I'm speaking on exercise in a purely theoretical capacity here.
There are three things I'm injecting into my day-to-day as a stopgap for this stupification. The first is this blog here, ironically, because even though it's routinely updated, it's been increasingly hard to do so. Writing is critical, though, because it helps with the production and arrangement of thoughts. A better diet would certainly help with clarifying the old brainpan as well, and to this end I'm rolling out the "no refined sugars" edict in varying degrees. And finally, chess because it demands that ideas be chained together, meaningfully, for long-term benefit. So! Writing for structure. Refined sugar embargo for clarity. Chess for cunning. I suppose now would be a good time to sleep as well. That's really four things, you know, not that I should be expected to count correctly. Oh, elementary numbers, how you elude me so! But not for long.
Posted by Ben at 11:47 PM
Thursday, January 21, 2010 :::
When you line your weekend with post-apocalyptic imagery, first with a matinee showing of The Book of Eli, followed by sermon on the Book of Revelation the next day, you may find yourself slightly less rested. Contemplative is the better adjective, and so I've found myself thinking about my relationship with church. I'm three for three in attendance this year, which is no small feat, considering three--consecutive!--Sundays have already elapsed, but I've got to tell you: this recent service was tough.
It dealt with eschatology, the study of end times, and throughout the message I found myself wondering where exactly this was leading and why I was even there. Understand I was raised Protestant, specifically Baptist, and I still carry the core tenets with me. I find the central account compelling, from carpenter to cross, and I appreciate the accompanying themes. Sacrifice. Redemption. Fallibility. Stewardship. But when I sat down on the pew and cracked open the bulletin to find a chart detailing, in bold font, the twilight of humanity, I found it alarming.
The main point of contention was the Rapture--crassly put, when the flock is beamed up to the mothership--and there are different schools of thought built upon when such an event may occur. "Schools" may be putting it lightly. Theological war rooms may be more apt, based on the fiery certitude with which the pastor held forth, and the import of the argument was lost on me. Honestly it felt more like prognosticating, rather than worship, and if I wanted that shit I'd buy a couple Magic 8-Balls. Is the pretribulation viewpoint valid? Or do the posttribulationists have it? Does it even matter? The congregation may as well have been debating the over-under of Gryffindor sweeping the Quidditch preliminaries, or how best to construct a lightsaber.
But enough of that. I'm placing value in the simple act of showing up at church last week, and at this point the effort made is enough for me. Here's my other revelation. On Monday or Tuesday it occurred to me I had the perfect entry to contribute to Urban Dictionary. I could taste the prestige--the word of the day splayed on the homepage for a marveling online public, a fitting capstone to my life's work. Behold:
Dou•che' [doo-shey]
--interjection
1. To acknowledge a witty retort delivered by a douchebag or douchebaguette
Usage:
Douchebag: That's what she said. [Shoots, then holsters finger guns.]
You: Douche'.
I excitedly surfed--indeed, websurfed--over to the site, only to find that two other people had beaten me to it. Two! That's the Internet for you, I suppose. A megaphone for mankind, a clearinghouse of such scale that your original idea may in fact be...secondhand. Dun dun dunnn.
Posted by Ben at 10:56 PM
Tuesday, January 19, 2010 :::
Again, exactly one week after the last incident, this time at a gas station on a far warmer evening. Change of scenery was welcome, I suppose, because if my car must reprise its role, weekly, as the only four-wheeled paperweight known to man, well, we've got to mix it up a little. I shelled out another chunk of change today to get my automobile fixed--really fixed this time--and in doing so, I've staked my claim. I'm sticking with the Saab, and selling is currently off the table.
I say "currently" because I was looking as recently as this afternoon, scanning different automaker websites for a would-be successor to what's sitting in the garage tonight, but that's the farthest I've gotten. After checking the trade-in value for my own vehicle this morning, which was truly dismal, and then picturing the whole shopping process--the timing, the haggling, the pageantry of pretending to walk away--I've decided I can wait.
Independent counsel has weighed in as well, offering a verdict that's far more sensible: get that clunker outta here, the sooner the better, before it consumes any more money. When this week comes to a close, I'll have sunk about $1,600 into repairs, funds that could've gone to a new ride. Thinking about it that way makes sense, of course, and yet I persist, firmly believing that I've put all my vehicular dilemmas behind me. But the public doesn't suffer the fool's errand on which I've embarked. To wit: Boss G replied to my post-breakdown phone call yesterday evening with an "interesting." Or consider how the Chief asked for a ride earlier today, while I was still without car, in a grisly pantomime of my situation.
