After 12 weeks of NFL action, my Bucs are sitting pretty at 7-4 with a comfortable two-game cushion over the talented but underachieving New Orleans Saints. We had a scare yesterday when quarterback and team MVP Jeff Garcia was sidelined with a lower back bruise early in the game against the Washington Redskins. Backup Bruce Gradkowski--who "led" the team to a dismal 4-12 record a year ago--proved a valiant, if undertalented, substitute and did his part by avoiding turnovers and protecting the football.
Tampa Bay achieved a grand total of zero (0) first downs in the second half, and after leading 19-3 at halftime, found itself barely hanging onto a 19-13 advantage with less than two minutes remaining in the game and Washignton driving hard toward the endzone.
The defense carried the day, however, coming up with two monumental fourth-quarter interceptions to run the turnover ratio on the day to +6 and sealing the heart-wrenching victory for the Bucs.
Good teams find ways to win when adversity strikes--when an MVP is rendered immobile. The Buccaneers proved yesterday that they are a good team, well coached, and prepared to battle for every yard this season.
For now, however, the Jeff Garcia watch is in full swing. We play New Orleans at the Superdome on Sunday...
Monday, November 26, 2007
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Dos Tequilas
Thanksgiving, 2007, has come and gone, and I am now staring directly down the barrel of the final 24 hours of this glorious four-day weekend. Given my current schedule, even ordinary weekends are a blissful escape from the weekly grind, so four days might as well be four years, and each minute of extra sleep, each page of a paper written, and each laugh with friends is precious.
It is now nearly 11:00 on Saturday night. Normally, at this time on this day, I would be out with friends, sharing jokes, foul language, and plenty of liquor. It's these moments of my youth that I work so hard for. For me, it is a great pleasure of my life to meet new people, to cultivate friendships, and to interact with others. I find that my generation is a fascinating one, full of ambition and humor and promise, and it's an honor to be among the people that I sincerely believe will be the ones to restore a sense of confidence and pride in our society. Perhaps that's overstating it--I tend to err on the side of hyperbole occasionally--but I believe every word of it.
Unfortunately, the circle that I tend to hang in is the same circle that happen to be earning PhDs and master's degrees, and as a result, they--like me--have inhuman amounts of work to complete, and so, even though I should be working on the last five pages of my first 20-page paper of the semester, I'm sitting alone in my apartment wishing that I was out with my friends. I can sympathize, though, with their reasons for staying in (the only reason I don't feel the same sense of urgency is that other obligations forced me to complete the bulk of my paper now, several days before it's due, while most others are just starting their work).
Perhaps one of the reasons for my cohort's anti-social Saturday is the fact that Thursday night, post-turkey, when most people were just beginning to settle into their food comas, we all congregated at a colleague's apartment for what I will affectionately dub The Great Tequila Drink-Off of 'Aught Seven. It started innocently enough with chips, home-made pico de gallo, and black bean dip with a couple of margaritas on the side.
It was only once the shots started flowing that the night got interesting.
In truth, I arrived late, after the group had already eschewed the Mrs. T's in favor of straight agave gold. When we tired of shots, we reverted back to margarita mix. When we tired of margarita mix, we got creative--tequila and Diet Dr. Pepper, tequila and water, tequila straight out of the bottle (I don't actually remember and instance of this but have no reason to believe it didn't happen).
Now, I'm a bourbon guy. I had my share of forgettable tequila-induced worship sessions at the porcelain throne in college, so on the occasion that I do return to the hard-drinking ways of my rowdy youth (think three years ago), I generally stick with what I know I can handle. In this case, however, there was one choice, and I was in no position to refuse.
The whole scene begins to get fuzzy after the fifth or sixth drink. We migrated to the living room area talking about politics, relationships, music, sex, school, how dead we all felt under the weight of these papers, etc. Next thing I know, I'm searching frantically on a music downloading site for All-4-One's classic ballad, "I Swear," which I hadn't hear or even thought of since it was the most overplayed song on the radio (approximately 1993).
Next memory: launching into an impromptu duet with a Danish master's student.
Next memory: yelling at the computer when the free sample of the song abruptly ended (something may or may not have been said about this scenario feeling emotionally akin to the infamous "blue balls" phenomenon).
Next memory: noticing that two bottles of tequila had already been drained.
Next memory: pouring myself another drink anyway.
Next memory: holding court in the bedroom on how and where to purchase condo property in Chicago (how I was tagged an expert on this subject, I have no idea, but I remember feeling confident in my advice at the time).
Next memory: back home in my apartment (I think one of the the more sober among us must have acted as the designated driver), eating half-baked bread I had unsuccessfully attempted to make the night before.
Next memory: Daylight. The clock reads 1:45 (p.m.). How did this happen? I'm still wearing my sweater from the night before. My head feels like my brain has been replaced with styrofoam. My breath wreaks of booze and unleavened dough. I chuckle--I vaguely remember feeling this way in college. Scratch that--I felt this way every weekend in college.
Fast-forward 36 hours or so, and I'm finally feeling as though my liver has caught up with me. We're on the same page again, old friend. Oh, how I've abused you, and yet you've always been up to the task. I gave you the night off yesterday out of sheer pity, and although I've tried my darnedest to find some work for you to do this evening, it appears as though you might be getting off easy.
Rest up, friend, for I suspect that we may yet have one or two more adventures left in us.
It is now nearly 11:00 on Saturday night. Normally, at this time on this day, I would be out with friends, sharing jokes, foul language, and plenty of liquor. It's these moments of my youth that I work so hard for. For me, it is a great pleasure of my life to meet new people, to cultivate friendships, and to interact with others. I find that my generation is a fascinating one, full of ambition and humor and promise, and it's an honor to be among the people that I sincerely believe will be the ones to restore a sense of confidence and pride in our society. Perhaps that's overstating it--I tend to err on the side of hyperbole occasionally--but I believe every word of it.
Unfortunately, the circle that I tend to hang in is the same circle that happen to be earning PhDs and master's degrees, and as a result, they--like me--have inhuman amounts of work to complete, and so, even though I should be working on the last five pages of my first 20-page paper of the semester, I'm sitting alone in my apartment wishing that I was out with my friends. I can sympathize, though, with their reasons for staying in (the only reason I don't feel the same sense of urgency is that other obligations forced me to complete the bulk of my paper now, several days before it's due, while most others are just starting their work).
Perhaps one of the reasons for my cohort's anti-social Saturday is the fact that Thursday night, post-turkey, when most people were just beginning to settle into their food comas, we all congregated at a colleague's apartment for what I will affectionately dub The Great Tequila Drink-Off of 'Aught Seven. It started innocently enough with chips, home-made pico de gallo, and black bean dip with a couple of margaritas on the side.
It was only once the shots started flowing that the night got interesting.
In truth, I arrived late, after the group had already eschewed the Mrs. T's in favor of straight agave gold. When we tired of shots, we reverted back to margarita mix. When we tired of margarita mix, we got creative--tequila and Diet Dr. Pepper, tequila and water, tequila straight out of the bottle (I don't actually remember and instance of this but have no reason to believe it didn't happen).
Now, I'm a bourbon guy. I had my share of forgettable tequila-induced worship sessions at the porcelain throne in college, so on the occasion that I do return to the hard-drinking ways of my rowdy youth (think three years ago), I generally stick with what I know I can handle. In this case, however, there was one choice, and I was in no position to refuse.
The whole scene begins to get fuzzy after the fifth or sixth drink. We migrated to the living room area talking about politics, relationships, music, sex, school, how dead we all felt under the weight of these papers, etc. Next thing I know, I'm searching frantically on a music downloading site for All-4-One's classic ballad, "I Swear," which I hadn't hear or even thought of since it was the most overplayed song on the radio (approximately 1993).
Next memory: launching into an impromptu duet with a Danish master's student.
Next memory: yelling at the computer when the free sample of the song abruptly ended (something may or may not have been said about this scenario feeling emotionally akin to the infamous "blue balls" phenomenon).
Next memory: noticing that two bottles of tequila had already been drained.
Next memory: pouring myself another drink anyway.
Next memory: holding court in the bedroom on how and where to purchase condo property in Chicago (how I was tagged an expert on this subject, I have no idea, but I remember feeling confident in my advice at the time).
