I've been staring at a blank screen, trying to figure out how to start this post.
Let's just start with the facts - maybe it will just flow from there.
Went to the last LFOTM (last friday of the month) party last night. Managed to get a couple of my labmates to go with me...even the Boss. The four of us had a great time, drinking cheap beer, scavenging snacks, and inflatable bungee cord racing (yes, you read that right). Now, I'm not gonna lie - ulterior motives were at work. I was hoping to also drag the VGLM with me, and/or run into the new friends I made the last time I went to one of these things. But the VGLM was nowhere to be found for most of the afternoon, and when I got to the party, I didn't see the people I was hoping to reconnect with, so I was glad I had brought fun people to hang out with so I didn't end up looking like a total tool. And I actually beat the Boss in one of our three bungee races, so I was feeling pretty good about myself.
Our group dwindled, and got down to just myself and one of my labmates. I'm not sure I've ever talked about him on here before, and I'm too lazy to look it up and see if he already has a nickname, but he resembles Stephen Page of the Barenaked Ladies, so I think we'll go with Barenaked Labmate. BNL is one of my closest friends in Toronto - we bonded from the first time we met, and I often liken him to the annoying little brother I never wanted. He drives me insane sometimes, but he is a kindred spirit and a true friend to me. So we've had a few beers at this point, which leads to the inevitable venting and honesty that can always be found at the bottom of a plastic cup with your name written on it. BNL and I always have our best conversations over beer, and last night we both had a lot to unload.
So I finish my last beer, and we get ready to head out, and guess who finally shows up? I have no idea why the VGLM decided to come to this thing so late, when it had already wound down for the night, but sure enough he did, just in time for me to say hi, make a little bit of what I'm sure was truly ridiculous and highly embarrassing conversation, and introduce him to BNL before we left. Now, as you're all painfully aware, I like to whine about the VGLM. And if I've had a drink or two, my filters shut down and I whine at will. It's an obnoxious habit of mine, and it was in full effect as we relocated to a pub. So BNL asks wherefore all the whining, and the conversation somehow ends up revolving around me and my romantic life for the rest of the night.
Said conversation consisted of the following topics on a repeating loop:
1. I don't just think the VGLM is hot - I actually like him. As in, have FEELINGS for him. This was news to BNL, who thus far has thought he was just teasing me about a little crush.
2. Whether or not the VGLM likes me. BNL kept trying to convince me that, while he just met the VGLM for the first time that night and thus does not know him at all, he noticed him "light up" when I walked up to him and was far more interested in talking to me than in the gorgeous blonde he was talking to before I came along. Hmm...yeah, not buying it, but nice try. We agreed to disagree on that one.
3. My attractive qualities. This is the part that I can pretty much thank the beer for - it was incredibly sweet and flattering, but would have been weird during daylight hours. But in a dark pub over a platter of wings, it was completely fine and almost appropriate for BNL to refer to me as the "Holy Grail for Canadian men." Now...do I believe him? Nope, sorry. I believe I'm something of the Holy Grail for HIM (the big three qualities that apparently comprise the sacred chalice are Smart, Funny, and Good-Lookin', three of the first words that I would use when describing his girlfriend), but I am not willing to concede that he can generalize for the entire male population of Canada that their Type is...well...me. While I believe him when he says that little things like my Ph.D. aren't as much of a turnoff here as they are at home, I don't believe that everyone else thinks it's as big a turn-on as he does. I like myself a lot - I think I'm pretty mad cool. But I'm not for everyone. I get on my own nerves with some regularity, and there's no way I'm the only one. So no matter how hard BNL (or any of the rest of you, for that matter) tries to make the "of course he likes you...how could he NOT like you?" argument, it's just not going to fly. Some people just don't like you that way, no matter how good you might look on paper or how fantastic you happen to think you are. Yes, I am, as one of my readers is so fond of saying, all that, a bag of chips, a cookie, and a discount coupon, but that gets you nowhere if the person in question is in the mood for pizza. Love is not a rational act; it is ruled by far more mysterious forces than logic.
4. There is no #4. Maybe this is where I was wiping wing sauce off of my chin. Because even a Holy Grail kind of girl is completely incapable of eating wings in a ladylike manner after 4-5 beers.
5. I should tell the VGLM I like him. BNL is pretty adamant about this, and I have to say that for once, he's right. I SHOULD. BNL seems to think that there's no bigger turn-on than for a Holy Grail kind of girl to tell you she likes you. Not sure I'm buying that one either (because again it's based on the idea that Holy Grail status is the same for everyone), but I do know that I'll never resolve all of the questions raised in items 1, 2, and 3 unless I tell him how I feel. He
obviously isn't going to just sweep me off of my feet, or I think he would have done so by now. So yeah, I guess I need to take this one to heart.
Here's the problem: I suck at expressing my feelings. I write this blog precisely because I am so bad at expressing myself in real life. Some would say I'm not very good at doing it on here either, but that's beside the point. The people who might be reading this thing fall into one of two categories: my closest friends and complete strangers. I can say whatever I want on here because those in the former category know me and love me regardless of what I say, and those in the latter - well, I could really care less what they think of me, because if they don't like it, they can just click the "Next Blog" button and move on. I have no problem telling The Alchemist how I feel about the VGLM, but how can I tell him? I can't even ask him to go to a stupid end-of-year formal - I've decided several times that I would do so, and every time I get a chance to speak to him, I completely lose what little nerve I've managed to work up. Any time I've asked him to do something, I've gone the chickenshit route and done it via e-mail because that way I don't have to face him if he says no. And now I'm supposed to a) ask him to go do something with me AND b) actually confess that I like him instead of just like him.
I just really don't think I have it in me to do that. As much as I would like to say that I do...as much as I really, REALLY do want to put myself out there, I don't think that I can.
When I have feelings for a guy, I don't tell him until I know how he feels about me. It's a defense mechanism. I am that girl that WILL NOT say "I love you" first in a relationship. The reason is quite simple - any time I have confessed feelings for a guy, worked up the balls to ask one out, etc., I have gotten completely clobbered. In my last couple of relationships, I flew under the radar, managed to get the guy to like me, and never let on just how long I had been interested before they finally came around. I would love to say that when I profess my like for a friend and he doesn't feel the same way about me, that he's cool about it and just remains my friend while I feel the relief of the emotional purge. Or better yet, that the confession is reciprocated and we live happily ever after in a land of flowers and puppies where I am a pretty, pretty princess.
HOWEVER....the reality is that the most common response is to take advantage of my feelings, followed by weeks...months...years...and counting...of not speaking to me. I've heard, more times than any girl should, "I've always wondered what it would be like to sleep with you." Guys, that is not an appropriate response. Unless you plan on emotionally investing in me, you can keep that information to yourself. I lost one of my best friends by acting on unreciprocated feelings - we haven't spoken in several years now and I still miss him and regret that anything ever happened between us. During and after one breakup, I made it clear that my feelings for the dumper were still strong but I would just be his friend if that's what he wanted. A couple of months later, when I was just starting to heal, he got lonely and decided to get back together with me. That lasted about a month... just as I started to trust him again... well, the second dumping was even more fun than the first. I could keep relating my anecdotal evidence, but they're not really very interesting stories and I think you get the general idea.
So I don't do vulnerability well. It has not served me well in the past, so I don't see why I should be trying it again any time soon.
You may be thinking, "Hey, you're selling the VGLM short. He sounds like a great guy, and he'll probably be cool about it." The others were great guys too. Yet somehow I still wound up scarred.
I no longer trust people with my feelings. I want to think that the VGLM is worth letting my guard down for, but I don't know that he can be trusted with the information. With great power comes great responsibility, my friends, and when I care about a guy, he has a LOT of power.
So where does this leave me? I still want to tell him how I feel, but I don't know how to make myself do it. I've spent so much of my adult life single, and lately I feel like I've gotten pretty good at it. Being in a relationship used to be my comfort zone, but now being alone is, and we all know how hard it is to venture outside of what is Comfortable. I'm still mildly freaked out about signing up for tap classes, for God's sake, and I've danced since I was FOUR YEARS OLD. Yet it's still taken me months to work up the nerve to sign up for a 6 week dance class.
To say I'm at a bit of a loss here would be just a touch of an understatement.
I didn't know how to start this post, and I also don't know how it ends. The title I chose is the title of a Barenaked Ladies song, so I'll end on the verse that made me pick it:
Some day I will find the secret
to your social chemistry
Then I'll print it on a t-shirt
and it'll make you want to be with me
If I wear it past your work
you'll see other guys are jerks
Much like pheromones for flies
you will not avoid my eyes
There's a lot I will never do
Some fantastic, I know it's true
But none as much as my want to be with you
Bye-bye self-respect
I haven't had much of it since you left
I missed out on the best of you...
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Friday, April 27, 2007
The Sound of One Hand Clapping
In the tradition of, "If a tree falls in the forest, and there is no one around to hear it, does it make a sound?" I present the following question:
If I send essentially the same goodnight IM to a gay man and a straight man, which one responds first?
Did I mention the gay man has ADD?
And that I know for a fact that the straight man thinks I'm wicked hot?
Yet for some reason, the gay man responds instantly, and sweetly. The straight man...(crickets)...
This...THIS is why women like gay men.
They may not be attracted to us, but yet somehow they manage to PAY ATTENTION.
(rolling eyes)
If I send essentially the same goodnight IM to a gay man and a straight man, which one responds first?
Did I mention the gay man has ADD?
And that I know for a fact that the straight man thinks I'm wicked hot?
Yet for some reason, the gay man responds instantly, and sweetly. The straight man...(crickets)...
This...THIS is why women like gay men.
They may not be attracted to us, but yet somehow they manage to PAY ATTENTION.
