Sociology Confined to a Box

All I have to say is that television is such an amazing object. I don’t mean amazing in that glorious way where I would contemplate on what life would be like without its presence, but rather television is just this wondrous tool that somehow takes me out of reality for at least thirty minutes, if not, three hours.

Part of this wondrous experience is that after watching specific programs, I realize that my life is pretty good. This evening was an overload of TV viewing; the first two hours were the programs I missed from Sunday but thank god for HBO On Demand, it’s like I time traveled. By the way, if you haven’t seen the following shows, you are doomed for a miserable existence on this planet: John From Cincinnati, Entourage, and Flight of the Conchords. This block of programming is the definition of quality.

However, since every word has an antonym and every meaning has an antithesis, TV has its equivalent. Once my HBO sessions came to a final end, Eric and I explored the “other” digital cable channels we never watch (yet pay for). There was some WWE Raw, a documentary on Freddie Mercury (of Queen), rap videos from 1992 (I’m talking Coolio and Will Smith), and Cheaters.

Now, Cheaters is one of the god-awful reality shows that I knew about but never actually seen it. This show is, literally, something else. The premise, for those who don’t know, is that people who have a suspicion that their significant other is, wait for it, cheating on them will go to this tool named Joey Greco (or something really close to that) and he and his crew will research this, spy on the significant other, get footage of some cheating going down, and then go to the original person and show the footage. The episode ends with Joey Greco, the “victim,” and the camera crew confronting the cheating bastard and the whore, who took part, in the midst of some date.

The people who participate in Cheaters (both victim and victimizer) are the highest quality of American culture. The victim, who I found out is usually a woman, is so angry yet so in love with the cheating person that she just doesn’t know what to do with herself. Chances are the woman will tend to have stereotypical “white trash” features, and probably a Southern accent. The cheater will have one of the following: a rat-tail, a lazy eye, or an over-bite (and if you’re lucky, you may catch an episode where all three options are shown). The dialogue in the confrontation is amusing. Joey Greco will try to take on the role of morality. The victim will be the voice of hysteria; such words will be said: “You bastard!” “Why?!” “I loved you!” Then you have the cheater, who will have the classic dumbfounded look and words to follow: “What? What did I do?” “Well, I thought we were broken up after the fight about the TV.” And the third party member who made the cheating happen who will have the statement: “I had no idea.”

After screening a decent run of episodes and seeing what kind of theme of people the show presents, I started reflecting on the other offerings TV had that focused on this population that Cheaters shows a slice of. I created a top three list that best describes the “Less Fortunate of America” I guess you could call it.

3. Cheaters: I realized that you just see a couple, but due to the amount of emotion that is presented, I feel you get a whole experience. It’s as if they’re representing an entire culture.

2. The Jerry Springer Show: I am talking Springer from 1996-1998 when it was good and in its prime. Whether or not the episodes were staged, it did not matter. I saw things I never knew existed.

1. Cops: It never mattered what city they focused on because, somehow, the cops always wound up in the same area. The problem usually dealt with a wife calling the cops about some domestic dispute. You always got the same thing: the husband in his underwear or a pair of shorts, his face censored, and maybe, just maybe, a can of beer in the left hand. The wife probably had frizzled blonde hair, a t-shirt advertising some mountain range she has never been to or a wolf, and her face would also be censored.

“This asshole tried to hit me!” you could feel the rage coming out of her.

“Okay, sir, why were trying to hit her?” Officer #1 would politely ask.

“The crazy bitch was hitting me with her broom. I ain’t trying to hit her,” the husband would plea.

“Ma’am, is this true? Were you hitting him with a broom?” Officer #2 showed some concern with curiosity.

“Well… I mean, he wouldn’t let me have control of the remote!”

“Woman, you know I watch the Nascar highlights after the Wheel is done!”

“I’m sick and tired of the Wheel, you never get them right anyways! When do I get to watch what I want to watch?!”

“When you get a goddamn job…” at this point the cops have slowly migrated back into their patrol car. They tune into dispatch and realized that a major stabbing had just taken place that was about a mile away.

The slices of life that I don’t get to see. God bless my television.

Mission Accomplished

Unfortunately this entry has nothing to do with the war in Iraq because we all know that’s a lost cause. However, you know who is not a lost cause? This guy (imagine me pointing my two thumbs towards my chest)! I believe in at least a couple of the entries on this page I have mentioned my admiration for a certain bartender that works at the Red, a bar that I frequently visit. Well, imagine this being a season of Lost and you finally got some plot point resolved because I got her number last night.

