Overthinking Pinterest

Okay, I get it. Pinterest is really not a guys’ thing. And I’m okay with that. I also acknowledge that I find myself checking to see what’s new about every month or so. And I find it entertaining.

Looking on Pinterest is kind of like staring into the not-so-secret world of women. Not like in an I’m-going-to-spy-on-sorrority-sisters-in-their-unmentionables, but a more public kind of secret world. What I find is not entirely surprising: Women have conflicting messages.

I’ve often assumed this was just a facet of my personal life reflecting my inability to properly interact with the finer sex. However, the patterns I see on Pinterest confirm my notions that females are confusing.

For those unfamiliar with the workings of pinterest, I don’t think there’s a whole lot to get. From my limited interations it works as follows: people post stuff they like. The result is a page of rectangular pictures consisting largely of the following categories: (1) Inspirational quotes regarding weight (2) Pictures of food meant to sabatoge #1 (3) Pictures of guys with their shirts off and airbrushed twelve-pack abdomens(4) Ryan Gosling. See #3(5) Hair in strange formations (6) Things pertaining to wedding ideas (7) Cute animals (8) Crafts (9) Babies (10) Flowers (11) Showers/pools (12) Pictures with text in the vein of a snarky comic

Personally, I think my main reason for checking on the page is number 12. However, the contrasts between items #1 and #2 is always unnerving. Especially given the borderline anorexial nature of some of the “inspirational quotes.” Also in the umbrella of #1 are not-as-thought-out ideas for weight loss including drink ice cold water 99 times a day and do 10,000 jumping jacks daily. Obviously, I’m a man who understands both the delights of aesthetically pleasing deserts and recently discovered the need for working out to get fit. However, I do find the juxtaposition of the “snickers brownie” next to the “Shrink your waist” exercise plan a bit counterproductive. However, when the exercise plan begins to involve excessive caloric restriction and exercise, the page carries bulimic overtones.

Generally, I think a few deranged people usually post the anorexic plans and most people, like me, have a fine appreciation for both (however, the boost your buttox workout is not for me). I do take delight in the new medium of “make-your-own” brand comics. Raging through facebook right now is the (insert career here) and insert pictures of what five different individuals/groups think about what you do and end with the fact that you actually are literally surrounded by a mound of paper every day. The first few were enjoyable, the rest are becoming trite and most are an excessive stretch.

Yet, I digress, the point is pinterest has a lot of these type of graphics. Particularly pervasive are the pictures of Victorian era women saying something snarky about society, each other, or their alcohol consumption. I find these comical. The next type of comic is an extension of the LOLer cat and faux motivational posters of years gone by. Really, these are why I log on occasionally.

Not to overanalyze things (but what’s the point of this post anyways) but these “comics” generally seem predicated on a two part process. Number one: The picture establishes a point of familiarity and context with a picture of something/one recognizable (i.e. a sitcom character). The comment above their head is some sort of lead in to the punch-line, which is written in small letters bellow the top. So, in essence, step two is reading the punchline. It’s a remarkably dichotomized process to simulate the anticipation of telling a live joke. Let’s just say, pinterest users, I’m impressed with the creation of a new joke telling medium, if the content is quite occasionally lacking. The other similar joke is the picture of iPhone text conversations which proves likewise enjoyable.

Well, I suppose all I really wanted to do was justify my perusal of pinterest. However, I find myself enjoying it as a minor sociological experience into what women (en masse) find pinteresting (I know, I cringed too). Especially since I can’t seem to figure them out as individuals.

Livin' the Dream

Note: In an effort to stick with the title, I'm attempting to be more daily with the blog

This year, a big year, I’ll turn 28. I’m not sure if that’s a milestone or not, but just about everything else in my life is. I finished school. At least, one leg of it. I’m now onto the part of school in which poor decisions affect myself and others. I received a title at the end of my name. Unfortunately, I have to use it to sign certain documents, and occasionally I forget what I’m signing, and sign a friendly letter, MD—to which I either look like a jerk or that I temporarily forgot that my first name starts with a B and not an M.

The biggest changes, however, involve how many documents I’ve signed that set myself up to owe somebody else a favor. You know that suitcase full of money that Lloyd and Harry turn into a suitcase full of IOUs in Dumb and Dumber. Well, I never had any money, but somehow I have a suitcase full of IOUs now.

I bought a house. Or that is to say, a few months ago, I walked into a building, signed a couple documents, actually received a check for a few thousand dollars, and obtained some keys to something owned by a corporation somewhere. However, I do have the right (or so it seems) to paint the inside and landscape the outside as I see fit. All I pay for this right is a check that automatically exits my savings account every month.

I replaced my aged 1998 Buick Century with a much more modern, but still thrifty, 2012 Ford Focus. And I’ll be honest, I love my new car. Or at least, I love the car that coincidentally the same bank that owns my house technically owns.

I’m not sure exactly who possesses my education rights, but I obtained a degree, and now all I have to do is pay back an exorbitant sum of money it took to finance the last eight* years of my education (*I suppose technically its nine, but I like to consider my freshman year at Michigan State a redshirt season. Unfortunately, it still counts financially). Either way, I have people in the hospital call me doctor, which believe me, is as unsettling to me as it could be. I have, however, resisted the urge to turn my head and look for someone more, say, bonafide.

And finally, I officially signed away my rights to make any sort of large scale decisions in my life between the years 2014-2018. I am officially locked in to serve in the United States Air Force. Technically, I suppose I’m a captain in reserves at present, but much like the piece of paper affirming my title as doctor, that makes me slightly uncomfortable.

The point of all this is to say that a mere three months ago, none of the aforementioned items were true. I was a care free medical student. Sure, I was tens of thousands of dollars in debt then too, but I’m sure I’ve at least quadrupled the amount since then, and the difference in perceived responsibility is mind numbing.

I was not aware that so many acute life changes could occur in such a short amount of time. The amazing thing is, that nothing really changes all that much. In truth, I enjoy my work and feel challenged but competent at it. I’m glad to serve my country in the future and look forward to honoring the commitment I made, as the Air Force assists me financially at present. The car and the house are nice, and help to ensure that I’m not worried about lodging/transportation at present.

In the brief pauses, however, the situation change kind of astounds me. The lyrics of Talking Heads, “You may ask yourself, how did I get here?” become strangely poignant. The answer is, I’m not really sure.

Country's Trope

Maybe it’s my recent relocation to Indiana, but I find myself listening to a lot of country music these days. I find myself consistently surprised by, well, first the fact that I’m enjoying it, and second, by the pervasive use of an almost rhetorical tactic in the songs.

