Banter on Chit-Chat

When I am asked the question, “How are you?” I respond with “Well”, even if I am not well. I never respond differently so as not to convert small talk into large talk. No further inquiry should be needed. I will only reply differently when I have asked the question first and the other’s response is “Good”. When the question is reciprocated, I will also reply with a grammatically incorrect answer; “Good”. This is so I don’t appear elitist.*ª

You should never hear:

A: “How are you?”
B: “I’m well. How are you?”
A: “Not so well, actually. Life has been proverbially sucking.”
B: “Okay, have a great day.”
A: “Thanks, you too!”

The above conversation has never happened. I wish it had, and that I had played the part of person A. I don’t need people prying themselves into my personal life. Conversations occurring in passing, while walking down a hallway or in an uncomfortable environment such as an elevator or airplane bathroom queue, should be as curt as possible.

A week ago, I was walking down a hallway, debating whether or not to address the person walking towards me. Clearly, she was thinking the same thing because she hesitantly said, “Hi.” mere steps in front of me. Under pressure, instead of “Hello” I responded with, “How are you?” My question was tardy, we had already physically passed each other in the hallway, I knew it. She answered my question while already behind me and to my horror, returned my belated pleasantries. “Good. How are you?” Shoot! A simple ‘good’ would have sufficed. Now I’m stuck and time is scarce. Should I turn around and politely answer back, or answer very loudly without even turning or should I ignore her question and move quickly on? Well, I chose the latter option, and ducked into my office.

The next time I saw her, neither of us engaged in eye contact, let alone any other form of verbal communication. For the last week, I have focused on avoiding this woman in the hallway. Sometimes I even pretend to be on my cell phone when I walk past her office. I am immature, I know, but I put a lot of time and energy into being this way.

I suppose the point that I should be taking from my own reasoning is this: life’s insipid tea leaves forecast very little, so it is necessary to spice up the bland. I may just add a little more flavour into my next conversation and if I leave a bad taste in the back of your throat, suck it up.
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*ª I am elitist.

The Right Direction

A collection of national polls measuring Americans' opinions on whether or not the USA is heading in the right direction confirms wayward fears. An average of 18% of Americans affirm the nation's direction while 75.7% believe we need to change course. The confidence has been cut in nearly half from three years ago when an average of roughly 40% of Americans approved the direction in which their country was heading.

What is shocking to me is that even 18% (let alone 40%) of any group of people can get together, en masse, and affirm a specific heading. Now, this should be very easy in an automobile, when linear travel is most often the norm. One has normally two to four choices of direction upon asphalt. Given the flexibility of an off-road vehicle, a group of people can head in any planar direction. This, in itself, provides limitless direction and as a result, multitudinous dissent (provided no GPS navigation system is provided, (although one would be hard pressed to find an off-road vehicle without at least an iPhone anymore)). Yet, I look at a nation filled with over 300 million legal citizens rather than a Jeep Wrangler with seating for four. Think of a rocket ship, propelled by technological growth, national concern and social change. In what direction can this metaphorical ship head? Any. It has vertical, lateral and longitudinal rotational abilities. Moreover, the addition of a Z-coordinate allows us to head towards any infinite directions in space. Throw in a fourth dimension of time, and, well, you get my point. How can anyone, let alone 54 million Americans agree on a very, very specific vector?

There is an answer and that answer is simpler than aeronautical political science can explain. Americans, in general, believe that any direction "forward" will suffice. The minor directional bearings are assumed to play no large role in national government. Now if we define "forward" as positive movement in relation to one axis governing the "statusquo ", a whole hemisphere of travel is considered "wrong". Without getting too mathematical, the more variables that we restrict with a requirement of positive growth, the smaller our preferred directional course will be. Fitting into that pinhole becomes a more daunting task. Let's simply focus on "positive" spacial growth by moving up the Z-axis. I'll take away the dimension of time by adding another flat plane perpendicular to the Z-axis and call that our "goal". The National Government's job, now, is to reach our "goal" by moving in a forward direction (at a constant rate of speed). If it's direction is just the slightest bit skewed, then it will take calculatedly longer to reach plane "goal". If a backward direction is headed, then it will take either longer or never to reach plane "goal", depending on the value of the variables.

So how does one explain the existence of an estimated 54 million people who agree the United States is heading towards plane "goal"? Clearly it becomes the position of "goal". Some may place it very far away, others, very close. Some make "goal" a coordinate, or point. Some make it non-linear. Some make it so it is not perpendicular to the "positive" Z axis. Others make it an imaginary number (see Marx and Engels).

