David: Hey, Bart! Did you have a good weekend? Get a lot done, like you wanted to?
Bart: Yeah, it was great! You?
David: Well, let's see... I outlined my next couple projects, set up a filing system for my notes, and downloaded a productivity program... then I read an article about time management and filed it away in the new system. Then brainstormed over instant-messaging for a while, while watching Youtube clips for "inspiration." I spent so much time being creative, I forgot to be productive.
Bart: I took some meth and cleaned my kitchen for three days!
I’ve decided that I will go on holiday for a little while from traveling. Of course, when people say “go on holiday,” they (aside from being British) mean that they will travel somewhere. I am traveling away from traveling, which translates into being not mobile.
Thursday around noon was my closing time with my work conference. I checked out and mingled for a little bit in the lobby before I had to leave for the airport. I sat down with a person from a school in Kentucky. I met him earlier, probably the second or third day. He knew I was from California, and of course, figured that the entire state was Hollywood.
“So what kind of theaters do you have in Santa Cruz?”
“Uh…we have two mainstream theaters—“
“No, I’m not talking that mainstream bullshit. I mean, good artsy shit that liberals just eat up.”
“Oh, well, we have two. There’s the Del Mar and the Nickelodeon. They’re our two art-house theaters.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. I bet you get a lot of celebrities coming out of those places.”
“Well, Santa Cruz isn’t very ‘filmy.’ More of that happens in Southern California. More in the Hollywood area. We’re in Northern California—"
“I know that. But you got to have something! I mean, come on, you’re California! I mean, look at who your governor is!”
“True, but it’s a very large state. A lot of that movie industry stuff mostly exists in the Southern—"
“No, I’m sure you get your share of celebrities; you probably just don’t know it.”
I let him end it with that. He was right, I was wrong. My small beach town; I just don’t know anything.
Shortly after, I wound up at National Airport (I refuse to call it what it is actually named) and saw that my plane to Dallas was delayed due to bad weather from the gunslinging state. They reworked my arrangements because of the delay, I would then miss my Dallas flight to San Jose. I found my gate and continued reading my Dave Eggers book.
Finally the plane was ready to board.
I was in the middle seat. The person to my left had a small dog that she brought onto the plane. She had it in a very small and cube shaped suitcase. It was placed right by her feet. When I approached the seats, I told her I was in the middle. She wouldn’t budge.
“I have a dog,” in a very low whisper “if I move my feet, he’ll bark.” All I could think was how the hell do you expect me to get over. But, like most people, she didn’t hear my thoughts and therefore didn’t move or do any sort of action to help me in my situation. So, I placed my bag in my seat (reached over her). And since I have very elongated legs, I pulled a Mr. Fantastic and simply stretched over her. I think my butt skinned her face, but I didn’t care.
Once I sat down, the person to my right (the window seat) then arrived. The same lecture came from Ms. Dog. He looked a bit awkward from that. I probably had the same look on my face. He did a similar move. He was shorter though; I did my best to make his maneuver and smooth landing. When he sat down, he wanted to talk to Ms. Dog.
“Do you travel a lot with your dog?”
“I can’t talk; if he hears my voice he’ll get really excited and will bark.”
“Oh, my wife and I travel a lot with our dogs.”
“I can’t talk; if he hears my voice he’ll get really excited and will bark.”
“Oh, yeah, my dogs have done that. Usually what we do—“
“I can’t talk; if he hears my voice he’ll get really excited and will bark.”
I wanted to slap both of them. Ms. Dog was a goddamn automated message with that same damn response, and Mr. Magoo over here won’t shut up about his dog travels, and won’t even listen to Ms. Dog.
The plane landed and I was in Dallas.
Dallas is a place I will never ever visit. Probably all of Texas too, although Austin I may, if needed, visit. I spent too much time in the Dallas airport. The airport is huge; probably the biggest one I’ve been to yet. When I landed, we arrived in Terminal C, my connecting flight was in Terminal A. Terminal A is on the other side of the lot, which requires using their monorail system.
I arrive in Terminal A and I see that my plane is even further delayed due to the storm that Dallas was currently experiencing. I was expected to linger for at least three hours in the airport. What a boy to do? I bought dinner. Although I know it’s incredibly horrible for you, but I figured it was the lesser evil of the options provided. I found a Panda Express and got myself a plate of greasy, MSG induced food. My other options were all topics from Fast Food Nation. I couldn’t get over how popular McDonalds was. There were many little McDonald stands at various gates.
Knowing that I was only twenty pages from finishing my book, I thought it wise to buy some new reading material. The first bookstore only had three books for sale: Harry Potter, The Secret, and a Bill O’Reilly book. Plus there were many gossip magazines and about a dozen newspapers. I figured this airport could do better. I went further down the stretch of airport wonders and saw leather shops, belt buckle kiosks, Dallas Cowboys souvenir shops (although souvenir was spelled “sue v. near.” I don’t know if they were trying to be cute or what.), and the greatest one I saw was an army recruitment stand.
I came across a bookstore that had a wider variety. I saw Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, which I had been intrigued with when I first read about it coming out a while back. I purchased that and went to my gate.
Sitting there, I looked out the window and was witnessing the doom-ridden storm. All I could think was that I am in Dallas, and I am stuck here.
I am in Dallas and it is raining. I am in Dallas and they misspelled souvenir. I am in Dallas and there are people solely selling cowboy hats. I am in Dallas and everyone is eating McDonalds. I am in Dallas and there are army recruiters. I am in Dallas and the man next to me is wearing a shirt without any sleeves, and he has not seen a dermatologist. I am in Dallas and it is raining, and I am stuck here.
An announcement came from above discussing the flight to San Jose. The woman indicated that flight number #### will now be departing from gate C17. I was at gate A20. I have to go back on that monorail.
I am in Dallas and this is becoming hell.
I make myself comfortable at C17. I finished my book. I still have another forty minutes until the expected boarding time.
