Moving violations

I got my first speeding ticket yesterday, 40 in a 30 (which is wrong, it was more like 35, but they must have been meeting quota because there were three cars and they nabbed another one right after me). My luck has finally run out.

This is the fifth time I've been stopped for speeding, and the first time I've actually been written a ticket. While I've received and paid multiple parking tickets, for some reason I hoped this day would never come.

The first two times I was stopped were during my senior year in high school. The first cop was nice, the second one was really angry but let me off anyway for some reason. He asked me who my parents were and I told him, but as far as I know I'd never seen the guy before. Maybe he knew of my father, since he's on the fire department in my hometown and has been for most of his life.

The third time I was pulled over, I was leaving my cousin's house in a hurry on my way home from college. He didn't live there anymore, and there was no real reason for me to drive by, but I had to pass through the town anyway, so I drove by it for old times' sake. It was dark, the house was empty, and I got a little creeped out, so I was going too fast, but I still got let off with a warning.

When I lived in Indiana, I was somewhat known for getting lost easily while driving. When I moved to Texas, I got a lot better for some reason, but one particular day, on my way home from work, I got lost in my own neighborhood and was so frustrated I was zooming around trying to find my way back and got nabbed. Again, just a verbal warning and a "Be more careful."

Well, this time in addition to the "Be more careful" I was handed a ticket. Luckily, it says I can avoid paying full price by taking a driving safety course, but it's almost as much as just paying the ticket. Still, it gets the moving violation "dismissed", which I guess would save me any raise in insurance premium, so it's probably worth it.

Let me know what you guys think of the new layout.

Putting it down

I finished reading Notes from Underground a couple days ago, and I can't really recommend this book to anyone. It was relentlessly depressing from beginning to end. I've actually read two other books from start to finish since I started it. I honestly knew nothing about it before I picked it up, and what I thought I knew was wrong. It's all about a Russian who hates himself and everyone else, told from his perspective as he tries to bring everyone around him down to his level and fails. If that sounds like a gripping read, go ahead and try it along with a couple anti-depressants. At least it's short, not that it helped me. If this had been a long book I would have abandoned it, which I almost never do.

In happier news, I have my first (used) laptop to play with. So old it can't run Windows XP! 128 megs of RAM! One USB port! CD-Rom only! Totally worth the asking price, which was "Get it out of here"!

Texas wildlife

I'd been living in Texas a couple of years when my friend Lyndon, a native Texan, first told me about the Texas barking spider. People outside of the state have generally never encountered or even heard of one. This rude critter has the habit of crawling around under the dinner table and making a sound suspiciously like that of a person passing gas. When I told my roommate Phil about this, he was skeptical, but every once in a while we have to chase one off to eat in peace.

Mexican food especially seems to bring them out, and in my time here we've come across some mighty fine Mexican dishes, like tacoritos, as well as everybody's favorites, from burritos to fajitas to tacos. A few months ago, I stopped eating much besides salads for weeks on end and managed to lose a couple belt notches. Coincidentally, we didn't hear a whole lot of barking in that time, but I have a feeling these spiders are seasonal. Hopefully, we've heard the last of them, but if they're anything like the sugar ants that still turn up around the drains occasionally, I wouldn't count on it.

Talking baseball

I've never been terribly good at sports, which is probably the reason I have so little interest in them. In fact, the last year I played baseball (7th grade, maybe?), I had a batting average of .000 posted for the world to see. I can still remember checking the sheet of paper tacked up on the wall of the clubhouse and thinking to myself, "This is my clue to quit," which I did.

I had a zero batting average that year because I got scared of the ball, but I hadn't always been. I started playing Pee Wee League ball as an outfielder, and like most of my peers, I got bored and didn't pay attention very well while standing alone as the sun went down, waiting for something to happen. But some way or another, I eventually became backup catcher, and I not only made some good plays, I also hit three home runs in my brief career. As I recall, two of them were in-field, and the third was over the fence, but it may have been the other way around. I also threw a runner out at second and got a slider out at home by holding onto the ball even after being laid out flat by him. Proud moments.

Seeing games was something else. I went to see the Cincinnati Reds play many times at the old Riverfront Stadium, which seemed a lot more impressive as a kid than it was shortly before they tore it down, when blocks of cement reportedly would fall from the ceiling of the parking garage to land on cars. I loved how bright it was at night inside the stadium, and there were people moving around constantly. Every once in a while you'd catch "the wave", and the fireworks were always suitably impressive.

