Have We Really Come That Far?

I recently read the blog of a good friend of mine. W/o any discussion betwixt us, it seems we have somehow found similar causes to write about our perceived social problems. Therefore, in the spirit of unspoken cooperation, I feel it to be my responsibility to speak on something my friend has already touched on briefly. I apologize for the string of critiques this blog has authored of late, but these things have been on my mind a while. It's just taken some time to coax them out.

Nearly ten years ago - this December - a woman named Laci Peterson died at the hands of her husband, Scott Peterson. For those of you too young, old, or unaware of the situation 10 years ago, here's the wiki >>article<<.

The case was a big one; it was here in California, anyhow. If I recall, the crime itself occurred here, which explains why it was plastered all over the news. What became so difficult about the case was that the suspect, Scott Peterson, was difficult to convict. Back then, it felt to me as if the case dragged on for a very long time. But maybe that's the young-child-perceiving-time-effect. Regardless: though his wife died in 2002 and it took over 7 months to discover her body, Scott Peterson wasn't convicted until 2005.

What stuck w/ me the most was what I saw the day Peterson was convicted of murder. I watched the news w/ my parents as a packed crowd stood in anxious anticipation outside the court house. The cameras were sure to catch the reaction of the crowd the moment the verdict came down.

Guilty.

And they...cheered. The whole crowd erupted in applause. In shouts of triumph. I'd go so far as to say they were genuinely happy.

Understand: I would never for a second try and belittle the heinous nature of Peterson's crimes. Nor do I think those close to the Peterson situation did not deserve justice. Absolutely not. Our justice system did well, I think, in their investigation and final sentence - Death.

But when I saw all those people cheering - celebrating - the decision to kill someone, something inside me whispered "This doesn't feel right...". To acknowledge, formally, that this man really had killed his pregnant wife, dumped her in a river, and tried to skip town; this, if nothing else, brought genuine anguish to my heart. But to celebrate that he would die for his crimes. To end his life. And to be happy about it. That's what got me.

Whatever happened to our advanced, evolved, and refined culture, hm? I saw this and understood that, no matter how hard the world might say we're better human beings, we still harbor those base nature's that make us terrible. We're no better from those who fueled the bloodthirsty French Revolution; we have nothing on those who watched on w/ pleasure and entertainment as dozens of people were publicly beheaded beneathe the cool, sadistically efficient guillotine; the weak-willed and stupid human race depicted in Doctor Who whose reality TV centered around avoiding execution doesn't seem so far-fetched. Sounds to me like we're not so clean and purty.

Even w/o a Christian background, this disheartens me. Mankind seems so petty and shallow. To take pleasure in death. In watching others fail or fall short of an expected standard. Maybe I'm alone in my opinion. That's alright.

This isn't how we were made to be.

From a Christian perspective, I see a failure to love. Christ didn't qualify His command to love others. Passages throughout the Bible give voice to the argument that we should persevere to do things both when they're easy and when they're hard; it doesn't mean as much to be honest when it's easy, right?

This isn't the rant of some self-righteous, white, Christian male who gets a kick outta' saying how horrible people are. I'm not those crazy, sandwich board guys in the UU telling all of campus how they're goin' to hell. This isn't pronouncing the end of the world. This is just an sad observation. I saw this happen. I saw what people did. And while you could try and attribute it to mob mentality, grief, and justice served, I still think it's sad.

This man killed his wife. I'm sure he's genuinely messed up. I'm sure his family's devastated. Instead of reveling in his condemnation, watching his eventual execution, and gossiping about how low a person he was, why not direct such energies to healing, loving, and ministering to his family? If possible, even to Scott Peterson. (Though, I must confess that even I feel it impossible to find love for him in my heart). If we're honest, can we really feel so self righteous? Can I?

No. I don't think we - I - have come that far. I don't think we deserve that pat on the back our culture says we do.

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iPhone 5

A collective *gasp* whooses through my two-person blogger audience.

"It cannot be," they exclaim. "The great Eric publicly speaking the name of a Apple product?! And not just any Apple product, but the messiah of Apple products!"

Yes, yes, it's true: I said it. Deal w/ it. It's not like I've anything good to say about the silly thing.

As many of you know, I'm not a fan of smart phones. I tenaciously hold onto my silly LG Alias 1, as I think it's the perfect combination of QWERTY keyboard and flip-phone. Its battery lasts for days. It does exactly what I need it to do - make calls and send texts. But even my own phone seems fancy to me. Just today, I told V that I wouldn't mind going back to my first true phone-love: Nokia's ever-famous bar phone. (Seriously, those things were the best phone ever. You could drop 'em, get 'em wet, chuck 'em. Didn't matter: they could survive anything). I loved that phone for no other reason than that its alarm would turn the phone on just to go off, which meant I could turn it off at night and still use it as an alarm.

But I'm not here to talk about my phones, past or present.

Several weeks ago, Apple's anxiously anticipated iPhone 5 hit the market. And the world exploded in a fervor of technical delight as thousands of people around the world got their hands on this new gadget. It does everything the old iPhone did, but looks better while doing it. (In all fairness, it probably does things better too. Faster. Less power consumption. Bigger screen. Etc.). News channels covered the product's release. All my co-workers wouldn't stop talking about it during our meetings and our lunch breaks. There was some kind of Mac "buzz" in the air.

Companies are even using iPhone SWAG as give-aways at job fairs to attract students! It's worth it to them to assume that a sizable chunk of the people they want will own iPhones! Seems like a big assumption to me...

That's what boggled my mind so much. To see people all around me so engrossed in this simple little technical doo-dad. The most cynical of my acquaintances went gaga over the thought of getting their iPhone 5 or hearing of someone else getting one. iPhone this. iPhone that. Apps. Data. Pictures. Social networks. Taxes. Cooking dinner. Changing the baby. Surgery. I was amazed at how easily a society could be sidetracked by this thing.

It frustrated me, but I couldn't explain why it bothered me so much. Maybe it was the materialism. How focused people became for something that really didn't matter. I seriously doubt anyone legitimately needed an iPhone 5. More than likely, they just wanted the next biggest, bestest thing to hit the market. It reminded me of something I once read on the internet of people's passion to buy Mac products.

Maybe it comes from my technical critique of the smart phone market. I was very critical of smart phone technology when it first came out. Mostly b/c I thought it wasn't ready for heavy commercial use. V's phone was a testament to that: the poor thing's hardware and software often fail to perform simple tasks like getting on the web. Now, my feelings haven't changed much. Yes, the technology's better. But the market for apps is kind'f what the market for cartridge video games or personal computers was like in the early 90's. Everybody had a way to make a computer. Some better than others. But the overall market was a mish mash of people trying too hard to establish a standard for computing machines.

But I digress...

People will get their new iPhones. They'll enjoy the luxuries it provides. But I doubt it'll really bring the satisfaction people think it will. No one will really register serious dissatisfaction w/ the product. I don't think people will actively dispose of their iPhone 5 for a similar smart phone - like I said, I admit the phone's a good piece of property to have. But when the next one comes out - b/c we all know there'll always be a "next" one - people will clamor and bustle about as anxiously as they did for the iPhone 5.

I guess it's just sad to see so large a group of people - our entire country - brought to such a silly social state.

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Bygone Times

Do you remember? When some "thing" we have now existed in the past? Chances are, it was better back then than it is now. Sure, lots of things have improved. Gmail, Ubuntu, cell phone technology - the list goes on and on of the things that we have now and appreciate for their improvements over time. But the things that got better don't stick in my mind nearly as well as the things that got worse. But I don't mean to burden you w/ the responsibility of coming up w/ examples. I got several of them for you right here!

Myspace. Its golden age was among the more brief of the social networks, but Myspace was one of the first (to my knowledge) to really try and socially connect people on the internet in a secular setting. And, for the short time it had a respectable audience, Myspace got things right. It was easy to see what people were up to, post on their walls, share things, and pass things amongst a community of friends. I used Myspace a long time ago, so I can't attest to its privacy rules. My use of Myspace is a distant memory, so perhaps my praise of the site is lacking for that reason.