Now, I am on board. I sit next to an older man who is from Livermore (east bay area). He was really fun to talk to. The passengers across the aisle from me were crazy. I couldn’t place the language they were speaking; I thought Spanish, but there was something alternative about it, then I thought Portuguese or maybe Italian. Either way, they were not silent at all. And the family (they all looked the same) was huge. There were at least four of them in my area, and three more in the front end. The way I knew this was that they decided to move around and talk to each other when the seatbelt sign was still lit. We just left the runway and they were in wandering mode. The flight attendants had to keep forwarding them back to their seats. The one right next to me from the aisle whipped out his cell-phone a couple times (during the same time when all electronic items are to be turned off). It was never a dull moment with this family.
We all arrived safely in San Jose. I made a decent eighty-page dent in my new book. I waited for my airport shuttle. I got to my car and still had to do my highway 17 excursion. I was at my house at about 12:20 am. What a long day. And to think that I gain hours since I was traveling west bound. Going to sleep was rough since I could still feel the airplane motions in my body.
I lost count on how many Harry Potter readers there were.
From my last visit to the DC/Virginia area, I remember it being incredibly hot and incredibly humid. This was something everybody warned me about and I took those warnings and became prepared. Of course, visiting this area a matter of weeks later, I figured this would still be the case. My suitcase is full of t-shirts, collared shirts, a few pants, and a pair of shorts. I brought one long sleeve shirt that is actually pretty thin, so not too warm. The problem I am encountering is that since most of my days are in the hotel (due to the various seminars, receptions, and mingling), I am walking around in a climate controlled environment; it’s sixty degrees where ever you walk. It’s freezing here. And I only have one long sleeve shirt.
Today is the last full day; tomorrow there is a morning session, lunch, and a closing part. Then everybody flies off to their merry homes. Right now I am in my little hour break post-lunch, pre-next-seminar. Yesterday was the first day of the second conference, so now I am alone. My colleague flew back yesterday early afternoon so now I really have to make a point of representing my institution. At the different sessions, I am constantly chiming in, providing insight on what my department does for solicitations and other areas.
The University of Washington, Seattle has taken me under their wing. It’s a fun little bunch. One of their assistant directors, Kim, is usually in the same sessions with me. When she found out that we were on the same floor, this got her really excited. Now, she tends to come by to see if I’m there, and if so, she wants to know what I am up to, or if she can check her email. I decided that she is secretly in love with me. So what if she has one of those little metallic circular items on her ring finger? She keeps talking about some individual named Dave, who, apparently, is her husband. I realized that Dave is just an acronym for “Doesn’t Appear Valid, Eh?” So, I will let her have her fun with me.
Throughout the conference there are various sponsors located outside of the conference rooms. One of them was a mail vendor that one of my superiors mentioned before I left. I went and made a point of talking to the representative. After his description on how great the company is, he then asked about the university I worked for.
“Hey, aren’t you guys the number one party school?” you know, you’re not making a great impression with me right now.
“Well, apparently if you work for Rollingstone and interview one person who smokes a lot of weed and happens to go to school here, then you can make it sound like that that school is a party school,” he laughed at that. Then I went on a giant tirade of the numerous accomplishments that my university has offered; everything from better understandings of the universe, enhancement of the human genome project, disease prevention, internationally known farming programs, and outstanding arts and lecture series. But apparently weed and parties is all people can think about. Too bad Chico State left yesterday.
Anyway, I will continue my adventures here. I am thoroughly amused by the amount of schools from the South that are here. It’s interesting how some schools will focus all their solicitation efforts on football, fraternities, and Jesus. Weird shit.
Tonight, people are planning a twilight tour of DC. I think I’ll try to attend that. I’ll be sure to have my camera handy for that one.
Over the past year and a half since I’ve been with this job, I’ve been sent to at least three conferences (this one being the third). The appealing part about doing these functions is meeting new people. My first conference was in San Francisco and it was represented by various non-profit institutions in Northern California. The second one was in Pomona, California, which had a lot of universities from Southern California, but some from the northern area. Now, with this one, mostly everyone is from the east of the Mississippi River. Aside from me, the only other California school is Chico State. For west coast schools, University of Washington, Seattle is here also.
Everyone at these types of things know that they are on a limited amount of time, so they might as well make the most of it. So, people tend to try to make friends with you fast. Every little seminar, that “friend” will ask to sit next to you; come lunch time you all sit at the same table, and what ever the event for the evening is, you will all cling together. I don’t mind this. I appreciate the new faces. Since mostly everyone is from some drastically different area of the nation, it’s fun to get alternative perspectives on random topics and discussions.
I do my best, with these conferences, to do as much mingling and networking as possible. I like to hear people’s stories. This evening I had a gentleman ask me how my night was going. I told him it was going just fine. He then asked me what school I was with. I realized that I was in foreign territory and not everyone knows the layout of California, so Santa Cruz may not be known to all. I said a school in Northern California. I asked him the same question.
“University of Alabama!” in the thickest southern accent possible “can’t wait for football season to start!” of course you can’t.
I sat at a table with some random folks. One was from University of Southern Illinois, one was from Saint Louis University, and the other from the University of William & Mary. As I spoke some more, the one from Illinois asked me something that I have been asked in the past.
“Are you British?”
I was always curious on why I was asked this, but then over time, it all clicked. So I responded back.
“Why do you ask? Is it because I talk fast, have pale skin, blonde hair, and bad teeth?”
“Uh…I…uh...I…mean, no…I…just thought…I” then some laughter came from the other persons at the table. I hadn’t made somebody uncomfortable in a while so this was my quota for the day. He didn’t really talk to me after that.
Anyway, here’s some more pictures to feast your eyes on.
My money was on the woman in pink. She came in a close second.
When asked about the downsizing of torture, President Bush said there will be less spikes involved, less fire usage, and less screenings of Pauly Shore movies.
Home of true celtic pride: FBI headquarters (FBI: Full Blooded Irish. Get it? Ha!)
Boo!
Scientists have proven that politcians evolved from dinosaurs.
Apparently there's a large beastiality problem on capital hill.
And a pedophile problem too.
This is where Ronald Reagan was shot; he was attending a special viewing of Tootsie, and a man named Boutros Boutros Ghali shot him, saying he was trying to impress Sissy Spacek.
Many may remember that I was actually in this neck of the woods about three weeks ago. I was visiting my friends Steph and Vic who I had attended college with and worked with as well. I figured since I was in their neighborhood again, it wouldn’t hurt to visit them one more time.
