Every Monday I come to work with a bunch of bananas that serve as breakfast for the rest of the week. And every Wednesday, the remaining bananas are so brown and spotty I want nothing to do with them. I remember reading a year or so back that something was happening with banana genetics that virtually guaranteed their extinction within the next decade. Or something. Perhaps this post deserves more research.
Here we go, from Wiki: "While in no danger of outright extinction, the most common edible banana cultivar Cavendish (extremely popular in Europe and the Americas) could become unviable for large-scale cultivation in the next 10–20 years."
I'm assuming this means that a genetically modified strain of banana will rise to prominence. Normally I'd say I'm anti such a development, but... if it means there's a possibility my bananas will remain firm and green the whole week long, I might have to rethink my entire genetic modification belief system.
Thoughts?
Also: I can't decide whether I'm on or off the blind date bandwagon. I suppose if I've met the guy on OK Cupid and know all his vital stats and the six things he can't live without, it's not a blind date any longer. But still. Are they fun? Are they exhausting? How is it any different than a job interview (and yes, both include the possibility of sex for me [kidding]). Regardless, I'm 0 for 2 this week.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
That Time Again
I've identified a pattern. Every October, I become critical of my life to the point that anything short of working as an Imagineer at Disneyland is unsatisfactory. My kickass apartment, my second-to-none DVD collection, my ragtag group of friends - none of it, no matter how great, seems an appropriate trade-off for working a 9 - 5 desk job on the 19th floor of a corporate-owned skyscraper in SF's Financial District.
I bike to work and try to feel different from the hundreds of cyclists, the thousands of drivers, and the tens of thousands of commuters in the buses and the underground who are all headed to the same cluster of buildings as me. I feel bad for the adventures they're sacrificing in order to make a paycheck and support a family. I think about how many days they've woken up and put on the same pair of dress socks underneath the same pair of slacks, and how many meaningless conversations they've shared in the indistinguishable lobbies that have served as empty reference points for the jobs they've skipped between and the promotions they've earned. I know it makes me sound like an asshole, but to view myself as anything other than different from is to admit defeat. And that's not something I do lightly. Ever.
Instead, I make a game out of it. "Look at me pressing the button for the elevator," I think. "This fancy lady next to me has no idea how amusing this all is. Me, an impostor, riding the elevator along with the rest of them as they think their thoughts and have their small talk. Hilarious!" And then I sit at my desk and continue: "Look at me, sitting at a desk in a fluorescent-lit office. With my big old desk phone. And my list of office numbers. And Bagel Monday. Thank God I'm in a Creative, at least. Man alive, it's going to be one hell of a story when I get out of here a few months from now. Imagine how absurd this whole situation will sound when I'm ten years older and kicking back telling it."
Look at me, up on my high horse.
The reality is - or, rather, must be, for the sanity of every one of my fellow humans whom I walk among every day of the work week - that we all must have started out thinking the way I do. And slowly, imperceptibly, the godawful mundanity of the situation must just start to beat the sense out of you.
And so I'm no different from everyone else. At all.
Unless, of course, I stick to my guns. And remember these thoughts a few months from now. And walk out of here before it becomes something I can't just wash my hands of. And never stop trying to be supremely badass. Even if it means less money. And no dress socks, ever. And a profound feeling of smugness as I continue to buy bottom-shelf vodka.
I'm 25. Nothing's final. And these are the thoughts I need to remember until I can look around and safely proclaim myself not a part of the Financial District crowd.
I bike to work and try to feel different from the hundreds of cyclists, the thousands of drivers, and the tens of thousands of commuters in the buses and the underground who are all headed to the same cluster of buildings as me. I feel bad for the adventures they're sacrificing in order to make a paycheck and support a family. I think about how many days they've woken up and put on the same pair of dress socks underneath the same pair of slacks, and how many meaningless conversations they've shared in the indistinguishable lobbies that have served as empty reference points for the jobs they've skipped between and the promotions they've earned. I know it makes me sound like an asshole, but to view myself as anything other than different from is to admit defeat. And that's not something I do lightly. Ever.
