Birth
Har den aran, Jenny!

School
On two occasions in the last two days did people find the need to tell me how wrong or ridiculous I was in my blog. When I hear things like that, I think of a peeping tom ringing the doorbell and commenting on his subject’s outfits. It really makes me wonder if it’s prudent to post Shaving 104.

Work
11 years ago when I worked at the Gap, they said that I was doing a great job, gave me a great review, and offered me a $0.10 an hour raise. I calmly told the manager that she could keep it, as I found it was insulting, as it amounted to a whopping $4 a week before taxes. She laughed and told me to sign the paper so that she could put the raise through. I just told her once again that she could keep it, as it was insulting. With a shocked look, she said that no one had ever refused a raise before. I didn’t care about that. The chance to assert that I as not slave labor, was worth more than $4 to me.

10 years ago I, pulled a promotion per year and 8-12% raises per year for 5 years straight. That was good. I also wore a tie and wing tips, which sucked.

5 years ago, when I was working 50 hour weeks at the hands of a poor communicator and even worse task master, my review consisted of my boss asking me what I thought my job consisted of, and offering me a 4% raise. I calmly looked at him and said that I was leaving the building, and if I came back, we could discuss a real number, which we did.

Since then, it seems that times keep getting tougher and tougher. Round after round of layoffs hit us quarter after quarter, and raises have fallen to the level of being virtuallynonexistentt. The general consensus among the man on the street is that we are lucky to have jobs at all. I always thank my boss for whatever raise I get, but when your expected to bust your tail and put in gratis overtime work for less than a 2% raise, one begins to question his own motivations, and wonder how much lower his future expected earnings growth can possibly fall.

I can’t help but think that someone is making a big profit with my help, and at my expense. Did I change, or did the company?

At least I can say that I’m not folding shirts or lying to fat women about jeans running small. And I got that going for me. Which is nice.

Death
I think today was gang up on Jon day at work. I didn’t get the memo, so I wasn’t prepared. CC me next time, fuckheads.

(Reference for Dorks)

EMI Hates the DJ
I am hopping the daypop bandwagon again on this one. It seems that DJ Danger Mouse has released an album called “The Grey Album.” A DJ, some samples, and a whole pile of whoopdy-fuckin-do, right? In a way, yes. In a way, no. The concept of the Grey Album is that the DJ took a lyrics only version of Jay Z’s Black Album, run over the Beatles’ White Album.

Conceptually clever, it got my attention.

On another level, it raises Copyright issues. Danger Mouse did nothing but mix other people’s works to create what is referred to as a derivative work. Unfortunately, U.S. copyright law prohibits the creation of derivative works copyrighted materials. Last time that I checked, both the Black and White albums were not in the public domain. I thought the case was pretty clear: the DJ released something without permission. He should retract. Case closed.

But one thing seems to be bothering everyone: According to Lawrence Lessig (Copyright lawyer extraordinaire) there has been a law on the books since 1909 that allows anyone to cover an album as long as they pay a nominal fee to the original copyright holder. Record companies have defended this right for years.

But, samples are not covers, and thus not covered by this law.

And here is the true greyness of the Grey Album: Is a derivative work the same as a cover? Legally is it better to prevent something new from being created or is it more important to defend the original creator’s content? I suppose it depends on how you look at it, how much money you have to defend it, and which side of the remix you’re on.

Honestly, the Grey Album is interesting, clever, and listenable. This DJ Danger Mouse guy is good. But for people to act as if the artistic future of music is contained in the bits of these downloads is as far-fetched as thinking that downloading it makes you a rebel.

I would like to hear the original Black album to do a little comparison, but I’m sure that it’s probably, what we refer to in the business as, “pure crap.”

The Christians Hate the Jews
Mel Gibson put out a movie about Jesus. The Jews portrayed on the news were up in arms at the movie being anti-Semitic. To me, if Mel Gibson makes a movie about killing Whitey, it’s no big deal. If he wants to believe in Zeus, and remake Clash of the Titans, I don’t care (Do it, you bastards! DO IT!). It’s a movie. It’s based on myth (don’t get me started), and besides robbing me of $8.75, this movie can’t do anything to anyone.

If you took all the religion in the world and flushed them down the toilet, then what would be the problem? Who would be up in arms except the dude spending $8.75 without seeing one single laser, boob, or laser guided boob with women attached to them?

No one, that’s who. Except maybe the Laser Guided Boob Women of Mars who would say that the lack of laser guided boob women in this movie clearly shows discrimination against women with laser guided boobs.

(The number of times that boobs was mentioned in the last sentence should, to the chagrin of teenage boys everywhere, provide erroneous hits to this site.)

The Christians hate the Gays
Bush is backing a Constitutional Amendment to prevent gays from getting married. I am proposing a constitutional amendment banning marriage altogether. My friend’s Grandfather and I will draft the bill to downgrade all current marriages to “shacking up,” as in his own words, “It’s the way to go.”

I will also propose an addendum that makes “green on Thursday means you’re horny,” official and legal, binding hitherto, quid ominous dominus.

Unfortunately, there are a couple of minor issues standing in George’s and my way, namely:

Amendment IX
The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people.

Amendment X
The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the states, are reserved to the states respectively, or to the people.

So, it seems that you can’t willy-nilly take people’s rights away, and if a state grants a right that is not mentioned in the constitution, the federal government can’t infringe.

And I was so looking forward to Thursday. Ladies, I’m talking to you.

Hi-Ho the Dairy-O
Ah, my point: I gathered the above two stories from 5 minutes of the morning News. What depressing, sensational crash / fire / murder / rape did you see that made the time sitting in front of the TV less wasted than simply staring out the window? What did you gain by watching the News today except a broader distrust of your neighbor and a deeper sense of sorrow for people you’ll never know? And why was that so important to you that you need to go back tomorrow for another daily dose?

So the GF wanted to go over to the “fitness center” in the apartment complex today, and I thought that it might be a good idea, as I haven’t been to the gym in a week. The place is maybe 15 x 10 into which is crammed two treadmills, two elliptical machines, two bikes, and one of those all-in-one weight lifting machines. There is also a jumprope, but no room to use it, in case you were wondering.

As you walk in the door, the treadmills are to the right, facing left, and the bikes are to the left, facing the same way. Between them is a narrow path just wide enough to walk through. I think this setup is so that runners can pretend that they’re chasing the guy that stole their bikes, and the bikers can pedal faster to get away from the crazy person chasing them. That’s just my expert opinion, mind you.