We made contact last night and contemplation was made on where to go for dinner. When I was on the phone with Vic, he mentioned that their friends Alex and Liz were coming along too. I then asked, “Wait, Alex and Liz? But don’t they hate me?”
Now, the reason I asked this question was due to something stupid I did when I last visited them. The weekend of my visit, I met this couple that are friends with Steph and Vic named Alex and Liz. They came over to the apartment on Sunday evening (the night before we all took off). We were all enjoying each other’s company, playing some games and enjoying mixed beverages. This is the same night that Steph and Vic’s dog, Cokey, drank alcohol and soda, which led it to the veterinarian’s office the next morning. After some drinks, of course, I transitioned into a different state. At one point, Alex went outside to smoke a cigarette and Liz followed him. Once they left, I simply stated (some may say yelled), “She’s hot!” That’s all.
Well, once they came back from their cigarette excursion, Liz had a slightly snappy tone to her; she said, “We’re going to leave.” All of us were slightly shocked. It was sort of a 180 from what we were experiencing earlier. They grabbed their things and left a couple of minutes after that. Victor followed them out. Once he returned he said that they left due to what I said. We all gasped at this. I asked if he was kidding but he said no. I kept asking that over and over, I didn’t want to take Vic seriously, but he was remaining serious. My stupid comment on saying that Liz was hot made them leave? Boy, I am jerk, was all I could think. Right after all this settled in, I became immediately depressed and absolutely quiet. Everyone kept asking me what was wrong and all I could say was that I ruined their night by some ridiculous comment.
Going back to last night, Vic mentioned that Liz and Alex were coming to dinner as well. I asked if they knew I was coming and Vic said yes. When I asked Vic about them hating me, he said they didn’t. I guess it was all a joke from the last visit. I think there was something else going between the two and Vic used my comment as the excuse. I must say I felt better once I realized that I wasn’t the result of their end to that Sunday evening.
We met for dinner at a nearby Mexican/Peruvian/Guatemalan restaurant that was a few blocks from my hotel. It was fun but the night ended somewhat early since Vic was starting his new job tomorrow (my Vic is all grown up!).
I retired to my bedroom once everyone left. I was plowing through my book, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. I had a mixed playlist on the computer going as background music. While I was reading, I heard some commotion from the hotel room next to mine (you know how every hotel room has a door connected to the next one, but they’re usually locked?). I got close to the door and all I could hear were the sounds of, well, sex (or working out, you never know). Once this all connected, I thought two things: either my neighbor is watching porn or two people are having some fun.
I turned my music up a little and then continued my reading. Maybe a half an hour later and forty pages plus, I received a knock on my door. It was a slightly older man. He asked me if I could turn my music down because he was trying to go to bed. I thought it was amusing that I needed to turn my music down when it wasn’t that loud (it was R.E.M.’s “Electrolyte” at that moment). The man then indicated that he was next door to me. I asked which side and he said the left one, which is the one I shared my door with. I then asked if he was by himself and he replied, “Yes.” Ha ha! I got my answer on what the noises were. He walked away and I bit my lip from asking him to turn his porn down but I didn’t because that’s not me.
Today is the first day of my work related conference. The cool thing is that it doesn't start until 2:45pm on the second floor lobby. As I write this, it's only 1:45pm, so I still have an hour to kill.
This morning I woke up and went for a walk around the district. My hotel is on the corner of K Street and 16 Avenue, which therefore puts me in walking distance of many recognizable things.
The nation's very first cannon. You can really notice the evolution of cameras.
John Wayne's ancestor.They call it the House of Secrets.That's actually a quote from Donald Trump.The nation's very first Barnes & Noble Bookstore.A statue of the nation's first UFC team.Right after this picture was taken, a large foot came down on the monument. The person may have to get a tetanus shot.
Knowing that the entire world, save myself and maybe eighteen other people I know, was in line last night buying the final book of Harry Potter, I knew I was going to have some major encounters with him today.
This morning I woke up to go to the San Jose airport so I could start my travels. My boss has sent me to Washington DC for two conferences that are back to back, both in the Capital Hilton (and guess where I am staying?). So, I created a game this morning as I was driving to San Jose: How many times will I see somebody reading the new book?
I woke up somewhat early this morning in order to wrap up my packing. I also wanted to go somewhere and get breakfast (and not buying a muffin at a coffee shop). However, all the restaurants in downtown Santa Cruz where one consumes breakfast were not open at seven in the morning. Nonetheless, I bought a damn muffin at a coffee shop. Lame. There was at least an hour that I saved so I went and took some odds and ends from my house and dropped them off at the Salvation Army store (although they weren’t open yet, shhhh). After that, I was on my way to San Jose.
When I got to the airport, my game was in full effect. While in line at the security checkpoint, many of the bins had Harry Potter in them. When I arrived to my gate, every other chair had an individual reading the book.
To distract me from my observations, a random man asked if the seat next to me was being used. I replied no. The man began talking to me about flying to Dallas (this is where my layover was). He then told his story: his son was part of a motorbike derby contest and he was flying to Dallas where he then would fly to Oklahoma City and then drive to Kansas where the derby is being held. He began going into much greater detail about the motorbikes involved. I knew he had mechanic experience due to his choice of terminology. And, of course, he assumed I knew what he was talking about. I was hoping he wouldn’t ask me any questions because I am known for having a blank stare on my face when someone is talking about something I don’t know. While he spoke I kept thinking of that woman Yuriko from the wedding who asked me if I knew what music therapy was and Nikki, my gravity angel, asking if I knew what gravitational waves were. However, this man with the auto-mechanic language did not ask me if I knew what he was talking about (and besides, I wasn’t attracted to him like I was to the two described, so I guess I was in the clear).
This man continued talking about motorbikes, and then went into greater detail about the differences between Hondas and Kawasakis; then there was the discussion of cylinders, usage of oil, RPM numbers, and many many more things. At first, I was hoping that he would find something else to do (like go to the bathroom), or that our flight was ready for us to board, or that I would run into somebody I knew from UCSC. None of those happened (well, we eventually board the airplane). However, my attitude changed about him. He went into further length about the motorbikes and his son’s admiration of them. He then noted how expensive they were to maintain and use, but he mentioned how if that was what he had to commit to in order to make sure his son wasn’t on the streets, or caught up in drugs, or hanging out with the wrong people, then so be it. I really admired his efforts with this.
