A Descent Into The Anecdotal

More and more, I feel that my entries are turning into collections of humorous or quasi-interesting anecdotes. I fear this tendency, so I'm going to head it off by getting as many out of my system as I can.

Tonight, Wash U's food provider, Bon Appetít, is hosting a special one-lunch-only event: they are offering food items from within a 150-mile radius, to show their support of local agriculture. For the last two weeks, every table of every eatery on campus has sported this flyer. The reverse side of the flyer advertises today, the local eating challenge.

Let's break this down, in case you missed it. In the flyer, they describe all the reasons you should eat locally: 1. Apples out of season will be imported and force ripened in a warehouse. 2. Salmon out of season will be chock full of environmentally unfriendly chemicals used to stimulate their growth, which has an impact on you when you eat it, as well as the farms they come from. 3. A cheap hamburger is, apparently, made so unsavory through cut-corners and cost-reducing efforts, that Bon Appetít doesn't "even want to tell you what goes into making that possible". All of these are very good reasons not to eat out of season, and why you should only eat American-grown foods and blah blah blah.

The thing that gets me is, they've basically detailed their own business practices for every other day of the year. This one day, Eat Local Day, they offer a lunch made entirely of local ingredients. Every other day of the year, they will import, drug, fertilize and cheapen the food they sell to you. Furthermore, the implication that they are, somehow, helping the environment by doing this is immediately cancelled out by the fact that they've put little paper flyers on every flat surface on campus. We'll just ignore the fact that the Eat Local Challenge did not take place everywhere on campus, but at some undisclosed location.

To show their support of local agriculture, they have used only local ingredients for a single meal at a single eatery. Sell the farm, Jedediah, you've finally got the money to move to Beverly. Thank you, Bon Appetít, for this pittance. Thanks, again, for taking advantage of Wash U's characteristic "rich white-guilt" to enhance your own image.

It's an advertising phenomenon that works surprisingly well. By admitting how horrible their business practices are 364 days of the year, they convince you that you can trust them. It's a catch-22, how we will trust people who admit some horrible fault, even if they show no signs of fixing that fault. The Georgia State Patrol used this same tactic when promoting their 100 Days Of Summer Heat campaign. The idea is that, for 100 days, the police will enforce the law harder than they usually do. This suggests that they don't usually enforce the law hard enough.

I should note that Alfonzo's speeding ticket on the way up here was a direct result of the 100 Days. If only he had been better informed.

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Anecdote #2.
While waiting in line for an imported, fertilized-soaked wrap, I overheard a conversation which I felt I should share with the world. Let's set the scene :
We have, directly in front of me, a tall, broad-shouldered, football-type guy. While we are waiting in line, a relatively tall, bubbly Indian girl bounces over to him and jumps into his arms. She chatters for a bit, before noticing that her man was reading the newspaper. She scolds him for doing so, saying "I read the New York Times and the Economist and I'm no less smarter."

At this point, you can practically hear the mice on the wheel in her head. After a moment of silence, she laughs and corrects herself. "I'm no MORE smarter. No MORE."

I tried my best to write it down without being noticed. As a form of karmic retribution, no doubt, this girl and her mother implanted themselves in line in front of me. I suppose I deserved it, for being such a judgemental person, but I was overtaken by it. I had never, in all my days, encountered an Indian Ditz.



Oh my, I've hardly run out of anecdotes. I'll try a lightning round, later, with out so much vivid detail.

-Alan

Favorite Movie Week

I realize, Chaz, that you were addressing me when you said not to give a list of movies, or attempt to get around naming an absolute favorite. I'll play by your rules, but I don't want to hear anything from anybody about my taste, and how cliché a favorite movie this is. I identify with this movie, to a great extent; I haven't modeled myself after a character this much since the 10th grade, when I wanted to be Rob Gordon from High Fidelity.

Anyway, the movie is The Big Lebowski and the character I strive to be, in many ways, is Jeffrey Lebowski, aka The Dude.

The world has a love/hate relationship with this movie. You either love it intensely, like a cult film, or you hate it, and all those who love it. If ever there was a motive for murder in a white suburb, it's a disagreement about The Big Lebowski. Let's look at the facts : The Coen Brothers don't make bad movies. They write and direct from a certain niche, yes, and if you don't like the style, you're SOL. Most people who don't get The Big Lebowski don't understand subtlety; they think that anything labeled "comedy" has to have Sean William Scott put his penis into it, or Ben Stiller eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with semen in it. There are other kinds of comedy. Specifically the kind of comedy that requires you to pay attention, and to think about what you have seen and heard.