At first I thought I may just be rediscovering the chorus in a different genre, but I soon realized that there was more to the phenomenon than that. The first experience I had with this phenomenon was with Tim McGraw’s “Don’t Take the Girl.” The song’s central themes were to which are common to country music, including fishing, true love, and loved ones dying. Initially, as a young whippersnapper, Johnny does not want his father to take “the girl” fishing with them. He expresses the sentiment in what turns out to be a near-chorus singing:

“Take Jimmy Johnson/Take Tommy Tomphson/Take anybody you want as/long as she don’t go/Take any boy in the world, Daddy please, don’t take the girl”

In the second verse, however, the chorus-meaning changes as Johnny, as an 18 year-old is held-up at gunpoint. This time, he begs the thief not to take the girl. The meaning is altered from “don’t take the girl” meaning “don’t bring her with us” to “don’t take the girl” meaning “don’t kidnap her.” A more literal contextual meaning to be sure, however the first verse had already set-up the expressions meaning.

Rather than another about face, the third verse leaves the meaning essentially unchanged, but tugs heavy on the heart strings. This time, Johnny’s “girl” has given birth, and we soon find out it was traumatic “momma’s fading fast” and Johnny pleads with his heavenly father “God, please don’t take the girl.”

Wrapping things up, Tim McGraw, or his sly songwriters, begin with the opening lines “Johnny’s daddy, was taking him fishin, when he was eight years old,” reminding the listener that this young couple started early, lived a full life of excitement (high school, muggings, marriage—assumed because it’s a good country song, and childbirth) all before Johnny lost the love of his life.

Now, many of country music’s gambits are at work here, but the ironic twist of a phrase, is the one that is most striking. And that twist of phrase seems to becoming more and more popular in the country music I listen to.

The tactic is repeated almost in an emotionally reversed sense in Dierks Bentley’s “How Am I Doin.” He expresses his emotion by stating variously that “I sometimes cry . . . I keep my friends with me . . stay busy . . don’t get much sleep.” Later, however we learn he is crying tears of joy, friends take him out, and doesn’t get much sleep because of the “sweet” female he meets. This time, the emotional pace is revved rather than slowed by the accompanying-tempoed music.

Dierks uses a slightly different tactic in his “Am I the Only One.” The emotional timbre remains the same throughout the song, but the chorus extensive chorus “Am I the only one who wants to have fun tonight? Is there any body out there who wants to have a cold beer, kick it ‘til the morning light. If I have to raise hell all by myself I will, but y’all, that ain’t right. It’s time to get it on, Am I the only one who wants to have fun tonight.” Is alternatively sung by Dierks, and his newfound complementary partying “country cutie” (who has a rock and roll bootie, which it would seem to be at odds with the rest of her country-cutie complexion. Alas, I digress).

Thompson Square uses essentially the same tactic in “Are you Gonna Kiss Me or Not” (just as an aside here, country music may give rap a battle for music with titles that make Word’s spellchecker red-lining crazy). The timid lover is variously the recipient of and undertaker of dialogue recreating the song’s namesake. Some similarities here can be seen to Tim McGraw’s kiss the girl, as a series of life events are marked with the exact same phrase. That is, a first kiss, marriage proposal, and matrimony ceremony where all marked by the chorus, beginning with “are you gonna kiss me or not”

A third variation on the theme is undertaken by Eric Church in “Homeboy.” This song accomplishes the country trifecta of simultaneously exalting pastoral small-town life and “hating-on” the urban, pant-sagging culture. The reason that this is great interest for us, of course, is because it is the harbringer of country taking the iconic play on words one step farther. That is, “homeboy” is used simultaneously in the noun sense as in “one who is a close acquaintance or brah” (Doyle’s definition).

Church uses an almost apostrophe like “Home boy,” when calling out to his long lost brother. Other times, church simply says “come on home, boy.” The emphasis of the comma is amplified because of the audible contrast to the more aggressive sounding “homeboy.” This plays into Church as the champion of a simpler, purer life “blue colloar forty, little house, little kid, little small town story.” His calling is friend, “home, boy” amplifies the slow pace of life changing the use of a slang term back into a sort of more well known phrase.

Of course, there are a few country songs that use tangential approaches to a similar theme. Tim McGraw’s “I Miss Back When,” laments the fact that words are used differently than they were “back when.” My personal favorite is when he mentions that, “when you said I’m down with that, well it meant you had the flu.” So while other artists use the same phrase to mean different things, McGraw uses common phrases to call back a more nostalgic meaning. Apparently there were lots of collaborations about having the flu “back when.”

Perhaps the most heavy-handed example of the country music trope described here is Joe Nichol’s “Take it off.” The phrase is used no less than twenty times throughout the duration of the song. Its amazing utility is used metaphorically to describe the weight off the world being lifted off one’s shoulders, as well as the more literal and classic uses describing ones beer cap, convertible top, and of course, pants. Here the phrase means essentially the same thing every time, but the amazing dexterity of the phrase is put on display. As are the clever innuendos one can use it for in myriad situations.

My foreign ear may be more astutely tuned to this device in country music because I am largely an outsider to the genre, but it appears to me that the gambit is used more in country music than any other I listen to. This could be because I have trouble deciphering what rappers, rockers, and emo-mumblers are saying at all. The clear, crisp, annunciation of country singers (in comparison only, of course) may allow for a new perspective on music.

More likely, however, is that the country music populous has an affinity for things that don’t change in an ever changing world. McGraw’s “Back When,” most clearly illustrates this, but “Homeboy” and virtually all the others lament a changing world. Country may be trying to reclaim phrases like “homeboy,” “down with that,” while other artists merely celebrate the party, in their own country way (i.e. “Take it Off”). Either way, the next time you tune in to a country music station—which if you live in Indiana, is more often than you may intend—listen for the word-meaning-switcheroo trope and I think you’ll find another level of enjoyment. Or at least, intellectualization can help me hid the fact that I’m becoming more “down” with country.

Part II: Thank you for not screwing me big time (seven thousand, I was just going to say I hope to pay seven thousand-ish)

See Part I below for the beginning.

Part II: Thank you for not screwing me big time

Alas, determined not to let the utility companies get a cut of my financial pie, I attempted to deal directly with the cable companies. I looked into Comcast again, because I had forgotten my previous experience when they rammed ridiculous monthly charges down my throat, and also because they were cleaver and changed their service name to something like x-finity. They almost had me too. Wait, these guys must be different, they have a tendy-ish name now, and I’m not sure what it means. Please, let me sign up for more ambiguity with a cable company.