(rolling eyes)
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Alchemy Miscellaneum
Okay, just a few random items/observations for you today:
1. God bless the folks at mental_floss for tipping me off to this. It's from A Concert For Life, the tribute concert/AIDS benefit held in honor of Freddie Mercury in 1992. It's the only time David Bowie ever performed "Under Pressure" live with Queen. Granted, it's not the same with Annie Lennox singing Freddie's part (not BAD, persay, just not the same), but when the audience starts singing it for her, I swear I almost started to tear up.
2. As of today, I am officially registered to start tap classes next week. I bought the shoes on ebay and am hoping they get here in time for my first class on Monday. I am WAY excited, but also slightly terrified. What if the other kids don't like me?
3. This morning, a rather...shall we say...fragrant? gentleman sat next to me on the subway. I can't really describe the odor, but it's one I became all-too-familiar with while working as a camp counselor for adults with severe mental retardation. It's not the smell of someone who does not wear deodorant, or the smell of someone whose diet consists of large quantities of unfamiliar spices and/or aromatics (both odors observed with some regularity on public transit)...it's the smell of someone who can not, or perhaps WILL not, bathe oneself properly. It's unpleasant, even if you're not already suffering from an upset stomach, as I was this morning. And, since my sinuses have done me the favor of trapping some of it for later use, it's been coming back to haunt me ever since. Things like this never happen to Carrie Bradshaw.
1. God bless the folks at mental_floss for tipping me off to this. It's from A Concert For Life, the tribute concert/AIDS benefit held in honor of Freddie Mercury in 1992. It's the only time David Bowie ever performed "Under Pressure" live with Queen. Granted, it's not the same with Annie Lennox singing Freddie's part (not BAD, persay, just not the same), but when the audience starts singing it for her, I swear I almost started to tear up.
2. As of today, I am officially registered to start tap classes next week. I bought the shoes on ebay and am hoping they get here in time for my first class on Monday. I am WAY excited, but also slightly terrified. What if the other kids don't like me?
3. This morning, a rather...shall we say...fragrant? gentleman sat next to me on the subway. I can't really describe the odor, but it's one I became all-too-familiar with while working as a camp counselor for adults with severe mental retardation. It's not the smell of someone who does not wear deodorant, or the smell of someone whose diet consists of large quantities of unfamiliar spices and/or aromatics (both odors observed with some regularity on public transit)...it's the smell of someone who can not, or perhaps WILL not, bathe oneself properly. It's unpleasant, even if you're not already suffering from an upset stomach, as I was this morning. And, since my sinuses have done me the favor of trapping some of it for later use, it's been coming back to haunt me ever since. Things like this never happen to Carrie Bradshaw.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Ah, crap.
I am so screwed.
There's a new girl around the 4th floor today - not sure who she is or what she's doing here, but I hope her stay will be brief.
Why, you may ask?
Because she is TOTALLY the VGLM's type. Tall, blonde, young, athletic, beautiful with her hair in a ponytail and no noticeable makeup on.
Lord, if you love me, you will make her a lesbian.
There's a new girl around the 4th floor today - not sure who she is or what she's doing here, but I hope her stay will be brief.
Why, you may ask?
Because she is TOTALLY the VGLM's type. Tall, blonde, young, athletic, beautiful with her hair in a ponytail and no noticeable makeup on.
Lord, if you love me, you will make her a lesbian.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Pop Culture Confessional (Cont.)
Okay, pardon me while I get WAY too worked up over a couple of things that aren't the least bit worthy of my attention:
1. America's Next Top Talentless Skank. [SPOILER ALERT] ASIA??? REALLY???? The way I see it, there are two ways this could have gone. a) you're looking for someone to replace Nicole Scherzinger because, let's face it, she's the only talented Pussy you've got and she was smart enough to sign a contract that guaranteed she could record a solo record after she did one shitty record with the group... or... b) you're just looking for another random backup dancer to shake her goodies behind Nicole with the others. If a) is the reality, then WHY THE FUCK DIDN'T YOU PICK CHELSEA? She has a vastly superior voice to the others, and while yes, she can't dance to save her skanky little ass, the other Pussys can easily dance around her while she does her very best Christina Aguilera impression for anyone that will listen, which is, oh, approximately a gazillion little skanky 13-year-old girls with allowances burning holes in their pockets. If, on the other hand, b) is the reality, WHY DIDN'T YOU AT LEAST PICK A GIRL WHO DOESN'T DO THAT ANNOYING QUIVERING FINGER BIT WITH THE MIC AND WHO DOESN'T HAVE HAMSTER VIBRATO, AKA MELISSA R.???? I know, I know, Asia looks good, but seriously, she couldn't have more annoying vocal tics if she tried. Melissa would have blended effortlessly with the rest of the skank pudding, and would have at least sung on-key without hamster vibrato, even if she does apparently require boob pads to properly embody Girl Power (tm). Seriously - HAMSTER. VIBRATO.
(deep breath)
Okay, now on to the other one:
2. Dancing with the Stars. [SPOILER ALERT] THANK YOU AMERICA, FOR SENDING HEATHER MILLS HOME AND RESTORING MY FAITH IN ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY. I am so sick of hearing the judges call her "incredible" and "inspirational" and all that crap. Fact of the matter is, Heather Mills is a frigid bitch and I have always hated her, handicap or no. If anyone else had been putting motherfucking WALKOVERS into their routines, you would've ripped them to shreds. I'm talking to YOU, Bruno and Len!!! You people claim to hate gimmicks, but only when employed by Joey FatOne. Get over yourselves and judge everyone based on merit. John Ratzenberger is engaging, enthusiastic, and sweet, even if generally uncoordinated. Heather Mills has the stage presence of an atlantic cod left steaming in the sun for a few weeks, and does nothing but bitch about her transatlantic commute (dude, after that divorce settlement, you can AFFORD to relocate across the pond for a few weeks, bitch), while Billy Ray Cyrus clearly wants to return to Hannah Montana. And you, Ms. Mills, have the audacity to whine about how the judges have always made the same critique about you -that you need to pay more attention to your upper body - but you CAN'T because you have to pay SO MUCH attention to putting your feet in the right place because you have an artificial leg...BULLSHIT. A leg is a leg. If you can walk on it, you can dance on it, and that is no excuse for having absolutely no ability to coordinate your upper body. The mark of a performer devoid of talent is receiving the same note every week - your arm lines and movements are horrendous, and you deserve to be called out for it.
Wow. THAT was unnecessarily militant. But I seriously don't like her - never have, never will. And I've dealt with enough people with handicaps to know all too well the difference between being disadvantaged yet inspirational and being just a plain asshole with a disadvantage.
Asia... I am, at least, happy that you will be able to support your daughter on your new-found Full-Time Skank salary. Just please learn how to eat real food before you go on tour, or I WILL have to smack you.
Seriously...you people should know better than to let me drink during the week.
1. America's Next Top Talentless Skank. [SPOILER ALERT] ASIA??? REALLY???? The way I see it, there are two ways this could have gone. a) you're looking for someone to replace Nicole Scherzinger because, let's face it, she's the only talented Pussy you've got and she was smart enough to sign a contract that guaranteed she could record a solo record after she did one shitty record with the group... or... b) you're just looking for another random backup dancer to shake her goodies behind Nicole with the others. If a) is the reality, then WHY THE FUCK DIDN'T YOU PICK CHELSEA? She has a vastly superior voice to the others, and while yes, she can't dance to save her skanky little ass, the other Pussys can easily dance around her while she does her very best Christina Aguilera impression for anyone that will listen, which is, oh, approximately a gazillion little skanky 13-year-old girls with allowances burning holes in their pockets. If, on the other hand, b) is the reality, WHY DIDN'T YOU AT LEAST PICK A GIRL WHO DOESN'T DO THAT ANNOYING QUIVERING FINGER BIT WITH THE MIC AND WHO DOESN'T HAVE HAMSTER VIBRATO, AKA MELISSA R.???? I know, I know, Asia looks good, but seriously, she couldn't have more annoying vocal tics if she tried. Melissa would have blended effortlessly with the rest of the skank pudding, and would have at least sung on-key without hamster vibrato, even if she does apparently require boob pads to properly embody Girl Power (tm). Seriously - HAMSTER. VIBRATO.
(deep breath)
Okay, now on to the other one:
2. Dancing with the Stars. [SPOILER ALERT] THANK YOU AMERICA, FOR SENDING HEATHER MILLS HOME AND RESTORING MY FAITH IN ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY. I am so sick of hearing the judges call her "incredible" and "inspirational" and all that crap. Fact of the matter is, Heather Mills is a frigid bitch and I have always hated her, handicap or no. If anyone else had been putting motherfucking WALKOVERS into their routines, you would've ripped them to shreds. I'm talking to YOU, Bruno and Len!!! You people claim to hate gimmicks, but only when employed by Joey FatOne. Get over yourselves and judge everyone based on merit. John Ratzenberger is engaging, enthusiastic, and sweet, even if generally uncoordinated. Heather Mills has the stage presence of an atlantic cod left steaming in the sun for a few weeks, and does nothing but bitch about her transatlantic commute (dude, after that divorce settlement, you can AFFORD to relocate across the pond for a few weeks, bitch), while Billy Ray Cyrus clearly wants to return to Hannah Montana. And you, Ms. Mills, have the audacity to whine about how the judges have always made the same critique about you -that you need to pay more attention to your upper body - but you CAN'T because you have to pay SO MUCH attention to putting your feet in the right place because you have an artificial leg...BULLSHIT. A leg is a leg. If you can walk on it, you can dance on it, and that is no excuse for having absolutely no ability to coordinate your upper body. The mark of a performer devoid of talent is receiving the same note every week - your arm lines and movements are horrendous, and you deserve to be called out for it.
Wow. THAT was unnecessarily militant. But I seriously don't like her - never have, never will. And I've dealt with enough people with handicaps to know all too well the difference between being disadvantaged yet inspirational and being just a plain asshole with a disadvantage.
