Language

I am sure that someone more wise and pithy than I am has come up with a saying along the lines of "A problem is an opportunity for a solution" or "Turn lemons into lemonaide". Someone more enterprising has even probably made posters with these sayings on them. Something like:

or

(I don't know what that second one means, but I see a "hand jobs in the future" joke there somewhere...)


My point is that there is almost always a silver lining to something bad, and/or that something bad can sometimes be spun into something good.

My last blog entry was about ambiguity. It talked about how it sucks not to know what we can know and what we can't... and/or that it sucks to not understand whether it's something that should suck or not.

One area where ambiguity (lemons) has provided me lots and lots of fun (lemonaid) is language. I only speak English at any level worth mentioning (I studied Spanish for years and years, but I can barely read it at a functional level; nuanced conversation and intricacies of the language are well over my head, and I can barely remember any of the Japanese I took oh, so long ago) but even given this limitation I have learned to love the lack of clarity that exists there.

Obviously, I want to have clarity sometimes. Maybe even most of the time. If I want to bake a cake, I don't want to have the directions to be "Cook the cake for a while". I will need to know that I need to preheat the oven, the temperature, and the length of time that it should be in there.

In the absence of purely functional needs, though, ambiguities can be quite entertaining. I love puns and other plays on words. ("I wondered why the baseball was getting bigger. Then it hit me." ... how can someone not appreciate that?)

While I think my vocabulary is pretty good (in English, at least) I still find myself glossing over what words really mean. I remember words and phrases at a molecular level, if you will, rather than at an atomic one. I remember phrases and context but not always what the words themselves mean and can mean. (Like I might remember what what is, but not oxygen and hydrogen.)

By examining words at that atomic level (or even sub-atomic, if one wants to get into etymology) is great fun. Homophones and homonyms and homographs, oh, my!

I'd be her beau if she'd bow after I made her a bow from a bough and put a red bow on it.

Language is a beautiful thing.

In addition to the words that exist, it amazes me to think of the words that do not exist (at least in English). Agnostic and altruism are words that are fewer than 200 years old, even though the concepts far predated the creation of them. English lacks the hundreds of words for snow that the Sami (not the Eskimos, for the record) have. Thinking about the words that English does not possess--especially for one who does not speak any other languages well--is daunting. I just do not know what I do not know.

I am not a massive appreciator of art. I think that, quite often, "art" is just a word applied to otherwise useless stuff that people make and/or consume. I know that I am a bit of a philistine, though, and I appreciate some of that "useless stuff", so... I don't know where that gets me.


Poets seem, to me, capable of filling gaps in language. They take words that we know (or at least words that exist) and stretch them and make us look at them in different ways so that we feel differently about those words than we did before they were used by the poet.

That, in my opinion, is art worth appreciating.

Recently I have been thinking about the phrase, "I am sorry". It's not an uncommon phrase, for sure, and one that polite children had drilled into our heads at a young age. It's a phrase that too many of us use too frequently even as too many of us use it too infrequently.

Maybe it's just me, but I hadn't really thought about what it means. Or what it can mean.

"I am sorry" is, essentially, the same as "I apologize". When one does something wrong, it is polite to apologize. To acknowledge to the wronged party that it was something that should not have been done.

"I am sorry" also can speak less to the act than the effect:

"I am sorry [that you are unhappy]."
"I am sorry [that I hurt you]."
"I am sorry [that you feel that way]."

It doesn't offer an apology--it doesn't necessarily even claim any culpability.

A third, I think less common, meaning for "I am sorry" is "I regret". Even "I regret" can mean "I apologize"... but I mean it in a different way. I mean it in the "I don't like how this turned out for me" kind of way:

"I am sorry [that I didn't buy gold at $300/oz]."
"I am sorry [that I didn't get that mole checked out]."
"I am sorry [that I ever talked to that chick]."

The ambiguity of language can defeat the purpose of using it. Even a simple phrase like "I am sorry" can carry so much nuance and meaning (that is capable of being interdependent or independent) that it gets to the point where I despair to ever being able to truly communicate anything. (And, given my difficulty on deciding on what I want to communicate, it's particularly frustrating to not be able to do so when I actually get there...)

I am not a poet, but I will have to do my best to make "I am sorry" mean what I want it to.