Next memory: back home in my apartment (I think one of the the more sober among us must have acted as the designated driver), eating half-baked bread I had unsuccessfully attempted to make the night before.
Next memory: Daylight. The clock reads 1:45 (p.m.). How did this happen? I'm still wearing my sweater from the night before. My head feels like my brain has been replaced with styrofoam. My breath wreaks of booze and unleavened dough. I chuckle--I vaguely remember feeling this way in college. Scratch that--I felt this way every weekend in college.
Fast-forward 36 hours or so, and I'm finally feeling as though my liver has caught up with me. We're on the same page again, old friend. Oh, how I've abused you, and yet you've always been up to the task. I gave you the night off yesterday out of sheer pity, and although I've tried my darnedest to find some work for you to do this evening, it appears as though you might be getting off easy.
Rest up, friend, for I suspect that we may yet have one or two more adventures left in us.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Thanksgiving 2007
I have spent much of my day trying to chip away at one of the two 20-page papers that I have due in the next two weeks. I must earn my turkey by working diligently during the day instead of doing what comes naturally--sleeping, eating, and watching football.
Happy Thanksgiving to anybody and everybody who happens to stumble across this little slice of cyberspace, and may everybody have a healthy, joyous holiday season!
Happy Thanksgiving to anybody and everybody who happens to stumble across this little slice of cyberspace, and may everybody have a healthy, joyous holiday season!
Monday, November 19, 2007
Generation Slap
It's Thanksgiving week, which means that workloads, for the moment--at least at the day job--are a bit lighter, spirits are a bit higher, and everybody seems to be anticipating four days of recharging, football-watching, nap-taking, turkey-eating, coma-inducing holiday bliss. Of course, this doesn't change the fact that I still have two 20-page research papers hanging over my head like pianos, but I can't think about those right now. I have laundry in the machine, counters to clean, papers to grade, and blog posts to write.
Mondays and Wednesdays are particularly grueling for me. I wake up at a reasonable hour and am behind my desk at work by 8:30. By 1:15, I am out the door and on my way to campus for an hour of teaching a half-capacity class of half-asleep undergraduates, after which I might stop briefly by the TA office at school (which I share with three other graduate students) before heading back to work, where I am back behind my desk by 3:30. I'm out the door again by 5:00 and on my way to class, which starts promptly at 5:30 and lasts until 8:00.
If I'm lucky, my mom will drive me home after class (she lives less than 3 blocks from campus), and if not, then it's at least another 30 minutes on the train, perhaps a stop at the drug store or the grocery, and I'm usually walking into my apartment no earlier than 8:45.
Dinner, gym, and suddenly it's after 10:00.
I'm too tired to read and way too tired to write, so I usually spend an hour on the phone, an hour on YouTube, and another 15 minutes or so considering actually being productive, before I somehow rationalize the decision to call it a night, plop into bed, and start the cycle again six or seven hours later.
Tonight's class meeting was more lively than usual, because instead of meeting in the usual round-table classroom setting--and because it's Thanksgiving week--our professor treated us to dinner, drinks, and on-topic conversation at a local bar not far from the university.
Our department is currently searching for two new faculty members--a tenure-track assistant professor and a new department head--and part of the tradition of hiring new faculty is for the graduate students to conduct a group interview with each candidate. Unfortunately, due to my work schedule, I have only participated in two of these meetings, and I feel as though I have missed out on a cornerstone of the PhD experience by having to more or less remove myself from this process (yet another reason that I'm toying with the idea of re-evaluating this work situation), but that's a topic for another time.
The big question for us in this process is, "What would we like to see in a new faculty member?" As graduate students, we are ultimately looking for somebody who--because they have been through this process in the fairly recent past--can offer us some guidance and perspective as we navigate the waters of coursework, research, prelims, dissertation writing, and the academic job search. The department, of course, has a slightly different set of priorities. If I were to guess, the Powers that Be would like to see a new faculty member who can fundraise, publish, and generally raise the cachet of the department.
Now--just to set the scene--just about everybody at the table was 30-years-old and under. The two exceptions were the professor, who appears to be in his mid-40s, and our resident nontraditional PhD-student colleague, a great woman of early middle age with a fascinating background who is now on her second career after a successful turn in the financial world (and all of this while raising three children).
I felt slightly awkward contributing to a conversation in which I had very little frame of reference, but I do feel strongly that the department has much to gain by hiring a candidate who can serve as a mentor (or at least as a guide of sorts) while still being productive, publishing, and raising funds for research. Mentorship and contact with students need not be the focus of the new hire's daily activities, but the ability for us, as students, to pop into his or her office, float an idea, and receive thoughtful feedback would be tremendous. There is something to be said for the fact that this new hire would be closer in experience to a graduate student than to a well-established professor in our field.
When I made this point, however, it came out something like this: (I am looking at the professor, who is sitting right next to our nontraditional colleague--we'll call her "Judy") "There are certain advantages to having a professor who is closer to our experience level than to yours."
The table fell silent. The professor shot an icy glare (in jest, I'm sure, but icy nonetheless) in my direction and lifted a finger.
"Be careful!" he cautioned, and Judy followed with, "Don't fall into that trap!"
I was puzzled. All eyes were on me--the person who had interacted with the fewest candidates and who was least qualified to speak on this topic--and every face screamed, "FAUX PAS!!!"
I was stumped. What did I do? Did I say something wrong? Did I betray my own ignorance on the topic? I should have just shut up! No, but then they would think I don't care about the conversation. But I should have phrased my point better. They misunderstood! But it's too late now. Everybody thinks I'm a heartless idiot, and I have no idea what I did.
I broke the silence with a profound, well-crafted response:
"What?"
Judy and the professor replied, almost in unison, "Be careful when talking about people's age!"
But I wasn't talking about age, I insisted. I was talking about experience! About the ability to identify...
But it was a lost cause. I was the goat, and this wasn't the first time that I had unleashed a Freudian slip at Judy's expense (although this one, I still contend, was completely by accident).
Now, I like to think that this was just a good laugh for everybody, and all indications point to the fact that they were simply giving me a good-natured hard time, but I felt paralyzed. Deep down somewhere, I was sure that I had offended Judy, and worse, the professor. It was one of those moments where you are exposed for your greatest--often irrational--fears.
At that moment, I was deathly afraid of being seen as a fraud, as somebody whose ideas were simply trivial at best, offensive at worst, and who simply could not eloquently articulate the points I wished to make.
This, I believe, has always been my greatest fear (at least, I believe, the greatest non-physical threat)--fear of not being taken seriously and of being discredited by the people I admire (and I admire most people in some capacity). It's not that I'm afraid of losing respect (although that may be part of it), but instead, I'm afraid of being viewed as some sort of impostor.
Maybe that's why I have always tried so hard to prove myself (and to nobody else, really, but to myself)--because I figure that if I keep moving forward, and if I keep giving people reasons to take me seriously, then I won't have to face the possibility that my credibility will diminish.
At any rate, the conversation continued on without event after that. I made a light comment, and the professor made a light comment, and before long, the moment had passed, with nobody likely thinking twice about what had occurred (and certainly not realizing how exposed I'd felt).
It took a few minutes for me to re-gain my mental agility. If a generation gap indeed existed at that table, then it certainly did not exist merely to be observed. It was more of a generation slap than a generation gap, and I was the one who took it squarely on the jaw.
Mondays and Wednesdays are particularly grueling for me. I wake up at a reasonable hour and am behind my desk at work by 8:30. By 1:15, I am out the door and on my way to campus for an hour of teaching a half-capacity class of half-asleep undergraduates, after which I might stop briefly by the TA office at school (which I share with three other graduate students) before heading back to work, where I am back behind my desk by 3:30. I'm out the door again by 5:00 and on my way to class, which starts promptly at 5:30 and lasts until 8:00.
If I'm lucky, my mom will drive me home after class (she lives less than 3 blocks from campus), and if not, then it's at least another 30 minutes on the train, perhaps a stop at the drug store or the grocery, and I'm usually walking into my apartment no earlier than 8:45.
Dinner, gym, and suddenly it's after 10:00.