Asia... I am, at least, happy that you will be able to support your daughter on your new-found Full-Time Skank salary. Just please learn how to eat real food before you go on tour, or I WILL have to smack you.
Seriously...you people should know better than to let me drink during the week.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Thawing
The last week has been weird.
Thursday was sort of the climax - had to present group meeting...lots of stress trying to get as much data and as many movies edited as possible to work into my presentation...low on sleep...in addition to all of the crap going on in the world, I was just generally worked up into a tizzy. Presented group meeting - everything went over really well, the boss was thrilled with what I had done, general good feelings abound. Oh, and according to Labmate, the VGLM totally checked me out in a most blatant manner, but who can blame him? The pants I was wearing made the Booty look pretty damned good, but I was too busy to notice him walking by. (Okay, not really, but the man does seem to respond to Aloof, and I am so rarely busy and/or tired enough to successfully pull off the appearance of indifference so when I CAN swing it, I go with it.) So Friday was my decompression day; the weather FINALLY felt like spring, and I spent most of the day finding excuses to get into the sun and generally avoid doing any actual work. Even got the boss out for a good hour or so of Frisbee action, then had appetizers, beers, and a surprisingly earnest and meaningful conversation with another labmate.
When I came home Friday night, I got the chance to talk to a friend of mine from home for the first time this week. This friend is a Virginia Tech alum, and an athletic director and former football coach at a high school in the county we both grew up in. It had been a far rougher week for him than for me, to say the least - while he didn't know any of the victims personally, he does have passing memories of two of the professors killed, and he knows about a dozen current VT students, three of whom have been in and out of his office all week when they needed to cry and talk to someone who would understand (two of these lost close friends in the shootings). As I asked how he was doing, and he told me how every time he thought he had gotten his emotions under control one of these kids would come in to his office or he would see the shooter's face or video on the news, and how he needed to understand why this happened, wanted to drive down to Tech to go to Mass this weekend and welcome the students back, but he wasn't sure his body could take it since he recently had back surgery...I finally started to feel tears well up in my eyes and the familiar knot in my throat.
I gave myself permission to cry. I waited for the wave to come over me.
"I walked along the road with two friends - Then the sun went down - Suddenly the sky became bloody red (and I felt a breath of sadness - a sucking pain beneath the heart) - My friends walked on and I was left trembling with fear - And I felt an infinite scream go through nature."
-Edvard Munch
Except the tears never came. They passed, without ever falling from my eyes. My body reclaimed them.
My lovely Friday gave way to an even lovelier weekend - I spent yesterday downtown, in good company, doing as Torontonians do. I wandered St. Lawrence Market, the lakefront, watched a hockey game and a truly awesomely bad Samuel L. Jackson movie. Today I took a baguette, some cheese and smoked meat, a tetrapak of wine, and a loaded mp3 player down to the bluffs and had myself a little dinner picnic. And again, as I listened to my music and sipped my wine while looking out over the lake glistening in the sun, my eyes welled up.
And again I didn't cry. And this time, I even had wine.
All of the sunshine and fresh air, coupled with the decompression that comes with the realization that my job is basically done for another semester (and apparently done well), has put me into a kind of euphoria for much of the last 3 days. Unfortunately, if there's one thing the murky emotional waters of the last couple of years of grad school taught me, it's the difference between an authentic good mood and a manic state. And I'm afraid that this euphoria is reeking of the latter. There is something just under the surface - that infinite scream - that's still trying to find its way out.
I was numb, and now, like the Toronto weather, I am thawing. All it takes is a shift in wind direction on the lakefront to be reminded that winter has not truly left us just yet. The lake hasn't forgotten us - it takes over again in another day or so - I just hope that I don't turn cold and clammy again with it.
Thursday was sort of the climax - had to present group meeting...lots of stress trying to get as much data and as many movies edited as possible to work into my presentation...low on sleep...in addition to all of the crap going on in the world, I was just generally worked up into a tizzy. Presented group meeting - everything went over really well, the boss was thrilled with what I had done, general good feelings abound. Oh, and according to Labmate, the VGLM totally checked me out in a most blatant manner, but who can blame him? The pants I was wearing made the Booty look pretty damned good, but I was too busy to notice him walking by. (Okay, not really, but the man does seem to respond to Aloof, and I am so rarely busy and/or tired enough to successfully pull off the appearance of indifference so when I CAN swing it, I go with it.) So Friday was my decompression day; the weather FINALLY felt like spring, and I spent most of the day finding excuses to get into the sun and generally avoid doing any actual work. Even got the boss out for a good hour or so of Frisbee action, then had appetizers, beers, and a surprisingly earnest and meaningful conversation with another labmate.
When I came home Friday night, I got the chance to talk to a friend of mine from home for the first time this week. This friend is a Virginia Tech alum, and an athletic director and former football coach at a high school in the county we both grew up in. It had been a far rougher week for him than for me, to say the least - while he didn't know any of the victims personally, he does have passing memories of two of the professors killed, and he knows about a dozen current VT students, three of whom have been in and out of his office all week when they needed to cry and talk to someone who would understand (two of these lost close friends in the shootings). As I asked how he was doing, and he told me how every time he thought he had gotten his emotions under control one of these kids would come in to his office or he would see the shooter's face or video on the news, and how he needed to understand why this happened, wanted to drive down to Tech to go to Mass this weekend and welcome the students back, but he wasn't sure his body could take it since he recently had back surgery...I finally started to feel tears well up in my eyes and the familiar knot in my throat.
I gave myself permission to cry. I waited for the wave to come over me.
"I walked along the road with two friends - Then the sun went down - Suddenly the sky became bloody red (and I felt a breath of sadness - a sucking pain beneath the heart) - My friends walked on and I was left trembling with fear - And I felt an infinite scream go through nature."
-Edvard Munch
Except the tears never came. They passed, without ever falling from my eyes. My body reclaimed them.
My lovely Friday gave way to an even lovelier weekend - I spent yesterday downtown, in good company, doing as Torontonians do. I wandered St. Lawrence Market, the lakefront, watched a hockey game and a truly awesomely bad Samuel L. Jackson movie. Today I took a baguette, some cheese and smoked meat, a tetrapak of wine, and a loaded mp3 player down to the bluffs and had myself a little dinner picnic. And again, as I listened to my music and sipped my wine while looking out over the lake glistening in the sun, my eyes welled up.
And again I didn't cry. And this time, I even had wine.
All of the sunshine and fresh air, coupled with the decompression that comes with the realization that my job is basically done for another semester (and apparently done well), has put me into a kind of euphoria for much of the last 3 days. Unfortunately, if there's one thing the murky emotional waters of the last couple of years of grad school taught me, it's the difference between an authentic good mood and a manic state. And I'm afraid that this euphoria is reeking of the latter. There is something just under the surface - that infinite scream - that's still trying to find its way out.
I was numb, and now, like the Toronto weather, I am thawing. All it takes is a shift in wind direction on the lakefront to be reminded that winter has not truly left us just yet. The lake hasn't forgotten us - it takes over again in another day or so - I just hope that I don't turn cold and clammy again with it.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Numb
In case you've been wondering...
A lot of people have been talking to me about this over the last 24 hours or so. It's not just all over the American news - it's made the cut for the headlines run across the little screens in the transit system, which makes it pretty big news. In the case of my Canadian friends, they don't know many Americans, let alone Virginians, so I guess it's natural that they think of me when they hear the story. The problem is, I just don't know how to feel about it. Like any national tragedy, as far as I know, I don't know anyone personally involved in the shooting - I didn't attend Virginia Tech, and even if I did, I graduated college 8 years ago. But probably around half of the kids that graduate from my high school every year are headed to Blacksburg - there isn't a town in VA that doesn't send a significant portion of its youth to Tech. So I'm sure we're all feeling like we should be feeling SOMETHING, but aren't quite sure what. Don't get me wrong, the whole situation is devastating. No matter where you are from, the senseless slaughter of dozens of people that did nothing wrong that day except get up and decide to go to class instills very real feelings of sorrow and loss in anyone. And the fact that it happened close to my home makes it that much more real and sad for me, I guess. But I'm having a hard time coming to terms with the reality of it. This morning, on my way to work, I was running late because I didn't want to turn off the news, and I couldn't focus on reading my book during the commute because I couldn't stop thinking about those folks in Blacksburg. And one of the feelings that I hadn't been able to put my finger on yet became clear:
Homesickness.
Lemme 'splain...
Tragedies are always easier to handle when you can be around other people who are feeling the same emotions you are. I know I personally find I can't properly accept and grieve a loved one's death until ALL of the family members are together. When I was in grad school, a couple of major tragedies happened in the span of a little over a year: the 9/11 attacks, the anthrax scare, and the DC sniper shootings. All major national news stories - events that, while grieved by an entire nation, had a unique resonance with those of us from the Washington, DC area. On 9/11, my father had been sent home from work early, but couldn't get a bus right away and was thus sitting in a restaurant watching CNN when that 4th plane was still in the air and headed for DC. One of the DC sniper shootings occurred the night before my brother was flying out to see me - he and his girlfriend had gotten gas at that gas station that evening, about an hour before the shooting. Now, do I think that my fear on 9/11 was worse than that of someone with a loved one in New York or on one of those planes? No way. Do I think it was different? Absolutely. The same thing goes for the anthrax and the sniper shootings - the random nature of the attacks made it impossible to know my mother, father, brother, and friends from home were safe. I made the comment to people at the time that it had been a bad year to be away from home, and the response was usually something along the lines of, "seems like a GREAT year to be living anywhere BUT home." But it doesn't work that way - when you're away from home, and something awful happens there, you want more than anything to be with the people who are going through it.
