Oolong Fancies

Retirement

2008-11-04T14:00:00.000-08:00

In the light of recent changes in my life, I have decided to enter semi-permanent retirement. Naturally I am not referring to work, as I am unemployed at the moment, but it does mean that Oolong Fancies and Sencha Steeping will both cease to update. For those of you who religiously check these two sites, this will come as no shock. Perhaps an article or two will be posted here and there, but for all practical purposes, these two blogs will be defunct.

Do not cry, my dear reader, for there is a new project in the works. I hope to unveil it tomorrow with an introduction and edited version of a post that piqued my interest this summer.

It has been a good run, dear readers. Peace be with you.

Eric Garner

On a Very Special Oolong Fancies

2008-09-20T11:53:00.000-07:00

Dear readers, it is time for a shameful confession to you all: I am leading a double life.

Perhaps some of you are aware that I’ve led a monogamous relationship with my bicycle, Her Majesty the Cannondale for nearly three years now. I’ve always prided myself on how good of a bike she is. Sure, it’s a big investment to have a bicycle, but I figure it’s a better use of money than having a girlfriend – but I digress.

Her Majesty has stood by me through the best and worst of rides. She was an excellent companion on a majestic ride along the Monterey coast last autumn when I wanted to go along the 17 Mile Drive, and she stood by me after a car hit us. Yes, she has been a lovely bike… And I left her behind to go a chase a crazy dream out East.

Where am I going with this and why am I telling it to you? Yesterday I had a brief run-in with the law that has convinced me to come clean about a few things – firstly said run-in:

On an excruciatingly long trip to a vegetarian restaurant my RA wanted to go to, we gave a little love tap to the car in front of us. We were going all of two miles per hour, but we knew we had to pull over to access the situation; however, the people we hit didn’t seem to be aware of such things, but rather turned on their hazards and fully intended on sitting in the middle of a four lane freeway during Jersey rush-hour traffic… I am no expert, but I think that’s how you get yourself shot.

Several minutes of cars honking at us later, we both arrived at the shoulder. In my experience it is common for people to get out of their car and access damage, exchange information, be on their separate ways, but once again I was operating under different paradigms than the car ahead of us. Our driver did look at our vehicles and noted that no damage was done, not even to the paint, and so he patiently awaited this driver to get out of their car… for twenty minutes. Eventually I was elected to go and make contact as our least threatening member. Not wanting to get maced, I approached the car as contritely as possible. “Are you two alright?” I asked, only receiving an indifferent nod in reply. I slouched back to our car. Twenty minutes pass. I go again to see what they’d like us to do. “We’re waiting for the police,” the passenger informs me. I slouch back again. Twenty more minutes pass. The police officer is friendly albeit perplexed at his call, since no damage has been done. We leave and eventually dine upon mock-meat products.

All of this to say, I’ve realized that I need to come clean! I am leading a double life! Whilst living in this place:

My room

Bryan, my suitemate

My campus

I have fallen into a new bicycle relationship with this beauty:

Her name is Yoshimi, and while she is a little older than Her Majesty, I’ve enjoyed her company a great deal.

Some of my friends here have rationalized this new relationship as my being in a ‘different zip code,’ but I can’t get over my need to share this double life with you…

…Or at least my desire to show you some sweet pictures of where I live.

Flight to the Future

2008-09-08T19:33:00.000-07:00

I am somewhere over the middle of America, roughly heading north and/or east. I had no idea America was so flat – at least not in a non-academic sense. Yes, dear reader, this entry is what you think it is: I am moving back east. However, unlike my ancestors whose work I am reversing, I am traveling by sub-sonic jet travel (which is not to say my ancestors came via super-sonic jets).

“Eric,” you’ll no doubt question, “why exactly are you flying east? And isn’t this flirting a bit with diary?”

Well, my dear reader, perhaps you’ll remember that a number of months ago I defiantly waded through the mire of seminary applications and eventually came to be accepted by Princeton Theological.

“Isn’t that the only application you successfully completed?” you most rudely interject!

Yes, it is true that in the end I only submitted one application; however, you must understand that application fees are quite steep these days, my pugnacious reader. The key point here, if I may finally state it, is that I am in the air heading to Princeton (via San Jose via Phoenix via Pittsburgh via Newark).

This morning began at 4:30 amidst the obnoxious vibrations of my phone atop my sister’s coffee table. After quickly taking a shower and loading my luggage into my sister’s car (with comparable speed), Cari whisked the two us off to San Jose’s airport where I was gouged for stowing luggage and then herded through security to my plane. Though my flight was clearly scheduled for 6:15, apparently SJC doesn’t allow planes that size (whatever size that may be) to depart until 6:30. Lame. I suppose the only part of today that has gone off exceptionally smoothly was my stay in Phoenix (assuming my luggage actually transferred), which only lasted for about thirty minutes.

This would be a fair time to note that the magnanimous Brandon K. Baker hails from Phoenix (or at least close enough). He is worthy of mention for multiple reasons: he was a fellow intern, is a fellow blogger, adventurer, and seminarian. I hope this is enough to pardon him of his intellectual inbreeding.

Needless to say, this has been quite a long day, but most experiments with time travel are. Yes, dear reader, the true purpose of this entry has not been to tell you about my journeys, but rather to unveil this next stage of my life as a time traveler.

“You’ve made some big claims before,” you will doubtlessly say – and I’d probably agree, “but this takes the cake! We could sort of stomach your claims about the Fountain of Youth because of your demythologizing it. We rolled our eyes at your tales about vampire, spiders, and prehistoric bird monsters, as we assumed mental-derangement. We even put up with your Santa bashing, but this is madness!”

Perhaps I am mad, but I assure you that I join the ranks of HG Wells, Doc Brown and Marty McFly, Donnie Darko, Dr. Samuel Becket, and the Terminator robot. For all of you remaining on the west coast, I will be experiencing time three hours ahead of you. Just think of all the scientific advancements I’ll be able to report back to you all! Perhaps we’ll have a viable green fuel source or flying cars or genetically-altered, pigmy elephants or maybe even a way of heating up bath towels for post-shower use! And guess what, I’ll be at the forefront of all these developments. If you’d like to look a couple of hours into your future, tune in here! I’ll do what I can to be a seer, omen, fortuneteller, or whatever you’d like to call it.

I’d keep writing, but I’m afraid I must get back to the future.

Made

2008-08-20T07:17:00.000-07:00

Dear reader, the summer is over! It has been so long since I last graced your life with a witty, albeit poignant post on pedestrians or port holes. I hope you are not too testy because of my absence, but I won't place a wager on it.

"You're lucky I don't poop on you," you coyly coo -- or at least so I imagine you spoke thus.

I know that the world missed me, for two days ago I finally made it as a blogger.

"Someone finally payed you for a blog entry?" you incredulously ask.

Oh, well I suppose that would mean I've made it as well; however, this may be even better; I have exposure!

Two days ago, whilst adventuring with my friend Brandon, I borrowed the Apple Store's interweb to check my email and noticed a strange name in my inbox. I was about ready to delete it, as I'm sick of random people questioning my manhood; however, I then noticed it was a reply to an Oolong Fancy article I wrote back in November. While I did not recognize the moniker "Any middle-aged German Witch in Amerika," I was not concerned, for in the past I received a comment from a stranger on my entry about Otter Pops (those corroders of moral and molar hygiene).

Happily my blogs show up relatively early on some Google searches (especially under images) and I am the first entry if you search for "Rockus Caucus." What fun! So naturally, I was not surprised that this middle-aged German witch found my blog whilst searching for Hannes Wader (German, folk singer). However, also naturally, I was surprised by the content of her reply!

