A lady from the Comedy Factory just called me and informed me that I had been awarded 15 free tickets to this Friday’s show. “What is this,” I asked, “some kind of joke?”
_____________________
(This really did happen. If someone wants to go see some (probably horrifically unfunny) comedians on Friday, give me a call, but be forewarned – the comedy club’s in a bowling alley. That's... probably not a good sign.)
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
I don't wanna wait for our lives to be over
I know, it has been too long since my last post, but it would be arrogant of me to apologize, as if my reticence withheld a gift from you. I am still sorry, and it is not my fault. I’ve been really busy. A ‘friend’ gave me a ‘gift’ and ruined my life.
Those of you who follow the blog (or follow my movements through a telescope) will know that I am a graduate student in philosophy. In other words, I have a lot of spare time. Or I did, until I took up permanent residence in Capeside, along the banks of Dawson’s Creek. It’s a beautiful place.
I don’t have a television in my house. Some people can handle the lure of a television; I can’t. Some people turn on the TV, flip around a little bit, and say, “There’s nothing on.” There is always something on. Perhaps there’s nothing good on. It may be the case that there’s nothing worth watching on. But there’s always something on. I will watch whatever is on. I will watch Cityline with Marilyn Denis. I will watch the Maury Povich show. I will watch that ridiculous man with the long ponytail sell his ridiculous exercise machine – the Gazelle – even though I know in my heart that I am not going to see what I am hoping for, because even if one of the spokesmodels suffered a horrific groin tear, they would edit out the screaming and writhing in post-production. I don’t know why, but if there is a TV, you can count on me watching it.
But still there is something special about Dawson’s Creek. I can’t explain it, and I know it is an indefensible and unhealthy addiction, but I just can’t get enough, and ever since I came into possession of Season Two on DVD, I am not constrained by the limitations of the television schedule. I can take a little trip to Capeside whenever I want. I turn it on, and I am taken to that special place where gorgeous white kids with huge vocabularies work through seemingly insurmountable problems (a surprising amount like life in my apartment). I know it is stupid. I know the girl playign Andie McPhee was 28 years old when they filmed season two; she was supposed to be 16. I know that there is really no depth of feeling or emotion behind these characters. I know that she never loved me, and she is getting married to Tom Cruise (this never would have happened if she had not chosen Pacey. Dawson would never have let this happen). I know all of this. I just can’t stop watching.
Those of you who follow the blog (or follow my movements through a telescope) will know that I am a graduate student in philosophy. In other words, I have a lot of spare time. Or I did, until I took up permanent residence in Capeside, along the banks of Dawson’s Creek. It’s a beautiful place.
I don’t have a television in my house. Some people can handle the lure of a television; I can’t. Some people turn on the TV, flip around a little bit, and say, “There’s nothing on.” There is always something on. Perhaps there’s nothing good on. It may be the case that there’s nothing worth watching on. But there’s always something on. I will watch whatever is on. I will watch Cityline with Marilyn Denis. I will watch the Maury Povich show. I will watch that ridiculous man with the long ponytail sell his ridiculous exercise machine – the Gazelle – even though I know in my heart that I am not going to see what I am hoping for, because even if one of the spokesmodels suffered a horrific groin tear, they would edit out the screaming and writhing in post-production. I don’t know why, but if there is a TV, you can count on me watching it.
But still there is something special about Dawson’s Creek. I can’t explain it, and I know it is an indefensible and unhealthy addiction, but I just can’t get enough, and ever since I came into possession of Season Two on DVD, I am not constrained by the limitations of the television schedule. I can take a little trip to Capeside whenever I want. I turn it on, and I am taken to that special place where gorgeous white kids with huge vocabularies work through seemingly insurmountable problems (a surprising amount like life in my apartment). I know it is stupid. I know the girl playign Andie McPhee was 28 years old when they filmed season two; she was supposed to be 16. I know that there is really no depth of feeling or emotion behind these characters. I know that she never loved me, and she is getting married to Tom Cruise (this never would have happened if she had not chosen Pacey. Dawson would never have let this happen). I know all of this. I just can’t stop watching.