I'm too tired to read and way too tired to write, so I usually spend an hour on the phone, an hour on YouTube, and another 15 minutes or so considering actually being productive, before I somehow rationalize the decision to call it a night, plop into bed, and start the cycle again six or seven hours later.
Tonight's class meeting was more lively than usual, because instead of meeting in the usual round-table classroom setting--and because it's Thanksgiving week--our professor treated us to dinner, drinks, and on-topic conversation at a local bar not far from the university.
Our department is currently searching for two new faculty members--a tenure-track assistant professor and a new department head--and part of the tradition of hiring new faculty is for the graduate students to conduct a group interview with each candidate. Unfortunately, due to my work schedule, I have only participated in two of these meetings, and I feel as though I have missed out on a cornerstone of the PhD experience by having to more or less remove myself from this process (yet another reason that I'm toying with the idea of re-evaluating this work situation), but that's a topic for another time.
The big question for us in this process is, "What would we like to see in a new faculty member?" As graduate students, we are ultimately looking for somebody who--because they have been through this process in the fairly recent past--can offer us some guidance and perspective as we navigate the waters of coursework, research, prelims, dissertation writing, and the academic job search. The department, of course, has a slightly different set of priorities. If I were to guess, the Powers that Be would like to see a new faculty member who can fundraise, publish, and generally raise the cachet of the department.
Now--just to set the scene--just about everybody at the table was 30-years-old and under. The two exceptions were the professor, who appears to be in his mid-40s, and our resident nontraditional PhD-student colleague, a great woman of early middle age with a fascinating background who is now on her second career after a successful turn in the financial world (and all of this while raising three children).
I felt slightly awkward contributing to a conversation in which I had very little frame of reference, but I do feel strongly that the department has much to gain by hiring a candidate who can serve as a mentor (or at least as a guide of sorts) while still being productive, publishing, and raising funds for research. Mentorship and contact with students need not be the focus of the new hire's daily activities, but the ability for us, as students, to pop into his or her office, float an idea, and receive thoughtful feedback would be tremendous. There is something to be said for the fact that this new hire would be closer in experience to a graduate student than to a well-established professor in our field.
When I made this point, however, it came out something like this: (I am looking at the professor, who is sitting right next to our nontraditional colleague--we'll call her "Judy") "There are certain advantages to having a professor who is closer to our experience level than to yours."
The table fell silent. The professor shot an icy glare (in jest, I'm sure, but icy nonetheless) in my direction and lifted a finger.
"Be careful!" he cautioned, and Judy followed with, "Don't fall into that trap!"
I was puzzled. All eyes were on me--the person who had interacted with the fewest candidates and who was least qualified to speak on this topic--and every face screamed, "FAUX PAS!!!"
I was stumped. What did I do? Did I say something wrong? Did I betray my own ignorance on the topic? I should have just shut up! No, but then they would think I don't care about the conversation. But I should have phrased my point better. They misunderstood! But it's too late now. Everybody thinks I'm a heartless idiot, and I have no idea what I did.
I broke the silence with a profound, well-crafted response:
"What?"
Judy and the professor replied, almost in unison, "Be careful when talking about people's age!"
But I wasn't talking about age, I insisted. I was talking about experience! About the ability to identify...
But it was a lost cause. I was the goat, and this wasn't the first time that I had unleashed a Freudian slip at Judy's expense (although this one, I still contend, was completely by accident).
Now, I like to think that this was just a good laugh for everybody, and all indications point to the fact that they were simply giving me a good-natured hard time, but I felt paralyzed. Deep down somewhere, I was sure that I had offended Judy, and worse, the professor. It was one of those moments where you are exposed for your greatest--often irrational--fears.
At that moment, I was deathly afraid of being seen as a fraud, as somebody whose ideas were simply trivial at best, offensive at worst, and who simply could not eloquently articulate the points I wished to make.
This, I believe, has always been my greatest fear (at least, I believe, the greatest non-physical threat)--fear of not being taken seriously and of being discredited by the people I admire (and I admire most people in some capacity). It's not that I'm afraid of losing respect (although that may be part of it), but instead, I'm afraid of being viewed as some sort of impostor.
Maybe that's why I have always tried so hard to prove myself (and to nobody else, really, but to myself)--because I figure that if I keep moving forward, and if I keep giving people reasons to take me seriously, then I won't have to face the possibility that my credibility will diminish.
At any rate, the conversation continued on without event after that. I made a light comment, and the professor made a light comment, and before long, the moment had passed, with nobody likely thinking twice about what had occurred (and certainly not realizing how exposed I'd felt).
It took a few minutes for me to re-gain my mental agility. If a generation gap indeed existed at that table, then it certainly did not exist merely to be observed. It was more of a generation slap than a generation gap, and I was the one who took it squarely on the jaw.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Football Interlude
One of the first things that people usually find out about me is that I am a sports fanatic and a die-hard fan of the teams that I follow. Those include baseball's Chicago Cubs, the Northwestern University Wildcats in college football (I'm a season ticket holder), and--my first love--the NFL's Tampa Bay Buccaneers (my family had season tickets during our years in Tampa, where I attended high school).
This weekend was a bittersweet one, as Northwestern ended its season and effectively erased any hopes of a bowl bid by dutifully bowing to Illinois, 41-22. Thus ends their 2007 campaign, during which they sometimes limped, sometimes soared to a 6-6 record (an improvement of 2 wins over 2006) and bowl eligibility. For most college teams, this would be a disappointing year, but NU's dismal gridiron history (only six total bowl appearances in 110 or so seasons, and zero bowl wins since 1949) has rendered us fans anything but jaded. We'll take 6-6 and respectability. Our efficient spread offense features a quarterback on the rise and a running back that looks to compete next year as the top rusher in the Big Ten, assuming he stays healthy. I'm already excited for 2008!
My Buccaneers fared far better, manhandling the Atlanta Falcons 31-7 (Atlanta's only score being a garbage-time TD allowed with about a minute left in the fourth quarter). They now sit comfortably atop the NFC South Division with a 6-4 record and a favorable schedule down the stretch. Last year's 4-12 campaign is a distant memory. The ageless Jeff Garcia is a welcome upgrade at quarterback. Rhonde Barber and Derrick Brooks are playing like men 10 years younger than they. It's a good day to be a Bucs fan.
This weekend was a bittersweet one, as Northwestern ended its season and effectively erased any hopes of a bowl bid by dutifully bowing to Illinois, 41-22. Thus ends their 2007 campaign, during which they sometimes limped, sometimes soared to a 6-6 record (an improvement of 2 wins over 2006) and bowl eligibility. For most college teams, this would be a disappointing year, but NU's dismal gridiron history (only six total bowl appearances in 110 or so seasons, and zero bowl wins since 1949) has rendered us fans anything but jaded. We'll take 6-6 and respectability. Our efficient spread offense features a quarterback on the rise and a running back that looks to compete next year as the top rusher in the Big Ten, assuming he stays healthy. I'm already excited for 2008!
My Buccaneers fared far better, manhandling the Atlanta Falcons 31-7 (Atlanta's only score being a garbage-time TD allowed with about a minute left in the fourth quarter). They now sit comfortably atop the NFC South Division with a 6-4 record and a favorable schedule down the stretch. Last year's 4-12 campaign is a distant memory. The ageless Jeff Garcia is a welcome upgrade at quarterback. Rhonde Barber and Derrick Brooks are playing like men 10 years younger than they. It's a good day to be a Bucs fan.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
There's a Hole in my Pocket
As someone who essentially holds two jobs and takes classes, I regard my weekends as sacred territory reserved for sleeping, debauching, and maybe--if I feel so inclined--catching up on the writing and research that I should have been doing all week but that my day job likely kept me from even thinking about.
Of course, the freedom of the weekend is usually sufficiently intoxicating so as to render me even less productive than I am during the week. Today was one of those days, though the morning and an hour or two of the afternoon were occupied by a school obligation. I had promised myself that I would dutifully return home and begin one of the 20-page papers that is currently looming over me (both of which are due within 3 weeks). Instead, however, I felt a hole beginning to form in my pocket, and I did what is a rare activity for me: I treated myself a new toy.