Back in November I penned an entry about international Emoism -- truly it was a successful entry, garnering four heart-felt comments from my friends. While this German witch from Amerika did respond in a heart-felt manner, it was a heart I did not particularly want to feel. Her comment is posted in its entirety below:

~~~ Hello, I was googling Hannes Wader, and so I was led to your site, since you mentioned his name.

I am German, and I cannot keep myself from commenting. You must be at least 25 years younger than me, since I have a hard time understanding what your entry was really about.

  But I was annoyed that you used my native language in such an unqualified way. Please learn the german language before writing such a nonsense.  

"Kindern" => Kinder is already the plural form of singular Kind, while Kindern is the dativ case!  

And worse, "weisst nicht, wie gut ich Dir bin" does NOT mean, "how good I have been to you". My toenails are rolling up when I read that...

  And yes, we Germans have emotions, what a surprise! ~~~

What brought about this animosity? Clearly she misread me.(!!!)

"So why are you so happy about all this?" you query.

My poor, dear reader -- don't you see? I've received my first hate mail! How else can you tell you've made it in the blogging community other than having people verbal about how much they hate you! This is like my first successful single or piece of pop-art placed on a greeting card! I'm in!

So if you'll excuse me, I've got some more people to irk off.

To Podcast?

2008-07-24T21:03:00.000-07:00

So, here's the deal: I have recorded two podcasts, but I have no idea how to get them online. Can you help me?

Birth of a Nation

2008-07-10T14:35:00.001-07:00

Sometimes being a history major is rough, let me tell you! People expect you to always know everything about any history, and when you can’t give an answer, they question the validity of your degree.

Recently, (on the Fourth of July to be exact) I was asked about why America didn’t have a mythology to it. After this person became annoyed by my stating that native peoples did have their own mythologies, so I offered that our folk tales of Paul Bunyan, Johnny Appleseed, and John Henry were all evidence of a thriving American mythology. They still weren’t satisfied! Can you believe that dear reader? Actually, on second thought, you don’t need to answer that question.

So, what could I do? Here I had an inquisitive mind, wondering about this country’s origins, and they were not accepting my answers! So, I made something up.

“You make something up, Eric? I’m aghast!” You coyly remark.

Not that I don’t appreciate your sarcasm, dear reader, but this is actually a serious issue! So, I present to you my creation myth for the modern, American patriot:

In the beginning, in 1776, the Great Liberty Eagle flew over the waters, but it could not land, for as of yet there was no land. The Eagle then laid the Freedom Egg into the waters, which upon hatching became the continent of the United States of America – from this land came all others, and the other lands went out to fill the earth.

However, the Great Liberty Eagle was sad, for there was no one else to agree with its democratic ideals, and in it’s sadness, it cried a tear that landed upon the great continent of the United States of America. The tear planted itself into the fertile earth, and a cherry tree grew from it. The tree bore two great cherries, which both bore a George. The first son of the cherry tree was George Washington, and the second King George III. King George III in his evil heart wanted to control the entire world, and so he departed from the fair land of the United States of America, leaving George Washington alone on the continent.

Seeing that the cherry tree could bear both good and evil, George Washington smote the tree with axe and fell it thus. In this he forever declared himself a self-made man and set out to make his own destiny (which was manifest – of course).

George Washington sowed the values of the Great Freedom Eagle into the bountiful soil of the United States of America and they created 13 Colonies, populated men and women and slaves (which George Washington and his son, Abraham Lincoln would later free). Of these thirteen colonies, George Washington elected 13 rulers: Benjamin Franklin, John Adams and his brother Samuel, Thomas Jefferson, John Hancock, Paul Revere, William Whipple, John Penn, Patrick Henry, Thomas Paine, John Marshal, Casimir Pulaski, and Benedict Arnold (who betrayed him).

With these thirteen rulers, George Washington sought to bring peace, freedom, liberty, and the right to own land to the rest of the world. However, his brother, the tyrant King George III longed to enslave all free men, and thus decided to conquer the Chinese with opium and the Americans with tea.

George Washington, disguising himself as a savage, thwarted the English attempt to bring tea to the United States of America by thrusting the tea deep within the Boston harbor.

King George III became furious with his brother and sent his agents of evil to subjugate the free, American peoples. The English donned coats of blood to show the horrors they would commit against the Americans.

However, the Americans easily began to drive back their adversaries until the once noble Benedict Arnold turned on George Washington by sowing taxation without representation into the United States of America’s soil.

Fortunately George Washington was not thwarted by the efforts of his wayward compatriot. And so George Washington rode stalwartly into battle and slew both the traitor Benedict Arnold and his despicable kin, King George III.

Thus the United States of America created an era of world peace founded upon its democratic values.

With liberty and justice for all!

B-16

2008-06-27T11:21:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: Don't read if you are offended by abbreviations of papal names.

--

Yesterday was my day off, and a day off is a glorious thing. One of the many things I did was visit our local Catholic bookshop, Agnus Dei - which aside from containing a wide assortment of religious literature and vestments also is a good reminder of amazing conversations I'd previously forgotten.

Last time I was in San Luis Obispo I said my farewells to a lovely town, filled with friends; however, I also talked a good deal about the abolishment of Limbo. For those of you who don't keep up on the news of the Catholic church, on April 27, 2007, Pope Benedict XVI reversed the churches' stance on Limbo - namely he abolished it. What does this mean? Namely, all infants and Jewish Patriarchs were sent directly to heaven. Now, this doesn't mean a change in doctrine, for Limbo was never officially recognized by the church as a theological certainty.

"Eric," you interject, "I'm certain this is all very interesting, but perhaps this would better fit your silly little experiment in Sencha Steeping. Why bore us here too?"

Well my saucy, dear reader, I give this to you here because of a conversation I had with Brian and Ben whilst in San Luis about how good Catholics throw around the term JP II. For those who aren't up on the hip-Catholic slang, that is how the cool kids talk about John Paul II, the pontiff prior to Benedict.

Now, I thought that maybe I should be offended by this, but as earlier noted, I have heard my devout Catholic friends liberally toss around this term. So, following in their ways, B, B and I decided that we should give our current Pope a nice little pet name as well. B-16 it is!

Really, the only reason this is remotely funny to me (in the most horrible way possible) is that B-16 bombed the hell out of Limbo.

I wonder if Dante's Purgatorio will now be relegated to being as apochraphal as Milton?

Well, B-16, wherever you are, keep flying high and flying free - soar them babies straight to heaven.

--

Disclaimer: that wasn't so bad, was it?

Workaholicism Pt. II

2008-06-19T13:56:00.000-07:00

Summer is upon us! How I've missed the 15 hour days, the blazing sun, and the intestinal woes!

In all honesty, I really have been looking forward to this. The counselors are finishing up their lessons, the campers are packing their bags (or at least putting it off until Saturday night), and I now have more certifications and licenses than you can shake a stick at! What does this mean for me? I'm tired. What does it mean for you? I'm not writing.

How can we both get what we want in this situation? My not doing anything and your enjoying my wit. Oh, I have an idea! Maybe I can start a little podcast for the summer? Let's see where that goes... Hmm...

Saturday: Love

2008-05-17T09:21:00.000-07:00

Over the course of this last week I have learned a great deal about myself. Through the journey of self-discovery that was writing these daily blogs I have faced my fears, examined my dreams, and shared about my family… I really think that you and I, dear reader, have drawn closer to one another.

“I must admit, Eric,” I hope you’ll begin, “we are on much better terms than we have been on for a while. I think things might just work out between us.”

That’s exactly the point I’m getting at! As Jack and Meg White (accompanied by Holly Golighty) sing: “It’s true that we love one another.”

You see, dear reader, I love you (in an academic sense, of course) and I love this world. I hope my love is never so obsessive as to make me shout at you while at dinner: “I wrote a hit play!... And I’m in love with you.” However, I will make no promises.

“What exactly are you getting at here, Eric?”

It’s sort of like my friend Shea in this picture. I want to live with my arms outstretched in accepting bliss; however, I also don’t want to get up from where I am. I want to love you in the laziest way possible: sitting right where I am. Like the picture, this concept is somewhat blurry.

What I’m trying to say, dear reader, is that I think the best way for us to continue in this loving relationship is if I keep sitting here and writing you inane things, and you keep reading them. Granted, I’ll have to go underground for most of the summer, but I hope this week has done enough to rekindle our flame to last for the summer. What do you say, dear reader?

Is this the end of Oolong Fancies, or will you wait for me?

Friday: Death

2008-05-16T10:05:00.000-07:00

Today I am traveling. Actually, I am currently soaring over California as I write this (don’t worry – I have AirPort turned off). I’ve already finished my complimentary orange juice, read a little bit from one of my female-writer-crushes, and stolen several looks over at a comically sleeping gentleman. Yes, air travel is an amazing thing.

However, there is a darker side to my journey; whenever I travel I always feel like I’m going to die.

“Eric,” you pipe-in, “do you think someone will hijack your plane?”

No, dear reader, I do not fear death by hijacker, crash, or even suddenly getting sucked down a depressurized toilet. No, I simply think that I will suddenly cease being. When this thought started I am not certain, but it assuredly is connected with being alone in a large crowd.

Late last month, whilst traveling north to visit my friend Haley in San Francisco, I wrote:

“…I suddenly have this fear that this will be the last thing I ever write… that this will need to convey m love to those I leave behind…”

Haley has little to do with death, as she is so young

What brought this sudden awareness of death about?

Perhaps it is growing because my travels signify saying farewells to people. How many more times will I make the trip down the coast to see friends and family in San Diego? After visiting San Luis later next week, when will I go to Linnaea’s again!?

“Eric, do you think this is just part of growing up?” you tenderly ask.

I think so, dear reader, I think so. I think part of my growing up is accepting my transience, and the fact my friends are transients as well.

This is why journeys with friends like Nick and Joey are so appreciated. None of us really have homes at the moment, and our placelessness allows for us to be truly present with one another. Okay! This is too Sencha for this blog.

Despite popular opinion, Joey is not from Lord of the Rings

Where am I going with all of this?

Death isn’t so bad. Maybe it’s a metaphor—maybe it’s not. You decide. But yes, I am indeed traveling.

Thursday: Adventurin’

2008-05-15T15:53:00.000-07:00

Let me start off by saying that I had no intention for yesterday’s article to be offensive… it was simply supposed to be ridiculous! I hope this dispels any false assumptions and alleviates any heartache. That being said…

Summer is almost upon us, and the great out-there is calling my name. Yes, dear reader, not only does summer mean camp, Echo, bad food, and another prolonged period of blog inactivity, but it also means rolling pant legs up and wading down creeks.

At the risk of a journal-like entry, I would like to talk about yesterday. It was balls-hot in Santa Cruz yesterday (and today is following suit), and I felt a calling from deep within my bones to return to the sea; however, as I don’t have a car, I figured any water would work out quite nicely. So, I grabbed Brandon my sidekick (I don’t think he’ll agree with that terming, but it doesn’t make it any less true) and we set off for Redwood Camp!

You see, Redwood is Mount Hermon’s only peninsula, and thus it is the logical place for water adventures. Girding ourselves in adventure shorts and straw hats, we took off down the river. There were a few hiccups along the way (killer crawdads, water in cell phones) but we eventually made our way into the once proud railroad town of Felton. We went to the local general store and picked up some water Mohicans and couple of mighty fine burritos. We feasted and then began the long trek back home.

Making adventurin' look good

I relay this little tale to explain what my summer might hold. Drama so thick you could cut it with a dulled knife!

“But Eric,” you interject, “why are you writing about this on Thursday? Do adventures and Thursdays mix?”

A discerning question to be certain, dear reader. Back in the days of yore, before I inherited a demon bird mask, was diagnosed with HIV, fought vampires, refuted Kant, hosted a Rockus Caucus, or sought out the fountain of youth, I adventured with one of San Luis Obispo’s favorite sons: Jordan Jolliff.

One quarter Jordan was fortunate enough to swing having classes only on Mondays and Wednesdays – naturally this gave him an unnatural advantage. Jordan began, what he called, Adventure Thursdays. He would grab a few friends, hop in a car, and drive around the Central Coast until a prospect met his fancy. What would follow was the stuff of legend.

I had the great fortune of joining in on some of these adventures and they played a formative role in my life. I can now only hope to live up to them this summer.

So, whenever you see a creek this summer, make sure to take a second look, and you may just see a man-pree clad man roasting a crawdad over a fire.

Wednesday: Roots Day

2008-05-14T15:36:00.000-07:00

[Removed]

Tuesday: Ruminations

2008-05-13T08:54:00.003-07:00

I just reread what I posted last night and nearly pooped my pants at how bad it was. What can I say about it?

“You could start off by apologizing, and then stop trying to convince us this fetid trash actually counts as a blog entry,” you’ll, no doubt, most rudely condemn me.

I must admit dear reader that there is some truth to your scathing accusation. I am sorry for the poor quality of yesterday’s entry, and what’s more, I cannot even blame it on having a case of the Mondays.

You see, I think Mondays have been given a bad rap. Sure, for many they signal the return to either the school or work week, which by its nature demands the weekend ends; however, this deliberate maligning of the Monday is bigoted and old-fashioned.

“Eric,” you interject, “what could possibly be narrow-minded about day prejudice? And shouldn’t you have written about this yesterday?”

Well, my astute reader, it may have made sense to write about this yesterday; however, there is a connection with Tuesdays just around the corner. As for now, let us look at the validity of my anti anti-Monday statement:

According to the reputable source wikipedia, Mondays are considered good days for fasting in Judaism and Islam, and I interject that it would have been a good day in Christianity as well since it follows the feast of Sunday. Early Christians did not see this as a case. Following an unfortunate trend, Christians moved forward with an anti-Semitic mindset, and in an attempt to distance themselves from the Jews began observing Wednesdays as good fast days. Could our distaste for Mondays spring forth from anti-Jewish sentiment?

Before you can interject on me again, let me state that I don’t think so. I think our distaste for Mondays is largely unoriginal. People set themselves up for a fall on Mondays. We hold Mondays on the same plain as disembowelment.

Boring!

What about Tuesday? The little bastard-child of the week… Going into Mondays expecting the worst often leaves me realizing that Mondays aren’t so bad; however Tuesdays really grate my nerves. It is so apparent that the workweek is not coming to an end—I don’t even have the right to complain like I did the day prior. BOO!

If only every Tuesday was this awesome

So there you have it: hating Mondays was so last decade, Tuesdays are the hip new day to dislike, and I will fight anyone in the face who says any differently.

I’m sorry to be so testy, but it is Tuesday after all.

Monday: Formerly Untitled

2008-05-12T22:02:00.001-07:00

My night has been a strange one. First my boss and his wife came to have dinner at my house. We had stuffed peppers and talked about the joys and woes of interning (at both Mount Hermon and elsewhere). Several almost sexual references were made, and there were more than a couple of suppressed giggles at what could have been perfect “that’s what she said” moments.

Eventually my boss headed home, and we put on Butch Cassidy and the Sun Dance Kid. I am currently a little better or worse for wine, and the movie plays on!

Yes, this is a terrible blog entry, but I have little choice at this point. All I feel like talking about are walking hay bales! Around one hour and thirteen minutes a walking hay bale! What does that mean exactly? Sure, there is a man walking in front of a hay bale, acting as though he is pulling it along, but if you watch it in slow motion, there are some obvious legs moving the hay bale about. Is this funny? I’m not certain; however, everyone else who is watching found it uproariously humorous.

One hour and twenty-four minutes into the film a character dies who claims he is “colorful;” is this another example of blacksploitation in the 70’s?

More questions arise, but I am too tired and disaffected to actually answer them (or even pose the questions to you for that matter).

I’ll try to do better tomorrow. No really, I will!

Sunday: Will Eric Keep His Word?

2008-05-11T19:25:00.000-07:00

I have become a lazy blogger. I even attempted to assuage some of your complaints with my last entry – assuring you that I am a busy little bee. However, the masses have spoken! You want me back… admit it.

“Don’t you think that’s a little cocky for having been so absent as of late?” You will no doubtedly insist.

Well, I do give to you that I haven’t been around as much as we would all like, but hey, absence makes the heart grow fonder!

“Or forgetful.”

Well, my dear emotional reader, in an attempt to make things up to you, I am launching the most aggressive and daring blog campaign ever before attempted. Yes, today begins my attempt at a week straight of blogging! Do I have the material for such an effort? Most likely not, but I’m not above making things up. So, what do you say? Will you read onward?

“I suppose so, but this is your last chance, you bugger.”

My, you have become testy since I took my leave of absence. Well, here we go!

Tonight I will pay homage to an important aspect of the day that you may not be aware of…

“Shouldn’t you use your other blog to talk about Pentecost?”

Oh geez, how embarrassing. I had no idea it was Pentecost today! No no no… Today is also Mother’s Day! It’s one of those days where you pay honor to the woman who birthed and/or raised you. It’s really a spectacular day, especially when you have a spectacular mother! Allow for me to introduce to you Carolyn Garner (artist, Swede). She is a sweet little lady who loves simplicity and might just scream while playing Pit Spoons.

My mom rocking everyone's socks off at my sister's wedding

I would love to write about her in greater detail, but anything I say at this point will come across as contrived or insignificant. Instead, I give you a video I had shown in church for her on Mother’s Day several years ago. I’ll let it speak for itself.

Workaholics Anonymous

2008-04-22T18:16:00.000-07:00

I always thought “workaholism” was some sort of philosophical school like Platonism, Kantianism, or Nietzscheism; however, has never been a philosopher named “Workahol” and in fact, workaholism is a disease.

I spend a lot of time focusing on my job. An interesting side effect of living 150 yards from your office is that it becomes really easy to go into your office when it’s a bad idea to do so. It also doesn’t help that I’m submerged in a work culture that expects long hours without complaint because of the religious consequences of our work (albeit the top-dogs would deny such a work culture exists, or at least say they don’t support it). Is this to place blame on Mount Hermon? Absolutely not!

Yes, this is me working

Let’s seriously examine Eric Garner here for a moment. A 23-year-old Adonis under the employ of a Christian conference center. Single. Fleeing the state in a matter of months. Dutifully comes into work at 8:00 am every morning, stays until 5:00 pm, is not unaccustomed to working 12+ hour days and once worked an 80 hour week. He has more than once allowed for work to dominate his thoughts while at home. He has not taken a purely relaxing vacation since starting work back in September. He sometimes speaks in the third-person.

Diagnosis: sick.

Am I a workaholic? I don’t think so; however, there are several things I love dearly which I’ve barely given any time to in the last three months. I haven’t read a good novel in months, I can’t remember the last good bike ride I went on, and I barely write anymore (this blog included).

I want to say that this is the point where I turn around – I see the shadows on the walls and hear the echoes, and I realize that I need to turn around and see the sun. Unfortunately, I don’t see that happening any time soon. Summer planning is upon us, I’m trying to figure out schooling, and I have relationships to mend that have long been left unattended.

I originally planned for this to be some really witty commentary on working, but it seems more like a plea to appreciate beauty. Let’s allow John Ames to prophesy about this life far better than I ever could:

"I saw a bubble float past my window, fat and wobbly and ripening toward that dragonfly blue they turn just before they burst. So I looked down at the yard and there you were, you and your mother, blowing bubbles at the cat, such a barrage f them that the poor beast was beside herself at the glut of opportunity. She was actually leaping in the air, our insouciant Soapy! Some of the bubbles drifted up through the branches, even above the trees. You two were too intent on the cat to see the celestial consequences of your worldly endeavors. They were very lovely. Your mother is wearing her blue dress and you are wearing your red shirt and you were kneeling on the ground together with Soapy between and that effulgence of bubbles rising, and so much laughter. Ah, this life, this world."

