Monday Night Narrative

Tonight I decided to set up the pull-up bar I’d purchased last week at Sports Basement.  I intended to have myself a little bedroom workout, and I set right to it upon returning home.  I opened the box a bit skeptically, noticing the packing tape that indicated the item had been repackaged, and resold.  Inside were the four simple pieces of the apparatus, a folded diagram, and a small clear bag of hardware.  I unfolded the instructions first, examined the pieces, and planned my attack.  Four parts, four bolts, four nuts, and I’d be on my way to a ripped upper body.  I opened the little bag of hardware.  Inside were three bolts and four nuts.

I almost went nuts.  How freaking stupid do you have to be to leave out a bolt?  It’s not like some IKEA entertainment center with 67 pieces and an eight-page set of instructions.  3 out of 4 bolts?  Are you freaking serious?  I thought about returning the damn thing but how I didn’t want to get in the freaking car right now and drive down to Sports Basement, and how the damn thing would probably just sit in the corner of my room, or at best the trunk of my car, for like 2 weeks before I finally returned it for my measly $28.  I should get a refund and a replacement.  This was a colossal disappointment, a huge hassle, and boy was I going to make the cashier at Sports Basement feel real stupid when I opened the box and showed him the glaring absence of one of the 12 necessary pieces.

I tried to calm myself down.  This was a test.  I was tired, this was just a silly little incident thrown in my path, it was nothing.  It was a chance for me to demonstrate my self-control, my mastery of the moment, my ability to roll with the punches, find the humor in everything, and not be affected by triviality.  I threw the parts together and closed the box, and on the back...

The bolt.  Hello.  Scotch-taped their like some alien parasite clung the missing bolt to the back of the box.  Oh my goodness, now isn’t that funny?  Here I was getting all worked up, planning my tirade at the sports basement counter, deep-breathing to control my rage, and the little bolt was here all along.  I smiled, re-opened the box, laid out the parts once again, and set to fastening the first bolt to its nut.

The nut was too small.  I could screw it a couple of turns until the tighter end met the tip of the bolt, and no further could I go.  Who is the idiot who put this piece of shit together?  Is it so hard to grab the right freaking nuts for the job?  Again, we’re dealing with FOUR IDENTICAL BOLTS here people.  This isn’t hard.  What the hell am I supposed to do with these stupid little nuts?  I stomped off towards the tool closet, determined to muscle the damn things on there any way I could.  I was getting hungry, I could feel a twinge in my right hammy and I thought about how I was supposed to be stretching by now, and how I really just wanted to lie down and see what’s on ESPN3.

Well thanks to my ingenuity, a pair of pliers, and a screwdriver, I was able to work the bolts through the nuts.  These tools were definitely not included in the instructions, but as the pieces came together I gradually began to feel better about things, and get excited about doing some pull-ups.

What an up-and-down little incident!  From frustrated to relieved to frustrated and back to relieved, this was certainly a trying process, and an interesting one to observe.  I gave the final bolt its final turn, and hefted the completed apparatus.  Sturdy, simple, awesome.  I could practically feel the muscle bulging in my back.  I turned to my doorway and hooked the curved end under the doorjamb.  It didn’t grab.  I wiggled it a bit, turned around, came at it from the outside in, hooked it under again, but no luck.  The molding on my door was too high.  I freaked.  In 30 seconds I toured the entire apartment, frantically hooking the little rubber stubs up and under each doorway, grasping for purchase, and finding none.  There is nowhere in this ENTIRE apartment to hang this freaking piece of shit pull-up bar.  I stormed back to my room, briefly considered hurling the bar through my window, decided on my bed instead, and threw it down with disgust.  I stood there shaking my head, thinking of the half-hour I’d just wasted, the weekend to-do list undone on my desk, the massive pimple that was throbbing beside my nose, my fatigue and my sore hammy.

Somehow I managed to go on with my life.  I unrolled my yoga mat, cracked the window, and began a sun salutation.  Then I used the bar for some push-ups at the end of my routine, and tweaked my left shoulder.

Motorcade of Generosity

Last night I purchased Cake’s album “Motorcade of Generosity”.  This stuff came out when I was 8 years old, and I’m just hearing it now for the very first time.  It’s kind of like a time capsule.

I like to imagine the people around me that went out and bought it in 1994 at record stores in Sacramento - at Tower Records and at Dimple, who bought tickets to hear Cake perform live.  Meanwhile I was waking up early in a little house in Carmichael with my Mom and my brother and my sister and we were doing sun salutations and saying our decrees every morning.  I was playing in the backyard, imagining I was a soldier in some futuristic space-going world.  I didn’t have a computer, I didn’t know what the internet was.  I knew  2 rock and roll songs that my Dad taught me: “King of the Road” and “Jamaica Farewell”.  I was doing my best to get invited to friends houses, looking forward to soccer practice and cheerios for breakfast.  