But we all know where Myspace was headed. The ever-famous "Myspace photo" pose is a classic example of how outdated the social network became. (My point is made all the more poignant b/c "Myspace photo" can mean one of several different picture poses). It became a breeding ground for self-worship & drama. The original intent of Myspace - to help aspiring musicians reach their audience - backfired. Myspace bands carry with them this sketchy "flavor". (This is mostly b/c of all the crappy musicians floating around polluting the Myspace music-air). And of course, nobody likes any of the songs people put as their profile song. The themed skins, annoying decorations, gobs of pictures, and a plethora of other nicknacks made sifting through someone's profile impossible.

Myspace failed. But maybe Big Brother Facebook fared better. What do you think?

Psh. We all know the answer to that.

Many years ago, Facebook had a lot going for it. For one thing, it was exclusive. Only college-attending people could have accounts; you literally had to have a university email account to make a FB profile. I joined during this time. (Before that, only certain colleges were included in the network). A smaller community gave FB a definite edge over Myspace, which had exploded w/ user accounts spanning the gamut of human personalities.

Before all these smart-phone apps and get-rich-quick advertising schemes, FB's interface was slick, lightweight, easy-to-browse, and free of nearly all clutter. Javascript developers had a blast writing all sorts of nifty plugins to enhance the FB experience.

But then Facebook got popular. And w/ that popularity came a need to appeal to a wider audience. Nothing was broken w/ Facebook, but they decided to go on fixin' it. Like their UI: I've never been able to get a handle on the FB interface b/c it keeps shifting on me like France's constitution; since joining, I've seen Facebook go through 4 or 5 interface changes. And not a single one ever solicited user feedback. Not even one of the silly survey monkey forms. I just woke up one day and *BAM!*, new UI. Maybe I'd like it. Maybe I wouldn't. But the user experience never really mattered to Facebook.

Think about it: have you ever tried to solve a problem on Facebook? Suggest a feature? Register a complaint? Receive some kind of human (or automated) confirmation that the feedback you submit is received? More generically: ever tried to contact FB? Y'know, like some kind of Support service? It's impossible! In all my years of using the site, I've never once turned up an email address to which I could send a complaint. Oh sure, there are FAQ's and forums for people to ask stupid questions to make FB look like it's answering concerns important to me. But really, as far as customer support is concerned, Facebook isn't.

One more thing for FB: privacy. Yeah yeah, it's come up now and again over the past couple of years. But the public's concerns about FB don't interest me too much, mostly b/c, if a concern goes public, Facebook will have to change to accommodate it. No, what worries me is the things people don't complain about b/c they don't know better.

I wrote a very lengthy (and awesome) paper on the ethics of FB's privacy architecture. Beyond learning some really cool words and cool terms, I realized that FB isn't going to stop pushing the issue of "sharing more". Everything about FB is designed to go public - all its settings default to "public" or at least "friends of friends" for new accounts. Timeline, FB's newest interface, makes it even easier/enticing to stuff FB w/ more information about you.

And, despite those silly status posts people were making a couple months back to "protect their information from the government" (sadly, I couldn't find an example of it on Google), nothing you put on Facebook is safe from discovery.

But, I'm afraid I've digressed too deeply into my opinions about Facebook. If you want to read my paper, just ask. (Seriously, it's awesome). If I still have your attention, I want to get to the whole point of this post.

Hulu.

Man, Hulu used to be so awesome! Do you remember when Hulu first started? No commercials. Everything free and available. Fast connections that hardly ever needed buffering time. But it got popular. I understand that increased throughput requires higher revenue (a valid justification for commercials). As a company grows successfully (as Hulu has), things have to change. Overall, I approve of Hulu's direction. They've expanded to devices like XBox, smart phones, TV, etc. Their new interface, while difficult to adjust to, sure is nice. And they've got most of the shows I watch. (Nobody's perfect, right)?

But over the years, I've observed a trend of entropy w/ Hulu. For one thing, commercials. Both frequency (Hz) and length (t). Where there used to be one (or no) commercials, there are now at least 3. Instead of 2 or 3 commercial breaks for a 24 minute show, there are 5 or 6 commercials (each at 60s or 90s in length). That could be as much as 9m overhead (~37.5%).

Then, there's Hulu+, Hulu's paid-for-account. It gives you access to all sorts of cool features, the most useful of which is getting Hulu on mobile and external devices, along w/ giving you access to more episodes of the shows they offer (which they used to do for free, but...). But you know what really irked me? Payin' for a Hulu+ account doesn't remove commercials. How does that make sense? If ads are to help pay for a free show-watching experience, where is Hulu+ subscription money going? I'm sure there's an answer to that question, but I really hate ads.

At the bottom line, it's just sad to see such wonderful services on the internet rot beneathe the gaze of a mass of public crying "More! More!". Maybe one day somebody'll get it right. But Myspace, Facebook, and Hulu sure haven't.

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The Vow I Promise to Keep

This post was written several days before the weddings (Sunday prior, I believe). I wished to post it after the wedding so as to not spoil the wedding itself. Enjoy.

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I was on the phone the other night w/ V. With the wedding only 6 days away, it was primarily wedding events that were on our mind. We're both very excited for them and, barring any sudden revelations that would dissuade us, the wedding is gonna' happen. But despite the proximity of our knot-day, neither of us fully has our wedding vows fleshed out. Sure, we've both got a real vague of what to say. But on the whole - at least for me - the real details need a lot more attention.

It feels like it did back when I set out to scour the internet for the perfect engagement ring for V. Whenever I set out to start, I faced an insurmountable level of apathy towards completing the task. So it is with my wedding vows. Of course, it isn't that I'm afraid of promising things to V on our wedding day - I doubt any argument questioning my commitment would hold much water. Nevertheless, the last few days have been plagued with the apathetic pattern of trying and failing to muster the words for my wedding vows.

The traditional wedding vows are more of a formality w/ no real meaning, which is why we decided to go with our own, personal promises. But, what would I promise that I haven't already said or demonstrated in the 4.75 years of our non-marital relationship?

But then I got to thinking: I don't always tell people things b/c they don't know them. Sometimes - esp. in my relationship with V - I say things b/c I know they should be said; someone needs to hear them. And perhaps it is thusly with wedding vows. As a public declaration of our love and commitment, a little repetition and thoroughness could be appropriate to affirm our relationship before the dozens of people in attendance.

So, I wonder, what is it that I know V needs and wants to hear? What promises do my vows need to express my sentiments.

Of my many qualities and skills, none has ever been so strong as my ability to screw up and make an ass of myself. My opinionated nature makes it hard for me to slow down and see what V needs, sometimes. So, I suppose my first promise to V would be short and simple:

To learn.

To learn more about her, b/c it would be foolish to assume that I will ever fully understand all that she is. Learn her needs. Learn what makes her tick. What bothers her. What she enjoys. Learn how I can best acquit myself to serve her.

To learn to change myself. Not b/c I cannot be myself around her, but b/c I know that the person I am now cannot cope with the requirements the future holds for us/me. I will need to grow, change, and become a more Godly man if I am to love and support V in the way a biblical husband is called. Change is difficult for me, b/c we all know I'm always right. What makes it harder is that V's always right too. And while I can't give on moral or ethical points, there's not a whole lot else I can dogmatically defend w/o a guilty conscience. And so, rather than always arguing or always agreeing, I promise to learn to talk. Discuss. To have rational conversations when they need to be had, not when I want them to happen. To always work to build her up, rather than tear her down.

To learn to be not what I want, but what she needs.

This would, I suppose, lead to another important point. I promise to [try to] live up to the standard set forth in the Bible for Christian husbands.

...love with your wives in an understanding way, I Peter 3:11 says, as with someone weaker, since she is a woman.