Ah, this life, this world.

The Mac of My Eye

2008-03-28T13:45:00.000-07:00

I really enjoy my computer. After years of using a clunky desktop PC, I finally made the switch back to using an Apple – an Apple laptop what’s more! It is sleek and very hip; it could be added to a checklist Jordan Jolliff once made for me:

[X] Sexy Jeans
[X] iPod
[X] Good Haircut
[X] Hipster Bike
([X] Great Computer)

-Why don’t you have a girlfriend?-

Good question to be assured, but not what I’m here to talk about. The other day my computer almost went to the great digital heaven in the digital sky.

I take for granted that my computer like me. I’m very fond of it! However, we began fighting two days ago when it decided to stop working on me – it gave up the ghost (or at least its Finder). While this was not as large of a betrayal as my PC insisted on (it died on me three times – the first after a mere week of owning it), it still hurt me greatly.

I’m glad to see all of my files safely returned and my programs running at maximum efficiency, but it appears as though all of my playlists are gone forever. Most certainly it has been a time of struggle.

A moral to the story? A betrayal of trust from a computer is like taking a battering RAM to your heart, but after all, love hertz.

I Should Have Gone Sailing

2008-03-25T08:12:00.000-07:00

“You’re like one of those clipper ship captains – You’re married to the sea.”
“Yes, that’s true. But I’ve been out to sea for a long time.”
-Rushmore

When you’re a salty, old sailor, you know a thing or two about the world. Sometimes you don’t need to keep house to have a home. Sometimes a drop of Nelson’s blood won’t do you any harm. A swig of rum is nothing to scoff at.

It has long been a dream of mine to return to the sea. When I stand upon the ocean shore and look off to the horizon, I feel a part of me set sail for adventure; however, that part is never my body.

Tall ships have always fascinated my father. He loves reading old naval tales and running his hands over polished wood ship wheels. I believe when he sits alone staring off into space he hears the billows of sails filling with wind. Any yare vessel can grab his attention and send him into a swarthier time when men were men – men with poor hygiene and even wore grammar. They were different days, but days they were! The point (assuming I can ever make one) is that that my blood flows a little saltier than normal, for I have long desired to return to the sea.

When I was in fifth grade my class went on an overnight fieldtrip at the end of the year to San Francisco where we would join the crews of the C. A. Thayer and the Balclutha. I was named mate of the galley (that’s the kitchen for those of you who haven’t earned your sea legs yet) and soon realized any romanticized views my father had about these tall ships were entirely fictitious! Not only was I brazenly reprimanded for the incompetence of my crew, but I never got a chance to sleep because I had to bring the captain a fresh cup of coffee every hour. Oh, and one of my crewmen used salt instead of sugar to make our coffeecake for breakfast. Nuts to that!

The point is, I don’t want to sail tall ships. I’ll leave that to manlier men than I (thank you Ryan Downs for handling that one). I also don’t think I could handle joining a fishing trawler despite my one time plan to flee to Alaska and do so – they would just make fun of me.

No, it is the sailing life for me. Alone on the sea. Sailing from port to port with my bicycle (Her Majesty) stowed bellow. That’s the kind of carefree lifestyle I could get behind! However, (as there usually is a ‘however’ with me) I have never been sailing. It has long been an embarrassing thorn in the side of my lovely, seafaring dreams. They have always been a little to grand for me (a child taunting a mutt at the foot of a table). However, (yet again!) this has all changed.

In recent days I have become friends with Mount Hermon legend, Ron Demolar. Ron, aside from being a good man, also apparently is the part owner of a ship. I knew nothing of this until one day a couple of weeks ago when Ron and I were going out for lunch together. Just as we were preparing to leave he turned to me and said, “I know this is last minute, but would you like to go sailing?” My heart went aflutter and I felt like the prettiest girl at the dance. Yes-yes-a thousand times yes! Half an hour later we were aboard the tiny vessel and setting sail for a brighter future. The ocean breeze whipped through my hair – I silently smiled at the waves rolling ahead of us. This was it. I was out to sea. My mind raced to old maps – sirens and mermaids dancing amongst grotesque monsters.

There is great beauty in being out to sea or in the air where man does not naturally go. I was free.

Eventually we returned to shore. The moments onboard were brief but intoxicating. I have been back out since, and each time signals some new, childlike elation I have not known before.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh was correct – there is a gift from the sea.

Easterisms

2008-03-24T16:46:00.000-07:00

Easter is the biggest feast of the year. What about the resurrection of Christ doesn’t scream “PARTY!”? So, naturally I took it upon myself to rejoice and cast off the nighted color of Lent.

The day began with prayer (hardly a solemn endeavor on this hallowed morning) and followed it up with a waffle breakfast with my family. I wish there was a great theological message to be taken from waffles, but in truth they are just really tasty and the king of all breakfast foods.

After we had all packed ourselves into the car, over 17 we went in search of church and sand – both of which we found in abundance. Beautiful service. Beautiful Eucharist. Beautiful Santa Cruz, CA. Food. Rejoicing. Laughter. History. Beach. Ice cream. Wine. Skipping rocks. Finding shells. Loving life.

What a glut of words. What happiness.

I finally returned home and found my roommate Mark, whom I made have a beer with me. “Drinking beer on Easter: at Redwood, that’s what we’re all about.” I commented, and he agreed. Walking, laughing, considering, ruminating. Making dinner with Bob. Mark slips, “I believe in an all-powerful Bob.” “Eric, I hope you get that in your blog.” I hope Omni-Bob is appeased.

And as John Ames observes, “Ah this world—this life.”

The Best Defense

2008-03-13T09:24:00.000-07:00

Santa Cruz is a mythic place ruled by its own pantheon of gods. I would even venture it has a Hades and Olympus filled with crème de la crème of Santa Cruz society. I mean who can forget the time Hippicus brought his ambrosial grass to the mortals and gave them a godlike state. Or when Dudeiderous caught some awesome swell and created the ocean. Or there was that time Hipsterious rode his great fixed-gear bicycle around town and made the streets safe for all pedestrians.

And, oh, the pedestrians! These are minor deities – demigods who complete mighty tasks here on earth. However, they mostly just jaywalk with impunity.

I tell you all of this to make my real point: in the face of excessive dangers on the roads, we must remember what we learned in our driver’s ed classes about the importance of defensive driving. Hands at ten and two, or three and nine, or (as they tell us now) eight and four. Always check your mirrors and blind spots. Be aware of where all the cars are around you and potential hazards on or around the road. This is all good advice, and it is wide to heed it; however, what if there is something more to consider?

Dear reader, in my study of twentieth century history, I heard this maxim time and time again: The best defense is a good offense. Since I lack higher reasoning and take everything in the most literal fashion it can possibly be interpreted in, I have directly transposed this idea from military history into my defensive driving tactics.

Sure I check my blind spots, but I also destroy my blind spots, thus no longer making them an issue. Yes, I am aware of hazards in the road so I can obliterate them, thus removing them as hazards not just for me, but also for everyone else! I not only place my hands at ten and two, but I grow ten other hands to cover the rest of the hours on the steering wheel!

Finally, there are the pedestrians. They may have semi-divine status in Santa Cruz, but I will soon bring about a Götterdämmerung where these pesky, little deities will scatter and hide themselves from sight. I will unleash such a holocaust of fury upon the streets of Santa Cruz that they will be safe, for fear of me, for a thousand years!

Oh wait… I don’t own a car.

East Coast Bred?

2008-03-09T15:38:00.000-07:00

Dear readers, I will use this rare opportunity to make an announcement... but first a journey in pictures.

I went to school here:

However, then I:

But now I've been accepted here:

Yes, dear reader, I have been very recently accepted by Princeton Theological Seminary. What does this mean? Good question, and I have six weeks to figure it out. I know we're all disappointed with this entry, but I think this means I'll have more time for wit in the future.

Love,
E
-------
Note: it is apparent to me that it is a bad idea for me to use different picture alignments. Many apologies.

Gnomes are a Dish Best Served Cold

2008-03-06T14:27:00.000-08:00

I can hardly sleep anymore at nights for fear of the vicious Wichtelmenschen vandalizing my chattels! Dear readers, if any of you are Gnomes, I highly suggest considering a species-change operation.

Let’s face it: Gnomes are little punks. All they’re good for is posing for mass-produced garden art and botching up people’s estates. I see your incredulous looks… Either you don’t believe in Gnomes or you are dirty, dirty communists who think it is okay for anyone to abuse private property!

An army of Garden Gnomes

“Hold on their, Eric… Where’s the fire?” you most condescendingly ask, “Couldn’t it be that we just think that you’re a little batty?”

I’ve considered that, dear reader, but I find it unlikely.

“I’d consider it again.”

I will not be silent even in the face of your pro-Gnome propaganda. No, dear reader, I must be heard! Gnomes are not just the mythical underground dwellers of folklore, nor are they a free desktop operating system; Gnomes are beastly little saboteurs who ruin send your electronic devices on the fritz, unplug your alarm clocks, hide your homework, pee on your books, steal your children, and eat your dogs. There is no end to their fiendish hostility toward mankind. You don’t want to mess with these guys. They totally suck.

Would you trust this Gnome?

“Why exactly is your anti-Gnome rhetoric so vocal today?” you deign to ask.

Despite your patronizing attitude, I am glad you asked. It all starts several weeks ago when… (Hazy flashback effects).

It was the first week of February, Punxsutawney Phil had recently seen his shadow, and I returned from my tour of the Great North West. As I waited in the airport to receive a ride home from parents, I caught the avatar of femininity making funny eyes at me. Not being accustomed to such forward advances, I fool-heartedly (albeit debonairly) strolled over this seductive lady in the corner.

“Come here often?” Granted, I am not very good at this sort of thing.

She laughed. “No, it has been a while since I flew last.”

At that moment we knew that we were in love; however, we had to keep our passion secret because apparently her father and mine were engaged in a terrible blood war that had started back on the streets of Sunnyvale when they were boys. They forever forbid their children from wedding one another.

Over this last month we’ve had several secret rendezvous, and were making plans to flee the country together in one final, desperate romantic act to rid ourselves of our parents’ unfeeling control. Alas, it was not meant to be.

Last night she sped over Highway 17 from San Jose to pick me up so we could forever be free with one another; however, this was not in the Gnomes’ plans. A group of listless Gnomes in search of mischief cut my love’s breaks. She never made it over the hill. I will never love again. And no Gnome will be left alive by the end of 2008.

I consider this my prime directive!

Does this look like the face of a man who will take Gnomish treachery lying down?

Leapfrog Day

2008-02-29T09:12:00.001-08:00

Well, the proverbial (but not actually proverbial) Leap Day is upon us! Happy February the 29th, my dear readers! As always, Leap Day is a day to contemplate our inadequacies and failings. I’ve got six loathing sessions planned for the day, and I hate myself because that’s two less than last year. But in all seriousness, this date is one that lives in infamy in my heart. It is a painful expression of how… Actually, if I’m going to do this right, let’s set some things straight first:

Television has led me to believe that my life is quite lacking in many ways, not the least of which is that I was born without a twin. Just think of all the crazy shenanigans I could get myself into. I could accidentally ask two girls our on the same night! Oh, how hilarity would ensue! Or what if a new teacher came to my school and my twin and I pulled some crazy prank on her or him, leading them to believe they’d entered some alternate plane of existence. Wow, that’d be a hog-whoopin’ good time.

The perfect twins

This is why The 29th of February is such a disappointment to me. I’ve always thought about how much fun it would be to have my birthday on Leap Day, and then how that fun would be exponentially greater if I had a twin whose birthday was either the 28th or 1st. Unfortunately, I was denied this great joy. “It’s Wilson’s sixteenth birthday, but it’s only my fourth.” Wow, I’m almost having convulsions the idea is so funny.

But then again, what if my twin were evil? One must consider these things. What if I were the evil twin? For matters involving evil twins, I will defer to Stephin Merritt of The Magnetic Fields, who knows enough to write a song about it:

I wish I had an evil twin
running ’round doing people in
I wish I had a very bad
and evil twin to do my will
to cull and conquer, cut and kill
just like I would
if I weren’t good
and if I knew where to begin

down and down we go
how low no one would know
sometimes the good life wears thin
I wish I had an evil twin

my evil twin would lie and steal
and he would stink of sex appeal
all men would writhe
beneath his scythe
he’d send the pretty ones to me
and they would think that I was he
I’d hurt them and I’d go scot free

I’d get no blame and feel no shame
’cause evil’s not my cup of tea

down and down we go
how low one would not need to know
all my life there should have been
an evil twin

Merritt certainly blurs the lines between the good and the bad twin. Who am I (besides Jean Valjean, of course)? Maybe the whole twin business is a bit more difficult than I had ever before imagined. Thanks for the song, Merritt.

I take back my complaints – the last thing I need is another person to measure myself against. Okay, Leap Day, here I come!

Who Put the Bomp in the “Bomp, Bomp, Bomp?"

2008-02-28T09:52:00.001-08:00

I like sounds. This may be the least shocking admission I have ever made, and yet I stick by it all the same! Silence is a fine thing, don’t get me wrong here, but sounds have a certain quality to them that make me want to stomp my feet and whistle with my lips.

Yes, dear reader, today we are examining onomatopoeias, or words that imitate the sound associated with the thing or action in question.

Aside from being an amazing sounding word – which I believe is onomatopoetic itself – onomatopoeias are large parts of our lives. Had circa 1960 Batman been without these little dandy words, he never could have fought the villains plaguing Gotham City.

Pow!

However, we are not all masked crime fighters, so how can we as common-folk take advantage of the onomatopoeias? Let’s pretend that you are in some way interested in living an onomatopoetic life and that you haven’t noticed how much I like typing our buzz word for the day.

The best way to take advantage of onomatopoeias in everyday life is to narrate your every action. I know this may sound a little crazy, but you’ll be surprised at how frequently these little guys come up. Allow for me to demonstrate:

Eric typed away on the keys of his computer, ignoring the hum of the white noise in his cubicle. A small insect buzzed by his ear, but he swatted it away. The clock overhead ticked and tocked, but Eric hardly noticed it because of the cars revving their engines as they drove by. A whoosh or air ran through the office as Eric’s boss slammed the door. It was time to look diligent and concerned despite the convoluted apostrophes flying through the air.

I hope this has clarified things.

And thus I end this language series with a smashing end!

This is a Bad Article…

2008-02-27T21:05:00.001-08:00

The following statement is false.

The previous statement is true.

If your eyes haven’t melted yet, this is a little something we call a paradox – and I’m not referring to a pair of physicians. A paradox is a statement, proposition, or situation that seems to be absurd or contradictory, but in fact is or may be true!

Granted, some paradoxes will just get us into trouble. If we say: “There is no truth!” it is very difficult to say it with any conviction, as if that statement is true there is truth, and thus the statement is wrong – and as Winnie the Pooh says: “Oh bother.”

No, this little gem of language is not for my cretin ramblings, but rather is reserved for my dear friend, Søren Kierkegaard.

For my dear readers whom are not yet acquainted with Mr. Kierkegaard, he was a most disagreeable Dane in the mid-nineteenth century who felt it his duty to irk just about every religious official in Denmark. Naturally I am quite drawn to him.

The Kierk in fine form

“Now wait here, Eric,” you have remained quiet for quite an agreeable amount of time, “we’ve been quiet for a while now – don’t do that! Anyways, why should we care about this Kierkegaard bloke? What does he have to do with paradoxes? Why are you making so many poor jokes?”

All good questions, my dear reader, most of which I will positively ignore. As for Kierkegaard, he was a philosopher of sorts; however, as all good existentialists do, he did not see himself as philosophy’s golden boy. Kierkegaard went about saying a great variety of things the Greeks would be aghast by! He claimed that an individual needed to step outside the universal (moral) for the sake of faith – thus (as you may have guessed) making faith a paradox! Egads! Dear reader, do you see how big this is?

“Not really caring. Nice try though.”

Dear reader, I can see that paradox is not very conducive for blogging... particularly after a long day. Thus, my final entry of this series shall be a whoop-pow good time.

I suppose my only consolation is that you find my bad writing good, thus making this a good article! If that’s not paradoxical, I am my own grandpa!

The Continuing Adventures of the Hyperbolic Boy

2008-02-25T17:08:00.000-08:00

Hyperbole will kill me one day! But that may be an exaggeration.

Yes, dear reader, today’s installment focuses around the fair art of overstatement! Hyperbole is a deliberate and obvious exaggeration used for effect – and we all know how affected I am.

I have often pictured myself as a daring superhero that darts about the streets while donning a cape and form-fitting spandex, of course, and fights the most nefarious villains ever to grace (?) the face of the earth! During the day I would play the role of mild-mannered Eric, but at night I would become The Hyperbolic Boy, the greatest superhero of all time!

Granted, the Hyperbolic Boy would not be like just any superhero – no, he would go around saving the world by giving everyone a taste of overstated joy! He would not battle against Magneto’s or Lex’s, but rather against monotony and literalism! It is not fascism or communism, but rationalism that is the greatest foe of the Hyperbolic Boy! No one dares fight against him because he’ll just throw an infinite amount of absolute statements in his foes’ faces until they die!

Wow, I’m pretty much the smartest guy ever for coming up with the most-clever superhero of all time. Besides, if that doesn't work out for me, I could be the most evil - and stylish - communist in world history. And that’s no exaggeration!

Homonomonibus

2008-02-23T17:10:00.000-08:00

Have you ever seen the original Superman movie? You know the part where a gang of evil Kryptonians is imprisoned in the Phantom Zone by sentence of the council and Jor-El, Kal-El’s (Superman’s) father? My February has been very similar to that.

In spite of that banishment, my dear reader, here is a long-belated entry that will signal another series of posts; however, this time we will not traverse space and time like we did last time. No – here we begin a journey across the English language!

“So let me get this right,” you’ll have had a long time to think about this in my absence, “you’re going to bore us into forgetting your negligence?”

Anything but, dear reader! What I am about to present to you is one of the most time consuming cognitive hobbies one can have: homonyms.

A homonym is a set of words that are spelled or pronounced in the same way as another but have different meanings! What fun!

During the madness that was this last summer at Mount Hermon, I began playing little games to keep my mind sharp and my co-workers on their toes. Of the least benign of these games, homonyms were at the center. I do not know if it was Wink (Emily) or Mr. Roboto (me – as an aside, do you think “Pumpernickel” would be a good camp name?) who began collecting these words first, but it became a great joy to us both. We did not collect words that are spelt the same, but rather only shared similar pronunciations.

What fun to make up sentences like: “I need an eye but you’ll see I was kneed in my butt by the sea on Yule day” or “Where is he who swayed the Heroin Heroine to wear suede?” or “We praise him when he prays while he does not know how to knot two shoes, so he shoos in the inn while I sew eye patches.” The nonsense is almost limitless!

Ask me for a more complete list of homonyms if you like, dear reader, and prepare yourselves for more exciting adventures in the near future as I, like a literary Steve Zissou, document the marvels of our fair language!

I just needed a way of inserting this picture

Fat Tuesday Week

2008-01-31T09:32:00.000-08:00

We all know there’s no pity in piety, and so I ask for none; however, I must admit that Lent has taken me by surprise this year. Ash Wednesday, less than a week away, will begin the mourning preparation process for Good Friday (also absurdly early this year!) and then the celebratory feasting at Easter.

I’m excited for Easter and more than willing to practice the Lenten season, but I am a little more skeptical of this whole Fat (Shrove) Tuesday thing.

“Eric…” you chime in.

I’m glad you’re here today, dear reader!

“Oh, thanks… I was wondering if you meant that you are for or against Fat Tuesday - or as most people refer to it: Mardi Gras? I’m almost afraid to ask this, but what are you thinking?”

Wonderful, dear reader! I knew you’d come around to asking nicely. Perhaps this tale from my second year at Cal Poly will elucidate my position:

I was at home with several of my roommates, a couple friends, and a van with a portable power supply. It was Mardi Gras weekend (a phenomenon created Frat boys and kegs of Natty Ice), and we decided that we wanted nothing to do with the anarchy we thought would ensue, as it had the year before. With a brilliant suggestion, a few calculations, and the decision to borrow our friends’ van, we set about to watch a movie at the beach.