Anyway, as we walked in, there were two people on the bikes. They were in their late 50s, and doctorishly eccentric. They were reading magazines and photocopies, which I imagined were medical articles which were as boring to read as their titles were hard to pronounce. The woman wore librarian glasses, and the man had one of those 70’s “I’m playing tennis today” headbands on.

The TVs were off, and with the exception of the whirring of the bikes, the room was dead quiet. Even though the door is 3 feet from the bikes, the bikers never turned to even acknowledge that the door had been opened, nevermind to say, “Hello.” It was weird.

We hopped on the treadmills, and found that we were mouthing things to each other rather than breaking the stern silence imposed by the bikers. Out of nowhere, the man biker yelled “HOW FAST CAN YOU GET THIS THING TO GO?!” to the woman biker, who yelled back “150!!” and starts going absolutely nuts peddling. After thirty or so seconds, the guy yelled, “I THINK I CAN DO 200!!” and peddled hard enough to make his bike shake in three directions. It reminded me of children running through the yard yelling “Look how fast I can run! Look how fast I can run!”

Then, they both settled down, and whirring took control of the silence once again, leaving me wonder if these people were seeking attention, or had no concept that other people existed in the room. Mostly, this complex thought manifested itself in a simple, “What the fuck?” rolling through my head at intervals as irregular as my breathing.

At the one mile marker, the guy that stole my bike seemed to have died, head band and all, and was slumped over his bike. The woman that stole the girlfriend’s bike was doing yoga in front of my treadmill in an attempt to possibly bring his spirit back from the dead. As there is a 3 foot path in front of the treadmills, and mats at the other end of the room, I began my wondering if I truly existed or if this life was merely an illusion. Again this thought process manifested itself in the simple “What the fuck?”

I began staring at the ground, which is rather difficult when running on a treadmill, but was much more satisfying than taxing my brain with the questions that this woman was raising about my existence.

Finally, the biker guy must’ve gotten his heart started again, and the two of them went over to the mats and stuck their asses in the air for a while I stared at the jump rope.

Now, I belong to Gold’s Gym, which is supposedly one of the cheesiest, meat-headed gyms out there, where people are supposed to flex constantly, kiss their biceps and yell “BooYAH!” at regular two minute intervals, while strutting around like peacocks in tiger-striped spandex pants. I’ve seen a couple of people like that there, and they’re big as professional wrestlers with half the fat. As the peacock to human ratio is very low, I find it to be tolerable, and not the least bit uncomfortable. I think if those people want to kiss their biceps and show off, good for them, as there’s probably some people there that might dig it. But, generally to those people, I am not on their radar:

No one is. They are generally entertaining themselves.

Even if I was (which I don’t think I’ve ever been), I’m near them for a maximum of five minutes until my sets carry me across the gym. This is the beauty of the big cheesy gym: There’s no sense of being uncomfortable, as there is anonymity in the crowd, and plenty of room to get out of each other’s way.

To me, it’s ironic.

The weather hit 40 this weekend, and I came to the realization that I am really, really tired of winter. I think that I feel this way at this time every year, but with the extreme cold of this winter keeping activity at bay more than normal, I think I feel more so. I’m antsy and lethargic. It’s like pacing.

I was trying to figure out a place to just go and sit that conveyed the relaxation of ocean or the solitude of the woods. It may be time to hop a plane and take a vacation. Unfortunately, my imagination provided me with no solutions outside of my house. There are probably places, but my imagination was as frozen as the New England air.

Then, I drove by a three year old walking down the street. He was walking ahead of the rest of his family by ten feet or so, and completely unaware of anything beyond his feet.

pick up foot…slam it down…bam…pick up foot…slam it down…bam…shake my body…wave my arms…pick my foot up…slam it down…bam.

He was not only completely happy with walking along, but was actually enjoying every step. And I wondered to myself, at what point did I cease finding pleasure in every single step?

Over the last few months, the place I work has been busy putting giant boulders and steel poles all around its buildings, I assume to prevent a truck bomb from running into the building. It looks very daunting and secure.

Lately, I’ve noticed that the security guards have been re-outfitted in black S.W.A.T. uniforms, complete with jack boots. The ones by the gate even have ninja-like masks. It looks very daunting and secure.

The only problem with these security measures is that they are an illusion, which, according to Sun Tsu, is a perfectly valid strategy (”If you are weak, feign strength. If you are strong, feign weakness.”). I would argue that the measures are actually ineffective and possibly detrimental to security.

Let’s start with the rocks and posts: Not only do they call to attention to the general population that there must be something in the building is worthy of protection, but they bring with them a very specific connotation: that of a car bombing. By planting the rocks, ideas are planted into people’s heads, leading to discussion of circumvention of the barricades. With with several large breaks that someone could easily get a vehicle through at relatively high rate of speed without coming near the rocks, the wall is ineffective. A wall is only effective if there are no holes. When there is no wall, there are no holes to see, and lack of direction prevents most people from seeing the lack of a wall as a very large existing hole. The wall actually directs people to look for holes. What once was hidden in plain sight, is now screaming for all to look at the holes in it’s perimeter.

Now that you have the average person seeking theoretical ways to get around your security measures, you need to have guards around, which brings us to the second point: If you’re going to post people that look like commandos, they better be commandos. If I walk around the street in a karate uniform, people are going to assume that I know Karate. If I go to a Karate tournament in one, someone is going to expect that I know Karate, and use a stronger offense expecting more resistance. Then, I’m going to get my ass kicked big time.

See, jack boots make normal, non-bomb toting citizens feel overpowered, but I believe that they would produce a harder hit from someone trained in the soldierly arts, as he or she would expect someone who looks like S.W.A.T. to act like S.W.A.T.. So, when the attacker comes in even heavier than is necessary under the assumption that he or she will be dealing with militarily trained individuals, he or she actually is assured success in a breach. Thus, the jack boots create a bigger mess than they are designed to prevent.

When I’m famous, my bodyguards will be Uzi toting Ninjas, who look just like 90 year old men, compete with white belts and pink shirts. They will also never really look like they’re guarding me, so as not to draw attention to the fact that I might be someone that needs guarding. I’d rather be prepared for engagement, than look prepared for one.

Then again, what do I know?