Monday, November 28, 2005
A cry for help
Does anyone know anything about toothbrush repair? I have gotten all of the old bristles out, but I cannot figure out how to get new bristles in…
Fight for your mind
Last night, I watched Fight Club. For a moment, it seemed that my lifelong quest would be completed, and finally I would understand who I was. Brad Pitt swaggered in front of the camera, and promised that he knew the way to self-discovery. “How much can you know about yourself if you’ve never been in a fight? Our great war is a spiritual one, and our great depression is our lives.”
And I watched as regular guys beat the tar out of each other in a search for meaning, and in the movie, they found it. A wide eyed, breathless media reported on the emergence fight clubs here in the real world – guys began punching each other in the face to achieve a rough enlightenment. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, but we will do anything, no matter how stupid, if the promise at the other end is an explanation, a purpose. We will listen to any sort of foolishness if someone will tell us who we are, take the keys to the great filing cabinet upstairs and show us our permanent record, the file that makes everything clear. “Ah, Jonas, you are a very interesting case...” the great record-keeper will say. “I will let you see this. All you have to do is punch someone else in the face. No, I changed my mind. All you need is a girlfriend. Oh, sorry, no, I will tell you who you are if you go to church every Sunday…”
Dr. Phil or Dr. Freud, we will listen to anyone. Journals to fight clubs, we will do anything. And our great fear is not that it will hurt. Our great fear is that there is nothing to discover, no fact of the matter; that at the end of all our therapy sessions and boxing matches we still will not know ourselves. What if it turns out that this random thing is all there is? What if there is no permanent record, no string that ties together all the events that seemed meaningless, no hour long show that sums it up?
Sorry, I have no answers for you.
And I watched as regular guys beat the tar out of each other in a search for meaning, and in the movie, they found it. A wide eyed, breathless media reported on the emergence fight clubs here in the real world – guys began punching each other in the face to achieve a rough enlightenment. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, but we will do anything, no matter how stupid, if the promise at the other end is an explanation, a purpose. We will listen to any sort of foolishness if someone will tell us who we are, take the keys to the great filing cabinet upstairs and show us our permanent record, the file that makes everything clear. “Ah, Jonas, you are a very interesting case...” the great record-keeper will say. “I will let you see this. All you have to do is punch someone else in the face. No, I changed my mind. All you need is a girlfriend. Oh, sorry, no, I will tell you who you are if you go to church every Sunday…”
Dr. Phil or Dr. Freud, we will listen to anyone. Journals to fight clubs, we will do anything. And our great fear is not that it will hurt. Our great fear is that there is nothing to discover, no fact of the matter; that at the end of all our therapy sessions and boxing matches we still will not know ourselves. What if it turns out that this random thing is all there is? What if there is no permanent record, no string that ties together all the events that seemed meaningless, no hour long show that sums it up?
Sorry, I have no answers for you.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Time Traveller
Tips for students:
If you want to accomplish nothing at all, why not buy yourself a laptop computer with a DVD player?
If I had a time machine, I would be really careful with it. I wouldn’t change anything in the past, because even very small changes in the past can have catastrophic implications in the future. You might not suspect that the something as insignificant as killing one little butterfly could alter the course of history, but it can. The responsibility of having a time machine is pretty major – that thing is not a toy. The grim faced general would say, “I don’t like it, but we’ve got no other choice; we’re sending you back in time. The parameters of this mission have been clearly laid out. Do not venture beyond them! I cannot stress this enough: any actions you take could dramatically and irreversibly alter the future.”
“Don’t worry General,” I’d promise. “I’ve been training for this mission all my life.”
When the chips are down, you can count on me to be the sort of person who will not have a perceivable impact on the world. If you need someone to send back in time, I am your man.
If you want to accomplish nothing at all, why not buy yourself a laptop computer with a DVD player?
If I had a time machine, I would be really careful with it. I wouldn’t change anything in the past, because even very small changes in the past can have catastrophic implications in the future. You might not suspect that the something as insignificant as killing one little butterfly could alter the course of history, but it can. The responsibility of having a time machine is pretty major – that thing is not a toy. The grim faced general would say, “I don’t like it, but we’ve got no other choice; we’re sending you back in time. The parameters of this mission have been clearly laid out. Do not venture beyond them! I cannot stress this enough: any actions you take could dramatically and irreversibly alter the future.”