One night my older brother took me, and he gave me some money to buy a souvenir plastic helmet. I doubt I was even thirteen at the time, and I got stopped by a small group of black kids, one of whom stole the money I was foolishly carrying in my hand for the world to see. What I remember vividly about the incident is, another of the kids, who were all about my age, asked me if I wanted him to get it back. Crying, I said yes, and he took off running after the thief. Of course, I never saw either one of them again, but I wonder if he really did try to get the money back for me.

More than once, the game ran late enough that my dad and I would get home after midnight. We would stop at Frisch's Big Boy on the way home, since they were the only place still open at that hour, and get some ice cream fudge cake with whipped cream and a cherry on top, their specialty. I haven't had that in years. Remembering those nights when I was taking poetry in college, I wrote this:

Ball Game

Dad took me to see the Reds play
a few times when I was 10.
In the old, faded yellow pickup
his breath was the acrid smell
of cigarettes, ends burning.

The Reds sometimes won, sometimes lost,
but it was always late when we left, and bright
with streetlights and the headlights of speeding cars.
We stopped at Frisch's on the way home
to eat a fourth meal: Big Boys with milkshakes.

Whenever we got home-two or three in the morning-
we made our way silently out of the darkened garage,
my mother and sister already fast asleep.
When I inevitably knocked over the trashcan
the cat arched its back into a crescent moon.

Open your ears

Have you ever had one of those experiences that turned your perception of the music you listen to on its head? I know I'm not alone because I've talked to others who, all of a sudden hear different messages in the music on the radio, or even old favorites. I think it comes from insight, when you suddenly see clearly where the writer/performer is coming from, whereas before you were just letting them lead you along.

What about mishearing lyrics? Some observant people have even written books on this subject, the first I encountered being Scuse Me While I Kiss This Guy. The cover shows Jimi Hendrix apparently forcing a smooch on a white man (the author?). While that may be rich for interpretation, it was pretty straightforward listing the correct lines compared to what somebody (not credited) had once believed them to be.

The most recent song that I got wrong on the most basic level is Hinder's "Lips of an Angel". In my office, we generally keep the volume on the radio low, which can make it hard to hear what's being sung. I had a hard time understanding lyrics under the best of circumstances when I was a kid, but I got better at it when I started writing myself. The first couple dozen times I heard this one, I thought it was about the infidelity of the woman the singer was with, but when I finally heard it at full volume, it turns out he's the one tempted to stray (by an ex-lover). I thought he was singing "Girl, it must be hard to be faithful/with the lips of an angel", but it's actually "But girl you make it hard to be faithful/With the lips of an angel".

It's funny, I actually had a hard time remembering what I originally thought he was saying, since once you get it right it makes so much more sense. Another common occurrence from my childhood, and one reason I couldn't write a book like that from my own "mondegreens". Hard to believe there's actually a word for them.

I'll be home for Christmas

I'm heading home to Indiana for the weekend. Unfortunately, I couldn't take any time off this year, but I'm flying so I'll have a couple of days to see everyone, at least. I've never missed a Christmas with the family, although I almost missed the Christmas dinner one year I had to work the morning of Christmas Day. It's hard to believe that was eight years ago now.

A good friend of the family passed away recently, and I wish I had gotten to see him one more time beforehand, but it was not to be. He was much loved, with a large family of good people. (Okay, one of them kind of dropped me on my head when I was an infant, but no harm done.) I used to go fishing in one of the ponds on their property with my dad, and we've always appreciated their generosity. My thoughts are with them this holiday season.

Blogging for an audience

I’ve been blogging for a little more than two years now, and it still surprises me what prompts a response and what doesn’t. For instance, three people responded to my post on the “nice guy” conversation below, while a post about a hot topic goes by unnoticed, be it an election, the war in Iraq, or what have you. I guess it just depends on who’s listening at the time, but it’s nice to know someone’s getting something out of it.

In case you’re curious, I don’t have a set method for writing posts. Sometimes something grabs my attention and I write it up right away, other times I let an idea gestate or compose some of it in my head before I start to put anything down. Once in a while, I’ll write down a topic I know I’ll want to return to, but don’t have anything articulate to say about yet. If it’s tied to a current event, sometimes these fall by the wayside. Occasionally, I’ll bounce an idea off someone. I did this with the conversation referred to in the “nice guy” post, with my roommate.

