Yesterday's true story:
I had one of the most awkward shopping experiences of my life yesterday.
My buddy Albert and I went to a comic book store and we were the only two customers. That's usually no big deal. Comic books aren't really a booming business, I guess, so there have been plenty of times when I've been the only customer in the store. That doesn't usually make me too uncomfortable.
(Well, there was this one time when I went to this one store near my house, and that place was pretty much the epitome of the stereotypical comic book dungeon: just rows and rows and stacks and stacks of white long boxes filled with dusty back issues. The owner wasn't a creep or anything, but the layout of the store was so unwashed that there was just an oppressive atmosphere navigating and browsing. Also, it was so ridiculously quiet that I couldn't help but imagine the owner was gonna jump out from behind the counter and stab me for accidentally getting a fingerprint on the polyethylene sleeve of a copy of Legion of Superheroes volume 2, #13. Or something.)
Albert and I entered the store right when the owner was at the tail end of a phone conversation. From the sounds of it, it seemed like he had just experienced some sort of intense emotional thing. After he hung up, he greeted us and politely welcomed us to his establishment. We did some browsing. (Sadly, the four dollar trade paperback bin had not been replenished since the last time we went to the store a few months back.) I've pretty much stopped the habit of buying monthly comics. (The only series I still buy in serial format is Peter Milligan's Greek Street, a dark and twisted imagining of ancient Greek tragedies played out in modern day London. I'd missed the past two issues so I knew I had to pick them up.)
Anyway, I soon grabbed the two comic books I planned to purchase. Albert and I continued to browse. I imagine that the two of us shopping for comics is much similar to how women go clothes shopping together. We looked at many objects that we wished we could take home with us. I guess the main difference between shopping for comic books and clothes is that comic book stores don't have dressing rooms so you can't really try anything on in private.
After a few minutes had passed, the owner had another phone call. It was the same person he had been talking to earlier. Granted, I only heard one side of the conversation, but the guy was seriously getting emotional. He was getting more and more heated and it was obvious that he was talking to his ex. As the conversation went on, it became easier and easier to piece together the messy and rather private details of their relationship. The owner seemed completely oblivious to our presence, and his voice was very emotional and he got more and more upset as he recounted how he had been wronged by her and he demanded whether or not he needed to "wrangle up a posse" to collect his belongings from their place of dwelling. It sounded painful.
I really didn't know what to do. It was a bizarre experience. I was still holding the two comics I wanted to buy. A part of me wanted to just put them back on the shelf and leave as quickly as possible, and give the man some privacy. Then a part of me thought that if we left the store, the guy would just get even more incensed - like, he couldn't make things work with his woman and now he couldn't even run his store properly and sell comics. I had a vision in my mind about leaving the store without buying anything and then the guy hanging up the phone and then hanging himself.
Instead, I tried my damndest to pretend to be really intrigued in crappy comic books (Brightest Day #3?) so that Albert and I could talk to each other and try not to eavesdrop on the dude's conversation. (Even though he was talking hella loud.) We just spent the next few minutes trying to talk to each other about all these random comics on the shelf just to relieve some of the tension. Also, I felt that the only way we could give the guy some "privacy" was to distract ourselves with our own conversation. Fortunately the two of us have exceptionally scintillating wits. (Lol, I was tempted to type "titillating.") (One day, I will use "titillating" in a legitimate sentence. One day. On the other hand, maybe I DO have a titillating wit.) (But that doesn't count.)
Eventually, the owner hung up the phone. Actually, that is an understatement because I think he slammed it off the hook, but I pretended not to notice. I also pretended not to notice that annoying buzzing sound that phones make when you leave them off the hook for too long. Albert and I continued to examine the wares in the store, but I definitely wanted to give the guy some space before I tried to get him to ring me up at the register.
When he saw us checking out the new hardcover of Wednesday Comics, he made some more polite comments and extolled the virtues of the book. He did an admirable job burying his emotions. I guess that's how I knew it was safe to approach him at that point, so I finally made my purchases and then we got the heck outta there.
As I reflect on what happened, it strikes me that the guy's conversation with his ex was so important to him that he didn't really give a flying diddlypoo about being overheard by strangers. That amazes me. It really does.
Growing up as an only kid, I was pretty much my own best friend. Other people would sometimes wonder if I felt lonely and crap as a kid, but I don't think so. I always had myself to talk to and, as I said, I have a titillating wit. (Yup, even as a little kid.) As a consequence, however, I'm far more self-conscious than just about anyone I've ever met.
I have no good understanding of how a person could just not give a flamin' you-know-what about how others would perceive his actions. I don't know what it would take for me to expose myself emotionally in the presence of innocent bystanders like the store owner dude did. All I know is how it looked from my point of view.
To lose yourself in a moment, to just pour so much of yourself into something that the rest of the world just kinda fades away. That... That's just amazing to me.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
A Month of Facts about Dru: Day Twenty-four
Today's true story:
I dreamed that I was viciously stabbed.
In my dream, I was pleasantly minding my own business. The specifics of the setting are rather vague; I know I was sitting at a table in a restaurant with a few friends. The next thing that happened, some psychopathic patron wielding a serrated-edged steak knife came up behind me and locked an arm around my neck while waving his knife with his free hand. I was quite surprised and helpless, really. Utterly powerless.
I can't remember what the guy said next. I just remember the looks of abject horror (oh, I have waited a long time to use the phrase "abject horror" in a sentence) on the faces of my friends at the table. I guess they didn't know what to do because I was in such a vulnerable position.
What I remember most about this dream is the pain. The pain of being stabbed in the sternum. There was only a modicum of pain when the knife pierced my flesh. What hurt was when he twisted the knife in my body. He then yanked it out and stabbed me in the belly, cutting me open. (It must have been one hell of a steak knife.) I think I started crying when I saw my intestines spill out, but for some reason I didn't black out. Instead, I experienced the repeated pain of being stabbed over and over in the torso. Now, I've never been stabbed in real life. I have no frame of reference and no real idea if the pain I feel in my dreams is accurate compared to real life. All I know is that I woke up from the dream, screaming like a stinking little pansy and covered in sweat.
