Revenge of the Creepy Neighbor Guy

Apparently fate didn't like that I lampooned my neighbor for being creepy. He stopped me again today and upped the ante on being strange. Apparently, after school (he's a teacher), he goes to the library and gets a study room for 2 hours. While he's there, he sits down with a pad and paper and writes. According to him, he sits down and lets his mind go blank. Once he's not thinking about writing, the Lord tells him what to say.

Don't let that slip by as a colloquialism. I asked and he doesn't mean it that way. He literally hears "the voice of God" in his head telling him what words to write down on paper. Crazy neighbor guy said that once the book is done, he'll be known as the "Second Noah," whatever that's supposed to mean.

What's worse, he took my polite nodding as a sign of encouragement. Because I'm unable to say 'no' to people when it will hurt their feelings, I'm now obligated to go over to his apartment tomorrow afternoon. He said he'd put on the coffeepot, and before I could tell him that I don't drink coffee he said that it was good to know that I liked coffee too.

So now, I'm going to have to choke down a cup (or two) of disgustingly smelling, foul liquid while pretending to like it.

And to make matters worse, he wants me to read his manuscript while I'm there. All 200+ hand-written pages of it. For a man who claims to be writing as the hand of God, you'd think God would have a better title than "The Hack, the Quack, and the Whack." Go figure.

Why, why, why, why, why am I too weak-willed to tell him that I have better things to do with my time?

Damn straight, brother. You tell it!

Okay, so I've forgiven CNN for it's grave offense to me earlier. Well, I guess I haven't really forgiven them, but I'm like that girlfriend who keeps going back to the guy who mistreats her. CNN and I just have a bond other people don't understand. CNN'll change. I know it. It loves me.

I was reading a fun news story on the online equivalent of the old TV program "Hard Copy" (only without the hard-hitting journalism), and found a politician I could grow to like if he had any hope of having a career after this.

I've always been a fan of politicians who can do gutsy things. I'll admire the openly bigoted mayor of an Alabama town who makes racist comments because he's willing to be honest about what he believes. I would even applaud G.W. Bush if he had the temerity to actually say, "I'm going to war because the big defense contractors wanted it and because it deflects attention from the fact that I don't know what the hell to do about our own country's problems." What I'm getting at is that, while I may not like the content of most politician's brains, I do like it when they are willing to actually say what they mean without hemming and hawing, pulling toward the center, and fancy turns of phrase to hide their true opinions.

Nothing bugged me more than when the Republican candidate for governor of Kansas this last time (I've forgotten his name; somebody help me out with it) was in a debate and responded to a question about rising child care costs with his solution. "I think," he said, "that we should have a tax credit so that one parent can just stay home with the kids, instead of having to work a job just to pay for them to be in childcare." With that, he gave an evil grin to the camera.

Seriously, dude. We all know what you meant. Women should stay at home in the kitchen and keep pumping out little brats while Daddy goes out to work and bangs his secretary while 'staying late' at the office (and all of the other happy little accoutrements of the 1950's). We get you. But if you feel that way, why can't you openly admit that? Why do you have to hide it behind some ambiguous rhetoric? If you'd simply be honest about your douchebaggery, I wouldn't hate you so much. But you had to lie, and now I think you're scum for what you believe and you gained additional scum points for lying about it.

Well, a Maryland politician has just earned huge bonus points with me for speaking his mind and doing what he wanted to do. He's still a pile of steaming whatsit, but kudos, man. You've earned a high-five for later.

So, umm.. Do you come here often, ID? What's your major?

Tomorrow, I will be watching the Olympics again, but only because of one particular event: Ice Dancing. Ice Dancing and I have a troubled relationship.

I've always fancied myself as the semi-upscale, urbane gentleman who is more suited for a party with wine and cheese than a hard-night of clubbing and bar hopping. That's partly why I enjoy watching figure skating so much. There is a certain stately grace about the movements of the skaters that calls to mind an unhurried sensuality.

If figure skating is the woman in the sparkling, long black dress who can luxuriate on top of the piano in a high-class lounge, then ice dancing is her sluttier younger sister who wears clothing that's a bit too revealing, can't figure how to put on makeup from the 'not-whore' collection (only the finest Walmarts carry that line), and spends all night drunk at the frat-house.

