I sent the following email to someone, probably an automated computer inbox, earlier this evening. It feels good to share.
Dear AT&T or SBC or whoever is behind my internet service,
In my bid to pay my bill and cancel my service, I have endured three lengthy phone calls and many minutes clawing my way around your website. You have defeated me today with your barrier of unnavigable phone menus, garbled web pages, and incompetent employees. I must sleep tonight with your internet service still thrusting through my unwilling and innocent phone jack.
You claim your system doesn't have my information, but I know better. My evidence includes the regular emails, the calls to my cell phone asking me to upgrade my service, and of course the bills you send me every month, and which of course I pay regularly, for the most part.
I want you to know that this war is not over, and that I will not give up trying to rid myself of you. I will succeed in my bid to cancel your service, even if it means I must wait on hold for a month just to be told I've once again contacted the wrong department. We will battle again tomorrow, and again the next day, for as long as it takes. Whatever you've got planned, bring it on. I am not afraid.
Sincerely,
Kyle Schneweis
Monday, August 06, 2007
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
As memory serves me
Carpooling home from work today, Steve was telling me about a survivor from the German side of the 2nd WW that went on to become a writer, and from what I gather, a good one. Steve told me that the guy wrote a bunch of novels, a couple of which have been made into movies, _______ and Das Boot, to which I interjected, “I’ve got Das Boot on DVD.” He continued with his story almost as if he hadn’t heard me, which was quite appropriate since I’m guessing it was obvious that my purpose was not to talk about Das Boot, but to let him know that not only am I aware that a movie called Das Boot exists, but also that I own a copy of it. I did not admit to him that I’d never actually seen Das Boot.
Actually, I might have lied and told him that I’d seen it. It’s possible that I’m remembering it wrong and my interjection was actually, “I’ve seen Das Boot.” Then, maybe instead of paying attention to the rest of Steve’s story, I was busy thinking about how I’d just lied, and how it would have been better if I’d said, “I own Das Boot,” because then I could have still sounded informed, but done so accurately. Then after deciding that this would have been better, it's conceivable that I just remembered it the better way because I like to think of myself in a positive light.
Not including this sentence, the pronoun “I” was used in this story 19 times, for a total of 7.72 percent of the words.
Actually, I might have lied and told him that I’d seen it. It’s possible that I’m remembering it wrong and my interjection was actually, “I’ve seen Das Boot.” Then, maybe instead of paying attention to the rest of Steve’s story, I was busy thinking about how I’d just lied, and how it would have been better if I’d said, “I own Das Boot,” because then I could have still sounded informed, but done so accurately. Then after deciding that this would have been better, it's conceivable that I just remembered it the better way because I like to think of myself in a positive light.
Not including this sentence, the pronoun “I” was used in this story 19 times, for a total of 7.72 percent of the words.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
The haircut
After almost a decade of cutting my own hair, I started going to a professional about two years ago. Since then, I've had regular trims by the same girl, until about four months ago when she moved away. I didn't really know what to do, so I just let my hair grow and grow until I finally couldn't take it anymore. That's when I went to Supercuts.
The lady who was working was crazy looking in an artsy way. Not a good artsy kind of way, but in a I'm-not-so-sure-I-should-let-you-touch-my-hair arsty kind of way. She was probably forty or just under, had short hair, was thin and poorly dressed, and wore turquoise eyeliner over pretty much the entire upper half of her face. She asked me my name and I when I said Kyle, she said matter-of-factly, "That's my name too." This coincidence caused me to throw caution to the wind, and I agreed to wait my turn in line.