Before the femitheist comes to do horrible things to me, a moment: while it is the general rule that woman are less physically robust than men, I don't think this verse is talking strictly about musculature. In being with V all these years, there have been many times where my assumptions about what was "just fine" turned out to be wrong. V is fundamentally different from me and, while that sounds obvious, the nuances of its implications are far less so. I can't make the insensitive assertions, assumptions, and decisions I'm used to making on my own. She sees things in a complete different light and, if I'm not sensitive to that, I'm liable to hurt her and damage our relationship.

Paul writes in Colossians 4:18 ...love your wives and do not be embittered against them.

With the previous verse, this becomes more important. Maybe it's b/c I'm a software engineer, like to argue, or a combination of other, related qualities: thinking someone's wrong can set me against them if I'm not careful. It can happen for stupid reasons - not washing dishes, not cleaning a room, consistently forgetting simple responsibilities. And every time, those feelings are quelled when I hear the other side of the story.

Bitterness is like rot: it takes a lot time to show any real signs, but its progress is inexorable and ingrained. Like a little yeast in bread, it doesn't take much resentment to poison friendship. And I don't want to be in a toxic relationship.

I promise to lead. In whatever way that means. I promise to wear the pants. To take responsibility. To bear the burden and honor of leading our family, whatever size it may be. Like any good leader, I promise to look for advise. To defer to and honor V's judgement when she is more informed than I. I promise to define leadership to be more than having final say to pretend that I'm "right".

I promise to be a man of honor. To reflect my respect for her in my decisions every day; to protect V's integrity by being a man of integrity myself. By never compromising. By never taking her devotion and respect for granted when she's not around.

I promise to never leave. Divorce, estrangement, separate houses, etc - they're not an option.

V and I have weathered quite a few tumultuous times through the years. Sometimes, I think the only reason we stayed together is b/c we were committed. Nothing but that sheer, disembodied goal kept me together sometimes. And sometimes, that dogmatic devotion to each other taught me how to love V even when I had no inclination, present or future, to do so. Maybe that doesn't make sense, and I'm sorry I can't explain it any other way. But I'm getting married to this woman: there is on way on God's green earth I will ever go back on the word I give on that day, August 11, 2012.

And so it will be on that day, 5 days from now, that some of you will hear the condensed, equally poignant version of this post cross my lips and become etched into the ineffable journal of the Past. However, some of you may not be there. Some of you may forget. Some of me may someday forget. It is for this reason that, despite my reservations at posting something so personal, I present this to you all. Like baptism, my wedding to V is a public declaration of commitment.

Everything here should be expected of me.

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Wedding Musings

We've all had that feeling as we leave the house. The one of "I know I'm forgetting something". But, since you can't place your finger on what it is, you decide to keep going. Even if what you're forgetting is of vital importance (in which case, I wonder how you managed to forget it). Because if you're not going to remember it, you can't hang around trying to get it: you've forgotten. And when/if you finally do remember, the strength of the swing with which you kick yourself varies directly with the importance of said forgotten thing.

As the date of my wedding draws near, I can't shake that nagging feeling. Every time my mind dwells on our wedding plans, the threat of important-things-overlooked looms over my head like a brooding thundercloud.

I s'pose the main cause of my anxiety is my lack of significant involvement in all the moving parts. All in all, I've played a very minor roll in this wedding. Aside from my participation in the event itself, my largest contribution may be the $0.5[Wedding budget] I've contributed as part of working at my new job.

In fact, I've had this indescribable aversion to designing the wedding. My most-used defense for this is a lack of interest in the end product. Not that I don't want the wedding to be awesome. Rather, my desires are very simple and, as I've told many, once we had a venue, guests, photographer, and food, I figured the wedding was a slam dunk. It was gonna' happen. It is gonna happen.

Really, I just want to get married. All the little details, nuances, and rules of etiquette bother me to no end. Decorations, invitations, rentals, event timing, logistics: I'd rather do w/o all of it. The thought of eloping did cross my mind, but the sheer magnitude of such an act immediately dissuaded me. (And, the closer to the wedding date we got, the more ridiculous eloping sounded). Once again, it's not that I'm not going to fully enjoy all that our wedding will be. But...I just want to get married, y'know? I don't want all this overhead....

Of course, I shouldn't be one to talk of the overhead of our wedding. V's handled most, if not all of the preparations for the wedding - from making decorations and emailing the wedding party w/ updates/reminders to keeping track of our wedding budget and managing our wedding website. And that was fine with me - giving her free range with the plans. I haven't spent any portion of my life dreaming of my wedding or planning it out. I'd be woefully equipped to put all the pieces together for a wedding. V had all the ideas and desires, so it made sense to just let her bounce her ideas off me so we could both have a hand in the plans.

I know apathy isn't something I should practice for my marriage. Apathetic husbands tend to breed discontent in wives. Besides, I don't like that kind of person I'd become if I just relegated all of my decisions and responsibilities over to V. It's just, for this wedding...I couldn't cook up any riveting ideas. It was like I lacked the creative capacity to even fathom the depth of details required/available in a wedding.

Thus, my lack of involvement in the plans lends itself to insecurity at the thought of the wedding commencing. I've very little grasp of the status of the wedding. I realize my aversion to involvement in the wedding plans has something to do with it, along with my proximity to V and most of the wedding stuff. But I also feel like this wedding's leaving the station w/o me. And w/ a handful of days left to go, I'm not real sure there's anything that can/should be done about that.

Chugga, chugga, chugga...

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Thanks For Asking

Regardless of the company I'm keeping at the time, if the subject of beer should come up, I will invariably declare my love of the aforementioned substance. The more I've done this, the more I've realized that I probably come off as some kind of lush. My emphasis on my Irish heritage and association w/ Guinness doesn't help my cause either. But I can't just stop talking about beer. I feel it's important to let people know that I like beer. I like good beer. And you should too.

In order to successfully defend my position of partaking of the heavenly nectar, I'd like to put this to you in the best context I can: an anecdote.

A month or two back, I was hanging out at a friend's house for a Friday evening of tasty barbecue. It had been a very long day, which had only extended how long my very long week had felt. I was indescribably relieved to be hangin' at his house and enjoying Friday night the way it should be enjoyed. We were kibitzing in his kitchen while we prepared our food, and he off-handedly inquired, "Would you like a beer"?

Never had such sweeter words graced mine ears.

Y'see, beer's not just some depressant I use whenever I want to get schnockered. I don't get drunk as a matter of course. Rather, beer is to me on a Friday evening after a long day's work what soft piano melodies are at dinner for two at a quiet Italian restaurant. Beer is one of the many pieces I like to use to build a relaxing, fun evening. I do not use it to unlock some hidden social potential that only alcohol can release. (If anything, I don't always realize when I'm being an ass). I do not obsessively drink it as part of an unhealthy diet. It is not part of a daily routine. I refuse to drink before noon.

Drinking, partaking - communing w/ beer is the best description for my beer-drinking process. If you've ever seen me crack a Guinness on a "it's-a-good-day-for-a-Guinness" day, you know what I mean: enjoying a beer is a ritual for me. Like hipsters meditating or listening to indie music, politicians raising taxes, or dancers thinking of nothing but where they're gonna' get their next "fix": beer goes hand-in hand with relaxing.

My good, soon-to-be-back-from-Uganda friend Kev described the following scene. I relate it - plus embellishment - for you.

You're sitting out back on the lawn next to a friend. You're both reclining in some form of lawn chair. The sun is setting; the temperature of the air is warm, but cooling mildly; the hot summer day is drifting calmly into a smooth summer evening. In your hand is an ice-cold, utterly-refreshing beer-of-your-choice. Together, you watch the sun set. Maybe you talk. Maybe you don't. It doesn't really matter. It's the camaraderie of that moment - watching the end of a hard day together; silently empathizing with each other - that's the lynch pin.

In my mind, this scene just isn't complete w/o the beer. You...you've just got to have the beer. What else would you have? Water? Milk? Ovaltine? A shot of vodka? No way! Nothing fits that scene like a beer, and you know it.