Also! King Calm took great pains to explain to me, after I had outlined the difficulties of dog ownership vis-à-vis my recent car issues, that having a dog may actually have simplified matters, since I would've returned home first to take her for a walk, thereby allowing my car to die in the driveway. You know, from a convenience standpoint. Let me put this to you in nerd terms: Imagine the Fellowship of the Ring, just not helpful whatsoever. I'm all in, a sucker strapped to a Saab, and we shall see what next Monday brings. Now, as far as this Thursday goes, I have some insight. We're going to talk about revelations, in the written word and otherwise.
Posted by Ben at 11:59 PM
Thursday, January 14, 2010 :::
Six hours of sleep, one full day at work, two cocktails, and half a steak later, here I am, in the early hours of the morning, with a singular purpose: to regale you with vital information, a full four paragraphs of it, published electronically using powerful modern technologies. I've got cars on the brain, specifically my car, which shit the bed again on Monday in a stunning encore performance. I'm thinking we should make this a regular monthly event, and if the wheels fail to fall off in February, there may be disappointment. Tears, even.
Third time's a charm, apparently, because I'm ponying up for the real repair job this time, rather than the band-aid fix I've purchased during prior episodes. It's going to cost substantially more, but it's not the expense I'm considering right now. There's a far deeper matter at play here, I believe, and it's the question of loyalty and the benefits thereof. Let's be honest here. It's an inanimate object--doubly so, I suppose, when it just sits there in a miserable pile in a parking lot--and to pledge fealty to an automobile is ludicrous.
But because it's been with me since Chicago, simply by virtue of attendance, it's been getting pass after free pass. It really doesn't make sense, especially when the goddamn loaner I've been driving, ostensibly a vehicle regularly maintained by the dealership, is prone to locking and unlocking its doors without provocation. Current high score is five times. Is it haunted, perhaps by the bewildered soul of a previous Saab owner? Or is it simply foreshadowing issues to come for my own car?
Staying the course would be a gross example of gambler's fallacy, and yet this is precisely the route I've chosen, unclear of any real benefit. I mean, it's not like the car will suddenly become aware that I've resisted pawning it off at the nearest Carmax, then proceed to drive better. The best it can do is not break! And yet I'm still here. At the table. A 1 on a scale that spans from golden retriever to mercenary. Maybe it's time to go Hessian.
Posted by Ben at 11:59 PM
Tuesday, January 12, 2010 :::
There is a place we seldom visit, a far, rare country where vulgarity is surprisingly absent. Swear words are not only missing, in fact, but actively discouraged, and instead there are clean consonants, with clean vowels accompanying them, and it's a wholly different voice. Wholesome, I'd like to think. You may recall how I needed to construct a commencement prayer recently and here, on the other side of the ordeal, I thought I'd share the end product with you.
Our heavenly Father,
be with us today.
Be with us now,
in this proud moment,
and grant us clarity.
Help us to remember
those who have carried us,
to give thanks for each step and shoulder.
Be with us here, Lord,
in this crossing,
with our hands in Yours.
Meet us in this place,
where we honor our gifts
by giving in turn.
And be with us tomorrow,
on those uncertain shores,
confident in Your plan.
Where we are rich in knowledge, help us to listen.
Where we want not for comfort, teach us sacrifice.
And when we have lost our way, lead us back to our calling.
May we depart as stewards of intellect,
humbled by the promise,
mindful of the privilege,
and thankful for Your abundance.
Amen.
Here's my postmortem. It's about 30% shorter than the last commencement prayer, though I probably should've shaved off another 10%-15%. The structure could've been rearranged to flow better. I'm happy with "stewards of intellect" because it's a digestible idea and, more importantly, Google shows zero results for the phrase. Above all, I'm amazed the thing made it through the vetting process unscathed. This is a secular university, after all, and I'm fully aware the text may have offended people.
Some may have been doubly offended, I imagine. You know the type. You may have even taken a class or two with one of them. Thin as a rail, fully encased in black yarn, ghoulishly light complexion: a po mo major (whatever a "major" can even mean, anyway) with a Nietzsche poster (basically a sheet of black paper) tacked directly above the bed. For these graduates, I realize I may as well have been referencing Harry Potter or Yoda--and his name also we praise, hmmmm?