She suggested I go to HyVee (grocery store) and kill 45 minutes or so. Since I didn't need groceries, and much prefer looking through bins of used CD's than isles of food products, I instead went next door to the CD Tradepost. I bought 3 CD's, June of 44's In the Fishtank, Low's The Great Destroyer, and The American Analog Set's Know by Heart, which I am listening too now, and enjoying quite a lot. I have heard of this band before, mostly from people comparing them to bands I like, and so was eager to pick up an album of theirs. As I listen to it, I feel like I may have missed the window in my life where this would have rocked my ass off by about 18 months or so. Which is too bad since their are fewer things I enjoy more than having my ass rocked off by a band that I've just discovered. It's happened a few times over the years (Pearl Jam in 1992, Phish in 1999, Modest Mouse in 2001 , Explosions in the Sky in 2003, Yo La Tengo in 2004, Spaceman 3 in 2006), but seems to happen less these days. I hope it's not because I'm getting old or lazy or because I'm becoming too critical. In fact, I hope it's not happening at all, and that I'm just imagining it.
When I went to the register to pay for my CD's, I told the guy that I was an "all access" member, which I am indeed. Said membership brings with it the honor of having 5 cents for every dollar you spend in the store put into an store credit account that accrues no interest, but does sit there forever, or until the internet and digital media run the store out of business (sooner that we probably think). Usually the clerk asks if I'd like to apply my store credit to my purchase, which since I hardly ever go in the store anymore, I figured I'd actually do for the first time. Well, he didn't offer and instead of asking, I just paid for the CDs like a dumbass. As I left store, I glanced down at the reciept in hopes that it would report how much store credit I had in my special all access account. Well, I should note that I've bought a lot of CD's and probably even more DVD's there over the years, and when I say a lot, I actually mean $500 worth. Yup, I've got $25 in store credit, which is exactly 5% of $500. I'm pretty sure that if some dude stacked up all the things I've bought in that store over the years and offered me $500 for them, I'd laugh my ass off at the dude's stupidity. Next time I go in there I'm getting $25 worth of free stuff, as it's the least I deserve for blowing half a grand in that dumb store.
So this all took about 45 minutes, and so it was time to be brave and get my hair cut. I planned to get it cut pretty short as summer is pretty much here, and I'm ready for a change. Well, when I told Kyle this, she said, "No, I can't do that, your hair is too awesome to cut off. How about if I just trim it a bit." We haggled a little bit, but eventually settled somewhere in the middle. She asked if I'd ever seen Sex & the City. Now, the last thing I'm going to do in this situation is admit that, "Yes, I've seen Sex & the City," so I did what any sane man would do and lied. She told me she was going to cut my hair like some character on that show, which I'm proud to say I honestly didn't know. My confidence that I was going to be happy with my hair when I left was not improving.
Now I've never really been that comfortable in a salon setting, probably for all kinds of freudian, alpha male kinds of reasons. But this haircut was more uncomfortable than most. She talked incessantly, and asked me more questions than any person should ever want or feel compelled to ask. She also kept complimenting me in ridiculous ways. Here's a few examples, with my responses (in parenthesis):
"I love it when men wear their hair long. Especially professional men. You never see it, and it's a shame (Yeah)."
"Have you ever considered becoming a model? (No.) You should, you're very good looking (silence, then thanks)."
"Did you play football? (Yes without mentioning I was a kicker) You're huge, bigger than most of my KU boys. Did you ever consider going pro? (stunned silence, then No)."
There were others, but you get the point. Eventually, she got done with my hair. She gave me $2 off and a coupon to come back. I paid in cash with the intention of minimizing the information she knew about me. My hair actually looks pretty good, although I'm not sure it's my style. Here's a poor photo taken by phone.
Overall, I felt like this woman was being way too nice, and while it seemed genuine, it was so ridiculous that it couldn't have been. She had to have been going for a nice tip and some future business. For the record, I gave her a $5 tip, which was a ridiculous 50%, making her plan work perfectly. I left there feeling pretty confident and good about myself. I discovered that I liked being complimented, even if the compliments are total fucking lies meant at getting money from me, and even if I'm totally aware of this the entire time. I'm not sure why this is so surprising, but it doesn't bother me in the least, and I say bring on the compliments. I'll even pay for them.