Friday evening was a night of triumph and courage as Eric, our friend Ben, and myself completed a round of miniature golf at the Boardwalk (by the way, I am a champ at the miniature golf); after the night of enduring sports was complete, we ventured onto familiar territory, that being the Red and the 515: the two bars that we pretty much only go to. For a Friday night, the Red was not as busy as we imagined it to be, and of course, there was my bartender. I managed to make conversation happen and in it she mentioned that Sunday night she has to work at the 515 (the two bars are owned by the same people). She then went into detail on how it’s going to be incredibly boring since no one goes to that place, especially on a Sunday evening. I had a new destination come Sunday evening.

Sunday evening, Eric and I walked upstairs into the 515, and sure enough, it was pretty dull and there was the bartender looking bored out of her mind. She was quite pleased to see our presence. After a while, some of her other friends pulled up to the bar and then Kyle called Eric and said he was at the Hindquarter drinking and playing dice. Eric took the initiative to move locations. All I could think was, “You’re ruining my game!” Although there really wasn’t much of game since the bartender was talking to her friends. But goals, I’ve got goals.

The Hindquarter is a restaurant/bar that our friend John (the best man at the wedding I went to who put his contacts in hydrogen peroxide) used to work at. We have met all of his former coworkers in the past, and they still work there. There was Brendan, a waiter we’ve hung out in the past, that made arrangements with Eric and I to play disc golf (Frisbee golf for those who don’t know what that is) Monday night. There was Tara, the hot bartender, who I decided to experiment with.

“Tara!” keep in mind I had two glasses of Macallen scotch at the 515 and a beer.

“Peter!”

“What are you doing tomorrow night?”

“I…”

“Doesn’t matter, you’re playing disc golf with us!”

“I don’t think so.”

”Okay, how about you and I just hang out in the parking lot,” she laughed and attended her empty glasses that needed washing apparently. I received the full name treatment from Eric, as if he was a parent catching his child cursing.

Things died down finally at the Hindquarter and I told Eric that we have to go back to the 515 because I’ve got goals!

We arrived and there were different faces at the counter, but my bartender was still there. I don’t even remember the conversations that took place. I want to say I had another glass of Macallen 12. Finally, Eric and I decided to conclude the night and as we walked away from the bar, I went to my bartender.

“Kim, can I call you because it would be cool for us to do something that doesn’t require you making me drunk and me giving you money,” I know this wasn’t the most direct or the most suave route to go, but A for effort.

“What do you mean? Like both of us being on this side of the bar?” she pointed to the bar stools we had just risen from.

“Sure!” she then started saying her number and I had to pull out my phone fast. Due to my current state, I had trouble entering the numbers; it was a good thing she was watching me type in the numbers.

“No, five, you want to type in a five. Peter, that’s an eight. Okay, that’s too many sevens, Peter, two sevens, not three.” I could feel Eric judging me from the corner. We left and I was on cloud nine. As we headed back home, Eric kept commenting on how ridiculous I was. All I could reply with was that I had a goal and that goal was complete.

So, those who have been with me at the Red, I appreciate your patience. I realize I met this person six months ago, but it’s been a challenging “Hero’s Journey” for me. Six months isn’t too bad, we’ve broken four years in Iraq.

Lets just hope I don’t fuck this up; I’ve been put into trouble due to my optimism in the past.

Full Size Exposure

Here it is, the first of July, and I woke up in a hotel room. Wait a minute; it was my bedroom. Why would I think I woke up in some random hotel room? Oh, it’s because I finally upgraded my life by getting a full size bed! Yes, I am truly a real boy now. Yesterday morning I got the new bed delivered to the house then in the evening I went shopping for new sheets and a comforter. I toured Ross for a good deal but Ross was not so Rossome (get it? Ross + Awesome. If you’re rolling your eyes right now, I give full credit to my friend Zoe for that joke; blame her). After the Ross let down, Sears truly showed their softer side with five aisles of bed sets and pillows that were on sale. My Saturday evening became a night of adoring my new setup.