The only conclusion that I can draw is that while most can agree that the right direction in one with positive growth, there is a finite number of people who just don't seem to care where the nation is heading, as long as Dancing With The Stars is on.

Ozzie Guillen

This post is in response to Ozzie Guillen's bemoans...

The text of the AP article can be found here:

TORONTO (AP)—White Sox manager Ozzie Guillen had his own Lee Elia moment, letting forth a stream of obscenities in which he accused Chicago fans of turning on the struggling team after a strong start.

During his rant before Sunday's game against Toronto, Guillen said the White Sox are not sufficiently appreciated in their city despite winning the 2005 World Series.

"That's what ticks me off about Chicago fans and Chicago media, they forget pretty quickly," Guillen said, punctuating his outburst with a healthy dose of vulgarities.

He bemoaned the fact that the Cubs are considered the "best" in Chicago even though they haven't won a World Series since 1908, dropping F-bombs along the way. He fears his team will never get respect "no matter how many World Series we win."

Guillen also mocked the 25th anniversary of the rant by Elia, the former Cubs manager. Guillen predicted his own tirades will one day be equally legendary, and maybe lucrative.

"How many times do I curse people out? I will make a lot of money. … I have to keep going because in the future Ozzie will need money," he said.

The White Sox, who lost 4-3 Sunday, have dropped eight of 11 and fallen out of first place in the AL Central. At 14-15, the White Sox are below .500 for the first time since they started the season 1-2.

"People are panicking," Guillen said. "Did we play a real bad week? Yes, we did. We stunk. But it wasn't too long ago that we were the biggest surprise in baseball. Wow, look at the White Sox."

Chicago has scored just nine runs in its past five games and its .232 batting average is the AL's lowest.

In retort: Ozzie, the reason the White Sox don't get respect is because they currently don't deserve it. You've provided readers with the primary example that their manager spews obscenities and is quick to blame anyone but himself. It's also very hard to watch your team struggle to bat above the Mendoza line. Face it, the Marlins won two world series and they don't get respect either, but at least their team hits above .232 and managers Joe Girardi and Fredi Gonzalez have led a bunch of scrubs (sans Hanley Ramirez and ex-3b Miggy Cabrera) to victory. Have you ever stopped swearing to think that some of this might be your own fault? You said it yourself, you stunk last week. If you dare surprise Chicago fans by finishing atop the AL Central again, then expect more people to give you the appreciation (and shock) you deserve. Look at the 2008 major league payrolls, sir:

Chicago Sox (5th MLB): $121,152,667 (14-15)
Florida Marlins (30th MLB): $21,836,500 (17-14)

Nope, no typo there. The White Sox are paying approx. $100,000,000.00 (or 6x) more for their players this year than the team who has Cody Ross starting in CF and Mike Rabelo behind the dish. I just don't hear Rodney Dangerfield yelling from their dugout.

Sure, the Cubs have been losing lately too, a phenomenon nothing new to their fans. Yet, Cubs fans are filled with enough youthful exuberance (booze) and liquid courage (more booze) to face any gaunt prospects with prowess (and numbness). The Cubs will always have their goat, but you don't have to turn their fans or media attention into your personal scapegoat.

In short, focus on managing and let your bats speak. Bats neither swear nor speak will poor broken English. Maybe then you'll get some respect.


postscript: This is the same manager who was forced to apologize publicly in 2006 for calling Chicago sporst columnist Jay Mariotti a "F*cking Fag", And that's really not cool at all. If you want respect you'll have to earn it Ozzie.

Wilbur's Story

The fascinating life of Dr. Wilbur McCoy:

Dr. Wilbur McCoy was a giant. Although he was a literal midget in stature, his social importance and community standing towered. I guess what I’m saying is that while Dr. Wilbur McCoy was a dwarf himself, he made his descriptive adjective into a verb by, in turn, utilizing it to describe the way he acted around or unto, being nearby, and around other people. Does that make sense? I know it doesn’t. He dwarfed them while also being a dwarf. There. But size of body doesn’t matter when one’s large heart makes up for the physical deficiency. Not that it was a deficiency. I mean, if he had an absurdly large heart for his body, he could have had medical problems and would have had to utilize the same hospital wing that was built with his money and named in his honor. It was called the West Wilbur Wing. Kids got a giggle when they tried to say the name of the section of the hospital that their mother’s were recuperating within, however its all they could giggle about because, in truth, their mothers were there because they had a very serious alcohol induced car accident just weeks earlier and were forced to lose their jobs with out compensation. The lack of security made the families crumble under the harsh demands of society and its capitalistic frame work. Eventually the hospital would deny the bogus health insurance and they would resort to even more drinking and child negligence. But at least the little kids got a kick out of seeing a midget in a white coat walking through the West Wilbur Wing. They all thought he was a clown. This is why Dr. Wilbur McCoy carried around long balloons, a bicycle horn and a lifetime of sorrows everywhere he went.