Enter the Shadow, T-Mobile's answer to the i-Phone. It's sleek, is equipped with the latest version of Windows, has a VGA display, mp3 player, 2 megapixel digital camera, true web capability, e-mail, personal concierge, short-order chef, instant girlfriend, accountant, attorney, low-gas mileage sport utility vehicle, jet-powered personal watercraft, and--oh yes--good ol' fashioned phone-to-phone calling.
And I have no idea how to use it.
I am about to turn 25, yet I have the technological acumen of a 70-year-old, but every once in awhile, I decide that it might work to my advantage to at least be able to flash some of the electronic bling that my contemporaries rely upon so heavily. Once I got an i-Pod, I never bought a CD again, and so perhaps this will provide me with a similar revelation.
It still feels funny making a purchase like this. Sure, I'm not blowing the farm, but less than three years ago, I was a destitute college student living off of loans, credit cards, the generosity of others, and the $100/week that my work-study job provided.
As a result, I still have trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that it's o.k. to be nice to myself once in awhile, especially now that I'm debt-free with a healthy income and more savings than I reasonably need at this point in my life (this is due in large part to the activities of my past, which I will address in a later post).
I haven't bought a new wardrobe in years. I sold my car to pay off my credit cards. I take public transportation almost everywhere I go, and I almost always either cook or eat cheaply at work.
It's not that I'm cheap--I live in a nice apartment in an expensive part of town, and I probably take more cabs and frequent more expensive bars than I should on the weekends, but that which is material has never much interested me.
Give me a plane ticket and a few weeks to wander, and I am a happy camper.
Otherwise, I don't see much point in buying new clothes if my old ones still fit, nor do I need a fancy car when my city has one of the best public transportation systems in the country. And why would I spend $80 on a "designer" mens haircut when I can get a better one for $20 at my local family barber shop?
Still, when I picked up this new gadget today and started to use it, I did not experience buyer's remorse, but instead, a kind of relief, and even pride in ownership. A couple of weeks ago, I bought my mom an I-Pod for her birthday (SHHHhhhh! Don't tell her! Her birthday isn't for a few weeks yet...), and I felt that same sense of satisfaction that I did in buying my Shadow. It's nice to be able to treat myself to something like this and not have to feel guilty about it the next morning. It's even nicer to treat others.
The other night, for the second time in two weeks, I gave a bartender a $20 tip on a $10 tab. Why? Well, why not? She needs it, and I have it to spare. Seems like as good a reason as any.
I've never really talked this candidly about money or my use of it, but the need to make ends meet is a part of each and every one of our lives. Perhaps, when I become well-established and am truly in a position to give back, my frugality will translate into great fortune for some as-yet nameless beneficiary. After all, I've been to enough of the third world to realize that somebody out there needs it, and if I have it, why not make it available?
Most importantly, I'd like to know that I can be the best possible father--the best possible provider and example--to the children that my future wife and I will someday raise. That prospect alone is enough motivation to live modestly, though happily, and to give generously when at all possible.
For now, I will continue to enjoy the part of growing up that is earning an honest day's wage for an honest day's work, and once in a great while, I might just reward myself for my success, modest though it may be.
I will continue to take public transportation. If I buy a new wardrobe, it had better last me another five years, and you can bet that, next time the opportunity presents itself, the extra few dollars that I have burning a hole in my pocket will probably find a home in the hands of a struggling waiter or bartender (or invested in things that make the people I care about happy), not in the coffers of a five-star eatery or a trendy salon.
This reminds me of a story from my travels, but I will leave that for my next post...
Of course, the freedom of the weekend is usually sufficiently intoxicating so as to render me even less productive than I am during the week. Today was one of those days, though the morning and an hour or two of the afternoon were occupied by a school obligation. I had promised myself that I would dutifully return home and begin one of the 20-page papers that is currently looming over me (both of which are due within 3 weeks). Instead, however, I felt a hole beginning to form in my pocket, and I did what is a rare activity for me: I treated myself a new toy.
Enter the Shadow, T-Mobile's answer to the i-Phone. It's sleek, is equipped with the latest version of Windows, has a VGA display, mp3 player, 2 megapixel digital camera, true web capability, e-mail, personal concierge, short-order chef, instant girlfriend, accountant, attorney, low-gas mileage sport utility vehicle, jet-powered personal watercraft, and--oh yes--good ol' fashioned phone-to-phone calling.
And I have no idea how to use it.
I am about to turn 25, yet I have the technological acumen of a 70-year-old, but every once in awhile, I decide that it might work to my advantage to at least be able to flash some of the electronic bling that my contemporaries rely upon so heavily. Once I got an i-Pod, I never bought a CD again, and so perhaps this will provide me with a similar revelation.
It still feels funny making a purchase like this. Sure, I'm not blowing the farm, but less than three years ago, I was a destitute college student living off of loans, credit cards, the generosity of others, and the $100/week that my work-study job provided.
As a result, I still have trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that it's o.k. to be nice to myself once in awhile, especially now that I'm debt-free with a healthy income and more savings than I reasonably need at this point in my life (this is due in large part to the activities of my past, which I will address in a later post).
I haven't bought a new wardrobe in years. I sold my car to pay off my credit cards. I take public transportation almost everywhere I go, and I almost always either cook or eat cheaply at work.
It's not that I'm cheap--I live in a nice apartment in an expensive part of town, and I probably take more cabs and frequent more expensive bars than I should on the weekends, but that which is material has never much interested me.
Give me a plane ticket and a few weeks to wander, and I am a happy camper.
Otherwise, I don't see much point in buying new clothes if my old ones still fit, nor do I need a fancy car when my city has one of the best public transportation systems in the country. And why would I spend $80 on a "designer" mens haircut when I can get a better one for $20 at my local family barber shop?
Still, when I picked up this new gadget today and started to use it, I did not experience buyer's remorse, but instead, a kind of relief, and even pride in ownership. A couple of weeks ago, I bought my mom an I-Pod for her birthday (SHHHhhhh! Don't tell her! Her birthday isn't for a few weeks yet...), and I felt that same sense of satisfaction that I did in buying my Shadow. It's nice to be able to treat myself to something like this and not have to feel guilty about it the next morning. It's even nicer to treat others.
The other night, for the second time in two weeks, I gave a bartender a $20 tip on a $10 tab. Why? Well, why not? She needs it, and I have it to spare. Seems like as good a reason as any.
I've never really talked this candidly about money or my use of it, but the need to make ends meet is a part of each and every one of our lives. Perhaps, when I become well-established and am truly in a position to give back, my frugality will translate into great fortune for some as-yet nameless beneficiary. After all, I've been to enough of the third world to realize that somebody out there needs it, and if I have it, why not make it available?
Most importantly, I'd like to know that I can be the best possible father--the best possible provider and example--to the children that my future wife and I will someday raise. That prospect alone is enough motivation to live modestly, though happily, and to give generously when at all possible.
For now, I will continue to enjoy the part of growing up that is earning an honest day's wage for an honest day's work, and once in a great while, I might just reward myself for my success, modest though it may be.
I will continue to take public transportation. If I buy a new wardrobe, it had better last me another five years, and you can bet that, next time the opportunity presents itself, the extra few dollars that I have burning a hole in my pocket will probably find a home in the hands of a struggling waiter or bartender (or invested in things that make the people I care about happy), not in the coffers of a five-star eatery or a trendy salon.
This reminds me of a story from my travels, but I will leave that for my next post...
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Dr. Mongolia and the Ever-Expanding CV
As promised, I have much to report (mostly only tangentially related thoughts) from my first academic conference presentation. It was a bittersweet endeavor, though certainly a valuable one.
First of all, if you are ever told to give a 20-minute presentation, don't believe that you will actually have 20 minutes to deliver it. After 12 minutes, I was given the signal that I had only three minutes remaining, which caused me to panic, skip most of the meat and potatoes of my paper's argument, and leave the stage having completely butchered my own work. Thankfully, I wasn't the only person who encountered this problem, which softened the embarrassment a bit.