Ambiguity

I am not a religious person. I am not a spiritual-but-not-religious person. I'm not eager to die, but (as long as it's not too painful) I am resigned to the extremely high likelihood that I will experience it at some point or another.

At a really high level, then, I think I deal with ambiguity pretty well. Sort of by ignoring it.

In my job, I take things that different people (clients, coworkers, users, et al) express and I mash it up and I form specifications or personas or other documentation that, hopefully, encapsulates and clarifies.

At a micro level, then, I think I deal with ambiguity pretty well. By trying to get rid of it.

In addition to existence- and minutiae-based life, there's a lot of middle ground... some of which (health, relationships) are pretty important and some of which (politics, ice cream) are less so.

It's this cast middle ground where ambiguity is much more difficult for me. (I don't think I'm alone, and I don't think I'm particularly special or remarkable for this weakness, but it's my blog so I'm gonna write about me, dammit!) Economic policies seem to be easier to address than a question like "Why does anything exist?", even if they're more difficult than putting together a set of wireframes for a website. Friendships--even in all their complexities that make setting up a meeting agenda look like child's play--must be more understandable than free will, right?

When I was growing up, my parents had a poster or a picture of something with the Serenity Prayer on the wall. To remind everyone, it goes something like this:

"God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference."

Perhaps because I really took the gist of the saying to heart, I ignored that it was a prayer and that the capital G word was used.

I don't recite that prayer to myself on a regular basis, but I take solace in knowing that other individuals have the same challenges I do... I guess misery loves company, right?

Applying it to the big stuff? Easy. I cannot know which definition of agnostic is correct (whether we cannot know God, or whether we do not know of God's existence). I cannot understand why string theory exists, even if I ever end up wrapping my head around what it is.

Applying it to the little stuff? Sure thing. Even when complex, the little stuff just takes clear thinking and creativity and (if it can't be avoided) hard work. I don't want to have to buy a new car, but I can make a decision I can live with if I put my head to it.

The middle ground, though... that's the rub. When must I accept I cannot change something? When should I accept that? When does the serenity I feel by letting go merely provide a nice cover for an absence of courage?

Are these questions big stuff? Or are they little stuff that I'm not willing to (*gasp*) work on?

What is my personal record for number of questions asked to end a blog?

Social Convexity

Do you know what I think is cool?

(If you guessed "pizza", "porn", or the "Portland Trail Blazers": you get partial credit. It's not what I had in mind here, though, and please remember I do like some things that don't start with "p".)

I think gravity is cool.

More specifically--or more relevantly for this blog--I think that gravity wells are cool.

Gravity wells are (as far as my undereducated-in-hard-sciences monkey brain can understand them) representations of the effect that matter has on everything around it.

Space with no significant mass can be represented as a flat sheet, and when you add an object (a moon, or a planet, or a star, or a black hole, or the million backwards-baseball-cap-wearing dudes I want to shoot out into space) to that plane, you get a bend. A more massive object creates a deeper indentation, with a black hole (which has a singularity of density) creating an infinitely deep well.

I think that's about right.

In any case, the universe interacts with these indentations. They can influence how other objects move and can even bend light.

What if people are ... social wells? They influence people and institutions and events to varying degrees. Some people do a great job of building relationships (of whatever kind) because of their social concavity breadth and depth.

While a concavity can be an indentation on the surface, a convexity is something that pops up OUT of that surface. A bulge, if you will.

I don't know that are gravity bulges, but if we extend the notion of social concavities to include social convexities, I think it gets a bit more interesting.

How might a social convexity manifest itself? A cold demeanor. A distance from other people. An unwillingness to go out of one's way to help others. A physical deformity, perhaps. All things that can help push people away.

Would these rippled in the social plane be absolute or relative? Part of the beauty of gravity wells (it seems to me) is that they are pretty universally applicable (although I'm sure at the quantum level things break down; they always seem to). But for a person: wouldn't one person find a racist dude to be a convexity while another (fellow racist) would find him to be a concavity?

Perhaps. I don't have all the answers (for once).

I just think about my bulge. Or, rather, my social convexity (or, indeed, maybe I have increased social convexity because I think about my bulge) and I wonder if I should be trying harder to have more friends or trying harder to build stronger ties to existing friends.

Or maybe I shouldn't worry about it, because some fellas are convex and some ain't.