The lady who was working was crazy looking in an artsy way. Not a good artsy kind of way, but in a I'm-not-so-sure-I-should-let-you-touch-my-hair arsty kind of way. She was probably forty or just under, had short hair, was thin and poorly dressed, and wore turquoise eyeliner over pretty much the entire upper half of her face. She asked me my name and I when I said Kyle, she said matter-of-factly, "That's my name too." This coincidence caused me to throw caution to the wind, and I agreed to wait my turn in line.
She suggested I go to HyVee (grocery store) and kill 45 minutes or so. Since I didn't need groceries, and much prefer looking through bins of used CD's than isles of food products, I instead went next door to the CD Tradepost. I bought 3 CD's, June of 44's In the Fishtank, Low's The Great Destroyer, and The American Analog Set's Know by Heart, which I am listening too now, and enjoying quite a lot. I have heard of this band before, mostly from people comparing them to bands I like, and so was eager to pick up an album of theirs. As I listen to it, I feel like I may have missed the window in my life where this would have rocked my ass off by about 18 months or so. Which is too bad since their are fewer things I enjoy more than having my ass rocked off by a band that I've just discovered. It's happened a few times over the years (Pearl Jam in 1992, Phish in 1999, Modest Mouse in 2001 , Explosions in the Sky in 2003, Yo La Tengo in 2004, Spaceman 3 in 2006), but seems to happen less these days. I hope it's not because I'm getting old or lazy or because I'm becoming too critical. In fact, I hope it's not happening at all, and that I'm just imagining it.
When I went to the register to pay for my CD's, I told the guy that I was an "all access" member, which I am indeed. Said membership brings with it the honor of having 5 cents for every dollar you spend in the store put into an store credit account that accrues no interest, but does sit there forever, or until the internet and digital media run the store out of business (sooner that we probably think). Usually the clerk asks if I'd like to apply my store credit to my purchase, which since I hardly ever go in the store anymore, I figured I'd actually do for the first time. Well, he didn't offer and instead of asking, I just paid for the CDs like a dumbass. As I left store, I glanced down at the reciept in hopes that it would report how much store credit I had in my special all access account. Well, I should note that I've bought a lot of CD's and probably even more DVD's there over the years, and when I say a lot, I actually mean $500 worth. Yup, I've got $25 in store credit, which is exactly 5% of $500. I'm pretty sure that if some dude stacked up all the things I've bought in that store over the years and offered me $500 for them, I'd laugh my ass off at the dude's stupidity. Next time I go in there I'm getting $25 worth of free stuff, as it's the least I deserve for blowing half a grand in that dumb store.
So this all took about 45 minutes, and so it was time to be brave and get my hair cut. I planned to get it cut pretty short as summer is pretty much here, and I'm ready for a change. Well, when I told Kyle this, she said, "No, I can't do that, your hair is too awesome to cut off. How about if I just trim it a bit." We haggled a little bit, but eventually settled somewhere in the middle. She asked if I'd ever seen Sex & the City. Now, the last thing I'm going to do in this situation is admit that, "Yes, I've seen Sex & the City," so I did what any sane man would do and lied. She told me she was going to cut my hair like some character on that show, which I'm proud to say I honestly didn't know. My confidence that I was going to be happy with my hair when I left was not improving.
Now I've never really been that comfortable in a salon setting, probably for all kinds of freudian, alpha male kinds of reasons. But this haircut was more uncomfortable than most. She talked incessantly, and asked me more questions than any person should ever want or feel compelled to ask. She also kept complimenting me in ridiculous ways. Here's a few examples, with my responses (in parenthesis):
"I love it when men wear their hair long. Especially professional men. You never see it, and it's a shame (Yeah)."
"Have you ever considered becoming a model? (No.) You should, you're very good looking (silence, then thanks)."
"Did you play football? (Yes without mentioning I was a kicker) You're huge, bigger than most of my KU boys. Did you ever consider going pro? (stunned silence, then No)."
There were others, but you get the point. Eventually, she got done with my hair. She gave me $2 off and a coupon to come back. I paid in cash with the intention of minimizing the information she knew about me. My hair actually looks pretty good, although I'm not sure it's my style. Here's a poor photo taken by phone.
