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Thursday, October 17, 2002
I had the opportunity to commune with my caveman ancestors again yesterday. I went to Target to buy a new electric razor, and I stood there for 20 minutes looking at two nearly identical products, turning them over in my hands, my feeble brain trying desperately to figure out the difference between them. I imagined that Grog must have felt the same way when he was working on the wheel. He probably stood there in front of his square stone on its square axle, furrowing his low-slung brow, knowing that there was something he was missing, but not quite being able to put his finger on it.
A similar scene played itself out again a few hours later when I got home and tried to take my new razor out of its package. I don't know if the problem was with me or with the overzealous employee that the Braun Corporation put in charge of packaging, but I had to commit every one of my brain cells to the project of getting the thing open. After examining it thoroughly, it didn't appear that the plastic box had even been designed to be opened. Like the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey, its shape and purpose were so inscrutable that it appeared to be magic. After much apelike howling, I finally did what the human race has always done when presented with a tough obstacle: I cut it up with a pair of Ikea kitchen scissors. Take that, evolution.
I have a feeling that Grog might make an appearance in my novel.
A similar scene played itself out again a few hours later when I got home and tried to take my new razor out of its package. I don't know if the problem was with me or with the overzealous employee that the Braun Corporation put in charge of packaging, but I had to commit every one of my brain cells to the project of getting the thing open. After examining it thoroughly, it didn't appear that the plastic box had even been designed to be opened. Like the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey, its shape and purpose were so inscrutable that it appeared to be magic. After much apelike howling, I finally did what the human race has always done when presented with a tough obstacle: I cut it up with a pair of Ikea kitchen scissors. Take that, evolution.
I have a feeling that Grog might make an appearance in my novel.
Monday, October 14, 2002
I've made an addition to my photo battle portfolio. Also be sure to look at feng's photos and haze's photos. Judge the winner for yourself!
OK, time for sleep.
OK, time for sleep.
I am writing this to you from my deathbed.
OK, actually I'm on the couch. And I'm not really dying, I just have a slight cold. If you're one of those people who insists on accuracy, you may go back to the previous sentence and replace "deathbed" with "sofa of mild discomfort", although I warn you that it sounds far less dramatic.
There are some things in this world that we are powerless to prevent. The worst of these are the things that happen slowly, giving us ample time to reflect on our helplessness. Such it was last night when I awoke at 2 AM with a sore throat. I immediately performed the Ritual Against Cold - taking a cough drop, putting on an extra shirt, and drinking a big huge glass of water - but it was no use. We modern people think we're so sophisticated with our science and our Gore-Tex, but when the chips are down we're just as superstitious as our caveman ancestors. I bet that my primitive forebear- let's call him Grog - had the exact same reaction when he felt that hot tickling of mucus running down the back of his throat in the middle of the night, and I bet he spent the rest of the dark hours the same way I did - tossing and turning, getting up every hour to pee and drink more water, and sweating inside three layers of mammoth hide pajamas.
As I faded in and out of sleep in the penumbra of my approaching cold, I assured myself that I would be well by morning, well enough to go to work and do the 3.5 million things on my to-do list, and well enough to play in my soccer game afterwards. I was still nursing this fantasy at 8:30 AM when I gave up on sleep and got out of bed. At some point in the next 10 minutes, as I stumbled from my bedroom to the bathroom to urinate, and then from the bathroom to the other bathroom to get cold medicine, and then from the other bathroom to the den to do something that I had, at that point, forgotten, it hit me: I shouldn't go to work.
The tingling sensation that crossed my brain at that moment could have been lightheadedness, but I'm pretty sure that it was an epiphany. At my last place of work, I never took a sick day. Nobody did. In fact, one of my last official acts as an employee there was dragging myself off of the sofa of extreme dementia and into the office to help out with the release that we were working on. I wasn't fit to make a bowl of soup, much less drive a car or write a computer program, but drive and write I did, churning out what was surely some of the worst code that has ever been compiled. I even had to reschedule an interview for what turned out to be my current job, just so that I could go in and wreck myself on behalf of the job I was trying to get rid of. I'm not complaining, mind you. I never even complained when it was happening. I'm just trying to give you an idea of the kind of mindset I had. I was willing to work, literally, until it killed me.
The epiphany I had this morning is that this type of thinking is, on the whole, not terribly healthy. It's not healthy for me, certainly. It's not healthy for my co-workers who stand to inherit my germs, an eddy of sleepless Grog nights spinning about me into the future as I pass through the halls. And it's not really all that great of a bargain for my employers, who get sub-standard work without the tax benefits of claiming a sick day. It's a bum deal all around. It's true, I will be a day behind schedule, but the 3.5 million things on my list will wait until I return. They will probably accrue interest in my absence, but will the world stop spinning on its axis? Although I have signed multiple NDAs, I don't feel I'm disclosing any confidential information when I tell you that there is only a very slight chance that my work, past or present, will have any effect on the movement of a planetary body. So why have I been so keen to behave this way?
I don't have any answers for you. Blame it on youth, if you like, or blame it on the go-go 90's, or blame it on those little ice cube trays that make ice cubes in the shape of golf balls. They're all equally likely, I suppose, although the ice cube thing might be a bit out of left field. I'm not going to worry about it. I'm just glad to have taken one more step towards the promised land of Less Insane Living, a magical place in which, when you're sick, you take a day off for chrissakes.