It's been a while since I have had a powerfully vivid and violent dream like this. I almost forgot how much it sucks waking up covered in a cold sweat, with the sheets and blanket all wet. It's pretty gross.
Is it normal to have dreams which involve such violence? Do others have these types of dreams on a semi-regular basis? I somehow doubt it. This isn't the first dream where I died from being stabbed. I've also had dreams where I've been fatally shot, bludgeoned, and outright smashed by a giant hammer. For some reason, I rarely wake up at the first intense pang of pain. Usually I wake up when I die in my dream. (In dreams that involve hand-to-hand combat, I usually wake up when I get knocked unconscious. Or when I get kicked in the nads.)
Sometimes, I have dreams where I'm the one administering the grievous bodily destruction. Although I probably play too many videogames, I rarely have dreams where I shoot someone. Most of these types of dreams tend to involve me getting up close and personal with my victim. Like, this one time, years ago, I dreamed I was in a grassy field in Davis, and for some reason I was chasing one of my roommates from that era. Somehow, a baseball bat appeared in my hand right as I caught up to him, and then I proceeded to mercilessly bash his skull into the dirt. After I killed him, I woke up. Strangely, I was drenched in sweat in this instance as well. Perhaps the it is the intensity of dreams that causes me to sweat so profusely. I've had many other dreams where I fought someone to the death and came out on top. I think this was the only dream I've had where I murdered someone in cold blood. Other times, I am caught in mortal combat situations where I must fight someone to the death in order to preserve my own life, or the life of an innocent.
Still, I think I would rather dream about death than not dream at all. Sleep is much more exciting when you're being entertained by the subconscious whimsy of your own imagination. And, I gotta say, waking up after you think you've been killed is a glorious feeling. It's like a second chance at life.
I remember when I was a little kid, I would say my prayers before I would go to sleep. The last thing I would always say to end my prayers would be, "And God, please let me have a good dream tonight. Amen." I guess as I grew older, I kinda stopped praying that prayer. Maybe it's time to have faith like a child again.
I dreamed that I was viciously stabbed.
In my dream, I was pleasantly minding my own business. The specifics of the setting are rather vague; I know I was sitting at a table in a restaurant with a few friends. The next thing that happened, some psychopathic patron wielding a serrated-edged steak knife came up behind me and locked an arm around my neck while waving his knife with his free hand. I was quite surprised and helpless, really. Utterly powerless.
I can't remember what the guy said next. I just remember the looks of abject horror (oh, I have waited a long time to use the phrase "abject horror" in a sentence) on the faces of my friends at the table. I guess they didn't know what to do because I was in such a vulnerable position.
What I remember most about this dream is the pain. The pain of being stabbed in the sternum. There was only a modicum of pain when the knife pierced my flesh. What hurt was when he twisted the knife in my body. He then yanked it out and stabbed me in the belly, cutting me open. (It must have been one hell of a steak knife.) I think I started crying when I saw my intestines spill out, but for some reason I didn't black out. Instead, I experienced the repeated pain of being stabbed over and over in the torso. Now, I've never been stabbed in real life. I have no frame of reference and no real idea if the pain I feel in my dreams is accurate compared to real life. All I know is that I woke up from the dream, screaming like a stinking little pansy and covered in sweat.
It's been a while since I have had a powerfully vivid and violent dream like this. I almost forgot how much it sucks waking up covered in a cold sweat, with the sheets and blanket all wet. It's pretty gross.
Is it normal to have dreams which involve such violence? Do others have these types of dreams on a semi-regular basis? I somehow doubt it. This isn't the first dream where I died from being stabbed. I've also had dreams where I've been fatally shot, bludgeoned, and outright smashed by a giant hammer. For some reason, I rarely wake up at the first intense pang of pain. Usually I wake up when I die in my dream. (In dreams that involve hand-to-hand combat, I usually wake up when I get knocked unconscious. Or when I get kicked in the nads.)
Sometimes, I have dreams where I'm the one administering the grievous bodily destruction. Although I probably play too many videogames, I rarely have dreams where I shoot someone. Most of these types of dreams tend to involve me getting up close and personal with my victim. Like, this one time, years ago, I dreamed I was in a grassy field in Davis, and for some reason I was chasing one of my roommates from that era. Somehow, a baseball bat appeared in my hand right as I caught up to him, and then I proceeded to mercilessly bash his skull into the dirt. After I killed him, I woke up. Strangely, I was drenched in sweat in this instance as well. Perhaps the it is the intensity of dreams that causes me to sweat so profusely. I've had many other dreams where I fought someone to the death and came out on top. I think this was the only dream I've had where I murdered someone in cold blood. Other times, I am caught in mortal combat situations where I must fight someone to the death in order to preserve my own life, or the life of an innocent.
Still, I think I would rather dream about death than not dream at all. Sleep is much more exciting when you're being entertained by the subconscious whimsy of your own imagination. And, I gotta say, waking up after you think you've been killed is a glorious feeling. It's like a second chance at life.
I remember when I was a little kid, I would say my prayers before I would go to sleep. The last thing I would always say to end my prayers would be, "And God, please let me have a good dream tonight. Amen." I guess as I grew older, I kinda stopped praying that prayer. Maybe it's time to have faith like a child again.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
A Month of Facts about Dru: Day Twenty-three
Today's true story:
I laid hands, once, on an inanimate object.
Summer, 2003. I was down in Newport Beach on a Summer Project (basically a stateside, beach-based missions trip) with Campus Crusade for Christ. There were, I think, 54 of us crowded into one small apartment complex. I think the place had six apartments with two bedrooms (and one bathroom) each. It still ended up being like four or five people per bedroom. Pretty crowded conditions.
Back in those days, wireless internet was not as widespread, and not very many of us had laptops with us from what I remember. We had one old desktop PC that we kept in my apartment's living area, and it was a communal machine connected to a modem so we could have the internet. Pretty much everyone used it that summer.