Second of all, and more importantly, the paper that I presented unexpectedly (to me, at least) won the conference's "outstanding achievement in student research" award! This was surprising, because I don't yet have much confidence in my work. As a result, on the rare occasion when somebody else thinks highly of it, I feel like a fraud. I sincerely believe that they must have missed the point, because if they understaood my work, then they would surely find it to be as flawed and inconsequential as I do (O.k., I don't find it exactly flawed and inconsequential, but in a field so pregnant with brilliant people, I find it hard to believe that anybody would see flashes of brilliance--or value--in my "little engine that could"-style work).
At any rate, this was my first conference presentation, and, it turned out, my first real academic award (yay for CV building!!). Before I was even called to speak on my paper, I was shockingly identified by the chancellor of the host university as one of 7 award winners and was asked to say a few words in acceptance. It was a wonderful moment, and I am most grateful to the host institution for their recogntition, undeserved as it may be.
I've found that the academic world is one in which the appearance of success is just as important as actual success. Departments are judged by the quality of their faculty, who are in turn judged by the quality of their research output, which in turn is judged by the number and frequency of publications/conferences/awards, which are then measured by the reputation of the publishing/hosting/awarding institution, and so on. The academic ego is complicated and fragile, and it is one trait of the successful professor that I hope to avoid, and yet I must still engage in the seemingly frantic "award collecting" that is necessary for a successful career in the academy.
This egotistical ballet unfolds in ways that are often surprisingly juvenile, and even within departments, much jockeying occurs for status and legitimacy in a given field. For instance, within a biology department, professors in the molecular biology specialty might be upset because the cell biology group is receiving more funding than they are, while the cell biology group might be bitter because the molecular biology specialty gets more journal ink, etc.
Flashing back to my master's program for a moment, there was an amusing war of words and ideologies between the Tibetan Studies program and the Mongolian Studies program. I kid you not--these programs do exist, and they do not play well together, at least at the university where I earned my master's (this is one of the many reasons why I lovingly refer to it as an Ivy League freakshow).
The Mongolian Studies "department" consisted of one fairly well-regarded professor, who nonetheless was bitter at the fact that he clearly must deal on a daily--or hourly--basis with people who, because of their political views or research interests or hair color, are not nearly as brilliant as he is, and so they cannot possibly grasp the gravity of the subject that he studies. He is a prolific author and political activist (heavily misguided, in my estimation, but it's his right), and he is angry, because the Mongolian Studies program does not secure nearly as much funding as the Tibetan Studies program. He is also angry because he believes that the world has generally sold Mongolia down the river, and he seems to blame certain ethnic groups in the U.S. (??) for aiding in that misfortune, but again, this is another story for another post.
Let's now take a stroll down the hall where--while Dr. Mongolia is stewing and brooding away in his office--the four-strong Tibetan Studies contingency is busy working the phones, the conferences, and the schmooze circuit to secure outside funding. They are presenting papers, publishing, and inviting such illustrious dignitaries to campus as the Dalai Lama (one of my biggest regrets: turning down for some insane reason/schedule conflict that I cannot even begin to remember now the opportunity for a semi-private [meaning me and 150 of my closest friends] audience with the Dalai Lama. I'm still kicking myself for that one two years after the fact, and if you are ever invited to an audience with the Dalai Lama, please do take advantage of the opportunity, because then I will at least feel that others are succeeding where I failed myself). As a result, the department is productive, growing, and successful in securing funding from outside sources, which in turn leads to increased funding from the university.
Their response to Dr. Mongolia? "Ha! Enjoy the solitude of your office, little man. Just don't come asking for our help when you finally figure out how to fundraise."
...and the beat goes on. Academia is a funny little field full of egos, petty conflict, jockeying for scraps of notariety, and compensating for personal insecurities. And yet, I'm intrigued by it, and I look forward to someday, perhaps, entering the fold.
This conference presentation was a good--if truncated--start. The "outstanding achievement in student research" award is gravy.
First of all, if you are ever told to give a 20-minute presentation, don't believe that you will actually have 20 minutes to deliver it. After 12 minutes, I was given the signal that I had only three minutes remaining, which caused me to panic, skip most of the meat and potatoes of my paper's argument, and leave the stage having completely butchered my own work. Thankfully, I wasn't the only person who encountered this problem, which softened the embarrassment a bit.
Second of all, and more importantly, the paper that I presented unexpectedly (to me, at least) won the conference's "outstanding achievement in student research" award! This was surprising, because I don't yet have much confidence in my work. As a result, on the rare occasion when somebody else thinks highly of it, I feel like a fraud. I sincerely believe that they must have missed the point, because if they understaood my work, then they would surely find it to be as flawed and inconsequential as I do (O.k., I don't find it exactly flawed and inconsequential, but in a field so pregnant with brilliant people, I find it hard to believe that anybody would see flashes of brilliance--or value--in my "little engine that could"-style work).
At any rate, this was my first conference presentation, and, it turned out, my first real academic award (yay for CV building!!). Before I was even called to speak on my paper, I was shockingly identified by the chancellor of the host university as one of 7 award winners and was asked to say a few words in acceptance. It was a wonderful moment, and I am most grateful to the host institution for their recogntition, undeserved as it may be.
I've found that the academic world is one in which the appearance of success is just as important as actual success. Departments are judged by the quality of their faculty, who are in turn judged by the quality of their research output, which in turn is judged by the number and frequency of publications/conferences/awards, which are then measured by the reputation of the publishing/hosting/awarding institution, and so on. The academic ego is complicated and fragile, and it is one trait of the successful professor that I hope to avoid, and yet I must still engage in the seemingly frantic "award collecting" that is necessary for a successful career in the academy.
This egotistical ballet unfolds in ways that are often surprisingly juvenile, and even within departments, much jockeying occurs for status and legitimacy in a given field. For instance, within a biology department, professors in the molecular biology specialty might be upset because the cell biology group is receiving more funding than they are, while the cell biology group might be bitter because the molecular biology specialty gets more journal ink, etc.
Flashing back to my master's program for a moment, there was an amusing war of words and ideologies between the Tibetan Studies program and the Mongolian Studies program. I kid you not--these programs do exist, and they do not play well together, at least at the university where I earned my master's (this is one of the many reasons why I lovingly refer to it as an Ivy League freakshow).
The Mongolian Studies "department" consisted of one fairly well-regarded professor, who nonetheless was bitter at the fact that he clearly must deal on a daily--or hourly--basis with people who, because of their political views or research interests or hair color, are not nearly as brilliant as he is, and so they cannot possibly grasp the gravity of the subject that he studies. He is a prolific author and political activist (heavily misguided, in my estimation, but it's his right), and he is angry, because the Mongolian Studies program does not secure nearly as much funding as the Tibetan Studies program. He is also angry because he believes that the world has generally sold Mongolia down the river, and he seems to blame certain ethnic groups in the U.S. (??) for aiding in that misfortune, but again, this is another story for another post.
Let's now take a stroll down the hall where--while Dr. Mongolia is stewing and brooding away in his office--the four-strong Tibetan Studies contingency is busy working the phones, the conferences, and the schmooze circuit to secure outside funding. They are presenting papers, publishing, and inviting such illustrious dignitaries to campus as the Dalai Lama (one of my biggest regrets: turning down for some insane reason/schedule conflict that I cannot even begin to remember now the opportunity for a semi-private [meaning me and 150 of my closest friends] audience with the Dalai Lama. I'm still kicking myself for that one two years after the fact, and if you are ever invited to an audience with the Dalai Lama, please do take advantage of the opportunity, because then I will at least feel that others are succeeding where I failed myself). As a result, the department is productive, growing, and successful in securing funding from outside sources, which in turn leads to increased funding from the university.
Their response to Dr. Mongolia? "Ha! Enjoy the solitude of your office, little man. Just don't come asking for our help when you finally figure out how to fundraise."
...and the beat goes on. Academia is a funny little field full of egos, petty conflict, jockeying for scraps of notariety, and compensating for personal insecurities. And yet, I'm intrigued by it, and I look forward to someday, perhaps, entering the fold.
This conference presentation was a good--if truncated--start. The "outstanding achievement in student research" award is gravy.
Changing Hats
Today, as usual, I will wear both the hat of the corporate drone and that of the ponderous academic (or, more accurately, academic-in-training).