On the one hand, there's a certain dark attraction to her. She's probably easy and she isn't really all that awful-looking, right?

But if you went down that path, you know you'd wake up in the morning feeling really badly about yourself and you'd want to make a trip down to the University Clinic for some tests, just in case.

I gave in to watching ice dancing 4 years ago, but afterward, I felt like I lowered my standards for it and wondered if it was really all that good anyway.

Chalk it up to my lack of self-control or my inability to learn from past experience but I'll probably watch it again this time around.

Okay, so it isn't Mrs. Spears in a car, but...

I'm not any kind of expert in human biology. What little I know of human biology I recall from my classes in anatomy and physiology in high school and extrapolations from what I know of biological systems in general (through college courses). So bear that in mind when I ask in all seriousness, "Is the following okay?"

Skeleton is a fun-looking Olympic event. Basically, a person pushes a sled into an ice tube, jumps, stomach-first, onto the sled and rides to the bottom of the tube with their face an inch from the shiny ice beneath them. One of the female skeleton competitors in the Olympics revealed that she is currently 2 months pregnant.

Maybe I'm getting soft on babies as I get older, but I winced when her stomach impacted the sled when she jumped on from her running start.

I know that the fetus is really tiny at that point, and I'm probably just out of touch with women's biological issues, but that really bothered me for some reason.

Absurdity of the day

I'm in the middle of reading a fascinating book called, "A Brotherhood of Tyrants" that is a simple and readily accessible book on the connections between politics, psychology, and history. The work is a 3-man case study of the lives of Napolean Bonaparte, Adolf Hitler, and Josef Stalin. By examining their lives through the writings of the people who observed them, the authors conclude that each of the men suffered from manic depression.

Moreover, the authors assert that it was the manic depression of the three men that made them seek absolute, totalitarian power and gave them the strength of will to achieve it. It also served as their undoing, though, and caused their empires to crumble around them.

I woke up this morning at about 3:00 am, feeling dark and morose, wondering if I myself might have a slight tendency toward manic depression, but then I decided that I didn't and now I feel obscenely happy. The world is my oyster and everything's going to come up pearls today. I can feel it.

This will likely lower your opinion of me so give me a verbal slap in the face if I need one

I’m in dire need of female interpretive wisdom, here, so if you feel up to diving into the vagaries of my wayward mind, then I’d appreciate a little help in my own leap.

I’m trying to decide what to do about the girl who sent me the Valentine.

I’ve decided that I should try to find out what is going on (i.e., what she thinks is going on), so that I know how to handle it. I think I’ve gotten over my initial feeling of being creeped-out and am now intrigued to discover what might be possible.

Apparently, this girl has some problems (for instance, she’s a mumbler, has bad fashion sense, is not overly bright, and possibly slept with the dirty-old-man Con-Law professor). I’m getting too old and too tired to keep being the guy who’s last in line.

For crying out loud, I mean I’m 25-years old and I’ve never held a woman’s hand. With all likelihood a third of my life is gone, and perhaps more. I’ve never kissed a woman. And I don’t mean that just as an adult that I’ve never done these things. I never even had that childhood sweetheart where we secretly got married in our backyard one day in first grade and gave each other pecks on the cheek in secret. To say that I’m socially retarded is a gross understatement of reality.

I’ve had 3 girlfriends in my life. Two of them didn’t like me all that much (Katie, you can go to hell, and Sarah, you’re a frigid bitch). With Katie, I poured my heart into trying to kindle some spark between us in the six months that we dated. Every time that I was just about to give up, she would do something to fuel me on for another few weeks. Finally, I just gave up and walked away. Turns out, she just wanted to see how long I could keep going (some girls will do cruel things for a meal ticket).

Sarah and I dated for almost a year, but she dumped me when I protested how little she was willing to sacrifice for me. I’m sure I’m more demanding than I know, but is it so bad to suggest that, after 8 months of dating, she be present on my birthday instead of in Kansas City visiting her parakeet (the actual reason for her trip, not kidding). I like birds as much as the next guy (only I don’t kill them). But when she tells me explicitly that I rank below her parakeet in the scheme of her life, I know it just won’t work out.

Amy was the only girl who ever seemed to like me. Turns out she just needed a shoulder to cry on before moving on to a KU tennis player.

