It might come as something of a shock to those that know me in person to find out that this lithe and muscle knotted frame was once a smallish and lanky kid. And by lithe I really mean klutzy and by muscle knotted I really mean soft as rotted fruit. But the history is still the same. I weighed in at ninety pounds up until high school where I then ballooned to a buck thirty six. Needless to say I never really cut an imposing figure and very rarely people asked me why I didn’t go out for sports. Later in my life, when my metabolism pulled an Oprah and quit, the repercussions of my pizza/beer diet combined with the effects of my rigorous Xbox schedule to frame a person that kind of looks like Jim Carrey with a paunch. But once upon a time I was small.
The thing that I liked the most about being small is that it tended to allow me to fade into the background of wherever I was. I could observe what was going on around me without feeling like I should be a part of the action, which suited me fine because I never really felt like I had a lot to contribute. No matter the subject, it always seem ed that there where people that where more knowledge able or funnier than I was present, so in my mind saying anything would only steal the shine from where it belonged. If I did find myself in a situation where I was the vanguard of the conversation, it generally meant that the discussion had degenerated to the point that my common observations or banal comments became the cement that held together the very lowest common conversation denominator. Unless the topic on hand was video games, Violent Femme records, or how much I like Hawaiian Punch, chances where that I was just happy with social voyeurism.
But the thing that I miss the most about being small was the fact that the natural world seems to prefer that kind of frame, and rewards the tiny with special benefits. Where I grew up there where plenty of trees to climb, but more than that, there was a very specific node of branches in a particular maple in a copse of trees behind my parents house. And just like in The Secret Garden that node formed a perfect little seat that was perfect for reading. You would never know by looking at it, and I cannot think of a reason why my brother or sister would ever climb that tree, so I ended up viewing that spot as uniquely mine. It felt like a little part of the world that grew into shape just for me, and I loved it. But recently I spent time at my parent’s house and on a lark I walked behind their house to go to the tree that I remembered. Upon seeing that branch I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that there is no way that it would support my weight now, nor do I possess the spider-monkey qualities to ascend even if I wanted to test it out. In a very real way, I found that the world physically changes around you when you get older/bigger. Sure I can go into a bar now, but the trade offs are all the little, hidden corners of my world that where made just for me.
I think I’ll build a treehouse when the weather breaks.
Monday, November 30, 2009
The System
I do not consider myself organized in any conventional definition of the term. That shortcoming was thrown into a very sharp relief this week when against all good judgment I attempted to organize a group outing to the windy city to catch a live stage act of a pair of actors made famous for their voice work on Adult Swim cartoons. The relatively easy task of asking whom would want to go followed by the action of purchasing the appropriate amount of tickets was entirely too complicated a processes for complete in a timely fashion. When I finally logged on to the Lake Shore Theater website and found the ten thirty show sold out I; 1.) Freaked the hell out. 2.) Cried a little. 3.) Spent the rest of the day pouting like a cheerleader that got stood up on prom night. I then had to make the agonizing phone call/text messages to the people that I was to accompany and let them know that I am indeed sloth incarnate and as a result we will be spending this Saturday night doing the usual verse-chorus-verse.
The lessoned to be learned here is that organizing something like this is just not in my repertoire of tradable skills. I should have remembered the harsh lessons learned from my adolescence when I would mangle plans for bonfires, barn parties, or hardcore/ska shows, and leave the planning to more interested and capable parties. Thinking in a group sense just isn’t my particular bag. Which I believe is proof positive that I am chronically single, I am just too damn good at being by myself. Over the course of a few years my single-hood has reprioritized the inanities of my life and developed a series of systems to meet these challenges. Some of my friends don’t understand it, and when I try to explain it they immediately distance themselves as though I was inviting them to crawl into a funhouse of madness.
Take laundry for example. To most people, clothes are either clean or dirty, but not to me. I don’t subscribe to the belief in those sorts of absolutes. I prefer to think more in terms of “too dirty for…” or “clean enough for…” For instance, if I had a sweater that smelled like downy fabric softener then I would say that it is date-clean because it carries with it the irresistible smell of domestication that drive women wild. That sweater would be considered “Clean enough for…wearing when entertaining female company.” Now afterwards would I set that sweater to be washed? Unless I spilled something stinky on it the answer would be no. That sweater would simply bump down to “clean enough for…grocery shopping” On the other end of the spectrum, if I could locate my jeans via smell then those pants are “too dirty for…any occasion.” Once an appropriate pile of clothing reaches this level then I spend the night before gathering it up into appropriate bags, pack a brown bag meal and get an early nights rest. Then the next morning I will gut a hare and read its entrails, if the gods favor my endeavor I will go to the Laundromat/spray tan emporium burdened with my loads of jeans, shirts, and unmentionables to spend my entire morning and at least thirty bucks to clean the bastiches. Later at home I will go home queue up the Godfather trilogy and iron and fold and stuff and hang all my clothes until I am restocked with vestiges that are “clean enough for…six weeks.”