This latest tragedy, I'm a little more removed from. As I said, as far as I know, nobody I know personally was involved or directly affected by the massacre. I know that my family was safe at home, all a good two or more hours away from the gunman. But I still want to be there with them, to grieve with my community, with the people who MIGHT know people who were directly affected.
Maybe I'll sort out my emotions more with a little more time, but as I looked out the window of the bus at the Toronto skyline, all I knew was that it's been a long time since I've felt so far from home.
A lot of people have been talking to me about this over the last 24 hours or so. It's not just all over the American news - it's made the cut for the headlines run across the little screens in the transit system, which makes it pretty big news. In the case of my Canadian friends, they don't know many Americans, let alone Virginians, so I guess it's natural that they think of me when they hear the story. The problem is, I just don't know how to feel about it. Like any national tragedy, as far as I know, I don't know anyone personally involved in the shooting - I didn't attend Virginia Tech, and even if I did, I graduated college 8 years ago. But probably around half of the kids that graduate from my high school every year are headed to Blacksburg - there isn't a town in VA that doesn't send a significant portion of its youth to Tech. So I'm sure we're all feeling like we should be feeling SOMETHING, but aren't quite sure what. Don't get me wrong, the whole situation is devastating. No matter where you are from, the senseless slaughter of dozens of people that did nothing wrong that day except get up and decide to go to class instills very real feelings of sorrow and loss in anyone. And the fact that it happened close to my home makes it that much more real and sad for me, I guess. But I'm having a hard time coming to terms with the reality of it. This morning, on my way to work, I was running late because I didn't want to turn off the news, and I couldn't focus on reading my book during the commute because I couldn't stop thinking about those folks in Blacksburg. And one of the feelings that I hadn't been able to put my finger on yet became clear:
Homesickness.
Lemme 'splain...
Tragedies are always easier to handle when you can be around other people who are feeling the same emotions you are. I know I personally find I can't properly accept and grieve a loved one's death until ALL of the family members are together. When I was in grad school, a couple of major tragedies happened in the span of a little over a year: the 9/11 attacks, the anthrax scare, and the DC sniper shootings. All major national news stories - events that, while grieved by an entire nation, had a unique resonance with those of us from the Washington, DC area. On 9/11, my father had been sent home from work early, but couldn't get a bus right away and was thus sitting in a restaurant watching CNN when that 4th plane was still in the air and headed for DC. One of the DC sniper shootings occurred the night before my brother was flying out to see me - he and his girlfriend had gotten gas at that gas station that evening, about an hour before the shooting. Now, do I think that my fear on 9/11 was worse than that of someone with a loved one in New York or on one of those planes? No way. Do I think it was different? Absolutely. The same thing goes for the anthrax and the sniper shootings - the random nature of the attacks made it impossible to know my mother, father, brother, and friends from home were safe. I made the comment to people at the time that it had been a bad year to be away from home, and the response was usually something along the lines of, "seems like a GREAT year to be living anywhere BUT home." But it doesn't work that way - when you're away from home, and something awful happens there, you want more than anything to be with the people who are going through it.
This latest tragedy, I'm a little more removed from. As I said, as far as I know, nobody I know personally was involved or directly affected by the massacre. I know that my family was safe at home, all a good two or more hours away from the gunman. But I still want to be there with them, to grieve with my community, with the people who MIGHT know people who were directly affected.
Maybe I'll sort out my emotions more with a little more time, but as I looked out the window of the bus at the Toronto skyline, all I knew was that it's been a long time since I've felt so far from home.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
The Awesome Power of Music
"What kind of music do you listen to?"
That's a pretty loaded question. Much like asking someone's religion, or their political party...these are questions that people use to get a read on you. Your answer pigeonholes you and allows the asker to put you into a category of either "I agree with you," "I don't agree with you at all," or "I don't necessarily agree with you but am intrigued by you." These are questions I hate with every fiber of my being, primarily because I can't stand to be categorized. At least in the case of music, I can honestly say that I listen to a little bit of just about everything - even the genres I don't consider myself a fan of such as opera and country contain some exceptions that I truly love. I've often wondered what the common thread is among my bizarrely disparate tastes, and the best way I can think of to articulate it is that I love music that MOVES me. As with any art form, I happen to believe that anyone that is too good at articulating why they like one work over another is spending too much time talking and too little actually allowing the item in question to do what it's meant to do. But why do certain types of music, or particular songs, move me more than others? Why do they seem to reach to the very core of me and make me do or feel things that I normally don't or can't?
Case in point: I have fairly recently come to the conclusion that the song "Under Pressure" is arguably the greatest rock song in the history of mankind. I've listened to it many times now in an attempt to figure out why, and my reasons are as follows:
1. The interplay of very simple elements. That simple bass riff that starts the whole thing off (Vanilla Ice's sampling/imitation of which I personally believe has earned him an extra special room in hell), with a few piano chords, hand claps, snaps, and a few wandering guitar notes flitting in and around that framework. David Bowie's rich and grounded tone contrasting with the manic quality of Freddie Mercury's. Nonsense lyrics - sometimes the best we can manage, particularly in times of duress, is something along the lines of, "Um ba ba bay Um ba ba bay Dee day duh Ee day duh." Seriously.
2. This verse:
Insanity laughs under pressure we're cracking
Can't we give ourselves one more chance?
Why can't we give love that one more chance?
Why can't we give love give love give love?
Give love give love give love give love give love give love?
Cause love's such an old fashioned word
And love dares you to care
For the people on the edge of the night
And love dares you to change our way
Of caring about ourselves
This is our last dance
This is ourselves
Under Pressure
3. The changes in tone as we reach this point. This is a song with a plot - it alternately swells and recedes, soars and trickles. How many songs REALLY have a climax? A true beginning, middle, and end? A story is clearly told in these 4 minutes, but you'd never know it by looking at the lyrics. I can't speak for anyone else, but every time I listen to it, I feel like I've taken a trip...I've been through an emotional journey. It's an incredibly evocative song, and it always leaves me feeling relieved because it has somehow gotten into my heart and extracted some of the worry and pain that I've tucked away in there, far away from anyone's sight, including my own.
This is what I'm talking about. Music sneaks up on me all the time - how can a song that you've completely forgotten about instantly and unmistakably call up such vivid emotional memory? When I was in high school orchestra, I played many concerts a year, and I certainly can't remember titles and composers of every piece I've ever played, but when I hear a piece I once played come on the radio or out of an instrument, I don't just remember the melody, I remember how it felt to PLAY that piece. I remember fingerings, and bowings, and I feel the resonance of the notes in my chest as though my violin were on my shoulder, not packed away in my parents' house in Virginia. It's not hard to sympathize with amputees having phantom sensations in their lost limbs whenever I get that feeling - it seems like the most natural thing in the world. It's not my brain that's remembering the music, it's my BODY.
My body also tells me what does and does not constitute good dance music. Certain songs, when played on the radio or my computer, spontaneously make my ass shake. There's nothing I can do about it - it is an unstoppable force, as though my ass suddenly has a mind of its own and I take my life and sanity into my hands by attempting to deny it. At a recent family wedding, my mom marveled at my seemingly boundless energy on the dance floor. I can't seem to convey to her that when the right music comes on, I am physically incapable of leaving a dance floor. Culprits range from "Jungle Boogie" by Kool and the Gang to "It Takes Two" by Rob Base to "Hey Ya!" by Outkast. And should you ever be within 10 yards of me when "Da Butt" by E.U. comes over a sound system, I have two words for you: DUCK and COVER.
Sometimes it's more about a mood than a gut- (or ass-) based feeling. On Friday, I was watching a piece on the Today show about some dolphins that had been rescued from certain death after Hurricane Katrina, and they have now been happily living under good care and apparently have successfully delivered calves. At the point in the story where they related this tidbit of information, the editors of the piece cleverly inserted "Let's Get it On" into the soundtrack. I have proclaimed my love of this song on here before, but again, it's not about the lyrics - those opening notes say all that needs to be said, and in this case a fairly mundane story became vastly more entertaining through the judicious use of Marvin Gaye.
Soundtracks in general, when done well, do an amazing job of harnessing this phenomenon and using it against us. I have an ever-growing playlist of music from Scrubs, because I find myself saying to myself, "wow...I need that song" so often while watching the show. The TV soundtrack thing is often criticized now because there are so many shows using them as a cop-out - the addition of music so effectively elicits a reaction from an audience that it allows the actors to be lazy. Last night I watched the movie Goonies with a friend of mine who had never seen it as a kid. While I can no longer watch that movie with quite the same youthful abandon I once did - my inner adult can't help but notice that the product placements are incredibly clumsy, the verses on the map are written in Spanish but only rhyme when translated into English, and seriously, they HAD to know what they were doing when they decided to name the pirate One-Eyed Willy, right??? - when the credits roll and Cyndi Lauper kicks in singing, "What's good enough for you is good enough for me it's good enough it's good enough for me yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah..." I am 8 years old again and desperately wanting some pirate treasure to chase. A couple of years later, the Billboard Top 10 Hits of 1987 contains a song called "At This Moment" by Billy Vera and the Beaters. This song came out in 1984, but it's one of the top 10 hits of 1987. Why? Because it was prominently featured in an episode of Family Ties, when Ellen left Alex for a dance scholarship. Every time I hear it, I see Alex P. Keaton and that jukebox, and my heart still breaks for him, 20 years later.
In my work, I often record my experiments in the form of digital movies taken via a CCD camera hooked up to a microscope. As far as my boss is concerned, these movies should be short, sweet, and to the point so he can show them quickly during a presentation. But being the person I am, I always have to do two versions: the quick and simple one for the boss, and my version, complete with titles, credits, and, of course, a soundtrack. By the addition of a single song, I can make two moving droplets silly (Mahna Mahna), epic (the theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey - I got a bit of a God complex making that one), sexy (a little Isaac Hayes action), or romantic (When a Man Loves a Woman). I have great plans in store for the theme from the A-Team. I've gotten to the point where a song pops into my head while I'm doing the experiment - my droplets start to seem like little people under the microscope...or at least kind of like pets (of the disposable variety - you know, like goldfish or sea monkeys). It just goes to show how the right music can completely change the way you see something, for better or worse.