All my life, I’ve waited for Miss Perfect (my definition of Miss Perfect is not usually in line with society’s view). I’ve known a half-dozen women in my life who I would label as being among the illustrious group of women I would (or would have) willingly spent my life with, but the longer I’ve gone without getting her, the more I’ve had to realize that some guys end up with Miss Perfect but most guys don’t. Most of the women in that category have been married a long time ago, taken off the market by a steady relationship, or are simply not interested. And I can’t blame them, really. People don’t choose to whom they are attracted. People tend to be attracted to others with qualities that they find important, and some women are just in higher demand. They can afford to be choosy.

The same is true for men, of course. Some men are tall. Some men are handsome. Some men are athletic. Some men are rich and powerful. Some men are famous. Some men are funny. Some men are dark, brooding heroes. And some men are quiet and sensitive.

But can I afford to be choosy? Sure, Miss Perfect is out there, but choosing Miss Perfect isn’t the hard part; getting chosen by Miss Perfect is.

Well, here I have the possibility (not yet to plausibility, but certainly to possibility) that I’ve been chosen. At some point, do we all have to let go of our dreams in order to achieve momentary happiness? I’ve never met but one or two in ten thousand who could be the rock star or football player they always wanted to be. Most of them had to deliver pizzas, mop the floors, or get jobs recording video footage for tabloid news shows just to pay the rent. Is love the same way?

More than anything in the world, I don’t want to be alone. I was alone all through my childhood. I was alone in high school. I was alone in college. Through all of that, I only had my brother and a few shining individuals who kept me from despair. And then my brother left me for a job a thousand miles away. Even now, but for a few shining individuals who brighten my day, I am alone.

I hate coming home to my empty house. I hate watching television when there is nobody there to laugh with me. I want someone to hold my hand when I relive the dark times, and someone around whose shoulders I can rest my arm. I am afraid of being a bachelor and dying, old and alone in my room, with no one beside me to talk me into the darkness.

So she isn’t Miss Perfect. If there is a chance that I could achieve some small amount of happiness in the knowledge that someone out there enjoyed my company enough to want more of it, don’t I owe it to myself to kill the ideas of Miss Perfect in my mind and settle for what I can realistically achieve? Do I owe it to myself to find out whether I was chosen by a Miss Less-than-Perfect in an attempt to flee from facing only myself in the mirror for another day?

And if I say that I do owe it to myself to indulge in the possibility (still not a plausibility) of having been chosen, wouldn’t that be better than being alone?

Arcologies or bust!

I’ve fallen in love with an intellectual idea called ‘arcology theory.’ Arcologies are large buildings intended to free up horizontal space on the planet for other purposes (agriculture, wildlife preservation, wilderness, etc.) by changing human expansion to a vertical axis.

Typically, a city will grow by adding square mile after square mile to its outer suburbs where the rule is split-level ranch houses all painted identically. While I’m not one to begrudge suburbanites their comfy (and surely attractive) ranch-style homes, I do feel a bit like suburban sprawl is getting a little out of hand.

Stop and think a bit about something simple for a bit. Think of apartments located above shops on a downtown main street which are now growing in popularity all across America. Consider how much space we would need to add to a city if all of those apartments were removed from the top floors of those buildings and placed in separate buildings? Imagine how much space could be saved if a single ranch-style house had a second floor added to it where a second family could live?

The idea of an arcology is taking the idea of vertical expansion to a remarkable length. The ideality of an arcology is to have an entire city contained in a single building. Banking, shopping, grocery stores, some industry, hospitals, schools and universities, restaurants, and housing all contained in a single building of colossal proportions.

Arcologies typically stress the relatively small size of the basic floor plan (usually about a mile or two square at the base). What this allows is the abolition of all but foot traffic within the city proper. Individuals can walk from one corner of their floor to the opposite corner without too much trouble, and prevalent elevators can take them from floor to floor.

To get an idea of how much you can coalesce without altering too much in terms of population density, think of Topeka. Topeka has about 122,500 people living in it. Overall, the city takes up something on the order of about nine miles by 10 miles or so (roughly 90 square miles).