What makes this tale truly remarkable is the ending. Unfortunately, I haven’t the time to complete it right now.

A Lover's Essay

A Lover's Essay:

It's like euphoria, sitting next to you on the park bench. You smell like Suave Mountain Breeze Conditioner, which smells more like the Andes than the Alps. There's a subtle hint of Alpaca to its scent. I can think of nothing but how your dirty converse sneakers are ruggedly beautiful. It's like you don't give a damn, but I know you do. The holes in your jeans show that you know how to get down and roll around in the hay, but the lack of straw remnants on your clothing show that you know how to pick off straw remnants from your clothes. Just as you probably question the government, I definitely question why fate had not brought us together years earlier. That book you read, I've never heard of it, it makes you look smart, and that's why you're beautiful. When I subtly look into your eyes I can only see your thick rimmed glasses. This is your way of telling all people, but specifically me, that you need to wear these glasses, that you're not perfect. But I know you are perfect, you probably don't even need to wear those glasses. You humility screams so loudly. I clench my hands over my ears and hum. I pretend to listen to what I think your metallic green iPod nano is playing. I guess that you may be listening to the highly bloggable band 'The Teenagers' but then I realize you are tapping two of your fingers against your knee relatively quickly and I assume that you are probably listening to a more electro-rock band like "Does It Offend You, Yeah?". It doesn't offend me. I digg it. I've digged it.

Now you notice that I have been awkwardly staring at you, and bobbing my head while singing along imaginary music. You scowl. I grin and reach out to you, my Lovely. You run. Ah, yes, the chase is a very important part to courtship. I will play along, I beckon; "I'm gonna get you!" and I chase afterwards with my hands grasping for your hair. Oh, no! I see that you've left your jacket-less book upon the park bench. I will salvage it. There's a lot of creepy people in any given park, I wouldn't want them doing unmentionable things to your favorite Russian author's masterpiece. You've fled. Vanished into the ethereal depths of my memories. I may never see you again. Until I realize that your book club meets on Damen at 8:30 every Tuesday night. It seems that I might see you again, after all. I'll be the guy in the beret. No, not that one, the other one, the one to the left of the red head who says 'eclectic' a lot. No, not the guy you're thinking of, he has auburn hair and a well-trimmed goatee. I would have said, "well-trimmed goatee" if I were talking about him. I'm talking about the red head who wears those jackets with more pockets than he has items to hold. Got it? Good. See you there, my Lovely.

More on Tickets

I find myself, yet again, facing an uphill battle of defeating the evil oligarchs governing ticket sales. I'd like to go see one of six sold out Magnetic Fields shows at the Old Town School of Folk Music with my friend Kyle. I am faced with a very limited supply of available tickets. This doesn't appear so daunting because I have craigslist, right? Well, I suppose I'll see how my craigslist post ends up:

Hello. If you are reading this post, then there is a small chance that you have available Magnetic Fields tickets for any of their shows at the Old Town School of Folk Music in Chicago. Let me take this moment to tell you that you are a skunk... a lucky ONE! (Had I the ability to use italics, I would have used them there (I really feel that italics best manifest true emotion, at least better than any other punctuation mark outside of the question mark/exclamation point combo!!!!?!?!?!))

I am looking for any quantity of tickets that you possess as I have an uncertain quantity of friends who have each failed to secure any tickets to this concert series. At the moment, I am knee deep in paper, pencils and other assorted office supplies trying to create a list of who my best friends are and how much they are worth. (Ouch! I think I just got stabbed in the shin by a circle compass). I have decided that I am worth a variable between $40 and $45, depending on my mood and ability to haul large objects for the greater good of commerce (or for the People's Republic (in that case I am worth a quart of goat milk and a loaf of bread))(let my democratic value = V). My best friend is worth $100-V. My next set of friends is hardly as valuable and decline in value at an asymptotic rate approaching the x-axis. My 6th best friend is only worth around face value for a ticket and Kevin Bacon is barely worth a cent to me. Although, I would have to add the variable that bringing Kevin Bacon to concert with me might help me score a free drink or meet a nice girl (with whom I can marry and start a family with and dance to Magnetic Fields songs as we recall that wonderful night we had at the Old Town School of Folk Music where we met, listened to the Fields and spilled a drink on Kevin Bacon). I’ll let that variable = Kb. Thus, the new formula for Magnetic Fields tickets is: Price= lim(x→∞) f(2008/(# friend²+100-V) + Kb)

Anyway, I have cash, a car and a burning desire to further the US dependency on foreign oil by driving to you and purchasing your tickets. Not that I'm a liberal whackadoo. But I can be for you. (Also sometimes late at night I find bathing in gasoline comforting on the skin, so I'll gather with friends or Kevin Bacon to do that occasionally). I know Hugo Chavez likes it when I do. He's clearly invited. Not to bathing with me, but to the Magnetic Fields concert. Of course, Hugo Chavez only sits in the front row. I'll warn him not to mosh, but I can't promise anything.