Honestly this zone of clean language is getting uncomfortable, probably for all parties involved, so consider how I shouted "Fuck!" on Sunday. In a parked car. In front of a church. Because I had forgotten my Bible at home. After you do the math there, I trust you'll find we're home again. I should also remind you the prayer ended three paragraphs ago, by the way.
Posted by Ben at 11:49 PM
Thursday, January 07, 2010 :::
Whatever allure the cineplex once held evaporated in a foul cloud of halitosis a few weeks ago when, during a packed late-night showing of Avatar, fortune saw fit to deposit a rancid woman to my immediate left for three hours. Prior to her arrival, a country man with a rich country drawl had settled into the same row of chairs and, after viewing a few pre-trailer commercials, threatened to pull out his gun, should any additional advertisements appear. The screen obviously didn't hear this because it promptly played two more spots, but lo! No firearm was procured, for fortune did stay his hand.
I had chosen this showtime with the Cat to avoid a repeat of our Watchmen experience, wherein a sunny Saturday morning was spent in a dark, nerd-filled theater. Nighttime would be far more acceptable for watching a movie, went the reasoning, and what's more a Sunday evening, so very close to the workweek, would thin out the crowds. How wrong I was on both counts. All of God's children apparently decided on the same showtime, and wherever the threat of gun violence didn't punctuate my vicinity, there wafted that sickly sweet scent. Imagine, if you will, a shit-greased strawberry patch.
The 3D glasses were enough for me--indeed, an assault on my corneas may have been the very purpose of the ticket. But the added smell-o-vision was too much, and when Stinkerella began popping candy every few minutes, which necessitated opening her mouth, the situation quickly deteriorated. Every crinkle of cellophane, a death knell for the nostrils. Every death knell for the nostrils, a prelude to more unwrapping.
And the film itself? Pretty, preachy, and vapid. I'm done with theaters for the time being. Home theater is a different matter, however, and here lies the broken vow I mentioned on Tuesday. Back in February, I had pledged to shun Blu-ray. I had no need for high-def, after all, because who really cares for stunning visual fidelity and unbelievably crisp audio? Ratatouille was the title that did me in and now I find my disposable income magically transforming into Blu-ray discs. It's a strange alchemy.
Posted by Ben at 11:59 PM
Tuesday, January 05, 2010 :::
It begins the same way every year: a silvery bauble drops on Times Square and then, in what may be the strangest example of correlation or causation or possibly both, resolutions are declared, stoic pronouncements that probably wouldn't even exist if that stupid ball had stopped short of its target height. Apparently I was on a health kick last January, though I was loathe to call it a resolution, so 2010 will be different. We're going to make progress. It's going to be a light resolution this year, then a sticky note that conveniently falls into the crevice between fridge and counter once 2011 rolls around, and then probably just a torrent of swearing in 2012.
Here it is. My pledge. I'm putting myself in the No-Fry Zone for the time being. Now, lest you think this is some horrible manifestation of an Asian accent or something, rest assured I'm talking about the food item, specifically the avoidance of any dining establishment that serves golden, delicious fries. Obviously I could refrain from ordering fries, opting instead for, like, a salad or something, but I hate salads. And fries, tempting as they may be, often hint at a larger menu that likely isn't designed to improve your vitals.
It's still a health resolution, of course, but it's more noncommittal. See? Progress. I wouldn't go to McDonald's, for instance, but Pizza Hut would technically be fair game. Chipotle is still legit, naturally. Steak n' Shake would be forbidden, and yet Cold Stone Creamery would be allowed. Chili's would be out of the question. Starbucks would be a go. The No-Fry Zone can also be capricious. A Taco Bell connected to a Long John Silver's is out of the question, but a freestanding location? Unleash the powdered meats.
Call it a half-resolution, then, and we'll leave it at that. When you've dined primarily from gift baskets for consecutive weeks, you see, corrective measures must be taken--measures which, come Thursday, will probably have been violated three ways to Sunday. But that's Thursday, two whole days from now, and the post will go on. Perhaps we'll talk about a vow I made last year that's been gladly broken, or maybe we'll discuss how 12 minutes can make all the difference in the world. We're flush with talk in this place.
Posted by Ben at 11:59 PM