Meanwhile, people in my town were blaring this beautiful, strong music, singing along at the top of their lungs and strumming the air guitar.  Road trippers were cruising down Engle road with beer in the cooler and this cd in the player, rolling down the windows and heading for highway 80.  I was learning about the Romans and the Greeks (the Romans were my favorites because of their helmets with the long gleaming side guards and thick bright-red crests).

Young men in high school were listening to these songs and closing their eyes and thinking about girls, thinking about how badly they wanted to kiss them and feeling better as the song played on.  I had no idea.  I was sitting in the living room listening to my folks read “The Secret Garden” aloud, getting sleepy at the end and gong to bed at 8:30.

Don't Be Stupid

It seems corporations aren’t sugar-coating it anymore.  They’ve decided they’ve spent enough time beating around the bush, dropping subtle hints and trying to mold consumer behaviour through evocative imagery and carefully crafted marketing campaigns.  It’s time to just come right out and say it.  “Ask and you shall receive” is the new motto maybe.  My dear readers, allow me to present the latest ad campaign from Diesel:

           

It’s simple really.  Stupid people will buy more clothes, and stupid people will pay $260 for a pair of jeans.  If everybody were stupid, business would be booming.  But how to make people want to be stupid?  Diesel can’t honestly expect people to just follow directions without some motivation - they need a reason to be stupid.

Brilliant!  Simply associate stupid with a more appealing adjective, like “fearless”.  Everybody wants to be fearless, daring, and brave - especially when their lives consist of monotonous, safe, routine activities - they’d like nothing more than the opportunity to prove how fearless they are, to distinguish themselves from all the other drones.  Diesel makes it as easy as a new pair of jeans!

But simply promoting stupid would only be going half-way.  To make people truly embrace stupidity, smart must be taken down a notch or two.

Yeah! Screw the Lion!  Take a picture of your vagina! Jeans!

So Diesel has created a smear campaign against smart.  There are some strong emotions surrounding smartness - jealousy, insecurity, fear, resentment.  The “Be Stupid” campaign riles up everybody who’s never liked the smart kids in class.  By showing how lame it is to be smart, Diesel can make stupid people feel better about being stupid.  Let's laugh at those silly smart people with all their brains and ideas, and let's be proud of being stupid!  So proud that we'll show the whole world by buying a $260 pair of jeans.

To me, stupid is buying a $40 t-shirt, or a $60 knit ski mask.

Stupid is wanting to be stupid.

A Pessimist's Guide to Going Out

Part I: Preparation

You will expend a massive amount of energy tonight.  You will lose the very best, most important, restorative hours of sleep - 10pm-3am.  Keep this thought in the back of your mind.  Put some music on, and try to get excited.  Maybe “I got a feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas.  Pick out some clothes, check yourself out in the mirror, mess with your hair a little bit.  Practice your dance moves, think about all the awkward moments you’ve had in nightclubs.  Change your shirt.  Go get your newest, coolest shirt.  Put on your new shoes.  Think about how these clothes will be subjected to sweat, glass-covered floors, and flying goblets of beer.  Have a beer or something.  You’re drinking tonight, so best to get started.

Part II: Getting there

Arrange to meet some friends at a bar.  The bar should be too far to walk, and off of the main muni lines.  Set off walking to the muni station, noticing all the people already having a good time on a Saturday night.  Think about how you must look to them.  Do you look confident?  Does your hair look good?  Muni ticket is $2, connecting cab ride is $7.  Start counting.

Part III: The Bar

Push your way up to the bar, examine the beers on tap.  Try to make some small talk with the people around you.  The beer is $5, leave a dollar bill for the bartender if he brings you the drink promptly.  Leave a dollar bill if it takes 10 minutes and she gives you a dirty look.  Work your way back to an overcrowded table and drink your beer quickly so that you can repeat the comfortable and well-respected ritual of going to get another drink.

Part IV: The Club

Choose somewhere with a really long line.  Pull out your phone regularly while in line and check the time.  Think about how you could be sleeping right now, and what you could be accomplishing tomorrow morning.  Listen to the beat of the music from inside, and as you reach the front of the line, note the smell of booze and sweat seeping out from the club.  Show the man your ID, pay a $5 - $10 cover, get an ugly stamp on your wrist.  Once inside, immediately start bobbing your head to the music while the rest of your friends trickle in, then force your way to the bar.  Alternately lean inwards to get the attention of the bartender, and outwards to contribute something of value to the conversation.  Don’t look tired.  Buy the first round - maybe some tequila shots, for $26.  Leave a nice tip, smile and get excited about the tequila.  After the shot, pause for a moment before putting the lime in your mouth to prove your manliness.  Concur that it’s a good idea to go dance, and sidle through the crowd to the dance floor.  Pretend like you have more energy than you do, and smile at all the girls.  But just a little - too much and they’ll think you’re creepy.  Act confident, damnit.  If necessary, dance with your bros.  Find a spot near some girls so that they can see you, but don’t approach them directly.  Once you’ve exhausted your repertoire of moves, excuse yourself and go to the bathroom.  Wait in another line, try not to step on the glass or in the puddles of urine, look at yourself in the mirror and psyche yourself up for another foray.  Repeat until the club closes.