Those Corona adds (the real ones, not those stupid "find your beach" commercials) were actually onto something. Really, that's all I want. You want to hang? To chat? To come over to my level? You don't even need to have any beer yourself: just sit w/ me and be part of my "ritual".

There's something I find very masculine about beer. (To my female readership, I say this w/o intent to offend. I am not insinuating that to drink beer is to mar your femininity. To you guys who don't prefer beer, more power to you. I'm not sayin' I'm more manly: just that my flavor of manliness identifies well w/ beer). There's nothing quite so manly as a strong, dark, stout beer. Or a light, refreshing beer. Or an amber, rich, flavorful beer. Or whatever beer you fancy. Think about it - what scene seems more fitting: guys sitting around a table drinking beer, or ladies sitting around a table drinking beer? You're right - the guys.

In my own way, I suppose drinking beer's one of the "manly" things I do next to making bad decisions, measuring things, and wearing "the pants".

To those of you who do understand, or to those of you who wish to, remember this story. Remember what it means to me. When you offer me a beer, you're not just giving me a refreshment. You're giving me a good time. Not a drunk time of debauchery. A good time. You're telling me you'd like me to make myself at home; to relax. You're saying "I know how much this means to you, Eric - to have someone offer you a beer. In their home and out of the goodness of their heart."

My hat's off to the you's with beer, and it's even off to the you's w/o it.

Cheers.

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Engineering a Friend

Please bear w/ the anecdotal background which follows. In fact, if you'll just bear w/ me for a moment...

Harkening back to the days of yore, the lonely and shunned of the human community have devoted themselves to this purpose; defining the salient steps necessary to codify a satisfying, mutually beneficial social coupling. Being lonely sucks, and such forlorn circumstances can spur one to take action. There's a wealth of samples out in the world: you can't turn around w/o finding two people getting along. Surely, with such an abundance of information, a solution can be found.

See, people like me can't help but break things down into a series of steps. With rare exception, everything follows some kind of pattern. As a software engineer, the bulk of my job is to identify common patterns and write code which satisfies a broad set of terms: this is possible primarily b/c everything has patterns, and these patterns can be massaged into general formats applicable to many scenarios. Relationships are no exception.

Take a common course you'd take in college - one with a standard class size of ~30. No doubt, you'll make the acquaintance of a few tolerable people in the class. Gradually, this acquaintance will become more of a class-friendship: you'll say "hi" to each other outside of class, but the bulk of your interaction revolves around some kind of class activity. Yet, in some rare cases, you'll find you enjoy the company of a given person - say, person X. You and X might hang out outside of class. You learn more about each other - the quirks, eccentricities, and the things you enjoy doing together. Whether it be the gym, video games, crafting, etc., the company of X is one you enjoy. Before long, their name will be inadvertently merged into the list of names you default on inviting to hang-outs. And so, in the matter of just a few short months, you have what we call a "friend".

Of course, you're never conscious of this process. At least, not in the moment. Looking back, it's easy to see the steps. Hindsight, we all know, is 20/20. (Me and Vince do that all the time, as the story of our friendship is a good one). But I can't leave it there. I want to study that process; define the outline; highlight the key moments that were the "turning points"; see the general pattern.

I can't help it. It's part of who I am and how I see this world.

At my church, I'm faced w/ a social conundrum. I have a 9-to-6 job, after which I've gotta' come home and eat. For most people my age, hangin' between the hours of 7p and 11p is perfectly acceptable. But for the high school students at my church, that's just not possible - I don't expect it to be. But I need to develop relationships w/ the kids in the youth group if I want to have any kind of positive impact on them; if I want to be a part of the important things in their life that I know I can speak into.

I'm deprived of my main source of developing friendships: extended time investments and one-on-one interaction. So I must rise to the challenge, and rise I try. My solution? Break down a relationship into the high-level events that define the skeleton of a friendship. If I could just get that, I could spend time later to fill in the body. I just need that friendship frame in place.

Think of it like optimized friend-making. Sounds good on paper, at least to me. Not so much in practice.

Because I'm not a part of these kids' everyday lives, I'm not privvy to the high's and low's they go through. I don't weather the crap they endure. Part of a being a friend is taking someone else's mental baggage on yourself. For everything that leaves a mark on them, there should be a mark on you. Not the same, maybe, but certainly correlated. Without that, my empathy is stretched to the max to try and relate to these kids. I've gotta' "meta" my way into understanding them - analyze what they're saying and how they're acting and guess at the person behind it that drives them. Inevitably, I'll get it wrong. Or I won't fully grasp the depth (or lack thereof) of something they say.

I can't know them, y'know? There's just too much in people's lives that I can't control. My ploy to define the blueprint to a friendship just doesn't encompass everything. At least, not in a detailed scope that's helpful.

Time. Time is the deepest I can drill into this problem. Spend time. Lots of time. Like a panicked me in the kitchen, just throw thyme at the problem. Beyond that, it just has to "click". I don't know what makes that happen - what that crucial "catch" is. Maybe that's b/c it can't be defined. Perhaps my efforts to streamline this process are for naught. Yes, the pattern's still there - I've defined it and understood it. But that's not really...helpful.

I guess this is something I'll have to keep struggling with. It could be that it'll take more time than I've already invested. Perhaps the ratio of time-lived to time-spent-with-these-kids isn't as high as college, so it'll take more time-lived to achieve what I need.

Damn, I wish my foresight were as good as my hindsight is.

Thyme to Build a Nest

Yes, yes: I couldn't resist such a thyme-ly pun. There's nothing like good times telling bad thyme jokes. Indeed, it's been quite a long time since I last gave you all an update on my life. For the most part, I've been delinquent in my blogging duties due to a lack of internet caused by the most recent of turbulent points in my life. More on that in a bit.

I moved into my own apartment last month, which was super exciting...for the first day. After that, my lack of a bed to sleep on, chair to sit in, or skillet to cook with spoiled the joy that came w/ living in my own place. If nothing else, my back and hips throbbed w/ the dull pain of having slept on un-padded carpet for several days. (And to those of you who think I'm a wimp, I've endured worse. Basketball-court worse). So, two days after moving in, I went on the hunt for a mattress. Several hours after the hunt began, I bought one.

Let me tell you: mattresses can be expensive. The first place I looked was selling the things for as low as $1,500! My jaw nearly hit the floor when the salesman let slip that devastating bottom-line. I walked out those doors and never went back. Besides, I'm very satisfied w/ my not-overly-priced, super-comfy bed that I've got now. This is the first time I've ever had a queen bed to sleep in; there's so much room! I don't know what to do w/ myself; I feel lost in the thing.

This was the first big, permanent purchase I was to make on my own. Before now, the most expensive thing I'd bought was...a pot? Maybe a vacuum? It gives me pause to throw down large sums of money, much in the same way that having 300 babies might make you hesitate. It's a big commitment. So I called V and talked her through my experience as I walked through a furniture store and laid down, rolled around, and bounced on the dozens of mattresses lining their warehouse. I figured it might be entertaining - ever try narrating your experiences in bed? - but it was reassuring to have her on the other end of the line to discuss the decision.

But life hasn't been full of just mattress purchases.

Since I work as a software engineer, I've basically an umbilical cord to the interblag. Thus, setting up the internet at my apartment didn't rank too high on my list of todo's. Sure, it made getting a map difficult, and managing my finances grew tiresome the more often I realized how much of it I normally did at home. Once, desperate for internet, I parked outside the still-closed library one morning and siphoned off the internet of a nearby residence. I even stayed at work till 9:30p just to build my DnD character from start to finish - I started at 6p, and the lights turned off at 6:15p.

As time passed, I realized how petty and, well...cheap this was getting, so I broke down, did the research, and purchased/installed my own internet. Did you know they would've charged me $150 to have some technician come out and plug the silly equipment in for me? There are 3 wires and one box that they all plug into. I don't think that's worth paying someone for. (At that rate, they're making upwards of $200/hour).