Most people don’t understand my DVD organization either. Like a hipster with vinyl records or a survivalist with submachine guns, maintain a large and growing collection of movies and shows that I will either watch or simply put on while I do something else, like lay in a reclined position. But to most people they only see a jumble of four hundred or so flicks and boxes set in no discernable order. But if you where Russell Crowe from A Beautiful Mind (also in the collection) and you stared at my shelves a pattern would emerge, and then you would explain to your imaginary friends that I have organized my movies by alphabetized genre and ranked in ascending order of kickass. That’s why I have Kung Fu Hustle to the right of Vera Drake, because I feel that they are both non-U.S. made art house comedies, the dry British humor gets eked out by the other movies regular and gratuitous face kicking.
Another example of how I try to streamline my life is with my dishes. If you where to look into my cupboard you would find out two things about me; one, I don’t own any dishes or glass with print or graphics on them. And two, I only own two dinner plates. What you would find is a full assortment of restaurant quality Rocks tumblers, shot glasses, pub pints, pilsners, wide bowled stemware, Collins highballs, and Martini glasses. This works out because most of the people that come to my place aren’t there to eat but rather to wet the appetite for more serious alcoholism later. I don’t really need all the accruements of a normal kitchen because one can simply eat take out Chinese food with the supplied silverware. The only downside to this is that I have actually been caught by the neighbors drinking milk out of a brandy snifter.
While my organizational talents don’t lend themselves well when it comes to evening planning I do feel I have a solid skill set that serves the bachelor well. A few more years of study and I will be able to write the definitive treatise on the subject. I will call it The World As Explained By Ebner: A Survival Guide for the Single Guy. Other books may try to give advice on seducing women, mine will focus on how to best redirect a bachelors remaining four percent of brain capacity to optimize their living conditions.
Now if only I could only organize my thoughts.
The lessoned to be learned here is that organizing something like this is just not in my repertoire of tradable skills. I should have remembered the harsh lessons learned from my adolescence when I would mangle plans for bonfires, barn parties, or hardcore/ska shows, and leave the planning to more interested and capable parties. Thinking in a group sense just isn’t my particular bag. Which I believe is proof positive that I am chronically single, I am just too damn good at being by myself. Over the course of a few years my single-hood has reprioritized the inanities of my life and developed a series of systems to meet these challenges. Some of my friends don’t understand it, and when I try to explain it they immediately distance themselves as though I was inviting them to crawl into a funhouse of madness.
Take laundry for example. To most people, clothes are either clean or dirty, but not to me. I don’t subscribe to the belief in those sorts of absolutes. I prefer to think more in terms of “too dirty for…” or “clean enough for…” For instance, if I had a sweater that smelled like downy fabric softener then I would say that it is date-clean because it carries with it the irresistible smell of domestication that drive women wild. That sweater would be considered “Clean enough for…wearing when entertaining female company.” Now afterwards would I set that sweater to be washed? Unless I spilled something stinky on it the answer would be no. That sweater would simply bump down to “clean enough for…grocery shopping” On the other end of the spectrum, if I could locate my jeans via smell then those pants are “too dirty for…any occasion.” Once an appropriate pile of clothing reaches this level then I spend the night before gathering it up into appropriate bags, pack a brown bag meal and get an early nights rest. Then the next morning I will gut a hare and read its entrails, if the gods favor my endeavor I will go to the Laundromat/spray tan emporium burdened with my loads of jeans, shirts, and unmentionables to spend my entire morning and at least thirty bucks to clean the bastiches. Later at home I will go home queue up the Godfather trilogy and iron and fold and stuff and hang all my clothes until I am restocked with vestiges that are “clean enough for…six weeks.”
Most people don’t understand my DVD organization either. Like a hipster with vinyl records or a survivalist with submachine guns, maintain a large and growing collection of movies and shows that I will either watch or simply put on while I do something else, like lay in a reclined position. But to most people they only see a jumble of four hundred or so flicks and boxes set in no discernable order. But if you where Russell Crowe from A Beautiful Mind (also in the collection) and you stared at my shelves a pattern would emerge, and then you would explain to your imaginary friends that I have organized my movies by alphabetized genre and ranked in ascending order of kickass. That’s why I have Kung Fu Hustle to the right of Vera Drake, because I feel that they are both non-U.S. made art house comedies, the dry British humor gets eked out by the other movies regular and gratuitous face kicking.
Another example of how I try to streamline my life is with my dishes. If you where to look into my cupboard you would find out two things about me; one, I don’t own any dishes or glass with print or graphics on them. And two, I only own two dinner plates. What you would find is a full assortment of restaurant quality Rocks tumblers, shot glasses, pub pints, pilsners, wide bowled stemware, Collins highballs, and Martini glasses. This works out because most of the people that come to my place aren’t there to eat but rather to wet the appetite for more serious alcoholism later. I don’t really need all the accruements of a normal kitchen because one can simply eat take out Chinese food with the supplied silverware. The only downside to this is that I have actually been caught by the neighbors drinking milk out of a brandy snifter.
While my organizational talents don’t lend themselves well when it comes to evening planning I do feel I have a solid skill set that serves the bachelor well. A few more years of study and I will be able to write the definitive treatise on the subject. I will call it The World As Explained By Ebner: A Survival Guide for the Single Guy. Other books may try to give advice on seducing women, mine will focus on how to best redirect a bachelors remaining four percent of brain capacity to optimize their living conditions.
Now if only I could only organize my thoughts.