Let’s suppose that we have a 1 mile by 1 mile arcology. That gives us 5280 feet by 5280 feet (or 27,878,400 square feet) per floor. If we have apartments filling half of each floor (or half of all the floors) at 1000 square feet per apartment, we can have 13,939 apartments per floor. At 1000 square feet per apartment, those should be 2 bedroom apartments, so assume 2 individuals per apartment. In other words, on each floor, we should have about 27,878 people. At a modest 45 floors (and taller buildings are certainly possible), we have more than a population of 1.25 million people.

So in other words, in a building taking up only 1 square mile, we have a population more than 10 times as large as Topeka (which takes up 90 times as much space as the proposed building). Imagine how much land could be conserved and used differently.

This isn’t to say that everyone should be required to live in such an arrangement, but stop and think about large metropolitan areas like New York City, Los Angeles, Denver, Kansas City, Chicago, or Atlanta. Such an arrangement would be ideal for such a city. Transportation issues would clear up. Services could be provided without as much trouble, and goods could be delivered more efficiently to residents. And the extra land could be used to grow more food, could be used for parks, or devoted to wilderness.

Why not?

Two random thoughts

1. Mrs. Immigration Law professor really isn’t all that cognizant of what she says during her 2 hour long rambling story-time sessions on Wednesday nights. When she isn’t casually blurting out “I don’t get to do a lot of doctors,” she’s launching into a long-winded tale of SEVIS compliance and accountability, for the second time. Not kidding. In two consecutive classes, she’s told the same 20-minute long story about the SEVIS computer monitoring program and its origins. Wow, lady. Seriously. I know I’m boring, but Yikes.

2. I’m daily confused by a sign I see at the corner of 29th and Gage on my way to school each day. The sign is at a gas station, and reads simply:

5 gallons of gas
$200 off car wash

I’m half tempted to go in and see if I can get my remaining $195 that they would owe me in cash, or whether I would have to wait for a check to arrive from some central office.

Take a look, girls. This is as close as I come to ecstatic.

Some days you scrape the bottom of the barrel for reasons to get out of bed in the morning. I seem to have too many of those days where “I need to go to class or I’ll fail out of law school” is my only real motivation to leave the warm and inviting comfort of my blankets.

I wish I knew before each day what the next would bring. If I had known about days like today, I would have been out of bed at 12:01 am today, just so that I could experience every single moment of it without interruption.

I’m still floating. This is so out of character for me that I’m bemused at my own rose-colored view of how today went. Nevertheless, I’m going to relate the day’s good fortunes, rosy-tint and all. Whether due to the holiday or the accumulation of good events, I don’t know, but today is my day to pass out compliments to the people in my life and to recognize the special-ness of this day.

Evidence class went smoothly. Despite having missed class on Monday, I appear to have missed nothing of consequence. Even though she was sick, the woman who sits beside me (of outlet infamy) looked radiant. I don’t know how she does it, but to look good when I’m ill takes a lot of effort on my part.

Federal Courts was fabulous. The professor got in-class revenge on two of the jackasses who attend (or not, depending on how you look at it) class unprepared. In one instance, the professor asked of a student, “I know you haven’t prepared for this, but could you get up and close the door?” Once the student sat back down, the professor thanked him and told him that he could go back to looking at facebook.com. Priceless, but not Preisless.

To the other student, he lambasted his continual excuse that he forgot his book. This student has perhaps been to 4/5 of the classes, but has failed to bring a book to any of the classes. Whenever called on, he protests that he has forgotten to bring his book. Today’s excuse? He thought his book was in his locker, but it must have been in his van. I’m waiting for him to ‘fess up that he never bought the textbook and that he’s just being a discussion group parasite, but I fear that day will be long in coming. Well, the professor commented that it was his (the professor’s) fault for not putting in the syllabus that students should bring their books to class, and that he just assumed that since we were all smart people that we’d all just do it anyway. Fantastic. I rarely get to laugh out loud in class, and having a professor who can reduce me to more than a polite chuckle a half dozen times in a class is a treat.

Environmental Law went smoothly. The angry little elf got to do an ‘I’m angry’ jig in front of the class when he broke the document projector. Then to top it off, he got to do a second little dance when he wrote on the whiteboard with a permanent red marker (why he brought it to class is still a mystery to me).

Before tax law, a male friend lifted my spirits with a random bit of absurdity by shouting out to me, “Deep-fried, heart-shaped bologna slices!” from across the parking lot, with no forthcoming explanation.