Overall, I felt like this woman was being way too nice, and while it seemed genuine, it was so ridiculous that it couldn't have been. She had to have been going for a nice tip and some future business. For the record, I gave her a $5 tip, which was a ridiculous 50%, making her plan work perfectly. I left there feeling pretty confident and good about myself. I discovered that I liked being complimented, even if the compliments are total fucking lies meant at getting money from me, and even if I'm totally aware of this the entire time. I'm not sure why this is so surprising, but it doesn't bother me in the least, and I say bring on the compliments. I'll even pay for them.
Friday, May 18, 2007
The Frothing Fantods
I've been coaching girls club soccer in Topeka, Kansas for the past eight years. In that time, I've coached hundreds of kids, including my favorite team, the Topeka Select Rockets, who I've coached since they were U-9. This year they are freshmen in high school, so instead of playing for me this spring, they're dispersed around town playing for seven different area high schools. I've been hoping to get out and see some of them play, but because of work, apathy, and my U-13 team, I haven't made it happen. That is, until last night...
It's playoff time, and Seaman High is playing Hayden High with the winner getting an invitation to the State tournament. There are three Rockets starting for Seaman as freshmen, while the two Rockets that play for Hayden have been relegated to JV. As the night goes on, I have several "this is your life" moments as what seems like hundreds of former players, parents, etc. come up and say hello. I eventually count up six additional kids that I've coached in the past on the two teams. Nostalgia aside, the decision to sit in the Seaman section was an easy one, since that's who the three Rockets are playing for.
Once the game starts, the first thing I notice is the parents. After years of coaching on the opposite sideline from them, I for the first time fully understand what freaks of nature these people really are. They're all nervous as hell, yelling ridiculous things at their kids and even more ridiculous things at what turned out to be a most excellent referee. They bitch about how the kids on the other team are playing dirty, and just as much, they bitch about how incompetent the kids on their own team are.
As for the action on the field, it starts with a bang with Seaman scoring on a corner kick just two minutes into the game. But, after a few minutes it becomes readily apparent that the best player BY FAR is wearing #5 for Hayden. She is a thing of beauty, rarely losing possession, usually needing just the bare minimum of touches to make spectacular and beautiful plays. I don't know her, but I find myself cheering for her a little bit. For obvious reasons, I don't admit this to the frothing-at-the-mouth Seaman parents I'm surrounded by. By halftime, #5 for Hayden has scored two goals and set up her very average teammates for countless unconverted chances. Halftime score, Hayden 2, Seaman 1.
As the second half gets underway, the action is mostly back and forth in the midfield with minimal scoring chances for either team. Seaman has figured out that they can't let #5 get the ball, and they're appropriately chasing her all over the field. She handles it well, but as you'd suspect isn't as deadly when she's under constant heavy and pressure. Meanwhile, the Seaman parents are becoming more hysterical by the minute. A fat bearded man behind me begins to yell louder and louder. Most of his exclamations make no sense at all from an actual soccer standpoint. I discover that his daughter is playing forward, she's a senior, and he's starting to realize this might be her last game. It's obvious that he believes this is because the rest of the Seaman players are terrible. I hate him.
With ten minutes to go, it's getting bleak for Seaman as they still trail 2-1. I've been sitting next to Hannah, one of my Rockets players from a different high school, and it's become impossible to even carry on the simplest of conversations due to the frenzied state of the Seaman parents. Half of the problem is our rotund and bearded enemy, who I'm starting to suspect might be mentally ill. By this time, my right ear drum is starting to throb from this toolbox's maniacal outbursts. I contemplate moving, but don't. No one else seems to mind, except for Hannah, my Rocket friend. She seems to hate him more than I do, and somehow we sneak in a brief exchange consisting mostly of necessary non-verbals to agree that we're really embarrassed for him, and hope he doesn't have a heart attack before the game ends. Right about this time, his daughter breaks free and has a collision at the top of the box with the Hayden goaltender. The whistle is blown and the goalie is down. After a lengthy break, the keeper is taken off and replaced with a girl that looks like she's just seen a ghost. I mention to the guy next to me that this girl could be in deep trouble.