The Bond
Being the fundamentally positive guy I am I view the passing of Halloween with a sigh, because I know that it is the last of the fun holidays until New Years. Every year, Thanksgiving seems to come sooner and sooner, often without time enough for me to do the ‘early shopping’ I have planned on doing each year since I got a drivers license. Then the time between ‘Black Friday’ and Christmas is spent at a dead run completing familial obligations, work projects, aforementioned holiday shopping, not to mention my own packed videogame and napping schedule. This is a stressful time of year for everyone so it is only natural that tempers flare and tensions rise.
But in anticipation of that very event, I propose that we in the NWI set take a moment to look at the things that make us one united people. We should brace ourselves against the seasons chill by celebrating our common heritage that comes from our version of oral tradition. We had no Aesop to tell us stories, or medicine men to explane the dancing of the celestial bodies. What we had was something very different, but no less binding in the common experience amongst the region natives…Chicago market UHF television commercials from the 1980s and 1990s.
Those dopy, shoestring budgeted, thirty second spots where a connecting gossamer thread amongst people of this area. One can achieve instant connection with a Rat just by reminding them of Empire Carpet and one of their lame incentive programs. “You mean all I have to do is re-carpet my house at a cost of thousands of dollars and you’ll give me a Michael Jordan branded basketball?” I would hazard to guess that not one of my friends have been on the corner or York and Roosevelt roads, but they are very well aware that you will always save more money. Not only that but it would be pure muscle memory to fan out cash and hold it in front of you while you where saying it.
Like any great appreciator of a medium I have my favorites. But it really is hard not pick a few that absolutely stand apart. For instance, there was a commercial that would always play in the middle of the day, like during Small Wonder reruns that would comfort you by telling you that no matter what condition it was in, “That old car is worth money!” All you had to do was call Victory Auto Wreckers and POOF, a fat guy in Ditka specs would show up to haul your jalopy away and leave you with three -count ‘em, three- twenty dollar bills!
Imagine if you will that you are not actually you but rather two chubby girls from the south side. You are discussing a mia culpa with yourself over not having proper car insurance. Hark! What is that?! It’s EAGLE MAN! Some dingus in a rented mascot suit on top of your 81 civic intoning with his flat, Leonard Nemoy, voice “I’ve got something for you.”. Then he squats and Eagle Man lays an egg. No sooner can you wrap your collective head around this act of spontaneous generation - that flies in the face of all modern reproductive science - the egg instantly hatches and a tiny eagle chick with a insurance invoice clutched in its beak wags its head about causing the both of you to say “look at those low rates!” That commercial was so horrible it was fun, and I am genuinely sad that the current generation of kids might never see the jewel of advertising. Watching it now is like warm hug.
Growing up where I did, we got the Chicago channels but my parents would rarely take us to the city. So the places in these commercials became little more than ideas in our heads. Some of them took on a life and imagination all their own, because we never saw them. In that way Carson’s Ribs became a fucking Valhalla to me. If I could live my life in a morally upright fashion and avoid temptation I would be rewarded in the afterlife with heaps of smoky-sweet barbecue ribs so famous they where on an episode of M*A*S*H* in a place known as Carson’s. I could even take ‘em to go if I where so inclined. Years later my fascination with Carson’s ribs had not abated at all, but I have as yet never gone. I was and am afraid that no barbecue joint built my mortal hands can reach the level of majesty that I had mentally constructed as a child. I just hope that when I go to the halls of my fathers, probably following some embarrassing accident involving drinking lawn darts, that place my soul resides in has ample stock of those white cartons I remember so fondly from the commercials.
I know that all media markets have their own local staples as far as commercials go, and Chicago is not special in that way. If you grew up outside Detroit or Atlanta I’m sure you have some doozies to share, but there is something very special about dispelling the holiday tension by singing “Brown’s chicken! It tastes better!” Immediately we all know we are one people with a common heritage. It’s odd, like we all have the same tattoo or campaigned in Napoleon’s army together. It’s a bond that is stronger than the holiday bullshit and I am thankful for it.
If you should see me in poor spirits during the coming months, please, just sing to me Empire Carpetings phone number and just see if that doesn’t put a smile on my face.
But in anticipation of that very event, I propose that we in the NWI set take a moment to look at the things that make us one united people. We should brace ourselves against the seasons chill by celebrating our common heritage that comes from our version of oral tradition. We had no Aesop to tell us stories, or medicine men to explane the dancing of the celestial bodies. What we had was something very different, but no less binding in the common experience amongst the region natives…Chicago market UHF television commercials from the 1980s and 1990s.
Those dopy, shoestring budgeted, thirty second spots where a connecting gossamer thread amongst people of this area. One can achieve instant connection with a Rat just by reminding them of Empire Carpet and one of their lame incentive programs. “You mean all I have to do is re-carpet my house at a cost of thousands of dollars and you’ll give me a Michael Jordan branded basketball?” I would hazard to guess that not one of my friends have been on the corner or York and Roosevelt roads, but they are very well aware that you will always save more money. Not only that but it would be pure muscle memory to fan out cash and hold it in front of you while you where saying it.
Like any great appreciator of a medium I have my favorites. But it really is hard not pick a few that absolutely stand apart. For instance, there was a commercial that would always play in the middle of the day, like during Small Wonder reruns that would comfort you by telling you that no matter what condition it was in, “That old car is worth money!” All you had to do was call Victory Auto Wreckers and POOF, a fat guy in Ditka specs would show up to haul your jalopy away and leave you with three -count ‘em, three- twenty dollar bills!