There've been other large purchases and changes that've been going on which've rocked my world and given the apartment a more "home" feel. (Mom was up this weekend and she really helped get the place in order). But there's more to this process than just buying stuff and filling an apartment.

Y'see, V's down south making nearly all of the decisions/purchases/crafts/etc for the wedding. The geographic schism separating us makes it difficult for me to have a direct roll in the planning of our wedding. Sure, I'm always part of the decision process. But that's a very...not-creative role. I need something to do, y'know?

Here, up in The Bay, I've made it my present-day-purpose to build a home for me and V. Not in the sense of decorating walls or putting plush covers on the toilet seat. But in providing a comfortable, safe place for V to come home to. When I'm done, I want her to feel that I've laid a good foundation for her to fill and enjoy. Think of it as building a stage on which she can "nest". As sappy as that sounds, I think it fits the bill pretty well. I've only ever heard of women nesting, but I think I'm capable of doing it in a sort of "I'm-providing" kind of way.

To that end, and in the IV tradition of hovel-naming, I've christened my dwelling "The Nest", complete w/ official network name "The Nest". All that's still needed to make it complete are some chairs.

You have been thusly updated, and my blog is again active.

QED.

AIO

Results:

• Aerial Infuriates Octopus
• Automatic Indecency Observer
• Autocracy In Ontario
• Armies Ingest Oranges
• Awake, Indecisive, Obnoxious
• Always Invite Optometrists
• Alex' Iguana Obsession
• And Ingenious, Obviously
• Already In Office
• Anxious? Inject Opium!
• Aggression Incites Orangutans
• Anger Invites Obesity
• An Incongruous Observation

---

Examples:

"I had to admit: with its bright 'AIO' motto, the drug company really made its product look good."

"'It was a great idea,' he noted. 'A-I-O,' he added smugly."

"The new AIO sent political tremors through DC."

A Little Paranoia

"Paranoids are people, too; they have their own problems. It's easy to criticize, but if everybody hated you, you'd be paranoid too. - D.J. Hicks".

While silly, it makes sense in the same way that crazy people never think they're crazy. You see, I too carry a little paranoia around, useful for the times where I don't feel like being completely rational. These times include the moments just after a zombie flick, where I must thoroughly sweep the house for signs of the undead. (So far, I've found nothing). The one I bring before you today is that of using the bathroom, especially when in someone else's home.

Just the thought of being disturbed whilst amidst mine private business is a horrifying eventuality. Can you imagine the embarrassment?! Sure you can. There's been at least one time where that door at least rattled while someone tried to get in, and you freaked out. Probably felt like your heart might explode. Really, there's nothing you can do in that scenario. You'd be caught, quite literally, with your britches down (or at least partly, depending). So, b/c this scenario is so unbearable, I've tried to prepare myself for such a day by guarding against the mistakes that could be my undoing.

Now before I begin, a nod to my female compatriots. I realize that my concerns and safeguards are of no use to your kind, as you've been cursed w/ a lack of..."mobility" when it comes to relieving oneself. Please understand that I do not take my blessings for granted.

As with the zombies, I am ever-vigilant in my ablutions. When in public restroom stalls, I'll triple-check the door's latch to be sure that, short of some maniac hell-bent on using my stall, the door will hold fast. When at a friend's house, I'll make sure the lock works. But my approach takes a more reactive stance. B/c the one time someone tries the door I know is locked is the one time that lock will fail. I must be ready for the worst-case scenario. The Day After Tomorrow or 2012 of bathroom contingencies, if you will.

When standing and while using someone's restroom, I do my best to face away from the door. That way, even if interrupted, I'm protected from the prying eyes of whatever dummy thought it was ok to barge into an occupied bathroom. It's a little weird getting at the toilet from a side-angle, but I've managed it over the years.

In smaller bathrooms where the toilet's right next to the door, I'll take a wide stance and wedge the side of my shoe against the door. Earlier in life, I discovered that shoe's make an excellent doorstop, particularly when all my 155 lbs. is backing it up. Sure, if somebody body-slammed the door it might put a small glitch into my targeting system, but that's a fair risk compared to the horrors of being discovered mid-stream. Besides, there're always cleaning products under bathroom sinks; I could deal w/ the aftermath in a sterile manner.

But what takes the cake is a true feat in male resourcefulness already championed by man's best friend, the dog. For yes indeed, I have practiced for the day when I forget my prior precautions, being perhaps preoccupied with emptying a too-full bladder. When that dark day comes, there will be no more protection for me than what I can do in the blink of an eye - raise a leg to shield what counts. That's right: I've practiced peeing while balancing on one leg. The going's been tough; I can't say I enjoy the challenge. But necessity is the mother of invention, and this skill is one of the more-pregnant mother's of an idea I've ever had.

I might look weird to whoever walked in on me, but what're they gonna' say? Who do you think'd come out on top in that conversation?

THEM: "...why are you peeing on one leg?!"

YOU: "'Cause you're watching." OR "Why are you watching?" OR "Why aren't you?"

THEM: "..." OR "..." OR "..."

There's another scenario I fear in the bathroom - ladies, I believe we can empathize with each other here: Realizing there's no toilet paper after it's, well...too late. In the privacy of your own, empty home, this isn't the worst problem. You may look ridiculous, but hobbling over to a nearby closet is certainly better than doing so before an unprepared audience (or any audience, for that matter). Heaven forbid there's no TP in the whole house. But even then, you could make a call if you had too. Maybe grab some napkins or other soft, paper good.

But think about the alternative. What's worse than no TP? No TP in a public restroom. Yeah, I hear you. Exactly. You're up a creek (literally). I'm not gonna' lie: If I'm in a public restroom and have just sat down and realized there's nothing in the dispenser, I'm gonna' rocket off'a that seat like a bat out of hell. I do not want that problem, and neither do you.

Call me paranoid if you like; I certainly do. But I can sleep better at night and stand confidently in front of my toilet b/c I know that I'm safe. My paranoia, however unorthodox, protects me.

The Office of Best Friend

Over the past few months, the phrase "so-and-so's best friend" has come my way, reminding me of times long past where it was such a big deal to be someone's best friend. There're different terms for it now - things like BF's or BFF's and such - but those are used in an informal, often joking or offhanded fashion. To be a "best friend" is to be set aside; a cut above. You know what I'm talkin' about b/c, when someone goes around calling everyone his best friend, you feel that the term is being used incorrectly.

I'm sure it has something to do with how I grew up in elementary school: the cliques and drama that best-friendship elicited from me and the kids I went to school with. Looking back, it all seems so petty. Inevitably, if you're not the best friend, you must ponder the question of why: why aren't you the best friend? And while I'm sure you've got a good head on your shoulders, playing w/ that question must be done w/ care. Taken too far, feelings of inferiority, bitterness, and frustration could manifest in ways you never wanted and that aren't needed. To flip things around, if you are the best friend, you know there's something about you that must set you apart. Makes you different. Better. It's probably not anything to put a "hitch in yer get-a-long", but you know it's there.

It is for this reason that I don't like being someone's best friend. Not that I don't appreciate and respect the reasons why someone might say "you're my best friend" or "you're his best friend" - I get it. But I feel a kind'f pressure when you say that, probably b/c I don't adhere to the best friend paradigm. So when you throw "best friend" at me, I don't know how to reciprocate. Or how much. Or if it's even necessary. Should I just keep doin' what I'm doin'?

Of course, these are silly questions. Friendships aren't supposed to be complicated like that. At least, not ideally. I'll give you that; I'm being a little paranoid.

But I don't like it.

I don't like the distinction it creates. The divide it puts between other friends, even if no one talks about it. Even barring all that, it makes me uncomfortable to select or be selected for best-friend presidency. I don't want that pressure. I don't want to screw it up, I'll admit. Losing that nice title and fancy "best friend" name tag: that hurts.

Choosing a best man for the wedding was difficult for me. Sure, I knew who it'd be. It wasn't the figuring-it-out that stood in my way, but the fact that I's setting someone apart from the rest. My decision wavered every now and then, weighing and measuring the merits of each guy I knew'd be in the wedding party. Who was the best of them all? I'm comfortable w/ my decision, but it was...an awkward experience to go through.