We had the projector, we had a possible screen, we had the chutzpah, but what would we hold the screen up with?

A roommate, who’s name I will leave out, so as not to incriminate him the court of law, informed me that we could use the no parking sign in front of our house because it had been knocked down by some drunken Mardi Gras partier. I thought this was a fine suggestion! A couple of minutes later I walked outside to see if my roommate had secured the knocked over pole to find his with a saw cutting the pole down himself! I yelled, "Camel-Nose" (not really, but I’m trying to protect his identity, remember?), and then he turned to me with his impish smile and gave me a shrug of his shoulders that made everything better.

We never ended up using the cut-down pole.

As you can see, dear reader, Mardi Gras is a good time when handled responsibly, and I love good times! I think Fat Tuesday is worthy of a weeklong celebration; worthy of celebrating life to the fullest before we begin reflecting on death.

So, dear reader, don’t be surprised if you don’t hear much from me this week – I have a tea-induced hangover to suffer from.

Fountain of Youth - Conclusion

2008-01-27T22:09:00.000-08:00

Since I seem to be the worst explorer since Columbus, I have not gone very far in my search for the fountain of youth. I mean, what gives! America has taught me that all of my desires ought to be instantly gratified… not to mention all of the misinformation my dear readers have been leaving in the comments’ section. Is the fountain in Iowa, Washington, Colorado? I don’t know anymore. In fact, I think all of this uncertainty has added about seven years.

Perhaps the fountain of youth is not some glorified hot tub, but rather the search for that glorified hot tub! Maybe the youth sought is not a physical but spiritual in nature? Aside from feeling a little cheated by that thought, I still don’t really know what it means.

Fortunately I remembered something Jason Schwartzman once told me: “Find something you love and do it for the rest of your life.” Thank you Jason. But what is my Rushmore? What could give me the drive to stalwartly move forward, accepting each new day and challenge with grace and poise?

“Eric, that’s really sweet,” you somewhat confuse me, “I didn’t realize how much my being your audience meant to you.”

This is a slightly more awkward position than I hoped to be in. Dear reader, I think you’re great and all, but I just don’t feel that way about you… I hope we can still be friends.

“Yeah, I understand,” I think I hear a muffled sob, “that’s what I meant too.”

Let’s move on then!

I don’t need fast cars, loose women, or plentiful cash to make me feel young, but what I do need is the internet! No-no, hear me out here! Maybe you, dear reader are actually part of my youth – namely if I’m stalking you.

Something that I discovered in college is that there are so many great tools online for invading people’s lives! This act was given an appropriate verb by Joey, the very model of masculinity, namely: ‘creeping.’ One might say, “Sorry, I can’t go out tonight because I’ve got to creep the ‘Space.”

Bearded Glory

“Eric,” you sound a little confused, “what in the world does stalking people have to do with staying young?”

Well, dear reader, stalking people used to be a very difficult and involved task. I once wrote a song about it, parodying Nancy Sinatra’s little ditty:

These shoes are made for stalking,
And that’s what they’re gonna do,
So baby, you’re not careful,
And they’ll be stalking you!

Strangely it never took a number one spot on any charts.

Fortunately, stalking no longer requires leaving the convenience of your home. You could stalk people at age sixty better than you did in your physical prime!

The Devil?

Also, it saves a great deal of time when it comes to investing in relationships. I no longer need to ask a person their thoughts on art, music, love, sexuality, religion, politics, and favorite quotes – all of this is now readily available on the web. What’s more, people appreciate this sort of voyeurism because they would rather not waste their time talking about themselves with you so they can get to the main issue of… well, themselves. I know it doesn’t make sense, but they really do appreciate your not wasting their time.

I can simulate a three-year relationship with a person in twenty minutes simply by cutting and pasting.

Where does this leave me? I can have multiple romances and careers over the internet in the amount of it takes to hand out the Academy Awards. Really, it comes down to essentially living in dog years.

So, do you actually find youth? No. But you do get to experience more things without actually experiencing them. What a great life I have ahead of me!

Who needs Sweden, Alaska, or any other physical fountain of youth? Everything has switched from analog to digital anyways! The internet has plenty of beautiful people, fishes, limitless ads for health care (in your pants), and hipsters - else could the fountain of youth need?

So make your myspace only available to your friends because the youngest guy on the internet block is coming to see who is in your top eight!

Fountain of Youth - Part II

2008-01-24T10:15:00.000-08:00

After my shocking conclusion the other day that I am unable to pursue my wildest dreams (and they’re pretty wild) in Sweden, I decided to do some extensive research into America’s Sweden…

“Solvang, CA?” you’ll ignorantly cut in.

No, dear reader, that would be America’s quaint Danish town. I am speaking about the land we swindled from the Russians, our land we continue to rape and pillage, the land patrolled by cruise liners. Yes, my dear reader, I am singing the tune of “Alaska Ho!”

Alaska truly parallel’s my Scandinavian homeland, it has people (some of which I think may possibly be considered beautiful), fresh salmon, oil dividends (that I could use for healthcare), and I think there is hipster potential.

Alaska has people in it, about 670,000 to be more precise. And while the entire state has less people than some of the cities I’ve lived in, these people are the salt of the earth! Well, it is not really wise to salt Alaskan earth because it would require a lot to melt the snow, and it would make for very acidic water. This point aside, there are people in Alaska, and I think they might be healthy. So, maybe I could be healthy too!

One thing Alaska certainly has going for it is its ample supply of fresh fish – particularly salmon. Last night I had a tea-based salmon dish that was exquisite! Think of all the tea and salmon I could eat together? And while it could cost you a fortune to eat the amount of fish I’d like here in the contiguous states, in Alaska they practically give it away! I would have more essential fatty acids than you could shake a frost-covered stick at!

Alaska is rich in natural resources, and this means we have a duty to ravage the land until there are none left. However, this means some hippies might get a little bent out of shape, so rather than actually address the issue of a destroyed environment, the US Government simply buys people off. “What, you don’t want us clubbing those baby seals for giggles and ess’s, well how about several thousand a year? That sounds about even, right?” Well, I don’t support paying off hippies, but I do support a quick buck in my pocket, so sign me up!

Lastly and most importantly, I want to live in a land where you can tell a hipster just by looking at them. Here in Santa Cruz, any given person walking down the street might be a hipster with their ostentatious garb and asymmetrical haircuts, but if you were to look at their myspace music interests, there’d be more crap than a dung beetle could handle. Some how being a hipster became popular, and thus hipsterness is destroyed! I mean what’s the point of looking a certain way if I can’t instantly judge a person? Some people call it stereotyping – I call it saving time. Fortunately, there are still lands unexplored by hipster-kind. These are the natural resources I want to extort! If I could be the hipster king of Alaska, then my name could be immortalized, and I would in a sense be forever young. If the Scandinavian countries can bring us Junior Senior, then Alaska can produce something at least two fifths as cool!

A Nameless Hipster

So, dear reader, perhaps I need not flee my fair country to achieve youngness, but it doesn’t seem like I can stick around in California for much longer. Everything here gets old far too quickly.

Tune in next time for the dramatic conclusion!...

The Fountain of Youth - Part I

2008-01-22T09:23:00.000-08:00

Until recently I was unaware of the fact that I am getting old. I am fortunate enough to have an older friend who informed me that life is pretty much over at the age of 23, making my life on earth very short indeed. And like so many in the reliquary, I have decided to pursue the fabled fountain of youth!

“Now, Eric,” my dear reader, you will undoubtedly worry, “I know you’ve been out of the blogging scene for a while…” to which I’m sure you’re heart broken about. “Please don’t put words in my mouth – but could you have missed that you’re admonition of the fountain of youth being fabled means that you will have quite some difficulty finding it?”

Alas my dear reader, it is true that the fountain of youth sought by Juan Ponce de León in Florida is little more than myth (or at least as transitory as Aunt Sylvie from Housekeeping), and so I do not intend to head south to the home of my brother’s family, but rather I am heading north to one of my many European, ancestral homelands!

Yes, dear reader, I am returning to Sweden with all of its beautiful people, gelatinized fish, socialized health care, and rampant hipsters. Actually, those four things are exactly what I’m placing my hope in!

If you ever meet a beautiful Swede on the street and strike up conversation with them, you might think about asking them out to dinner, but I highly recommend you first find out their age, as it is not uncommon for a seventy-six year old to look like she’s twenty-six. This doesn’t mean that a fifty-six year old would look like a six year old, but probably somewhere in her early twenties… it’s not an exact science. You see, some combination of the environment and resources in Sweden have led to its people being nigh-immortal, super geniuses! While you do not receive the full benefits of this strange land’s transformative powers if you enter its bourn after your birth, it can prolong your trek on this earth for several lifetimes.

Perhaps the most important natural resource of Sweden is found swimming off shores: the Lutfisk. Lutfisk is a gelatinized fish that after being caught transmutes into a Jello-giggler shaped like one of the various pagan gods of the Nordic lands. It is said that eating three Lutfisks a week can give you the strength of twelve men! Not to mention all of the fish oils do wonders for your hair.

In the off chance that you have medical problems while visiting the veritable paradise that is Sweden, fear not! The socialized health care in Sweden is fast and efficient, and it even bends the laws of thermodynamics for the sake of aiding its patients. It is able to provide these exceptional services by having three hyper-intelligent robot doctors per patient. And fear not a robot rebellion, for Sweden also has genetic engineered telekinetic humans who are each responsible for controlling twenty robots; however no problems have ever arose due to robot/human intermarriages which have been available since 1982 (making Sweden the second country in the world to allow a machine/animal union).

Lastly, there are enough hipsters in Sweden to put California to shame. According to a reliable source, Sweden has more trendy haircuts and sweet-ace bicycles than Tyr could hold in his hand (no, his other hand). While hipsters are known to be rampant smokers, thus in the states have shorter life expectancy, in Sweden the heat from the tip of a cigarette helps keep blood circulating in their frigid climate. If these Swedish hipsters are anything like me, they are dancing all the time, and thus have cardiovascular exercise on a semi-weekly basis. Oh, and good music makes you live longer.

Yes, Sweden would be a fine place to go; however, I can’t afford airfare. I’m afraid I may just need to look somewhere else for my fountain of youth…

Rockus Caucus

2008-01-06T14:08:00.001-08:00

The other day I was enjoying the blogging of an esteemed colleague, and he noted a trip through JFK airport; however, in keeping with the stylistic choices of his blog, everything is written in lower case. Now, competent individuals could have easily deduced that “jfk” meant “JFK,” but as you may have guessed, dear reader, I am not the brightest spool of yarn in the batch. I took “jfk” to be some new dirty internet lingo – you know, if you didn’t want someone to think that you were merely kidding. No! Let’s add some flipping emphasis here!

Needless to say, I’ve been thinking a good deal about the presidency as of late. Actually, this came up while sharing the exact same thought above with two dear friends of mine:

The Most-Married Ryan Burnham

The Most-Engaged Adam Rechenmacher

Amidst my witty remarks the conversation somehow turned to the then-up-coming-but-now-past Iowa Caucus. One of the two them remarked that they didn’t think it was fair that Iowa got to have a caucus but we didn’t. Some first class grumbling of approval followed. Eventually Adam came up with the last great idea of 2007: A Rockus Caucus.

Granted, when Adam said this it was really nothing more than a silly phrase, but I have decided that we must indeed throw a California Rockus Caucus!

“Okay, Eric,” you’ve been pretty good so far, dear reader, but I imagined you’d poke your nose in here somewhere, “you apparently enjoy using the phrase ‘Rockus Caucus’ quite a bit, but what exactly does it entail?”

I’m glad you asked, my dear reader. A Rockus Caucus is not about candidates telling us what we want to hear, but rather showing us what we (namely I) want to see: partying. Sure, maybe some curmudgeonly old fart has a plan to end national debt, but if that person (be them man or woman) can’t shake it on the dance floor, then you can best bet that I’ll print and sport a t-shirt with their likeness and reading “Not My President”.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. A Rockus Caucus would consist of three categories of measurement:

Category the first) how much liquor does it take for a candidate to party. Now, I would personally think higher of a president who required less. I know that I can dance pretty hard without a drop, and why would I want to vote someone my inferior to one of the most powerful positions in the world?

Category the second) how good are they at dancing? Granted, we all have different interpretations of dancing, but I would fight to keep all bumping and/or grinding out of a presidential race. After all, a president good on their feet means a president good in foreign policy… it’s a direct correlation.

Lastly, category the third) how good is the candidate at getting other people to party too? Just about anyone can have fun dancing if they’ll just let themselves, but in order to make for a truly good party, other people need to get pulled in. Isn’t inclusively what America is supposed to be all about? Let’s get the whole party going, not just one dance!

There you have it my friends, I lay the invitation to all candidates of all parties. Do you want California’s endorsement to the highest office of the land? Meet me in Santa Cruz on January 26 and we will party to the presidency!

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes!

2007-12-31T07:46:00.000-08:00

“Wait a minute, Eric!” you (dear reader) blurt out before I can even begin my last post for the year, “is this going to be some cheesy retrospective on the year and all of the changes you went through during its course?”

Well, dear reader, to tell you the truth it was going to be about David Bowie, but I am nothing if not democratic… the people have spoken! Here is 2007 in review:

January was complicated,
As my sister married the boy she dated.

February events are hard to tell,
As life in SLO went to hell.

March started a new life with resolution,
For I finished Cal Poly and Intro to Air Pollution.

April changes take place every year
Because I always grow a year older.

May was my last month on the Central Coast
So we danced for all those birth could boast.

June’s graduation made me thank my maker,
But still I shook my fist at Warren Baker.

In July I saw my first Echo campers,
When I think of them my heart leaps and scampers.

August stole my dear, sweet Paul,
For whom I wrote a poem to share with you all.

September called me back to Mount Hermon,
Where I have a roommate who likes to speak German.

In October I started to explore a denomination,
That practically celebrates Christ’s Incarnation.

November meant a Thanksgiving far from McCollum -
Fortunately our potluck was not solemn.

December did not change a whole ton,
Even so, I ask: God bless us, everyone!

There you go, weaselnuts – I hope you gleaned a thing or two from all of the changes I went through this year. This last year was quite tumultuous at times – I most certainly did not handle post-college life as well as some, but probably better than others too. So I toast to 2007: You were a fine year with much heartbreak and tears, but you also brought me great love and joy. Raise you glasses high my friends, for in a few brief hours we'll be through with this gloridiculous year forever!

Or as DB put it, “Time may change me, but I can’t trace time.” Whatever that means…

Watch out 2008 - I'm coming for you

On The Second Day of Christmas...

2007-12-26T12:07:00.000-08:00

He Sees You When You’re Sleeping?

2007-12-23T15:34:00.000-08:00

We can probably all think of a couple deadly sins that Santa is guilty of (greed, gluttony), but would any of us call him slothful? Oh, if you were thinking that was a rhetorical question, you’re wrong; I would.

For years now we’ve labored under the delusion that Santa is an industrious old elf, but I want to assure you that this is simply no longer true. Perhaps back in the day before the Internet and jet planes we were all impressed by Santa’s efforts to zip around the world, but even back then this was not nearly as impressive as we were deluded to believe.

“Wait a minute, Eric,” you scowl, “you really blew it this time. You’re a real blockhead. Santa Claus goes around the entire world in a single night and single-handedly delivers presents for every man, woman, and child on earth! What isn’t spectacular about that?”

Well my dear reader, I will grant you that this would be an amazing feat, but I assure you that this is a lie. Santa does not visit every man, woman, and child. Santa does not go all around the world on one night. Santa does not work alone! Santa simply has great PR here in America.

Allow for me to explain myself. Firstly, Santa does not need to visit every man woman and child on earth, simply those who celebrate Christmas – more specifically those who celebrate Santa’s role in Christmas. Santa is not only excluded by religious fanatics, but also non-Western Christians, those opposed to breaking and entering, and anyone who fears allowing an old white man control one more industry. Santa barely has to visit Asia, which contains more than a third of the world’s population. Really Santa does not need to visit that many people.

Santa also does not operate solely on the night of December the 24th, no he also makes sure to deliver some gifts on the day St. Nicholas of Myra is venerated, December 6. Many Europeans do not receive gifts on actual Christmas day, but rather venerate the birth of Christ on the day and then practice gift giving on the day of one of the most recognizable saints, Saint Nicholas-Sinterklaas-Santa Claus. Also in many Eastern Rite countries, gifts are given on Epiphany (or the day of the Magi or the Twelfth Day of Christmas) to represent the gifts brought to the toddler Jesus by some of the most famous, unnamed Eastern Astrologers in history. And I don’t know about you, but when I was growing up I sometimes saw packages from Santa under the tree before Christmas morning, so he must have pre-shipped some items to parents who understood his busy schedule. Lame.

Lastly, Santa obviously does not run a solo operation. Aside from his seemingly limitless labor source in the elves (I’ll get back to them later), Santa is known to have demon slaves (most notably Black Peter) carry his gifts for him! In some countries he even sends his little minions into the houses for him! Santa becomes little more than a glorified slave master! Bah humbug!

At least we can rest assured that elves are no longer low-cost, North Pole labor. When was the last time any of us received something from Santa that was even remotely homemade? Like everyone else, Santa is now outsourcing from other countries (it’s either that or he’s infringing on more copyright laws than even he has the financial resources to fight in court) and is buying corporate made gifts. If Santa is still employing his elves, I imagine they are now shrewd investors accruing Santa capital rather than factory laborers. I think the next step in the dialectic of history is a socialist elf rebellion… but I digress – as always.

So, this year while you’re sipping your hard nog, don’t get overly sentimental about Santa and his difficult task. Instead we should head the advice of Mr. Stevens and boldly proclaim: “Get behind me, Santa!”

A Global Warning

2007-12-21T10:23:00.001-08:00

After Al Gore invented Global Warming back in 2006 we have all had to take it in the cahonies to go green or go home. It’s really not all that bad of a thing living a sustainable lifestyle; I pioneered the trend years before Gore started changing the global climate. So here are some suggestions for you chowder heads about saving our planet.

Al Gore Spreading Global Warming

Firstly, animals are smelly. Did you know that a single cow produces more natural pollution in a day than England during the entire Industrial Revolution? That’s not even to mention how all the CO2 they’re pumping into the air by just breathing.

“Eric,” you are more than likely to interject, “are you recommending the wholesale slaughter of the bovine race?”

Fear not dear reader, I do not come to bury cows but to praise them. However, I plan on making those deadbeat cows start carrying their own weight (with the price of ground beef around $2.00/lb. is quite a bit of weight) and do something for the environment. Perhaps, dear reader, you remember a little fad out of the 1980s – the Chia Pet. I propose that we begin growing Carbon Dioxide fighting plants on all of our oxygen consuming friends. Whoever thought that owning a pet could be a staple of going green?

Secondly, if you really want to help save the world, you’ll be sure to drink lots of wine. Now, I am not encouraging wantonness, but there are some distinct advantages to drinking wine. If we all could commit ourselves to drinking more wine, there would be more standing vineyards which have vines year-round selflessly converting dangerous climate changing chemicals into safe air and delicious ambrosia.

Wine also is full of healthy anti-oxidants that will prolong our lives. If we live longer, we’ll want to preserve our planet – as we don’t seem to care about leaving it to our children in a crappy condition, but we do want it to be nice while we’re here. We are intimately wedded to the planet, and if it dies so do we. What a downer.

A toast to love, music, wine, and revolution

Lastly, let’s not be pretentious…

“I don’t believe the words coming out of your finger tips!”