OK, actually I'm on the couch. And I'm not really dying, I just have a slight cold. If you're one of those people who insists on accuracy, you may go back to the previous sentence and replace "deathbed" with "sofa of mild discomfort", although I warn you that it sounds far less dramatic.
There are some things in this world that we are powerless to prevent. The worst of these are the things that happen slowly, giving us ample time to reflect on our helplessness. Such it was last night when I awoke at 2 AM with a sore throat. I immediately performed the Ritual Against Cold - taking a cough drop, putting on an extra shirt, and drinking a big huge glass of water - but it was no use. We modern people think we're so sophisticated with our science and our Gore-Tex, but when the chips are down we're just as superstitious as our caveman ancestors. I bet that my primitive forebear- let's call him Grog - had the exact same reaction when he felt that hot tickling of mucus running down the back of his throat in the middle of the night, and I bet he spent the rest of the dark hours the same way I did - tossing and turning, getting up every hour to pee and drink more water, and sweating inside three layers of mammoth hide pajamas.
As I faded in and out of sleep in the penumbra of my approaching cold, I assured myself that I would be well by morning, well enough to go to work and do the 3.5 million things on my to-do list, and well enough to play in my soccer game afterwards. I was still nursing this fantasy at 8:30 AM when I gave up on sleep and got out of bed. At some point in the next 10 minutes, as I stumbled from my bedroom to the bathroom to urinate, and then from the bathroom to the other bathroom to get cold medicine, and then from the other bathroom to the den to do something that I had, at that point, forgotten, it hit me: I shouldn't go to work.
The tingling sensation that crossed my brain at that moment could have been lightheadedness, but I'm pretty sure that it was an epiphany. At my last place of work, I never took a sick day. Nobody did. In fact, one of my last official acts as an employee there was dragging myself off of the sofa of extreme dementia and into the office to help out with the release that we were working on. I wasn't fit to make a bowl of soup, much less drive a car or write a computer program, but drive and write I did, churning out what was surely some of the worst code that has ever been compiled. I even had to reschedule an interview for what turned out to be my current job, just so that I could go in and wreck myself on behalf of the job I was trying to get rid of. I'm not complaining, mind you. I never even complained when it was happening. I'm just trying to give you an idea of the kind of mindset I had. I was willing to work, literally, until it killed me.
The epiphany I had this morning is that this type of thinking is, on the whole, not terribly healthy. It's not healthy for me, certainly. It's not healthy for my co-workers who stand to inherit my germs, an eddy of sleepless Grog nights spinning about me into the future as I pass through the halls. And it's not really all that great of a bargain for my employers, who get sub-standard work without the tax benefits of claiming a sick day. It's a bum deal all around. It's true, I will be a day behind schedule, but the 3.5 million things on my list will wait until I return. They will probably accrue interest in my absence, but will the world stop spinning on its axis? Although I have signed multiple NDAs, I don't feel I'm disclosing any confidential information when I tell you that there is only a very slight chance that my work, past or present, will have any effect on the movement of a planetary body. So why have I been so keen to behave this way?
I don't have any answers for you. Blame it on youth, if you like, or blame it on the go-go 90's, or blame it on those little ice cube trays that make ice cubes in the shape of golf balls. They're all equally likely, I suppose, although the ice cube thing might be a bit out of left field. I'm not going to worry about it. I'm just glad to have taken one more step towards the promised land of Less Insane Living, a magical place in which, when you're sick, you take a day off for chrissakes.
Sunday, October 13, 2002
Matt and I watched A Hard Day's Night tonight. Man, what an amazing film. Anyone who doubts that great cinema can be entertaining should watch this movie. It's zany and funny and artful, all at the same time. What jumped out at me this time was how creative and practical Richard Lester is with his camera placement. He creates some beautiful, even surreal, shots, but they never feel out of place. And the movie's so much fun! I don't know how they did it. Lester cheekily describes his style as "useless amateurism", but to me it seems refreshing and energetic, even after 40 years of imitations. If that's useless amateurism, then I would be happy to produce just one piece of it in my lifetime.
I was also struck by how much of Lester that Steven Soderbergh has absorbed. Even though I read his book, I never really understood the extent of Lester's influence. Watch A Hard Day's Night and you see a lot of what defines the "new Soderbergh": handheld cameras, documentary style, small crew, quick setups. He even seems to have stolen the cool helicopter shot in Traffic directly from this film. I bet Solaris will feature Clooney singing "Can't Buy Me Love".
If you still aren't convinced that you need to see this movie, check out Roger Ebert's review for more gushing.
I was also struck by how much of Lester that Steven Soderbergh has absorbed. Even though I read his book, I never really understood the extent of Lester's influence. Watch A Hard Day's Night and you see a lot of what defines the "new Soderbergh": handheld cameras, documentary style, small crew, quick setups. He even seems to have stolen the cool helicopter shot in Traffic directly from this film. I bet Solaris will feature Clooney singing "Can't Buy Me Love".
If you still aren't convinced that you need to see this movie, check out Roger Ebert's review for more gushing.