No. Best friends aren't for me. Good friends are. Close friends. You can have bunches of those, and they can come and go as time goes by in your life. You'll know the good ones b/c, when the time comes after you've drifted apart, the bonds you made w/ each other will be strong enough to renew a friendship after an arbitrary dry spell. I can share different things w/ close friends - w/ each one of them. They're each close to me for different reasons, and I can see and appreciate that.

Why must you choose? Who says you can't have a couple dear friends, all kept at the same distance but at different points around you?

My friendships have more "give" to them, I think. It's easier to cultivate these kinds of friends b/c I'm not being so selective: I can surround myself w/ a larger (though not huge) group of people who I know care about me. To put it in perspective: I could have a cozy dinner in my apartment w/ these people and it wouldn't get too stuffy. Each of them touches a different, equally-important-to-me aspect of my life; having all of them around me gives a very well-rounded feel to my social circle.

If you have read this and suddenly feel guilty for having glom'd me into some "best friend" category, don't. Really. This is not an indictment against your choices and where you've placed me in the hierarchy of your life. As I said earlier, I still respect and deeply appreciate being whatever friend you've decided I can be to you. This has been more about how I see my friends and an explanation, if you've ever wondered, of why I refrain from giving the office of best friend away.

The Needs of the Many

It is a generally accepted, utilitarian ideal: the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Or, in my case, the one. And so it's been that, when given an opportunity, I go above and beyond to try and meet the needs of others around me, often w/o regard for myself. This isn't some play for sympathy or a dose of Jewish Guilt. I do not profess to consider others above myself, nor is addressing someone's needs my only calling in life. Rather, I just felt like sharing this. (That's what a blog's for, right?).

Somewhere along the line in college, I decided I wanted to be a "good listener". This stemmed out of a desire to acquire all those nice, Christian qualities that all the good kids have. If I could do one thing right, I wanted to be able to listen. Or, more generically, to see what someone needed and allow them the space and grace to get it. A lot of the time, I see people with an overabundant need to talk. About their life, their stress, their problems - you'd surprise yourself if you stopped to notice how much people need to just talk. By "talk", I don't really mean an equally-two-way conversation. At least, not in this context. There are times when people just need another, friendly human being to bounce their thoughts off of.

With my knowledge came the realization that I wasn't half-bad at shutting up. I really, sincerely enjoy being available for other people. It's something I can do to serve my friends and V. So I learned to listen. To see someone in the middle of verbally processing through "something" and to get out of the way. To be quite.

To be still.

But while working on that, there came a cost. An imperfection to my strategy, if you will. In learning to address the needs of others, I developed feelings of guilt for speaking up. For voicing my opinion. For asserting that, for once, I needed to talk. Not rant, argue, or yell. Just...talk. But b/c I's trying to be so attentive to the people around me, it seemed wrong to inject myself into the equation like that.

When I'm hanging out w/ friends, if I talk too much or otherwise dominate our current social interaction, I feel guilty. Like Vince, I feel a nearly insurmountable desire to apologize for hogging..."it". For implying that I somehow deserved to take up people's time so selfishly.

I s'pose it's like what a lot of people feel about telling other people about their problems. It's easier to let somebody else confide in you than vice-versa. You're less vulnerable that way. Less needy. Less of a burden. And above all else, nobody wants to be a burden. And justifiably so. In general, we don't want to be the kind of person who drags others down. (At least, I don't).

Sometimes, I need to talk. A lot. To just say stuff. Anything, really. But those urges - needs - come at the most inopportune and inconvenient times: when it's most difficult to speak up, or when I'm in the middle of listening to somebody else go through the same thing. I feel bad for wanting to be served; for thinking that I "deserve" thought and consideration from those around me. What's it matter? Shouldn't I just fine w/o it, in spite of the fact that I willingly render such services on a daily basis?

What's really frustrating is when I don't know what I want to say. When there's this great desire to speak, but the words won't come. It's the most frustrating illustration of my lack of adequate communication skills.

I guess it comes down to the age old problem I have w/ letting others into the stuff in my life. I don't want to be someone else's problem, especially because I'm so much better at taking on everyone else's. They've got enough to deal with, right? But after a while, it wears me down. And I've no one willing to share the load. No one who'll volunteer, anyway. Sure, there're people who'll listen. But no one who'll do it of their on volition: I'm the proactive one in these interactions. That, in and of itself, is its own weight on my shoulders.

TFK

---

Since I just bought their most recent album, it seemed inspiring to play a round of TGGEP. The letters were just begging to be used.

---

Results

• Thoroughly Fed Kangaroo
• Terrible, Feral Kantus
• Their First Kitchen
• Thousands [of] Free Kittens
• Three Flaming Kittens
• That Ferryman: Kill
• Troubling Ferret Knowledge
• Too-Furry Kite
• Travis' Favorite Kidnapper
• [Mista'] T's Fan Kids

Examples

"Elliott's TFK is huge. It can hardly walk anymore, let alone jump"

"It's TFK. How cute."

"V nearly burst w/ excitement when I told her about the TFK the pound was giving away."

Life's Inexorable Train

Analogies aren't always easy to cook up. This topic has been mulling around in my head all week, and a recent conversation I had helped to bring out the heart of my thoughts. To relate how I feel, I'd like to pose the question: how hard do you think it'd be to stop a train? It's impossible! Even other trains struggle with it! Such mass and speed isn't stopped; you work around it. You stand on the side and watch the thing barrel by. Even if the monolith-on-wheels is racing a toddler down the tracks, you couldn't stop it.

Like a train, I feel like my life has moved forward w/o my consent or even an nod of acknowledgement in my direction. Though, to make the comparison more appropriate, I s'pose I'd be on the train; I get to watch the things around me flip by, b/c there's no way I can stop.

I first got to thinking about this on my most recent visit to SLO. It wasn't a purely leisure trip as some of my other southerly sojourns: I spent all of Friday working from home in V's condo. The following day I ran around w/ Mom scouting out stuff for the wedding. But despite the hustle and bustle, I tried to make time to hang out w/ my friends. I was doing what I'm learning to do best: to live in the margins.

But at a lunch I had w/ two particular friends, it became apparent to me that my efforts were but toothpicks before the inexorable pace that my life has taken.

Back in my 3rd year of college, I had to bid [a temporary] farewell to my friend Bobby. Bobby meant a lot to me, and it was difficult and new to adjust to living college w/o his input into my life. But for the first couple of months afterwards, he made a couple trips down to SLO to visit. To reconnect w/ the friends he still had in the area. And while I never got that much of his attention (a lot of people tend to pull at you when you go back), it was always nice to see him. I knew it wasn't meant to last, but I couldn't help but entertain the thought. Y'know what I'm talking about:

"They'll come down every now and then. At least on a semi-regular basis. I'll still see him/her. Not everything will change. I can still keep the familiar."

But you know that's not the truth. And sure enough, after about 6 months, we didn't hear much more from Bobby. The guy bought a house up in the Bay, had a killer job as a software engineer, and attended a stellar church in the Bay. It was to be expected, and I didn't feel at all slighted when we fell out of touch.

In my mind, I didn't want that to happen. When I graduated, I wanted to maintain the relationships that mattered to me. Make the calls. Put out the effort. Not lose what was important to me: my friends. You see, I don't have much of a "family". I have a Mom, and that's about it. The rest are socially or geographically distant. While some of them are really great people, I never grew up with them: I have no real background w/ which to base a long-standing relationship. But my friends - they're what I hold onto. They've weathered life with me. They're where I invest. Where I pour my attention, concern, and gifts. Without my friends, I'm just...alone.