I leave you with one final example of the awesome power of music: yesterday I went to a Toronto Blue Jays game. Being a home game, every time a Jays player came up to bat he had theme music played for him. Most of the players picked one theme song that was played for every at-bat, and some of them were excellent choices. I decided yesterday that Vernon Wells, the centerfielder, is my favorite Blue Jay. Not because he homered in his first at-bat, but because he had a different theme song every time he batted.
The one that sold me?
The Humpty Dance.
I mentioned to a friend that I wish I had a theme song that would play whenever I walked into a room, and he asked what it would be.
I answered without hesistation:
Sexy Motherfucker, by Prince.
Seriously. Listen to it - REALLY listen to it sometime, and I think you'll agree it's a perfect choice for me. In the soundtrack of your life, there is always one Theme. It may change over the years, but it is always awesome, because it's yours.
Everyone has a theme song, but not everyone is lucky enough to know what it is.
That's a pretty loaded question. Much like asking someone's religion, or their political party...these are questions that people use to get a read on you. Your answer pigeonholes you and allows the asker to put you into a category of either "I agree with you," "I don't agree with you at all," or "I don't necessarily agree with you but am intrigued by you." These are questions I hate with every fiber of my being, primarily because I can't stand to be categorized. At least in the case of music, I can honestly say that I listen to a little bit of just about everything - even the genres I don't consider myself a fan of such as opera and country contain some exceptions that I truly love. I've often wondered what the common thread is among my bizarrely disparate tastes, and the best way I can think of to articulate it is that I love music that MOVES me. As with any art form, I happen to believe that anyone that is too good at articulating why they like one work over another is spending too much time talking and too little actually allowing the item in question to do what it's meant to do. But why do certain types of music, or particular songs, move me more than others? Why do they seem to reach to the very core of me and make me do or feel things that I normally don't or can't?
Case in point: I have fairly recently come to the conclusion that the song "Under Pressure" is arguably the greatest rock song in the history of mankind. I've listened to it many times now in an attempt to figure out why, and my reasons are as follows:
1. The interplay of very simple elements. That simple bass riff that starts the whole thing off (Vanilla Ice's sampling/imitation of which I personally believe has earned him an extra special room in hell), with a few piano chords, hand claps, snaps, and a few wandering guitar notes flitting in and around that framework. David Bowie's rich and grounded tone contrasting with the manic quality of Freddie Mercury's. Nonsense lyrics - sometimes the best we can manage, particularly in times of duress, is something along the lines of, "Um ba ba bay Um ba ba bay Dee day duh Ee day duh." Seriously.
2. This verse:
Insanity laughs under pressure we're cracking
Can't we give ourselves one more chance?
Why can't we give love that one more chance?
Why can't we give love give love give love?
Give love give love give love give love give love give love?
Cause love's such an old fashioned word
And love dares you to care
For the people on the edge of the night
And love dares you to change our way
Of caring about ourselves
This is our last dance
This is ourselves
Under Pressure
3. The changes in tone as we reach this point. This is a song with a plot - it alternately swells and recedes, soars and trickles. How many songs REALLY have a climax? A true beginning, middle, and end? A story is clearly told in these 4 minutes, but you'd never know it by looking at the lyrics. I can't speak for anyone else, but every time I listen to it, I feel like I've taken a trip...I've been through an emotional journey. It's an incredibly evocative song, and it always leaves me feeling relieved because it has somehow gotten into my heart and extracted some of the worry and pain that I've tucked away in there, far away from anyone's sight, including my own.
This is what I'm talking about. Music sneaks up on me all the time - how can a song that you've completely forgotten about instantly and unmistakably call up such vivid emotional memory? When I was in high school orchestra, I played many concerts a year, and I certainly can't remember titles and composers of every piece I've ever played, but when I hear a piece I once played come on the radio or out of an instrument, I don't just remember the melody, I remember how it felt to PLAY that piece. I remember fingerings, and bowings, and I feel the resonance of the notes in my chest as though my violin were on my shoulder, not packed away in my parents' house in Virginia. It's not hard to sympathize with amputees having phantom sensations in their lost limbs whenever I get that feeling - it seems like the most natural thing in the world. It's not my brain that's remembering the music, it's my BODY.
My body also tells me what does and does not constitute good dance music. Certain songs, when played on the radio or my computer, spontaneously make my ass shake. There's nothing I can do about it - it is an unstoppable force, as though my ass suddenly has a mind of its own and I take my life and sanity into my hands by attempting to deny it. At a recent family wedding, my mom marveled at my seemingly boundless energy on the dance floor. I can't seem to convey to her that when the right music comes on, I am physically incapable of leaving a dance floor. Culprits range from "Jungle Boogie" by Kool and the Gang to "It Takes Two" by Rob Base to "Hey Ya!" by Outkast. And should you ever be within 10 yards of me when "Da Butt" by E.U. comes over a sound system, I have two words for you: DUCK and COVER.
Sometimes it's more about a mood than a gut- (or ass-) based feeling. On Friday, I was watching a piece on the Today show about some dolphins that had been rescued from certain death after Hurricane Katrina, and they have now been happily living under good care and apparently have successfully delivered calves. At the point in the story where they related this tidbit of information, the editors of the piece cleverly inserted "Let's Get it On" into the soundtrack. I have proclaimed my love of this song on here before, but again, it's not about the lyrics - those opening notes say all that needs to be said, and in this case a fairly mundane story became vastly more entertaining through the judicious use of Marvin Gaye.
Soundtracks in general, when done well, do an amazing job of harnessing this phenomenon and using it against us. I have an ever-growing playlist of music from Scrubs, because I find myself saying to myself, "wow...I need that song" so often while watching the show. The TV soundtrack thing is often criticized now because there are so many shows using them as a cop-out - the addition of music so effectively elicits a reaction from an audience that it allows the actors to be lazy. Last night I watched the movie Goonies with a friend of mine who had never seen it as a kid. While I can no longer watch that movie with quite the same youthful abandon I once did - my inner adult can't help but notice that the product placements are incredibly clumsy, the verses on the map are written in Spanish but only rhyme when translated into English, and seriously, they HAD to know what they were doing when they decided to name the pirate One-Eyed Willy, right??? - when the credits roll and Cyndi Lauper kicks in singing, "What's good enough for you is good enough for me it's good enough it's good enough for me yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah..." I am 8 years old again and desperately wanting some pirate treasure to chase. A couple of years later, the Billboard Top 10 Hits of 1987 contains a song called "At This Moment" by Billy Vera and the Beaters. This song came out in 1984, but it's one of the top 10 hits of 1987. Why? Because it was prominently featured in an episode of Family Ties, when Ellen left Alex for a dance scholarship. Every time I hear it, I see Alex P. Keaton and that jukebox, and my heart still breaks for him, 20 years later.
In my work, I often record my experiments in the form of digital movies taken via a CCD camera hooked up to a microscope. As far as my boss is concerned, these movies should be short, sweet, and to the point so he can show them quickly during a presentation. But being the person I am, I always have to do two versions: the quick and simple one for the boss, and my version, complete with titles, credits, and, of course, a soundtrack. By the addition of a single song, I can make two moving droplets silly (Mahna Mahna), epic (the theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey - I got a bit of a God complex making that one), sexy (a little Isaac Hayes action), or romantic (When a Man Loves a Woman). I have great plans in store for the theme from the A-Team. I've gotten to the point where a song pops into my head while I'm doing the experiment - my droplets start to seem like little people under the microscope...or at least kind of like pets (of the disposable variety - you know, like goldfish or sea monkeys). It just goes to show how the right music can completely change the way you see something, for better or worse.
I leave you with one final example of the awesome power of music: yesterday I went to a Toronto Blue Jays game. Being a home game, every time a Jays player came up to bat he had theme music played for him. Most of the players picked one theme song that was played for every at-bat, and some of them were excellent choices. I decided yesterday that Vernon Wells, the centerfielder, is my favorite Blue Jay. Not because he homered in his first at-bat, but because he had a different theme song every time he batted.
The one that sold me?
The Humpty Dance.
I mentioned to a friend that I wish I had a theme song that would play whenever I walked into a room, and he asked what it would be.
I answered without hesistation:
Sexy Motherfucker, by Prince.
Seriously. Listen to it - REALLY listen to it sometime, and I think you'll agree it's a perfect choice for me. In the soundtrack of your life, there is always one Theme. It may change over the years, but it is always awesome, because it's yours.
Everyone has a theme song, but not everyone is lucky enough to know what it is.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
So it goes.
Today is a very sad day.
From CNN.com:
Most of you know that when asked who my favorite author is, my answer is Vonnegut. I don't love everything he's ever written, but of the things I've read, all are at the very least entertaining, and of my top 5 all-time favorite books, two are his. I can't explain why I am such a fan, but his stuff speaks to something at the core of my personality...whenever I meet another Vonnegut fan, we always seem to get along. And whenever I find a favorite anything, I really take that to heart and feel a void when they're gone (I cried the day Jack Lemmon died - who does that???) because even though they never knew me personally, they touched me in a way that no one else has or ever will. I am just one of millions, but knowing that they will never know what they brought to my life makes me sad. I never had any delusions about one day meeting Mr. Vonnegut and becoming his new best friend, but I did harbor a little bit of hope that I might get to see one of his lectures once or have him sign one of my books...maybe tell him that Cat's Cradle was the first book I ever felt the need to stop reading, find a pen, and underline passages in.
"I, mud, sat up and saw what a nice job God had done."