I ended up attempting to sign on with AT&T, but successfully convincing them to let me pay them an exorbitant amount of money for a monthly service proved miraculously difficult. First of all, somehow, there is a waiting list eons long to get someone to install the service. If I’m president of one of these companies, the first thing I do is make it easy for people to pull an impulse sign-on. So you’re telling me you want to agree to pay me 80 bucks a month, starting today, and be locked in for a year? Great, I’ll have someone out there in a jiffy. If the pizza guys can pull it off, and they have to craft a delicious moon-shaped pie, before they leave, surely the cable company can figure out a way to have someone show up to install cable.

Alas, logic is futile in dealing with institutions of such size (partly because I think its in the hiring criteria that the employee be devoid of any common sense. Also, devoid of humor. Although, its possible they just have a ridiculously dry sense of humor and are skilled at using the hold button to mess with you. I think I like that running theory, I’m going to go with it. Makes me feel better about shelling out a fraction of my paycheck to those clowns). So, I was informed that I would have to wait about a month to have someone come out and install my internet/cable. I obliged, knowing that there was a fifty-fifty chance I’d have to work during the eight-hour window they gave me for arrival.

And I did. I found out definitively that I would not be able to be home when the cable guy came the day before he was slated to arrive and so I called to reschedule. Ha. If only. I was first admonished just to get a neighbor to be around and let them in. I attempted to inform the voice on the line that I knew very few neighbors, and much like your cable man, they all worked during business hours. She then advised me that it would be a great way to meet neighbors by asking by a favor such as this. I advised her that it was also a great way to lose your electronics, thus defeating the purpose of said service.

We finally agreed upon a date, a Sunday afternoon, long in the future that I would be home. I marked the date on my calendar, circled it with a big red marker, and promptly searched for a neighbor with unsecured wi-fi.

Cable Guy (Part I: Welcome Back, Sucker)

About one week ago, I finally obtained internet access for my new domicile. The experience was not without the usual round of frustration, which like a refreshing spring rain, is surprising in the extent of its ability to penetrate the soul, and the newness of the sensation after a profound absence.

I’d like to limit the frustration to the actual experience of calling the cable company, phone company, or satellite provider, but unfortunately the tentacles of the communications industry’s quest to leave consumers dumbfounded, annoyed, and exhausted extend beyond any comprehensible boundaries. To begin with, I called the two utility companies (the real life versions of Monopoly’s Electric Company and Water Works, who may very well calculate my monthly bill by multiplying the number on a die). This would seem like a rather innocuous procedure, but it rapidly transformed into imprisonment-by-telemarketer.

The exchanges went something along the lines of thefollowing:

“Hi, I’d like to switch the (insert utility name here) into my name.”

A pause on the other end, and then a sort of shocked response: “Oh, wow, okay, are you moving there?”

(I fight the urge to respond that I am in fact a good Samaritan and want to pay random people’s water/electric bills) and say simply “Yes.”

“Okay, well it looks like the current owners have decided to stop their service on (x date).”

“Great, can I pick it up then?”

“So, you want to prevent the service from being shut-off?”

(Again, resisting the urge to make a smarmy comment in the vein of David Spade in Tommy Boy).

Finally after nailing down the nuts and bolts of why I want to pay for electricity, the fact that I am moving into the residence, and that I do not in fact want to move into a dark, dry house I am under the mistaken belief that I am on the home stretch. I am then informed that he/she must transfer me to another agent to complete the process. I may have imagined it, but I’m pretty sure the tree outside my window just grew a few feet, because I can literally feel it getting shadier .

I am greeted by a friendly voice amidst the background of other friendly voices in nearby cubicles. Gary informs me that he is processing my request as we speak, and we may as well talk about my other utilities. The first time this occurred, I bought in hook, line and sinker. I thought great, I won’t have to call Water Works now, what a time saver. I quickly realized, however, that Gary cannot keep my water flowing. Instead, he can merely take a cut from whatever deal he gets me to agree to with the behemoth telecommunications companies. Really, I’m just amazed that they can farm out the operation of screwing someone over.

I like Gary though, and I don’t want to be rude. He informs me that we are going to be neighbors because he lives in Chicago and I will be living in South Bend. Immediately, I’m excited because I didn’t realize that the entire 2-hour driving radius will now be considered my neighbors. What a friendly area. I bet block parties are off-the-hook.

However, soon I begin to suspect that Gary may be trying to pull a fast one. He informs me that the best deal out there is a hybrid internet with AT&T, cable with Dish Networks, and a home security system with ADT. Now I can get all of these services for under two hundred dollars a month. I attempt to inform Gary that I made exactly zero dollars for the last four years and that $200 a month so I can watch the Brazilian soccer leagues practices live every day might not be worth it. He assures me that I can afford it. I assure him that the State of Michigan would believe otherwise. In fact, last year I was denied my tax refund because my filing was impossible. The state felt because I paid more in taxes than I took in income, my form must’ve been made in error. I attempted to argue that I was merely doing what the government did daily, that is, spending what I don’t have (hey-o, first political pot-shot of the Daily Doyle). Yet, I digress.

The point is that Gary wanted to be my friend. He was licensed to sell cable packages in South Bend. He probably had a laminated card in his wallet to prove it. I, however, was cross-checking each price he gave me online and recognized a theme. Namely, he was charging more for his services. To ensure that I wouldn’t have to go through the charade again, I ensured that my power would be turned on when I moved in, and promptly hung up.

Quick Hit: Epic going the way of Random

-The term “epic” may soon challenge “random” as the term my generation uses most frequently in order to outstrip it of any meaning. For example, “I had an epic night last night.” Really? Pizza, beer, and watching Jersey Shore re-runs is now on par with Homer? Odysseus is gonna be pissed.

PS: long live uber who was previously held this post

Why I Drink Coffee at Work

I’ve developed the relatively poor habit of having some sort of beverage in my hands at all times. I’m currently working my sub-I at a hospital in suburban Detroit which means two things: (1) I am physically present in the hospital for long hours every day and (2) I have virtually unlimited access to food and drink.

The consequences of this on my BMI are immediately evident. Lurking in my subconscious, however, I have discovered a desire to always be holding some kind of beverage. I’m not sure if the desire stems from some unconscious urge to be holding a counterweight developed whilst playing cornhole, or from a general physiological disposition towards dehydration.
My best guess, in fact, is that much like a leather jacket, a beverage makes one look more casual. Do I look distinguished in a shirt and tie? Perhaps, but only until I slip on my suede jacket from the eighties. Much like the tuxedo t-shirt, it says, “I’m formal but I like to party” (see Talledega Nights for more information).