So, waking up this morning with a new bed and a new spread, it felt like it didn’t belong to me (hence the hotel experience). A few months ago, Shawna and Rebecca toured my bedroom and I received the Feng Shui report, and I failed. There were certain things I lacked like plants, the right usage of the space in the room, and a larger bed. My life has been confined to the twin size bed. Growing up it was a bunk bed; then in high school, it was a loft bed, which was the same experience besides no one underneath me. College was a twin size bed since I lived on campus all four years. After college, a girl I knew sold me her twin size bed and that was what I used since. So, the change is something definitely beneficial.

Even as I write this, I am laying on the new pad. It’s great, there is so much space that I can be a hypotenuse; look I am lying diagonally across the mattress! Oh, wait, let me turn the other way, oh, I am still a hypotenuse and I am not falling over. Such sweet times.

No More Space

The greatest casuality of 2007 has happened.

My account with Myspace.com has come to an end (November 2005 - June 2007).

Here's an excerpt from the obituary:

"Peter's Myspace page, which had a circle of friends totaling 84 members, was found dead late Thursday evening, June 28, 2007. His myspace page led a great and courageous life. It was frequented by many visitors such as very attractive women named Colleen, Nicole, and Elise who wanted to have a good time. They placed many requests to be in the company of the myspace page.

Even in the music world, Peter's Myspace page had attracted many bands that thought they sounded like the Pixies, Sonic Youth, and even Radiohead. Such bands as the Godforsaken Bored, Rusted Souls, and the San Luis Obispo based Feathers on Sunday Mornings all asked to be friends with Peter's Myspace page.

Various accomplishments that Peter's Myspace had ranged from revealing its impact on Western history to indicating it has never seen an episode of Heroes.

Some not so known elements were the true outting of Valerie Plame, the revelation on who Deep Throat was, and the already given knowledge that Crash was going to win Best Picture over Brokeback Mountain at the 2006 Academy Awards.

Peter's Myspace page loved to laugh and adored children. People can contribute to the Peter's Myspace Memorial Endowment Fund; it will benefit innocent children who have bad luck."

Rest assured something new will come around.

"Why?! Why did Peter's Myspace page have to go and not you?! Why?!"

Gravity Sets the Mood

While researching random prospects on the donor database, I found myself in a definite set routine. Luckily, conducting this research made time, somehow, fly by extremely fast (and I assure you it was not one of those “time flies when you’re having fun” things). After plowing through a couple dozen names and looking up any contact report comments or general giving history patterns, I glanced at the time and it was already post 5 o’clock. I suddenly became Fred Flintstone and yelled “Yaba daba do!” and slid off my long neck dinosaur… that is not entirely true. I walked to the bus stop.

With the summer schedule already set, the buses are not as frequent as they were during the academic year. A bus finally came after a good fifteen-minute wait. I came aboard and about four feet in I suddenly trip. Another passenger had some sort of basket/suitcase item that was in the walkway of the bus. I slammed my body hard on the ground; luckily nothing bad happened to me besides my dignity being shattered. I heard the bus driver ask if I was alright.

The second after my horizontal transformation I heard laughter from one of the passengers and this passenger was actually right by my landing zone. I rose and saw the person and, my god, she was the most beautiful person I have seen in, at least, a few years (this is one of those movie moments where the light around her is really vibrant and a gush of wind comes out of nowhere). I ask her if I could sit next to her so I could hide my shame from the rest of the bus and she agrees. I think I was slightly shaken by my pull to the earth because I usually would never even try to sit close to an extremely attractive woman (please read my fear list from a month or so ago where I describe attractive women as my number 4, or maybe it’s number 3, fear).

My fellow passenger brought to my attention on why she was laughing. She had in her lap a notepad with various crazy Einstein looking notes; she said she was wrapping up her notes on a lecture she is going to help conduct on gravitational waves. She then asked if I knew what those were. At this point, I flashbacked onto my wedding encounter where the cute girl Yuriko asked if I knew what music therapy was.

“Um, is that when the moon is full and the tide is at its highest?” apparently I am extremely funny when I am extremely ignorant because this girl was laughing.

She cured my ignorance with a brief explanation on gravitational waves, which according to Einstein's theory of general relativity, the force of gravity is due to the curvature of spacetime; this curvature is caused by the presence of massive objects. Roughly speaking, the more massive the object is, the greater the curvature it causes, and hence the more intense the gravity. As massive objects move around in spacetime, the curvature will change. If the objects move around in the right way, ripples in spacetime can spread outward like ripples on the surface of a pond. These ripples are gravitational waves. She sort of said this but I had to use Wikipedia to assist on the wording of this as I write my story.