Well, sometime in the middle of that summer, that PC broke down. I remember we couldn't figure out what was wrong with it, but it wasn't working. Some of the the other guys were tech-savvy and they pretty much gave up trying to fix it. I think someone even opened up the tower to examine the circuit boards and stuff, all to no avail. We were getting desperate.
Eventually, several of us guys gathered around the PC. We were out of ideas and decided to try prayer. One of us, possibly me, thought it might help if we laid hands on the tower, to maybe heal it. So we all placed our hands on it and a couple of us said a prayer over the computer. Then we plugged it back in and hooked it up to the monitor and tried to turn it on. I don't remember exactly what the problem was, but the computer was still dead and useless. Maybe our faith wasn't strong enough, or maybe God was teaching us a lesson, or maybe I should just stop typing before I get vaporized by lightning or something.
After that, I think we just threw it away, and someone else kind of lived in the Orange County area and brought his own computer for us to share.
I guess it was ridiculous and blasphemous for us to pray for the computer, let alone lay our hands on it and hope for some miraculous healing. Not gonna lie, I don't think any of us could keep a straight face when we did that. I really don't know why we did that in the first place. It was probably my idea because I thought it would be funny. And then someone, somehow, pondered my joke half-seriously and decided it would be worth trying.
Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I reined in my impulses. But I don't know if I could ever do that. I guess I'll just be a kid forever.
I laid hands, once, on an inanimate object.
Summer, 2003. I was down in Newport Beach on a Summer Project (basically a stateside, beach-based missions trip) with Campus Crusade for Christ. There were, I think, 54 of us crowded into one small apartment complex. I think the place had six apartments with two bedrooms (and one bathroom) each. It still ended up being like four or five people per bedroom. Pretty crowded conditions.
Back in those days, wireless internet was not as widespread, and not very many of us had laptops with us from what I remember. We had one old desktop PC that we kept in my apartment's living area, and it was a communal machine connected to a modem so we could have the internet. Pretty much everyone used it that summer.
Well, sometime in the middle of that summer, that PC broke down. I remember we couldn't figure out what was wrong with it, but it wasn't working. Some of the the other guys were tech-savvy and they pretty much gave up trying to fix it. I think someone even opened up the tower to examine the circuit boards and stuff, all to no avail. We were getting desperate.
Eventually, several of us guys gathered around the PC. We were out of ideas and decided to try prayer. One of us, possibly me, thought it might help if we laid hands on the tower, to maybe heal it. So we all placed our hands on it and a couple of us said a prayer over the computer. Then we plugged it back in and hooked it up to the monitor and tried to turn it on. I don't remember exactly what the problem was, but the computer was still dead and useless. Maybe our faith wasn't strong enough, or maybe God was teaching us a lesson, or maybe I should just stop typing before I get vaporized by lightning or something.
After that, I think we just threw it away, and someone else kind of lived in the Orange County area and brought his own computer for us to share.
I guess it was ridiculous and blasphemous for us to pray for the computer, let alone lay our hands on it and hope for some miraculous healing. Not gonna lie, I don't think any of us could keep a straight face when we did that. I really don't know why we did that in the first place. It was probably my idea because I thought it would be funny. And then someone, somehow, pondered my joke half-seriously and decided it would be worth trying.
Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I reined in my impulses. But I don't know if I could ever do that. I guess I'll just be a kid forever.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
A Month of Facts about Dru: Day Twenty-two
Today's true story:
http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/6346273/
Yeah, this is based on a true conversation.
http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/6346273/
Yeah, this is based on a true conversation.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
A Month of Facts about Dru: Day Twenty-one
Today's true story (complete with moral quandary):
So some kids from one of the other elementary schools are coming over this week to play a friendly touch-football scrimmage with my kids. Playing sports with the kids is definitely one of the things I enjoy most about my job. I try to teach them stuff about basketball and football. (For some reason or other, four square seems like the dominant sport at this elementary school. I don't know why! It ain't as fun as the big two of basketball and football. I keep telling the kids that dominating in four square will not get them very far. They ain't gonna get a college scholarship playing four square, you know?)
I have a few, maybe around eight or ten, kids who like playing football. It is funny how they always ask me to play quarterback. When I play QB for the kids, I am totally Peyton Manning out there: a straight up field general with a rocket arm (we play on a short field) with laser precision, and I can't run at all. Almost all my passes are astounding and most of my incompletions are never my fault.
A couple weeks ago when I told the kids that kids from another school challenged them to a football game, they got excited. They kept asking me if the other school was good, and they kept asking me to practice with them so they could destroy the opposition. (Maybe they didn't use those exact words.) I even drew up a couple plays for them and we practiced them last Friday. It fascinates me to see how young minds try to grasp a play diagram. They aren't quite at the point where they fully understand how plays in videogame football work, but their enthusiasm almost softens my heart. I don't know, but I might've cracked a smile that day.
Today, though, I caught a pair of students cheating on some homework. Serious business, cheating. I talked to their day teacher and they will face some repercussions. However, I didn't think that was enough - when the League catches a team tampering with another team's free agent-to-be, the League doesn't just fine the tampering team. They also lose a draft pick. So I felt these two students had to punished for their academic transgression. As much as it pained me, I decided to suspend them from the football team, even though they are probably two of my top three players.
To top it all off, one of them decided to rat out some other kids who cheated on some other homework. I had no recourse but to punish them as well. And of course these kids are also core players on the football team. So now about three-fourths of my team is going to be ineligible to play in the big game.
What can you do in a situation like this? You have to start some of your second-string players. You have to sign a couple of D-leaguers to fill out the roster. You try to find an aging veteran to provide some leadership to give the young guys some pretense of stability. You tell everyone to play loose and have fun because no one expects anything of them so there's no pressure. And you just hope and pray that everyone plays their hearts out and competes and whatever happens, happens.