As I lay dreaming about frantically trying to rebuild house after house after they had each mysteriously blown up, a sprightly, barely-sleeping girlfriend had risen and was fiddling with my alarm clock to make sure that I had actually set the alarm. Not sensing any danger, and being way behind schedule on the house rebuilds, my brain slept on.

Until…

The brain sensed something moving from the window side of the room. It was, of course, the girlfriend, returning from an unsuccessful reconnaissance mission to from the Alarm Clock Delta, but given that the direction of the movement was from the windows rather than toward them, the brain tripped the intruder alert, vaulting me out of my nighttime contractor’s job right into the darkened room of Jon the Professional Dork.

As I have the brain of the absent-minded professor, checking alarm clock status, stove burner status, or car emergency brake status is a valid query at any time of day or night, so there wasn’t much for me to be angry about. Absent-minded people bring it on themselves. Still, given the woman’s nature, she was very apologetic for waking me straight through to the next day.

As I found her actions easily justifiable, all I could ask of her as I was leaving for work was,

If I’m not beating you up over this, why do you continue to beat yourself up?”

And that question has stuck with me all day:

Why do some of us beat ourselves up when even others refuse?

There are a ton of articles (such as Why I hate Weblogs) springing up about how blogs are an annoying, stupid, a waste of time. Maybe they are. I agree that there are some pretty bad blogs out there, rife with bad grammar, bad poetry, and nothing of much value to the external world, except to the person writing them. But, to discourage someone from making a very small, simple attempt at saying,

“I am here,”

is to rob them of something pretty valuable.

If you are lucky, the average person without a bridge named after them will be remembered two generations after they die. After the mourners go home, and the kids grow up, and their kids grow up, the world goes on as if they had never existed. I think that for someone to make a small attempt at saying

“I am here,”

no matter how poor, should be fostered rather than discouraged.

I Saw Bowling for Columbine this weekend. I don’t honestly know if the facts of the movie are accurate, nor what the heck the point of the movie was, but I actually enjoyed it. Why? It surprised me, and made me think.

My favorite scene of the movie was the scene with rock star Marilyn Manson…

Michael Moore: If you were to talk directly to the kids at Columbine or the people in that community, what would you say to them if they were here right now?
Marilyn Manson:[after pause] I wouldn’t say a single word to them. I would listen to what they have to say. And that’s what no one did.

The two thoughts that solidified in my mind after watching this movie were that

1. People need to feel like they belong somewhere. They need to classify themselves so that they are part of a group. Even the ones who classify themselves as anti-establishment, dress and act in ways to identify themselves to other people with the same views. I’m Irish. I’m a Jew. I’m a Republican. I’m this. I’m that.
2. Americans are afraid of the boogey man. We lock our doors. We carry guns. We lift weights. We learn Ninjitsu. And for what? Because the boogey man is out there. He’s waiting around the corner and in our closets. And if we’re not on edge all the time, he’s gonna git us.

These two points make up a part of who we are as Americans, and a big part of how we interact with eachother. Or don’t.

Night Dream
Last night, I had a dream that I saw my ex wife as we were both walking out of a building. She gave me a surprised look. I gave her the finger.

When I got to the parking lot, an Asian child and a Doberman kept jumping into my car. No matter what I did, I couldn’t keep them out. I think that they were together, and that they thought that they were playing a really good game.

Day Dream
As I sat staring out the window at lunch, thinking about what I could possibly do with my life, a thought crossed my mind that seemed so surprisingly clear that it seemed foreign: “There’s no time for that stuff before you die.”

And as I sat there looking out the window, I bought it. This is it.

It was very strange.

The Scientist and the Philosopher
An old friend sent me two articles to peruse today. One was a very scientific article on the importance of the exploration of deep space by bla bla bla something something. If I had more of an inclination toward things of a scientific nature, I might have done more than skim it. I might have even be inclined to think that scientifically, it was good, while philosophically, it was crap.

The other was on memes. As far as I can tell, a meme is a contagious thought that takes on a life of its own and seeks maximum attention in our minds. As I read a good portion beyond the original article, I can tell you that scientifically, it’s crap, while philosophically, I found it fascinating.

The Supreme Court of Massachusetts has declared that the people of Massachusetts have the right to marry anyone that they choose, be they man, or be they a woman.

The Massachusetts Legislature has declared that it will go so far as to enact legislation to alter the Massachusetts constitution to render this decision void.

Senator Kerry, the democrat, declared that marriage is against his personal belief system. Marriage is against my personal belief system, too, but I won’t fight to stop marriages (whether they are gay or straight) because

It’s none of my fucking business.

From my standpoint, it doesn’t matter what his personal belief system is. He can believe in rubbing alcohol genies for all I care. He is not a leader, he is a servant. He is to serve the will of the people and uphold the laws of the Commonwealthy. But that’s just my take on government. Here in Massachusetts, hell, here in the old U S of A, we uphold the Puritan ways of pushing our morals and our wills on anyone who will bend. We will legislate your morality, no matter how minor, no matter how extensive. It was an idea that was rejected in the old world 600 years ago, and thus the very basis of American society today.

Will there ever be a time when the government gets out of people’s personal lives and lets them pursue happiness as they see fit? It seems, to me, a sad state of affairs.

Meddler
As the dork who likes to complicate the lives of others, I have set up a blog for my sister so that she can tell you about new ways to use old toothpaste tubes. Now, I have no idea if she’ll even use it, but it’s located at http://recycleitall.blogspot.com. If she does, it will probably make you feel bad about your current level of recycling and make you say quaint things like, “What the fuck?”

Bloggers
As you know, the links on my sidebar are painfully outdated, and are in need of a desperate cleaning. I have removed two of the blogs that used to hang out there, as the good people that run them never, ever, ever update them. hopefully, I will comb the links in the near future. Be sure to hold your breath…

Fuckers
During one round of layoffs, a company that I know preferred to tell people that they were laid off by locking them out of the building. They later decided that the policy was regrettable, and went with the more common ‘walk out.” The walk out is not as shitty as the lock out, but it’s still a shit move. In the last month or so, one of my oldest friends and my Dad have fallen victim to corporate layoffs. Both have nearly insane work ethics.

A couple things that I have learned from observing my Dad:

1. Giving more to a company than they pay you for is a waste of your time.
2. No matter how many years that you have dedicated, how many weekends you’ve worked, how many hours you’ve logged in the air, or how much of your waking day has been spent earning it a profit, the corporation will cut you if it can save a buck fifty for softer toilet paper in the executive washroom.