Basically, she was amused because as she was wrapping up her notes, she sees this tall guy, who represents a decent amount of mass and then is suddenly a victim of gravity. So, due to my tallness, the more intense gravity there was. I then explained that I was nine pounds and eleven ounces when I was born, measuring at twenty-five inches. This probably led to the reason why my mother’s labor experience was so short (starting at around 1am and then my arrival right before 7am) since this massive amount of mass came out of her and the earth’s gravitational pull was doing its part.

She put her hand out and introduced herself as Nikki and I followed back with Peter. Nikki said she was a TA for the summer session physics class; I said I was a digital text engineer. Lie! Just riding off of my wedding story! No, I explained what I did on campus. She went into some more detail about her physics knowledge and I sort of tuned her out. I kept thinking of my perceptions of beauty and what causes them to be even more enhanced. Last weekend I saw a series of local bands perform, and in some of them were female singers, and I thought, “Wow, they’re pretty. Wow, they can sing. I can’t sing. Wow, they play the guitar, that’s really hot. I can’t play guitar.” So with Nikki, my thoughts ran as, “Wow, she knows physics. She’s really pretty. She’s smart. I don’t know physics. I can tell her the speed of objects as they fall to earth’s gravity. She’s pretty.” Imagine my voice sounding like a six year old boy as these words traveled through my head. Basically, if the woman is pretty, that’s good right there, but if she does something that I can’t do or does something really impressive; that makes the beauty go into some exponential rate.

I figured she was getting off at the Science Hill/Engineering bus stop, which, unfortunately, was coming very soon. I became very self-conscious at this point because those thoughts were rolling through my head; I heard all those things like asking her for her number, something! But I backed out. However, I don’t think it was due to my usual list of excuses, this one was due to the whole bus atmosphere. The bus was pretty full and was getting even more full as we explored the campus. So, I didn’t want to be that guy on the bus who asks out some girl. The worst part would have been her declining and that I have to be that guy on the bus who got rejected. No good, I say.

I wished her luck on her gravitational waves lecture and she exited the bus. When the bus got to the College 8/Porter bus stop, a cool hipster got on board and sat near me. He pulled out a book and began reading. I glanced at the cover and it was Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon. Damn you, gravity!

I declared Nikki as my gravitational angel who I may never see again. Now, I’ve got to make sure that I get on the Route 10 bus at 5:33 pm outside of the Lower Campus bus stop, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll cross paths with her again.

The Fever of '57

So, my friend Zoe helped make a movie. It is a documentary about Sputnik, entitled The Fever of ‘57. I realize many people may not be appealed to documentaries, and that some people assume that all documentaries are boring or not interesting.

With the power of trick editing, studios can make movie trailers represent a certain type of movie whereas the actual film itself is an entirely different genre. Well, who says a poster can’t do the same thing?

Below is something for the anti-documentary people.

A Magnetic Personality

I enjoy taking the long way to work. I realize there is a bus stop a block away from my street. Instead, I enjoy the strut down Laurel Street, go about eight blocks, then turn on to Cedar Street and then eventually hit the main strip and buy a small cup of coffee, which is at the end of the main strip, and then walk back towards the metro bus center. It’s my routine of walking exercise, a good way to start the morning.

The other morning was like any other morning, except for the amount of traffic there was on Laurel Street. I was approaching the light intersection where Laurel and Center Street meet, and one of the side streets (Washington Street, I believe) had a car pulling out. The car was a dark blue PT Cruiser. There was a line of vehicles at the light but the Cruiser did not hesitate; it pulled right out onto Laurel Street and drove in the left lane where the oncoming traffic would come. Luckily there weren’t any oncoming cars and the Cruiser just plowed right through the red light and kept going.

Randomly, at the intersection, coming from the Center Street side, was a police car. I shouldn’t say randomly since the Santa Cruz city police station is on Center Street. Anyway, the police car was the first car at the light and after seeing the Cruiser blast its way through the light and continuing to accelerate down Laurel, the police car followed pursuit. I saw that the Cruiser made a right onto Cedar Street, which is where I usually cross the street to get to and then go down. The police car followed it onto Cedar.