Imagine if you will that you are not actually you but rather two chubby girls from the south side. You are discussing a mia culpa with yourself over not having proper car insurance. Hark! What is that?! It’s EAGLE MAN! Some dingus in a rented mascot suit on top of your 81 civic intoning with his flat, Leonard Nemoy, voice “I’ve got something for you.”. Then he squats and Eagle Man lays an egg. No sooner can you wrap your collective head around this act of spontaneous generation - that flies in the face of all modern reproductive science - the egg instantly hatches and a tiny eagle chick with a insurance invoice clutched in its beak wags its head about causing the both of you to say “look at those low rates!” That commercial was so horrible it was fun, and I am genuinely sad that the current generation of kids might never see the jewel of advertising. Watching it now is like warm hug.
Growing up where I did, we got the Chicago channels but my parents would rarely take us to the city. So the places in these commercials became little more than ideas in our heads. Some of them took on a life and imagination all their own, because we never saw them. In that way Carson’s Ribs became a fucking Valhalla to me. If I could live my life in a morally upright fashion and avoid temptation I would be rewarded in the afterlife with heaps of smoky-sweet barbecue ribs so famous they where on an episode of M*A*S*H* in a place known as Carson’s. I could even take ‘em to go if I where so inclined. Years later my fascination with Carson’s ribs had not abated at all, but I have as yet never gone. I was and am afraid that no barbecue joint built my mortal hands can reach the level of majesty that I had mentally constructed as a child. I just hope that when I go to the halls of my fathers, probably following some embarrassing accident involving drinking lawn darts, that place my soul resides in has ample stock of those white cartons I remember so fondly from the commercials.
I know that all media markets have their own local staples as far as commercials go, and Chicago is not special in that way. If you grew up outside Detroit or Atlanta I’m sure you have some doozies to share, but there is something very special about dispelling the holiday tension by singing “Brown’s chicken! It tastes better!” Immediately we all know we are one people with a common heritage. It’s odd, like we all have the same tattoo or campaigned in Napoleon’s army together. It’s a bond that is stronger than the holiday bullshit and I am thankful for it.
If you should see me in poor spirits during the coming months, please, just sing to me Empire Carpetings phone number and just see if that doesn’t put a smile on my face.
The Dreaming
I read somewhere that the average amount of shuteye that a person gets is only like half that recommended by the National Institute of People Who Give a Shit. If that is the case then I am maybe only a third of that. I have been dealing with some insomnia that is bordering on truly Tyler Durden levels. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised that following some lost time, I awaken to consciousness to find that I have dug an extensive catacomb system under my property and stocked it with DJ equipment, orange juice, and neon signs that read “Dante’s Dance Dance Revolution”.
A quick google –bing, if your one of those losers- search can be enlightening on the subject, including the possible causes for sleeplessness. These causes include anxiety, depression, and stress, and all of those are some of my favorite hobbies. They also mention alcohol and caffeine consumption as possible causes of broken or fragmented sleep, which is odd to me because I viewed those both as treatment methods for insomnia. Next thing they’ll try to push on me is that it might not be entirely “healthy” to shotgun an extra large meatball sub from Quizno’s just before I try to sleep.
One of the odd bits of nuisance knowledge that I had hewn from my time at Purdue was the concept of REM rebound. (and no, I don’t mean anything on the Up album. That whole damn cd was a collection of suck that has no equal.) If memory serves me, the sleep is separated into several distinct phases, one of which is Rapid Eye Movement. It is believed that REM is the period of sleep in which the lion’s share of dreaming occurs but is also the least restful of the phases. The term rebound comes from the observation some researchers has seen that show prolonged periods of REM sleep following bouts of sleep deprivation. If that is the case then the next good nights sleep I actually get should be one long unbroken episode of Yo Gabba Gabba.
I guess that if I where to be honest I would say that the real reason that I don’t get a goodnights sleep most of the time is because I don’t want to spend my life with my eyes closed. It always seems like there is some fun to be had- or at the very least witnessed - somewhere, even in the comparatively empty quiet of my small Midwestern hamlet. The common wisdom being that there will be plenty of time to sleep when I am dead, but it would be more accurate to say that there will be plenty of time to sleep when the history channel and adult swim no longer hold my interest.
Short one today, I’m pretty tired.
A quick google –bing, if your one of those losers- search can be enlightening on the subject, including the possible causes for sleeplessness. These causes include anxiety, depression, and stress, and all of those are some of my favorite hobbies. They also mention alcohol and caffeine consumption as possible causes of broken or fragmented sleep, which is odd to me because I viewed those both as treatment methods for insomnia. Next thing they’ll try to push on me is that it might not be entirely “healthy” to shotgun an extra large meatball sub from Quizno’s just before I try to sleep.
One of the odd bits of nuisance knowledge that I had hewn from my time at Purdue was the concept of REM rebound. (and no, I don’t mean anything on the Up album. That whole damn cd was a collection of suck that has no equal.) If memory serves me, the sleep is separated into several distinct phases, one of which is Rapid Eye Movement. It is believed that REM is the period of sleep in which the lion’s share of dreaming occurs but is also the least restful of the phases. The term rebound comes from the observation some researchers has seen that show prolonged periods of REM sleep following bouts of sleep deprivation. If that is the case then the next good nights sleep I actually get should be one long unbroken episode of Yo Gabba Gabba.