Trip
I just got back last night from visiting my cousin in San Francisco. I learned a few things:

• There is a merely a gay section of San Francisco. That section makes the south end of Boston look like Republican party headquarters.
• My cousin and her husband are phenomenal hosts and tour guides, but very poor alarm clocks.
• San Francisco coffee is as strong, black, and bitter as my heart. It makes Starbucks seem like baby formula.
• Once, Haight Ashbury was a renowned place for hippies to hang out and like be, man. Now, famous corner is trimmed with a Gap on one corner and a Ben & Jerry’s on the other. All hanging and/or being was sold with the 60’s counterculture.
• There is a difference between people who work in theaters and those that work at Faires. While both seem nice, theater people are more funny: ha ha, while faire people are more funny: uh oh.
• Like it’s cousin to the south, Los Angeles, San Francisco has amazingly cheap records. I averaged about $6.25 per CD, but please don’t ask me how many I bought in the seven plus hours I spent in record stores.
• There are a lot of homeless people in San Francisco. Some seem to have made errors, while others made a choice.
• There are a lot of panhandlers in SF. Some respond to “Sorry, man,” with “Hey, man, that’s like totally ok, man. You don’t have to be sorry, man. It’s cool. Have a Good one.” Others will argue with “Sorry, man,” as if they will eventually convince you that you have made an obviously wrong choice by not giving them “bus money.”

Trip II
I got through most of the security checkpoints without a hitch, until the ride home. The lady wanted me to put my sneakers through the x-ray machine. As my sneakers have never set off a metal detector because they contain no metal I argued with her. She told me that it was recommended that I comply. After 3 rounds of her not yielding, nor yielding myself, I put them on the belt. There was no need, but my feeling was that I was going to be detained for a search if I didn’t comply. I hate that feeling.

By complying, I did avoid a search, but it didn’t seem right. It seemed that she couldn’t force me to take my shoes off, but she was going to make it difficult for me if I didn’t. Kids are bringing box cutters on the plane, and they’re checking my shoes. That seems to me like we have a misdirection of security resources. It also says that a real terrorist is getting by even if his shoes are off. Bunch of A-holes.

Anyway, relating the story today, a co-worker recommended that if I don’t like it, don’t fly. I love this argument. If you don’t want your car stolen, don’t buy a nice car. If you you don’t like the policies, move to another country. Don’t change the incorrect policies, just comply, comply, comply.

This is why America has gone from a nation of rebels to a full-fledged nation of sheep. We comply by rote.

Last week, I tried to take advantage of what I thought would be one of the last warm days of the season. As I sat reading one of my anti-government books on the concrete border between my building and its massive parking lot, the thought crossed my mind that I was kidding myself.

No matter how hard I tried to persuade myself that sitting outside was a comfortable endeavor, no matter how hard I tried to enjoy the sun and ignore the chill of the breeze, it would never be spring. On the same note, no matter how much the books I chose confirmed and reconfirmed my opinions on corporate/government control, I would never be free of it. I was sitting on concrete steps, surrounded by hundreds of feet of concrete in any direction, on the only side of the building that does not fully blot out the sun.

I was also on a lunch break as an employee from said corporation, spending hour after hour day after day, aiding it in my small way, to control more and more resources.

My opinions and my life did not match. I was lying to myself: I was not passing through a warm fall day with nothing greater to employ me than the pages of a book. I was cold, I was alone, and I was more out of place than any of the cars or concrete that surrounded me.

And then as I squinted into the bright, fall afternoon sun, out of nowhere, a ladybug flew toward me. It looked almost blurry and amber as wings carried it through the air, until it took shape, tiny and red on my index finger. I watched it crawl toward the tip of my finger, under my book and out of the sunlight.

And there it stayed.

As I read, I would look at my finger now and again and see if the ladybug was still there. A couple of times it seemed to be cleaning itself, once it seemed to be resting, and at one point it seemed to be trying to decide if my finger was a snack or a stick.

And I was calm. And I wasn’t alone. And I was glad to provide a resting spot for something as natural as a bug in a place where it seemed so out of place.

On a 74 degree day in November, walking from Lafayette Place through the homeless spotted Commons, through the tourist-filled Public Gardens, and down luxury laden Newbury Street ending on Mass Ave and back can be a phenomenal way to spend a Saturday. Midway through our walk, my girlfriend turned to me and said,

“You know what the best thing about this walk is? We don’t have anywhere to be.”

And she was partly right: Leisure without a planned end can be a very relaxing way to spend a warm fall day, but eating a dinner after a long walk consisting solely of nachos supreme and enough cheesecake to make one feel nauseas can be much, much more rewarding.

My rep from McAfee passed away last night. Word is that he got tired, went to sleep, and never woke up. He was about 35.

As I am reminded of the brevity of our time here, I will now increasing the budget for music, video games, and porno.

Dear George,

No nude pictures have come in since yesterday’s post. I think that women are actually observing your national no porno week.

In your memo, you stated, “I call upon public officials, law enforcement officers, parents, and all the people of the United States to observe this week with appropriate programs and activities…”

I have no idea what you mean by “appropriate” activities, but I assume that it is a winking nod to beating up gays, hookers, strippers, perverts, freaks, and anyone with a penis larger a Texas inch. I wish you were more clear.

I would like to thank you for the week, though, as I am going to buy up all available porno, as this meaningful, far reaching, and important announcement will depress prices on “Shaving Ryan’s Privates,” “Sperms Of Endearment,” “Honey, I Blew Everybody,” “The Loin King,” and maybe even “All Anal on the Western Front” to an all time low.

With all due respect, I think it’s time that we have a pro-porno week, just to be fair to the other side. We may even loosen up a little and stop killing each other over pissing contests, and focus on things that are important. You know what I’m saying. Yes you do. wink wink. Starts with boo, ends in bees. That’s right, buddy, don’t let them tell you you’re dumb.

But please let it be known, that your decree, while inadvertently providing me with cheaper porno movies, deprives me of another avenue of happiness, namely nudie pics in my e-mail.

I admit that your decree may not be the problem, as the women may not yet own digital cameras due to the poor economy, or may have even mistyped my e-mail address, due to lack of funding to our school systems.