The character of Walter, played by John Goodman, gives dumb-comedy fans something to laugh about, and most of the low-level fans will recite Walter's lines, tragically attempting to recreate his loud and gruff voice. The ways in which Walter is very disturbed are lost on them; he is a commentary on the effect of Vietnam on the surviving soldiers, and their desperate grasps at identity. He flaunts his veteran status, as well as his conversion to Judaism, because he has little identity outside of those two facts.



It has been said that The Big Lebowski is an allegory of the first Gulf War. I do not know the details, but I was told it's pretty spot on. A guy I knew in high school, one of the biggest hippies I've ever met, tried to explain it to me; I've forgotten most of the details. If anybody knows it, I'd be interested.

-Alan

Not A Smidgen

Hey Folks. I'm very busy catching up on all the work I haven't done, including a paper on the movie Night Of The Hunter. The picture I've linked you to is fairly bizarre, and hilarious both in and out of context. You might think that this is the sort of movie that would be boring when sober and hilarious when high. I can assure you, I went to this film screening high and the movie was still pretty rough.

Anyway, I ought to get back to that.

-Alan

Happily Engorged

On my way back to the room, after classes, I came across a pie-eating contest which was scrambling for contestants. I've felt, and been told by many, that I would probably fare well in eating contests; still, I have never taken part in one, officially. My mortal fear of vomiting, combined with my fear of inadequacy, kept me far away from pies, hot dogs, and other food-stuffs assembled in pyramids, just aching to be consumed.

I'm not sure what was different about today. I know I plan to drink tonight. I plan to be pretty sloppy, actually. Maybe that knowledge has me slightly less afraid of vomit. Or maybe I'm just particularly sure of myself lately. That could, easily, be it.

Well, whatever the difference, I got second place and a free t-shirt (ignoring, of course, the free cherry pie). To be honest, it was nice to have my face buried in cherry pie; it's been a while, if you know what I mean. I no longer recieve the same satisfaction from being just another cunning linguist, and I'm anxious to share my talents, instead of merely debating myself.

I'm sorry folks, the pie must be going to my head.

Which reminds me. There are treasures everywhere, and most of them are alcoholic, so let's go exploring!

-Alan

Frogspotting

This is highly anecdotal, but.... does anyone remember the Kellogg's mascot for Smacks cereal? You know, Dig'em, "the little frog with the big voice".

I'm not sure at what point I was made aware of this, but Dig'em is a terrible stereotype. His gruff voice, exaggerated and unattractive features, huge feet and endless hijinx... apparently, Dig'em is a modern stereotype of a black man. I'll admit, this theory is far less subsantial than many others like it, but try to hunt down a Smacks commercial and just sit down and you'll understand. I took Dig'em to be a prime example of the subtle racism that pervades our culture, flying under the radar but absorbed by everyone. I thought it was subtle.... boy was I wrong.

Dig'em has been the subject of many conversations between myself and Marina this week. Though it was I who introduced the theory to her, she latched onto a detail that we'd all missed. As she put it, "Oh no. Not another black man hooked on Smack".

Yes, folks. Dig'em the frog is a heroin addict. He's just gotta get some Smacks. He's jonesin' for them, in fact. He doesn't want Wheaties, can't stand Cap'n Crunch, and don't even mention Methadonios. Ain't none of that shit going to give him the (sugar) rush he's looking for.

Somebody let me know what they think of this. Are we just crazy, or is there something to this?

Webcomics Week

I open this themed post with a word from my life: I am fine. The situation is in the process of normalizing. I know I haven't kept you updated, and I'm sorry. I've been very busy these last few days, both keeping my situation viable, as well as keeping up with the rapidly growing course-load.

So, I joyfully bring you Goats, a surrealist, plot-driven webcomic which I have only read the recent strips from. Almost from the beginning, though, there has been a goat (who looks like a horned sheep dog) named Toothgnip, who can also talk (and seduce human women). The early strips (1997; bravo!) look like pencil, but the recent strips are nice, organic digitized piece of art. I'm a fan of the art and of the subject matter. I hope you'll like it, too.


Fineas, Oliver and Diablo (left to right) travel through Hell and must choose the correct path, despite the attempts of the skulls to mislead them.


-Alan

EDIT (9/23/05) : Link is now fixed. Enjoy!

Achilles

I called this down on myself. I evoked it. I wondered, idly, but did not knock on wood. Just days after it started, my last great voyage has come to an end.

The lesson learned? Sacrifice. So many times, my lover gave to me; she gave her pride, her scruples, her better judgement. Her relations with me have been defined by the sacrifices she has made, over and over. So, I wonder with little imagination, "what could possibly go wrong with this, my last hurrah?" without realizing that the hurrah itself was the lesson to be learned. I saw in Marina a person who is so very much like me, and who was so very happy to be with me, and who could not wait to spend her time with me. I could see no problems, arguments, serious disagreements... I liked her so much. Ironically, it was how much I liked her that was the difficulty.