The next eight minutes go by with out much fanfare, unless you count the actual fans, who as you'd expect are asymptotically approaching retardation. The guy next to me has lost his voice completely. The beard dude is almost in tears he's so angry. The most disturbing thing is how negative they are. They are not cheering, they're heckling, bitching, and whining, but not cheering. I'm anxious to get the hell out of here. Then, with 90 seconds to go, one of my Rockets sends a high arching ball towards the goal. The child of Mr. Beard connects with it at the top of the six and it zings toward the net as the frightened goalie stands on her line and tries to deny the ball with merely her prayers. No luck, game tied 2-2. People are falling out of the stands they're so happy. They're hugging and laughing and saying "I told you so." Hannah and I smile, but are dreading the fact that we might have to sit through two overtimes and a shootout with these heathens.
This crisis is averted just 30 seconds later however, as beard man's daughter steals the ball behind midfield and to fatherly cries of "do it, don't pass it, do it, DO IT!" makes a ridiculous 60 yard Maradona like run through scores of diving panicked Hayden defenders. The petrified back up goaltender never moves as the ball soars into the net for beard's daughter's third goal and a 3-2 Seaman victory. The proverbial chaos ensues. The lunacy of the Seaman fans is in their minds justified. They willed their daughters to victory. I am happy for my Rockets, but secretly dissapointed that their parents have been rewarded for their dispicable behavior.
As the crowd dissipates, I mingle with countless former players and parents. The Seaman players are beaming, I am proud of them, and tell them so. The Hayden players are in tears, and I'm just as proud of them, and tell them so. I learned that I don't like the helpless feeling of just watching my kids play, I don't like sitting with crazy parents, and I don't like seeing one set of my players rejoice at the expense of another group of my players. I know I'm going to have to get used to it though, because despite the idiocy of much of the night, I loved being their to support the kids.
It's playoff time, and Seaman High is playing Hayden High with the winner getting an invitation to the State tournament. There are three Rockets starting for Seaman as freshmen, while the two Rockets that play for Hayden have been relegated to JV. As the night goes on, I have several "this is your life" moments as what seems like hundreds of former players, parents, etc. come up and say hello. I eventually count up six additional kids that I've coached in the past on the two teams. Nostalgia aside, the decision to sit in the Seaman section was an easy one, since that's who the three Rockets are playing for.
Once the game starts, the first thing I notice is the parents. After years of coaching on the opposite sideline from them, I for the first time fully understand what freaks of nature these people really are. They're all nervous as hell, yelling ridiculous things at their kids and even more ridiculous things at what turned out to be a most excellent referee. They bitch about how the kids on the other team are playing dirty, and just as much, they bitch about how incompetent the kids on their own team are.
As for the action on the field, it starts with a bang with Seaman scoring on a corner kick just two minutes into the game. But, after a few minutes it becomes readily apparent that the best player BY FAR is wearing #5 for Hayden. She is a thing of beauty, rarely losing possession, usually needing just the bare minimum of touches to make spectacular and beautiful plays. I don't know her, but I find myself cheering for her a little bit. For obvious reasons, I don't admit this to the frothing-at-the-mouth Seaman parents I'm surrounded by. By halftime, #5 for Hayden has scored two goals and set up her very average teammates for countless unconverted chances. Halftime score, Hayden 2, Seaman 1.
As the second half gets underway, the action is mostly back and forth in the midfield with minimal scoring chances for either team. Seaman has figured out that they can't let #5 get the ball, and they're appropriately chasing her all over the field. She handles it well, but as you'd suspect isn't as deadly when she's under constant heavy and pressure. Meanwhile, the Seaman parents are becoming more hysterical by the minute. A fat bearded man behind me begins to yell louder and louder. Most of his exclamations make no sense at all from an actual soccer standpoint. I discover that his daughter is playing forward, she's a senior, and he's starting to realize this might be her last game. It's obvious that he believes this is because the rest of the Seaman players are terrible. I hate him.
