Ordinary Extraordinary

God's Standards

People, I don't care who you vote for as long as you don't vote for this douchebag:

I have opponents in this race who do not want to change the Constitution. But I believe it's a lot easier to change the Constitution than it would be to change the word of the living god. And that's what we need to do -- to amend the Constitution so it's in God's standards rather than try to change God's standards so it lines up with some contemporary view. - Mike Huckabee, 1/15/08

I'm guessing that he plans to start with the First Amendment:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

Dear Andrew

The Mighty Jimbo is the passerby mentioned in this article and he has written that young man a beautiful letter.

I don't know if you saw the sunrise that morning. I really hope you did. Maybe it would have given you hope. Or maybe it let your last sight be one of beauty. But if I had to find you, I only wish I could have found you a few hours earlier. Maybe we could have talked of dolphins. Maybe you would have let Josh lick your face. Maybe we could have seen the sunrise.

At twenty years old, there are just so many sunrises left to see.

Silence! I kill you!

I know I'm late to the party here, but this is some of the funniest shit I've seen in quite some time:

Many thanks to The Fireman for sending me this little gem and brightening up what was otherwise an awful day.

Inspiration

One of the things that I love about Los Angeles is that it is I am constantly surrounded by creative energy.

When I moved to Los Angeles to attend USC, I didn't expect to like it. I thought that I would go to college, rack up a few memorable experiences, and then hightail it back to the East coast as soon as humanly possible. That's not exactly what happened, though. Instead, I fell in love with the pulse of the city and I'm still here more than twelve years later. Los Angeles is very different from my familiar New York, but she breathes too.   

The bitter and the jaded will tell you that this city is a soul-sucking pit of despair that will kill your Muse and suck her dry of every last ounce of inspiration, but I disagree. Los Angeles is one of those cities to which people are drawn when they have big dreams of doing big things. She doesn't give up her treasures easily and those without the heart for the battle certainly do return home empty and defeated, but those who remain infuse the city with a persistent creative vibrancy.

There is a long-running joke about Los Angeles that everyone here as a "day job" and a "passion job." I know I do, and so does almost every single person I know. What do you do? Is always an entertaining getting-to-know-you question because the answer generally goes Well I do xxx to pay the bills, but I'm really working towards doing xxx. It takes a lot of energy to earn money doing one thing while pursuing another; only passion can keep someone waiting tables during the day and rehearsing / writing / performing / auditioning at night. That passion permeates the city.

I had dinner with some friends on Tuesday night and, over delicious s'mores at Luna Park, we started trading updates about all of our personal projects. We were all so enthusiastic that we were talking over one another, bouncing ideas around the table, feeling our projects grow from the rush of creative fervor. We were so absorbed in our conversation that eventually we abandoned our corner booth for a table at Starbucks where we continued to talk almost until closing. When I got home, I stayed up far too late jotting down notes from everything that had been brought to life over our simple dinner.

On the days when I am beaten down, thirsting for words while my Muse is sullen and silent, I need to remember that in this city, inspiration flows all around me; I need only reach my hand out into its cool current and drink my fill.

Take It To The Limit

My quads are so sore that I'm walking like a robot and hanging on to the railing for dear life every time I go down a flight of stairs. I've been crawling out of my chair every 30 minutes or so to stretch (my officemates are a little puzzled) but it has done very little to unlock the rocks that have taken up residence where my nice, supple muscles used to be. This could make training slightly difficult, especially since tonight I'm in for 90 minutes of one-on-one time with Chief.

We've hit our crazy season at work and my boss had a minor meltdown about my leaving in time to get to class, so for the time being I've switched to twice-weekly private sessions with Chief. Ultimately this is a good thing, but his sessions are far more difficult than his classes.

Chief: I always feel like my classes are harder because we do a lot of jumpsquats and burpees. I don't usually make anyone do those in session.
Me: True, but I still think the sessions are harder because they're tailored to my weak points. At least in class, there are some things that come a *little* more easily.
Chief: Heh. Guess I never thought about it that way. Put your gloves on.

Anyone who knows me will not be surprised to learn that, in a lot of ways, the mental aspect of Muay Thai is far more challenging to me than the physical; Chief is after me constantly to get out of my head, to stop thinking and analyzing and just do. The thing I struggle with the most is pressing myself to work not only to my limit, but also just a smidgeon beyond until the limit itself has moved.