My lover, my love, and my future fianceé was asking one thing of me, and Marina was asking another, and the two conflicted perfectly. I could not satisfy one without defying the other. By defying Marina, I would lose her. By going with her, I would continue a tradition of selfishness and refusal to commit.

Consider this a commitment. Marina was the best girl I've met since you, and she was ready and willing to be with me, and I gave her up because you are worth more to me. There was no decision involved, just a reluctance to bury the hatchet. I would not defy you for anyone or anything.

I bear this cross with relief; glad that I finally have a cross to bear, and aware that your cross remains heavier.

-Alan

The Morning Routine/Alan's Odyssey

"Due to a construct in my mind that makes their falling and their flight symbolic of my entire existence,
It becomes important for me to get up" is what I hear, every morning, when I wake up. My cell phone plays CAKE's little known, "Mr Mastodon Farm" up until the point where its protagonist gets up. The first time this happened, it was by accident; I just happened to stop the alarm at the right spot. Every morning since, I have gotten out of bed faster and faster, just to make sure I get to the phone in time. Sometimes I think I'm not terribly different from the pigeons I work with, only the birds are sensible enough to only develop behaviors in response to reward; I've developed a behavior purely out of personal satisfaction. Is that the dividing line between us and them?

Tonight is maybe the third time I've heard thunder since arriving here in Fall of 2004. I walked back from Greenway in a light drizzle, and the lightning gave me a few seconds of virtual daylight. Symbolically, rain, thunder and lightning represent upheaval and divine intervention, as well as a sort of cleansing. What, in my life, has been cleansed?

I have, for years, had the pleasure of knowing a wonderful, brilliant, beautiful girl. At present moment, she is far away from me, and we are taking this time apart to explore the last of this adolescent terrain, before setting up camp together. I never thought I'd apply the phrase "engaged to be engaged" to myself, but then there were times when I didn't think I'd ever find someone who loves me as much as she does.

The lessons I learn, these days, are discreet and specific; I can see where they are taking me, and it is towards adulthood. I think of my experiences in love and sex in chapters, each with a specific moral which I, more or less, took with me into the following chapters. I've come to a point where I equate many of my exes with a specific lesson I learned, sometimes to the point that the ex is no longer an important character to the story. I tell this story, again and again, to each subsequent significant other, to show them the ways in which I won't hurt them, so that they might anticipate the ways in which I might. Ultimately, I will tell this story to my children and hope that they will know better than to make my manifold mistakes.

And so, it seems to me that I am approaching the end of this long and winding road (props, Paul). I feel not only closer to her--our future together--but more certain that it will happen. It is strange, then, that I should find myself straying. Straying, perhaps, is not the right word, but it is the first that comes to mind.

Every relationship I have ever had has ended, and with that end, I learned a lesson. I find myself entering into one last relationship, one last stab at bachelorhood, wondering what could possibly go wrong. The same boy who, instead of measuring dicks, used to compare his various tragedies and injustices with those of his friends; that same boy, now, feels at the top of his game. In a week and a half's time, I have met and captured another beautiful and intelligent girl. What's more, she feels lucky to be with me.

She reminds me of myself in so many ways. I feel like she is the answer to my only unanswered prayer: I wish I could date myself. As we discussed our respective positions and feelings towards each other, I felt like shouting "I'm Spartacus!" to see if she'd say the same.

In the past, I have done most of the legwork of establishing relationships. I am in eternal pursuit, or so I felt until I learned that it was I who was being pursued. So now, in what I see as the closing chapters of my childhood, I am finally pursued. Not by one, or even two, but by three. I'd never dreamed of such demand, and it is a shame that I cannot supply myself as in traditional economics.

But still, I wonder, in this new relationship that must eventually end.... what will go wrong? What will be the lesson behind this dreadlock holiday (props, 10cc)? I'd love to believe that the only lesson I can learn, here, is what it is like to date myself. I fear that the lesson will be that I shouldn't have embarked on this last voyage at all. If I become stranded, somewhere between Hades and Calypso's isle, I hope I'll be able to find my way home to that familiar bed; rooted firmly in place, waiting for me to return.

One last battle, dear. One last.

-Alan

Idle Streak

I have always felt that the most challenging part of keeping a blog is balancing the amount of things you do with the amount of things you report. It works paradoxically, and I often crumble under the weight of paradox. Let me explain.

The more times per day/week/month I blog, the less time I spend actually doing things other than blogging. Because I'm not going to delve into the recursive hell that would be blogging about blogging, the decision to blog twice a day would leave my entries somewhat lacking; what kind of noteworthy adventure takes place in 3-5 hours. I like to tell stories that are a little more epic than a 5-hour span can contain.