With the title of "doctoral student" comes the privilege of teaching undergraduates in such riveting courses as "Communication 100: Public Speaking," or "Communication 101: Business Writing." As you can imagine, although there are certainly exceptions, the students who take these classes are far from glued to their seats with anticipation (even though the taxpayers just bought us a brand new smart classroom, complete with HD projection technology, internet hookups, DVD player, stereo surround sound, and a host of other bells and whistles that I attempt to use to the extent that my poor command of technology will allow). Most of them are bemused engineering and "movement science" students who are required to take these courses in order to graduate.
In fairness, this is my first semester in the program and my first attempt at teaching at the college level. I can only assume that this is clear to students and that it offers them extra incentive to feel as though my course is of no use to them, and therefore, that their attendance is optional (even though attendance is roughly 10% of the final grade in the Comm 100 course that I teach).
All of that being said, I feel as though I've developed a fairly strong rapport with my students, as I am closer to their age than most of their teachers (and am, in fact, younger than one of them), and this relieves some of the tension that often exists in the classroom. I would even say that I look forward to teaching and to seeing the smiling faces of those that do attend class, and I've even become "Facebook friends" with a number of them, which in hindsight might not be the wisest choice. Still, my ability to connect with my students in a way that will help them take some pearls of wisdom from the class is more important than upholding some antiquated sense of decorum.
I try to make class fun for them, and I like to think that they appreciate it. I joke around with my students, try not to place myself on the academic pedestal that even TA's tend to mount sometimes, and generally act more as a peer advisor than as a professor (obviously, I am by no means a professor, but as I am the sole and primary instructor for the course, my students will address me that way from time to time, as much as I protest against it).
In less than a full semester teaching Comm 100, I have been contacted by the police about a student receiving multiple death threats (and missing class because of it), have been propositioned by one of my students, and have had a student miss class because her boyfriend was suing her on a "People's Court"-style television show.
The course I teach is designed to help students improve their public speaking skills, and the primary means by which they are supposed to build these skills is by giving a series of speeches--one informative and two persuasive--in front of their peers, after which they are evaluated both by one of their classmates and by myself.
Today, however, the tables are turned, and it is I who is giving the speech--not in front of a class, but in front of a room full of academics, professors, and fellow students (the toughest of critics) at an academic conference in Indiana.
You may be familiar with the term "publish or perish," which essentially means that, in order to earn tenure, a professor must be prolific enough to justify spending precious department funds on his salary and research needs. Should a given professor's productivity decline before he or she secures tenure, then the department reserves the right to unceremoniously dump the person into the unemployment lines, where s/he then must try and find another academic job or give in and join the corporate ranks.
Thankfully, this phenomenon does not exist in earnest in the graduate school world. Assuming satisfactory coursework and a viable dissertation, one can earn a PhD without ever setting foot in an academic conference hall or publishing a drop of ink in an academic journal.
Still, the academic job market is brutal at best. In disciplines such as English and History, where universities are churning out far more PhD's than colleges can hire, the average applicant:position ratio for tenure-track professorships is 500:1 (!). In Communication, where we have it easy, the hiring ratio is a far more pedestrian 50:1. This means that, in the most employable of disciplines, each newly-minted PhD has a roughly 2% chance of being hired for a given position. And these are considered strong odds.
As a result, a candidate with zero publications and zero peer-reviewed conference presentations is overwhelmingly likely to be one of the unlucky 49 (of 50) applicants to, say, the Department of Communication at Clown State College who are not offered a given position for which they apply. Granted, if there are 50 openings in, say, political communication and 200 viable applicants nationwide, the overall odds are obviously not as dismal as the individual numbers would make them seem. Make no mistake, however--the competition is fierce, and the stakes are high.
So, today, I will begin building my case for why I, of all people, should, in 3 or 4 years, be offered a shot at a career in academia by presenting my very first peer-reviewed paper at a little-known conference at an even lesser-known university. Beggers can't be choosers, however, and to say that I am thrilled to have this opportunity is understating the matter.
Incidentally, I did not even write this paper in my current department, but instead, it was actually my master's thesis, which I have tweaked to involve implications in Communication, even though I wrote it while completing my Regional Studies: East Asia M.A. program at an Ivy League freakshow in a major East-Coast city (more on this experience in a later post).
For now, I will drive across the state line and stand in front of whatever audience has paid its $25/head to listen to me and roughly 30 other speakers, hoping against hope that they did not arrive with high expectations.
With the title of "doctoral student" comes the privilege of teaching undergraduates in such riveting courses as "Communication 100: Public Speaking," or "Communication 101: Business Writing." As you can imagine, although there are certainly exceptions, the students who take these classes are far from glued to their seats with anticipation (even though the taxpayers just bought us a brand new smart classroom, complete with HD projection technology, internet hookups, DVD player, stereo surround sound, and a host of other bells and whistles that I attempt to use to the extent that my poor command of technology will allow). Most of them are bemused engineering and "movement science" students who are required to take these courses in order to graduate.
In fairness, this is my first semester in the program and my first attempt at teaching at the college level. I can only assume that this is clear to students and that it offers them extra incentive to feel as though my course is of no use to them, and therefore, that their attendance is optional (even though attendance is roughly 10% of the final grade in the Comm 100 course that I teach).
All of that being said, I feel as though I've developed a fairly strong rapport with my students, as I am closer to their age than most of their teachers (and am, in fact, younger than one of them), and this relieves some of the tension that often exists in the classroom. I would even say that I look forward to teaching and to seeing the smiling faces of those that do attend class, and I've even become "Facebook friends" with a number of them, which in hindsight might not be the wisest choice. Still, my ability to connect with my students in a way that will help them take some pearls of wisdom from the class is more important than upholding some antiquated sense of decorum.
I try to make class fun for them, and I like to think that they appreciate it. I joke around with my students, try not to place myself on the academic pedestal that even TA's tend to mount sometimes, and generally act more as a peer advisor than as a professor (obviously, I am by no means a professor, but as I am the sole and primary instructor for the course, my students will address me that way from time to time, as much as I protest against it).
In less than a full semester teaching Comm 100, I have been contacted by the police about a student receiving multiple death threats (and missing class because of it), have been propositioned by one of my students, and have had a student miss class because her boyfriend was suing her on a "People's Court"-style television show.
The course I teach is designed to help students improve their public speaking skills, and the primary means by which they are supposed to build these skills is by giving a series of speeches--one informative and two persuasive--in front of their peers, after which they are evaluated both by one of their classmates and by myself.
Today, however, the tables are turned, and it is I who is giving the speech--not in front of a class, but in front of a room full of academics, professors, and fellow students (the toughest of critics) at an academic conference in Indiana.
You may be familiar with the term "publish or perish," which essentially means that, in order to earn tenure, a professor must be prolific enough to justify spending precious department funds on his salary and research needs. Should a given professor's productivity decline before he or she secures tenure, then the department reserves the right to unceremoniously dump the person into the unemployment lines, where s/he then must try and find another academic job or give in and join the corporate ranks.
Thankfully, this phenomenon does not exist in earnest in the graduate school world. Assuming satisfactory coursework and a viable dissertation, one can earn a PhD without ever setting foot in an academic conference hall or publishing a drop of ink in an academic journal.
Still, the academic job market is brutal at best. In disciplines such as English and History, where universities are churning out far more PhD's than colleges can hire, the average applicant:position ratio for tenure-track professorships is 500:1 (!). In Communication, where we have it easy, the hiring ratio is a far more pedestrian 50:1. This means that, in the most employable of disciplines, each newly-minted PhD has a roughly 2% chance of being hired for a given position. And these are considered strong odds.
As a result, a candidate with zero publications and zero peer-reviewed conference presentations is overwhelmingly likely to be one of the unlucky 49 (of 50) applicants to, say, the Department of Communication at Clown State College who are not offered a given position for which they apply. Granted, if there are 50 openings in, say, political communication and 200 viable applicants nationwide, the overall odds are obviously not as dismal as the individual numbers would make them seem. Make no mistake, however--the competition is fierce, and the stakes are high.