I think I understand tax law so far.

Somewhere in that day of classes, I got a valentine in my school mailbox. It seems that I have my very own stalker. I’m both a little creeped-out and highly flattered by this. On the one hand, I’ve never had a woman express interest in me (not even any of my three prior girlfriends, really, who seemed closer to ‘well, he asked me’ girlfriends). I dare you to put liquor in a head-to-head contest. Nothing is more intoxicating than the possibility that someone out there actually feels a little bit of non-friendly affection for you. Nothing.

The card is gorgeous. It is a single sheet of paper with a hand-drawn pencil sketch on it. The sketch is of a semi-nude woman with wings made out of flowers, and halo made of vines, reclining against a stone block which reads (in French) “the spirit of Love,” while under a sky which features both hopeful rays of sun and dark, stormy clouds. It is entitled “The Narrow Gate” at the bottom of the sketch in a woman’s handwriting, and signed by (who I assume is) the artist. On the back, it simply says, “Happy Valentine’s Day!” and again lists the artist’s name (a girl from the law school). Actually, it doesn’t even say ‘Valentine’s Day.’ The word ‘Valentine’ was replaced by a heart-shaped symbol.

It’s really nice to get a Valentine’s Day card. I haven’t received one of those since 2nd grade when I was at my old elementary school back in Pratt, Kansas. When I moved to Topeka, passing Valentine’s cards was either forbidden during school, or was allowed (but absent any requirement to give one to everybody).

So, like I said, on the one hand, I’m really flattered. But on the other, what the hell? This is a girl I don’t really know. I’ve only spoken with her a half dozen times in almost 2 years. She’s complimented me after a class once about a comment I made during class. She’s photographed me on her phone and with a camera once while I was reading. And she’s recommended a book to me that she thought I would like. This isn’t even coming close to something resembling a friendship. In fact, I’m not even sure I know how to pronounce her name properly.

I’m still debating how to play this out. She may have made dozens of these cards and passed them out to half the school. She may have made just one and is hoping for a response. I’ll have to think about it, but I’m still floating on the flattery right now.

Best of all, when I left school today, I went out on my very first Valentine’s Day ‘not-a-date’ with some of my friends. (Big breath…)

We saw “Rent.” I’m a big fan of musicals, and I’m always moved by song. I’m one of those guys who knows immediately what his answer is when asked if he’d rather be blind or deaf. Blind. No ifs, ands, or buts. Take my eyesight as long as you leave me my hearing. If I couldn’t hear the soft whisper of a woman’s breath or the sweet sound of her voice, I’m not sure I would know what to do.

Rent was beautiful. Unaccountably so, in fact. I’d avoided seeing Rent for a long time because I have bad memories involving the work.

At my old scholarship hall at KU, we used to have what we called “Coffeehouses” each semester. Basically, people from all over the scholarship hall community would come in, perform music, act, read poetry, tell jokes, or do whatever the hell they wanted to do with their time. They were generally great successes, but we had this one crazy fellow that lived in our hall who always liked to push the envelope by doing weird things. None of his acts ever made much sense to me, and when they did make sense, they seemed trivial, boring, or derivative. I still remember one act where all he did was pace around in front of the audience with a notepad for five minutes while music played in the background. He later explained that he was acting out writing a song, but nobody seemed to get that from his performance.

Well, he also loved musicals, and performed something from Rent one year. I can’t recall the song. I can’t recall what it was about. All I remember is that it was one of the most horrible songs I’d ever heard in my life and I knew that I never wanted to see a show that featured such terrible music.

I wish I’d have realized that he was as bad a singer as he was an actor.

The musical score was flawless. Songs made me want to laugh. Songs made me tap my feet. Songs made me fall in love with the women and ache to be the guy holding her. The songs did what songs do best and snaked their gentle chords into my chest and wound themselves around my heartstrings. Then I was played like a violin.

Tragedy is always a way into my heart. I hate to admit it, because it once again robs me of my thin façade of masculinity, but I caught myself choking back sobs, and often with less success than I would have liked.

As a nearly perfect cap to the evening, I got to go out to dinner with two of my friends. Nothing is quite as big an ego boost than walking into a restaurant with not one, but two, beautiful women in your company. I was the envy of every guy in the place, and I knew it. And on top of that, the food was good.