“Don’t worry General,” I’d promise. “I’ve been training for this mission all my life.”
When the chips are down, you can count on me to be the sort of person who will not have a perceivable impact on the world. If you need someone to send back in time, I am your man.
Friday, November 18, 2005
surprised by joy
My life has been filled with moments of happiness, moments for which I would forestall the promise of heaven. I have sat with friends, and laughed hard, almost recklessly, until I was light-headed and desperate for air. I have stood on mountain peaks, awestruck at God’s power and goodness to us. I have felt summer sunlight filter through a bower of trees, sunlight as warm and delicious as honey. Even among these exceptional moments, this morning was singularly wonderful, as unexpected and rare and indescribable as true love. Wonderful things, and even miraculous, have happened to me before, but nothing like this… nothing even approximates to the moment when I found my profile on ratemyprofessors.com.
I had never heard of ratemyprofessors.com until this morning when I was reading Slate.com, which is currently running a series of articles on Universities. This morning, Slate ran a fluff piece on what makes a good university professor, making frequent reference to ratemyprofessor.com. I felt it was important, you know, in terms of my work as a graduate student, to investigate the rankings of some professors I know in the philosophy department at the U of A. My own impressions accorded fairly accurately with those expressed on the website – I agreed when one professor was described as pretentious and arrogant, and again when another was characterized as “interesting and intelligent.” And then I saw my own name.
The force of the story is intensified if you know (as I do) that I have never taught a class at the University of Alberta, or for that matter, at any academic institution. (I once gave a lecture at G-Mac, but only the most generous could consider that an “academic institution.”) I should not be listed among the philosophy professors at the University of Alberta. But there I was. I thought for a moment that I might be setting myself up for another disappointment, like the time that I thought I wrote the song “In Moments like These” because my name was given authorial credit at the bottom of the overhead. Turns out I didn’t write it; it was another man with the same name. That experience and the attendant caution it provided saved me from embarrassment (and possible death) many years later when I read about my exploits as a world famous rock climber. In that case also it turned out that the rock climber was not I, but another man with the same name.
But the more I thought about it, the more certain I became that it really was me. My attendance at the university has been sporadic, but not so spotty that a professor with a name identical to mine would have escaped my attention. With trembling fingers, I clicked on my name.
An angel sang to me. The heavens rang with his voice. He sang, “This guy is the bomb! If you get the chance to learn anything from this guy, do it. Pure genius. I give him 8 years before his [sic] world renowned.” And then another voice rang out, singing, “I completely agree. Best teacher I’ve encountered in my 5 years at university. I give him a big thumbs up. On the downside, his class was tough. Probably because this guy’s so smart.” Those were the only two comments, which was disappointing, but not surprising, seeing as I have never taught a class ever (*except once at G-Mac which does not count). Both commenters granted me the coveted ‘red chilli pepper’, indicating that I am ‘hot.’ I mention the chilli pepper only because it was the best thing that has ever happened to me in my entire life.
I honestly have no idea how this happened. I only know that I did not post these comments myself. Obviously, someone did this as a joke, but what subtlety! They did not tell me to check the website – I chanced upon this without any guidance. This situation is as baffling and wonderful as the time I came out after church to find that someone had left a box of donuts on the roof of my car. It was not until almost six months later that the mysterious ‘donut bomber’ revealed his identity (shout-out to D-Heng; thanks for the donuts). Will anyone ever step forward and claim responsibility for the unwarranted praise? Only time will tell. Until then, come, my children, come sup at the table of my bountiful genius. And bring a doggy bag, for there is sure to be excess, and you can save some for lunch tomorrow. You might scoff at this suggestion; you might think you can continue to ignore my teaching without loss; on ratemyprofessors.com, someone said, “If you get the chance to learn anything from this guy, do it.” I think it is good advice.