I guess that if I where to be honest I would say that the real reason that I don’t get a goodnights sleep most of the time is because I don’t want to spend my life with my eyes closed. It always seems like there is some fun to be had- or at the very least witnessed - somewhere, even in the comparatively empty quiet of my small Midwestern hamlet. The common wisdom being that there will be plenty of time to sleep when I am dead, but it would be more accurate to say that there will be plenty of time to sleep when the history channel and adult swim no longer hold my interest.
Short one today, I’m pretty tired.
The Fraud
Last Tuesday I sat in an empty theater with a friend and watched The Invention of Lying with Ricky Garvis and Jennifer Garner. The flick itself plumed some depths greater than what is alluded to in the previews and I haven’t had so much fun hating Rob Lowe since Wayne’s World. However, over the course of a subsequent meal of Chinese food and cocktails my friend and I discussed at length the nature of duplicity. Lying really is a concept. The irony isn’t lost onto me that it is also deceptive in its own nature by how seemingly simple it is. I.e. to communicate an idea that is false.
You could ask a thousand people and almost to the person they would identify ‘liar’ as slander. That is why I find it odd that so many people insist upon the practice. When I do my usual gallivanting across the shitscape that is single life in North Western Indiana, I find people presenting one other with the same facades of whitewashed bullshit that they have been for eons. Guys will regale newly acquainted women with the same anecdotes and parlor tricks that they have foisted upon dozens of women before them. Maybe they don’t consider that to be actual –according to hoyle- lying but really they are presenting themselves as much more charming people then they actually are. Eventually these dudes run out of tricks, stories, knock-knock jokes and whathaveyou, and as quickly as it was thrown up the façade breaks down and the women see them in the harsh light of truth. I should know, it’s exactly what I do, which is why my “significant others” have a shelf life of about sixty to ninety days.
And there are times we demand that others lie to us. Representative democracy is contingent on people being liked enough to garner a vote over some other teethed freak, and one of the first lessons learned was that the average voter would rather be lied to and be a happy person then lectured to and be a better person. The real Mr. Smiths never make it to Washington because a realistic and practical approach to government means tough love to a lot sacred cows. And if you have idiot b standing right next to him saying only what you want to hear it is easy to relax your standards of ‘honesty’.
Now, whenever I hear an argument that was predicated by a lie, I am given to wonder if it was the dishonesty or the intention that did the real damage. We will gobble up, bones and all, the safe sanitized white lies of our culture – we have constitutionally protected freedoms, diet soda is better for you, Puddles of Mud is a good band- and not feel the sting of betrayal. Sometimes I overhear these fights and I go through the two or three greatest hits arguments I have had with some former girlfriends and I realize that the fulcrum of the dustup was never chicanery. It was the hurtful, the cruel but ultimately the honest intention behind the action that caused these tiny nuclear exchanges. Lying is just another form of imperfect communication.
Just so I am clear, I am not staking out a pro-deceit stance. I draw the distinction between discretion and treachery. If you fudge the truth to spare someone their feelings, good on you, if you manipulate someone with crafted lies then you suck. But the same argument of motive could be applied to honesty as well. Say I am getting ready to go out and I look in the mirror and I say “You know something Ebner? You look kind of awesome.” And one of my friends looks at my ensemble and tells me that I just invented a new sub category of gay then that friend was using honesty as would Cirino de Bergerac because it spares me humiliation later. But if that same friends says “that will defiantly turn heads.” then they are using honesty as would Iago because later there might be ladyboys looking at me like I have pockets full of candy.
But possibly just as curious are the lies we tell ourselves for therapeutic reasons. We try to convince ourselves via repetition of thought and action all the things that we are suppose to. We tell ourselves we don’t love certain people because they hurt us long before the actual emotion fades. We bang our collective heads against the wall doing certain activities because the nameless gods of hip decided that they were the done thing. I think that if we were a lot more honest a people, you would see more of us in our bathrobes drinking in bars at 10:00 am.
Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius (Richard Harris from Gladiator) once wrote “if it is not right do not do it, if it is not true do not say it.” I like to think that those aren’t two independent clauses but rather a conditional statement. It is to say always tell the truth unless it is not moral to do so. This interpretation is not to be confused with the Cooler (Swayze) when he said “Always be nice until it is time to not be nice.” But if you ask me the two men are about equal in terms of greatness.
Well, there you have it. A lunch break in which I muse on the topic concerning of duplicity and, as always, no wiser for the effort. But at least it entertains me. So in lieu of wisdom I will instead go to the pub armed with one-liner jokes and card tricks…bathrobe in tow.
You could ask a thousand people and almost to the person they would identify ‘liar’ as slander. That is why I find it odd that so many people insist upon the practice. When I do my usual gallivanting across the shitscape that is single life in North Western Indiana, I find people presenting one other with the same facades of whitewashed bullshit that they have been for eons. Guys will regale newly acquainted women with the same anecdotes and parlor tricks that they have foisted upon dozens of women before them. Maybe they don’t consider that to be actual –according to hoyle- lying but really they are presenting themselves as much more charming people then they actually are. Eventually these dudes run out of tricks, stories, knock-knock jokes and whathaveyou, and as quickly as it was thrown up the façade breaks down and the women see them in the harsh light of truth. I should know, it’s exactly what I do, which is why my “significant others” have a shelf life of about sixty to ninety days.