Similarly, at the hospital I am dressed in business dress apparel topped with a white coat which give a misrepresentative air of knowledge and/or authority. However, when I’m holding a cup of “seasonal roast: French Toast Coffee” in my hand, it says “I might look like I’m all business—but you and the delightful smell of syrupy French pressed goodness says otherwise. In fact, we may as well be listening to Michael Bubble and paying $6 for a latte right now.”

And I think that’s why I like it. If I’m going to be in the friendly confines of this palace of sickness, I need a little buffer. In the afternoons, to avoid running to the bathroom as frequently in the morning, I generally hold on to some clear fountain beverage in a colorful cup provided by the dining lounge. Now, instead of the relaxing atmosphere the carbo-laden French toast scent provides, my beverage says: “I may be at work, but I could’ve just as easily stepped out of a matinee showing of True Grit and be holding a bucket of popcorn behind my back.”

Some may think this is disrespectful in a hospital setting, and I would tend to partially agree. Of note, I refrain from bringing my beverage into the actual patients room with me, but that’s not to say I’ve never looked a little silly fumbling for a paper in my pockets on rounds because I can only use one hand without spilling syrupy smelling aribica bean-based caffeine goodness on my white coat.

I also think that I function at a much higher level because on some level I feel more relaxed. The closest analogy here is that to people taking a smoking break at work. When I feel stressed I can enjoy a delicious taste of fountain Sprite soda, imagine an amc preview or two, and then go on with my day (which, by the way, can’t be too stressful because I’m typing this at work).

I (sadly) like that boom boom pow.

So, I really don't want to take the full blame for the information I'm about to disclose. Naturally, there have been many people along the way that have sort of thrust this reality upon me. But recently, I have to admit, I've succumbed to listening to pop radio. And not just when I'm working out. And not just the occasional radio song.

The whole episode started when I began tiring of listening to books on tape, or This American Life(which is still about as entertaining as one hour of audio can be), and started listening to the local radio station with the peppiest music.

Naturally, this meant that it also had the stupidest lyrics. I've discovered the law of "pep" in a song. That is, the peppier the song, the less intelligence the lyrics. For example, one of the peppier songs I've heard in a while featured this ingenious exchange:

You like to drink

So do we

Get more bottles

Bring 'em to me

The sad part is, the song is so catchy that it took me weeks to realize this exchange took place. The songs are the equivalent of the schmoozer salesman who is really good at what he does(or the entire Wall Street district). You're never quite sure what is being sold, but you know that you want it.

Lyrics aside, its still a hard transition to swallow. The past times that I found it acceptable to listen to the likes of the Black Eyed Peas were limited to situations in which I was forced to listen (i.e. a friends car) or the Superbowl (where someone forgot to mention that an actual live performance would be a part of the gig . . . there are some situations when lip syncing is not only acceptable, but a favor to the non-deaf world. Honestly, I kept waiting for Fox's audio people to fix a cord that got unplugged for the entire show). Nonetheless, I now have two pop stations programmed on my car radio(sure they've only made it to FM2 but still).

I like to blame circumstances for my problems. First, when working out peppier music has been proven to make you run faster(read the convoluted abstract here). Also, since I now have to depart for work at five am, caffeine isn't the only boast I require.

Anyways, in what is becoming an alarming trend, I am enjoying that at which I once scoffed. In the words of the ever eloquent Ke$ha: We R Who We R.

Lord help me.

How to eat strawberries

Strawberries were on sale this week. Naturally, being the selective shopper that I am I picked up a pint (bushel, quart, peck, whatever it is) and slipped them into my cart. Getting home, being the intelligent refrigeration connoisseur I am I put them into the fridge.

And there they remained. Days went by and I did not touch the—even days when I had a craving for fruit, looked at my banana tree, saw no bananas and opened the fridge. I looked in the fridge saw no apples, no oranges, no peaches, and even the oft-ignored ruby red grapefruit was gone. I settled on a tiny glass of orange juice just to take the edge off.

And today I realized that after days of fruit hunting I had ignored the strawberries. Never mind that they were sitting right in front of my eyes the whole time. I mentally blocked them out. And I could not figure out why. More on this later.

About twenty minutes ago I realized that strange feeling I had in my stomach was the end result of a strawberry binge. The same strawberries I had previously ignored were now irresistible to me and I consumed the batch voraciously and without remorse.

The difference, of course, was location and convenience. This second set of strawberries were pre-washed, set on the counter pleasantly displayed in a sharp, black, trendy Ikea bowl. At the risk of sounding irreverent, they would be hard to resist on a hunger strike.

And in contemplating this dichotomy, I realized that the only reason I ignored them before was because deep down I did not want to go through the labor of washing the strawberries. Apparently I was prepared to let them rot in the fridge because I could not fathom washing them.

I don’t really have enough time here to delve into all the other considerations. Should I have proverbially pitted them of their green turnip-kin top? Would that have enhanced their sex appeal (answer: I hope not, because as it stands I cannot resist them). What is that top for? Can I eat them without any harm except for the bitterness? Is that the same stuff lettuce is made from? These are the things I spend my time wondering but not making the effort to answer.

So, I realized, that if I want to get my fill of fruits and I am out of the single serve variety (apples, peaches, pears, plums, mango, etc) or the pre-made bite size ones (raisins, dried apricots, etc) just wash something and set it on the counter. Pretty soon it will be irresistible.

In a way, my kitchen served to illustrate Malcom Gladwell’s tipping point theory (or the feigned principles of groupon . . . both of which I highly recommend). Only the only action required of me was to wash them and set them on the counter.

Bikes, fixies, and post-modernism

Oh, man. I bought a bike this week. Unlike my past purchases—a biannual parade of Huffys (yeah, I think that’s how you pluralize that . . . and I am referring to the every two years, not twice a year, form)—I got a real bike. Not a new bike, but a real bike.

I am the proud owner of a 1987 Trek 560 Pro Series. I have no idea what it means, but all I know is that the tires are skinnier than my ring finger, and I had no idea I could go that fast without my quadriceps going up in flames.

The guy I bought it from, of course, knew way more about bikes than me and was really talking it up. In fact, the only reason I knew it was a good bike was because my buddy (and proud owner of several quality road bikes) was on the lookout for good bikes on craigslist.

The seller wanted to know if I wanted to make it into a fixie. And as fate would have it, I learned the meaning of that word just in time to have an informed conversation about it. “Oh, a fixed gear?” I asked, feigning contemplation. “Naw I just wanted a retro bike. I will probably keep the derailleur.” Read: I need a bike that I can actually ride decent distances before I drop my car off to the collision shop for an indefinite period of time.