So, to close, I’m finding it difficult to form a global pornographic empire without naked women. As a pro-business leader, you can understand this. Please do not make me revisit my business model, as it is obviously sound.

Thanks for your Time,
Jon

The more I read about the armed rebellions of the last hundred years, I am stunned that I was completely unaware of them. I am also deep in thought while wandering through this colorful New England landscape as to whether removing the current powers, even if possible, would do anything to alleviate our issues. I am starting to get the feel that the creation of power vacuums just serve to suck in more people hungry for power.

Without a populace armed with advanced weaponry and intimate knowledge of the landscape, it is all too easy for the current powers to not only defeat opposition with the sword, but to use its honed propaganda machine to defeat it with the pen. And even if the populace wins its freedom, it immediately creates new governments to rule.

It’s a depressing thought: Man will always seek to rule man. Those that do not seek to rule others, will themselves be ruled.

And I wonder why I am opposed to this. What is the motivation behind my propensity to defend the weak? Why, if I know that the game is to claw my way to the top, do I resist? Is the conditioning not to play the game a tenet in the game to make winning easier for the victors, or is it unconditioned emotion to destroy the game that I can’t possibly win? Is the attitude advanced or antiquarian?

Yes, I really think about crap like this.

I watch crap like this.

In America, we are taught that we live in a meritocracy. We are also taught that defense is good, and aggression is wrong. We are also very fond of rooting for the underdog. A year ago I argued with two close friends that the war in Iraq was crap, that there were no “weapons of mass destruction,” that Afghanistan was not the same country as Iraq, and that this was a war of petroleum conquest. They yelled at me, cut me off over and over, and told me to keep it to myself.

That is the same way the government deals with us. Advocate anti-business, pro-labor ideas, and you are a commie. Advocate anti-government ideas, and you go to jail. Disagree, and you are not a patriot. “Support Our Troops.” “Love it or leave it.” “Pick Mr. A or Mr. B. or you’re throwing your vote away.” Questions are diverted. Questions are discouraged. Questions remain unanswered.

They also fill us with the ideas that we are a meritocracy and that equality of opportunity is the norm. How many times have you heard that if you work hard, you can become president…unless you’re Black…or Latino…Asian…a woman…or don’t come from a very, very wealthy background. How many poor, women presidents have their been? There was that one…no…or that…nope. None. Zero. There never will be either. We are not a meritocracy. People do not work hard and rise. They usually just work hard. That’s the beauty of the system. By the time we figure out the scam, it’s too late. But that myth is essential to keeping the powers that be where they are.

What I don’t understand is people at the bottom willingly supporting the people that are keeping them down.

Now, we know that the war is a manufactured pile of crap, there are still no weapons of mass destruction, it’s a Bush family war for oil, and we have yet to track down Bush family friend Bin Laden in Afghanistan (pronounced Iraq, I think.) And no one seems to care.

There is no better way to secure an oil rich colony and completely upgrade its infrastructure than to invade and then stick the tax payers with the $87 Billion dollar cleanup bill. The poor fight in the war, he middle class pays for it, and the rich profit. This has been U.S. policy since we kicked out the British 250 years ago. Every war. Every one has been of conquest. We don’t get involved until there is opportunity for expansion.

We are the ones who have invaded their country. No reason has been given, and internationally we were condemned for this. But we don’t care. Neither do you. We are like the British of the 1700’s: The Rich expand, and the poor don’t care as long as they have tea. The news does a great job of unbiased reporting, consistently loading reports with words like “terrorists,” “criminals,” and “killers” to describe rebels fighting the U.S. in Iraq when not flat out misinforming the American public to further the U.S. political machine

If you look at it in a certain light, they are like we used to be.

Sometimes it makes me want to take off for a country that suits me better. Then, I think that power structures are in place everywhere to maintain control. The Soviets did the same thing with a heavy hand, that the U.S. has done by embroiling us with law and lies. It’s these moments that I find being an American most depressing.

Thank goodness for sunshine and low social rank.

Last night I dreamed that I was the leader of a group of three being chased by people with guns. As I rounded a corner, they were getting into an elevator down the hall and we made eye contact. They jumped for the door, and I pushed us off running. There were clever moves and car chases, but I couldn’t get away. And my team was dying off one by one when the alarm pulled me out of the dream into a darkened room, the wind and rain beating against the windows. I wondered what I’m running from, and if the winds of change are blowing through.

The local sports team seems to be doing well. People seem to be coming into work tired and happy as the local sports team has been winning it’s most recent series of sports matches. Two things strike me as funny:

1. The use of the phrase “Cowboy Up” as related to the local sports team. As we live in a largely service based economy, there havn’t been any Cowboys anywhere near Boston in a couple of hundred years. There’s nothing like a meaningless, idiotic slogan to say over and over to distract people…or unify them…or annoy people.
2. It’s very foreign to me that people get so excited by wins of local sports teams. They internalize the teams wins as their wins, they argue about who has been “with” the team longest, and who cares more. It seems so displaced.

Today was the second time that I had to scrape frost from my windshield this season. With the coming of fall, the cold air always makes my mind meander through the past. Yesterday, the air had me skimming across several feelings as they surfaced in my mind : running my hand through my too long, too black hair to get it out of my face and help me think. Having a pack of cigarettes, a small apartment, a 13 inch TV, and a guitar, and being satisfied. Wearing combat boots all year round. Chain smoking because I liked to. Having friends call and say “coming over” and hanging up. Hearing a knock at the door, and opening it while walking away without thinking of checking who it was. Paying for gas with change. Getting high and eating everything that wasn’t nailed down before anyone knew what had happened. Ordering a keg for 5 and wondering if it was enough. Getting to say that I was in a band. Knowing enough people to get myself into places for free. Never, ever, ever, ever, having to plan to go out with my friends. Going to Boston rock clubs on the premise that nine times out of ten I would meet someone I knew. Thinking that there was plenty of time to do whatever it is that I wanted; to become whatever I wanted…

And it was gone.

And I turned to my girlfriend and said, “Fall’s coming.”

And as if trying to convince myself said, “I think I’m excited about it.”

After I let the words escape into the air, they took on a life of their own, convincing me that I was excited about it. At that moment, I realized:

I am not who I was,
I’m barely who I think I am right now, and
what I imagine I will or won’t be in the future is illusory and wholly irrelevant.