We eventually board the plane. I sat next to an elderly woman who was connecting to Houston from Dallas and then meeting her family near the gulf for a week long cruise. She seemed excited about this, but about eight minutes after this conversation, she passed out for the entire flight. At that point I began my test; I combed around the plane with my eyes to see where Harry Potter was. The row across the aisle from me had three people seated (all probably related). All three of them had their Harry Potter books open. I glanced behind me and there was a mother and daughter, both with Potter. I leaned over the chair in front of me, and sure enough, the Harry and the Potter were in two of the three seats.
In order to keep myself distinct from the rest of the plane, I read my copy of Dave Eggers’s A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. From my last flying excursion, I was looking forward to my addiction of cheese/crackers and ginger ale. This was my first time flying American Airlines, and I must say I was a little disappointed. They came around with their beverage cart, and they lacked the ginger ale. Plus, they don’t give out snacks. You had to buy them! Never mind that the airline tickets were over two hundred dollars. Three dollars for a bag of chips, four dollars and fifty cents for a candy bar! I had a cup of orange juice and held onto my pride.
We landed in Dallas and there wasn’t much time between this flight and my next one. I rode one of the transit devices that looped around the airport to get to my desired terminal. In front of me was a family, who were probably uber Christians. The daughter wore a t-shirt that had the typical smiley face and the quote below it was “Smile. God loves you.” Her conversation to her parents dealt with time.
“Dad, the future is now!”
“That’s nice, dear.”
”No, Dad, you see all this, this monorail we’re on. This is what the future is going to be. The future is now!” she continued to talk and her little brother started doing things that would question his mental stability.
The next plane was a bit more compact. I sat in the middle seat. I was in quite the contrasting situation. The person to the right of me (the window seat) was a very large man, who was bald and wore thick lens glasses and therefore I only saw little dots for eyes. The person to the left of me was a young woman; very blonde, very fit, very short black dress. What I found even more amusing was that I knew all three of us were going to some kind of conference. Blondie had a binder that displayed “Climbing the ladder you want to climb. How to be your own CEO.” Baldie had a binder and a book. I couldn’t see the binder at first, only the spine, which said “Conference Services by HK.com.” There was a label at the bottom that had his name and then “Department of the Navy.” Finally I saw the cover and it said, “HK.com presents ‘The Future is Now.’” No shit. That’s what that smiling god girl was trying to say to her dad. Maybe she was on the HK.com site. For those who don’t know (and I didn’t know either), HK.com is a site for weaponry. Apparently that’s what the future is all about, and it’s now for that matter. I was going to get my book entitled 10 Innovative Ways to Enhance Annual Giving, but decided to continue my Heartbreaking Work.
Since this plane was more packed than the previous one, there were more children and therefore, more Potters!
I landed in Washington DC/Ronald Reagan airport. I passed many families; all with Harry Potter books in their hands. I arrived to my hotel. At the check-in desk, there was a family of six in front of me. You guessed it. Each of the kids had a copy in their hands. I was amazed.
Alright, so here I am, in my bedroom, sitting on my king sized bed using my laptop. I am currently online and this is the first hotel I’ve stayed in where they are charging you for using the Internet. Luckily, I’m not paying for this. But still, $15 a day for using the World Wide Web. Seems sort of ridiculous since its $199 a night. I’m going to try to get through more of Eggers’s book; then read about the spoilers of the new Harry Potter novel. I heard in one of the airports that Potter comes out of the closet.
56, by the way. There were 56 individuals I counted with Book 7 in their hands.
When the only story that the evening news can cover is the release of the new Harry Potter novel, you know life must be pretty good right now.
Throughout my bus ride experiences, which pretty much started back in fall of 2000, I have only gotten off the bus (due to something else rather than my destination arriving) three times. Two of those being a panic attack I experienced due to overcrowding. The third time was Thursday evening when I was going home from work. My reason was due to Harry Potter fans behind me.
The moment they step foot on the bus, I knew I was going to be annoyed by them. I think it was due to the sounds of their laughter and that they looked like they attended Crown College (UCSC graduates will probably get this). I will save you the details of their conversation but basically it revolved around their experience of waiting in line for “Book Six.” Knowing that the conversation was nowhere near an end (nor their laughter), I immediately pulled the cord and found myself at the Science Hill stop (I was hoping for my gravitational angel to save me but no such luck). I patiently waited for the next bus.
Fan bases are probably one of the most amusing things to analyze and critique. I’m sure sociologists have a field day with these kinds of people. The quintessential fan base is probably the trekkies. Of course, Star Trek is sort of at a halt right now, and has been for some time now, so the trekkies cult is more of a historical aspect now.
However, the fan base cults that linger in the shadows of contemporary society are broken down into a few: Star Wars zealots, Lord of the Rings fascists, and Harry Potter extremists.
The Star Wars zealots are intriguing because they remind me of some kind of terrorist cell unit. They seem like ordinary people, just like you and me, but when the release of the latest Star Wars movie comes, suddenly this average person you knew becomes some kind of monster, he becomes… a geek! Gasp! You see him do things you never knew a human being could do like swirl a stick around and make high pitch noises, or breakout in some deep Kermit the Frog voice and have the syntax of the English language go completely out of order. The even more amusing part is to watch Star Wars zealots try to tell you that the most recent trilogy isn’t all that bad.
The Lord of the Rings fascists came out of nowhere. I call this group the surprise attack. Prior to the fall of 2001, I don’t think I knew a single person who had read anything by JRR Tolkien. However, by winter time, many people suddenly went out and bought the entire LOTR trilogy and plowed through them. Everyone lined up for the first feature and then halfway through the following year, friends of mine are telling me that they can’t wait for the next LOTR because it’s a tradition for their family to see the LOTR movies. Um, there’s only been one, how’s that a tradition?