Instead, I make a game out of it. "Look at me pressing the button for the elevator," I think. "This fancy lady next to me has no idea how amusing this all is. Me, an impostor, riding the elevator along with the rest of them as they think their thoughts and have their small talk. Hilarious!" And then I sit at my desk and continue: "Look at me, sitting at a desk in a fluorescent-lit office. With my big old desk phone. And my list of office numbers. And Bagel Monday. Thank God I'm in a Creative, at least. Man alive, it's going to be one hell of a story when I get out of here a few months from now. Imagine how absurd this whole situation will sound when I'm ten years older and kicking back telling it."
Look at me, up on my high horse.
The reality is - or, rather, must be, for the sanity of every one of my fellow humans whom I walk among every day of the work week - that we all must have started out thinking the way I do. And slowly, imperceptibly, the godawful mundanity of the situation must just start to beat the sense out of you.
And so I'm no different from everyone else. At all.
Unless, of course, I stick to my guns. And remember these thoughts a few months from now. And walk out of here before it becomes something I can't just wash my hands of. And never stop trying to be supremely badass. Even if it means less money. And no dress socks, ever. And a profound feeling of smugness as I continue to buy bottom-shelf vodka.
I'm 25. Nothing's final. And these are the thoughts I need to remember until I can look around and safely proclaim myself not a part of the Financial District crowd.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Death to Instagram
This past week my best buddy here in SF had a twinkie little visitor from New York stay free of charge in his studio with him. They'd never before met in person, having only exchanged messages through Grindr while my friend was in New York for a long weekend a month back.
The visitor lived on his iPhone for the entirety of his stay. Every time they came over to hang at my studio, he would plop onto the couch, whip a charger from out of nowhere, and sit cradling his phone as it juiced up, pausing in conversation every few seconds to respond to a text message or like a photo on Instagram. Even when we went to see Looper, he paid little attention to the film, his face instead illuminated by the phone he simply couldn't set down. If you're reading this, you likely know my thoughts on phones in movie theaters: they don't belong. Ever.
When we went to the park, he had to Instagram the park. When we pulled out our books to read, he had to Instagram his open book. Nothing was too trivial for this kid's Instagram: vanagons, bagels, walking up a hill, walking back down the hill, vegetables, parking meters, a fire hydrant. He quite literally saw the world through an Instagram filter, and unless something would make a decent photo, it wasn't worth his time.
Now, this kid wasn't just visiting SF: he's planning on moving here. And this was his trial week. And he spent *all* of it feverishly snapping photos, writing captions, and uploading them for his 409 followers to comment on. It's as if he can't justify living unless other people are validating his most trivial moments.
I'm reminded of this excerpt from my senior thesis:
The decade has come and gone, its major contribution to American society the reflective realm of social media. That’s right: being social is now a new media form. People blog. They maintain Facebook profiles with the goal of keeping their best foot – or their most attractive foot – in the spotlight. They tweet clever diatribes that allow devoted followers access to their every move. And, when something truly outrageous happens, its filmic counterpart pops up on Youtube in as little time as a minute. People are on display as much as they want to be, and they’re shaping their lives accordingly. The logical path of fiction for 2010, then, might now look like this:
Reality → Technology → Entertainment → Reality → Entertainment → Reality…
And so on and so forth, until the (increasingly) fine line dividing “reality” and “entertainment” becomes virtually imperceptible.
Again, refer to Disneyland versus Reality Park. The key difference between the two – and which Eco, even if disparagingly, acknowledges – is that there’s still some visible distinction between Disneyland and its external society. Even if the industrial squalor of Los Angeles “knowingly” plays off the perfect plasticity of Main Street, U.S.A. in order for the latter to shine all the brighter, there’s still some amount of contrast present in the equation. Humans can distinguish external from internal, despite both realms working together to form the great irony of the twenty-first century. Reality Park, though, is reality, to the extent that Airplane would be absolutely no fun for anyone who wasn’t both completely aware and appreciative of its resounding falseness. And to live in a world where Disneyland has been abandoned in favor of Reality Park – where packaged entertainment is being usurped by today’s younger generation of tech-savvy, reflection-happy scenesters – is frightening. Because when people start looking to themselves for amusement, and those same people become aware of that self-imposed gaze, then they begin both acting for and responding to an audience; an audience that includes themselves. And it’s at this point, I believe, that something crucial to a meaningful existence is lost.