In order to appreciate the bike, I think you may need to take a glance at the craigslist ad. Just know that the handlebars you can barely make out actually reconnect at the top. They are like a pair of bike antlers, apparently made to impress other road bikes, or appear on the wall of a biker’s mountain lodge someday. They are ridiculous.

Another nuance I had not prepared for as well as my fixie and derailleur vocabulary were the petals. I don’t know how to describe them, except that instead of placing my feet on top of a pair of friendly black pads like most bikes I have known, I had to slide my feet inside these metal sort of U-cup things.

Needless to say, when I took the bike for a test drive, I could not fit my feet inside of these things. To make things worse, in order to put your feet in these things you need to be moving at the time the second foot enters. So, instead of riding the bike down the street, I Fred Flintstone-ed it until I got out of sight and just jammed the second foot in. Note to self: in order to ride I will need to be wearing aqua socks.

I am digressing from what I originally intended to write about, and that is the phenomenon of the “fixie.” For those of you who don’t know, there is a recent trend to convert a standard ten-speed bike into a bike where there is only one-speed. This is done by extracting the derailleur and shifters. The result is a bike that is a single gear and in order for the wheel to turn, the pedals must turn. This also allows for the rider to brake merely by pedaling backwards (yeah, my first huffy had that feature as well). Apparently this appeals to the PBR, skinny jean wearing, subculture known generally as hipsters.

If you are like me, your first reaction is why? I mean, I would conceivably argue that every bike is a fixed gear if one can resist the temptation to shift. I mean, I know this allows for coasting down hills without pedaling, but I am still not sure how there is a downside to that part. Nevertheless, I have heard some theories about their advantages: less maintenance, better feel for the road, and the like.

However, I believe this microcosm phenomenon can serve to illustrate a greater rebellion against a post-modern world. Rather than be forced to take part in an ever changing series of speeds and resistances, why not just turn to one absolute and eliminate some choices. That way, when I pedal, I know how far one turn will take me (exactly the circumference of my rear wheel).

Rather than be subjected to some arbitrary reality where once pedal cycle is converted by a complex series of pulleys and levers—leave those simple machines behind and just ride. I may be extrapolating a bit too much here, but I do think there is something to the concept of limiting ones options.

I once came across an interesting book on the topic as well. The Paradox of Choice essentially argued that less is more when it comes to options and that by overwhelming ourselves with options we walk away less satisfied (I would go into more detail but by “came across” I mean, I took it home from the library for three weeks, read the jacket multiple times, and started the introduction).

All that to say, I am not converting my bike into a fixie. Mainly because I like having the options there, but also because that seems like an awful lot of work. And I'm still trying to figure out how to get my feet in the pedals.

Anything you can do I can do better . . .

I have a big problem. And I don’t think its an uncommon one. The trouble is, I see something well done, something even incredibly done and I think “man . . . I totally should be able to do that.” When generally, of course, I have no business doing that.

The easiest example to relate to in this realm is that of abstract art. Who hasn’t looked at a painting (or in the more avant-garde regions the unspecific ‘exhibit’) and thought, “Why is this here? I could do that.” The stock response from the classic art defender is generally “well you didn’t they did it first.” And I agree with that to an extent.

I have always thought that about Jackson Pollock’s work. And I have been largely ignorant of it, and still am. However, I did watch an interest documentary about him which made me consider momentarily the journey he took to becoming the painter that became famous.

The big realization for me, was not that he had to painstakingly extract genius from within. Rather, I realized that the guy probably went to work at painting everyday, like a regular person heads to work in the office. Apparently, I assumed that they sort of just spewed whatever they could out in the last few hours of the day before bed. Because that’s usually the way I spew out whatever creative instincts I have (usually in writing—in this blog or otherwise).

And I get frustrated sometimes that I haven’t been able to produce anything out of my efforts. That is, other than a short work (originally a blog post) I sold to a gardening magazine, I haven’t published anything or written anything worth publishing.

The catch is, I haven’t generally worked at producing anything. And while I’d like to think that is the only thing holding me back, reality forces me to that there are other issues involve (talent, work ethic, etc). However, I would like to give it a go at some juncture. I just came to the realization that producing anything of value (in life or creativity) generally takes a fair amount of labor and commitment.

Full-line

I have discovered a grocery store within five minutes of my house which I now frequent on a weekly basis. This is huge for me, because despite my affinity for all things that provide caloric energy, there are about eighteen imposter stores within a three-mile radius of my house.

I don’t like to think of myself as naïve or gullible, but initially on relocating to Detroit I was deceived by the apparent plethora of grocery stores around my house. It seemed as if nearly every store I drove/walked by had a sign reading “full line of groceries.”

I was deceived, that is, until one day I went on an earnest search for hamburger buns. A few friends were in from out of town and we decided rather than drive to a store, lets just stop in and check out the “full line of groceries” at the local liquor establishments.

And to my surprise they did have a full line. A full line that invariably included some permutation of the following: Vienna sausages, Marciano cherries, $8 boxes of cereal, Spaghetti-Os, olives, and most frustratingly: hot dog buns.

The real experience was the search. After my first encounter with the full line of perpetually fermenting items listed above, I thought I would get smart. I would ask the cashier as I walked in, “do you guys have hamburger buns.” Now, initially I thought the perceived stare I got was based on the general paucity of my skin color and my presence in the area. However, upon further review, I believe it was a stare to suggest, “didn’t you read our sign, it says we have a full line – jerk.”

Inevitably I would go to the isle constituting the grocery store portion of the liquor store where the friendly gentlemen told me to find the wheat-based hamburger outfits. And almost without fail, I would discover: moldy hot-dog buns. Of course, the gentlemen appeared shocked that hamburger buns were not found right next to them. “Must’ve sold-out” he would explain. Yeah, in 1942.

I could not imagine that hot dog buns and cherries were really in that great demand until I remembered the third item of the full-line trifecta: Vienna sausages. Because in case you are ever stranded in a liquor store, it would be nice to be able to recreate a hot-dog like dining option. Mystery solved.

Tethered

Today, I am actually sitting down at my desk as I write this, not in my usual (and coincidentally adjacent to my food pantry) locale on the kitchen countertop. This is not by choice, unfortunately, as I must remain near enough my phone jack and modem that the telephone wire can reach my laptop.

Therein lies the problem. I am without wireless internet. Just as the way phone lines went from rotary landlines, to cordless, to the younger generation eschewing a landline for strictly cell access, I have not been hard-wired to the internet in years. And it is decidedly unsettling.