I can promise cash for your tickets, though. Or, of course, I can always offer you a straight up trade for goat cheese and a loaf of bread. But we're in America baby, where alcohol is a much more liquid asset (pun clearly intended).

So what do you say?!?!?!!!!???

Purchasing Tickets at a Premium

Now, I consider myself adept in the art of buying and selling hard-to-get tickets. I have even had my share of successes in the art of selling easy-to-get tickets. I have bought and sold Cubs and concert tickets for profit on many occasions in the past. One of my funniest memories comes from when our international study group in Buenos Aires were issued 50 tickets to a World Championship Polo match in 2003. Because not all 50 American students wanted to go and see a Polo match, the few who did were left with a handful of extra tickets.

I have to note that I actually loved watching this Polo match and found it truly a window into the Argentine culture. I suppose that it would be like taking a foreigner to a baseball game of ours. They wouldn't completely understand it, but they would enjoy atmosphere and beer. (As polo is to baseball, so is soccer to American football). At the Polo Grounds, there are two stands. One is for the rich people and the other is for American Students. The Rich people rattled their jewelry when they cheered and to enjoy the match they drank wine or champagne. Everyone on our side hooted and smashed our beers together. I think we had more fun. Regardless, the most fun we had was in selling our 35 extra tickets before the match. We were a little hesitant at first. Foremost, because we had received the tickets a gift from the Sales Director of Argentina Polo himself. While we soon pushed past that moral road block, we found that we were a little nervous scalping tickets in a foreign country using a foreign language for, a quite literally, foreign event about which we knew nothing. What we did know, however, was how to sell tickets. So, after pushing past my initial hesitation, I took the stack of tickets and made my way to the end of the patron line.

"Se Vende!" I quietly exclaimed. "Se Vende." A police officer was standing on the street. No bites. No problem, I reeled in. I considered myself a professional. I cast another line,"Se VENDE! Boletos... Muy baratos." A man came up to me. "Cuanto salen estos boletos?" How much do these tickets go for, he asked. I hesitated, SHOOT, I didn't know. The tickets didn't have prices on them, they were gifts. I looked at my friends, they didn't know either. My friend Ryan Adcock thought he had overheard someone saying $50 pesos each (which was the rough equivalent of U$15). I told the man in Castellano, "Forty Pesos for each ticket. They go for fifty at the ticket office." He pulled out four notes and paid for two. Then almost immediately, another man walked up. He was followed by yet another man, who was followed by two others. Soon, a very large and out of place crowd was gathered on our section of the street. "Shoot, guys, here take some tickets." I tried to pass a dozen tickets over the mob of people surrounding us. I began to sell Polo match tickets for forty pesos each. There was such chaos on the streets that I was forgetting who had paid and who I had already given their tickets. Among a mob of reaching arms and money I noticed that the police officer had come over. I panicked. For a brief moment I thought about stuffing my last couple of tickets into my mouth and running. I thought better of it. "Good day, sir." I nodded. He returned my greeting with a chuckle and walked away. Good grief! I sighed. In what can only be visually described as a storm of dust and disorder somewhat similar to a Warner Brothers' character scuffle, I sold my last ticket. Ryan and Blaine were all out of theirs as well. Good. We were done. We struggled away from the crowd and toward the entrance gate. We offered each other nods to signify a job well done. We laughed as we approached the entrance gate. Then, in a very comical and ironical realization we harmonized in our exclamation aloud; "OH NO!" Although our exclamation probably had at least one more unprintable word in it. What idiots we were! We had sold our own tickets!

We ran to the line we had just left, and very awkwardly waited until we ended closely enough to read the sign that had the prices on them. It read: "Polo Match Tickets still available- $30 pesos ea." What fortune!

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The reason that I printed this story is simply therapeutic. You see, I have just been very recently defeated in my own game. I am forced to pay a large premium to attend the final Wilco show for their Riviera residency. I am hoping that this homeopathic recollection of one of my victories will let me forget that I will be without an arm and a leg tomorrow. But at least I will have seen Wilco play live for 3 hours. Eh, consider this a victory too.