Dear reader, please! It is not a requirement that I always carry my nose slightly tilted up into the air. Anyways, I do not think that we need to hold to using cork to stop wine bottles. Must we continue to fell the mighty cork tree to make us better dancers? No! Plus I’ve had one too many bottles of wine corked by nefarious bacteria. Can’t we agree to twist the tops off of our wine? Perhaps we could even drink a glass or two from a box every now and then… but I won’t push revolution too heavily.

So dear reader, now that I’ve shown you two simple ways to fight global warming, we can uninvent Al Gore’s most recent contribution to the world.

“Thanks Eric, now I know.”

And knowing is half the battle.

An Emo Day

2007-12-19T16:22:00.000-08:00

Today, dear reader, I provide you with a short eulogy for several trees that were felled at Redwood this morning.

I am most impressed by these behemoths, the redwoods. They are the basis for an entire ecosystem, and like so many relationships, symbiosis with the other flora and fauna keep these trees alive. However, more importantly still, they seem to have a sublime importance about them that silences my internal monologue.

I guess you could say I’m starting to envy the trees.

I’ve Just Read a Face I Can’t Forget

2007-12-13T11:29:00.000-08:00

I’m not going to lie to you dear reader: I love women. However, I have run into a bit of a problem, I have no chance with the women I am completely infatuated with. I’m not talking about movie stars (I have no idea what film Scarlet Jo Hansen was in last) and I’m not talking about rock stars (I learned my lesson after Sherri Dupree married the guy from New Found Glory). My hopes with these women are even less.

Perhaps some of you have had the pleasure of following the adventures of my landlocked Paul, and have read about his recent bouts of good fortune. Paul is now an acquaintance and student of perhaps one of our greatest living literary minds, Marilynne Robinson – I am more than a tad jealous of him. If you’ve still got your finger up your nose and are stuck on Eggers or Sedaris, perhaps Ms. Robinson isn’t for you, but she is absolutely wonderful!

“Wait wait!” you will no doubt interject, “Eric, are you trying to say that you are in love with the author, Marilynne Robinson?”

Well dear reader, in a sense I am. She intelligent, clever, incredibly talented, and most importantly, her soul is attuned to the beauty and majesty of Christ. She is everything that a woman should be… Her books make me want to be a better human being.

“Eric,” I can hear your stomach turn, “don’t you think it’s a little unusual (aka ‘creepy’) for a post-pubescent-man-child of your age to be in love with a sixty-year-old woman?”

I anticipated your concern dear reader, and I’m afraid matters just get worse. You see, I am in love with more than one woman, and what’s more, I have even less of a chance with the other women I’m in love with.

“Pray tell just how many women you claim to be ‘in love with?’”

Well, for the sake of not giving you quite so big of a shock, I will only mention the ones I have particularly loved this year…

“How many?”

Six.

“Six women! My word! Couldn’t you just stick to one per season?”

I’m sorry dear reader, but I must ask that you stop your interruptions if you would like for this post to go anywhere. Over this past year there have been six women whose writings have been of utmost importance to me. Six women who have seen me as something than the little mooncalf I am and have lifted me up with aerial spirits.

I will not give book recommendations for these women because I think too highly of them, and I do not want to give you en masse a voyeuristic view of our relationships, and so I will simply give you their photographs and names in order that we met this year. I have known some of them longer than this year, but 2007 was certainly the year of women writers.

Iris Murdoch

Willa Cather

Flannery O’Connor

Marilynne Robinson

Lauren Winner

Anne Morrow Lindbergh

It is true that most of these women are dead, some married, and all out of my reach, but whoever claimed love to be rational?

If I were ever to meet one of these women, I’m not certain how I would strike up conversation with them… I’m certain anything I could say would just sound stupid. So, I guess I would hope to meet them in a bar so I could at least use a pick up line: “Hey Willa, if you were in that book you wrote, you’d be fine print.”

iEric

2007-12-07T10:29:00.000-08:00

Dear readers, it has come to my attention that I am not very cool. This is frustrating to me because I used to be something of a hipster, but now I can’t seem to tell the difference between something Indie and something lobotomite would spur.

Eric as a Hipster King

I’ve been attempting to figure out where it is that I went wrong. When was it that I went from a dynamo to a dinosaur? Am I simply old? No, I’m in the height of my youth! Then what could it be that reduced me to obscurity?

Perhaps it all started when my beloved friend and roommate Jordan moved out. He was a hip individual, and I certainly did inherit a bit from him (dancing, pants). However, I don’t think I can pin all of my problems on his leaving San Luis Obispo, and besides, I was handed his kingdom when he left town, and I enjoyed a fruitful reign as San Luis entered its golden age.

Jordan Jolliff as a Spider

Perhaps I’ll never truly figure out what it is that took the brightest star of the heavens and thrust it down into the green muck of obscurity, but I do need to figure out how to bring myself back from it – figure out how to make myself shine once again.

I don’t need any more bad publicity, but this kind of thing happens all the time

What I need is a makeover. I need to find something that will cause the youth of America to look at me and say, “he’s in.” No, something that will make them say, “he’s ahead of the game.” Or they could say that in whatever hip lingoslang they’re using these days, but of that I can tell you nothing.

“Okay Eric, you’re not cool – we all know that,” you may less than fairly admit, “but what hope do you have of turning yourself around?”

Well my dear, albeit unkind, reader, I have taken my cue from Apple and have decided to place a big old ‘i’ in front of my name. Do you remember when computers began to be super boring and then Apple said, “Let’s put that there ‘i’ in front of ‘Mac’ and then we’ll see some happy customers!” Oh-oh, or do you remember people thought that only peas went in pods, but Apple told us that ‘i’ could go in a pod too? That one really seems to be working out for them. Most recently they’ve taken the dying fad of cell phones and breathed new life into it by inserting that beloved ‘i.’

Why is it that we are willing to pay more money for anything if there is an ‘i’ in front of it? Well, quite simply ‘i’ stands for ‘image.’ When you buy any Apple product you are buying a lifestyle (*cough* iLife *cough*), and you are letting the world know that you’re not afraid to stand up in its face and say that you don’t need to follow the trends any more… no, you’re willing to think different.

So, what would [image]Eric be like? Well, he’d be surprisingly like normal Eric, but people would know that if you hung out with him you were hip. People would get whiplash as they turned about in the streets to see you casually laughing with your friend, iEric. iEric will be completely compatible with your fast-paced lifestyle, and he’d always be good for a silhouetted dance number.

So, don’t be lame, be friends with iEric today. You’d better just hope that you don’t sign up right before a new generation comes out because then you’d be hella lame. And take it from me, iEric, lame is not the new cool.

My Level 5 Leader could Pown Your Level 3 Engineer

2007-11-30T10:45:00.001-08:00

Can I kvetch for a little while?

“Please do Eric,” I hope you allow, “I haven’t had my fill of whiney-emo-chatter today.”

Did I detect on note of sarcasm in your voice, dear reader? Well, whether or not, I’ll take what I can get. One of the great frustrations of being a Mount Hermon intern is that you have to read some things that no self-respecting (which I shouldn’t claim to be) human being ought to read! Over the last several months I have been reading and discussing Jim Collins’ national-bestseller, Good to Great, or as I would call it, Simple Ideas Rehashed Until You Commit Seppuku with this Book. My title suggestion was ignored by his publishers.

Jim Collins’ Good to Great

I will give it to Jim, he knows how to take other people’s success stories and package them in such a way that he made a pretty penny himself. He gives us such witty analogies as ‘getting the right people on the bus” and “wash your cottage cheese,” and he has taught me how to curl up into a ball like a hedgehog (one of my favorite pastimes).

“Okay,” you interrupt (as usual), “where is this going, Eric? You’re not even doing that great of a job at complaining.”

My dear, and astute, reader, you are correct – my main purpose today is not to complain, but rather to follow Mr. Collins’ lead and embark on my own journey in capitalism! You see, one of Jim’s chapters is on what he calls “a level 5 leader,” and at this I thought to myself: Eric, is he speaking about some nerdy RPG (Role Playing Game, for you newbs) like Dungeons and Dragons? Naturally he was not, but that didn’t stop me from running with it.

I’ve never really played Dungeons and Dragons, but I’ve known a few nerds in my day

[Insert nerdy sound here.] My level 5 leader has a toupee of charisma and a +6 tie of recitation. [Pushes up glasses and another nerdy sound.]

Seriously guys, I think I could be onto something here! I could call it something like Associations and Accountants and you could create different character classes like Engineers, Accountants, CEOs, Investors, and Interns.

Potential Character Figurines for the Game

Okay, I can tell that you’re not sold on the idea, so allow for me to play Office Master and give you a possible scenario for my level 5 Leader.

A Level 5 Leader is gifted in both controlling employees and magic

Your Leader enters the corporate office, and something is obviously amiss. The foul stench of an alien presence permeates the halls. You proceed with caution. As you approach your lush corner office you are intercepted by your level 1 assistant. He informs you that there are a group of foreign investors in the boardroom. You can smell the hostile takeover.

A Horde of Foreign Investors

You slip into the boardroom, armed with Ostrich Leather Attaché Case forged by Jack Georges. The Foreign Investors swarm about the room, looking for blood. You whip out your +6 pen of trickery and begin battling your enemies. They cast a spell of offering good stock options, but you block with macho ego and then retaliate with a “for the good of the company” speech. The Foreign Investors begin to grow sleepy – your attack was successful. You practice your verbal agility and bullshit them into supplication. You are victorious in your first battle of the day! (You gained 1200 XP and $50,000 GP)

A Cantankerous Stockholder

As you leave the boardroom an impish man leaps out from behind the water cooler. Keeping your calm, you assess the situation: Samuel Chiggins, major stockholder, level 4. Chiggins announces that he will sell his stock to a rival firm unless his demands are met. You straighten your +57 tie of charisma and offer Chiggins a handshake of sedation. Chiggins takes your hand and you begin your verbal assault. Your veiled threats are too subtle to penetrate the old geezer’s ear hair, and you quickly change your battle tactics. Chiggins begins a brutal barrage of anecdotes about the company, but you are able to deflect by glancing at your +2 Rolex. Eventually you satisfy Chiggins by scheduling a meeting with him two weeks down the road, by which time his senility will make him forget all about his attack. (You gained 2000 XP and $63,000 GP)

A Rising Business Woman

As you return to your office your level 1 assistant once again stops you in the hall to inform you that a businesswoman is waiting in your office. You put up your guard and enter the room to find a level 3, business suit clad woman sitting on your plush leather sofa. You ask if you can be of service to her, and she begins to discuss the direction of her career. You recognize her as the woman who has been climbing the corporate ladder and decide to put on a concerned frown as she speaks. As she begins to push towards advancement and you deftly cast a spell of glass-ceiling and thus thwart her attempts at progress. Seizing the opportunity you offer to further discuss her career in your corporate hot tub on Friday night, she is unable to resist your poise. (You Gained 2300 XP, $70,000 GP, and a date for Friday)

You are on top of the World

You leave the office victorious and head toward your corporate jet for a quick trip to the Bahamas – you’ve earned it.

The Level 5 Leader Leaves a Little Richer

If you are reading this Jim Collins, get on the bus!

And I Kant Stand Him!

2007-11-28T11:06:00.001-08:00

I was recently visited by my good friend Ben, and amidst our fine dining and pithy conversations, he was attempting to retreat from the world for a short time (fear not my dear Protestant worrywarts, he had every intention of returning) in order to write his Senior Project.

Ben and some of the McCollum Kids

As a quick aside for those of you who did not attend the prestigious California Polytechnic State University at San Luis Obispo: Everyone who passes through the school’s learned halls must complete an opus that represents the acme of their academic work; everyone must complete a Senior Project that will be stored in the honorable Robert E. Kennedy Library for posterity. I wrote an ironic (misunderstood) essay on the history of the spiritual ramifications of the Bauhaus between the years of 1919 and 1932 – I know that it has been viewed on microfiche at least three times since being entered into the Library database.

Unless you object (which no doubt you’d like to, my most objectionable readers), I will carry on with the story at hand. Ben is a philosopher…

“Eric, this had better not be a boring philosophy story!” you will no doubt rudely interject. “Didn’t you learn your lesson after writing ‘Le Morte D’Bushman’ and had your audience sighing over your asinine, fifty paged attempt at wit?”

Well, I’m sure not all of my readers are quite so perturbed as you, dear reader, and thus I must ask for your patience (and tact) to be exercised in this instance. As I was saying, Ben is a philosopher, and as such he is given to philosophizing. His Senior Project is an attempt to move beyond justification though citation into original thought.

Dame Iris Murdoch

Now, if you know anything about Ben’s philosophical background, you know that he is hell-bent on discrediting Kant and making him the laughingstock of the philosophical world. Ben is attempting to use Dame Iris Murdoch’s philosophy to prove that Kant was speaking out of an orifice that most scholarship seems to come from. While I appreciate Ben’s project, I do not believe that Kant needs to be refuted from a philosophical standpoint, but rather I find it categorically imperative to defeat Kant once and for all in the realm of aesthetics!

Dear reader, this is our enemy, Immanuel Kant:

As you can see, Kant’s portraits range from looking downright evil to baboonish. Point the first, if we were to take Kant’s philosophy to act in a universilizabile fashion seriously, then I would ask for Immanuel to have a constant look about him! How can I take a stand of constancy when he can’t make up his mind to look like a bat out of hell or a Neanderthal!?

Point the second, look at him! The only reason he wants us to treat people as an ends unto themselves is because he knows that I could take him in a fight. Shoot, a one-armed, anemic child in an iron lung could rough him up! If the only groundwork he can lay for morals is that he doesn’t want to get thrashed by a school-girl returning home after having snow rubbed up her nose, then I don’t think we can take him all that seriously.

Point the third, to critique his reason practically and purely one only needs insert his name into little puns like, “If he Kant be ‘Emmanuel,’ then I Kant read Immanuel.” He would never see that one coming.

Lastly, point the fourth, the only possible argument in support of a demonstration of the existence of Kant can be found by students biting their thumbs at their philosophy professors when they tell their students that they ought to be doing their reading. If Kant can’t write clearly enough to prove to me that he thought, I don’t think he deserves to exist.

In conclusion, Kant is a big weenie, and even if Ben can’t refute him using Iris’ arguments, I believe that she could take him in a fistfight. And I refuted Kant thus!

The moral of the story is: You can choose your battles, but you Kant always fight fair. That one will never get old.

Thanksgiving a Humbug?

2007-11-19T08:57:00.001-08:00

Do you remember when Thanksgiving used to be about gorging yourself on various tuber products and force-fed turkey? Or what about your Uncle Dave throwing back one or four too many glasses of wine? What about all of those nice fall color schemes in your house that you finally get to show off to your in-laws? Heck, we’ll even throw in some buckled hat pilgrims eating dinner with the Wampanoag in there if that helps get the spirit of Thanksgiving across. It doesn’t seem that long ago that people were so revved up about getting their double portion of turkey that they weren’t all too concerned with the culture of the market going on around them. But in this year, this the week of Thanksgiving, I have heard more complaints than thanks being offered. So buckle up, you chowderheads, this is going to be a bumpy ride.

I suppose it is true that Christmas seems to be coming quicker and quicker every year. People have been asking me, indignation on their faces, what I think about people already playing Christmas songs or (heaven forbid) purchasing Christmas trees? What is the correct date to begin celebrating Christmas?

I have, more than a little coyly, deferred to Dickens’ A Christmas Carol and wanting to keep Christmas alive in my heart year round as Scrooge had after his conversion, “and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that truly be said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless Us, Every One!” But people usually give me an exasperated sigh and say something to the affect of: “So you’re one of those people.”

Granted, the majority of complaints I receive from people about Christmas season are commercial ones. I’ve heard from folks that storefronts had barely taken down Halloween decorations before the Christmas ones were popping up. I can appreciate these concerns, I really can – they do seem to be signs of a further commoditization of Christmas (and all other holidays), but I wonder if Thanksgiving really cares about the face time. Do there need to be giant pilgrims and smiling turkeys in our stores to usher in the holiday cheer?

What Hand Turkeys have to do with Thanksgiving, I don't know... But they do.

However, I didn’t want to leave all of you dear readers debating the validity of this line of thinking, so I decided to invent a time machine and go back to the first Thanksgiving at Plymouth (not Berkeley) and partake in their merriment.

And so with the handy pilgrim costume I always keep on hand, I was in my time machine and rushing back to 1621. I arrived to the smell of fresh baked rolls and cooking duck and the sight of a child chasing a dog through a vegetable garden and her mother scolding close behind.

"The First Thanksgiving", painted by Jean Leon Gerome Ferris

I tried to hide in the margins (something I picked up from being a wallflower back in High School) but these kind people pulled me into tumult of their celebration. We feasted and laughed for hours, only taking breaks from our eating long enough to either go for what they called “walks to get gut a’circulating” or sweep the children up into our arms and set them upon our knees so they could recount their latest adventure.

The party was going on without a hitch, but I could tell that there was something missing… Dancing! These Pilgrims weren’t dancing! Now, I should have remembered from my history books that Protestants were not the biggest fans of dancing back in the Seventeenth Century, but I had maybe thrown back a little bit too much mead to consider that at the moment. I eventually swaggered over to the cutest bonneted lady I’d ever seen and took her by the hand. At first the dancing was a little strained, but she quickly took to it. There were a few frowns from on-lookers, but the Wampanoag began howling with laughter and a few of the tribe’s youth came to join us. Eventually the Pilgrims’ eyes began to soften and slowly but surely they joined us in the most ruckus Pilgrim Dance Party America had ever experienced.

Dancing continued until the early hours of the morning when we all collapsed in fits of laughter and Tryptophan induced comas. This truly was a Thanksgiving to be thankful for.

But then the unthinkable happened.

There was an unearthly scream that jarred us all awake. Little Alverice was gone but we could hear him crying. Without considering the danger we might be thrusting ourselves into, I rallied the Pilgrims and Wampanoag behind me and we charged into the wilderness after the lost lad.

A cool mist had settled low to the ground, making it impossible to see what we where stepping upon. Without warning Jonathan the carpenter was grabbed by something and sucked down bellow the fog. We jumped back instinctively, but after taking hold of my senses, I leapt into the fray. If I can fight giant spiders and vampires, I was ready to take on whatever this foe may be.

As I dove into the mist, a claw slapped me across my chest and I was lifted back into the air and collided with my companions.

The beast rose to its full height, towering above us. A werewolf. In that moment I knew that my former roommate Jordan was right in his speculation that Squanto had indeed been a werewolf.

Fortunately I always carry a silver knife on my person for such occasions. I once again charged the beast and threw myself into its torso. Fighting off a barraged of clawed blows, I climbed up its body, clutching tightly to clumps of its fur. Eventually I reached its chest, and after drawing my blade I smote it thus. The monster collapsed to the ground and was metamorphed back into the former British slave, Squanto.

After we returned to camp and nursed Jonathan back to health and returned young Alverice to his mother, the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag asked me if I would stay with them and help them build a new utopian society – they asked if I could lead them as their king. I told them that I needed to return to my own time and set a few things straight about this whole Thanksgiving business. They didn’t really understand what I was talking about, but there was not a dry eye among the lot of them.

And so my dear readers, I have returned to you in order to level this argument: Thanksgiving is about family and friends and an inordinate amount of food. Let’s try to keep Thanksgiving as uncommercialized as possible. And let us keep Christmas in our hearts year round.

I’m not really sure how that last one slipped in there.

I could Sell a Trunk-Elongator to an Elephant

2007-11-18T09:45:00.000-08:00

I sometimes wonder if all of my job experience will someday culminate into some impressive position in which I can utilize all of the skills I have acquired over the years. Sometimes I think of myself like Dr. Samuel Becket from TV’s Quantum Leap, except for instead of having multiple doctorates, Al’s ex-wives, a bad-breathed Gooshie, and a sassy computer named Ziggy, I have fake racists co-workers and knowledge about sizing a woman’s toe.