For the last few weeks I have woken up each morning, and as part of my routine, attempted to check my e-mail, facebook, fantasy baseball roster, and local news headlines only to be rebuffed. My immediate reaction is disbelief: if I just wait another minute it will load. And when it dawns on me (literally after ten minutes) that I may not be able to connect, I have a panic attack.

Nevermind that I can connect to the internet by walking over to the modem, plugging it in, and going through the process of restarting my laptop (which perhaps is the only “process” I can complete with the press of the power button). I freak out anyways. What? How will I know what Ashton Kutcher is twittering about today? How many facebook friends will compose eloquent status updates that I will NEVER read. Oh the humanity.

Honestly, I don’t completely attribute my daily breakdown to an addiction to modern technology (spoken just like an addict), but rather a break in my delicately constructed routine. E-mail comes before sipping coffee, but not before brushing my teeth and perhaps putting some oatmeal in the microwave.

Nonetheless, I found my desperate attempts to connect to wireless internet unnerving. Why was knowing how many doubles my fantasy baseball team essential to my daily existence? I am not sure, but I became acutely aware that it clearly was. In fact, I am sure I have showed up late to work on multiple occasions because I was checking some local headline that I found interesting (and coincidentally finishing my bowl of cereal because I get downright fierce in the morning if I lack sustenance).

The opposite, however, has occurred now that I have completely given up on my spotty wireless router and plugged directly in to the internet. When I leave this desk area, I am free of all the mindless facebook/e-mail/twitter checks that I do without even realizing it (a recent NY Times article stated: “Computer users at work change windows or check e-mail or other programs nearly 37 times an hour,”. Yeah, maybe if they haven’t become enraptured with spider solitaire for the morning. That same article also discussed the brain’s addiction to dopamine. An interesting read: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/07/technology/07brain.html?scp=2&sq=multitasking&st=cse)

I discovered that it was nice to be able to focus on one thing at a time. And not just the seemingly obvious things like accomplishing more reading while not sitting next to a computer. Last night I watched The Big Lebowski straight through for the first time ever and it vaulted up the list of my favorite movies. I never would have caught the subtle dialogue which makes the movie if I was half invested in reading a New York Times article online (maybe not the greatest point, but you catch my drift).

I am not sure if I have actually been more productive with my time, but I have surely spent less time with a computer in front of my face. Which also makes the time when I sit down to my computer all the more focused (hence the recent spike in blog posts. Also coinciding with the end of the academic year, but still). Anyhow, in the span of a few weeks I went from being absolutely panicked about not being able to use Wikipedia in every room of my house, to being absolutely comforted by the confinement of my computer to the corner. The beast is in its cage. Until I get a new router, at least.

Why I love Ike

My left arm is about three shades darker than my right these days. That of course, is and indirect consequence of my automobile lacking air conditioning and my penchant for allowing my forearm to enjoy the sunlight and rushing air.

I have been fortunate enough to take road trips each of these last two weekends and I am always amazed by the experience. By a simple change of location, and especially in the sort of purgatory between locations (the Eisenhower interstate system) my preferences seem to change.

For example, while normally I abhor Rascal Flats and their minions of poppishly-horrible cowboy crooning, while I am driving through the open fields of Ohio, I absolutely crave some Josh Turner or Deirks Bentley (note: if you don’t know who those two are, I commend you, and I am a little surprised I can tell them apart now).

I also partake in the recent phenomenon of massive cans of re-branded soft drinks known as “energy drinks.” Whoever the marketing whiz is that took Mountain Dew and said “we can make a worse tasting, worse looking, incredibly more expensive beverage only we will sell it in large cans so you can’t see what you are drinking” is a genius (although not as smart as the 5-hour energy guy who decided to make commercials that look like infomercials and go the exact opposite route: sell their energy drink in tiny bottles).

Nonetheless, when on the road and stopping for gas, I remember I felt a little fatigued and the desire to pound 24-ounces of high fructose, carbonated B-vitamin goodness is unquenchable. And thus, I quench it. This past weekend, I set a new personal best by consuming 3 drinks in two days while each time justifying the increased cost by neglecting to eat a complementary meal (thus, much like ethanol, enhancing whatever beneficial and unfortunate effects the beverage would have on me).

From the sounds of the above, it would seem as if I did not enjoy these road trips. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I absolutely love them. I discovered in high school that I could take a day off academics, fill-up on gas and a guilty pleasure (I believe peachie-Os were my high school decadence of choice), and head out to some random college for an interview, tour, and maybe, if I was lucky to have some football coach who did not know my name blow smoke up my rear for twenty minutes. I have been addicted road trips since.

Of course, amazingly, whenever arriving at the destination, or back at home at the end of the trip, there is an amazing sense of fatigue and accomplishment (only one of which can be attributed to the aforementioned Taurine-enhanced beverages). And after a few hours of literally sitting on my tail, I feel as if I need a day and half to recover.

Confession: I am devotedly following the World Cup

Go ahead, call me a Euro-lover: I have become a soccer-watching fiend (quick aside: that sentence was spontaneous but reminds me of my favorite palindrome: "go hang a salami: I am a lasagna hog." Try not double-checking that by reading it backwards. Ten bucks you can't. Second note: long asides like these make me really wish blogger allowed footnotes. That is all. Back to the blog) So much so, that on this day, essentially my second day of vacation (I have to take one more test in a few hours), I find myself waking up by seven-thirty so I can catch the first World Cup match of the day. Which is between Serbia and Germany. Which, given a map of Europe, I think that I would fail miserably at identifying one of those two (because U.S. Americans tend to struggle with geography. And complete sentences).

I am not going to give credit solely to a newfound appeal of the game, but a perfect alignment of the stars between a loosening of my schedule and a plethora of soccer to watch. Just four years ago, I tried to get into the Cup but found the incessant dives and whining players intolerable.

Now, however, I am able to look past those marked flaws in soccer (I think the biggest barrier for most male sports fans to commit to the game). I now recognize that an NBA game provides nearly as much complaining and diving (which I could note is corresponding to an influx of European players, but Rasheed Wallace provides enough of a counterpoint to that argument).

I don’t plan on feigning an interest in the New York Red Bulls or Columbus Crew after this experience, but I will probably commit to catching as many World Cup matches as I can in four years as well (which is quite a commitment because in order to watch a full soccer match one must prepare to pay attention for 90-plus minutes for three seconds of excitement). Much like the Olympics, I love the continuous nature of the event and am partial to events I can remain engaged in for extended time periods (this is also the reason I enjoy having four-day golf tournaments on in the background).