Part V: The End

Mill about a bit outside the club.  Make your way towards a nearby late-night pizza place and wait in line some more.  Your ears will most likely be ringing, so think about the long-term hearing damage you’ve probably just incurred.  Throw down $5 on a greasy slice of supreme pizza.  Smash the pizza and drink water from a tiny plastic cup.  Look for a cab.  Set up strategic positions, wait some more, check your cell phone again and estimate the exact time you’ll actually get to sleep.  Take the cab home in silence, review your night with some remorse.  Pay the $12 fare, tip the cabbie nicely.  Make your way into your room, look at the clock, the stains on your shoes and the stains on your shirt.  Get undressed and, if you have an ex, think about them.  As you go to sleep, imagine how lousy you’ll feel in the morning, and make drastic resolutions about the future.

The Gabriel Effect of Correspondence

Isn’t it nice to receive an email from a friend?  Especially somebody you haven’t seen in awhile, or who’s living in another part of the world?  Yes, well, perhaps at first, but next thing you know you may find yourself resenting the note and even its sender, all thanks to a strange psychological phenomenon that today I’m defining and coining as my own - the Gabriel effect of correspondence.

Anecdotal Example

While living in Barcelona, I taught English classes to a lovely family, who we’ll call the Orozcos.  They had two fantastic children who I very much looked forward to seeing each week, and when summer came and we had our last class, I was very sad to say goodbye.  Our farewell was made easier by the shared conviction that we would stay in touch (an innocent idea, and one worthy of its own study).  We exchanged email addresses, and in the months following my departure, a small series of emails.

I really enjoyed receiving emails from the Orozco family - first from Sra. Orozco, and then from the children as well.  When one of these messages came rolling in, I would read it, smile to myself, maybe read it again, then, wishing to respond in kind - but not immediately disposed to such activity - move on with my day.  Planted in my mind, the requisite response began to stew.  At first, I’d simply imagine writing back soon, when I’d be more “in the mood”.  Inevitably, however, the day would end, the next one would come and go, and I would still be sans response.  Waiting as I was for the perfect opportunity to present itself, before I knew it, a week would have passed.

During this week, not a day would go by that I didn’t think about the email.  With each successive day of these thoughts, unaccompanied as they were by decisive action, the task at hand grew greater.  Each day that the Orozcos sat waiting for my response, I thought, must be compensated by an increasingly stellar email.  Whereas at first a simple reply would suffice, after two weeks my response had to be at least five paragraphs in length, funny, heartfelt, interesting, emotionally revealing, with individual shout-outs to each Orozco, plus attached photos of my new apartment, latest painting, and some traditional American cuisine.  As my expectations for the quality of my response grew, I saw the amount of effort required to respond increase as well.  A standard 10-minute time slot was no longer sufficient - responding to the Orozcos now required a full hour of prime creative time and space, an opportunity that did not present itself readily.  The wait went on.

Before long, I was trapped in a feedback loop that spiralled dangerously out of control.  Each day I would see the email in my account, cringe at the amount of time it had gone without response, and wish I’d replied immediately.  How easy it would have been to have written just what came to my mind in that moment of first impression!  How quickly I could have tapped out a sincere response!  How much better would my life now be!  Instead I began to resent the email, its constant presence in my life, and the Orozcos themselves.  The grand response plagued my every waking moment with its grandeur, its perfect mix of English, Spanish, and Catalan, its sultry blend of poetry and prose; oh how Sra. Orozco would call the children and her husband to her side, “un email del Gabriel!”, she would say, how they would come running, eyes lit up with excitement, how they would laugh heartily and smile at each other through the comedy, and tear up during the emotional revelations, nodding slowly as my words touched their very souls.  I feared that I was not man enough to create such a response - it had taken on a life of its own, transcended my own capability, and doomed me to continued guilt and paralysis of inaction.  This is the Gabriel effect of correspondence.

Technical Details

In a positive feedback loop, A produces more of B, which in turn produces more of A.

A. Time (Response delay)

B. Expectation

As time passes without a response, the expected quality of said response increases.  As expectation grows, the effort required to produce a response increases, producing a longer delay.  Examples of this effect can be found in emails, letters, voicemail, facebook messages, wall posts, and even text messages.  The only sure strategy for mitigating the effect is to respond immediately to all correspondence.

Summary

Correspondence carries the expectation of a response.  This is an unwritten rule of society, and one that can cause great consternation. By clarifying this phenomenon, my goal is to increase awareness of the powerful effect even the simplest note can have on a fragile psyche, and help others like myself safely navigate social contracts and long-distance friendships.