Remember that time Sam Leapt into Lee Harvey Oswald?

Since I don’t believe myself to be leaping through time (righting wrongs, making sure Arrested Development was still being produced), I will instead embark upon giving my litany of jobs.

I was no capitalist from a young age; I did not have lemonade stands or mow neighbors’ yards. Truth be told, I was just a lazy little bugger. I started my first job in High School under parental persuasion. I joined the ranks of the SanOmar empire and spent my days screen-printing shirts and making Farkle containers in what I lovingly dubbed “the sweatshop.” I don’t find it particularly strange that this is the time I started listening to heart-breaking music, as I was working in a sweltering box with an enraged Cuban and a yappy dog.

In an attempt to cut down my hours working for San Omar I began working for my Uncle Dave, performing market research for large computer-data-storage-devices. I still have no idea what I did. Was I getting paid to surf the most boring parts of the web or I actually working – unbeknownst to me – for some covert organization with intentions to conquer the world… It was probably just the boring Internet stuff.

However, my situation quickly changed, as situations tend to do, and I found myself no longer working for either my uncle (who moved out of the computer-storage business) and my Cuban chief (as he tried to kill me with a bottle of Icky-Sticky-Unstuck). And so, once again my parents encouraged me to find work; however, since we were in the process of moving from Washington to California I did not know where to look for work. I decided to take a job working Day Camp at the church my father had taken a position with – it should be worth a few laughs, right?

I will only give my time working at South Hills Community Church a brief aside here (as I worked for them twice in the future), but my time working Day Camp was one of the worst jobs I ever had. I like kids, I really do, but there was a general feeling of disgust and entitlement that circulated not only amongst the campers but the counselors as well and if you mix that with dehydration and the repetition of cheesy music, you’ve got yourself a work experience that is detrimental to the soul.

Let’s fast-forward past my senior year in High School, the following summer, and my first year at Cal Poly to the summer preceding my second year.

I am not proud of it, but when I started off that summer I was so desperate for a job and having such difficulty finding one that I spent a day working for the local paper, calling people up to ask if they’d like to purchase a subscription.

“Eric!” No doubt you’re aghast. “Are you telling us that you were a telemarketer?”

Yes, dear reader… I took the position by urging of my parents, and while I tried to justify it in my mind in some way, I could not.

“You’re scum, Eric.”

I cannot fight you, reader. I was so ashamed that I never returned the telemarketing office, not even to pick up my check for one-day’s work – they had to send me my check for thirty some-odd dollars.

My rebound from telemarketing may not have been a great improvement, but at least customers came into my store rather than my entering their home. Yes, I began my first retail experience by becoming a vitamin salesman for the renowned The Vitamin Shoppe. Sure, it wasn’t the most glorious job, but I didn’t have a B Complex about it. Ha ha ha! But seriously, I was working and gaining experience (in what, don’t ask me) and I left confidently believing that I would return to San Luis Obispo ready to find a job and take on the world!

I had forgotten something over the summer: San Luis Obispo is a college town saturated with cheap labor. I thought some lucky store would just snatch me up when they saw me strutting my stuff down Higuera St., but this was far from the truth. Once again I was at the mercy of the man, and I began a dogged search for an employer.

After several weeks of turning in applications I finally found someone who wanted me. Gary Wallace of Edgeware Cutlery offered me a job as a knife salesman. Thus I continued in my soul-sucking retail experience.

Our fiercest competition

My time at Edgeware wasn’t a terrible one, I met such interesting characters as Brian, my coworker who feigned being racist to be accepted by his red (which I learned did not me ‘communist’) friends. There was Randy the postcard guy who was in love with my other coworker Yoneko. There were quite a variety of people who I had no right to sell knives to.

The problem was that the store started to get to me. The whole place was full of glass cabinets, and I started having vivid daydreams about systematically or barbarically destroying the entire store, one eye gently twitching.

Eventually I could not take working at Edgeware, I was going crazy working retail, and knew that I would not return after the summer.

I had been offered a job in San Jose working for a company called Once Upon a Toe.

“What was that?” said not doubt with a suppressed giggle.

Yes, dear reader, I worked for company called Once Upon a Toe. We sold toe rings. I was a toe ring salesman. I sorted, fitted, and sold toe rings. Actually, I generally worked in the office, but it wasn’t unheard of for me to size a woman’s toe so she could purchase an appropriately sized toe ring that she could wear continuously. (No, I hardly did anything to make that sound more ridiculous.) During that summer I also worked for South Hills one last time.

Okay, this post is becoming quite tedious, and so I will some pictures explain what it was like working for Lifewater and Mount Hermon.

I was asked to dress like this to represent Lifewater

Johnny put up more of a fight than any High Schooler ever has

So, my work experience may not have taught me to be the most honest person who ever lived, but you can rest assured that I can sell a decorative supplement to an armed (albeit dehydrated) youth from another country at the drop of a hat. Sigh.

From the One You Left Behind...

2007-11-15T08:07:00.000-08:00

If I ever happen to have children (one of which would be named Linnaea), I would not allow them to attend school on 15 November, as it is one of the most important – albeit uncelebrated – days of the year (according to the Gregorian calendar).

Wait, dear reader, you look a little confused. Could it possibly be that you are unclear on what day it is?

“Okay, Eric,” you will probably pander, lip upturned and finger forcefully tapping your keyboard, “what day is today?”

What day is today? Why today is Paul McCullough day! This is the day when June McCullough gave birth to Paul “Bobby” McCullough a short twenty-two years ago. However, I will not give you a biographical sketch on Mr. McCullough because that job has already been breathlessly accomplished by one Alison Waffles, and so I defer you, dear reader, to her.

“Well, if you aren’t going to tell us about Paul’s life, then why are you taking up our time? You really screwed up this time.”

My word, you are on edge today, so allow for me to rush ahead!

Today I want to talk about myself (big surprise), and more specifically what Paul McCullough means to me. Since he is so far away, I figured that I could get away with writing him a very sentimental cinquain which I have decided to put on display for all of you here today. In honor of Ben’s witty comment earlier, I have named this poem “A Good Paul Isn’t Hard to Find:”

If I
don’t marry, Paul
could be my hetero-
sexual life partner. He’s a
good man.

Now that my heart’s bleeding all over your web browser, I will show you a couple of pictures to drive home the goodness of my dear friend.

Paul sitting with our dear friend Adam (who happens to be a hobo clown poet)

When Paul choreographed the dance numbers for the movie Footloose

Paul brought sexy back years before JT

Life imitating art imitating life

To Paul - may that magnificent son of a McCullough have many glorious years ahead of him!

So, while I will always encourage you to remember me when naming your children, I ask that you also pause before sending wee Eric or Erica to school come 15 November.

Stay Depressed Emo Kid

2007-11-09T15:11:00.000-08:00

Hands down Chris Carrabba front manned the best emo band ever in Dashboard Confessional. For all of you out there who find my crestfallen friend a tad bit whiney or annoying – you’ve probably leveled the same charges against me, and so I’m not even going to listen to you.

However, this is not a love note to my heartbroken buddy, but rather I wanted to explore what emo looks like in other cultures!

Now, we’re all probably familiar with the stereotypical emo garb, kindly displayed on my friend Ben bellow (I snuck Paul in there too because he was probably playing some hella melancholic tunes at the time). You’ll note the black clothing, hair in the face, and dissatisfied expression – please keep that in mind for the remainder of this rambling.

Despite the derision of my peers (if one can call them that), I adamantly believe that I am not, nor have I ever been, emo. If costuming suggests anything, I did not garb myself in black. If lamenting past loves was a requirement, I certainly couldn’t have accomplished that in High School. So, let’s just put to rest this whole Eric=Emo business because it is nothing more than hot air.

“Eric,” you may interject, as you often seem to, “why are you so worried about being emo if you started off this article defending its avatar?”

Well, my astute reader, I do not want to be likened to emo music because the majority of it is really bad, and emo kids can be a bit whiney. For a while there were stickers circulating with the lowercase words: “cheer up emo kid.” These emo kids wanted to be sad, so I fashioned a sticker of my own, cleverly bearing the title of this post.

“Eric,” you’ll no doubtedly persist, “you’ve done a bit of griping today, but you have yet to discuss emo in other cultures. Please share your thoughts.”

Thank you reader, I can always trust you to keep me on track. I discovered this picture on Google images while searching the term “lederhosen” (please don’t ask why).

I was startled to see the hipster haircut, the downcast eyes, the hands digging into his pockets, the curling lips. This was either an emo kid in Bavarian disguise or in fact something I had never considered before. Had emo reached our Germanic friends? Were their Emokindern? I can only imagine heartfelt ballads about punctual scheduling and flipping coasters in bars. Has an accordion ever appeared in a song by bands named something like Dunkelaugen? This whole going international thing could really be what emo needs to become a serious genre.

Now, perhaps some of you are thinking up mean jokes about Germans not having feelings, and thus being unable to be ‘emotional,’ but I assure you, that this is plain not true! Hannes Wader sings a lovely song about wild swans and birch trees courting one another, and the most famous German drinking song laments, “you don’t know how good I’ve been to you.” So, let’s slap some black Lederhosen on and stand in the middle of polka concerts, scowls on our faces, and deride the other listeners because we’ve known about polka music so much longer than they have.

Is that a Cougar Eating Your Face or are You just Happy to See Me?

2007-11-06T10:05:00.000-08:00

Back in February a mountain lion decided to gnaw on a seventy year old chap for a little while. The man survived, the mountain lion returned to the forest, and since then mountain lion sightings have been on the rise – we are up to six a day in Santa Cruz County! Since only about six people see me in any given day, there is a good chance that one of those people are a mountain lion in disguise – topology suggests as much.

Mountain lions are about the sneakiest bastards you could ever hope to meet. Last year one walked around in downtown San Luis Obispo for about an hour without being noticed – everyone just thought it was a European tourist looking to purchase a cat sweater. Eventually we figured out that it wasn’t really a European when it commented that it really liked Budweiser – we shot him on the spot after that little slip. There is now mass hysteria surrounding a mountain lion invasion. My roommate, Matt Boutte, long time San Luis resident, has considered running for political office on an anti-cougar platform. “I have always been a Tiger (the SLO High mascot), but I have never been a cougar!”

I am naturally worried about the escalating mountain lion population. My instincts are starting to kick in, proving me to be a skittish animal. My eyes are always watching the trees, anticipating a cougar licking its chops at my lean, sinewy flesh.

However, I have decided to no longer live in fear. I will not let these cougars disrupt my American way of life. I will launch a pre-emptive strike that will shock and awe all puma-kind. I have found a tree perfect for pouncing, and have crafted a little resting place amidst its branches. I plan on lying in wait for a mountain lion and then pounce upon it, unawares. I will give it a brief scuffle and then allow it to retreat. As it flees, tail between its legs, I will raise a defiant finger and declare: “Tell all your friends!”

I figure I will either live a life from that point forward free from the cougar-menace or I will sincerely hope that one of you find me while I am in combat with the cougar, its mouth firmly gripping my face. Oh, and I’d be most happy to see you at that point.

Don't Pee on my Coat

2007-11-03T17:51:00.000-07:00

I have a tendency to live in abnormally chilly houses. In San Luis Obispo it was not uncommon to see your breath during the winter months. I can remember a period of time while I was studying the history of death and dying in modern Europe and America – I would don my history cardigan, wrap an afghan about my legs, bury some earplugs into my ears, and sport my very stylish reading glasses. I felt like an old man with bad hearing and vision. People would enter the room, I would barely hear them, and then upon looking up they were nothing more than a hazy blob. Oh, and I could see my breath.

However, I do not want to speak about my San Luis residence today. I am now in the Santa Cruz mountains, and am housed in a fine abode. As you can imagine, it is a lovely living space; however it is also on average ten to fifteen degrees colder than anywhere else in Santa Cruz County. Our house is partially submerged under a hill, and my being downstairs leads my home to be somewhat similar to a Hobbit-hole or a mole’s home.

With the weather getting colder, I have been excited to wear my beloved pea coat (maybe the nicest thing I own). I realized that this desire would arise when I was preparing myself for the move over the hill, and I began packing up my belongings thinking that my coat would materialize. Alas, my coat was nowhere to be seen! I could have sworn that it was packed up when I left San Luis, but I hadn’t needed it while I was at camp, and thus I hadn’t seen it for a good three months.

I began a frantic search for my beloved jacket, but my efforts were fruitless. I had one final desperate hope of finding the coat: sending out an email to my dispersed roommates. My cry for help clawed its way through the cold divide of cyberspace and managed to reach my friends.

At first the results were bleak. “Haven’t seen it, but I’ll keep my eyes open.” Touching, but ultimately left me without my coat, and the weather continued to grow colder.

I had all but given up hope in reclaiming my outer garment (searching eBay, eyeing my roommates parka) when a welcomed name appeared in my inbox. Johnny Paolucci, that magnificent Italian, had sent me a note. Any news from Johnny could warm my heart even if my body were an icy relic awaiting future anthropological discovery. What was this? My coat had been discovered! It was a prodigal and returned to me! I once was cold but now I’m warm! I would survive my first winter atop the mountain!

Before you think me entirely mercenary, my coat was not the only reason I went to San Luis last weekend. I love people there very much, and I would want to see them even if my coat rested safely in my home or was misplaced in Beirut.

And so, good has been done here. Johnny is still a beautiful man, and you will all get to enjoy a thawed Mr. Garner. Eric: one – Anthropologists: zero.

Not for all the Tea in San Luis Obispo

2007-10-30T11:29:00.000-07:00

Despite the potential squabbles with my possible, future wife (yes, we are getting theoretical today), I have given serious thought to naming a child of mine “Linnaea.”

“That’s an interesting name Eric,” you may ponder, “but where does it come from? Was that the name of a relative?”

No, dear reader – Linnaea is the name of an old woman in San Luis Obispo whom I barely knew. The most important facet of her history lies in the founding of Linnaea’s Café in downtown San Luis Obispo – I place that I haunted frequently in my college years and a place my spirit haunts to this day.

I am actually visiting San Luis Obispo today, and I thought paying homage to this fine town outweighed the risk of flirting with diary. Who’s to say you agree with me? I suppose you’re continued reading is at that will tell.

A view of Linnaea's from Higuera and Garden

Back to Linnaea’s… I have a sordid history with the place. If I look back on my four years in San Luis Obispo, I can point to three of them revolving around the Café. Perhaps, Linnaea’s regular, John Feeno (pony-tail dreadlock, linguist) is right in his deduction that his table at Linnaea’s is the center of the universe? Every girl that I liked in college shared with me at the Café. You knew that you were becoming good friends with someone outside when you took them into Linnaea’s for the first time and you had to make an effort to take your Linnaea’s friendships outside of the Café because you didn’t know where else to go. For my last year and a half in San Luis, I pretty much went to Linnaea’s every weekday morning at 7:00 (when they opened) and had a cup of tea with the baristas (whom were invariably my friends). If San Luis were my world, than certainly Linnaea’s as a world within it (wheels in wheels, plays within the play).

So, as I sit here today, I raise my cup of tea to you, dear readers – I raise it to you, dear Linnaea’s – I raise it to you, dear San Luis. And as Tiny Tim observed, “God bless us, everyone.”

Happy 300!

2007-10-27T11:21:00.001-07:00

We did it! We have lasted for 300 days this year! Congratulations everyone. I never thought October 27 would ever come, but here we are.

Oh, in other news, it is also Navy Day! We are just celebrating right and left here at Oolong Fancies (i.e. Eric Garner).

“Wait a minute, Eric,” you should probably interject. “What does Navy Day or 300 whatsacoohoosits got to do with your blog?”

Well dear friends, I am taking a stab at patriotism because I have been reported to be a communist!

“Eric, haven’t you claimed to have socialist leanings all along? And why are you writing such short paragraphs today?”

Both good questions my friend, and I will attempt to answer at least one of them.

I have always had a strange affinity for socialism. Granted it has gone in fits and bursts; sometimes I see it is naïve idealism and at others as a valid individual goal. Regardless of how my opinions have changed, it is fair to note that I am drawn to socialism in both an academic and practical sense.

A Birthday Card for Megan Hansen Hansen

My academic curiosities have lead me to study the modern history of countries such as Russia and China; speculating as to where they went wrong and what they did right. I’ve read communist literature, and while Marx’s Manifesto was the most interesting treatise I read, I also waded through Engels’ Socialism: Utopian and Scientific. I also examined some of the literature of the Soviet Union’s dissident writers. I even at one point in an essay wrote the ridiculous line, “[the] Soviet Russia (Narnia before the curse had been lifted: always winter, never Christmas).” So, a bit of time in my academic career was focused in the red.

However, my interest was not just in the intellectual questions surrounding a communist world, but penetrated as deep as the spiritual and remained as opportunist as a capitalist venture. I wondered if the doctrines espoused by the socialism were the same as Christianity; however, it lacked (or rather denied) the impetus by which this could be accomplished – namely Christ. Was being a good socialist the same as being a good Christian – choosing to work charitably for your fellow human? However, these pure thoughts could not last forever, and I conceived of a children’s doll that you would tickle until it confessed its socialist leanings – I called it Tickle Me Pinko.

Before I completely forget why I’m writing this entry, allow for me to tell you of my accusation.

One night early this last summer, I went to check my email with a fellow counselor up at Mount Hermon’s Conference Center. It was a nice little get away from what had been an emotional first couple of weeks, and we were enjoying what I came to call “Big-Word Conversation.” A surprise awaited us in the staff lounge – the most awkward Mount Hermon Summer Staff employee of them all. I felt a little sorry for this guy, it was obvious that not many people wanted to talk with him, and so I engaged him in conversation over a game of pool while my friend checked her email.

As I sank ball after ball, I left my awkward companion ample time to make bold claims and ask me bizarre questions. I generally responded with as brief of answers as I could – I’m not very good at multitasking (talking-doing anything). It came out that I had been a student of history – my competitor made it very clear that the only history he was interested in was American, particularly if it had to do with The Civil or Second World Wars. I flippantly noted that I had primarily studied Modern Russia and China.

I want to pull you, dear reader, aside for a moment. What would be your response to a statement like mine about what I studied in school?

“Well Eric,” you would hopefully state, “I suppose that I would ask something along the lines of, ‘why did you choose to study that?’ or, ‘are you interested in comparative socialist history?’”

Those would both have been very good questions… I’m glad I have such astute readers. No, he did not respond that way – he simply blurted:

“So, are you a communist?”

This was neither a joking question, nor was it asked as a friend. This fellow wanted to know right now whether I could even possibly be a Christian – he may need to report me to the director post-haste! We have a pinko-commie bastard in the sanctum sanctorum! Alert the guards!

“I have socialist leanings, yes, but I am not a communist,” I answered, my face flushed and my hand tightening around my cue. What gall!

The conversation shot back and forth for a while, my attempting to explain why it was very Christian to be a personal-socialist and his looking at me like I had a lobster stuck up my nose.

I called the Eight and sunk it. We parted ways. But I continued running into this guy over the summer. I continued to work charitably (by which I mean in practical love) toward him, and he continued to be awkward. By the end of the summer he wanted frequently sought me out for conversation, and while I didn’t seek him out, I did not avoid him. Could his heart be beating a little pinker today?

Oh, and I don’t know why those paragraphs were so short.

Confessions of a Prehistoric Bird Monster

2007-10-26T21:07:00.000-07:00