"Nice going, God!"
"Nobody but You could have done it, God! I certainly couldn't have."
"I feel very unimportant compared to You."
"The only way I can feel the least bit important is to think of all the mud that didn't even get to sit up and look around."
I could quote Vonnegut all day, but I'll just leave you with a couple more choice ones:
"Welcome aboard, Mr. Pilgrim," said the loudspeaker. "Any questions?"
Billy licked his lips, thought a while, inquired at last: "Why me?"
"That is a very earthling question to ask, Mr. Pilgrim. Why you? Why us for that matter? Why anything? Because this moment simply is. Have you ever seen bugs trapped in amber?"
"Yes." Billy, in fact, had a paperweight in his office which was a blob of polished amber with three ladybugs embedded in it.
"Well, here we are, Mr. Pilgrim, trapped in the amber of this moment. There is no why."
...
"And if I should ever die, God forbid, I hope you will say, 'Kurt is up in heaven now.' That's my favorite joke."
From CNN.com:
NEW YORK (AP) -- Kurt Vonnegut, the satirical novelist who captured the absurdity of war and questioned the advances of science in darkly humorous works such as "Slaughterhouse-Five" and "Cat's Cradle," died Wednesday. He was 84.
Most of you know that when asked who my favorite author is, my answer is Vonnegut. I don't love everything he's ever written, but of the things I've read, all are at the very least entertaining, and of my top 5 all-time favorite books, two are his. I can't explain why I am such a fan, but his stuff speaks to something at the core of my personality...whenever I meet another Vonnegut fan, we always seem to get along. And whenever I find a favorite anything, I really take that to heart and feel a void when they're gone (I cried the day Jack Lemmon died - who does that???) because even though they never knew me personally, they touched me in a way that no one else has or ever will. I am just one of millions, but knowing that they will never know what they brought to my life makes me sad. I never had any delusions about one day meeting Mr. Vonnegut and becoming his new best friend, but I did harbor a little bit of hope that I might get to see one of his lectures once or have him sign one of my books...maybe tell him that Cat's Cradle was the first book I ever felt the need to stop reading, find a pen, and underline passages in.
"I, mud, sat up and saw what a nice job God had done."
"Nice going, God!"
"Nobody but You could have done it, God! I certainly couldn't have."
"I feel very unimportant compared to You."
"The only way I can feel the least bit important is to think of all the mud that didn't even get to sit up and look around."
I could quote Vonnegut all day, but I'll just leave you with a couple more choice ones:
"Welcome aboard, Mr. Pilgrim," said the loudspeaker. "Any questions?"
Billy licked his lips, thought a while, inquired at last: "Why me?"
"That is a very earthling question to ask, Mr. Pilgrim. Why you? Why us for that matter? Why anything? Because this moment simply is. Have you ever seen bugs trapped in amber?"
"Yes." Billy, in fact, had a paperweight in his office which was a blob of polished amber with three ladybugs embedded in it.
"Well, here we are, Mr. Pilgrim, trapped in the amber of this moment. There is no why."
...
"And if I should ever die, God forbid, I hope you will say, 'Kurt is up in heaven now.' That's my favorite joke."
Sunday, April 08, 2007
For the Love of Science
Okay, it is truly shocking to me that I have been writing this blog for over 6 months now and have yet to write a post like this, but here goes:
Mythbusters...we need to talk.
I have lost count of the number of people I have humored as they say that they find this show "entertaining, but come on, it's not real science." Yeah, you go ahead and think that.
Somewhere around, oh, 4th grade maybe, you are taught the Scientific Method (tm). According to the Scientific Method (tm), you follow several steps when conducting science:
1. Look at the shit we know.
2. Form a hypothesis about the shit we have yet to know.
3. Develop an experiment that, through the clever use of controls and isolation of said controls from all possible variables, will either confirm or disprove said hypothesis.
4. Oh, come on, you should know how this goes by now.
5. Look at the data.
6. Confirm, debunk, or revise the hypothesis.
7. Rinse and repeat.
What many people say about the Mythbusters is that they don't really follow the Scientific Method (tm). There are too many variables...not enough controls, they say. They haven't taken every possible occurrence into account, they say. They never conclusively prove or disprove anything, they say.
And they would be right.
But there's a dirty little secret that most of you non-science types haven't caught on to yet: The scientific community does the exact same thing. Every day. I have spent a fair amount of time doing actual, real research - not the profit-motivated, fine tuning kind of research done in industry, but academic research where the end goal is the acquisition of new, hopefully groundbreaking, Knowledge. In this world, we do not employ carefully, cleverly crafted hypotheses with a very specific goal in mind for every experiment...we throw a whole pile of crap at the wall and see what sticks. Oh, sure, we start with a goal in mind, but any advisor worth his salt knows that the most significant advances made in his lab are almost without fail a BYPRODUCT of whatever that student or postdoc was TRYING to do. Case in point: I went into my weekly meeting with my boss on Tuesday, armed with all sorts of movies and data. One of my movies demonstrated something we already knew - that the enzyme I was working with would inevitably be deposited on the surface of the device I was doing the reaction on. But, upon seeing this effect in action, his reponse wasn't, "Oh, shit, now we have proof that this is a problem" it was "WOW....what can we do with that???" Now, Isaac Asimov said the same thing slightly more eloquently:
"The most exciting phrase to hear in science, the one that heralds new discoveries, is not 'Eureka' (I've found it) but 'That's funny...'"
Forget the Scientific Method (tm). THIS is how science is really done. Above all, and contrary to popular belief, it is an intensely creative endeavor. It is sloppy, it is ridiculous, it is inconvenient and rarely wraps itself up in tidy little packages. I am constantly amazed at how many people I meet that think that science and creative expression are mutually exclusive concepts, much as they believe that science and faith (or for that matter creativity and faith) are. This is why so many people find me an enigma, while from my perspective I make perfect sense (side note: I find that most people eventually come around to my logic - at least, anyone who matters).
Which brings me back to the Mythbusters. I am a fan of the way they do things - there are always holes in their methods, but that's science. It doesn't mean their conclusions are without merit - anyone that's ever had a paper or grant proposal reviewed knows all too well that even the most well-planned experiment can be shot full of so many holes it resembles a block of Emmentaler (mmm...cheese...) by the time you get it back. This is why we teach a whole lot more in the way of theories than we do laws. Relativity is a pretty fucking cool idea, and there's a lot of evidence out there to support it and darned little to refute it, but we don't know enough yet to say it's definitely true. Gravity, on the other hand...we're pretty sure about at this point. We've had a few hundred years to try to disprove the latter...only a hundred or so with the former, and when Einstein first came up with it we didn't really have the proper tools to test it for a few more decades. So it's still a work in progress.
But tonight, the Mythbusters were using methods that even I have to take issue with. They were testing the famous 5-second rule. (In the process, they also took advantage of their new-found bacterial culturing skills to test the whole your-mouth-is-dirtier-than-a-dog's notion. For those of you that are wondering, it's totally true. However, I am rather peeved that they neglected to mention that this has already been studied by actual scientists in laboratories, and the reason has nothing to do with the number of bacteria that find their way into the respective mouths via frequency of ass-lickings and garbage-scavenges, but rather the fact that dogs have a stronger anti-bacterial agent in their saliva than we do PRECISELY BECAUSE THEIR MOUTHS ARE EXPOSED TO MORE BACTERIA. Ain't nature grand?) So I won't get into all of the different ways in which they tried to determine whether the amount of time spent on the floor affects the number of bacteria transferred - to sum up: they tried a dry food and a wet food, different areas of a floor, straight transfer from the floor to the petri dish, etc. etc. Here are my problems with the way they went about it:
1. They tried to come up with a "uniformly dirty floor." I won't go into the specifics - it was fairly disgusting. My point being, there's still absolutely no guarantee that it was uniformly dirty - bacteria grow in groups, and some areas will most definitely be more dense in cell population than others, depending on any number of fairly random factors (floor topology, for example). Which would be corrected for if you wiped the food across a larger portion of said floor, but that messes with the whole 5-second rule stipulation that the food remain stationary. But there was absolutely no control done that showed that the floor tiles being used were, in fact, uniformly dirty.
2. They didn't specify how many duplicate trials they did. As an analytical chemist, reproducibility is everything, and things like this give me hissyfits. I believe they did duplicates, I just don't know how many, and while I realize this does not make for riveting TV, I really want to know because again, we're dealing with cell cultures, and any variations between trials will be grossly amplified.
3, and this is the big one: the big control experiment that they did to eliminate the wet/dry food factor was to bring the petri dish in direct contact with the floor for the specified periods of time (I believe they did 2 and 6 second trials). The result from this trial was, not surprisingly, that the dishes in each case picked up so many bacteria that the individual colonies merged on the plate, making it impossible to count them to get a data point. One surface covered in bacteria looks just like another surface covered in bacteria - if you can't fit any more in the space allotted, they stop reproducing. From this, they concluded that you cannot tell the difference between a 2-second exposure and a 6-second exposure. WRONG. JUST BECAUSE YOUR INSTRUMENT (in this case, YOU) CAN'T TELL THE DIFFERENCE DOESN'T MEAN THERE ISN'T ONE.
This is the point in the show where I stop speaking in actual words and start making pft! pfffttt! noises at the screen.
Adam and Jamie, I still adore you. But please, no more microbiology without a trained professional on board. Hell, a trained microbiologist would probably be appalled by what I consider good science. To each his own. But as long as you stick to trying to blow shit up by improbable means, we can probably make this work.
Oh, and before any of you smartasses try to read anything into the fact that my "For love of science" entry is so much longer than my "For love of God" entry...just know that while I feel I am knowledgeable enough to have an informed opinion about what science is, I have no such delusions when it comes to God. Plus, there may have been a couple of intervening glasses of wine to blame.
Mythbusters...we need to talk.