And there are times we demand that others lie to us. Representative democracy is contingent on people being liked enough to garner a vote over some other teethed freak, and one of the first lessons learned was that the average voter would rather be lied to and be a happy person then lectured to and be a better person. The real Mr. Smiths never make it to Washington because a realistic and practical approach to government means tough love to a lot sacred cows. And if you have idiot b standing right next to him saying only what you want to hear it is easy to relax your standards of ‘honesty’.
Now, whenever I hear an argument that was predicated by a lie, I am given to wonder if it was the dishonesty or the intention that did the real damage. We will gobble up, bones and all, the safe sanitized white lies of our culture – we have constitutionally protected freedoms, diet soda is better for you, Puddles of Mud is a good band- and not feel the sting of betrayal. Sometimes I overhear these fights and I go through the two or three greatest hits arguments I have had with some former girlfriends and I realize that the fulcrum of the dustup was never chicanery. It was the hurtful, the cruel but ultimately the honest intention behind the action that caused these tiny nuclear exchanges. Lying is just another form of imperfect communication.
Just so I am clear, I am not staking out a pro-deceit stance. I draw the distinction between discretion and treachery. If you fudge the truth to spare someone their feelings, good on you, if you manipulate someone with crafted lies then you suck. But the same argument of motive could be applied to honesty as well. Say I am getting ready to go out and I look in the mirror and I say “You know something Ebner? You look kind of awesome.” And one of my friends looks at my ensemble and tells me that I just invented a new sub category of gay then that friend was using honesty as would Cirino de Bergerac because it spares me humiliation later. But if that same friends says “that will defiantly turn heads.” then they are using honesty as would Iago because later there might be ladyboys looking at me like I have pockets full of candy.
But possibly just as curious are the lies we tell ourselves for therapeutic reasons. We try to convince ourselves via repetition of thought and action all the things that we are suppose to. We tell ourselves we don’t love certain people because they hurt us long before the actual emotion fades. We bang our collective heads against the wall doing certain activities because the nameless gods of hip decided that they were the done thing. I think that if we were a lot more honest a people, you would see more of us in our bathrobes drinking in bars at 10:00 am.
Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius (Richard Harris from Gladiator) once wrote “if it is not right do not do it, if it is not true do not say it.” I like to think that those aren’t two independent clauses but rather a conditional statement. It is to say always tell the truth unless it is not moral to do so. This interpretation is not to be confused with the Cooler (Swayze) when he said “Always be nice until it is time to not be nice.” But if you ask me the two men are about equal in terms of greatness.
Well, there you have it. A lunch break in which I muse on the topic concerning of duplicity and, as always, no wiser for the effort. But at least it entertains me. So in lieu of wisdom I will instead go to the pub armed with one-liner jokes and card tricks…bathrobe in tow.
The Grouping
Call it delayed reaction maturity, call it a post thirty paradigm shift, but for some reason the same verse-chorus-verse of daily activities that served me well all throughout my twenties has suddenly left me wanting more out of my life. For causes unknown, I have emerged, blinking, in this new stage of my life keenly aware of the fact that very few people actually understand me at a meaningful level. As much as I would like to blame more people for not making the effort to pry apart my outward projection to get to the nougat-y center of my intrinsic being, I have to admit that I don’t make it very easy on them.
I spent most of my twenties living by myself, and when I say that I lived alone, I don’t just mean that I didn’t have roommates, I literally lived alone. I spent my spare time alone; I took up hobbies that didn’t involve other people like cartooning, and reading. I played through the entire Xbox 360 catalogue. After a while I began to take on a persona of a wild eyed and beetle browed recluse that would only reluctantly leave his dwelling for food and toilet paper. My friends would worry and stop by to see me, only to find that I had regressed into a proto human that wore animal skins, communicated in grunts and chirps and worshiped an idol he made out of dirty laundry and empties.
It only occurs to me now that I didn’t give a great many people an opportunity to get to know me. I had my small coterie of friends, mostly from high school, and I must have figured that was enough. There where six guys, and six was a good number. It was enough for say, a groomsmen party or a pickup game of basketball. One of those six guys would almost certainly help me get rid of a body and almost all of them would be down for a titty bar run on a Tuesday afternoon (fyi, not their A team). But as time continued in its unceasing march, horrible things began to happen…my friends grew up. One would get married and one would land an awesome job in another state, or one would simply lose interest in Wednesday night South Park marathons. Before I knew it I found my pool of potential murder accomplices began to shrink, and I was left on the vanguard of the emotionally stunted.
But as I have stated before, I now find that I am meeting some newer people and reconnection with some old acquaintances and suddenly the life of quiet solitude chasing synthetic entertainment seems…less. I tend to care far less about being the first to listen to a given band, or buy the latest game. I think it has a lot to do with the fact that if I was to be honest with myself I am now incredibly jealous of my friends that have connected with someone in a meaningful way. So now I am hardly ever home. Staying in my house for too long at a stretch gets me more restless that pounding redbulls in a maternity ward waiting room. I have my standing commitments; poker nights, quiz tournaments, wing night, as well as an expanding group of friends that I can call for a beer, a movie, or a workout.