Kansasgirl? Excellent taste in theater/cinema.

Mrs. Marcia Dentist? Excellent taste in restaurants.

As I wind down my day, I have two more bits of good news. Mind Spewer, who I feel understands me better than has almost any other person I’ve met before in my life, called me her friend on her blog. Being called a friend means a lot to me, and although I’m sure she’s said it before, sometimes (most of the time, actually) I’m dense, and things take longer to sink into my head.

And finally, Mind Spewer asked me to do what I love doing best – coming up with iron-clad arguments against something I despise to put an arrogant blowhard in his place. So to top off what has to be one of my best days ever (seriously… This will go down in the top five or so), I can spend a few hours working on something that matters to me to make a small difference in the course of a debate.

I couldn’t have asked for a better day. Thank you all for being no more and no less than you are. You mean the world to me.

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Olympic Fever: Contract it!

I have to admit that I’m not a huge fan of the Olympics as a general rule. It’s not as if I dislike the games. They serve a valuable function in terms of bringing the world a little bit closer and in their ability to ease tensions by making us all realize that whether we follow one god or many, whether of dark or light skin, whether man or woman, what matters is that we are young, attractive, and athletic.

I jest, of course. Humankind has always come closer and loosened the chains that held disparate groups apart when we freed our inherent love of play.

Despite my respect for the games on a more inter-personal level, most of the events don’t interest me all that much. I can watch skiers and snowboarders and won’t get bored, but if I don’t see them, I won’t really miss them. Of all Olympic sports, there are only two that I feel that I must watch: gymnastics and figure skating. Of those, skating takes the cake as my favorite.

The cynical side of me says that my love for these sports has something to do with attractive (and bendy) women in tight clothes. The slightly more upscale parts of my mind would rather I believe that I have a fondness for feats of human grace.

Most Olympic sports seem to center around brute abilities like strength and speed. Who can run the fastest? Who can lift the most weight? Skating seems less about speed and brute physical prowess than it does about a quieter sort of strength.

Figure skating is a squishy sport, just like psychology is a squishy science. It is harder to quantify and has elements that are purely subjective (artistic elements and the like). But in a real way, this is what I enjoy about the sport. What better competition than a competition where quiet beauty will take the gold?

I’ve never been moved by a hockey game. A pole-vaulter may elicit a ‘Yeah!’ from me after a good jump, but I’ll never be entranced by the act. With most sports, it seems more important who wins or loses, and I’m sure in skating it is no different for the participants. But for me, when I catch myself hanging with baited breath at the end of a performance, who wins or loses is of far less consequence than whether what they accomplished was a brief flicker of beauty against the backdrop of the roaring crowd. If basketball amounts to a fever-pitched, adrenaline-fueled fumbling, then skating seems closer to a slow caress down the small of the back in a candlelit room.

Four years ago, I watched what had to be one of the most moving performances I’d ever seen. While most of the skaters I’d watched did impressive physical feats on the ice, the Canadian duo moved with a certain raw sensuality and grace that left me (and most watchers, by the roars of the crowd following their performance) emotionally exhausted. They exuded adoration, longing, fear of loss, and heartfelt love in every touch, move, and sidelong glance (even if it was all just pretend). Then, of course, they were initially robbed of the gold medal to a Russian pair who did impressive physical feats but had eyes that were as cold as a Siberian winter.

This year, a Russian couple took my heart in their performance. While certainly not as powerful as I remember the Canadians as having been four years prior, the Russian pair moved with a certain slow and beautiful stately elegance that charmed me. What really made me affirm my judgment of the beauty of their routine was in fact what happened immediately after it ended. Most skaters will bow, curtsy, or wave to the crowd. Some will hug their partner. In this one, the male skater (Marinin) fell to his knees with tears in his eyes, and kissed the hands of his female partner. Tell me that’s not beautiful.

Unlike four years ago (despite the post-event compromise) I was not disappointed. They took the gold.

Blech

Sick sick sick sick sick.

Was ill all weekend, so this uses up my allowable sick days in my mental calendar. Looked out the window yesterday. It must have snowed on Saturday or something while I was alternating between hot showers and dozing fitfully. I didn't even notice.

Will be better by this evening, I hope. I have too many classes tomorrow to miss.