The LOTR fascists become really insane about the overall story. When one says that he did not like the movies then the fascists will ask if he read the books to which he replies with a confident no then the follow up from the fascists is, “oh god, well, of course, you just wouldn’t understand because you never read the books.” Although, secretly the LOTR fascists didn’t understand 75% of the writing of the books and skipped about 60% of what they actually understood, and they slept through 40% of each of the films, but when they bought the original DVDs, they only slept through 30% of them , but when they wasted their money and bought the Extended Editions, they gained an extra 20% of slumber due to the countless hours of footage that they claimed they liked but deep down, actually despised.
There are many debates in life that will never have a final answer like abortion, stem cell research, and the existence of God. But the one that takes the cake is “which trilogy is better: the original Star Wars or the Lord of the Rings?” Below is a clip from Clerks II where this discussion takes place.
So, in the late 90s some pre-pubic English boy named Harry Potter won the hearts of many people: young children, adolescents, middle-aged women, and mid-life crisis men. By the time book four (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire) was released, this is when the Harry Potter series was like a widespread zombie epidemic. One would get bit by a Harry Potter novel and then that person would go bite somebody else and that person would become infected, and so forth.
Harry Potter fans became incredibly in-your-face about reading the novels. I remember a conversation I had with a friend of mine from college about the books (at this point, there were only four).
Friend: Come on, when I was home for Christmas break, I read all four in a week.
Me: Why should I read those when I got a whole shelf of books that I either haven’t read or haven’t finished?
Friend: They’re really easy books and actually really good stories.
Me: Well, maybe my books are good and really easy to read.
Friend: No, seriously, these are good and incredibly easy to read.
Me: Aren’t they in some kind of series. Why don’t I wait until the seventh book comes out and then I’ll read all of them.
Friend: Oh, I don’t know, that’s a lot of reading.
Me: According to you, they’re an easy read. Four of them took you a week.
All I got was a middle finger back at me.
Every other summer, a book gets released and everyone gathers in line the night before the release and patiently awaits their book. I find the whole midnight release event highly amusing. Someone I know decided to completely rearrange her Friday evening tonight so she can wait in line for book 7. I told her that the book will be the same book tomorrow. She responded back with two responses: one was that she will need a new book to read when she arrives home. I noted that she will probably go asleep when she arrives home. Her second response was that if she doesn’t read it first thing then she will somehow find out about the ending before she finishes it. I told her to go into hiding until she finishes it.
The hype leading up to book seven is pretty insane. The nightly news has been showing countless features on people taking work off, leaving their loved ones, and killing others to take their spot in line so they can be sure to get their hands on those deathly hallows. I love reading about the person who got his hands on a copy and took a picture of each page and put them on the Internet to download. Authorities are doing their best to find out who did it. I’ve got money that this person will be taken in as a terrorist and sent to Guantánamo Bay.
I’m sure by Sunday morning, nearly half the world will have finished the book and there will be countless Internet forums where people will talk about who dies and what they predicted or what they did not see coming. The big debate is on who dies: Harry or Voldemort? I’m anticipating some kind of twist ending.
Here are some predictions:
Harry Potter is actually a woman.
Hogwartz is an imaginary place Harry Potter escapes in order to avoid a beating from his crazy stepfather.
Harry Potter is Keyser Soze
All the students of Hogwartz are just personalities in some serial killer’s mind, and they all will have to kill each other off and the survivor will be the dominant personality.
Harry Potter is helping his fellow students who encounter supernatural things, little behold, Harry Potter is dead all along.
Voldemort is Harry Potter’s father.
Voldemort is actually the sled that Dumbledorf loved as a child.
I got my money that one of these conclusions will be in the newest book, so you Harry Potter extremists, keep your eyes open.
So, now I wonder what will happen to all the Harry Potter extremists now that the series is at an end. Will they wind up like the Matrix fans who held strong while the movies were being released, but knew deep down that the films truly got shittier as they came, and therefore vanished off the face of the earth. Or will they transition into something else like fans of the new upcoming series Harold Clay, Boy Republican, the adventures of a poor conservative who has to survive in a liberal media dominated society and fight off feminists, atheists, terrorists, and animal rights activists. Of course, his entire buildup is to a showdown between himself and Hilary Clinton. Yeah… that will be the next craze.
For future reading:
Harold Clay and the Demons of Planned Parenthood
Harold Clay and the American Muslims
Harold Clay and the Prisoners of Guantanamo
Harold Clay and the Global Warmers
Harold Clay and the Giant Wall for Immigration
Harold Clay and the Destruction of the Constitution
I had to sort of shake my head this morning when I awoke due to a long dream. I know dreams can sometimes be pretty ridiculous, especially when you start describing them to people. You may hear conversations like, “Dude, so it was you, me, and my grandpa, who died five years ago, and we were on this boat but the river wasn’t water but some kind of pudding. Don’t ask me why. And my grandpa had this giant spoon and there were all these birds trying to fly away with the spoon…” and then it just goes on and on into more absurd details.
I will do my best to save you from that type of description. Basically, the dream was almost in grayscale (something that I am not sure I have encountered before). For some reason I was enrolled in some kind of class and I had to follow through with a research paper that required me to interview former President Bush, who now was an elementary school teacher. However, none of this is really relevant, so forgive me.
The main part of the dream that did some damage to me was at one point I received a card in the mail. Inside, it had a picture of a really adorable child (a girl to be specific). The card then asked (via two checkboxes) on whether or not you wanted this child to be killed. The words weren’t that literal, but I just can’t remember the text involved (and I know that dreams you’re not allowed to read due to which part of the brain is functioning). The concept of the card was that the government was conducting population control, and this was their new method: allowing general democratic practices to control the growing population of the world. Basically, do you want this child to live or not? If majority say yes, then the child lives and if the majority vote no, then away the child goes.
Obviously there are many flaws with this idea. One being that I cannot imagine people actually voting on the life of a child; especially how anti-abortion people are. But nonetheless, the general concept was disturbing enough. I think I take too much in from my waking life surroundings. I re-watched Children of Men again the other day, and a couple of months ago I read this article from the Guardian Unlimited that described a disturbing path we are taking for the future. I wish I had the links available, but after reading the article mentioned, I was on some blogs that had commentary on it. In them they provided links to actual interviews and documents that both the British and American government had about population control. There were actual quotes from military officials and congressmen that said that we need to wipe out at least 450,000 people a day and we will not have an over-population crisis come the near future. Other officials were supporters of this since they felt that this would help cure global warming.