However, I will stop short of blind soccer passion. I will never submit to using the term football to mean anything else than the sport Barry Sanders played throughout my youth. I especially won’t say futball like a jack-ass and act indignant because “that’s what the rest of the world calls it.” Congratulations, you are in America. And I won’t tolerate the argument that “its what it should be called because its played with your foot.” I think we all should be beyond Piaget’s concrete stage of reasoning by 11 years old (note: if I was having this argument with a second grader, then I could let it slide). By that logic you should have a panic attack every time you pull into a stop on a driveway or pull out onto a park-way. Not that I am bitter.

So therein lies the rub. As much as I am enjoying this years World Cup, I think the primary reason is because I am enjoying it with casual fans, not the hyper-defensive I-wish-I-was-a-European-so-then-I-wouldn’t-look-so-goofy-in-these-pointy-diesel-canvas-shoes type individuals. And as a casual fan, this years World Cup matches have been a joy to watch. All ninety minutes of them.

No, I don't want no scrubs . . . pants at least.

I wore dress pants today. Normally, I wouldn’t really notice such as thing, but as I have been pretty much exclusively wearing scrubs for the workday the last five months, everything felt foreign. I originally thought I had incorrectly buttoned my top button before tying my tie because it felt so tight. And upon actually buttoning it, I began to get the claustrophobic hyperventilating feeling that I remember having as a six year-old forced to wear a clip-on.

However, the other new article of clothing proved to be surprisingly pleasant. I had forgotten that some varieties of dress pants are surprisingly comfortable. I may be exaggerating the effect since I have been used to wearing hospital scrub pants that I believe are made from burlap exported from the USSR in the cold war era.

These specific pants (someone please tell me why I have to pluralize this sentence) were extremely lightweight and (dare I say) felt flowing. Never have a I worn a pair of jeans and thought, man these jeans are so comfortable, I could forget I am wearing them. In fact, I think jeans may derive some of their comfort by making you always aware of their presence (whereas sweatpants derive their comfort by making you feel like you are wearing a pillow . . . also pleasant).

Part of the issue is that apparently dress pants can be made incredibly thin. It seems counter-intuitive, but they are not able to make jeans that thin. Unless, of course, they are the Old Navy variety, in which case those jeans have a shelf life for me of about 6 months. Month one is thin and comfortable. In month two they begin to feature holes so that they look as if I purchased them off the rack at Hollister or its partner in crime Abercrombie and Fitch. In month three, they begin to have a sort of thinning feeling so that I move slowly and gingerly as if to not expose the jeans to too much stretch. In month four I realize that anything I put in my pockets somehow travel down my pantleg and into my shoe. And inevitably I try not to wear them for month five and in month six I rediscover them and think “oh man, I forgot about these jeans.” Then I wear them, proceed to attempt to change a tire or something of the like and as my fruit loops boxer shorts are exposed to the world, I remember why I had put them in the back of the closet. Yet, I digress . . . rapidly.

The fact is that dress pants are paradoxically comfortable at times. Which almost makes it unfortunate that any sort of associated article of clothing is decidedly uncomfortable. Also unfortunate is that any comfortable article of clothing (tennis shoes, tee shirts, baseball caps, flip flops) look decidedly ridiculous in association with dress pants.

And so, I suppose the lesson for me today is that when I am breathing into a paper bag because my necktie decided to adhere to my adam’s apple, I can take solace in the fact that “hey, these pants are so comfortable I could forget I am even wearing them.” Let’s just hope I don’t pull an “emperor’s new clothes” and actually forget anytime soon.

Yuppies and Unami -- Discovering Thai (food)

Besides pizza, I have also been on a recent kick with Thai food. And when I say recent kick, I mean I hadn’t tried Thai food until the summer of 2008 and I have been loving it ever since. I had been trying to fight the yuppie food craze and found myself accepting an invitation to eat out because I was spending the summer in a new city and wanted to be social.

I got more than I bargained for that night. First, I experienced a delicious Pad Thai entrée. Then I found out the Gin Blossoms were playing a free concert in a local casino (which turned out to be a massive pull-barn with a ridiculous amount of Slot Machines . . . I guess the Gin Blossoms weren’t kidding when they said they’d follow you down). Besides enjoying a throwback to some fine 1990s rock, I also spent the entire night as if I had just discovered a new taste bud.

Flash forward to my first year of medical school and I realized that there is actually a new taste bud. Beyond the traditional bitter, sweet, salty, and sour, scientists had recently discovered a fifth taste known as unami. Unami has been roughly translated to mean savoriness or deliciousness and is trigged by amino acids such as glutamate (the base amino acid for MSG). According to our friends at wikipedia “Savoriness is considered a fundamental taste in Chinese, Japanese, Thai and Korean cooking,” (that was the first time I quoted wikipedia in my writing, and I feel dirty . . . I think I need to shower).

Apparently, the Chinese restaurant I grew up frequenting wasn’t hitting the MSG-spot like Thai food did. Because I was surely utilizing my unami receptor to its full extent while eating Thai food. Apparently, I occasionally lit up the unami light with dishes with parmesan and even beef can light it up. Salt, of course, increases the sensation of the unami which sort of explains why salt on steak (containing glutamate) enhances its deliciousness. And how.

Scientific research aside, I felt as if I had been cheated out of 24 years of eating Thai food. Now, I find myself making up for lost time and getting in line behind all the other yuppies to consume the deliciousness.

Oh, and by the way, you could pretty much say the same thing about my experience with sushi except that I have been able to resist it just a tad more thanks to its enhanced yuppiness. However, I do have to hand it to the yuppies, they sure have great unami sensors.

How to eat out and not end up with egg on your face

A few weeks ago, I went to Supino’s pizzeria, a sort of carry-out pizza place with a small dining room barely capable of accommodating double digit numbers of diners. The quaint institution is nestled into a strip of multi-colored storefronts in the southeast corner of Eastern Market. After the Detroit News listed it as their best pizza in Detroit, I made it the destination for one of my traditional pre-test pizzas with my buddy.

Over the next year I made a habit of frequenting the pizzeria as much as my budget and metabolism would allow (both of which I sort of over-extended myself, literally and figuratively). However, it wasn’t until just a few months ago that I strayed from the traditional Red Pizza into the White Pizza domain. Despite appearances to the contrary, the red pizza was in no way associated with a hammer and sickle and the white was not associated with any sort of racial propaganda. The Red was not a nod to Moa Tse-Tung, but rather merely distinguished itself from the White by containing sauce (which I incorrectly called marina sauce, much to the owner’s chagrin on one occasion).