With ten minutes to go, it's getting bleak for Seaman as they still trail 2-1. I've been sitting next to Hannah, one of my Rockets players from a different high school, and it's become impossible to even carry on the simplest of conversations due to the frenzied state of the Seaman parents. Half of the problem is our rotund and bearded enemy, who I'm starting to suspect might be mentally ill. By this time, my right ear drum is starting to throb from this toolbox's maniacal outbursts. I contemplate moving, but don't. No one else seems to mind, except for Hannah, my Rocket friend. She seems to hate him more than I do, and somehow we sneak in a brief exchange consisting mostly of necessary non-verbals to agree that we're really embarrassed for him, and hope he doesn't have a heart attack before the game ends. Right about this time, his daughter breaks free and has a collision at the top of the box with the Hayden goaltender. The whistle is blown and the goalie is down. After a lengthy break, the keeper is taken off and replaced with a girl that looks like she's just seen a ghost. I mention to the guy next to me that this girl could be in deep trouble.
The next eight minutes go by with out much fanfare, unless you count the actual fans, who as you'd expect are asymptotically approaching retardation. The guy next to me has lost his voice completely. The beard dude is almost in tears he's so angry. The most disturbing thing is how negative they are. They are not cheering, they're heckling, bitching, and whining, but not cheering. I'm anxious to get the hell out of here. Then, with 90 seconds to go, one of my Rockets sends a high arching ball towards the goal. The child of Mr. Beard connects with it at the top of the six and it zings toward the net as the frightened goalie stands on her line and tries to deny the ball with merely her prayers. No luck, game tied 2-2. People are falling out of the stands they're so happy. They're hugging and laughing and saying "I told you so." Hannah and I smile, but are dreading the fact that we might have to sit through two overtimes and a shootout with these heathens.
This crisis is averted just 30 seconds later however, as beard man's daughter steals the ball behind midfield and to fatherly cries of "do it, don't pass it, do it, DO IT!" makes a ridiculous 60 yard Maradona like run through scores of diving panicked Hayden defenders. The petrified back up goaltender never moves as the ball soars into the net for beard's daughter's third goal and a 3-2 Seaman victory. The proverbial chaos ensues. The lunacy of the Seaman fans is in their minds justified. They willed their daughters to victory. I am happy for my Rockets, but secretly dissapointed that their parents have been rewarded for their dispicable behavior.
As the crowd dissipates, I mingle with countless former players and parents. The Seaman players are beaming, I am proud of them, and tell them so. The Hayden players are in tears, and I'm just as proud of them, and tell them so. I learned that I don't like the helpless feeling of just watching my kids play, I don't like sitting with crazy parents, and I don't like seeing one set of my players rejoice at the expense of another group of my players. I know I'm going to have to get used to it though, because despite the idiocy of much of the night, I loved being their to support the kids.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Infinite Quest
I'm slowly plodding through David Foster Wallace's ambitious novel Infinite Jest. Without going into details, IJ, released in 1996 and re released in a bargain priced $10 tenth anniversary edition in 2006, is a novel just under 1100 pages (actually 981 pages followed by over 100 plus pages of "endnotes.") Any summary of the story can't do the book justice, but it's set a decade into the future with countless intertwining characters and non-linear plot lines covering addiction, politics, entertainment, commercialism, and tennis. I'm on page 580-something with 400 or more to go. At this rate it will take me a total of just under a year to get from cover to cover.I read it probably five times a week, in short bursts of 20-30 minutes at a time, as a half hour seems to be the most I can put into it in one sitting, often because I'm reading it over lunch and must return to my cubicle, but also because it's such a brain workout. Almost without exception, I find each chapter completely engaging, but after reading a few (or often just one), and peeking ahead at the next one to see that it has nothing to do with what I just read or perhaps nothing to do with any portion of the previous 580 pages, my default reaction is to put it down and rest.