Thusly situated 200+ miles away from SLO, I geared up to keep in touch. I could feel this urge to try and go deep with my friends: to spend the brainpower w/ them that school and projects didn't allow. And for a while, it worked. It really did. When I reached out, they responded. When we talked, we talked long; we shared lots. When I completed another week of work, I could look back and remember the "check-ins" I'd made - the points of contact with my former life that comforted me; kept me grounded.

Chugga-chugga-chugga

At that lunch, life's train seemed to be going faster than I expected. Instead of picking things up where we left up, there was just...well, nothing to touch on. We just...sat. Removed as I am from their lives, I couldn't connect with them. I can't connect with them. At least, not like I'm used to.

I realized just how much my life up here has taken root, and how much I've left behind in SLO. I work 9a-6p (sometimes 7p or 8p), Mon-Fri. I come home. I eat. I sleep. I start over. My life isn't chalk-full of the eccentricities and spontaneity that their college-life provides. The battle to keep up with them is an uphill battle fought backwards, in the rain, at night, blindfolded. And I know I'm losing ground.

Maintaining relationships from distance puts strain on the relationship. I've noticed the burden it puts on me and V: I need to see her. To be able to communicate w/ her in more ways than just a digital signal. With my friends, I've lost the commonality with which we built our interactions.

Without realizing it, I've "moved on". The next "stage" is here, and I had to take care of it. It was meant to happen and natural, just like when Bobby faded away. For me, it just didn't feel like a fade. I'd fallen asleep on the train and a sudden bump in the clickity-clack of those steel wheels on polished rails had jolted me awake to find myself 200 miles away from where I'd fallen asleep.

Perhaps the take away is to rely more on God to provide the stability in my life that I need. After all, it's a great illustration of how life can get away from me, how I'm not in control, and how it's very easy for my environment to change and I have to adjust to something new. God's not gonna' go anywhere, right? He's always right where I need Him; right next to me. Maybe that's where the investment really needs to go.

Cue TFK.

Craving Organization

In writing this blog, I realized how difficult it's becoming for me to decide what "label" should go with a particular blog post. "Is this post really about me, or zombies," I ask myself. "What about meta-zombies"?

I'm big into organization. Everything around me needs to have some "place" it belongs to. That's where my computer goes; where my laundry goes; where all my files go; how my finances are to be organized. Even clothes, the more "messy" things in life, have a "spot" I throw them to. Back in college, it was the foot of my bed and the couch. (Vince and Kev would remember). It might have looked disorderly, but there was an organization and cleanliness to it that worked quite well. Jackets tended to pile up on the couch, where they could be easily grabbed while you were walking out the door. Pants and shirts accumulated on the bed, which made it easy to grab them when I went to take my morning shower. The system worked.

This is one of the reasons why I hardly ever decorate. Room/wall accessories have no real...place. They're supposed to be arbitrarily cutesy by some standard unknown to me. You should've seen my room in PCV my sophomore year. Four white walls. All bare and devoid of decor or color. Trust me, it looked pretty depressing. Of course, I didn't mind, but I totally understood V when she decried my lack of taste in room accommodations.

I guess decorating just isn't my thing. 

But organization sure is. It got to the point where someone asked what race I was. Yes, really. It happened while I's running tech for IV, where everything has to be done/wrapped/turned on just right or something will break. The conversation was:

"What race are you?"

"Uh...white?"

"Oh. No, I mean...well, it's just that some cultures really value organization and stuff."

Now, I'm not the most knowledgeable guy when it comes to culture, society, and race. But...a race that's known for its organizational skills? Really? Wouldn't I have noticed how one particular race happened to have all the secretary jobs. 

Maybe it's because the Jewish side of me is also Russian, and Tetris was originally a Russian puzzle game. Man, I'm a whiz at that. And even when I have my bad days in-game, I'll never be beat when it comes to packing a car. Back when I worked at VONS, I was in my prime. I's burnin' it up. I knew exactly how many paper-in-plastic "units" could fit in a single cart. When I saw groceries comin' down the conveyor belt, I managed a storm of questions in my head about what should go with what. (In general, don't put the Drano w/ the bad seal in w/ the baby formula). I rejoiced at the chance to help customers to their car; I reveled in the skill it took to bend space-time to get all those groceries in one trunk. 

I am an organizational god. 

Sometimes, whilst coding, I'll hit the programmer's equivalent to writers block. Why? Because I can't get around this problem: "This shouldn't go here, but it's an exponentially larger amount of work to fix it. I don't have the time to refactor it, but I don't want to perpetuate poor coding standards." It's a terrible dilemma. I'm just glad most of the world doesn't have to carry the burdens we software engineers do.

When I reorganized my music collection, there was no other compelling reason than "It's not as organized as I want it." (To be fair, my music was a mess. I'd been tossing all sorts of files, all w/ terribly encoded meta data, into one folder. It was terrible to look at). So I kicked down that door and laid down the law. Now - you guessed it - I've got a program to do it for me. Whenever I drop new music into the folder, it can kick into gear and put my songs exactly where I want them. Every time. No worrying. 

People who read this probably didn't know me in high school. But those in college know how I spiked my hair for many years. That came out of a long-standing tradition I started all the way back in 5th grade. Vince will agree with me on the reason why: b/c I wanted my hair to look exactly the way I wanted it to, and I wanted it to stay that way all day. Ever notice how spiked-hair-people don't want you touching their head? And when you try and sneak up on them to do it, it's almost like they can sense you coming? Yeah, that's organization at work. They've got it just right. Just the way they want it. We don't want you and your hands comin' in and mussing things up. 

But, you might note that I no longer spike my hair. Where is my precious organization. Fair point. Now, I just shave it all off. It's all the control of spiking my hair without the product, time in the morning, and...well, hair. (But at least V is more at peace w/ it than my spikes. She might now admit it, but she did not like my pointy head). 

So there's no excuse any more. You know someone who can organize anything. Rooms, cars, desks, relationships: you name it, I can be sure to rip it apart and put it back better. 

When We Were Overrun

I can't tell you how it happened. When you've been running for your life, non-stop, for 30 hours, sleep has a way of conquering your will and forcing you into one of those coma-sleeps; the ones that, while you're dreaming, feel like forever but, when you wake up, feel like a flickering moment. So I was out cold on the floor, my gear and backpack my a pillow instead of the concrete and rubble scattered around me. It must've taken Dominic a while to actually rouse me; I only caught the last part of his plea to wake up. Still, it was enough. 

"...comi-...-verrun us!"

By the time the bangs, moans, and the unmistakable presence of The Horde filtered through my grogginess, I was on my feet and slinging my backpack onto my shoulders. 

I knew it had been a mistake to hole-up in a shack like this: rickety walls, small windows, and a single door allowing egress into and out of our small haven. It had seemed enough at the time, but I'd've had a different opinion had I been in my right state of mind when we bedded down. 

As it was, we had to get out. The door wasn't an option: I could already hear the hinges straining under the weight of dozens of eager, crazed bodies pushing against it. We didn't have long. Dominic made quick work of the butt of my rifle, smashing in the window opposite the entrance. In one smooth motion, he was out the window and into the street. Placing my heel on the broken pane, I vaulted up and after him out of the building. But before I was clear, my pack snagged on the remaining pieces of glass. Not only caught, I was wedged in place by it all: both pack and I couldn't make it through the window. Because I'd jumped through, I didn't have a lot of leverage to wiggle out. I was thoroughly stuck.

Without word or signal, Dom took out his knife. With one hand, he slashed at the shoulder straps holding the pack onto me. With his other, he grabbed my collar and yanked me out of the window. We left the pack and ran down the street - I'd rather be alive and hungry than something's dinner.

Aside from the sound of our footsteps frantically beating against the asphalt and our steady breaths, neither of us made a sound. That was the key to surviving ordeals like this: you had to be able to work together without making much noise. Even the slightest shout could alert one of them. And once one of them caught our scent, the whole Hoard would be bearing down on us. 