Before experiencing the White Pizza, I thought it was merely a clever ploy by the proprietor to snooker paying customers into ordering pizzas which would allow the cache of tomatoes to last longer. However, after eating one of the white variety, I realized that the absence of sauce allowed for more of the crust, cheese, and toppings flavor to exert themselves.

A month or so after my first experience with the White I returned to Eastern Market’s finest pizzeria and again wanted to experience something special. I attempted to try the Bismark, mainly because it featured an egg, which is always a huge selling point for me (I frequently find myself ordering the gimmicky burger because it has an egg on top, even though I have been repeatedly disappointed by this combination. I guess I am a glutton for punishment. . . or just a glutton). Soon, the restaurants crack wait staff (read: the cashier who will bring you your pizza if it seems he likes you) informed me that the owner forgot to buy eggs and so I would have to change my order.

I chose not to point out the irony that we were eating in the location of the city’s fine farmer’s market (and essentially the only convenient place for me to buy groceries), and merely returned my eyes to the menu. I was reminded of the rich deliciousness of the White Pizza variety and decided to indulge my mushroom craving. I ordered a Vedure I Funghi pizza despite the unfortunate apparent Italian word for mushroom (not that mushroom is a particularly appetizing name, I just don’t enjoy being reminded that my pizza topping is in the same family as my athletes foot).

At this point, I must digress and inform you of the other internal battle I face whenever ordering health foods such as pizza and a burger: the build-your-own option. I can’t deny the fact that every time I get the chance to craft my own toppings, the idea of combining barbecue sauce, onion rings, and a slice of ham on top of my burger almost proves too much to resist. However, much like the egg fiasco I find myself in, the burgers/pizzas I craft, are never as good as the ones that I stumble upon by sticking with the menu.

Through eating the Vedure I Funghi, which was divine, I was reminded that the guy who owns the pizzeria might know what he is doing. That is, the flavor combination was so incredible, I forgot my former grudge against extending his vegetable supply. Furthermore, I did not even flinch at the fact that the one potentially healthy ingredient of the pizza was conspicuously absent (which may have in fact enhanced its deliciousness).

And so, while I am always amazed to find how good the pizza at Supinos is, I found myself more committed to letting the professionals handle their business. It reminded me of a classic scene in a Queen Latifah movie I saw on TNT while at my parents house one evening (Yeah, so I watched Last Holiday. Sue me. Also, Queen Latifah is one of my secret and weird celebrity crushes. Deal with it). In the movie, a series of snobs order at a fancy restaurant by listing their chosen entrée and then butchering it, much to the chefs dismay, with restrictions on ingredients to leave out. Then of course, QL orders up the special just the way the chef designed it.

Point being, I can pick which ingredients to put in my fajitas when I make them at home. But when I head out to any of the hundreds of independent Mi Pueblo restaurants, I should probably trust the chef to pick the ingredients. Besides, if the meal stinks, better being able to blame someone else than have to fork over a la carte fees for your own unfortunate experimental concoctions.

Tradition . . . Tradition!

So lately I’ve developed the desire for more routine in my life. And, while I haven’t succeeded in accomplishing routine, I have set out some potential routines, which is just as good. For each week night, I have an essential food item (because food should be at the core of all scheduling decisions).

It started with a spur of the moment trip to Mexicantown in Detroit for Tacos Al Pastor at Los Altos (translation: delicious pork tacos at a legit Mexican restaurant). Thus, Taco Tuesdays were born. So far I am batting 50% for getting tacos on taco Tuesday (a pretty good ratio). I have been craving Thai food the last few weeks, so Wednesdays became Sala Thai Hump Day.

Today I drove by the famous Nemo’s bar next to the former site of Tiger Stadium and made a spur of the moment decision to make Thursdays “Old School Burger Thursdays.” And since I had the delicious, incredible, lightning-fast Little Caesar’s Hot and Ready pepperoni pizza on Mondays, I think I’ll pencil “Cheap Pizza Manic Mondays” into my agenda.

Now, if I ate my entire schedule, each week, I’d probably balloon up to match my personal record for body weight in my senior year of high school (I weighed in at a cool 240 thanks to a sedentary lifestyle and a ridiculous affinity for S’mores. No really.) However, I now have the knowledge that if I want to eat Thai food on Wednedsay, I immediately have justification: you can’t not eat Pad Thai Chicken on Sala Thai Hump Day!

And also, if I want to eat out on a weeknight, no longer do I have to hem-and-haw about what would be the best option. It’s Thursday, and my fridge is empty? Shoot, time for a burger from Cutters. Don’t feel like Cutters? Well Anchor Bar has been around the block, they still count. Sorry Five Guys, I love your delicious peanut oil-saturated ground beef heaven . . . but you’re a bit too new school for old school Thursdays. Maybe I can pencil you in as a weekend alternate.

Style over Substance?

I watched Julie and Julia today. This was shocking to me, because I fully expected to exhaust my capacity to continue to watch and shut it off at the thirty minute mark. However, I found the storytelling engaging (a parallel tale spanning generations that reminded me of a different sort of parallel anachronistic telling in Steinbeck’s East of Eden) and the characters tolerable.

Somewhere between being surprised to find it tolerable and being shocked to find myself enjoying the flick, I realized I have developed a tendency to gravitate towards good storytelling. I now find myself immersed in an eight-hundred page book on basketball because I love the way the writer writes. He uses enough far-flung analogies and pop-culture references sprinkled into an insightful and enlightening account of basketball that I would likely read his account of the history of pants if he wrote one. And I’ve read more about hard rock culture than I ever would have thanks to Chuck Klosterman (author of Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs) enjoyable pennings.

I’ve also heard the preacher/speaker/author Rob Bell talk about the craft of creating a sermon with similar sentiments. The content is important, vital, or course, but there is something to be said for style. And I think I resisted this point for many a year. Which is why I have put myself through countless documentaries on PBS (this should be interesting) and have an autobiography of Andrew Jackson written in the 1920s on my bedstand (though it does serve a potent sleep aid).

So now I am resolving to limit myself to fifteen minutes or fifteen pages, and if the narrative of the movie/book hasn’t drawn me in by then, chances are it never will. Sure, I will have instances of feeling like I enjoyed the ride, but never really got anywhere (as I feel after every Lost episode). Hopefully, however, I will also eliminate all the waiting for realized potential I have undertaken for books/movies. And, almost as promising is the new avenues for enjoyment in the seemingly mundane plotlines (i.e. cooking). I just hope I don't find myself sitting through many more chick flicks in the future.