Left to my own devices, I'll see my limit coming up ahead and stop a nice safe distance from it. I don't know when I learned to do that and I don't know what I'm afraid will happen if I get there, but some deep-seated instinct stomps on the brakes as soon as that line comes into view. It's like I'm willing to give up 95%, but for some reason I'm clinging desperately to that last 5%. Looking back, I see that this has been a pattern repeated in every area of my life for some time now.

Chief realized this about me roughly 10 minutes into our very first session (before I realized it about myself, truthfully) and has been trying to coax me a little bit closer to my limit ever since; I've fought him every step of the way. Because the man has the kindness and patience of a saint, he just keeps pushing me forward while completely ignoring whatever protestations I've offered. His standard response, delivered invariably with an impish grin, is Do I care? No, I don't care. Begin.

I've now been studying long enough that my session on Monday night was much more of a "standard" session - alternate rounds of strike drills and conditioning drills rather than short drills interspersed with basic technique explanations. Let me tell you: 90 minutes of striking and conditioning is no joke, especially when the holidays have kept you away from the gym for a couple of weeks - I was "done" less than 45 minutes in.

Here's the thing: During a private session, there's nowhere to hide. Even though the classes at our gym are usually less than ten people and Chief has eyes in the back of his head, I can still slow down or pause for a brief minute here and there. Not so when it's just the two of us, and doubly not so when we're the only two people in the entire gym. I have to keep going until I'm physically incapable of doing so; there are no other options.

Monday night was the first night that I cried at the gym.

About halfway through an exercise designed to strengthen both my balance and the muscles in the back of my legs, my legs felt like they were on fire and my arms were shaking from holding myself up. I dropped my leg in defeat and Chief simply asked me Did you hear the bell? Of course, I hadn't. But I'd seen that limit coming and I was doing everything in my power not to get any closer to it. When Chief came over to adjust my position so that I could begin again, to get my knee just a fraction of an inch higher, I simply dissolved into tears. Tears of anger at him for making me do it, tears of frustration at myself for not being able to do it "perfectly", tears of exhaustion, tears of pain, tears of fear. So I cried, and I clenched my fists around the bag, and I kept going until that stupid bell rang, goddamnit.

I have seen the limit. I have surpassed it. And I have survived! (Apart from the quad muscles, anyway.)

Onward, then, because that line just keeps moving farther and farther out.

x-posted to Butterfly Fray

Paying it Forward

BootieLA was absolutely off the hook on Saturday. In spite of the fact that it was the first Saturday in January (typically a slow date for bars & clubs) and it was absolutely pouring rain, The Echo reached capacity just before 11:30pm. I have never seen the dancefloor as packed as it was that night. Unfortunately, since The Echo didn't anticipate a capacity crowd, they only staffed two bartenders.

Two bartenders (and one overworked barback) for several hundred sweaty, thirsty people.

Eastside crowds are notoriously laid back and the Bootie crowd even more so, so most people took it in stride. It was very clear that the bartenders were doing their level best to keep up with demand, so we fought our way valiantly to the front and then made friends with the people around us while we waited for our turn to order.

But there's always an asshole, isn't there?

The guy next to me, heretofore known as Asshat Extraordinaire, made a big show of drumming his fingers, rolling his eyes, and sighing dramatically until he ordered. He then proceeded to order 5 Irish Car Bombs, 4 girly shots of some sort, and 3 draft beers. The bartender absolutely goggled at the credit card slip after Asshat Extraordinaire had paid for his drinks and held it up while asking Are you serious?

Asshat hadn't tipped at all on 12 drinks. His rationale? I had to wait, like, forever man - I'm not tipping you shit. Pour faster next time. WTF douchebag, do you not see the two bartenders running their asses off? Do you not see that the bar is 6-deep with people waiting for drinks? Do you not see the rest of us waiting patiently and chatting amongst ourselves? The Leo in me just couldn't keep quiet.

Me: Dude, that's pretty low. Do you not see how hard these guys are working?
AE: Shut the fuck up. I'm not tipping when I had to wait forever for a few measly drinks.
Me: Seriously man, it's not his fault that the bar is understaffed. They're doing the best they can.
He: Well aren't you just a loudmouth fat fucking bitch?
Me: Fuck you, douchebag.
Bartender: Dude, don't come back to me. Ever. I'm not pouring for you again.