All I knew was, in that moment, there was nowhere that I’d rather be. In that moment, I found a modicum of peace.

And a moment like that is what’s important.

Coupling
The new show, Coupling on TV is a word-for-word remake of a British show. The American show is just not funny. The British one is absolutely hysterical. The British can pull of neurotic characters better than Americans by a long shot.

Spider
A few days ago, as I sat eating my lunch, my feet sloppily draped across a bench and enjoying the last of the warm, fall sunshine, a small black spider jumped out of a crack in the wood. I looked up from my book to see him trying to sneak up on my foot. It was almost as if it thought that I was to be his lunch.

As I try to refrain from killing insects just because they invade my personal space (I go so far as to guide moths out of the house rather than killing them), I jiggled my foot, and back into the crack he went. I went back to my reading in the warm fall sun. In a few moments I caught motion out of the top of my field of vision. The spider was back in the same position as before. I looked down to the base of the wood to see an ant scurrying rapidly along his scent trail. He didn’t bother with me.

I leaned down, and from the height of a foot or so, gave the spider a cursory examination. It was small enough not to make me move my foot, but large enough that from even that height I could make out a shiny spot on it’s hairy black back. I blew a puff of air in its direction, and it swiftly retreated.

I looked lower on the wood to an ant walking near my other foot, completely unaware that I was even there until I moved my foot toward it. The ant abandoned the path laid before him and swiftly scurried off in the other direction. As I was looking at the ant, the spider reemerged and made a break for my leg from another angle. I pulled my leg away, putting it safely on the ground.

The spider stood six inches from my shoe, and I wondered why, unlike the ant, the spider was almost defiant against a foe 1000 times its size. Then, he quickly leaped three inches off the ground and one inch short of my leg. I brought my leg up and paused. In that pause, I wondered if I should kill it just because it leapt at me. Unfortunately, I knew that if I didn’t kill it, it would simply leap at me again and again. Having my answer, I swiftly stomped the spider to a wet spot on the ground.

Today, days later, I came to the conclusion that for my whole life I have been the spider: defiant, resiliant, and thoroughly intractible. And I surmised that I may always be the spider, and may even eventually get stomped. Though it is merely my current opinion, a much worse fate is that I become the cowering, mindless, mechanical ant.

Man
Let’s say that you hypothetically work in a basement. Say in this hypothetical situation, the fire alarms are tested in the building, and you hypothetically cannot hear them because there are no fire alarms in your area.

Say that your boss and his boss are hypothetically aware of the situation and have been for over six months.

In this hypothetical situation, if there is a fire, you, my friend, could be fucked. You, or possibly one of your coworkers, are likely to die in that basement without the benefit of advanced warning should a fire actually break out.

Now, say hypothetically, you craft a very professional e-mail asking your boss’s boss’s boss, if there is anything that he can do to get a fire alarm installed down there, cc’ing your boss and his boss just so that they are aware of your concerns.

My take is that even though you are trying to define a baseline level of personal safety for yourself and others, your boss will hypothetically chastise you for trying to “jump the chain” of command. He will hypothetically tell you that you should’ve forwarded your concerns to him, who would forward them to the boss, who would forward them to his boss. When you hypothetically express that he already knows about the situation and doesn’t care, he will point out how those above him don’t care either. He might also go so far as to tell you that your e-mail makes it look like management hasn’t done anything about the fire alarm problem.

Hypothetically.

So, if this situation sounds like yours, my advice would be to shut up about it…if you ever come across this type of situation, that is. But, that’s just my advice. And this is all hypothetical. You can do what you want, Spidey.

Have no Illusions
I was under the impression that the “P” in EPA stood for “protection,” but after reading an article on MSNBC on how the EPA is increasing pollution exemptions to power plants because they are just too expensive, I’m not so sure.

I feel like an idiot. I know the rules. I simply choose to ignore them and get irritated when the results turn up. Rule #1: If you have the dough, you can do what you please. Sure, pollution from the plants will increase, but it will cost the plants to stop the pollution, so we best eliminate the rule.

This leads us to Rule #2: The little guy is going to pay for the big guy. Massachusetts emissions testing provides a great example. In the last few years, stricter emissions laws were passed in the name of cleaner air. This costs us twice what it used to to have our cars inspected, and the standards are so strict that even cars manufactured in the last ten years could fail. That sounds ok, right? Twenty extra bucks a year to have cleaner air sounds like a deal to me?

There’s a catch. There always is. If you have a Honda Civic, you have to put the car on the dyno and have its emissions tested not only at idle, but under load, to make sure that your little 4 cylinder, clean burning Japanese engine isn’t putting out the smallest bit of pollution. coughBallBusterscough. Now, if you own a fleet of dump trucks with dual smoke stacks and no catalytic converters, you can continue belching untold amounts of pollution into the air.

Why? Testing would hurt businesses: Businesses that would have to pay to have the problem corrected. Businesses are favored over people by government. Like the Greek Gods sat at mount Olympus, American gods sit in American board rooms, buying and selling our freedoms, our health, and anything else that they can get their hands on under the protection of the very system that was created “By the people, For the people.”

There are no people in power anymore. Just blameless corporations, and an expansive government; entities without bodies making the rules just like the gods of old. And, if history teaches us nothing, it’s that if you ignore the gods, they vanish into the air that they’re made of.

It’s all an illusion.

Cunt
Some of you grinned when you read the title, thinking that it indicated a juicy tirade against someone in particular. Others of you, just based on the heading, have gasped, and uttered “Oh God” or some other expression of exasperation. And a small minority will never even get to this sentence because the word is just so upsetting to them.

My question is how does a word elicit such a response? I’ve heard the word spoken in English drag screams and draw punches from non-violent women. The word seems to have power on an international scale, as even partway around the world I’ve heard the word’s Swedish translation elicit gasps from a crowded bar.

But why? According to Dictionary.com, the primary definition of cunt is “The female genital organs,” which seems rather scientific and benign, but as Americans, we have been trained that it carries an enormous negative weight with women. But, why?

Control.

If you doubt that the word is simply a method of virtually Pavlovian control for women, then there should be a corresponding word that would have an equally negative impact on a man. There is no single word that a woman can use to regularly and successfully destabilize a man in this method, because there isn’t one word that carries that kind of weight on the male psyche. Not one.