Sometimes when I leave for the night I can imagine the ghost of a beetle browed, wild eyed Neanderthal looking at me pleadingly as if asking me to stay and offering a gris-gris of shaving cream leftover pizza.
I spent most of my twenties living by myself, and when I say that I lived alone, I don’t just mean that I didn’t have roommates, I literally lived alone. I spent my spare time alone; I took up hobbies that didn’t involve other people like cartooning, and reading. I played through the entire Xbox 360 catalogue. After a while I began to take on a persona of a wild eyed and beetle browed recluse that would only reluctantly leave his dwelling for food and toilet paper. My friends would worry and stop by to see me, only to find that I had regressed into a proto human that wore animal skins, communicated in grunts and chirps and worshiped an idol he made out of dirty laundry and empties.
It only occurs to me now that I didn’t give a great many people an opportunity to get to know me. I had my small coterie of friends, mostly from high school, and I must have figured that was enough. There where six guys, and six was a good number. It was enough for say, a groomsmen party or a pickup game of basketball. One of those six guys would almost certainly help me get rid of a body and almost all of them would be down for a titty bar run on a Tuesday afternoon (fyi, not their A team). But as time continued in its unceasing march, horrible things began to happen…my friends grew up. One would get married and one would land an awesome job in another state, or one would simply lose interest in Wednesday night South Park marathons. Before I knew it I found my pool of potential murder accomplices began to shrink, and I was left on the vanguard of the emotionally stunted.
But as I have stated before, I now find that I am meeting some newer people and reconnection with some old acquaintances and suddenly the life of quiet solitude chasing synthetic entertainment seems…less. I tend to care far less about being the first to listen to a given band, or buy the latest game. I think it has a lot to do with the fact that if I was to be honest with myself I am now incredibly jealous of my friends that have connected with someone in a meaningful way. So now I am hardly ever home. Staying in my house for too long at a stretch gets me more restless that pounding redbulls in a maternity ward waiting room. I have my standing commitments; poker nights, quiz tournaments, wing night, as well as an expanding group of friends that I can call for a beer, a movie, or a workout.
Sometimes when I leave for the night I can imagine the ghost of a beetle browed, wild eyed Neanderthal looking at me pleadingly as if asking me to stay and offering a gris-gris of shaving cream leftover pizza.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
The Methodology
From time to time I will wander from my usual conversation topics of videogames and interesting places I have farted venture into territory of more substance. On one such occasion I found myself in the company of teachers of the special education variety, and it didn’t take long for me to become infuriated with the bass akwards approach our society takes concerning what should be the most sacred responsibility a society can engage in – the education of the next generation.
Now when I say “society”, “responsibility”, and “education” in the same sentence it can make some of my right-of-center friends cringe a little bit, but for the life of me I don’t know why. I am not saying that parents don’t or shouldn’t play an indispensable and active role in the education of their children; it’s simply a question of skill sets. Just like I don’t know anything about fixing my air conditioning, I haven’t the foggiest idea of how to instruct a child on a concept and give it any kind of staying power. Educators are trained professionals, they have done some fancy schoolin’ on such methods and I am more than inclined to letting them do what they do. No, my bone to pick is more with the governing educational philosophy that I thought would have atrophied since my waltz through the public school system.
I was diagnosed with a learning disability early in my scholastic career, and as such I spent two hours every Thursday with a series of frayed and overworked special education instructors. And I wasn’t alone either, these classes tended to be huge, even by public school standards. It seemed like everyone of these students had different maladies ranging from mild dyslexia to dementia, and all of it would be presided over by one –maybe two – Special Education Instructors doing their level best to address the individual needs of their students. Although the name Special Education Instructor would make it seem that they where well respected professionals in their field when in reality they where more like glorified caretakers of ‘problem children’. They would spend the lion’s share of their time caring for the least functioning of their charges or arguing with the students with authority issues, whilst the other children where sort of left to their own devices. I didn’t realize it at the time but I would look to my left and my right, consider my company and surmise that my mild aberration with number comprehension was an educational deal breaker every bit as crippling as the tragic cases all around me.
It wasn’t until I got to middle school that I some of the same yearly test that confirmed me as a sped also recommended me for some accelerated courses. And having been Sheparded into the Shangri-la of the collage prep courses I saw just how lopsided and cruel my schools approach to the student body actually was. Because I looked to my left and my right in those classrooms and saw very little difference! These kids where just as screwed up as the Thursday crew, only for some reason they where labeled as eccentric and their every utterance was nurtured like potential wisdom. Whatever you where interested in, you where free to pursue and so knowledge came to you in a much more fluid and natural way. It was Jeckyl and Hyde approach to my education that shed the harshest light yet on our cirque du learning; In a society that prides itself on finding the individual solution to our important problems – re: Starbucks coffee or customer service counters – we apply a generic and wholly inefficient method of education to our youth , involving the memorization and regurgitation of trivia, and anyone that doesn’t fit that mold is either squirrled away into the boiler room where they will be forgotten about until graduation or put in the clean room in the library where they can be spoon fed SAT answers.
It is a broad approach that is meant to shoot right down the middle of the educational spectrum, applying to as many kids as possible. But the truth of the matter is that not all kids assimilate knowledge in the same way. Some kids who are just as capable of learning and using that data in productive ways don’t get that opportunity because they fall outside that spectrum and are branded (seemingly at random) as learning disabled. So they are removed from the larger educational continuum so that they don’t gum up the works for the rest of the student body. Kids that don’t deserve it are getting thrown over.