I've been reading it for a long time, but on a consistent enough basis that I've never lost track of what I think is happening. I must disclose that this is probably mostly due to the ridiculous four page bookmark that I created. Well, not so much created, but formatted. I combined chapter and character summaries written by others that are gentle in their plot details, but specific in their ability to provoke my memory, into a 4 x 6, four page, brochure style bookmark. It's a good road map of the book, and I recommend it highly to anyone beginning an infinite quest of their own, and would readily provide a digital copy to any such brave individuals. Of course it's one of those things I put together on a slow day at work, much like most things of this nature get created and posted and shared I suspect, by some unchallenged information loving technology embracing slacker who would rather create a sortable spreadsheet organizing every girl he ever kissed by height, weight, year, duration, and nature of the relationship than create another traffic simulation model. I've never actually created the kissed girl spreadsheet, but I'd be lying if I said I'm not interested now that I've come up with the idea. Freaky bookmark explanation aside, the point is that I like to read IJ in almost daily 30 minute thought provoking brain exercise doses, put it down for a day, and repeat. During the past six months, it's become much more a part of me and my life than any other book, mostly because it's constantly been by my side and vigorously engaging me for so long.
Now I must admit, my relationship with the book hasn't been without it's hitches. I first attempted to read it a few years ago and fizzled out before page 200. On this attempt, around page 300 or so (the Eschaton part), the book seemed to become a bit of a hassle again, but those feelings dissipated after a thirty minute session or two. I'm now past the curiousity stage and am completely committed and have no doubt that I will finish it.
I love the book not because of the story or the characters or anything literal from the book, but because of how constantly robust and completely consuming the book is. Despite the challenging vocabulary, never-ending endnotes, and fractured chapter structure, attention and comprehension are actually surprisingly easy (a DFW trademark, I think). In fact the book is so fractured in plot and organization that I'm beginning to think that the 30 minute session approach is the best way to read it. By consciously not just plowing through it, I've been able to patiently digest each segment, and really, if I'm going to read this bad boy, than I'm going *read* the damn thing, even if it takes the better part of a year.
At one time I thought that when finished, I would be elated about my conquest and relieved to have the burden lifted, but now I'm starting to think that more than anything I'm really just going to miss it. I've heard vague grumblings that the book doesn't really have a resolute ending, which if true could only propagate the feeling of emptiness I'm cautiously expecting. Not emptiness in a I just wasted a year of my life on a story with no ending kind of way, but emptiness in a semi-close friend moved away expectedly and with contact information in place but never calls or emails or writes kind of way. It hasn't been easy, but after all, a quest as rewarding as this one isn't supposed to be easy, and the nearer I get to the end the more I regret that it has to end at all.
Supplemental sentence added Feb 1 - Something about IJ makes those who read it want to find others on the quest.
Monday, January 01, 2007
The Universe Is Big, and We Are Small
We've all seen or heard numerous examples and even had experiences that clue us in to just how huge the universe is and how infinitesimal we are. We are amazed by this reality. It might affect us for a few moments, hours, or days, and then we go back to worrying about what's for dinner.
Here's one, it's a picture taken of Saturn back lit by the sun:
Here's one, it's a picture taken of Saturn back lit by the sun:
Pretty cool, right? But is this more than just a pretty picture of planet we take for granted as being out there somewhere? Look a little closer:
See that little dot in the upper left corner? Yeah, you guessed it, that's Earth. Smile, you're being photographed.
I must give credit where it's due, I pretty much stole this entire sequence from Phil Plait's "Top Ten Astronomy Pictures of the 2006" post (http://www.badastronomy.com/bablog/2006/12/27/the-top-ten-astronomy-images-of-2006/)
With credit now given, I will disclose that when I first saw this, it took my breath away. Since then, I've not only found my ability to both inhale and exhale, but I've also eaten beef wellington with potatoes and green beans for dinner.
Happy New Year, and good night.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)