***
As of this writing, the twink's latest uploaded Instagram photo features his disembodied arm handing a dog a chew toy. It has ten likes.
The visitor lived on his iPhone for the entirety of his stay. Every time they came over to hang at my studio, he would plop onto the couch, whip a charger from out of nowhere, and sit cradling his phone as it juiced up, pausing in conversation every few seconds to respond to a text message or like a photo on Instagram. Even when we went to see Looper, he paid little attention to the film, his face instead illuminated by the phone he simply couldn't set down. If you're reading this, you likely know my thoughts on phones in movie theaters: they don't belong. Ever.
When we went to the park, he had to Instagram the park. When we pulled out our books to read, he had to Instagram his open book. Nothing was too trivial for this kid's Instagram: vanagons, bagels, walking up a hill, walking back down the hill, vegetables, parking meters, a fire hydrant. He quite literally saw the world through an Instagram filter, and unless something would make a decent photo, it wasn't worth his time.
Now, this kid wasn't just visiting SF: he's planning on moving here. And this was his trial week. And he spent *all* of it feverishly snapping photos, writing captions, and uploading them for his 409 followers to comment on. It's as if he can't justify living unless other people are validating his most trivial moments.
I'm reminded of this excerpt from my senior thesis:
The decade has come and gone, its major contribution to American society the reflective realm of social media. That’s right: being social is now a new media form. People blog. They maintain Facebook profiles with the goal of keeping their best foot – or their most attractive foot – in the spotlight. They tweet clever diatribes that allow devoted followers access to their every move. And, when something truly outrageous happens, its filmic counterpart pops up on Youtube in as little time as a minute. People are on display as much as they want to be, and they’re shaping their lives accordingly. The logical path of fiction for 2010, then, might now look like this:
Reality → Technology → Entertainment → Reality → Entertainment → Reality…
And so on and so forth, until the (increasingly) fine line dividing “reality” and “entertainment” becomes virtually imperceptible.
Again, refer to Disneyland versus Reality Park. The key difference between the two – and which Eco, even if disparagingly, acknowledges – is that there’s still some visible distinction between Disneyland and its external society. Even if the industrial squalor of Los Angeles “knowingly” plays off the perfect plasticity of Main Street, U.S.A. in order for the latter to shine all the brighter, there’s still some amount of contrast present in the equation. Humans can distinguish external from internal, despite both realms working together to form the great irony of the twenty-first century. Reality Park, though, is reality, to the extent that Airplane would be absolutely no fun for anyone who wasn’t both completely aware and appreciative of its resounding falseness. And to live in a world where Disneyland has been abandoned in favor of Reality Park – where packaged entertainment is being usurped by today’s younger generation of tech-savvy, reflection-happy scenesters – is frightening. Because when people start looking to themselves for amusement, and those same people become aware of that self-imposed gaze, then they begin both acting for and responding to an audience; an audience that includes themselves. And it’s at this point, I believe, that something crucial to a meaningful existence is lost.
***
As of this writing, the twink's latest uploaded Instagram photo features his disembodied arm handing a dog a chew toy. It has ten likes.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Oh the Joys
Life's been pretty great lately, which doesn't help explain why I want to quit all of it, move back to Portland, and open a bar with my best friend. When I bike to work in the morning, I don't dread the idea of sitting at my desk from 9:30 - 5 and concepting copy, but I don't exactly relish sitting here, either. This eggshell-white wall in front of me isn't getting any more interesting, and the appalling mid-90s carpet isn't getting any less carpet-y. Plus there are the less than savory coworkers, but they number few.
I love my free time. I still freak out about exploring SF's bars and restaurants, and my friends are spectacular. What it really is then, I think, is my already-strengthening grudge against the typical 9 - 5 work week, and having a boss who makes decisions for you, and knowing that every decision directly affecting your own free time is at the mercy of someone who likely just doesn't really care whether you feel you deserve a Friday at home. I see coworkers who have been at this job for 20, 30, even 40 years, writing the same briefs and wearing the same clothes and seemingly having accepted that this is the way it was meant to be for them. And that makes me sad.