So, today, I will begin building my case for why I, of all people, should, in 3 or 4 years, be offered a shot at a career in academia by presenting my very first peer-reviewed paper at a little-known conference at an even lesser-known university. Beggers can't be choosers, however, and to say that I am thrilled to have this opportunity is understating the matter.
Incidentally, I did not even write this paper in my current department, but instead, it was actually my master's thesis, which I have tweaked to involve implications in Communication, even though I wrote it while completing my Regional Studies: East Asia M.A. program at an Ivy League freakshow in a major East-Coast city (more on this experience in a later post).
For now, I will drive across the state line and stand in front of whatever audience has paid its $25/head to listen to me and roughly 30 other speakers, hoping against hope that they did not arrive with high expectations.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Deconstructing Darjeeling
It's a rare event when I venture out to see a movie. It's not that I don't enjoy movies--I love them, and when I see a good one, it's usually a source of reflection for weeks following. Sadly, time is at a premium in my life. As I hinted in an earlier post, I essentially hold down two careers simultaneously--my career as a doctoral student in Communication and my other life in the NGO world (more details on these in a later post, or perhaps later in this one)--and I place tremendous value on my time with friends and family as well. Between these three pillars, there are few opportunities for movie watching.
A couple of weeks ago, however, I saw one of those rare films that has been rolling around in my brain ever since--Wes Anderson's "The Darjeeling Limited," which you can probably still find in theaters if you hunt around a bit.
As a brief synopsis, I'll simply note that the film is about three estranged--and somewhat apathetic--American brothers who come together for a "spiritual journey" in India a year following the death of their father. This is a film about travel and about the recharging of the spirit that is usually the result of such journeys.
Travel is a passion and a calling for me, and so films like Darjeeling tend to speak especially clearly to me. As a young male, I'm obligated to (and with pleasure, I do) list the Godfather (parts I and II taken as a single entity, of course--part III notwithstanding) as the greatest movie of all time. The second greatest, however, would be a classic from another Coppola--Lost in Translation, the story of a washed-up actor rekindling his spirit in Japan with the help of a young traveling companion.
People give me strange looks sometimes when I reveal how high I list Lost in Translation on the film hierarchy, but those who know me assume that, as somebody who found new life traveling Asia, it is only logical that I would be drawn to a film about--of all things--somebody who finds new life traveling Asia.
My parents encouraged travel from a young age. They never traveled alone and always took me with them on their vacations both domestically and abroad. By the end of middle school, I'd been to Europe three times (one time visiting Finland after writing a school paper about that country). By my senior year of high school, I had found cheap ways to visit Europe, Africa, and the Middle East, using my experience in Africa to work with a charitable foundation in Kenya to raise money funding AIDS education and computer equipment in a Nakuru school house.
When I started college, I opted to take Chinese, figuring that it would be a nice challenge for a couple of years and would fulfill my school's foreign language requirement. After spending my freshman summer studying in Beijing, taking a Chinese work boat through the Three Gorges, and discovering a culture that was begging to be explored by the non-Chinese curious, I declared a minor in Chinese Language and Culture.
Two summers later, I returned to China on my own intending to find summer work in the northeastern town of Changchun. I found this work as a teacher and part-time office worker with a corrupt organization that fronted as a staffing agency for educational institutions ranging from weekend foreign language schools to large universities. The real money was funneled to investors from a chain of nursing homes in Japan.
The profits were too robust to pass muster with Chinese joint venture laws, and so the company's directors had formed "strategic partnerships" (read: under-the-table wink-and-nod agreements) with organizations such as China Telecom, China Mobile, and of course, with the local government and police department. Northeastern China is the wild west of the business world, and I was on the front lines of this phenomenon.
It was venture capitalism at its purest, and it was alive and well in the far reaches of the People's Republic of China.
While in Changchun, I also forged friendships with expatriots from around the world--a community that at once impressed and puzzled me. There was the 40-year-old Canadian ex-grocery store manager looking to start a radio station, the Salvadorian street tough from Brooklyn supporting three kids in both former homelands, the Welsh carpenter seeking to find a wife and disappear into the Chinese masses, the American physics professor who had escaped his former life after a nervous breakdown and electric shock therapy in the States, the Australian socialite looking to escape her gilded childhood. The cast of characters was rich with back stories, secrets, and a sense of comradery that I still feel with many of them, even though it is unlikely that we will ever again cross paths.
And then there was Gavin--the ex-drug dealer and psychiatric nurse from Wales, with whom I formed the strongest of bonds. He had children in two hemispheres (his tongue-in-cheek goal was to sire a soccer team) and longed to settle in Thailand, where he would, some years later, be robbed by his pregnant girlfriend, imprisoned for visa fraud, and deported.
I could write a dissertation on this experience alone, and I'm sure that this won't be the last I mention it, but in the interest of time (and the fact that my coworkers are starting to wonder exactly what I'm doing with my morning), I will jump to my point.
The point is that I am not a sedentary person, and so it is unnatural for me to be sitting here, behind a desk, worrying about the bottom line. After graduating college, my best friend and I backpacked Southeast Asia. After finishing my master's degree, I took off to Spain. This year, I spent a week alone in Ireland...and yet, I am more restless than ever.
As I write this, flourescent lights are illuminating my desk and keyboard. Papers are being shuffled in the background. Accounts receivable is sorting out our expenses in order for us to stay on budget. Invoices are being mailed. IT is on its way to train a new employee. People are coming down with colds, the flu, allergies, because, of course, "it's that time of year. Must be the weather. I wonder how many sick days I have left?"
This is the organizational life, and while my coworkers are pleasant and my boss is generous, it is difficult for me to concentrate on this cubicle when I know that there is such a wealth of experience to be had out in the world.
I love the academic lifestyle, but the corporate one is a bit harder for me to stomach. Part of me is seriously considering taking a leave for three months next summer and traveling the world, alone, and sans set itinerary (a week ago, I had a Star Alliance Round the World Ticket on reserve, but I let it go). My practical side is asking, "how do you expect to be retained by your organization if you leave because you can't stomach the environment?"
It's a good question. There are so many good questions to ask, but never enough time to answer them. Or is there?
Always wondering what the next move will be...
A couple of weeks ago, however, I saw one of those rare films that has been rolling around in my brain ever since--Wes Anderson's "The Darjeeling Limited," which you can probably still find in theaters if you hunt around a bit.
As a brief synopsis, I'll simply note that the film is about three estranged--and somewhat apathetic--American brothers who come together for a "spiritual journey" in India a year following the death of their father. This is a film about travel and about the recharging of the spirit that is usually the result of such journeys.
Travel is a passion and a calling for me, and so films like Darjeeling tend to speak especially clearly to me. As a young male, I'm obligated to (and with pleasure, I do) list the Godfather (parts I and II taken as a single entity, of course--part III notwithstanding) as the greatest movie of all time. The second greatest, however, would be a classic from another Coppola--Lost in Translation, the story of a washed-up actor rekindling his spirit in Japan with the help of a young traveling companion.
People give me strange looks sometimes when I reveal how high I list Lost in Translation on the film hierarchy, but those who know me assume that, as somebody who found new life traveling Asia, it is only logical that I would be drawn to a film about--of all things--somebody who finds new life traveling Asia.
My parents encouraged travel from a young age. They never traveled alone and always took me with them on their vacations both domestically and abroad. By the end of middle school, I'd been to Europe three times (one time visiting Finland after writing a school paper about that country). By my senior year of high school, I had found cheap ways to visit Europe, Africa, and the Middle East, using my experience in Africa to work with a charitable foundation in Kenya to raise money funding AIDS education and computer equipment in a Nakuru school house.
When I started college, I opted to take Chinese, figuring that it would be a nice challenge for a couple of years and would fulfill my school's foreign language requirement. After spending my freshman summer studying in Beijing, taking a Chinese work boat through the Three Gorges, and discovering a culture that was begging to be explored by the non-Chinese curious, I declared a minor in Chinese Language and Culture.
Two summers later, I returned to China on my own intending to find summer work in the northeastern town of Changchun. I found this work as a teacher and part-time office worker with a corrupt organization that fronted as a staffing agency for educational institutions ranging from weekend foreign language schools to large universities. The real money was funneled to investors from a chain of nursing homes in Japan.