Asshat Extraordinaire opened his mouth to say something else, but I think the murderous look on my face, and on the face of the bartender, made him change his mind. Wise move on his part. Since I couldn't kick the Asshat's teeth in (well I could, I just didn't), I chose instead to add $10 to the tip that I left the beleaguered bartender.

In relaying this story to Keith later in the night, he asked me why I'd tipped for the Asshat's drinks. I didn't have a good answer other than that it seemed like the right thing to do. It's not the bartender's fault that one of his customers was a total douchebag. Ten extra dollars isn't much of a sacrifice on my part, but I could tell that it meant a lot to the bartender. So... why not?

Maybe it's my indomitable sense of fair play, maybe it's my hyper-sensitive injustice meter, but when I see something like that and I have the ability to make some reparation, I do. I don't do it to be a "better" person, Lord knows I won't be up for sainthood anytime soon since I'm equally as likely to get up in someone's face, I do it because instinctively it feels like the right thing to do.

It's funny, I was having a similar conversation at a party recently - one of the people to whom I was talking was shocked to learn that I've been known to pay for a stranger's coffee at Starbucks for no reason other than that the thought to do so struck me at the time.

Have you guys seen this Liberty Mutual commercial (or its sequel)? I absolutely believe that's the way the world works and I strive to do my part. Maybe someone at the bar saw my reaction and in turn tipped a little more generously, or treated someone a little better. Maybe it's like a butterfly effect and marvelous things will grow out of a single, small act.

Or maybe not. It doesn't matter, really, because those potential effects are not the point at all.

As a whole, I believe that humanity is basically good. I evaluate people on a case by case basis because I don't think that all individuals are inherently good, and I think that pack mentality easily overpowers an individual's instinct to behave reasonably, but overall I think that humans are  a decent sort. I am, therefore, a big fan of paying it forward.

I believe in karma. I believe that eventually, the Universe returns to you what you send out into the aether. I believe that the only way to instigate change is by example. And I would like to believe that by doing my part to help others, help will be there for me when I need it. I haven't thought long and hard about these things, I haven't felt the need to, to me they're just... True.

So I'll keep doing these little things, and people will keep looking at me quizzically when I can't explain why, and that's ok. It's my Truth, after all.

The Last Word

As with many bloggers, I have a disgustingly large ego, and so I just couldn't bear the thought of not being able to have the last word if the need arose. Perhaps I take that further than most, I don't know. I hope so. It's frightening to think there are many people as neurotic as I am in the world. In any case, since I won't get another chance to say what I think, I wanted to take advantage of this opportunity. Such as it is.
-Major Andrew Olmsted

On Thursday Major Andrew Olmsted was killed in action in, making him one of the first three casualties of 2008.

Olmsted, who so eloquently explained why he went willingly to Iraq, was an avid blogger whose posts from the front lines gave personal insight into what has become an increasingly abstract and impersonal war. It was no surprise to any who had been following his blog that wrote a final post for hilzoy to publish in the event of his death.

I'm glad Andy -- generous as always -- wrote something for me to publish now, since I have no words at all.
-hilzoy

Though the post popped up in my feed reader on Friday morning and various people sent me links over the weekend, I couldn't read it until this evening. Every time I tried, the faces of my friends who are deployed in Iraq floated in front of me and my mind played tricks that these were their final words and not Andy's. But tonight I steeled myself and read his final post all the way through.

I'm glad I did. It's charming and heartfelt and funny and poignant and utterly devastating - an absolutely necessary read. Would that we could all have the opportunity to make so eloquent a final statement.

. . . while you're free to think whatever you like about my life and death, if you think I wasted my life, I'll tell you you're wrong. We're all going to die of something. I died doing a job I loved. When your time comes, I hope you are as fortunate as I was.
-Major Andrew Olmsted

May we all be so lucky. Rest in peace, Andy.

It's all fun and games...

...until someone crashes their car.

So it's been raining here today. A lot.

We here in Southern California have a tendency to overreact anytime water threatens to fall from the sky - the first sign of clouds overhead and the local news pre-empts everything for STORM WATCH 2008.  It's ridiculous and we non-natives get a big kick out of watching all of the panicky press coverage, but severe rainstorms really are a problem here.