The elementary school version: you panic inside, and you start wondering if it's time to compromise your morals for the sake of a simple game that doesn't even matter. You start asking yourself questions like, "Now, would it be better if I just rescinded the punishment and let them all play in the game this week? What other sort of punishment can I give them?" And you justify it with statements like, "None of the other kids want to play. Most of them don't even have any interest in football. We're gonna get our butts whooped like this."
Here's the thing. By taking away their eligibility to play in the football game, I am demonstrating that academics comes first at school. You cheat, you pay the price. You don't get to parade around the field the next day like nothing happened. You don't get to play "the game, the game that I go out there, and die for" to quote A.I. I think this is a worthy lesson. It is definitely a lesson that would be very difficult to argue against, considering these are elementary school kids and this is only a friendly football game with absolutely no repercussions whatsoever.
But...
Is that actually how real life works? In real life, it's clear that as long as you have talent, you can get away with just about anything. You can be a prima donna and still get paid by the millions. People will put up with your antics as long as you have talent. Just look at T.O. or Ron Artest. Even cheaters can prosper. College athletics is all about cheating. Just look at USC with Reggie Bush and O.J. Mayo. Or here's a better example - Memphis with Derrick Rose. Sure, the schools themselves got punished with a little slap on the wrist, but the players themselves have prospered.
Heck, if you have enough athletic talent, you can even get away with killing someone. People hate on Mike Vick because he killed some dogs. He did two years for that. To me, it's unbelievable that such an injustice was allowed. No, I am not talking about Vick killing dogs. I'm talking about how he had to do so much time in prison for his crime.
A decade ago, Leonard Little killed a human being while drunk driving. He didn't have to spend two years in prison. He got to keep on playing. And then a few years after that, he got pulled over again for speeding while driving while intoxicated. He's played continuously for the Rams up to this past season.
What about Donte Stallworth? He also killed a person while driving drunk. He did thirty days in jail. Got suspended from the NFL for a season. A couple weeks ago, he signed a contract with the Ravens.
Do I even have to bring up Kobe? Heh.
All of this brings us to my moral conundrum. Two choices here. And maybe I've just been playing too much Mass Effect 2 lately, but it sure feels like I can pick between a Paragon choice and a Renegade choice: Justly punishing the kids and teaching the kids a lesson that basically only applies to children? Or letting them off the hook with a wink and a slap on the wrist, and basically letting them know that it is okay to break the rules as long as you're talented, because that's how the world works? (And then we'd probably win the football game.)
It's so ridiculous to think about this. But I guess I'm too good at overthinking. In the end, though, I rely on common sense. And my Common-Sense is tingling.
I don't care if we lose the football game because I have to force conscripts away from four square to play. It's going to be worth it. I hope I can teach those kids something. I hope they take something out of their punishment. I hope I can make an impact on their lives. Children are the future, right?
That's what I keep telling myself, anyway. It could all be fruitless. But I have to believe my work is important. So I just keep trying.
So some kids from one of the other elementary schools are coming over this week to play a friendly touch-football scrimmage with my kids. Playing sports with the kids is definitely one of the things I enjoy most about my job. I try to teach them stuff about basketball and football. (For some reason or other, four square seems like the dominant sport at this elementary school. I don't know why! It ain't as fun as the big two of basketball and football. I keep telling the kids that dominating in four square will not get them very far. They ain't gonna get a college scholarship playing four square, you know?)
I have a few, maybe around eight or ten, kids who like playing football. It is funny how they always ask me to play quarterback. When I play QB for the kids, I am totally Peyton Manning out there: a straight up field general with a rocket arm (we play on a short field) with laser precision, and I can't run at all. Almost all my passes are astounding and most of my incompletions are never my fault.
A couple weeks ago when I told the kids that kids from another school challenged them to a football game, they got excited. They kept asking me if the other school was good, and they kept asking me to practice with them so they could destroy the opposition. (Maybe they didn't use those exact words.) I even drew up a couple plays for them and we practiced them last Friday. It fascinates me to see how young minds try to grasp a play diagram. They aren't quite at the point where they fully understand how plays in videogame football work, but their enthusiasm almost softens my heart. I don't know, but I might've cracked a smile that day.
Today, though, I caught a pair of students cheating on some homework. Serious business, cheating. I talked to their day teacher and they will face some repercussions. However, I didn't think that was enough - when the League catches a team tampering with another team's free agent-to-be, the League doesn't just fine the tampering team. They also lose a draft pick. So I felt these two students had to punished for their academic transgression. As much as it pained me, I decided to suspend them from the football team, even though they are probably two of my top three players.
To top it all off, one of them decided to rat out some other kids who cheated on some other homework. I had no recourse but to punish them as well. And of course these kids are also core players on the football team. So now about three-fourths of my team is going to be ineligible to play in the big game.
What can you do in a situation like this? You have to start some of your second-string players. You have to sign a couple of D-leaguers to fill out the roster. You try to find an aging veteran to provide some leadership to give the young guys some pretense of stability. You tell everyone to play loose and have fun because no one expects anything of them so there's no pressure. And you just hope and pray that everyone plays their hearts out and competes and whatever happens, happens.
The elementary school version: you panic inside, and you start wondering if it's time to compromise your morals for the sake of a simple game that doesn't even matter. You start asking yourself questions like, "Now, would it be better if I just rescinded the punishment and let them all play in the game this week? What other sort of punishment can I give them?" And you justify it with statements like, "None of the other kids want to play. Most of them don't even have any interest in football. We're gonna get our butts whooped like this."
Here's the thing. By taking away their eligibility to play in the football game, I am demonstrating that academics comes first at school. You cheat, you pay the price. You don't get to parade around the field the next day like nothing happened. You don't get to play "the game, the game that I go out there, and die for" to quote A.I. I think this is a worthy lesson. It is definitely a lesson that would be very difficult to argue against, considering these are elementary school kids and this is only a friendly football game with absolutely no repercussions whatsoever.
But...