I have lost count of the number of people I have humored as they say that they find this show "entertaining, but come on, it's not real science." Yeah, you go ahead and think that.
Somewhere around, oh, 4th grade maybe, you are taught the Scientific Method (tm). According to the Scientific Method (tm), you follow several steps when conducting science:
1. Look at the shit we know.
2. Form a hypothesis about the shit we have yet to know.
3. Develop an experiment that, through the clever use of controls and isolation of said controls from all possible variables, will either confirm or disprove said hypothesis.
4. Oh, come on, you should know how this goes by now.
5. Look at the data.
6. Confirm, debunk, or revise the hypothesis.
7. Rinse and repeat.
What many people say about the Mythbusters is that they don't really follow the Scientific Method (tm). There are too many variables...not enough controls, they say. They haven't taken every possible occurrence into account, they say. They never conclusively prove or disprove anything, they say.
And they would be right.
But there's a dirty little secret that most of you non-science types haven't caught on to yet: The scientific community does the exact same thing. Every day. I have spent a fair amount of time doing actual, real research - not the profit-motivated, fine tuning kind of research done in industry, but academic research where the end goal is the acquisition of new, hopefully groundbreaking, Knowledge. In this world, we do not employ carefully, cleverly crafted hypotheses with a very specific goal in mind for every experiment...we throw a whole pile of crap at the wall and see what sticks. Oh, sure, we start with a goal in mind, but any advisor worth his salt knows that the most significant advances made in his lab are almost without fail a BYPRODUCT of whatever that student or postdoc was TRYING to do. Case in point: I went into my weekly meeting with my boss on Tuesday, armed with all sorts of movies and data. One of my movies demonstrated something we already knew - that the enzyme I was working with would inevitably be deposited on the surface of the device I was doing the reaction on. But, upon seeing this effect in action, his reponse wasn't, "Oh, shit, now we have proof that this is a problem" it was "WOW....what can we do with that???" Now, Isaac Asimov said the same thing slightly more eloquently:
"The most exciting phrase to hear in science, the one that heralds new discoveries, is not 'Eureka' (I've found it) but 'That's funny...'"
Forget the Scientific Method (tm). THIS is how science is really done. Above all, and contrary to popular belief, it is an intensely creative endeavor. It is sloppy, it is ridiculous, it is inconvenient and rarely wraps itself up in tidy little packages. I am constantly amazed at how many people I meet that think that science and creative expression are mutually exclusive concepts, much as they believe that science and faith (or for that matter creativity and faith) are. This is why so many people find me an enigma, while from my perspective I make perfect sense (side note: I find that most people eventually come around to my logic - at least, anyone who matters).
Which brings me back to the Mythbusters. I am a fan of the way they do things - there are always holes in their methods, but that's science. It doesn't mean their conclusions are without merit - anyone that's ever had a paper or grant proposal reviewed knows all too well that even the most well-planned experiment can be shot full of so many holes it resembles a block of Emmentaler (mmm...cheese...) by the time you get it back. This is why we teach a whole lot more in the way of theories than we do laws. Relativity is a pretty fucking cool idea, and there's a lot of evidence out there to support it and darned little to refute it, but we don't know enough yet to say it's definitely true. Gravity, on the other hand...we're pretty sure about at this point. We've had a few hundred years to try to disprove the latter...only a hundred or so with the former, and when Einstein first came up with it we didn't really have the proper tools to test it for a few more decades. So it's still a work in progress.
But tonight, the Mythbusters were using methods that even I have to take issue with. They were testing the famous 5-second rule. (In the process, they also took advantage of their new-found bacterial culturing skills to test the whole your-mouth-is-dirtier-than-a-dog's notion. For those of you that are wondering, it's totally true. However, I am rather peeved that they neglected to mention that this has already been studied by actual scientists in laboratories, and the reason has nothing to do with the number of bacteria that find their way into the respective mouths via frequency of ass-lickings and garbage-scavenges, but rather the fact that dogs have a stronger anti-bacterial agent in their saliva than we do PRECISELY BECAUSE THEIR MOUTHS ARE EXPOSED TO MORE BACTERIA. Ain't nature grand?) So I won't get into all of the different ways in which they tried to determine whether the amount of time spent on the floor affects the number of bacteria transferred - to sum up: they tried a dry food and a wet food, different areas of a floor, straight transfer from the floor to the petri dish, etc. etc. Here are my problems with the way they went about it:
1. They tried to come up with a "uniformly dirty floor." I won't go into the specifics - it was fairly disgusting. My point being, there's still absolutely no guarantee that it was uniformly dirty - bacteria grow in groups, and some areas will most definitely be more dense in cell population than others, depending on any number of fairly random factors (floor topology, for example). Which would be corrected for if you wiped the food across a larger portion of said floor, but that messes with the whole 5-second rule stipulation that the food remain stationary. But there was absolutely no control done that showed that the floor tiles being used were, in fact, uniformly dirty.
2. They didn't specify how many duplicate trials they did. As an analytical chemist, reproducibility is everything, and things like this give me hissyfits. I believe they did duplicates, I just don't know how many, and while I realize this does not make for riveting TV, I really want to know because again, we're dealing with cell cultures, and any variations between trials will be grossly amplified.
3, and this is the big one: the big control experiment that they did to eliminate the wet/dry food factor was to bring the petri dish in direct contact with the floor for the specified periods of time (I believe they did 2 and 6 second trials). The result from this trial was, not surprisingly, that the dishes in each case picked up so many bacteria that the individual colonies merged on the plate, making it impossible to count them to get a data point. One surface covered in bacteria looks just like another surface covered in bacteria - if you can't fit any more in the space allotted, they stop reproducing. From this, they concluded that you cannot tell the difference between a 2-second exposure and a 6-second exposure. WRONG. JUST BECAUSE YOUR INSTRUMENT (in this case, YOU) CAN'T TELL THE DIFFERENCE DOESN'T MEAN THERE ISN'T ONE.
This is the point in the show where I stop speaking in actual words and start making pft! pfffttt! noises at the screen.
Adam and Jamie, I still adore you. But please, no more microbiology without a trained professional on board. Hell, a trained microbiologist would probably be appalled by what I consider good science. To each his own. But as long as you stick to trying to blow shit up by improbable means, we can probably make this work.
Oh, and before any of you smartasses try to read anything into the fact that my "For love of science" entry is so much longer than my "For love of God" entry...just know that while I feel I am knowledgeable enough to have an informed opinion about what science is, I have no such delusions when it comes to God. Plus, there may have been a couple of intervening glasses of wine to blame.
For the Love of God
Let me just start this post by saying a big Happy Easter! to all of you. Among my friends who read this thing, I know I have everything from utterly areligious types to very devout Christians, so to the former, I say I hope you had a very lovely weekend and to the latter, a most blessed Easter to you, alleluia, alleluia!
Now, good Catholic girl that I am, I was going to make sure I got to church this morning if it killed me. I'll admit, I'm not THAT good a Catholic girl - I don't go as often as I should (especially considering there's a Catholic church a whopping 5-minute walk from my house) - but I'll be darned if I'm going to miss church on Easter weekend. A grand effort was made on my part to make sure that all of my celebrating and normal Sunday household chores got worked into the day - got up this morning, started the laundry while my cinnamon rolls (from scratch!) rose and baked...made myself presentable...ate breakfast and dashed off to church. Almost didn't make it - I got there JUST before the opening processional started, but my church is small and Catholicism is significantly less popular here than in the States, so I even got a seat (something that would be UNHEARD of at home at a late-morning mass on Easter Sunday).
Now, there are things that I think are really neat at my church - the music ministry is small, but the voices are extremely talented (even if their choice of music is a bit baroque for my taste)...the assortment of accents I hear in all of the responses from the congregation...the way I sound distinctly American in that rumble because I say ay-men instead of ah-men...the pastor and his very approachable and good-humored manner of addressing his congregation...but I saw something today that I just felt the need to bitch about. Pardon me for a moment while I hop up onto my digital soapbox....
As I looked around the church, I noticed a disturbing proportion of the congregation wearing jeans.
Now, I was raised in fairly modern churches, where on a typical Sunday the rule of thumb is come-as-you-are. I have certain standards for myself (i.e., while I might wear jeans or khakis to church, I only wear my nicest pairs and draw the line at ever wearing shorts), but in general, I subscribe to the belief that God is happy to see you regardless of what you're wearing. I figure as long as you show up attentive, clean, and generally respectable, you're doing okay. I have seen people show up toting teenage children wearing suggestive slogans on their t-shirts, or having clearly come straight from repainting their kitchen, and that bugs me, but I think my standards are generally fairly loose.
But for the love of God, people (and I mean that literally)...this is EASTER SUNDAY. It's the biggest. Day. Of the year. This is the day from which, regardless of denomination, all of Christianity takes root. For a great number of you, this is one of only TWO DAYS A YEAR you go to church. Is it really that much to ask that you dress up a little bit??? I'm not asking for frilly dresses in pastel colors and big floppy hats... but a decent pair of pants and a shoe a notch above a sneaker hardly seems unreasonable. I don't understand how someone can make the effort to actually GO to church, but never find it necessary to look good for God. It's not just an appearance thing - it's the mindset that at least today, going to church is Important. It's meaningful...even more so than on an ordinary Sunday. I just don't get how people can miss that.
But then again, I also don't understand it when people show up to a final looking like they're going clubbing as soon as they hand in their paper. There simply is no pleasing me.