I’ll go onto my work computer and look at its Internet history to find those links; that way, you don’t think I am too crazy. Anyway, lets hope those cards do not come to our doorstep.
As we all know, I have a set routine when it comes to the social life that I lead. Friday evening, surprise surprise, I was at the Red with the same crew as usual. Aside from some odd encounters like two men in the bathroom discussing how it is okay to take steroids (or ‘roids as they said) as long as they keep a decent protein diet going, I had an interaction that I wasn’t ready for: I ran into my first roommate from college.
His name is unique (he’s of Persian and Pakistani background), so I will refrain from actually typing his name due to the power of Google, but his name is pronounced like Honest but without the t. However, as I write this entry I am going to call him Meat-head.
Last night I was at the counter trying to get a couple of drinks and then I heard, “Yo, Pete Dog!” I turned around and there was Meat-head, my freshmen year roommate from the fourth floor of building B. The last time I saw him was sometime from senior year.
“Hey, Meat-head,” I politely greeted him “why are you wearing sunglasses inside?” For anyone who has been to the Red, it’s a barely lit room with red lights coming from the other side of the bar (also it was 10pm). Meat-head did not really answer my question about the sunglasses. He did introduce me to his friend who was probably twenty years older than both of us. What he was doing with Meat-head, I still wonder.
Living with Meat-head was quite the experience for someone who just moved away from home and was living his first year of college. He was very much about his image, especially his body. Many of the conversations he conducted revolved around enhancing his pecks, making his arms look like melons, and that he will have little wings connecting his triceps to his chest. Of course, the timeline kept extending.
“Yeah, by December I’ll have these giant melons on my arms.” “Yeah, by March, I’ll have little basketballs… no, big basketballs on my arms.” “Oh yeah, by May, you’ll see my arms become so huge. Like a basketball that ate a melon.”
When he wasn’t at the gym making melons grow on his arms, he also obsessed over the world of protein; mainly protein shakes. Of course, he thought that just having protein shakes, and not a sensible diet, would be good enough to make his spherical arms happen and create wings to connect all his muscle together. Keep in mind, that he made these protein shakes at about 2am (note that a blender is involved and there are people on the floor asleep).
Besides the body, his own face was something that he admired as well. He pretty much declared that he was God’s gift to the world, and if a woman wasn’t interested in him then that woman was probably a man.
I was always amused by the superficial world he lived in. Transportation was one thing. It drove him crazy that he didn’t have a car here (freshmen are not permitted to have cars on campus), but riding a bus was something bums and old people do (and he wasn’t either of those). So, he spent time on the Internet trying to network with people who had cars. He found himself talking to some seventeen-year-old girl who went to the local high school. I remember one weekend my friends Ryan and Ben were visiting me and we came back to my room and the door was locked. Please note that our door was never locked because Meat-head thought it wasn’t fashionable to carry keys. So, I knocked because I thought, maybe, Meat-head was up to something. No response, so I began unlocking the door, and then I heard, “Pete-dog!” As I opened it, there he was, in bed, with the seventeen-year old girl.
He managed to get a chauffer out of this “deal.”
Meat-head also came up with some of the most random thoughts. It might’ve been the same weekend that my friends and I walked in on him, but Meat-head came back from a party and was pretty wasted. As we were all in our room, he asked, “Hey, Peter. Have you ever wanted to just piss on a bitch?” I think I responded with that I could not even possibly think of such an action.
Ramadan was a great time to live with him. Most of you may know, but during this week, Muslims fast during daylight. So, Meat-head would eat massive amounts of food early in the morning. However, his non-English speaking mother would call every morning at 4:55am to make sure Meat-head was eating his food.
When his mother called was also another pleasurable experience.
“Hello?”
“Meat-head?” his mother asked in a thick accent.
“No, Meat-head isn’t here,” I hated being the bearer of bad news.
“…” silence from the other end “where… is… Meat-head?”
“He’s not here.”
“Meat-head?”
“NOT HERE!” then I heard some commotion.
“Hello? Hi, I’m Meat-head’s sister. Is Meat-head around?” this was something I had to constantly deal with whenever he wasn’t present.
Another factor was the computer. For a high school graduation present, my grandparents bought me a computer to take to college. Well, Meat-head did not come to college with a computer (but he came with a small set of weights to lift). I was nice enough to let him have access to the computer, along with the printer and my scanner. I regretted that decision. I constantly found new software on it, all kinds of downloads, and AOL. I am not the biggest fan of America Online and I sure as hell did not want it on my computer. Every so often, I had to “cleanup” my computer. The worst part was that Meat-head was a pretty sociable guy and made many friends (I don’t know if friends is the right word). I would be in my room and then some random individual would come by and say something like, “Hi, Meat-head said I could use his computer to print something.”
“Oh did he?” my computer became a technological whore; everyone had a ride with it at some point.
The next factor that made up his life was marijuana. He obsessed over this. It came to points where he would smoke out just to get an appetite (with the door open too). He would sometimes go off on his "pro-weed" arguments and describe how marijuana cures cancer. There were times where I was writing a research paper and he would walk in with maybe seven to eight people, and then announce that they were all going to smoke out.
“Fuck, Meat-head! I’m in the middle of writing my paper!”
“When’s it due?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Whose fault is that?”
“Doesn’t matter. Go do that somewhere else!”
“Where? Besides, there’s a majority here. And this is my room too!” so, the loser I am, I end up saving my document and emailed it to myself and went to the computer lab while my room became a habitat for Cheech and Chong fans.
I was so baffled by how he managed to make friends with so many people (although, these friends weren’t the best of society either). Plus, he somehow managed to attract so many women. “Ohhh, Meat-head is so cute,” I would sometimes hear in the dining hall. One time, he told me a story of when he was in high school, he was having sex with a woman in the back of his car, and during the whole time, he was eating a Burger King fish sandwich. And I’m the one with women trouble.