That’s because the word “cunt” is a magic Pavlovian button devised for men, by men, to control women. And it’s idiotic in its simplicity. Merely saying the word evokes a trained negative response, and creates a power vacuum, destabilizing the woman and giving the man the upper hand. By training, no woman wants to even hear the word, nevermind hear it in a way in which the word could describe her.

Not only she has always been taught that this word is the most revolting in the world, but the irony of this power imbalance lies in the underlying secondary definition of the word as a reference her own sexual organs. The logical deduction of the response is that the woman’s sexual organs are the most disgusting things that she knows of. And if your genitals and method of reproduction are vile and repulsive, you have undermined a small part of your persona, and thus, created an accepted and intrinsic undercurrent of inferiority.

It’s a power word built for control, but the only way for a simple word to gain power, is if it is given that power by individuals. And it’s ironic that the proponents of their own impotence are the women themselves.

Be a cunt. Or a tree. Or a mugglybobblydoo. Make words weightless, so that you may soar.

Why?
Sorry, ladies, but I’ve been reading a People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn, and I’m up to the womens’ suffrage movement. The major and minor methods control women, rather than lift them up really tend to really bother me. So, I write what I feel. Plus, I may inadvertently attract a lot of misguided people searching for porn with all my filthy language.

New GIT
Tonight, I actually helped someone explore their PC and fix a major problem, delivering instructions solely via IM. Given the fact that this women is not technical by trade, I was proud of her for not only taking the initiative to fix the PC herself, but for being patient and executing my crappy IM instructions perfectly. This is usually the first step to becoming a geek, and thus, my friend has earned the title of Geek-In-Training (GIT). Be proud. Unbeknownst to her, any cool that she had is probably writing its swan song as I write. The road to geek is littered with jettisoned cool.

As a kid, Alongside my Led Zeppelin and Iron Maiden posters, were posters of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. I used to think that they were as timeless, inalienable, and rebellious as the rock posters with which they shared wall space. Freedom and rock were branches off the same tree.Now that I’m older, I’m starting to see that a lot of what rock has become is less about the music, and more about image. The glittery shirt is more important than the song lyrics. “Freedom” has followed suit. We’ve learned to take more in useless laws and pay more to support them. We are heavily taxed, and nominally represented. It is more important to wave the flag and eat “freedom fries” than to actually retain the rights that make us free.

Image is Everything. Image is Nothing.

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. –That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, –That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.”

“He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.”

“He has obstructed the Administration of Justice, by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary powers.”

“He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people, and eat out their substance.”

“He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the consent of our legislatures.”

“He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil power.”

“For Quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:”

“For protecting them, by a mock Trial, from punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:”

“For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world:”

“For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:”

“For depriving us, in many cases, of the benefits of Trial by Jury:”

“He has plundered our seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.”

“He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us…”

-From the Declaration of Independence (full text), July 4, 1776

US vs. Sweden

You know, when you walked in here this morning, you looked like an eighteen year old kid: alive and happy. It’s been only a few hours and look at you. You look like an old man.

-My boss commenting on my hunched form after 1 day back

So, I’m not on vacation anymore. So I spend 8 hours a day chasing down virus infected machines that should be protected, and vendors who have no clue why they are not. So what?

So what if after a single day my neck hurts, my eyes hurt, my back hurts, and I’ve got this funny pain on the bottom of my feet. So what if I’ve been sneezing my face off in the basement air wondering what the weather is like outside, and haven’t had a meaningful thing to say all day.

I’m a worker. I work. That’s what I do.

So what if the air in Sweden is cleaner and the food is less filled with chemicals. So what if the people are friendlier, and are willing to stop and talk to total strangers for no real reason. So what if they’re fitter, and are much more fashionable. So what if they seem to act for the good of society rather than the fear of punishment. So what?

I’m an American. I pollute the air with my big ass muffler on my way to Burger King for a greasy ass chicken sandwich and fries. And I stick to myself rather than have someone stab me in the back just to steal my biggie sized soda. And if I can drive my car to the mailbox, I will. Fitness is for people who have time, and don’t like the look of a big fat booty. And fashion? Aw hell, fashion is a toy for waify models and gay designers to entertain each other with. As an American male, I will never, never ever wear Capri pants, a dickie, or anything made of mesh until the day they pry my too long, too baggy Old Navy Cargo shorts and my “Who Farted?” tee shirt off my pale, fat ass body. And if they do, I had better be dead.

And don’t even get me started about acting for the good of society. Society screws me over all day long, so if you think I’m putting a quarter in the meter if the meter maid is having a heart attack two cars down, you’re smoking crack. If there’s no punishment for the rule, or no chance that I’ll get caught, count on me rolling the dice or disregarding the rule totally. No cop, no stop, I don’t care.

And that’s what America is: You work yourself senseless to earn enough spare cash to buy a bunch of useless crap to distract yourself from how much you hate your job, and mire yourself in list after list of pointless things that you have to get done until you just can’t take it any more and spring for a much needed vacation to a place that isn’t as fucked up as your narrow dog-eat-dog view of the world. And as you sit in that open air cafe sipping your latte, you wonder how you can

Americanize it.
Exploit it.
And make some cash off of it.

Even when you’re not in America, America is in you. And that is the problem.

US vs. Chile
US: It’s not about winning, it’s about doing your best.
Chile: You can’t say that your American!
US: My friend, Americans always have bosses, and there is always someone better than them. There is always someone waiting around the corner to take what little you have. As an American, you have to get very used to the idea of losing, and you must do it early, because you are going to do it a lot.
Chile: [awed silence]

Time is not money. To us, money is time. If you throw away money by tearing it up, losing it, or simply throwing it away, then the time you spent doing something that you hate to earn that money was wasted. By throwing away that money, you have wasted your time, because you weren’t doing what you wanted, and you now have nothing to show for it.

How’s that for a shitty feeling?

Something has been going screwy with me lately, where I feel like I’m making more connections than I’ve made in a long time. It seems to be an almost daily occurrence. I met an executive assistant from work at the gym yesterday, and then I spent an hour or so yakking with a mechanic today. Upon first impressions, I would’ve thought that either of them would’ve chewed my head off just for saying “Hi.”

Neither did. Most people don’t.