The solution is obvious: move to Portland and open a bar. The obstacles are minimal: take a loan from my parents, work my ass off, enjoy success. This is the decision everyone has to make: run off in favor of something more personally rewarding, or settle for something that's pretty decent and then spend my entire working life convincing myself I made the right choice?
To be fair, I had these thoughts straight out of college. The reason they slipped away over the past two years is that real life happened, and suddenly affording an apartment and food made a part-time job at the Apple Store absolutely necessary. A lot of people simply don't have a choice in what happens to them because they aren't in a position to decide on anything other than surviving.
I suppose now is the time I should be grateful for my dad being a cheap bastard with big savings.
Check back this time next year and we'll see where these ramblings led me.
I love my free time. I still freak out about exploring SF's bars and restaurants, and my friends are spectacular. What it really is then, I think, is my already-strengthening grudge against the typical 9 - 5 work week, and having a boss who makes decisions for you, and knowing that every decision directly affecting your own free time is at the mercy of someone who likely just doesn't really care whether you feel you deserve a Friday at home. I see coworkers who have been at this job for 20, 30, even 40 years, writing the same briefs and wearing the same clothes and seemingly having accepted that this is the way it was meant to be for them. And that makes me sad.
The solution is obvious: move to Portland and open a bar. The obstacles are minimal: take a loan from my parents, work my ass off, enjoy success. This is the decision everyone has to make: run off in favor of something more personally rewarding, or settle for something that's pretty decent and then spend my entire working life convincing myself I made the right choice?
To be fair, I had these thoughts straight out of college. The reason they slipped away over the past two years is that real life happened, and suddenly affording an apartment and food made a part-time job at the Apple Store absolutely necessary. A lot of people simply don't have a choice in what happens to them because they aren't in a position to decide on anything other than surviving.
I suppose now is the time I should be grateful for my dad being a cheap bastard with big savings.
Check back this time next year and we'll see where these ramblings led me.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Extra, Extra!
My last post was about re-watching LOST with a friend, and this one will expand on those sentiments. Fuck, I love LOST. I'm not sure what I would have given to sit in the writers' room with Damon and Carlton and just listen to them jam on plot elements and story lines. I can only imagine how charged the creative energy would have been when they decided to introduce the first flash-forward. I mean: holy shit.
My friend and I are one full season away from the first unveiling of Jack's exploits off the island, and the best part is that my buddy's brain literally can't conceive of what's about to happen. The change is so integral to the mechanics of LOST's storytelling - in addition to its narrative - that such a shift is unprecedented based on what's come before. If you're only given flashbacks for three seasons straight, the idea that half of each episode will now deal with future instead of past events just isn't an option. He's trying hard to theorize and is doing an admirable job of putting pieces together, but this surprise is so far outside the realm of the puzzle of the plot that I absolutely fucking delight in watching as he has no idea what's sneaking up. Man, he's in for such a treat.
The first time through, I was frustrated with the show's mysteries that didn't receive definitive conclusions. Why is Walt special? What really happened to he and Michael after they boated to freedom? Why was Libby in the mental institution with Hurley? What's that ridiculous bird that squawks Hurley's name in the finales of Seasons 1 and 2? Now that we're at a place where these mysteries have been raised and I know there aren't really very good solutions to them, my friend's discontent is relatable if not mutual. I felt the same way he did originally; now, though, I like that these mystery elements can float away into LOST mythology and be picked to pieces offscreen. It wasn't until my initial viewing of Season 6 that I started realizing my wish for absolute knowledge of all remaining mysteries wasn't actually what I really wanted from the show. There's so much pleasure in not knowing, and you don't realize it until you know too much.
I'm thinking of going the DHARMA Initiative route for Halloween, though this decision may fall in that weird stretch of time before something that was once as cool/out-there as LOST turns into a big cult favorite. Am I jumping the gun by five years? Or did I miss the gun entirely by, like, 3?