By the end of winter quarter, my friend Darren (who lived on the other side of the dorm hall) put a proposition in front of me. Darren and his roommate weren’t getting along, and he knew my situation. The funny thing was that Darren’s roommate and Meat-head actually hung out, so this would be an ideal switch. The beginning of spring quarter, we did the swap, I moved in with Darren and his roommate moved in with Meat-head. However, Meat-head did not tell about my moving out. I was the one who paid for the phone line so I took that with me. His mother would still call, and it took numerous times to get it through that I did not live with Meat-head anymore.
Meat-head definitely became a legend around the university. When ever his name was dropped, somebody would always have a story about him.
“That guy?! He tried selling me weed once.” “He just showed up in my room one time and wanted to watch TV with my roommate and I.” “All he did was try to hit on my sister.” “He just opened my door one day and wanted to know if I wanted to go swimming with him.” “That guy was ridiculous!”
Then when I revealed that he and I were roommates, I always received laughter.
“Talk about true opposites!”
When freshmen year ended, I moved back to Sacramento for the summer. I was using my portable stereo and noticed there was a cassette in the tape deck. I pressed play due to my curiosity. I heard a bunch of rapping or flowing (if that’s the appropriate word). I recognized Meat-head’s voice and there were some other voices involved too. It was typical shitty rap.
“We be boozin’ and drinkin’… tearing up things that have the face of Lincoln!” “We doin’ nothin’ but fuckin’ honies… robbing banks and stealing their monies!”
Wow, I was glad to see the beginning of a college education come into effect. I still let the tape play due to my pure amusement. However, as the songs progressed, I heard one that mentioned Pete-dog.
“Yo, Pete-dog! All your friends are fools… you got a big nose… and you don’t get the hoes,” then there were the backup vocals.
I was slightly dumbfounded. I figured I was the ideal roommate for him since I vacated whenever he smoked out, I pretty much gave him my computer, and I listened to his thoughts and rants (and never objected). I was the biggest pushover, yet somehow he still needed to rap a song about me.
So, last night, Meat-head decided that we had to be friends. He wanted to know what I was up to. He mentioned that he was back home in Fresno. I asked him what he is doing now and he said he was a marketing director for a large advertising firm. I knew this was pure bullshit. He asked the same to me. I said I was working as a digital text engineer (I figured this was comfortable territory for me). Two can play this game. He then asked me if “I was fucking anyone these days?” I was so glad to see that he has matured over the years. Thank god my drinks came; that was my exit cue.
Back in the end of June, my friend Yumiko went to Hawaii with her mother for a little vacation of some sort. While she spent her time there, all she could think about was what would she bring back to me as a gift.
I got my answer.
A lovely shot glass that simply states "Aloha" with a vibrant guitar illustrated on it. A little Hula Girl for the dashboard of my car; since I got a CD stuck in my stereo, this will be my new source of entertainment for the rides in the vehicle. Look as this magnificent little piece of plastic changes into a small writing utensil. Look at its transformations, it's out of this world!
Hope you don't mind the censorship. I don't want the HR people to spend days trying to find ways to incriminate me.
Moving is one of those things that I absolutely dread. But then again, I do not think I know anyone who jumps through hoops when it comes to moving. Since the fall of 2000 when I first came to Santa Cruz, I have moved every single year. In the beginning, it was due to the academic school year ending (keep in mind that I lived on campus all four years), so for the summer I would have to find a location and then move out for the next fall quarter. By the time college had ended, there was a handful of places: the Capitola apartment with Christy, the room I rented from the single father and his ten year old son, the River Street condo with Kyle and now the “Watering Hole” with Eric (Kyle is only honorary). But yet again, we are all moving.
As most of you know, Kyle moved out last month to be with his man, and Eric wants to be out by the end of this month to move back to the Los Angeles area (originally it was the bay area, but things changed). So, therefore that leaves me with nowhere to go.
Due to the wonderful world of Craig’s List and the many things it offers (excluding the list of fetishes that people are looking for: i.e. Sex in spacesuits… swear to god), I browsed through the postings about rentals. First I was looking for one-bedroom apartments and studios. Unfortunately many of these postings either were absolutely lame or had some kind of catch (“be wiling to share room with a lawnmower”).
Then I ventured into the “room in a household for rent” area. I was a bit stand-offish at first because I worried about the worst case scenarios like a house full of druggies, or house full of drama, or worst, a house full of college students (and I know I’m being hypocritical since I was once a college student, but if you walk into a house that is entirely inhabited by undergraduates you will know what I mean). Luckily, there were a few listings that resembled some promise.
Out of the three that I responded to, only one actually gave me a reply back. We arranged for a visit to take place yesterday. The household is three people, two men and a woman, two of them are 27 and one is 29. One is a waiter and surfs on the side, one is a waitress and teaches yoga part time and the other runs an after school junior sports program. Oh, and there’s a dog named Ramses too.
They emailed me the address and yesterday afternoon I checked it out. I was little worried when I got there because they didn’t realize which one I was. “You’re…Todd?” They shortly revealed that they have had about 18 or so responses to the posting, so I figured there was going to be a fat chance of getting this place. While I was there I decided to put on the charming hat, along with the witty hat, plus the “feel sorry for me” hat as I described the flooding incident and the landlord who hates our guts. I figured if I can spend eight hours a day strategizing on ways to get money out of people, then I could convince three people on getting a room out of them. They shook my hand and I left.
This morning at about 9:05am I received a phone call from a number I did not recognize and it was the woman from the mentioned household and she and the rest of the crew wanted me as their new housemate. July 20 is the move-in date they wanted.
I am looking forward to this for various reasons (some being very obvious). Knowing that I have somewhere to go by the end of the month is exciting, plus the location is pretty sweet. For people who have experienced Santa Cruz, it’s off of Woodrow, and is a block away from West Cliff Drive, so I am literally a thousand feet or so from a giant blue wall people call the Pacific Ocean. Also, in September, our department is moving off campus and the new location is about a five-minute bike ride from this given house. Oh yeah, and it’s not in a parking enforced zone, so no parking permits to buy or forty dollar parking citations. Cha-ching!
As you can tell, I have a lot to write down from my weekend away.
So, many of you read the entry entitled “Mission Accomplished” where I describe my efforts and achievements on getting my favorite bartender’s phone number. Well, here is the stance as of now.