Then again, I pass at least 25 people in the hallways every day. I look almost every one of them in the face and greet them as I go by (I say almost, because some days I’m in no mood, and sometimes people’s expressions scream “Do Not Disturb.”). I would estimate that even though 75% of them are looking either at the ground or completely away when I greet them, 98% will respond. 23% will immediately respond appropriately, with another 25% answering appropriately somewhere up the hall. 50% will be so caught off guard that they will answer “How you doing?” with “How you doing?”, rather than actually answering the question. Then there are 2% that just keep right on walking as if you weren’t even there.

Most of us don’t greet each other based on the assumption that there is a 98% chance that the person we’re greeting is in that crappy 2%.

It’s a two fucking percent chance, and it shuts down interpersonal communication. The coffee lady did it to me for the second time just last week. She watched me approach, following me with her eyes. There was no one else around, no commotion, she wasn’t busy, and she’s not deaf. When I got within 3 feet, I said “How you doing?” She smugly stared right in my face and said nothing. Nothing. Am I not worthy of being said “hi” to? Was my fwajoo wittoo ego shattewed? No, man. She’s a bitch. That’s it. They’re out there. And because you are afraid of being rejected by that paltry 2%, the other 98% are missing out on your fucking smiles. Missing out. Yes, you. If those 2% suck, let them suck. Gamble with more than money. Say “Hi.” Connect.

Today, the mechanic walked into the waiting room after putting my car on a lift and asked, “Who do you think you are with that muffler? The Fast and the Furious?” It was offhand, and I had the perfect opportunity to opt out, say “no,” barely looking up from my book. Instead, I said “fuck it,” and wandered past the yellow customer line on the floor, and opted to stand in the garage shooting the shit with him while he changed the oil and checked the brakes. He showed me how to tell when the brakes were worn down, told me about some of the cars he was building, and eventually drew a picture from his wallet to show me his baby. It was a Mustang. “500 horse. 700 with the nitrous. It shoots flames out of the tail with the aid of a propane tank.” Dude was into cars. Reeeeeaaaaally into cars. By the end of the hour, he was making calls to check on discount parts for me.

And I could’ve been reading Chomsky’s analytical charts of precisely how the media is screwing me over.

I don’t know why it keeps happening, but I think I have somehow gotten the need to connect, rather than retreat from the world around me. It makes the time pass a little faster, and a live person provides more interesting situations (sans explosions) than the ridiculous “realities” provided by magazines, movies, or broadcast networks. But, in our culture, we are trained to be separate, suspicious, and ultimately afraid of each other. We are trained not to be entertained by active interaction, but by passive observance. Movies. TV. Blogs. Sporting events. All passive. Someone sends it out, you sit quietly and receive. Listen. Don’t speak. Raise your hand. Buy.

The real world is far more interesting to me as of late, and I’m trying to connect with it. Not only am I trying to connect with it, but I’m trying to interact with it. I’m trying to tell the world not only, “I’m here,” but, “I know you’re here, too. And I’ll be right over.”

This is providing me with a few more people to say “hello” to, and a few more people to smile at. It can transform a tired group of workers, irritated by the wait at a coffee counter into a laughing group of acquaintances, that may actually enjoy the wait. And then, even though the world turns at the same rate, the constant rotation loses a lot of its tedium, and I seem to enjoy it more.

And it all starts with a simple word.

“Hello.”

Sign and Print
I am fully aware that the views here are not my views, those of the Major League Baseball Association, nor of any sane, rational, fully-functioning member of what I consider society. If I say “hello” to some psycho, and he follows me home and chops me up, I and my relatives and heirs agree to hold Jon Dyer, Judas Priest, and Iron Maiden blameless, hitherto, wheretofor, magne cum laude. Amen.

Signed,

X————————————–

Wonderland
If you have two kinds of socks, blue and black, and you pull two socks out of the drawer, there is a 50/50 chance that they will match. If you pull one more sock out of the drawer, the odds of a match are 100%. In the poor light of the early morning, this bit of statistics can save some time. That’s if you have only two types of socks in the drawer, like me.

15 minutes to Wapner. Yea. Fif…fifteen minutes to Wapner.

Atlantic City
Today as I was driving to work, I grew rather bored at a long stoplight, and happened to look to my right only to see a friend of mine about 40 feet away jogging by . He looked left at about the same time and saw me, both of us wearing expressions that indicated our surprise at the odds that brought that quick meeting about.

Las Vegas
When I went upstairs last night to brush my teeth, in my sink, on its back, was a tiny beetle. As I stood there, his legs were wiggling, wiggling, wiggling, and then slowly came to rest. Then, and I have never seen this before, they slowly began to cross, and the bug died, with me as the only witness to its natural demise. I stood there for a moment gawking in wonder at the odds of me seeing that event, and then I turned on the water to wash the carcass down the drain. When the water hit the beetle, he flipped over and got animated again, proud as Jesus on Easter. Again, I was amazed. Not knowing really what to do with Jesus beetle, I decided to see if he could walk on water and…

I washed the little fucker down the drain.

The next evening, I came back to brush my teeth again. Turning on the water, a speck fell off the spigot as I turned the water on. Jesus Beetle. He could come back to life, and walk on water. For that, Jesus Beetle deserved to go outside. I tricked him (or her) into climbing onto a contact lens case, and carried him (or her) downstairs and put him (or her) out.

The two things that I thought were: I’m either

1. creating a race of super Jesus Beetles to the detriment of humanity, or
2. I’m helping the stupid survive long enough to give a bird a free meal to the detriment of Jesus Beetle.

What are the odds?

Idea XII: Two Things

Even when you think that you are completely alone, someone will be thinking about you. They may miss you from just yesterday, or wonder what has happened to you in the last ten years, or they may never have even met you. They could be a member of your family, an old friend, or simply someone that you see at the train station every day that has unconsciously worked you into the “normal” background of their day. You may never have even spoken to that person, but they would notice if you went missing.

Because we all make an impact. Sometimes it is minor; sometimes it is major, but we all make an impact on each other.

Always remember two things:

1. You cannot begin to see the depth of the impact that you make, and
2. You are never really alone.

Idea XIII: The Phone Lines Are Now Open

When I was in college, I was a DJ on my college radio station. When I was starting out, I would give the phone number out on air over and over, fishing for requests and feedback. The worst days were the ones when you spent your 2-4 hour slot hand picking the best music you could, and spinning record after record with no sign that anyone was even tuning in.

Nearly ten years later, I have traded the solitude of the booth for the solitude of the terminal, and I find myself pondering the exact same question.