The fix to this of course, is more teachers that are skilled at deducing the students individual need and using their professional expertise to help that child reach certain benchmarks. But, as the old adage says, everything cost money, and it would appear that there are things we would much rather spend our money on. Whenever one of my projects puts me into contact with a government agency and I spend half my day calling a dozen or so extensions within the Federal Redundancy Department of Redundancy my mind would sometimes wonder to those frayed Special Education Instructors.
The only other public entity that I know of that applies the same kind of generic approach to the training and using of people is the military - and that institution is properly funded. The irony is not lost unto me that we use a powerful standing armed force to protect the interests of client states –states with excellent education systems, I might add- by feeding the personal pools of that force with the kids that didn’t make the grade in our cash strapped school systems. When someone joins the military to improve themselves I feel proud for them (that is part of what the military should be all about) but if someone joins it because they had the misfortune of falling outside the lines of how we drill reading/writing/arithmetic into people, well then a very different feeling wells up in me.
If you are a special education instructor come and find me and I’ll buy you a drink, because you are doing something that Ebner so far hasn’t gotten around to doing…make the world a better place.
Now when I say “society”, “responsibility”, and “education” in the same sentence it can make some of my right-of-center friends cringe a little bit, but for the life of me I don’t know why. I am not saying that parents don’t or shouldn’t play an indispensable and active role in the education of their children; it’s simply a question of skill sets. Just like I don’t know anything about fixing my air conditioning, I haven’t the foggiest idea of how to instruct a child on a concept and give it any kind of staying power. Educators are trained professionals, they have done some fancy schoolin’ on such methods and I am more than inclined to letting them do what they do. No, my bone to pick is more with the governing educational philosophy that I thought would have atrophied since my waltz through the public school system.
I was diagnosed with a learning disability early in my scholastic career, and as such I spent two hours every Thursday with a series of frayed and overworked special education instructors. And I wasn’t alone either, these classes tended to be huge, even by public school standards. It seemed like everyone of these students had different maladies ranging from mild dyslexia to dementia, and all of it would be presided over by one –maybe two – Special Education Instructors doing their level best to address the individual needs of their students. Although the name Special Education Instructor would make it seem that they where well respected professionals in their field when in reality they where more like glorified caretakers of ‘problem children’. They would spend the lion’s share of their time caring for the least functioning of their charges or arguing with the students with authority issues, whilst the other children where sort of left to their own devices. I didn’t realize it at the time but I would look to my left and my right, consider my company and surmise that my mild aberration with number comprehension was an educational deal breaker every bit as crippling as the tragic cases all around me.
It wasn’t until I got to middle school that I some of the same yearly test that confirmed me as a sped also recommended me for some accelerated courses. And having been Sheparded into the Shangri-la of the collage prep courses I saw just how lopsided and cruel my schools approach to the student body actually was. Because I looked to my left and my right in those classrooms and saw very little difference! These kids where just as screwed up as the Thursday crew, only for some reason they where labeled as eccentric and their every utterance was nurtured like potential wisdom. Whatever you where interested in, you where free to pursue and so knowledge came to you in a much more fluid and natural way. It was Jeckyl and Hyde approach to my education that shed the harshest light yet on our cirque du learning; In a society that prides itself on finding the individual solution to our important problems – re: Starbucks coffee or customer service counters – we apply a generic and wholly inefficient method of education to our youth , involving the memorization and regurgitation of trivia, and anyone that doesn’t fit that mold is either squirrled away into the boiler room where they will be forgotten about until graduation or put in the clean room in the library where they can be spoon fed SAT answers.
It is a broad approach that is meant to shoot right down the middle of the educational spectrum, applying to as many kids as possible. But the truth of the matter is that not all kids assimilate knowledge in the same way. Some kids who are just as capable of learning and using that data in productive ways don’t get that opportunity because they fall outside that spectrum and are branded (seemingly at random) as learning disabled. So they are removed from the larger educational continuum so that they don’t gum up the works for the rest of the student body. Kids that don’t deserve it are getting thrown over.
The fix to this of course, is more teachers that are skilled at deducing the students individual need and using their professional expertise to help that child reach certain benchmarks. But, as the old adage says, everything cost money, and it would appear that there are things we would much rather spend our money on. Whenever one of my projects puts me into contact with a government agency and I spend half my day calling a dozen or so extensions within the Federal Redundancy Department of Redundancy my mind would sometimes wonder to those frayed Special Education Instructors.
The only other public entity that I know of that applies the same kind of generic approach to the training and using of people is the military - and that institution is properly funded. The irony is not lost unto me that we use a powerful standing armed force to protect the interests of client states –states with excellent education systems, I might add- by feeding the personal pools of that force with the kids that didn’t make the grade in our cash strapped school systems. When someone joins the military to improve themselves I feel proud for them (that is part of what the military should be all about) but if someone joins it because they had the misfortune of falling outside the lines of how we drill reading/writing/arithmetic into people, well then a very different feeling wells up in me.
If you are a special education instructor come and find me and I’ll buy you a drink, because you are doing something that Ebner so far hasn’t gotten around to doing…make the world a better place.
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