Now, good Catholic girl that I am, I was going to make sure I got to church this morning if it killed me. I'll admit, I'm not THAT good a Catholic girl - I don't go as often as I should (especially considering there's a Catholic church a whopping 5-minute walk from my house) - but I'll be darned if I'm going to miss church on Easter weekend. A grand effort was made on my part to make sure that all of my celebrating and normal Sunday household chores got worked into the day - got up this morning, started the laundry while my cinnamon rolls (from scratch!) rose and baked...made myself presentable...ate breakfast and dashed off to church. Almost didn't make it - I got there JUST before the opening processional started, but my church is small and Catholicism is significantly less popular here than in the States, so I even got a seat (something that would be UNHEARD of at home at a late-morning mass on Easter Sunday).
Now, there are things that I think are really neat at my church - the music ministry is small, but the voices are extremely talented (even if their choice of music is a bit baroque for my taste)...the assortment of accents I hear in all of the responses from the congregation...the way I sound distinctly American in that rumble because I say ay-men instead of ah-men...the pastor and his very approachable and good-humored manner of addressing his congregation...but I saw something today that I just felt the need to bitch about. Pardon me for a moment while I hop up onto my digital soapbox....
As I looked around the church, I noticed a disturbing proportion of the congregation wearing jeans.
Now, I was raised in fairly modern churches, where on a typical Sunday the rule of thumb is come-as-you-are. I have certain standards for myself (i.e., while I might wear jeans or khakis to church, I only wear my nicest pairs and draw the line at ever wearing shorts), but in general, I subscribe to the belief that God is happy to see you regardless of what you're wearing. I figure as long as you show up attentive, clean, and generally respectable, you're doing okay. I have seen people show up toting teenage children wearing suggestive slogans on their t-shirts, or having clearly come straight from repainting their kitchen, and that bugs me, but I think my standards are generally fairly loose.
But for the love of God, people (and I mean that literally)...this is EASTER SUNDAY. It's the biggest. Day. Of the year. This is the day from which, regardless of denomination, all of Christianity takes root. For a great number of you, this is one of only TWO DAYS A YEAR you go to church. Is it really that much to ask that you dress up a little bit??? I'm not asking for frilly dresses in pastel colors and big floppy hats... but a decent pair of pants and a shoe a notch above a sneaker hardly seems unreasonable. I don't understand how someone can make the effort to actually GO to church, but never find it necessary to look good for God. It's not just an appearance thing - it's the mindset that at least today, going to church is Important. It's meaningful...even more so than on an ordinary Sunday. I just don't get how people can miss that.
But then again, I also don't understand it when people show up to a final looking like they're going clubbing as soon as they hand in their paper. There simply is no pleasing me.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Analytical Chemistry
So...I had a date tonight. For those of you on the edge of your seats, wondering how that whole eHarmony thing was going...this one's for you.
So, this guy came up as one of my matches, and at first, I was really wigged out because he bore some superficial similarities to a friend I had just recently met. Once I established that they were, in fact, two different people, I began the slow, plodding process of "guided communication." Frankly, I am of the opinion that you decide on the basis of the person's profile if you want to communicate with them - the "guided" portion is pure bullshit. No matter how much they tell you that this process is designed to elicit your "true answers" and "break through your barriers..." the fact of the matter is, you are every bit as capable of telling someone what they want to hear via a multiple-choice question as to their face. So they might as well get right to the open communication portion of the program for all the good it does. That's just my two cents.
So anyway, we got our eHarmony caps and gowns on and graduated to "open communication." Which led to the exchange of real-life e-mail addresses, and phone numbers, and eventually resulted in plans to have a drink after work tonight. I got to the meeting place...found he was not, in fact, a troll, and drinks went well so he invited me to go get some sushi. I was enjoying his company so I took him up on it. Now, it was about halfway through dinner when I had to admit to myself that I may be getting myself in trouble here. See, it had been becoming progressively clearer to me as the evening wore on that this guy was quite taken with me. Frankly, I sensed it from when I first walked up to him as he was waiting at the bar for me, but the sensation became stronger as the time passed. You know...there's a difference between a friendly smile in normal conversation and the one that crosses your face when you are talking or listening to someone who you happen to find quite charming. I started noticing him looking at my hands, as if he were thinking, "I wonder if I can get away with holding one of those yet? Nah, too soon." And as we walked back to the subway in the rain, he walked close enough to me that our arms touched, even though the sidewalk left plenty of space. He even tried to put his arm around me briefly, but seemed to think the better of it. In the subway station, I could tell he was stalling because he wanted a goodnight kiss, which he eventually asked if he could have. And when I let him kiss me, he did everything he could (within reason) to prolong it.
Now, I feel the need to say, for the record, that I like this guy. He's attractive, friendly, fun to talk to, and we have a lot in common. I can see why eHarmony would think we might be compatible, because all indications are that we will get along well and could happily spend a lot of time together. But here's the thing - I'm not intrigued by him. I need to be with someone who challenges me... someone whose moves I can't see coming from three blocks away. Even in friendships, I need to be around people who can keep me guessing - otherwise, I get bored. And this...THIS is why I hate dating and completely suck at it. Because I am apparently quite good at charming the wrong people. Perfectly nice, fun, attractive guys (that just don't quite do it for me for some inexplicable, intangible reason) are often drawn to the persona I present whenever I first meet someone. That same persona also works quite well on dad/grandpa types, some students, and theater people. The problem is that it never seems to work on anyone I have any vested interest in - I think not caring about what the person thinks of me is part of what makes me intriguing and attractive, so when I DO care, it loses something.
A year ago, I probably would've decided that the curse of maturity has ruled out that kind of spontaneous, thrilling chemistry on first meeting that I used to experience when I was younger. But that was before I moved here. Take the VGLM, or any of my crushes since I relocated: more often than not, those crushes initially took root during one particular encounter, where I simply couldn't learn enough about the person and no matter how long I talked to them they left me wanting more. So even if nothing ever comes of any of those, I at least know it's still possible to get that kind of charge. I have a hard time envisioning spending the rest of my life with someone who I never felt that kind of passion for. I don't expect it to last a lifetime - we're not built to sustain that kind of constant stimulation for very long, and at some point hopefully a deeper love takes its place, but shouldn't I at least have it at the beginning? If I were just looking for someone to date...a little companionship, like I have been for the last few years, this guy would be a perfectly good candidate. The problem is, that's not what I'm looking for anymore - I'm looking for someone who can rattle me AND steady me. A core-shaker.
I just have to find one I can rattle just as well.
So, this guy came up as one of my matches, and at first, I was really wigged out because he bore some superficial similarities to a friend I had just recently met. Once I established that they were, in fact, two different people, I began the slow, plodding process of "guided communication." Frankly, I am of the opinion that you decide on the basis of the person's profile if you want to communicate with them - the "guided" portion is pure bullshit. No matter how much they tell you that this process is designed to elicit your "true answers" and "break through your barriers..." the fact of the matter is, you are every bit as capable of telling someone what they want to hear via a multiple-choice question as to their face. So they might as well get right to the open communication portion of the program for all the good it does. That's just my two cents.
So anyway, we got our eHarmony caps and gowns on and graduated to "open communication." Which led to the exchange of real-life e-mail addresses, and phone numbers, and eventually resulted in plans to have a drink after work tonight. I got to the meeting place...found he was not, in fact, a troll, and drinks went well so he invited me to go get some sushi. I was enjoying his company so I took him up on it. Now, it was about halfway through dinner when I had to admit to myself that I may be getting myself in trouble here. See, it had been becoming progressively clearer to me as the evening wore on that this guy was quite taken with me. Frankly, I sensed it from when I first walked up to him as he was waiting at the bar for me, but the sensation became stronger as the time passed. You know...there's a difference between a friendly smile in normal conversation and the one that crosses your face when you are talking or listening to someone who you happen to find quite charming. I started noticing him looking at my hands, as if he were thinking, "I wonder if I can get away with holding one of those yet? Nah, too soon." And as we walked back to the subway in the rain, he walked close enough to me that our arms touched, even though the sidewalk left plenty of space. He even tried to put his arm around me briefly, but seemed to think the better of it. In the subway station, I could tell he was stalling because he wanted a goodnight kiss, which he eventually asked if he could have. And when I let him kiss me, he did everything he could (within reason) to prolong it.
Now, I feel the need to say, for the record, that I like this guy. He's attractive, friendly, fun to talk to, and we have a lot in common. I can see why eHarmony would think we might be compatible, because all indications are that we will get along well and could happily spend a lot of time together. But here's the thing - I'm not intrigued by him. I need to be with someone who challenges me... someone whose moves I can't see coming from three blocks away. Even in friendships, I need to be around people who can keep me guessing - otherwise, I get bored. And this...THIS is why I hate dating and completely suck at it. Because I am apparently quite good at charming the wrong people. Perfectly nice, fun, attractive guys (that just don't quite do it for me for some inexplicable, intangible reason) are often drawn to the persona I present whenever I first meet someone. That same persona also works quite well on dad/grandpa types, some students, and theater people. The problem is that it never seems to work on anyone I have any vested interest in - I think not caring about what the person thinks of me is part of what makes me intriguing and attractive, so when I DO care, it loses something.
A year ago, I probably would've decided that the curse of maturity has ruled out that kind of spontaneous, thrilling chemistry on first meeting that I used to experience when I was younger. But that was before I moved here. Take the VGLM, or any of my crushes since I relocated: more often than not, those crushes initially took root during one particular encounter, where I simply couldn't learn enough about the person and no matter how long I talked to them they left me wanting more. So even if nothing ever comes of any of those, I at least know it's still possible to get that kind of charge. I have a hard time envisioning spending the rest of my life with someone who I never felt that kind of passion for. I don't expect it to last a lifetime - we're not built to sustain that kind of constant stimulation for very long, and at some point hopefully a deeper love takes its place, but shouldn't I at least have it at the beginning? If I were just looking for someone to date...a little companionship, like I have been for the last few years, this guy would be a perfectly good candidate. The problem is, that's not what I'm looking for anymore - I'm looking for someone who can rattle me AND steady me. A core-shaker.
I just have to find one I can rattle just as well.
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