The Weekend, Part I: Two Conversations

My most recent bout of being single (I enjoy the term "bout" in this case. A "bout" is a boxing term for a contest, of couse, and you can come down with a bout of plague. It occurred to me that I actually don't know the definition of "bout". According to dictionary.com it is:

1. A short period of intense activity of a specified kind.
2. An attack of illness or strong emotion of a specified kind.

While "bout" might be an enjoyable term, I'm not sure that it will be a "short period". We'll see...) is much like my previous stint sans a SO (stint: another interesting word choice by my stream-of-consciousness... often associated with hearts and jobs): one of semi-soul-smashing loneliness intermingled with hope and punctuated by little adventures.

(How's that for a first sentence to start off a blog?)

This past weekend was the first one in quite some time that I'd gone out three nights in a row. With the demise of Chopstix-as-I-knew it (new ownership removed the dance floor, which means that there will be fewer women dancing, which means that there will be fewer women to admire and/or lightly mock, which means that there is little reason for me to go there) and my work and relationship stuff I had going on, I just wasn't motivated to go out on Thursdays like I once was.

This past weekend, though, I decided to head out for three nights in a row, just to see what would happen. Nothing amazing happened, but enough transpired for me to write a blog about it. Or two.

This one will focus on two conversations I had on Saturday night, and the other one (should I write it) will examine some sketches I made with a new app on my phone as I consumed rum and observed life around me. Generally, as it turns out, the blogs will be written in reverse chronological order.

Talkin' Ball

It was Saturday night. Or, more accurately, it was Sunday morning. Ozzie's was closed and I was standing outside, waiting. Not waiting for anything in particular, but waiting for everyone to go home so I could, too... or waiting for something to happen. Or both.

It was both, this night.

Somewhere on my blog, there's an entry about my first night at Ozzie's. The entry is about a girl I met and how I managed to talk her up (and eventually go on a date with her) in spite of her being escorted around the bar by a guy. I can't find that blog entry (the search feature on Blogger isn't all it's cracked up to be) but that guy has remained a regular at Ozzie's. I'm not sure (actually, I doubt) that he remembers that first night, but he's always seemed like a nice guy. I will call him First Night Guy.

In spite of seeing him (probably) literally dozens of times at Ozzie's, I've never had a conversation with him. Until this night.

Now, before I get into (my recollection of) the particulars of the conversation, I wanted to give a couple of pieces of background info:

1. First Night Guy does a bit of a schtick when he sings karaoke. He has a drink in his hand (who doesn't?) when he signs up, but he is cogent and (usually) quite sober. When he takes the mic, though? He starts staggering. He leans this way and that. He belts out his song beautifully, but he sandbags it. It's odd but funny.
2. I do my fair share of drinking and have been known to have diminished articulation capabilities after doing so. I don't claim to remain perfectly lucid after lots of rum, and I'm pretty used to talking to drunk individuals.

My conversation with First Night Guy had the lowest signal:noise ratio I've ever experienced. It was, quite literally, three minutes of him talking where he said almost nothing. As drunk as I was, I knew enough to let him go, because I was witnessing something amazing.

Let me try my best to reconstruct the conversation. We were talking about the NBA, for some reason, before it all went downhill (in a good way!):

FNG: So, I tell you...
Me: Yeah... ?
FNG: I see guys ... you know.
Me:... ?
FNG: From Seattle.
Me: OK.FNG: Jason Terry. Man, Jason Terry.
Me: Went to Arizona, drafted by the Hawks. Sure.
FNG: He... Jason Terry.
Me: ... ?
FNG:  I mean, I was preseason McDonald's All-American, but--
Me: Wow. Cool.
FNG: --Michael Dickerson, I mean, he...
Me: ... ?
FNG: You know. They talk about it being rough. But this is Seattle. It's not.
Me: It's not... what?
FNG: Doug Christie? He's serious. But.
Me: Well, he went to Pepperdine and his wife is kind of crazy.
FNG: He went to Ranier Beach.
Me: Yeah ... ?
FNG: [eyes kind of roll back into his head] ...
Me: You OK?
FNG: I mean, the A-T-L? That's serious.
Me: Uh, yeah.
FNG: ...
Me: ... ?
FNG: ...
Me: Um, sooo...

FNG: I think I'm gonna take this taxi.
Me: Good idea.

There were about four spots in there where I wanted to laugh. Four other spots where I wanted to find a bucket of ice water to splash on him to wake him up. I hope he made it home safely. I look forward to seeing him stagger around (either legitimately or not) again soon.