Today I have something vile about myself to confess – something that I had always figured I would take with me to the grave… Sometimes I am transformed, against my will, into a hairy, reptilian beast with a dog peeing on a baby for a heart and a portly hog loose in a sweet shop for self-control. I just figured you hadn’t heard enough about my encounters with the supernatural, and thus I decided you might want to know what to do when you note: “My, Eric certainly has an animal-magnetism about him today. He could use a shave though.”

Where to begin? Where to begin? I suppose I ought to give you the history of this curse, lest you become irritated with my recent misfortune. So sit back, kiddos, this will be a long one.

The year was Fourteen-Ninety-Two, and aside being when Columbus (that bastard) sailed the oceans blue it is also when everything of consequence happened in Spain. In the small city of Verín in southern Spain there was an unholy beast that stole young women from their vegetable gardens and planted them like one would a potato. Some thought the fiend who fed on human flesh was making the first attempts at a vegetarian lifestyle, while others presumed it to be a giant squirrel-like imp who wanted to store food for the winter. Regardless of what the creature was doing, it really irked the local towns folk, and so they vowed to rid their land of this pestilence.

It being the height of the Inquisition, the people sought the help of their Grand Inquisitor to lead the attack on this brute. And so, with religion at the helm of this miniature crusade, the people set out to slay the beast. They eventually caught up with the monster near the coast. Its rotting teeth and unkempt hair frightened the irate mob, but could not shake their resolution. With ire boiling in their stomachs they charged the creature and fell it thus. And there was much rejoicing.

Seal of the Inquisition

However, no party can last forever (no matter how much I wish they could), and the revelry of the villagers was cut short by their attempts to destroy the pestilence forever with fire. It would not burn. Despite their best efforts, they could not get the gremlin to ignite! This left the Grand Inquisitor with quite the dilemma. On one hand, he could not leave the monster where it lay; for fear that it would reincarnate and strike against the village with proliferating malice. However, on the other hand he could not take the monster back to Verín with him because it was unclean. Thus he made the choice to leave it with Isaac, a Jew who had managed to escape from the oppressive ghettos. (Please remember that 1492 was also the height of persecution against the Spanish Jews).

At first Isaac did not much mind the brute, as he was somewhat impish himself. He delighted himself with using it to play pranks on his neighbors. Every afternoon for months the monster was having tea with him, sitting in Senorita Estrella’s bathhouse, or doing giant summersaults down the hill into Senor Pantalones’ pasture. Isaac came to think of the monster as his best friend; however there was a problem with his playmate… He wasn’t very mobile. It really was exhausting to move the brute from Point A to Point B. And so, Isaac concocted a plan to make his accomplice a more transportable one.

Isaac shorn the brute and wove a wig out of its fur, he also tanned its hide and crafted a mask out of its leather. Donning the body of his partner, he set off about the countryside causing all kinds of mischief.

Eventually the Grand Inquisitor had quite enough of this and had Isaac's heads cut off, and Isaac’s blood cried out from the ground. He wasn’t a bad chap… being a Jew in Spain at the time of the Inquisition seems like a pretty good reason to be pissy to me. And so, a terrible curse came upon the mask, and it corrupted all who touched it unless they had the purity of a child. Thus it was taken in by a virtuous order of monks and stored within the confines of their cloister, safe from the prying eyes of the world.

The mask fell out of human memory.

Centuries later, a young priest in training by name of Stephen Akers caught word of this mask while pouring through tomes of church history. He discovered that the monastery that housed the mask had been destroyed by a brief Moorish incursion onto the Spanish shores. He was so fascinated by this unholy relic that he set seas (actually airs) for Spain. Upon arriving he hunted for this impure article of clothing and eventually found it at a street fair in Grenada being peddled by an innocent child, unawares of the evil he carried. Stephen took the burden of the mask upon his person and returned to the States.

Eventually Stephen could no longer bear the weight of the mask weighing upon his soul, and so after great deliberation he opted to lay the fardel upon the most pure person he knew…

Hey! Wait a minute! I don’t want to see those smirks. You can just take those snickers and throw them in the rubbish bin or you can stick them in unpleasant places – you hear me? I am plenty pure! However, it wasn’t me, Stephen thought to give the mask to. Stephen knew Alicia, my beloved roommate Paul’s girlfriend, to be the most virtuous woman alive. However, Stephen could not leave the mask at her house because his arch-nemesis lived there, and he would do anything to thwart Stephen’s purposes, even wear a cursed bird mask. Thus Stephen laid the mask in our house’s care. It was placed inside our coffee table’s (which was made from wood taken from the hull of Noah’s Ark) drawer and locked with a bolt that was crafted from the sword of King David. The mask was safe.

Almost…

One day in an epic, wrestling match, I collided into the coffee table and (miraculously?) knocked the lock free, opening the drawer. I lay face to face with the unholy mask, its blank eyes boring into mine. Before Johnny could stop me, I was completely seduced by the mask and placed it firmly against my face. Without a moments delay I was transformed into a great beast. However, while I thought it would be really cool to plant girls in our front yard, I was more interested in lokian misbehaving.

One time I waited outside of the bathroom for half an hour while Johnny was taking a shower. I didn’t even make a sound, I remained as still as a gargoyle perched atop a barstool. Johnny wouldn’t speak to me for a month after that little stunt.

On another occasion I tried to spook the Arlen kids by playing a Sounds of the Haunted House record and dancing around eerily amidst smoke. To quote Jesse: “I just really wanted it to end.”

Eventually I became really lonely as a Prehistoric Bird Monster. No one really liked me very much. I would often just perch in trees and let out melancholy howls at the moon. All alone.

However, in time I learned to control my curse and could shift back and forth between the suave Eric you have all come to love and the hideous beast that now lay within. It was actually pretty easy to take charge again once my favorite Greek restaurant accused me of being a Turk and denied me entry… That simply would not fly!

In later news, I can now bring out the Bird Monster when needed – it’s a regular party animal! Not to mention it’s quite popular with the ladies.

So, I now live my life as a Prehistoric-Bird-Monster-American, and while I may not enjoy all of the rights many other Americans do, I still know how to have a good time. So, next time you see someone like me, remember that Prehistoric Bird Monsters are people too.

I don’t like Talking about Recent History, But…

2007-10-24T17:37:00.000-07:00

…Apparently I am the target of any blood-sucking creature. I wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest if an army of Chupacabras attacked me! Allow for me to explain my indignation…

Last night my beloved roommate Dan was nearly consumed by an enormous arachnid! I am not usually scared of spiders if they are smaller than a toaster oven, but most spiders don’t approach people with a gun. This spider just started making wild demands about letting it eat Dan’s intestinal tract, but we would have none of it. I’m not sure how the scuffle went down, it was dark, but by the end of it Dan still had his intestines and not an atom of the spider remained in existence.

But that’s not the story I want to tell you about now.

Back in the early summer, before I was a seasoned spider fighter, I faced the most grotesque spider I had ever seen. Finished brushing my teeth, I was alone in the rotator’s cabin at Redwood Camp. I began to step out of the bathroom when I noticed the usually off-white wall miraculously painted black. To my surprise, this was not furry, eight-legged paint, but rather a behemoth of a spider. Still unable to accept the reality of this spider, I considered myself to be at the worse end of a prank by one of the other Redwood staff – but then it moved. I jumped a full yard-and-a-half back as its glistening body pulsated against the wall. Quickly devising a plan, I grabbed a discarded shoe and smote the spider atop the abdomen with all the righteous fury I could muster. The lob reared and I perceived it to fall into the trashcan bellow.

I was not about to sleep with a presumed dead spider-dragon in my room. I lifted the burdensomely heavy trashcan to bring it up to the light, but instead of witnessing a deceased araneae, the corner of my eye caught a falling darkness. Deftly dropping the wastebasket, I saw the spider drop atop a chair. I swung at it with the shoe, but missed as the monster slid beneath the chair. I overturned it and began striking at the beast with my trusted weapon. The spider leapt away from its broken defenses and attempted to scurry beneath the couch for shelter – unfortunately for the spider, I was too quick. With an impressive blow I brought the beast to halt, and then with one final swing it exploded. Its body crumpled to a hundredth its original size, leaving me without a trophy, but I had bested it regardless.

Spiders around these parts have been a tad bit more respectful since that fatal day – which is largely why I’m so shocked by the spider’s recent behavior in Dan’s room. Fortunately for Dan’s intestines, I’m still around to keep spider aggression down.

“Ms. Bennet, I would like you to meet Cobra Commander”

2007-10-23T10:06:00.000-07:00

I may be one of the greater GI Joe game players of the last twenty-two years. My stories were as sprawling as War and Peace and as society-minded as Anna Karenina; however this was often just in private. I initially started playing GI Joes with my childhood friend, Logan Beardsley – prior to this go ahead from the expansive Beardsley family, my parents had been weary of what may be the most perfect action figure ever made. This day back in the mid-90s was probably one of the more formative of my childhood.

I may be getting ahead of myself – do you all know what GI Joes are? It looks like I see a few tentative hands in the back, so allow for me to clarify. The GI Joes that I reference here are not the Barbie-sized, 12” figures of my grandpappies’ days, but their stunning, 1982 reinvention with the 3 3/4” action figure. These GI Joes had more joints than any other action figure I’d seen and they twisted about the waist with a rubber band comprising their internal organs. These action figures lived up to their gun-touting name and came with a varied arsenal of warlike gadgetry.

If Morrissey had sung about GI Joes, he would have noted, “some GI Joes are better than others.” Sadly this often held true for Cobra (an ruthless terrorist organization determined to rule the world) – and GI Joe (America’s highly trained special missions force) often lagged behind in coolness factor. Now that you know the important stuff, allow for me to continue.

After that fateful day with Logan, I began to collect these impressive toys. More often than not, I would play with Danny Henson – a boy not afraid to destroy his toys (army men and fire, X-Men and chemical warfare). Be it a product of being poor as a child or being too attached to my beloved GI Joes, I did not allow for my toys to participate in the massacres Danny’s toys so often met. Needless to say these games with Danny became increasingly violent and rarely ended well for even our most preferred of characters. As the Italian proverb goes: “At the end of the game, both the king and the pawn go back in the same box.” Danny was a wrathful playmate, and rather than lift his poor soldiers out of the fire, he let loose the full holocaust of their destruction.

This was something that I could stomach with someone else’s toys, but it never sat right with my own. Don’t get me wrong, I was still a violent youth who allowed for characters to be gunned down, but like bad television, these people often reemerged to reveal that they had not in fact died and had returned to exact their revenge.

These campy stories began to evolve from mindless violence with contrived plot-twists to tales of intrigue sprawling across entire worlds. I would keep journals with information on all of my characters in each unique local. I drew maps of cities and charted trees of family lineage. I’m not that good of a writer, so my stories remained pretty juvenile with post-apocalyptic worlds and damsels in distress. However, the vast improvement came with the social interview playing as much (if not more) importance in a story as the shootout resulting from attempted regicide.

My GI Joes stopped being mere soldiers; they were people with real pasts, real hurts, real sins.

Multiple hour retreats to my room were far from uncommon. And so, with classical music blaring, I would enter new worlds where there was significance in each wink and ulterior motives in every act. The greatest hero had been kissed by the devil and the lowest villain flirted with redemption. Avatars rarely existed in these worlds.

Suddenly my Lt. Falcon’s and Destro’s became less reminiscent of Rambo and looked more akin to the proud Mr. Darcy.

Why I Always Carry a Rosary

2007-10-13T12:26:00.000-07:00

Over the summer, it was often noted that I carry a rosary on my person. Some thought that I was simply a pious person; however, prayer is only one of the reasons I don this holy article. My name is Eric Garner, and I am a vampire hunter.

Before I launch into my adventures, let’s first cover our vampire basics. Prior to being called ‘vampires,’ there have long been myths surrounding beasts/demons that either ate the blood or flesh of humans. My particular favorite myth circulates around Adam’s apocryphal first wife, Lilith.

In a heretical interpretation of the creation accounts in Genesis 1 and 2, Jewish mythology claimed that Adam had a wife prior to Eve who abandoned normal practices, (both in copulation and diet) and thus she got the boot and enter Eve from Adam’s rib. Lilith, now a servant of Satan, subsisted on blood (something God strictly forbid human’s to consume) and became a demoness. She is the forerunner of all vampires.

The word ‘vampire’ came into use around 1000 AD in an old Slavonic dialect as ‘Upir,’ but our view into vampirism will pick up another eight hundred years later during the height of Gothic literature. Starting with Dr. Polidori’s “The Vampyre,” the modern world became enamored with these undead creatures that existed by sucking the life from others. The vampires of the Romantic age were as much social commentary on the aristocracy as they were possessed by demons.

The greatest achievement in vampire lore was published 1897 – Dracula would revolutionize the way we view vampires. Stoker, combining Slavic myth and enlightened Western European sensibilities, created a vampire that was both myth and fact; demon and man.

Stoker’s vampires were werewolves as they had been to the Romanians. They were aristocrats to a liberalizing world. They ate blood as they always had. They were as sexual as Lilith had been from the beginning. What in that doesn’t spell good story!?

In Dracula, Dr. Van Helsing informs his friends that in order to kill a vampire one must utilize an array of weapons. It is best to fight a vampire during the day when they either sleep or are diminished in power. Vampires can only sleep on their native soil (as seen by Dracula sending boxes of Transylvanian soil to London), and thus if you can desecrate their soil (ironically by introducing something holy to it) it is rendered useless to them. The standard weapons of garlic, stake through the heart, cutting off the head, holy water, crucifix, and (ideally) the Host are all good tools for killing vampires, but we see in the case of Dracula that it doesn’t hurt to use multiple weapons at once.

The amazing thing about killing a vampire – according to Van Helsing – is that this killing ought not be done in hate, but in love, for in killing the vampire you are liberating its soul from its purgation on earth in its state between death and life. Killing a vampire is offering the soul that has been corrupted salvation.

Okay, now that I’ve talked your ears off, on to my journey.

It was in the December of 2005, and I was reading Dracula in the chilled solitude of my living room. There was an unseen fly buzzing about the room and the sound of a melancholic howl not far from my doors. I was freaked out. Deciding that I could no longer sit waiting for a vampire attack, I decided to take action. Garbing myself in a dark coat, I headed out the door with rosary in hand.

If there were vampires about, there was no way of knowing that my friends Sarah and Haley were safe at their house, and thus I went to offer my defense. When I came to the steps of their house, there were no signs of attack, and so I informed them of what I had learned about the nefarious vampires I now feared were lurking about my fair town. We began to conduct some research on these undead in hopes of better understanding how to best our foes.

Then it happened.

A story of an 80’s murder in San Luis Obispo popped up, but this story was more than unusual. A disturbed young adult had killed both of his parents, claiming them to be vampires who were designing his demise. Why did this sad tale from decades past sift its way through years of backlogged stories? Apparently this same youth who had killed his parents died in a car accident in San Francisco with a mysterious old woman in his car that the police were unable to identify. With a little further research we somehow discovered that the killer’s brother still lived in the house where the murder had taken place over twenty years earlier. We quickly utilized the White Pages and found that there was only one person listed with his last name in San Luis Obispo, and with that we were off. It was after eleven o’clock at night, we were armed with a rosary, a meager amount of minced garlic, and a wild dream of protecting our fair town.

We drove through a foggy evening, the car’s lights illuminating the haze in front of us. We parked about a block away from the alleged vampire lair and began a feigned pleasure-walk at night through ghoul-infested streets. It was a particularly dark night despite the fog hugging our bodies, and not a light was lit in a home bar one. The dull thud of an axe reverberated through the dense air. I pulled my coat tight against my body and gripped my trusted rosary in my pocket. The axe continued to fall. Sure enough the single light emanated from the house in question. A sad middle-aged man stood in his front yard chopping wood; seemingly he had not notice us. The axe fell again, but the by howling of two dogs that leapt out of hiding hid the expected noise. The two dogs began a to circle us -- one of my friends let out a sharp gasp. However, there was something queer about these hounds circling – they never came closer than ten feet. At this point our woodsman of the city looked up spoke:

“Just the dogs – heh? They won’t hurt you.”

I shrugged and laughed something like, “oh yeah,” but inwardly I thought: “Because they can’t come any closer!”

We continued to pass on by and the dogs returned to from whence they came.

After we returned to our car we discussed what had happened. Could it be that this crazed boy had actually attempted to kill two vampires but had not adequately exorcized their demons? Were the two dogs transformed images of his parents? Was his brother also a vampire?

The house was perfectly situated near a hospital and a mental health ward – two ideal places for feeding undetected. It seemed serious enough to me that I ought to go back and face my fanged foe, but when I returned the next day, the house appeared to be deserted. Where the vampires moved on to, I am not certain. One thing I do know is that the vampires saw my face, and they know that I am aware of their existence, and thus I will carry a rosary close by my side until the day I finally rid the earth of their foul pestilence.

Eric Confesses All Part XIV

2007-10-12T09:23:00.000-07:00

After a brief absence from the posting world, I realized that I missed confessing. I confess that I am addicted to confession! My blogs definitely follow a pattern -- let us examine it:

1. I make some bold statement
2. I try to be witty
3. I make a confession
4. I try to show why that confession is witty
5. I lose sleep at nights waiting for you to validate me in the comments section

Will I break the mold today? No, I don’t think that I will.

One may think: “That sweet Eric is such an honest boy; he can’t bear the burden of an encumbered conscience and thus must lay bare his soul to the world.”

My dear friend, I wish your generous assessments of me were just and true; however, it is hardly astute. I am a depraved insect of a boy and I could hardly muster the courage for honesty lest it brought me some sort of reward in return. Why can I admit my fear of Otter Pops and my love for talking animals, but I cannot admit to you the idolatry of my heart? I enjoy cheap confession.

I will admit that in part I do not actually consider this an appropriate venue to inform you all of my thoughts, dreams and hopes, nor will I give you my pain, fear and remorse. This blog was never meant for more than the most self-congratulatory of essays. What’s more, I don’t think that is wrong.

However, this does not absolve me from my cheap confessions. Perhaps I could either redefine what confession means or rename these musings. Whatever I choose to do, let us recognize that I can only give so much here, and lamentably it will always be second best.

As I also seem to be in the habit of after mentioning something that makes me think of Pedro the Lion lyrics, I make sure to explore them:

Second best oh second best
I can learn to live with this
Plus I really need a rest
After all what's wrong with second best
What's wrong with second best
(Pedro the Lion - “Second Best”)

Not particularly hopeful, is it? I'll try to let you know when I'm trying to actually say something rather than cower behind contrived ideas.

All of that being said, let life continue. Listen to the rain over head, enjoy the tea in your cup, and embrace the peace found in the eyes of friends. Please, hold me that which is better.

I used to have Wussy Pansy Lips

2007-10-05T09:36:00.000-07:00

Can taste buds change? After all, the average human mouth contains ten thousand of the little buggers; I imagine from time to time there is a popular movement to elect a new taste sensation as the primary goal of the mouth. I ask because I have observed a dramatic transformation of the foods my mouth wants in it.

A brief history: My father’s name is Hot-Sauce-McGritz Garner and his mother aptly named him. My dad is the type of guy who will look at a food, gauge its spiciness prior to it entering his mouth and then add about four or five bottles of Tabasco before determining whether or not it needs some more kick.

Needless to say that when I was born, there were high expectations for palate (sometimes my father would smear cayenne peppers on my bottle). However, there was a big problem: I couldn’t handle the slightest bit of spice. It quickly became clear that I could not be Hot-Sauce-McGritz Garner Jr., and my parents renamed me Eric in an attempt to cover their shame.