The profits were too robust to pass muster with Chinese joint venture laws, and so the company's directors had formed "strategic partnerships" (read: under-the-table wink-and-nod agreements) with organizations such as China Telecom, China Mobile, and of course, with the local government and police department. Northeastern China is the wild west of the business world, and I was on the front lines of this phenomenon.
It was venture capitalism at its purest, and it was alive and well in the far reaches of the People's Republic of China.
While in Changchun, I also forged friendships with expatriots from around the world--a community that at once impressed and puzzled me. There was the 40-year-old Canadian ex-grocery store manager looking to start a radio station, the Salvadorian street tough from Brooklyn supporting three kids in both former homelands, the Welsh carpenter seeking to find a wife and disappear into the Chinese masses, the American physics professor who had escaped his former life after a nervous breakdown and electric shock therapy in the States, the Australian socialite looking to escape her gilded childhood. The cast of characters was rich with back stories, secrets, and a sense of comradery that I still feel with many of them, even though it is unlikely that we will ever again cross paths.
And then there was Gavin--the ex-drug dealer and psychiatric nurse from Wales, with whom I formed the strongest of bonds. He had children in two hemispheres (his tongue-in-cheek goal was to sire a soccer team) and longed to settle in Thailand, where he would, some years later, be robbed by his pregnant girlfriend, imprisoned for visa fraud, and deported.
I could write a dissertation on this experience alone, and I'm sure that this won't be the last I mention it, but in the interest of time (and the fact that my coworkers are starting to wonder exactly what I'm doing with my morning), I will jump to my point.
The point is that I am not a sedentary person, and so it is unnatural for me to be sitting here, behind a desk, worrying about the bottom line. After graduating college, my best friend and I backpacked Southeast Asia. After finishing my master's degree, I took off to Spain. This year, I spent a week alone in Ireland...and yet, I am more restless than ever.
As I write this, flourescent lights are illuminating my desk and keyboard. Papers are being shuffled in the background. Accounts receivable is sorting out our expenses in order for us to stay on budget. Invoices are being mailed. IT is on its way to train a new employee. People are coming down with colds, the flu, allergies, because, of course, "it's that time of year. Must be the weather. I wonder how many sick days I have left?"
This is the organizational life, and while my coworkers are pleasant and my boss is generous, it is difficult for me to concentrate on this cubicle when I know that there is such a wealth of experience to be had out in the world.
I love the academic lifestyle, but the corporate one is a bit harder for me to stomach. Part of me is seriously considering taking a leave for three months next summer and traveling the world, alone, and sans set itinerary (a week ago, I had a Star Alliance Round the World Ticket on reserve, but I let it go). My practical side is asking, "how do you expect to be retained by your organization if you leave because you can't stomach the environment?"
It's a good question. There are so many good questions to ask, but never enough time to answer them. Or is there?
Always wondering what the next move will be...
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Takeoff
Have you have ever read a book that spoke to you with a wit that was impossible to convey using the simple spoken word? Perhaps its subject matter was of little apparent consequence. Perhaps it simply made you laugh in a way that you haven't laughed in ages, or its characters reminded you of yourself--or of caricatures of yourself--and you found yourself longing to spend just a few minutes with them, to ask them the questions you wished you could pose as you turned the book's pages.
I have been fortunate in my life to have found myself in the right place at the right time on several occasions, and I have learned how to take advantage of the opportunities that life presents me. Humility is a trait that is of tremendous value to me and that I strive to exhibit. I do not like to talk much about myself, and so this endeavor feels unnatural to me. I will nonetheless attempt to provide a snapshot of what I believe makes me unusual: I've had a career as a semi-successful child actor, have traversed the globe, possess degrees from some of the most well-respected universities in America, have learned how to speak Chinese, have lived in Los Angeles, have lived in New York, have lived in China, am working on a Ph.D., have the most wonderful parents in history, have experienced grave heartache, have experienced immese joy, have been in love, have drank too much, have eaten too much, have woken up in Cambodia, have woken up in Africa, have woken up in a hospital, and have been thankful beyond articulation for every single moment.
Recently, by some serendipitous alignment of the cosmos, I was again afforded rare opportunity. I read a book last year that, while crude in some ways and potentially offensive in others, fascinated me, because it illustrated in simple language the insecurities and instincts that every single one of us feels. The book, called "The Game," is a blow-by-blow account of social dynamics at work in the community of "pickup artists." I personally do not engage in pickup, but I am fascinated by it and the principles behind it, because I see it as a movement that, by identifying certain aspects of our personalities that--as Mystery calls them--are "evolutionarily designed," helps people find themselves, know themselves, and overcome much of the largely self-imposted obstacles that keep them from self-fulfillment.
One of this book's main characters, a master pickup artist who calls himself Mystery, has become successful as an author and television host and has become widely accepted as a patriarch of this movement.
The movement itself, as well as the details of the book's plot, are unimportant in this context. Recently, I encountered Mystery in a lounge and had the opportunity to ask him questions, to pick his brain, and to do what so few people are able to--to get to know, if only for a moment, a central character of one of my favorite books.
Before we parted company, Mystery encouraged me to begin recording my thoughts, to channel my restlessness into words, to let people get to know me and learn from me the way so many have gotten to know him, the way so many have learned from him--as a character in my own story.
And so, this, I decided, would be the outlet. I will attempt to at once chronicle my life and my past (because I believe that I have been blessed with a life that has been uncommonly full of opportunity), while offering highlights from the present. This will be at once a retrospective and a traditional play-by-play of the present, and I hope that any of you who happen upon this will offer your comments, criticisms, responses, and thoughts.
Like any experiment, there is the possibility of failure, of loss of personal interest, and of rejection by others. There is also great anticipation.
Let's see what happens...
I have been fortunate in my life to have found myself in the right place at the right time on several occasions, and I have learned how to take advantage of the opportunities that life presents me. Humility is a trait that is of tremendous value to me and that I strive to exhibit. I do not like to talk much about myself, and so this endeavor feels unnatural to me. I will nonetheless attempt to provide a snapshot of what I believe makes me unusual: I've had a career as a semi-successful child actor, have traversed the globe, possess degrees from some of the most well-respected universities in America, have learned how to speak Chinese, have lived in Los Angeles, have lived in New York, have lived in China, am working on a Ph.D., have the most wonderful parents in history, have experienced grave heartache, have experienced immese joy, have been in love, have drank too much, have eaten too much, have woken up in Cambodia, have woken up in Africa, have woken up in a hospital, and have been thankful beyond articulation for every single moment.
Recently, by some serendipitous alignment of the cosmos, I was again afforded rare opportunity. I read a book last year that, while crude in some ways and potentially offensive in others, fascinated me, because it illustrated in simple language the insecurities and instincts that every single one of us feels. The book, called "The Game," is a blow-by-blow account of social dynamics at work in the community of "pickup artists." I personally do not engage in pickup, but I am fascinated by it and the principles behind it, because I see it as a movement that, by identifying certain aspects of our personalities that--as Mystery calls them--are "evolutionarily designed," helps people find themselves, know themselves, and overcome much of the largely self-imposted obstacles that keep them from self-fulfillment.
One of this book's main characters, a master pickup artist who calls himself Mystery, has become successful as an author and television host and has become widely accepted as a patriarch of this movement.
The movement itself, as well as the details of the book's plot, are unimportant in this context. Recently, I encountered Mystery in a lounge and had the opportunity to ask him questions, to pick his brain, and to do what so few people are able to--to get to know, if only for a moment, a central character of one of my favorite books.
Before we parted company, Mystery encouraged me to begin recording my thoughts, to channel my restlessness into words, to let people get to know me and learn from me the way so many have gotten to know him, the way so many have learned from him--as a character in my own story.
And so, this, I decided, would be the outlet. I will attempt to at once chronicle my life and my past (because I believe that I have been blessed with a life that has been uncommonly full of opportunity), while offering highlights from the present. This will be at once a retrospective and a traditional play-by-play of the present, and I hope that any of you who happen upon this will offer your comments, criticisms, responses, and thoughts.
Like any experiment, there is the possibility of failure, of loss of personal interest, and of rejection by others. There is also great anticipation.
Let's see what happens...
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