I and Dom - we'd been at this for a while. Running, anyway. We'd developed a sixth sense for looking out for each other. We were never ones to go crusading against these things. We just wanted to survive. And with each other, we'd done just that. We'd hopped from town to town, avoiding traveling hordes of undead whenever we found them. When forced into an encounter, we kept our heads together. We set traps, built decoys, whittled down a small herd by luring stragglers away; whatever we had to do to stay safe and breathing. When we could, we salvaged materials for weapons and clothes. Everything we had we'd built together. 

Dom was much heavier than I was, but not in a zombie-bait kind of way. If something needed breaking, lifting, or blunt-force-bashing, Dom was the guy to do it. The man was strong. He was decisive too - an invaluable quality when all you've time to do is take a few breaths. Yet, he always seemed to defer to my judgement on more long-term decisions: where to find food, how to avoid another herd, where we'd bed down for the night, etc. It made for an easy relationship. 

The sky was nearing dusk, so I couldn't be sure how long I'd been out; when I'd gone to bed, it had looked much the same. Had it been a hour? A day? More? It didn't really matter: we needed some place to hide before we lost daylight. If we couldn't...well, I didn't want to think about that. With The Hoard so close, a flashlight would be akin to suicide. Our best chance was to get out of town and hide; wait for the herd to pass. 

We ducked into alleys and ran down deserted streets, always keeping our heads below eye-level. When we could, we ran behind cover. So long as The Hoard didn't get line-of-sight on us, we had the advantage. 

While my feet were pounding the pavement, my head was trying to pound out a way to get us out of this mess. I no idea how big the herd was. Obviously, they could overrun that shack, so...at least 30? I checked my cargo pockets for anything that hadn't been in the gear we'd lost. With relish, I grasped a full clip of ammo in my right-leg pocket. Combined with what was already in the rifle, we had around 20 rounds. But even if I'd had a hundred rounds, I wouldn't dream of taking down a Hoard like this. At least not now. With time and planning, we'd taken down bigger forces than what was chasing us now. But we were panicked and on the run. Worse yet, I had no idea if there were other undead nearby. The sound of gunfire would quickly attract more than we could handle.

We passed dozens of abandoned vehicles, but that was a pipe dream. Even if we could get one started, there'd be no chance of navigating the congested and rubble-ridden roads with any modicum of speed. We could hide in a van or bus, but that solution was equally problematic: one lucky Walker would bring the whole Hoard on us. In a car, we'd have no escape route. And all this didn't consider if we would set off a car alarm. 

No cars. 

A roof would work. So long as we weren't seen getting there, the Hoard would innocently pass us by without a second thought. The key was finding a building with roof access on the outside; we didn't have time to clear a building of any ambling undead waiting for us. Apartment fire escapes were perfect, but I hadn't seen any yet. 

So we kept jogging. Dom kept eyes up front while I checked our tail for signs of the undead.

But when we turned a corner to run down a major street of the city, all my plans went to hell. 

"Shit."

We called them "potatoes", taken from the human "couch potato". These things would stand in the exact same spot for days or even months until some stimulus - like us - prompted them to move. They often came in large groups - this a couple-dozen strong. Ones like this would be more animated at the thought of a meal, as they'd been standing there for god-knew how long without any form of "food". In unison, they all looked up from their staring contest with the ground: zillions of dry, rotted eyes bearing down on us.  

Keep running.

We turned tail and went back the way we'd come. If we were fast enough, we could double-back on the hoard already chasing us. With a little luck, we could go in the opposite direction and trick our pursuers.

When we rounded the corner to retreat, that sinking feeling in my gut got a lot heavier: There, down the road we'd come, was another Hoard - likely the one that'd originally overrun us. My initial estimate had been a bit zealous: I judged there size to be more around 20-strong. While a heartening and ironic thought - that I'd been wrong - it didn't do us much good. 

I drew the rifle out of Dom's hands as we both did an about-face. I had the extra clip, and we both knew I was a better shot. We turned again down the only road still undead-free and ran for it. 

A large, office-like building came into view with the title "Informatica" on it - Wikipedia's HQ. (They ran run the world's largest, free, and respected information source. At least, back when any of that mattered). Lots of smaller, tightly packed offices and warehouse-type buildings surrounded it. If we could find a building with a ladder, we'd be golden: all these closely-built structures would make it easy to move around the city without fear of running into the undead. I glanced over at Dom. With my free hand, I signed to him:

Split up.

He nodded back and signed his interpretation of my plan:

Find roof. Wait.

We were agreed. Dom continued straight down the road while I took a left at the corner of the Informatica building.

Most people would call us crazy. You're never supposed to split up, right? People in the woods in horror flicks do it all the time, and it never works out for them. But this was different. The undead might be mindless, but they behave in predictable ways. They'll always go after a single target. When that target splits, they tend to all go after one of the two. Sure, a couple stragglers might break away from the group and go after the other. But I and Dom could handle half-a-dozen zombies on our own. It was also easier to give the horde the slip on my own. There are a whole lot more places one person can fit into that two people can't. 

Yes, there were risks. But we'd done this before. If it didn't work, well...what else could we have done? I and Dom had to do what we knew could work: we weren't at the chance-taking point. Not yet. 

I ducked behind a van and peeked back down the road. They were following Dom. While I battled mixed emotions about this, a few stumbling walkers caught sight of me and peeled off of the main surge of undead. Still conflicted about Dom's predicament, I turned and kept running. I'd deal with my feelings after we were safe and out of reach. 

With no real route planned, I turned into a nearby alley. It was a dead end, but another narrow road branched from it and continued. I followed it. Another dead end with another, single alley leading away. I continued on, growing more nervous all the time. So far, there was no exit to this path: Just more alleys. In a few moments, my pursuers would enter the alley where I had. If I didn't find an exit, I'd be trapped, with no way out but through the undead. I shuddered at the thought and kept jogging. 

Then, Chance threw me a curve. 

My alley dead-ended for good: I had no where else to go. In the distance, I could here shuffling feet and scratchy gasps. I was trapped. But at the end of the alley lay my salvation: a fire escape. The ladder itself was well out of reach, but a dumpster stood not too far from it. I'd vault the dumpster, climb the ladder, and be safe and out of immediate danger. 

If it were so easy. 

I shouldered my rifle and leaned against the dumpster. As I bent to the task of pushing, it became very apparent that this was not a one-person job. The wheels were stiff and rusted from disuse. Debris was littered around it. The thing must've been sitting here for ages. Even if I had the strength, I'd need time to clear a path to push. But time was what I had very little of left.

Adrenalin and fear were pounding in my heart. I flirted with the idea of hiding in the dumpster, but that had worse prospects than a car. They knew I was here: they'd come knocking eventually. I had to keep my cool; had to think. If I couldn't move this dumpster, I'd have to find some other way out. But there wasn't another way out. This was it. 

Maybe that's why they called it a dead end. 

Behind me, I heard the distinct scuff of shoe on concrete. The excited rasping of a dry, rotted throat sent chills up my spine. Then I heard the moans: the one eerie sign that makes you wonder if they're really fully dead. They're pretty quite when they're on their own. But when there's prey in sight - when dinner's just a few stumbling steps away - they moan. Constant, wailing, deep, throaty: they can go on for days without stopping. It can drive people mad. It's why you don't employ siege tactics: the psychological toll is too high for people. 

The lump in my throat nearly choked the life out of me before they could. I'd been in scrapes like this before, but I'd never gotten used to the paralyzing fear. I'd seen men that had: hard men without morals or feelings. I'd seen what living in war against these things had done to people. I knew what it would do to me - if I survived, anyway. But I couldn't stop the shaking. I couldn't move. I knew they were right behind me: any moment, I'd feel a hand pull me down while black and gore-filled teeth devoured me. My last moments would be the conscious awareness that I was being eaten.

No. I wanted to survive. To live. I had to force myself past the fear. Forget the hopelessness. If I was going to do this, I needed to focus. 

With trembling hands, I slid my rifle's strap off my arm. I swallowed hard, trying my best to take steady, deep breaths, and placed the butt of the rifle against my shoulder. 

One...two...three...Turn.

Bam. Zombie.