Last Thursday afternoon I called her (I tried following those rules about when to call). When I called I received her voice message and I left a jolly little message; I mentioned in it that I was going to be out of town but don’t be discouraged to call me back. I concluded with trying to go do something the following Tuesday or Wednesday (so we’re talking about the present). I left my phone number in the message just so there was no confusion on what my number is (usually it would show up on the screen of the cell phone, but I wanted to cover all my tracks).
The rest of Thursday went by and no phone call. Friday morning and beyond I was in Virginia as you read. I was acting pretty pathetic during the trip when it came to my phone. If I was away from it I would see if I had any missed calls, or when the phone was turned off during the flights, I just kept hoping that I had a message waiting for me. No such luck.
On Saturday when we were all in DC, I was sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial looking at the Washington Monument in front of me. While doing this I felt my phone vibrate and I got all 2nd grade giddy but then I looked at who it was calling; my old infatuation from the end of last year who I will call Coffee Shop Girl. I wasn’t ready to answer the phone.
Some of you may remember my entanglement with Coffee Shop Girl back in the fall and winter. She was in a similar situation like the bartender; I visited that coffee shop everyday and began a customer friendship with this particular barista. Now, I thought there might had been flirtation but if flirting was a certain music pitch, I would be tone deaf. Well, eventually, one Thursday morning I asked if she wanted to do something on the following Friday and she agreed. A lot of walking on cloud nine took place until Friday morning when she said to me:
“Now, Peter, I want to make sure on that what we do tonight we do it as friends because I have an amazing boyfriend,” this took me by surprise. Out of all the random conversations we had in the past couple of months, she never mentioned the B-word. I knew about her deceased father, her nieces and nephews, her obsession with cooking, her practicing Judaism, and many other things but not once did that come up (and believe me, I would have noticed that). I responded with something about looking for new people to socialize with (which isn’t entirely false). She liked my answer and wrote her cell number down. I left like Charlie Brown when he’s depressed (you know that specific tune that always played in the cartoons).
The week following the boyfriend discovery, I met up with her at a concert (a small one at the Attic, a venue in Santa Cruz). We went for a walk while a crappy band was playing and we got to talking. I basically explained to her that I was harmless and she shouldn’t have anything to worry about when hanging out with me (I didn’t want to give her the impression that I was going to try to steal her from her boyfriend, because I used to be notorious for doing that (for those who cannot read that, that was sarcasm)). She then went into some detail about how happy she and her boyfriend are right now, but about four weeks prior to this they had some problems and were on the verge of breaking up (obviously they patched things together). She then said that if I had asked her out at that time, she would have totally considered this a date. Although I still was the loser in this situation, that made my night; knowing that I wasn’t crazy. Yes, this girl did like me.
The following months led to a weird trail. We went and did many things together; saw art exhibits, did dinner runs, window shopped, went for drives along the beach, all seeming like dates one may think. During all this, I would randomly ask her where was her boyfriend and she would usually reply with the fact that he didn’t like doing these things. What was frustrating, as time went on, she would go on about how happy she is in her relationship and sometimes would mention how great their sex is since they repatched things. I wasn’t sure how to feel about this since I felt that I was doing the basic date things that a boyfriend is supposed to do and that basically got her warmed up and ready to go when she got back to her boyfriend that evening.
During our time together there were three things that sort of ended my interaction with her (I’m excluding the boyfriend for this list). One was a really odd conversation we had one night getting dinner. I will sum it up; it was about homosexuality and she asked me if I had ever made love to a man. I responded with a “that’s a negative.” She then told me that I should because “being in the embrace of a man, you will find out things you never knew you wanted.” What an odd duck, is all I could think.
The next was a dinner party she invited me to. This is where I met many of her friends (keep in mind her boyfriend did not attend this). What made this dinner weird for me was that every single conversation that took place, I could not participate in. They went on from things like studying abroad in West Africa and the heart of South America to strange witch doctor stories to growing their own coffee at some point in their lives to general graduate school drama to mushroom hunting. I didn’t even know that mushroom hunting was an activity people even did. I had to leave the party; the whole time while they were talking, all I could do was drop little smart ass comments to get a laugh in but all that did was made me look like a bitter asshole (that’s when I felt like I was being my dad at family gatherings).
The final moment was a phone call that took place in January when she called me up to see if wanted to see Joanna Newsom at the Rio Theater (another venue in Santa Cruz). I asked what her boyfriend was doing and she said he was at home; he doesn’t like that type of music. At that point I finally snapped at her and told her that she needs to really figure out what her relationship is based on, if he does absolutely nothing for her. I was getting tired of (what I felt like) filling in where the boyfriend wasn’t. She understood and we hung up. I haven’t talked to her since.
About a month or two ago I was talking to a person at the 515 (one of the bars I visit) and she mentioned she worked at a nearby used book and record store and this was the same one that Coffee Shop Girl’s boyfriend worked at. I asked if she knew him and she said that he quit and went on some Peace Corps type of thing; I mentioned that I knew his girlfriend. She then indicated that he dumped her when he moved away. I told my friends this and they kept telling me that I should call her but all I could think of was that weird conversation and that awkward dinner party (and snapping at her).
Back to the present; she left me a message as I was in the capital of the nation. She called to say hello and that we haven’t talked in a long time and wanted to know what I was up to. I became frustrated with the present situation because here I am, waiting for a phone call from someone I had been obsessing about the last few months and then a woman from the past that I thought I had burned bridges with calls me instead.
The weekend concluded and I still haven’t heard back from the bartender. I am in a confused state because I know there are more absurd rules about calling her. She didn’t call me so, I guess, I am not suppose to call her back because that makes me look desperate or weak or some other adjective that challenges my being. But now I have this other message to respond back to but I am not sure if I want to call the Coffee Shop Girl back.
Here I am in a laundromat; washing my clothes (I need my black socks for work) writing all of this down. I haven’t called the Coffee Shop Girl because I am still waiting things out. At the same time, I’m still trying to figure out what my actions are to be for calling the bartender back. Why hasn’t she called me? With mentioning that I was going to be out of town, maybe she interpreted that as wait until I come back. But then would she call me now or am I suppose to call her now? This evening I am driving up to the bay area to have dinner with my friend Yumiko, so no phone calls will take place. However, I will be making phone calls in the very near future; I just don’t know which ones yet.