Unsolicited Advice

I like to change things. I don't like to change my place of residence or my place of employment or my friendships or anything else important, so I'm left to changing which video games I play and how I look.

It's fun to wear different outfits and have different facial hair and hair styles. I know that my visage is not really not an important part of who I am (other than, perhaps, my lack of attachment to it), so I'm willing to wear pants that most (straight) guys wouldn't wear. I'm willing to part my hair on either side, depending on my mood. I'm willing to let women I don't know give me advice on how I ought to present myself in public.

This interaction started as so many others have: I drank lots of rum and was wandering around Ozzie's, waiting for my next turn to sing. Someone started to talk to me, so I stopped. In this case, there were two "someones". They were both from Austin, Texas, as it turns out.

The first woman was dark-haired and seated to my left at the bar. The second woman was slightly older and was wearing glasses.

Other than what she said, I don't remember much about the First Austin Chick ("FAC"). She had darker hair and might have bit a bit heavy. The Second Austin Chick ("SEC") had glasses on. She was slightly older. And she had a ... very weird stare.

What do I mean by that? It looked like she was looking at the back of my skull when she looked at me. I don't know how to explain it other than by putting together a magnificent chart:

This is a top-down view of a normal person's gaze (the top one) and her gaze (the bottom one). It was weird.

Somehow, my age came up. I made FAC guess my age (she guessed 26; I'm slipping a bit) and showed her my license to prove that she was way off. At this point, this conversation (or something like it) occurred:

FAC: You do look a lot younger. It's your pores.
Me: Thank you--what?
FAC: I work with skin, and you have great pores.
Me: Um, OK.
SAC: I do hair. I like your hair, but ...
FAC: Yeah, you've got a good look.
Me: Um...
SAC: But you should... your part isn't working.
Me: Uh, OK. [I pushed my hair around a little bit.] What about now?
SAC: Yes. YES! Keep it like that and you will definitely get laid tonight.
Me: Uh. Yeah. OK.

Another time, another place, another woman? I would have said something along the lines of, "Is that an offer?" or "Are you writing checks you won't cash?" or "My hair isn't the reason I'll definitely get laid tonight." or ... something equally ridiculous/crappy/charming.

But she was who she was, and I was where I was, and so... I said, "Uh. Yeah. OK."

At that point they became semi-distracted by someone else, and I took my pores and slipped away.

It wasn't exactly the flawless feet compliment I received in Las Vegas in 2007, but I'll take it.

They Drive Buses AND Entertain Me

I was txting Shawty the other day. And by "the other " I mean "yes". As part of my txt, I fingered in "I no longer have a cat".

Which was accidental. It's true, of course, but I'd intended to txt "I no longer have a car". Stupid consonants.

In any event, I no longer have a car. For the past couple of months, I have been taking the bus to work and to other places around the city. While it has been a drag in some ways (it takes longer to get anywhere, some people smell really bad on the bus, hot women rarely talk to me on the bus...), it has been just fine in others (it's cheaper than gas and insurance, it's nice for going to Belltown after prefunking, hot women rarely talk to me off the bus, anyway...)

It's also provided me some entertainment. While I generally dislike interacting with people unless I'm getting paid for it or the person is an attractive chick, I must admit that bus drivers can be entertaining.

They can entertaining individually, but they are more entertaining when their behaviors are juxtaposed against one another. Some are cheerful, some are dour; some are helpful, some are grouchy.

Yesterday, I rode the bus three times (it would have been four, but I worked late and mooched a ride home from a coworker). My experience with each of the three busdrivers was markedly different and, taken as a whole, entertaining to me.

Ride #1

It was around 8:30 AM. It was a Monday and it was the first of the month. And I knew I was going to have some troubles.

As part of my bus-riding lifestyle, I have invested in monthly bus passes. Or, rather, a single ORCA card that I can recharge for a month. One need not wait until the actual month to charge it (I could pay for several months in advance), but I get the sense that most people wait until the actual month to charge it (I know that I do; I don't want to lay out $90 earlier than I have to... I don't want my vast estate to be reduced in the event I'm hit by a bus). It does, though, take 24-48 hours for the online recharge to actually kick in.

Which is where I knew I was gonna have some troubles.