Is that actually how real life works? In real life, it's clear that as long as you have talent, you can get away with just about anything. You can be a prima donna and still get paid by the millions. People will put up with your antics as long as you have talent. Just look at T.O. or Ron Artest. Even cheaters can prosper. College athletics is all about cheating. Just look at USC with Reggie Bush and O.J. Mayo. Or here's a better example - Memphis with Derrick Rose. Sure, the schools themselves got punished with a little slap on the wrist, but the players themselves have prospered.
Heck, if you have enough athletic talent, you can even get away with killing someone. People hate on Mike Vick because he killed some dogs. He did two years for that. To me, it's unbelievable that such an injustice was allowed. No, I am not talking about Vick killing dogs. I'm talking about how he had to do so much time in prison for his crime.
A decade ago, Leonard Little killed a human being while drunk driving. He didn't have to spend two years in prison. He got to keep on playing. And then a few years after that, he got pulled over again for speeding while driving while intoxicated. He's played continuously for the Rams up to this past season.
What about Donte Stallworth? He also killed a person while driving drunk. He did thirty days in jail. Got suspended from the NFL for a season. A couple weeks ago, he signed a contract with the Ravens.
Do I even have to bring up Kobe? Heh.
All of this brings us to my moral conundrum. Two choices here. And maybe I've just been playing too much Mass Effect 2 lately, but it sure feels like I can pick between a Paragon choice and a Renegade choice: Justly punishing the kids and teaching the kids a lesson that basically only applies to children? Or letting them off the hook with a wink and a slap on the wrist, and basically letting them know that it is okay to break the rules as long as you're talented, because that's how the world works? (And then we'd probably win the football game.)
It's so ridiculous to think about this. But I guess I'm too good at overthinking. In the end, though, I rely on common sense. And my Common-Sense is tingling.
I don't care if we lose the football game because I have to force conscripts away from four square to play. It's going to be worth it. I hope I can teach those kids something. I hope they take something out of their punishment. I hope I can make an impact on their lives. Children are the future, right?
That's what I keep telling myself, anyway. It could all be fruitless. But I have to believe my work is important. So I just keep trying.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
A Month of Facts about Dru: Day Twenty
Today's true story:
This morning, I went out for a jog in my neighborhood. Not training to compete in any races or anything. Just trying not to be completely sedentary.
As I was jogging, I passed by this one house. An older woman, carrying a grocery bag full of stuff, was walking down the stairs with an elderly lady with a cane, presumably the first woman's mother. Maybe I was jogging at a slow pace, but I caught a snippet of their dialogue. The daughter wanted to help her mother walk down the stairs. The mother kind of brushed her off and wanted to walk down herself. I could see the daughter trying to hold her mother's arm to gently give her some added stability, but one of her arms was full because of the grocery bag.
After I ran past them, I wondered whether I should have offered to help or something. I could have carried the groceries, maybe, or helped the really old lady. In my mind, I explored the various scenarios. What if I carried the groceries and watched the daughter help her mom walk down some stairs? What if I gave the old lady my arm to hold on to as she made her way down? What if I tripped and accidentally pushed them both to their doom? The closest police station was only a couple blocks away.
Then this got me thinking further. Is it even socially acceptable, in this day and age, to offer unsolicited aid to strangers? What would they think if some sweaty, hairy, wild-looking Asian guy who doesn't know how to shave tried to impose his will on them? Would they be appreciative? Would they say "No, thanks" and politely wish me to mind my own business? Or would they just think I'm a creep? What were the odds that both of them would turn out to be harridans and claw my eyes out?
Well, it was too late then and it's far too late now. By the time I finished analyzing things, I had already run well past them. Wouldn't it be weird and even more awkward if I went back and tried to talk to them? Or would they understand that I took some moments to ponder the situation? And even if I did go back, what would I say or do?
I ended up just going home. Maybe I should have asked if they needed a helping hand. It probably would have been the gentlemanly, neighborly thing to do. Another chance to do someone a kind deed - wasted. Because of all these thoughts. Meticulous imaginings of potential realities. Who knows what my life would be like if I spent less time trying to cover all the angles? I don't know. I just don't know. No. That's a lie. I can imagine it well enough. But fat lot of good that does me.
All I know is, I think too much. Except for the times when I don't think at all.
This morning, I went out for a jog in my neighborhood. Not training to compete in any races or anything. Just trying not to be completely sedentary.
As I was jogging, I passed by this one house. An older woman, carrying a grocery bag full of stuff, was walking down the stairs with an elderly lady with a cane, presumably the first woman's mother. Maybe I was jogging at a slow pace, but I caught a snippet of their dialogue. The daughter wanted to help her mother walk down the stairs. The mother kind of brushed her off and wanted to walk down herself. I could see the daughter trying to hold her mother's arm to gently give her some added stability, but one of her arms was full because of the grocery bag.
After I ran past them, I wondered whether I should have offered to help or something. I could have carried the groceries, maybe, or helped the really old lady. In my mind, I explored the various scenarios. What if I carried the groceries and watched the daughter help her mom walk down some stairs? What if I gave the old lady my arm to hold on to as she made her way down? What if I tripped and accidentally pushed them both to their doom? The closest police station was only a couple blocks away.
Then this got me thinking further. Is it even socially acceptable, in this day and age, to offer unsolicited aid to strangers? What would they think if some sweaty, hairy, wild-looking Asian guy who doesn't know how to shave tried to impose his will on them? Would they be appreciative? Would they say "No, thanks" and politely wish me to mind my own business? Or would they just think I'm a creep? What were the odds that both of them would turn out to be harridans and claw my eyes out?
Well, it was too late then and it's far too late now. By the time I finished analyzing things, I had already run well past them. Wouldn't it be weird and even more awkward if I went back and tried to talk to them? Or would they understand that I took some moments to ponder the situation? And even if I did go back, what would I say or do?