I was only a block away and I was hoping that when I got to the crosswalk I would see the Cruiser pulled over. As I was passing one of the side streets, which is directly across the street from Cedar, there was a couple walking ahead of me, maybe fifteen or twenty. I saw to my left, which is where Cedar began from Laurel Street, the PT Cruiser coming from where he turned. However, he did not stop as he pulled from Cedar, it bolted across Laurel and right down the street that I was passing. Lucky for me, I was not in the crossing, but I did back up as this maniac was going at least 50 mph through the street. The unlucky part was the couple in front me got a first hand experience of the Cruiser maniac. The male of the couple encountered a sideswipe from the Cruiser. It was not a head on collision, but a good enough hit that caused the man to be forced to dive into the street, headfirst. The woman was in a state of hysteria as the man lied there; his face was pretty scraped up but he was talking at least.

I rushed over to see if he and she were alright. The woman was fine and the man seemed to be doing fine so far. I asked if she wanted me to call 911 and she snapped saying she would do it. I then asked if she wanted me to stick around to be a witness, or give a statement. She again declined. Right after this, the police car that was originally in pursuit was still on the Cruiser’s tail. The police car went down the same route that the Cruiser did. It had its lights on and I could see the police officer speaking into his dispatch.

The woman told me to leave and that it would be okay. I continued walking down to the metro center, I chose to skip coffee and just go straight to work. While walking, I kept contemplating on whether or not I should call 911 just to make sure. I turned around and saw her on the phone and the man was sitting up right, so that all looked comforting.

I arrived to work and immediately went upstairs and told my coworker Stacey what I had witnessed. It was all a little surreal for me. I later told some other coworkers, and one of them mentioned that I tend to encounter some strange happenings. This made me think of one of my student workers. I was telling her and some of the other students about my wedding weekend and she replied with, “We decided that we can’t believe you anymore! You have some of the weirdest shit happen to you, yet you are such a normal and dorky guy! What the hell? I mean, your house floods, old men give you hundreds of dollars at a bar, people mistake you for a Mormon and throw coffee at you, deer run you over!” I can elaborate into more detail on some of the stories mentioned, if needed.

What is it about my presence? Why am I a part of these strange predicaments? I think it’s some weird case of a magnetic personality (seeing that a PT Cruiser, a large metal vessel, was a few feet from my body as it went 50 plus, that makes sense).

Anyway, the day went on and I eventually became distracted from my morning actions due to the excitement I take in from the grand world of development.

The next morning I was taking the same path to work, that is, going down Laurel Street, turning onto Cedar Street and then the coffee shop and then to the Metro. I passed by a newspaper stand, which was actually right by where the man got hit by the crazy Cruiser. The front page of the Santa Cruz Sentinel stated “Car Crash Ends in Firing Blaze” or something along those lines. I start reading the first paragraph and it read:

“CAPITOLA — A high-speed car chase just before noon Wednesday turned a normally quiet neighborhood into a fiery crime scene.”

Interesting, Capitola had some excitement. Then the article continued.

“A man suspected of stealing a PT Cruiser on Bay Avenue” Jesus! A PT Cruiser, that had to be my Cruiser, or some really messed up coincidence “snubbed orders by police to stop and, in an attempt to outrun authorities, drove the stolen vehicle into a patrol car and injured a Capitola police officer before crashing it into a home and setting the house ablaze, according to police.”

My god. The article went into further detail on how around 11am, the Capitola police started chasing the Cruiser. It ended, as mentioned, with the Cruiser plowing into a house. I’m still trying to get all the fine points together because I was heading to work around 8:45am or so when I saw the Cruiser and the Capitola police did not interact with him until 11am. So this crazy man must had gone into hiding somewhere for a while.

When I walked into my office there were the usual fifteen to twenty new email waiting for me; three or four of them were from my coworkers asking me if the article they read in the Sentinel was the same thing that I encountered. I replied, assuming as much, unless there is some hot demand for PT Cruisers. I am still trying to figure out why were all the Santa Cruz details not mentioned? A man did get hit by this guy. I wonder if the woman gave a statement or if she did, was there a connection made. Maybe since there was such a gap of time, that the police did not connect the Santa Cruz PT Cruiser chase to be the same with the Capitola PT Cruiser. I’m going to go to the Santa Cruz police station and mention what I encountered, just so there is some awareness, or something!

In pursuit

Poor, poor Cruiser.

Maniac McGee