My intention wasn’t to criticize anybody in particular, or anyone who’s called me nice in the past, but rather to explore the idea a little bit in different contexts, and how that idea manifests itself in perception or behavior. Given the questioning of my mental health that ensued, this probably wasn’t as clear as it could’ve been. But I would ask anyone reading this blog not to read too much into any one post. Sometimes how a post turns out just depends on the day I’m having. Sometimes I start writing one idea, and halfway through it gets taken over by another.

I’ve occasionally posted previously written material, but I’ve never deleted a post. When I’ve edited, it’s been for grammar or clarity. I realize that with the rise in RSS feeds, any editing done after the fact is lost on some readers anyway. At the risk of sounding uninspired, if anyone would like to suggest a topic they’d like me to post about (that doesn’t involve selling something), email me.

A clarification

In case it wasn't obvious in my last post, I was being sarcastic when I suggested being a jerk would attract women. The internet isn't always good for conveying that kind of humor, especially when you adopt a conversational tone to begin with. Regardless, being myself and trying to be a good person are the only things I know or want to do with my life. After all, you're looking at yourself in the mirror every morning.

Who finishes first?

I’ve been told by many people, under various circumstances, that I’m a “nice guy”, but an incident this week bears repeating. I’ve recently been thinking that when a prospective romantic interest tells you this, he or she (as this undoubtedly happens to women as well as men) is not just seeking to spare your feelings, but also his or her own. Rather than tell someone “I’m just not attracted to you” or “I find you boring,” which may be just as accurate, saying “I think you’re really nice” spares one the discomfort of having caused someone else disappointment.

But it doesn’t really. The other person is still disappointed – it’s just the romantic interest who gets to feel off the hook, at least to some extent. Wanting to spare someone else’s feelings is an admirable goal, provided not giving the real reason doesn’t do the other person a disservice. Wanting to spare your own, while perfectly understandable, is somewhat less than noble if you could provide insight on what the asker could do to improve his or her chances in the future. But who wants to do that, and why should they be expected to? They didn't ask for the question (presumably).

Then there’s the whole “nice guys finish last” maxim. On a Simpsons commentary track for a season 8 episode in which Lisa falls for the bully Nelson, who’s stolen a hood ornament, one of the writers gives his advice on getting the girl. If you have the chance, “steal the hood ornament,” because otherwise “you’ll end up someone’s second husband.” Leaving aside the +50% divorce rate after five years in this country, is being someone’s second spouse such a bad thing? Does it imply, as he indicates, that one has failed to attract a more desirable person? What happened to the idea of falling in love, and that being what matters? My mother is my father’s second wife, and they’ve been married 34 years.

Anyway, ponder if you will: a married, older woman says to me, “You know, you’re a really nice guy. Has anyone ever told you that?” I replied yes, but it doesn’t always seem to be a good thing for some reason. She tells me one of her relatives was a nice guy, and he ended up marrying a very overweight woman her family disapproved of. When asked why he would want to marry her when he could do so much better, he apparently told her “I know she loves me, and I may never find that again. I just don’t want to end up alone.”

I can’t help but wonder what I was meant to take away from this exchange, if anything at all. To be clear, she disapproved of this, but was it because her relative didn’t return that love, or because she thought he should have held out for something better? Or, as I took it, was it because he was too much of a “nice guy”? The criticism seems to be, if you were more of a jerk you could do better with women and get what you want (because everyone knows women love jerks). So my question is, how much of a jerk would she have me be? Is 10% less helpful and kind enough? 20%? Shall I blow off everybody for an hour a day, or just a few people all day long?

All I know to do is be myself, and try to be good person. If anyone has any other advice, I’d love to hear it.

Rewind

Phil asked me what brought that last post to mind, seeing as how it's been a while since it came up. I started reading Notes from Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky recently, hence the title of the post, and there was a quote in there that had something to do with it. Also, I've been reading a running dialogue on the TV series The Wire, including some of the people who make it, and a quote by creator David Simon has come up more than once. "(T)his season is to take argument with those who feel that if you're born without privilege, but make the right set of choices, that you will be spared. To do away with that bit of national mythology." The season centers around middle schoolers slowly being sucked into drugs and violence by their inner city Baltimore surroundings.

Naturally, that sentiment is a lot easier to come by when you're writing about inner city African-Americans, but being a white man, Simon has caught some flak for his take on the subject. Whether or not you feel it's warranted depends on if you believe in the universality of human experience, which most artists, including myself, take for granted. There is no human experience that is completely foreign to me, because I am human.