I ended up just going home. Maybe I should have asked if they needed a helping hand. It probably would have been the gentlemanly, neighborly thing to do. Another chance to do someone a kind deed - wasted. Because of all these thoughts. Meticulous imaginings of potential realities. Who knows what my life would be like if I spent less time trying to cover all the angles? I don't know. I just don't know. No. That's a lie. I can imagine it well enough. But fat lot of good that does me.
All I know is, I think too much. Except for the times when I don't think at all.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
A Month of Facts about Dru: Day Nineteen
Today's true story:
Whenever I go past a garage sale, I always secretly hope that they've got comic books for sale.
I have mentioned this to some of my friends and they usually respond with a look of incredulity. Okay, so I admit I am a comic book fiend and think about them far more often than the average bear. Whenever I hear anyone talk about going shopping, the first thing I think of is going shopping for comics. Not clothes, not food, not electronics - comics.
However, I have always associated garages with comic books. When I was a kid, one of my neighbors, whom I used to hang out with all the time, stored his comics in his garage. He had a long box packed with issues. I have good childhood memories of spending hours with him in his garage just poring over various issues in his collection. Sure, most of it was typical early '90s stuff like Todd McFarlane's Spider-Man and Rob Liefeld's X-Force sprinkled with a healthy heaping of mid to late eighties David Michelinie Amazing Spider-Man and Christopher J. Claremont Uncanny X-Men, but I was a kid and those all excited me at the time.
At the time, my own collection of comics was rather meager by comparison, so hanging out with my friend in his garage and experiencing his treasure trove of wonders was always a real joy. We spent a lot of Saturday afternoons looking at and reading his comics. Sometimes the other neighbor kids would hang out, and we'd look at some comics together and then start pretending we were the characters and play act.
It didn't matter that the garage was dusty and there were spiders and stuff crawling in there. In fact, I'd even say that being in the garage in the first place enhanced the experience. There was something disarmingly down-to-earth about the mustiness of the place, the dreariness of it all. Every time we cracked open one of those comic books, a nuclear warhead would explode in our collective imaginations. We could really lose ourselves in those four-color worlds.
Everything started in the garage. (Just like the Weezer song!)
This is why I will forever associate garages with comic books. Thus, whenever I see a garage sale, I will look over the wares to see if there's any chance of comic books. I know, in my heart of hearts, that it is highly unlikely for a random garage sale to just happen to have comics for sale. Highly unlikely. I've walked past a bunch of garage sales over the past year and not once did I find any comic books. And yet, despite being disappointed time and time again, I still have a small amount of hope that my luck will change one day. I keep hoping, against all logic, that the next garage sale I encounter will have some secret treasure that I will be able to swoop in on.
I'm kind of stupid that way.
Whenever I go past a garage sale, I always secretly hope that they've got comic books for sale.
I have mentioned this to some of my friends and they usually respond with a look of incredulity. Okay, so I admit I am a comic book fiend and think about them far more often than the average bear. Whenever I hear anyone talk about going shopping, the first thing I think of is going shopping for comics. Not clothes, not food, not electronics - comics.
However, I have always associated garages with comic books. When I was a kid, one of my neighbors, whom I used to hang out with all the time, stored his comics in his garage. He had a long box packed with issues. I have good childhood memories of spending hours with him in his garage just poring over various issues in his collection. Sure, most of it was typical early '90s stuff like Todd McFarlane's Spider-Man and Rob Liefeld's X-Force sprinkled with a healthy heaping of mid to late eighties David Michelinie Amazing Spider-Man and Christopher J. Claremont Uncanny X-Men, but I was a kid and those all excited me at the time.
At the time, my own collection of comics was rather meager by comparison, so hanging out with my friend in his garage and experiencing his treasure trove of wonders was always a real joy. We spent a lot of Saturday afternoons looking at and reading his comics. Sometimes the other neighbor kids would hang out, and we'd look at some comics together and then start pretending we were the characters and play act.
It didn't matter that the garage was dusty and there were spiders and stuff crawling in there. In fact, I'd even say that being in the garage in the first place enhanced the experience. There was something disarmingly down-to-earth about the mustiness of the place, the dreariness of it all. Every time we cracked open one of those comic books, a nuclear warhead would explode in our collective imaginations. We could really lose ourselves in those four-color worlds.
Everything started in the garage. (Just like the Weezer song!)
This is why I will forever associate garages with comic books. Thus, whenever I see a garage sale, I will look over the wares to see if there's any chance of comic books. I know, in my heart of hearts, that it is highly unlikely for a random garage sale to just happen to have comics for sale. Highly unlikely. I've walked past a bunch of garage sales over the past year and not once did I find any comic books. And yet, despite being disappointed time and time again, I still have a small amount of hope that my luck will change one day. I keep hoping, against all logic, that the next garage sale I encounter will have some secret treasure that I will be able to swoop in on.
I'm kind of stupid that way.
Friday, December 25, 2009
A Month of Facts about Dru: Day Eighteen
Today's true story:
Christmas morning, my buddy Sheynis and I decided to go for a run around Lake Merced. When we got back to the parking lot, we witnessed one of the funniest and most pathetic things I've seen in a while.
Sheynis and I returned to the parking lot, the one right by where Sunset Boulevard ends. Having finished our run, we were just chilling and doing some pull-ups and cool-down stretches. Across the parking lot, I saw a kid (probably around eight years old) riding his bike in there. His father and his brother, also on bikes of their own, biked on the sidewalk path. The father saw one of his sons riding in the parking lot and started to yell at his kid.
"Get out of the parking lot!" he shouted. "I don't want you biking in there!"
The kid, obediently enough, maneuvered back to the sidewalk. Strangely, the father did not seem to notice this and decided to enter the parking lot. If you've ever been to that Lake Merced parking lot, you've noticed that there is a little "dry moat" separating the parking lot from the sidewalk. Every few meters, the moat breaks into a pathway to the lot so that it's easier to walk between the two sections. Well, as the father turned his bike into the entrance, he must have rolled into the curb because he came crashing down!