There I was, Monday morning, with an uncharged ORCA card. I could have brought $2.50 to pay for my fare, but it doesn't seem right that I should have to pay $90 for the whole month and then still have to pay $2.50 merely because of a system delay.

So I didn't bring cash to pay.

What was the worst that could happen? I understand that bus drivers may not actually stop a rider from riding because she refuses to pay (although my understandings in life don't always turn out to be true). So I figured, if I were called on it, I would explain that the money I paid hadn't kicked in yet.

I was still apprehensive, though, as I got onto the bus. I tried to be cool and act like it had happened before when the scanner on the bus beep beep beep'ed at me, indicating my card had no funds associated with it.

I looked up at the driver and said, "Oh, crap. It's the first, isn't it? It looks like the system hasn't caught up yet."

The driver smiled and said, "It's fine. It's a Monday and the first of the month. It'll be happening all day."

OK. Cool. I sat in my favorite seat (passenger's side, two rows back from the handicapped/disabled/crippled (which is the right term?) area) and made it to work without incident.

Ride #2

The second ride of the day was in the early afternoon. I had a meeting about a mile away, and rather than walking it, I took the bus. It was conceivable that my card would have access associated with it, and the first bus driver had been cool about the situation, so I felt more confident using the bus.

Assuming, of course, I could catch it.

I knew that, as long as the route I needed was running on time, I would make it. If it was a bit late, I'd still get to my meeting in plenty of time. But if it was early (or if I were late), I would have to wait for the next bus and I might be punctualitily challenged. Not good.

So I walked briskly from my office and turned the corner... and saw my bus about a block away, rounding another corner to where it would be stopped. So I picked up my pace to a jog and then more of a running situation.

And I made it. Barely... but I made it.

(Unfortunately, the gel inserts that I had in my boots got all out of whack, pushed up towards the front of my shoes. I had to feel them, all askew, for the rest of the day because I am loathe to take my shoes off and rejigger the goods. (That sounds weirder than I'd originally intended, but I'll let it stand.))

I scanned my card and... beep beep beep. No funds associated with the card.

I looked up at the driver and said, "Oh, crap. The system still hasn't caught up yet?!?"

He smiled at me and said, "No problem!"

OK. Cool. I sat in my favorite seat and opened my notebook to ensure that I was in the right frame of mind for the meeting.

But the bus driver wasn't done with me.

You see, I was the only one on the bus, and although I was sitting about five meters away from him, he decided to strike up a conversation. With me.

Him: You're all sweaty!
Me: A little. [I wasn't. I was winded, but not sweaty. I need to run at least two blocks before I am soaked with perspiration. Give me a little credit!]
Him: It's hot out there.
Me: Yeah, warming up, all right.
Him: [Moving the bus away from the curb and towards the next stop.] I like the heat. It (something unintelligible).
Me: What?
Him: [I couldn't really hear him from here on out, so I'm typing my best guesses.] When it gets hot the women wear less.
Me: Yeah. That's good.
Him: They show more skin...
Me: *nod*
Him: And then they walk around, jump on trampolines...

Honestly... I don't know if he said that, but I am pretty sure I heard something about trampolines.

Whatevs. It was disgusting (I think) but entertaining.

Ride #3

My meeting finished, and I had to take the bus back to the office for my next meeting. I was running late, and the bus was running late, and it was sort of warm out still. I was feeling antsy.

That feeling, coupled with the two-for-two on getting approvals from bus drivers, added to the possibility that my payment had finally showed up on my ORCA card, gave me a sense of confidence about being OK if my card gave me the beep beep beep again.

As with my understandings, my senses of confidence are sometimes at odds with reality.

I got onto the nearly-full bus, and swiped my card and ... beep beep beep.


I looked up at the driver and said, "What the--!?! The system still hasn't caught up yet!?!"

He frowned and said, "It says your card has no funds associated with it."

I looked confused and said, "Well, I paid for August. It should have registered by now."

He frowned and said, "It says your card has no funds associated with it."

I shrugged and said, "Well, I don't have any money on me."

He frowned and said, "It says your card has no funds associated with it."

I shrugged and started to turn.

He frowned and said, "It says your card has no funds associated with it."

I said, "I'm sorry." And walked to a seat on the bus (my favorite spot had been taken by someone else, alas).

I heard him, presumably as he continued to frown, say, "That's OK. Taxpayers will pick up the tab for your ride, I guess."

So saucy! So entertaining!

I think I might need to get a car.