First, the Los Angeles area is simply not built for rain. The topography works against us since we're perched in and around valleys, narrows, and flood plains; we're already at a disadvantage for controlling large, sudden amounts of water. The climate doesn't help - endless months of dry weather punctuated by wildfires and/or earthquakes make the soil very loose and arid which, in turn, makes it very likely to move when it gets wet. All of this is made worse by the fact that our infrastructure was not built with rain in mind at all. Our streets and freeways flood, our power plants fail, and our bridges and roadways fall apart. Severe rainstorms are as problematic for us as blizzards are for colder climates.

Second, Los Angeles residents seem completely incapable of remembering that we do, in fact, have a rainy season. Every year, 90% of the population stares at the sky in fear and confusion, wondering what brought the evil sky water and when it will stop. This causes them to make some very, very bad decisions.

Like driving 70mph on the 134 freeway, after dark, when it's pouring rain and visibility is 8 feet at best. Behavior like that made my drive home from the chiropractor tonight absolutely harrowing.

People, when the flooding is so bad that there is a CURRENT on the freeway, slow the fuck down. You don't have to be anywhere that imperatively. I'm looking at you Mr. I-can-barely-control-my-hydroplaning-Camaro, and you Ms. I-think-I'm-invincible-in-my-Land-Rover. There is absolutely no way either of you could have stopped in time if you'd come upon a stalled car, or a stretch of standing water, which does explain why both of you lost control of your vehicles when we hit that two foot deep patch of water. The fact that you didn't run into each other, or the median, or any other cars, is nothing more than dumb luck and I hope that you're both still thanking your Guardian Angels for that save.

The storm is supposed to continue throughout the weekend so I think I'll stick close to home until it passes. I'm not afraid of driving in the rain, but I sure as hell am afraid of everyone else driving in it.

Balance

Today I went to lunch with a friend who is struggling against the confines of her cubicle-based job; I counseled her earnestly to find the balance in her life, to embrace the fact that life cannot be lived in sixteen square feet.

The irony was not lost on me, therefore, when my boss caught me just as I was walking out the door tonight and made me stay and take care of some inconsequential things that really could have waited until tomorrow morning. He made me stay just long enough to keep me from having enough time to drive home and change before seeing Out From Underneath at the Roxy, so I'm still at the office... sitting at my desk, pondering the nature of balance. (And being very annoyed that I have to go see the boys in my grubby work clothes, rather than the cute outfit I had planned. Grr.)

I didn't realize quite how burned out I was on my job until I took some time off over the holidays. I didn't do anything spectacular, even my trip to Seattle was spent largely catching up with Boy 2 & the Rockstar while getting my ass kicked at Guitar Hero, but the simple act of being not at work was wonderfully liberating. I spend so much time trying to fit my life around my job that I almost didn't know what to do with myself without that obstacle. I could just... live! Sleep, eat, read a book, run an errand, walk around downtown Seattle with no particular destination in mind, whatever... there was no schedule, no need to try to cram the important things in around the thing that pays the bills.

That's just completely twisted, isn't it? Trying to fit your life around your job? It's completely backwards. I mean, I think we can all agree that no one is ever going to reach their deathbed and find themselves wishing they'd spent more time at work.

I recently said to someone that although I like my job, I don't love it and one of my biggest fears is that I will allow myself to continue to do it simply because I'm good at it and someone will pay me to do it. Tonight, when I forfeited training to do something that I knew wasn't imperative, just to make my boss happy and "keep my job," I heard the first few pebbles slide down that slippery slope. I was instantly furious - both at my boss for making me stay to appease his own misplaced panic, and at myself for letting him do it.

That anger got me wondering: How do I keep the balance in my life? And more importantly, do I even need balance? Maybe the whole idea of "balance" is just a load of crap and striving to stuff my life around my job isn't much of a goal at all. Why settle for half a life? Maybe what I need to do is take a page from a friend's book, chuck my present circumstance, and go and do that thing that makes my heart sing even when it's frustrating me beyond belief.

Leap and the net will appear.

Of course, I still need to pay the bills. That very concrete consideration always pulls me back down out of my chuck-it-all fantasies and into the real world, where the bill collectors do not care how loudly your heart sings unless it is being paid to do so.

So what's the answer? I don't know yet, but I'm working on it. Right now the answer is to shut down my computer, head to the Roxy, and watch my boys rock the place off its foundations.

It's a start, anyway.

Crossing Things Off

Four down, ninety-seven to go...

(And in unrelated news: Who wants to go to The Roxy with me tomorrow night to see one of my favorite bands?)