I had never heard of ratemyprofessors.com until this morning when I was reading Slate.com, which is currently running a series of articles on Universities. This morning, Slate ran a fluff piece on what makes a good university professor, making frequent reference to ratemyprofessor.com. I felt it was important, you know, in terms of my work as a graduate student, to investigate the rankings of some professors I know in the philosophy department at the U of A. My own impressions accorded fairly accurately with those expressed on the website – I agreed when one professor was described as pretentious and arrogant, and again when another was characterized as “interesting and intelligent.” And then I saw my own name.
The force of the story is intensified if you know (as I do) that I have never taught a class at the University of Alberta, or for that matter, at any academic institution. (I once gave a lecture at G-Mac, but only the most generous could consider that an “academic institution.”) I should not be listed among the philosophy professors at the University of Alberta. But there I was. I thought for a moment that I might be setting myself up for another disappointment, like the time that I thought I wrote the song “In Moments like These” because my name was given authorial credit at the bottom of the overhead. Turns out I didn’t write it; it was another man with the same name. That experience and the attendant caution it provided saved me from embarrassment (and possible death) many years later when I read about my exploits as a world famous rock climber. In that case also it turned out that the rock climber was not I, but another man with the same name.
But the more I thought about it, the more certain I became that it really was me. My attendance at the university has been sporadic, but not so spotty that a professor with a name identical to mine would have escaped my attention. With trembling fingers, I clicked on my name.
An angel sang to me. The heavens rang with his voice. He sang, “This guy is the bomb! If you get the chance to learn anything from this guy, do it. Pure genius. I give him 8 years before his [sic] world renowned.” And then another voice rang out, singing, “I completely agree. Best teacher I’ve encountered in my 5 years at university. I give him a big thumbs up. On the downside, his class was tough. Probably because this guy’s so smart.” Those were the only two comments, which was disappointing, but not surprising, seeing as I have never taught a class ever (*except once at G-Mac which does not count). Both commenters granted me the coveted ‘red chilli pepper’, indicating that I am ‘hot.’ I mention the chilli pepper only because it was the best thing that has ever happened to me in my entire life.
I honestly have no idea how this happened. I only know that I did not post these comments myself. Obviously, someone did this as a joke, but what subtlety! They did not tell me to check the website – I chanced upon this without any guidance. This situation is as baffling and wonderful as the time I came out after church to find that someone had left a box of donuts on the roof of my car. It was not until almost six months later that the mysterious ‘donut bomber’ revealed his identity (shout-out to D-Heng; thanks for the donuts). Will anyone ever step forward and claim responsibility for the unwarranted praise? Only time will tell. Until then, come, my children, come sup at the table of my bountiful genius. And bring a doggy bag, for there is sure to be excess, and you can save some for lunch tomorrow. You might scoff at this suggestion; you might think you can continue to ignore my teaching without loss; on ratemyprofessors.com, someone said, “If you get the chance to learn anything from this guy, do it.” I think it is good advice.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
It begins
I am a strange sort. I've been a secret weblogger for almost a year. I created a weblog and then launched it into absolute anonymity. No one ever read it. It was fun to think that my secrets were available to anyone who had a will to look; like kissing in public for the first time, there was no need for reservation or remorse, and it was a joyful affirmation of my reality: the joy of authenticity. And I loved that freedom, but attendant to my joy was a melancholy, a sadness that realized that the freedom to say anything is intimately related to the fact that no one cared; no one ever read my words. They fell like raindrops into a well of noise and disappeared without a ripple. They made no difference to anyone. It was not so bad, I suppose. It would not make any difference, except that this, which vanishes as if it was never spoken, is my life. There is no point to living it in private.
Giftshop wisdom entreats us to sing though no one listens, and dance though no one dance with you. I will not. Instead, I sing, and beg others to listen. I dance, with the dream of someone to turn with me, lean close, and follow my steps. This is my hope. This is why I cast these words into the void. Not for the sake of speaking, but for the sake of being heard, thence to be understood. How could this happen? But I hope.
Giftshop wisdom entreats us to sing though no one listens, and dance though no one dance with you. I will not. Instead, I sing, and beg others to listen. I dance, with the dream of someone to turn with me, lean close, and follow my steps. This is my hope. This is why I cast these words into the void. Not for the sake of speaking, but for the sake of being heard, thence to be understood. How could this happen? But I hope.
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