On the other hand, if I spend almost all of my free time having fun, hanging out, finding enormous stone turtles on the side of I-64... I am left with little time to actually report all of these events. Should I find the time, I run the risk of slighting the stories by retelling them in a hurry.

Inevitably, I will float through both conditions throughout the course of this year. Presently, I find myself in the latter condition; it has been a very busy set of days for me. I can't speak for my suitemates (or even to them, because I have not seen them in days), but I have been almost constantly occupied since Wednesday morning. I know that Alfonzo and Chaz are hard at work on something, which should raise suspicion, as the two of them typically have very little in common. Vladimir has been around more this week than last, but he still finds other rooms to sleep in; last I checked, his mattress is still quite bare.

I, on the other hand, have been doing my best to redeem my socially inept freshman year. I was out of my room for a record-breaking 13 hours yesterday, though my social streak has, today, condemned me to many consecutive hours of studying Russian (curse your foreign alphabet, Vlad. Tell Cyril he can take this i kratkoye and shove it).

But, it being my most celebrated hour of the day, I thought I'd take a break to let everyone know what I've been up to. I will, of course, give a more detailed account of the highlights of my week at some point in time. For the moment, I must return to my studies.

For those who understand the significance of this statement : I lost the game. For those who do not understand this statement, please feel free to contact me and ask. alanorelse@gmail.com

-Alan

Busted!

It's been a busy few days for me. I usually keep a solid distance between myself and any party scene, and I've been involved with about four gatherings this weekend. I guess it was only a matter of time before trouble came a knockin'.

Friday, I went out for a walk with my friends, Jessie and Erin, when we happened upon some of their acquaintances. Erin split at this point, but Jessie and I teamed up with her friends (both female. the names escape me...) and rented a movie: Shaolin Dolemite. It's a marriage of kung fu and blaxploitation, which basically comes out to poor taste.

A female ninja, dressed in inconspicuous lavender, beats a man across the face with her breasts. And that's just in the first half hour.

Anyway, I got to meet those two friends of Jessie's, who have welcomed me into their suite anytime. I also have a terrible movie that I can reference at will. But the night wasn't over. I found myself in the apartment of a guy named Taylor, and I finally got to formally meet the student with the waxy handlebar moustache. His name is Justin. We all partook, and then parted.

Saturday passed by quickly, until dinner. I took my lonely meal up to the room (nobody was around. 8 PM on a Saturday and it's a ghost town!), and I got online. A friend of mine asked me if I wanted to eat with her (on the other side of campus), but, being the good soul that I am, I drove my food over to her adjacent eatery. From there, we met up with some folks off-campus, then went to this party called "Fire and Ice". It was one room of a small apartment, packed to the walls with people. Heat was blasting out the front door. In the words of faire Claire, "Too much fire, and not enough ice". We left quickly, and I didn't even get a drink.

Then on to the KWUR party, where most of the good liquor was gone. In desperation, I poured a shot and a half of gin into a diet pepsi, and it was just barely drinkable. Chaz called me, drunk and looking to get drunker or maybe stoned. I tell him I might skip out of the party for him, and that I'd call him back. In my attempt to leave, faire Claire stopped me and I smoked her out instead. 15 minutes after we finish, the cops show up. I decide to play it cool, until some jerk gets on the PA and starts chanting "Fuck the Police," at which point I decided to distance myself. I found my way home, and went to sleep.

Then, tonight, Chaz finally laid his hands on me. "Dude, let's get baked," he said to me. "Need the reefer," was another gem. So I agreed, and Chaz took me over to the suite of a couple of his friends (uhhh, John, Roy, Brody) and we go out behind Danforth. I whip out my piece, Brody whips out his, and we start a good circle. Michelle (my piece) smokes hard and fast, so we finished my bowl before Brody's. This is a good time to say that I HATE the spot behind Danforth. It's totally out in the open, and WUPD checks back there every 15 minutes, and we really shouldn't have smoked two bowls. So, by the time we finished Michelle, I'm ready to get the hell out of dodge, so I put her away and said goodbye, then split.

Apparently, the cops stopped the rest of them as they left. They reeked of reefer, were in possession, and had a piece on them. They got taken into the station, and Chaz called me as soon as they got out.

I'm told I'm no longer welcome with Brody's crew. They think I fucked them over.

Truth be told, I know why they got busted; Brody never named his piece, and that is terrible luck. He should have known better. Fuckin' amateur.

So that's my weekend, so far. I can't see myself doing anything on Labor Day. I've done so much as it is. Gotta have a little downtime for the brain-cells.

Poor Chaz. I hope he isn't mad at me.

-Alan