It was a blatant crash, too. My buddy Sheynis and I were probably a good 15 or 20 meters away and we could hear him hitting the pavement. The man's kids heard as well. One of them stopped and looked at him while the other one slowed down in surprise. It looked like it hurt, and the guy got up slowly. He probably got himself bruised pretty bad. When he got up, I could see him rubbing his knees and just checking himself for any injuries. Most of all, it was rather obvious that his pride was badly damaged.
Now, I usually try not to laugh at or enjoy other people's pain, but I have to admit that watching a guy fall off his bike was kinda funny. I thought about going over to ask if he was all right, but he seemed fine. If anything, he seemed upset because as soon as he was back on his feet he just started yelling at his kid again! He walked his bike back to his car as his kids got ready to go home, and as they walked by, he wasn't just scolding his son. He was yelling at him for going to the parking lot in the first place.
The thing that made his yelling seem completely silly was that it was obvious the father was just trying to restore his wounded pride. This could have been a fine opportunity to display some parenting skills. He calmly could have explained to his kids, "See, this is why you shouldn't bike in a parking lot. It's dangerous. You make other people have to follow you and accidents can happen." Or something to that effect. Instead, he was just in a rage, yelling, "I TOLD you not to go in there! Why did you go out there?!" over and over. Clearly, this man was putting down his own children in a misguided attempt to restore his manhood and superiority. I couldn't hear if his kids said anything in response. They might not have had the loudest voices, or perhaps they were just scared. It's quite disheartening for a son to see his own father humiliated in public. There really doesn't seem to be much a son can say right after that happens.
Well, eventually the man and his kids walked past Sheynis and me and got to their car. Sheynis and I continued stretching out while commenting on the absurd situation we'd just witnessed. Even though they were at their car, we could still hear the father yelling angrily as he packed their bikes into his hatchback. I don't know. Maybe the kids did tell their dad that they were sorry, but all Sheynis and I kept hearing was, "I TOLD you not to go out there!"
I'm glad I was with Sheynis because he's one of the few individuals I know who could see and appreciate the ridiculousness and the dark humor of the situation. We couldn't stop smirking as we walked back to my car.
Surprisingly, the man's car was directly next to mine. He still looked pissed. As we walked right by him, I offered my cheeriest possible smile and waved. "Merry Christmas!" I said. The man's mouth was a thin, angry line. His kids, halfway in the car, looked confused. He said nothing, but glared at us as he purposefully got into his car and finally drove off. Sheynis and I kept our poker faces until he was gone, and then we just busted out laughing and exchanged high fives.
It feels great to spread some holiday cheer.
Christmas morning, my buddy Sheynis and I decided to go for a run around Lake Merced. When we got back to the parking lot, we witnessed one of the funniest and most pathetic things I've seen in a while.
Sheynis and I returned to the parking lot, the one right by where Sunset Boulevard ends. Having finished our run, we were just chilling and doing some pull-ups and cool-down stretches. Across the parking lot, I saw a kid (probably around eight years old) riding his bike in there. His father and his brother, also on bikes of their own, biked on the sidewalk path. The father saw one of his sons riding in the parking lot and started to yell at his kid.
"Get out of the parking lot!" he shouted. "I don't want you biking in there!"
The kid, obediently enough, maneuvered back to the sidewalk. Strangely, the father did not seem to notice this and decided to enter the parking lot. If you've ever been to that Lake Merced parking lot, you've noticed that there is a little "dry moat" separating the parking lot from the sidewalk. Every few meters, the moat breaks into a pathway to the lot so that it's easier to walk between the two sections. Well, as the father turned his bike into the entrance, he must have rolled into the curb because he came crashing down!
It was a blatant crash, too. My buddy Sheynis and I were probably a good 15 or 20 meters away and we could hear him hitting the pavement. The man's kids heard as well. One of them stopped and looked at him while the other one slowed down in surprise. It looked like it hurt, and the guy got up slowly. He probably got himself bruised pretty bad. When he got up, I could see him rubbing his knees and just checking himself for any injuries. Most of all, it was rather obvious that his pride was badly damaged.
Now, I usually try not to laugh at or enjoy other people's pain, but I have to admit that watching a guy fall off his bike was kinda funny. I thought about going over to ask if he was all right, but he seemed fine. If anything, he seemed upset because as soon as he was back on his feet he just started yelling at his kid again! He walked his bike back to his car as his kids got ready to go home, and as they walked by, he wasn't just scolding his son. He was yelling at him for going to the parking lot in the first place.
The thing that made his yelling seem completely silly was that it was obvious the father was just trying to restore his wounded pride. This could have been a fine opportunity to display some parenting skills. He calmly could have explained to his kids, "See, this is why you shouldn't bike in a parking lot. It's dangerous. You make other people have to follow you and accidents can happen." Or something to that effect. Instead, he was just in a rage, yelling, "I TOLD you not to go in there! Why did you go out there?!" over and over. Clearly, this man was putting down his own children in a misguided attempt to restore his manhood and superiority. I couldn't hear if his kids said anything in response. They might not have had the loudest voices, or perhaps they were just scared. It's quite disheartening for a son to see his own father humiliated in public. There really doesn't seem to be much a son can say right after that happens.
Well, eventually the man and his kids walked past Sheynis and me and got to their car. Sheynis and I continued stretching out while commenting on the absurd situation we'd just witnessed. Even though they were at their car, we could still hear the father yelling angrily as he packed their bikes into his hatchback. I don't know. Maybe the kids did tell their dad that they were sorry, but all Sheynis and I kept hearing was, "I TOLD you not to go out there!"
I'm glad I was with Sheynis because he's one of the few individuals I know who could see and appreciate the ridiculousness and the dark humor of the situation. We couldn't stop smirking as we walked back to my car.
Surprisingly, the man's car was directly next to mine. He still looked pissed. As we walked right by him, I offered my cheeriest possible smile and waved. "Merry Christmas!" I said. The man's mouth was a thin, angry line. His kids, halfway in the car, looked confused. He said nothing, but glared at us as he purposefully got into his car and finally drove off. Sheynis and I kept our poker faces until he was gone, and then we just busted out laughing and exchanged high fives.