My friend and I are one full season away from the first unveiling of Jack's exploits off the island, and the best part is that my buddy's brain literally can't conceive of what's about to happen. The change is so integral to the mechanics of LOST's storytelling - in addition to its narrative - that such a shift is unprecedented based on what's come before. If you're only given flashbacks for three seasons straight, the idea that half of each episode will now deal with future instead of past events just isn't an option. He's trying hard to theorize and is doing an admirable job of putting pieces together, but this surprise is so far outside the realm of the puzzle of the plot that I absolutely fucking delight in watching as he has no idea what's sneaking up. Man, he's in for such a treat.
The first time through, I was frustrated with the show's mysteries that didn't receive definitive conclusions. Why is Walt special? What really happened to he and Michael after they boated to freedom? Why was Libby in the mental institution with Hurley? What's that ridiculous bird that squawks Hurley's name in the finales of Seasons 1 and 2? Now that we're at a place where these mysteries have been raised and I know there aren't really very good solutions to them, my friend's discontent is relatable if not mutual. I felt the same way he did originally; now, though, I like that these mystery elements can float away into LOST mythology and be picked to pieces offscreen. It wasn't until my initial viewing of Season 6 that I started realizing my wish for absolute knowledge of all remaining mysteries wasn't actually what I really wanted from the show. There's so much pleasure in not knowing, and you don't realize it until you know too much.
I'm thinking of going the DHARMA Initiative route for Halloween, though this decision may fall in that weird stretch of time before something that was once as cool/out-there as LOST turns into a big cult favorite. Am I jumping the gun by five years? Or did I miss the gun entirely by, like, 3?
Thursday, September 6, 2012
The LOST Dilemma (aka, what I'd pay for adventure)
I've been re-watching LOST with a newbie friend who has no idea what's coming, and the experience to date has been delightful. We're eight episodes into Season 2, and Shannon recently died. This prompted my friend to again address the fact that, were he ever unfortunate enough to survive a plane crash, the first thing he'd do would be to find a sizable cliff and jump off it. "Especially if I was on that island," he always adds. "Kill me on impact, please. I don't want to deal with any of that shit."
My reaction to his sentiment is one of aghast befuddlement. As it turns out, I'm willing to do almost anything to experience a situation more fantastic than what everyday reality typically allots for. I love Disneyland for its ability to make me feel - however fleetingly - that I'm immersed in a fantasy so compelling it's akin to living inside a film or a novel. No matter how realistic Disney's environs, though, I know that what I'm seeing isn't real, and that no matter how fast the wind blows in my face on Space Mountain, I'm in no real danger.
And I think actual peril is key to a truly immersive narrative experience. When I try and imagine the Blue-Sky future of interactive narratives, my thoughts hit a ceiling when considering just how realistic any simulated scenario can get when true human danger is out of the question. Because don't all exciting stories hinge on shootouts, explosions, booby traps, poisonings, car chases, horse chases, plane crashes, smoke monsters, and hit men? No matter how convincing any of it might eventually seem, it's still not going to cross the danger threshold into full-fledged reality. And a full-fledged realistic adventure is what I'm after. Which is why I'm so jealous of the characters on LOST.
I'll conclude with this: if any future simulated adventure requires I sign an agreement relinquishing anyone of responsibility for my possible death, you're damn right I'm signing that dotted line. I think.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
The Perfect Breakfast
Ingredients:
- Eggs (3)
- Tomatoes (just ripe, sliced)
- Garlic (shit ton, minced)
- Spinach (for the Popeye appeal)
- Avocado (this is California, after all)
- Hash browns (almost too cooked)
- The best hot sauce ever (would willingly drink it)
Where you can get it:
Lucky Cafe, Sacramento, CA
For serious. I'd write a Yelp review to further deify, but fuck Yelp.
- Eggs (3)
- Tomatoes (just ripe, sliced)
- Garlic (shit ton, minced)
- Spinach (for the Popeye appeal)
- Avocado (this is California, after all)
- Hash browns (almost too cooked)
- The best hot sauce ever (would willingly drink it)
Where you can get it:
Lucky Cafe, Sacramento, CA
For serious. I'd write a Yelp review to further deify, but fuck Yelp.
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