It feels great to spread some holiday cheer.
A Month of Facts about Dru: Day Seventeen
Today's true story:
Holidays have never been a big deal in my life. Not saying I ain't down with them, or anything, 'cause I like them just fine. Ever since I was a kid, my family never celebrated holidays like Thanksgiving or Christmas like most others. Most of our relatives don't live close to us so it's always just my folks and me. We don't do much; probably go out to eat at a restaurant, and that's usually it. Other than that, we usually just spend the day at home and enjoy each other's company. My pop and I usually watch football (on Thanksgiving) or basketball (Christmas).
I don't even buy gifts for my parents for Christmas (or their birthdays, for that matter). I guess my household was never big on that tradition. Sure, my parents bought me stuff when I was a little kid, but once I got to a certain age, I recognized that I didn't really need them to buy me crap just because it was Christmas (or my birthday). So that never caught on with me.
However, I've always wondered it would be like to have a large family and extended family with whom to spend the holidays. I wonder if that would help me get into the so-called "holiday spirit" because I usually don't feel anything different at this time of year. Still, big get-togethers sounds like a big hassle to me. Besides, I am a fan of avoiding sentimentality. It's like that Radiohead song. Don't get sentimental; it always ends up drivel. Just look at some of the other crap I've posted on this blog, or ask me to show you my notebook full of poems I've written about unrequited loves.
Also:
Stan Van Jeremy probably feels sorry for me because I have nothing else to do on Christmas Day, other than watch an NBA game.
Somehow, I am okay with this.
Holidays have never been a big deal in my life. Not saying I ain't down with them, or anything, 'cause I like them just fine. Ever since I was a kid, my family never celebrated holidays like Thanksgiving or Christmas like most others. Most of our relatives don't live close to us so it's always just my folks and me. We don't do much; probably go out to eat at a restaurant, and that's usually it. Other than that, we usually just spend the day at home and enjoy each other's company. My pop and I usually watch football (on Thanksgiving) or basketball (Christmas).
I don't even buy gifts for my parents for Christmas (or their birthdays, for that matter). I guess my household was never big on that tradition. Sure, my parents bought me stuff when I was a little kid, but once I got to a certain age, I recognized that I didn't really need them to buy me crap just because it was Christmas (or my birthday). So that never caught on with me.
However, I've always wondered it would be like to have a large family and extended family with whom to spend the holidays. I wonder if that would help me get into the so-called "holiday spirit" because I usually don't feel anything different at this time of year. Still, big get-togethers sounds like a big hassle to me. Besides, I am a fan of avoiding sentimentality. It's like that Radiohead song. Don't get sentimental; it always ends up drivel. Just look at some of the other crap I've posted on this blog, or ask me to show you my notebook full of poems I've written about unrequited loves.
Also:
Stan Van Jeremy probably feels sorry for me because I have nothing else to do on Christmas Day, other than watch an NBA game.
Somehow, I am okay with this.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
A Month of Facts about Dru: Day Sixteen
Today's true story:
Almost every day, I read out loud to a group of kids. There are, occasionally, times when it feels almost pointless. More often, however, I see firsthand how the words I read can excite, inspire, and otherwise engage young lives. It is a great feeling to be a witness.
I saw a child, sitting alone, sadly, apart from her classmates. I stopped reading the book and, under the somewhat false pretense of "You all are being too noisy today and need to calm down," told the rest of the class to put their heads down. Then I sat by the girl and talked to her quietly. She lost a parent recently. There was a numbness in those innocent eyes that made me want to cry. What can you say to help someone in that situation? What is there to say? I had no words. I wanted to hug her but I was afraid - afraid of emphasizing her pain and her loss, and afraid I'd lose my composure if I followed my impulse. Weakly, I settled for gently patting her arm and murmuring, "I'm sorry."
We sat, facing each other across a table, for a few moments before another kid came up to me and told me someone else made a rude gesture. Why did I feel so relieved to get up and deal with a simpler problem?
Soon, I picked up the book and continued reading. I was disappointed in myself for a reason I can't, even now, fully explain. My voice nearly cracked as I was reading. I had to steal a few deep breaths, between sentences, to gather myself. Even then, a selfish thought floated into my mind: how embarrassing it would be if the children saw you cry!
I wish, sometimes, that I could be heroic. I wish that I could charm, comfort, and dazzle with my wit. Oh, how I wish my words could save a life. But they can't. They're just words. And most of the time, I don't have enough of the right ones anyway.
Almost every day, I read out loud to a group of kids. There are, occasionally, times when it feels almost pointless. More often, however, I see firsthand how the words I read can excite, inspire, and otherwise engage young lives. It is a great feeling to be a witness.
I saw a child, sitting alone, sadly, apart from her classmates. I stopped reading the book and, under the somewhat false pretense of "You all are being too noisy today and need to calm down," told the rest of the class to put their heads down. Then I sat by the girl and talked to her quietly. She lost a parent recently. There was a numbness in those innocent eyes that made me want to cry. What can you say to help someone in that situation? What is there to say? I had no words. I wanted to hug her but I was afraid - afraid of emphasizing her pain and her loss, and afraid I'd lose my composure if I followed my impulse. Weakly, I settled for gently patting her arm and murmuring, "I'm sorry."
We sat, facing each other across a table, for a few moments before another kid came up to me and told me someone else made a rude gesture. Why did I feel so relieved to get up and deal with a simpler problem?
Soon, I picked up the book and continued reading. I was disappointed in myself for a reason I can't, even now, fully explain. My voice nearly cracked as I was reading. I had to steal a few deep breaths, between sentences, to gather myself. Even then, a selfish thought floated into my mind: how embarrassing it would be if the children saw you cry!
I wish, sometimes, that I could be heroic. I wish that I could charm, comfort, and dazzle with my wit. Oh, how I wish my words could save a life. But they can't. They're just words. And most of the time, I don't have enough of the right ones anyway.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)