My wussiness became more and more apparent as I entered my early childhood. It was not uncommon for me to think ketchup too hot to handle. The slightest vapor of Tabasco in the air would set my lips aflame. I cried when I ate peach salsa upon the urging of my father (eating the salsa, not crying). There was nothing too mild for me, and everything was too hot.

So, what transpired that transformed my mouth? That is a very good question. I’ve heard that there is no accounting for taste, and perhaps that is the best explanation for what happened to me. One day I grew tired of little children pointing and laughing at the tears in my eyes when I had ketchup with my fries and I decided that I would eat spicy food. (As an aside, mind over matter techniques have also kept me healthy and have allowed for me to transform a roommate of mine into a woman.)

The impressive thing is that my transformation has been complete. Sometimes I light jalapeños on fire and eat them by the bushel load without even breaking a sweat!

While I currently enjoy spicy foods, there is always a pervading fear about what could transpire with my taste buds – they overthrew the old order once, who’s to say that can’t change again?

God is not Our Co-Pilot

2007-10-04T12:07:00.000-07:00

A Quick Disclaimer:

I don’t mean to offend with this story, but that being said, I don’t recommend it for those who are easily offended. I’ve probably been thinking too much about Flannery O’Connor. I won’t apologize any longer for my work.

---------------------------------------------

“If your parachute didn’t open during the jump, where would you go?”

The engines’ roar reverberated throughout the plane’s hold, making it nearly impossible to hear the question just posed. Twelve young adults huddled together, hardly encouraged by the words “He will command his angels concerning you, on their hands they will bear you up, lest you strike your foot against a stone” written above the bay door. It was difficult to tell with jumpsuits, but it seemed as though several of the students had slightly damp drawers.

Once again Captain (as she liked to be called, while possessing no military rank) Barbara Lewis deliberately asked the question: “If your parachute didn’t open during the jump, where would you go?” Her muddy brown eyes took on an intensity of a bog-monster rising out of the muck. She wanted results, and she was going to get them.

“I-I’d go home to Jesus, Ma’am,” one freckled boy from Tennessee weakly offered.

“Good, but I don’t hear very much conviction in your voice, son.” She crossed hold floor to stand directly in front of the shaking boy. “Do you want to say that with a little bit of faith?”

“I’d go home with my Lord, Jesus!” the boy said louder without stopping his shaking.

~

Wings of Eagles Christian Skydiving Camp had long been the dream of Captain Barbara Lewis. Ever since she had been born again, she just knew that she was going to do something big for God. She was no great author like LaHaye or Jenkins, nor was she as gifted of a speaker as Pat Robertson – so her options were limited. She tried her hand at Campus Crusade for Christ in college, but they never came across as confrontational enough in their evangelistic approach. If she was ever going to really do something big (BIG) for God, then she was going to need to come up with something entirely new.

One day, while particularly perplexed about the whole situation, Barbara went to her fridge for an O’Doul’s non-alcoholic beer (her sin from her life before being saved that she just couldn’t seem to give up). She reached for the refrigerator handle, and as she gripped it she had a vision of an eagle soaring over scenic landscape with the famous line from Isaiah 40:31 emblazoned above it – soar upon wings of eagles. (It is only fair to note that many discredited Barbara’s vision as merely being a magnet on her cluttered fridge, but she always insisted upon it being prophetic). From that day forward she dedicated herself whole-heartedly to ministering to children by bringing them up into the sky with wings of eagles (although, really any wings would do) and then pushing them out of a plane. This was the humble beginning of Wings of Eagles Christian Skydiving Camp.

~

“I’m not here to scare you, honey, because this parachute will open and take us safely to the ground, but as the Apostle James writes, ‘we don’t know what this day will hold.’ There’s no place for fear about death.” She gave the freckled boy a diminutive tap on the chin and turned to face the rest of her campers.

The tension was humid in the air, mixing with the perspiration of the quaking students. Captain Lewis leered at the students and reminded them that God offered a spirit of power, not timidity. It was time to ‘cowboy-up.’

~

When initially trying to sell the idea of a Christian skydiving camp to potential contributors, Barbara Lewis needed to present her vision in a way that really packed a punch. She had great analogies of needing to hand over the pilot’s seat to Jesus and eventually move back with the passengers in economy; and of not putting God in a box, but rather in a plane. However, these teachable moments were not enough to entice the donation of a plane. In the moment when it seemed as though all hope was lost for Wings of Eagles, serendipitously a well-known millionaire of the area passed-away leaving his vast fortunes not to his family, but rather to Ms. Lewis. While the case was briefly argued in court, no relationship suggesting fowl-play could ever be established between the recently deceased and Barbara.

And so Wings of Eagles Christian Skydiving Camp was born. Barbara quickly donned the title of captain and set off about the country, recruiting both staff for her camp and students to attend its pilot (in all seriousness, no pun intended) run. Drumming up a moderate amount of excitement in her program, Captain Barbara Lewis secured seventy-eight students to participate in a weeklong camp, culminating in two days of jumps in which the students could put their faith (but obviously not their God) to the test.

~

“Son,” Barbara told to the freckled boy, “you and I will go first. Come here and strap-up.” She pulled the boy forcefully to her and turned him around, and as she began to strap the two of them together she shouted out, “the rest of you pair up with one of the other instructors and prepare for your turn to jump.”

“I-I don’t know if I’m ready for this, Ma’am.” The freckled boy tried to turn his head around to address the Captain.

“Even though you walk through the valley of the shadow of death, you will not fear. Now suck it up.”
Barbara carried her hostage camper to the jump doors, looked over his helmeted head, and smiled as she let out a warm sigh. God had vindicated everything she had done – He had silenced all of her opposition. She knew that this first jump was going to be like leaping into Abraham’s bosom.

“You ready?” she asked the boy

He shook his head no.

She took a leap out of the plane. The air beat against their faces as they began their freefall to the ground bellow. Barbara, feeling sufficiently vindicated in her jump, reached for the ripcord of the parachute and gave it a firm pull. Nothing. Her other hand clawed for the emergency chute, but once again nothing deployed.

The freckled boy, unaware of the failed deployment, had the prayers for his soul interrupted by a voice cracking behind him: “Oh shit! Oh shit!”

Would an Otter Pop by Any Other Name Taste as Sweet?

2007-10-02T16:59:00.000-07:00

I sometimes wonder if there is a single person in America who has never had an Otter Pop. I think that if we were to buck nationalism and consider dissolving the Union, that movement would ultimately be silenced when it was realized that all Americans have a common heritage; all Americans have had Otter Pops.

I’m all about unity and common experience – it just isn’t seen that often now a days – but have we ever stopped to think about what Otter Pops represent?

“But Eric,” you may interject, “what more could Otter Pops represent than summer lovin,’ sugary sweetness, and semi-aquatic mammals?”

I appreciate your thoughts, but let us leave the speculation to me in this instance. The collective group of Otter Pops (individually known as: Poncho Punch, Little Orphan Orange, Louie-Bloo Raspberry, Alexander the Grape, Sir Isaac Lime, and Strawberry Short Kook) disguise themselves as having little substance more than syrup and water, but in fact beneath their plastic skin lays a darker truth. Every time you snip the top off of one of these Otter Pops, you are cutting away conventional values. Every lick of an Otter Pop is a vote for totalitarianism.

“Eric, you’ve made some big claims before, but don’t you think you’re taking this one a little too far? Otter Pops are just fun and frozen oblong-water-weasel-sugar-sticks! Let’s not vilify what you’ve already claimed to be foundational to American Democracy.”

Just hear me out a little longer. What are the favorite Otter Pop flavors? People always go for Louie-Bloo Raspberry first, followed by either Strawberry Short Kook or Poncho Punch, and then Sir Isaac Lime. This leaves Alexander the Grape and Little Orphan Orange. What message does this send? Well, let’s start off by getting rid of all the ethnic people, then we should do away with those pesky crazy folk, oh, and while we’re at it, we should get rid of them smart people too because they just might raise protest. Yes, we teach our children that it is fun to get rid of not white people, the infirm, and those who are smarter than us – oh, and while we’re at it, we should be used to tyrants and the unfortunate running rampant. We can’t get rid of the despots, so we’ll just let them be. We can’t help the orphans, so we’ll just accept them as part of life. You see kids, when you grow up the world will be so bad that we figure you should get used to it now.

Are we going to stand for this willful brainwashing of the youth today? Or is that at the heart of what holds America together? This is not meant to be a political rant, but rather I am voicing honest concern for the well being of your children!

So, the next time you go to Costco and see that bulk-sized box of Otter Pops, take a moment to reflect on what all of those left-over Little Orphan Oranges are relating to your kids.

For Years I Labored Under the Delusion that I was a Sword Wielding Varmint

2007-09-30T20:50:00.000-07:00

Since living at Mount Hermon I have spent a lot of time watching squirrels. We have an amazing front porch to our house that looks over sea of trees and these trees serve as a romping ground for the squirrels (the fish of the trees). They are quite deft at leaping from branch to branch and precariously lowering themselves to the furthest fruit of the twigs. What’s more, they are territorial little buggers – whenever they see a squirrel that doesn’t belong, they chase it straight out of the trees all the way to the street bellow. You know what else? They make the most bizarre sounds! I don’t really know what I want a squirrel to sound like, (other than a British person) but it certainly was not an angry bird-demon.

But I’m not here to write about squirrels today. Whatever woodland creates I see – be they squirrels, skunks, rats, mice, raccoons, or moles – transport me to the wonderful world of Mossflower. For those of you who had depressing childhoods, allow for me to explain. From the genius of Brian Jacques (story-teller, mouse at heart) comes a world where woodland creatures live together in peace (usually within the confines of Redwall Abbey). However, at times even the most peaceable of Woodlanders (as they refer to themselves) need to take up arms against vermin (such of Cluny the Scourge) and defend freedom, but you can be certain that their will be laughs, feasts (where do they get their milk from?), and riddles along the way. Basically, the Redwall books are some of the greatest fantasy novels ever written.

For a young boy (and later, high school student) a masterful fantasy world is not simply woven together by the author’s word on the page, but also in his heart and mind. I would often daydream about obtuse conversations with moles, teatimes with hares, and the most daring of battles alongside badgers. These daydreams wanted to find a voice, and since I was not about don sable coats and dart about the streets of Milpitas wielding a sword (simply because my mother wouldn’t let me), I did the next logical thing and sought the help of Danny Henson.

I will not go into a lengthy explanation of who Danny Henson is here – as I truly ought to write his biography one of these days – but I will give you a few quick facts:

1. Danny is one of the greatest friends who ever lived
2. Danny loves all living things
3. Danny can take a hit to the head from a cake pan
4. Danny is a big nerd

Danny, thinking that the two of us were popular enough to step away from the social scene for a while, decided that the two of us should participate in a Redwall PALS (Pall ALong Stories) group called WARESS. He went by the moniker of Dacoe and I Scren (a stoat). Oh what glorious online adventures the two of our weapon-touting companions went on – it really was quite fun.

However, what was fun for a sixth grader need not always be the pastime of a sophomore.

We continued writing for WARESS through our junior high careers, but it sort of tapered off in the early years of high school. However, the end of WARESS was not the end of Scren the stoat. For years following the conclusion of our PALS journeys, I continued to receive mail at an email account named after my furry friend – I actually still check it to this day.

Upon moving up to Washington during my freshman year, I began living out my fantasies more fulfilling way than I ever could by writing them. I inherited three acres of forest (or trespassed upon them) from my neighbors, and I set about making them safe. There were many a fern felled and path cleared by my machete, thus ensuring freedom for the Woodlanders… but not always. You see, stoats were never really on the side of good, but generally acted more like someone pursuing the American dream of financial success and dominion over others. Granted, Scren was a decent fellow – for a stoat anyways. So, my mind rarely stayed with making paths, but rather dwelled more upon massive battles and sneaking through the brush in pursuit of some tasty vittles that I might pillage to satisfy myself with until I had time to set up camp.

Scren became such a dear friend to me that I even toyed with the idea of getting a painting like that of Jimmy Stewart with a giant, visible, Harvey standing behind him with paw on shoulder. I wanted that painting to be of Scren and me.

So what happened? To tell you the truth, I’m not certain. Perhaps I stopped thinking about Scren when I moved back to California and no longer had a forest in my backyard. Perhaps I realized that girls aren’t particularly attracted to boys who wish they could feast with mice. Or maybe I became too highfalutin to write fantasy and decided to participate in more serious literature. Whatever it was that eventually forced Scren into hiding, I sort of regret it. I do not mean this as some clichéd explanation of losing my innocence, but rather I just want to express that I miss Redwall. Redwall, Narnia, and Middle Earth will always be those safe havens of my childhood that I believe I shall always return to.

So, thank you squirrels for reminding me about the wonderful feasts at Redwall Abbey, but be warned that at any moment your larder may be raided by a more mischievous than evil stoat.

Identi-tea Crisis

2007-09-27T22:13:00.000-07:00

Aside from being a terrible pun, I realize that I have yet to mention tea on a Blog that allegedly calls tea ‘friend.’ And to remedy this, I will once again make a confession to you. I am a tea-junkie.

My tea consumption has been referred to as ‘snobbery,’ ‘obsession,’ and ‘pathetic,’ but truthfully it is more akin to an addict waiting for their next hit. I believe this to be a genetic flaw on my part – all throughout my childhood, I can clearly recall images of my mother preparing a pot of tea for herself in the morning. And while at the time I was more enchanted by the porcelain animals that came with her boxes of tea, the seed had been planted for my own abusive relationship with tea.

Incase you’ve been living in a cave your entire life, then I ask you for a moment to turn away from your shadows and allow for me to introduce you to tea. All true teas (be they white, yellow, green, oolong, black, or pu-reh) come from God’s gift to plants; tea is Camellia sinensis. The tea plant grows naturally throughout Asia (predominantly in China and India, and to a lesser degree some fine teas such as Genmaicha come from Japan, Sri Lanka, or Korea) and has been enjoyed by East Asian cultures for centuries. Tea was introduced to the Western world in the Seventeenth Century and helped carry mysticism through the tumultuous Enlightenment.

Now a days teas and tisanes (herbal teas) are now widely enjoyed throughout the world; however, most American tea drinkers sip in fear due to the anti-camellia sentiments that were wedded with nationalism during our Revolutionary War. The clearest example of this deliberate persecution can be seen in 1773’s Boston Tea Party, but other instances in American History (Milwaukee Tea Riots, Brookline Teabag Wars) have also served as watershed events that lead tea drinkers to think of themselves as second-class citizens.

All of this in mind, I have continued to drink tea despite the risks of persecution. Tea has sat by my side when my heart was broken. Tea has warmed me up when I did not have money enough to heat my home. Tea has introduced me to many of my dear friends. Tea will be present at my wedding – at my funeral. Tea has been a loyal friend, and so shall I be loyal to tea.

My most recent gestures of love towards tea may seem a tad bit excessive, but I do after all have a Blog named after tea. There is a tea shop in Santa Cruz that I am infatuated with that is owned by the biggest tea-nerds I have ever met – it is a real treat talking with them – and they have been introducing me to the wonderful world of pu-reh tea. Pu-reh (or as Joey calls it, ‘poo-trees’) is the most snobbish tea that you can drink. Much like wine, pu-reh matures with age (ironically, it is the only tea that you do not ferment). It is really quite lovely! A mature pu-reh is full-bodied and idiosyncratic. Before I get too far off subject; I am infatuated with pu-reh. In fact, I am so irrationally in love with tea that I recently purchased a rather costly wafer of it that was pressed in 1999.

Where does this leave me, aside from a bit poorer? I think I have reached junkie status. I know one thing for certain, if ever I’m down on my luck, I know that tea won’t be far away, ready to give me a boost and help me out until I’m okay again.

This will not be My Final Rant on Hair

2007-09-26T12:34:00.000-07:00

I am a vain person. This Blog has in no way decreased my narcissism, but rather has given it another venue to present itself. This is not the first (nor shall it be the last) time I have written on my pointless hair adventures.

I find myself doing stupid things with my hair on a semi-regular basis. Some people try to give me an out by claiming that I do things ironically, (see this Onion article: http://www.theonion.com/content/node/43032) but I know that this is overly generous. I do stupid things with my hair because I enjoy it. Ever since I emulated my friend Daniel in what his principal called a ‘wild attention-getting haircut’ by spiking up my hair, I have enjoyed silly hairstyles. I’ve had everything as tame as sideburns to as gross as rattails to as controversial as Hitler moustaches and as dated as civil war chops. However, none of these have captured the hearts and imaginations of my friends and family like the times I’ve had a Mohawk.

The Mohawk has a proud heritage stemming from the Iroquois Confederation back in the Eighteenth Century. Iroquois warriors (specifically of the Kanien’Kahake tribe) would cut off all of their hair with the exception of a three-finger width strip down the middle of their heads before going into battle. When the French and English encountered these warriors and gave them (for unknown reasons) the name Mohawk (In the Mohawk language “man-eater”) the name stuck for the haircut. I have included here a portrait of the famous Mohawk leader, Joseph Brant.

The haircut has been a favorite of those angry with the English and French ever since, (or is that angry English and French ever since?) and so here I am today! I am not angry, but I am possibly mad, (like a fox!) so please bear with me a while longer.

Sufjan Stevens, musician extraordinaire, inspired my first Mohawk – but it was also for the entertainment of Jr. Highers.

I kept my Mohawk long enough for it to make an appearance with my family at Thanksgiving time, but it quickly departed thereafter. A problem arose with the disappearance of my Mohawk – people loved it! I was shocked at how many complaints were leveled against me in light of cutting off my Mohawk. A friend whom I became close with while having a Mohawk almost considered it a blow to our relationship.

Let it never be said that Eric Garner does not hear the cries of the people! From that moment I began re-growing my hair so that I could keep the (proverbial) customer satisfied! After all, even nature likes hipsters.

And so, for the concluding portion of my time in San Luis Obispo and the initial months of my life in Santa Cruz I was proudly crowned with a Mohawk atop my head. However, as previously stated, I do silly things with my hair, and nothing lasts forever.

Don't Make Waves - Make Bubbles

2007-09-25T18:21:00.000-07:00

I have never been very good at rebelling, which has always served as something of a frustration to me. All throughout my adolescence I made meager attempts at defying my parents’ sensibilities (sideburns, obnoxious music) but nothing to warrant the name ‘rebel.’ Sure, this may not seem like all too big of a problem – a teenager who gets along with his parents – but I had a deep-seeded desire to revolt!

Fortunately, I have never been one to take problems lying down, (with the exception of insomnia and a sprained ankle) and I vowed that I would rock the boat. A critic from a young age, I had my eyes set on revolution (yes, this often was my understanding of adolescent rebellion) and the vindication of the marginalized of the world – who knows, my selfless actions may even warrant children a day off of school in my name! I didn’t really have a programme, per se, but I did possess enough gall to believe that I could make a difference.

Enter problem number two: I’m not really good at anything. You’d be surprised at how hard it is to start a revolution without any marketable skills, charisma, or a car. So, I did pretty much what I had always done, day-dreamed about doing good things and pretend that this was the first step.

“But Eric,” you might interject, “I can see that you were impotent to affect change and therefore did not ‘make waves,’ but where does this bubble nonsense come in?”

Well, thank you for your concern, (albeit a trifle rude) and allow me to get to my next point.

I found the means for rebellion not in the material world, but in my mind. Upside: rebellion is very easily carried out because it can be done with something as simple as an ironic turn of phrase. Downside: often times no one realized that I was rebelling. I could do something some monumental that it ought to have been recorded by future historians (or, if I dare be so bold, my biographers) as a pivotal turn in my life, but it was dismissed as ‘one of those strange things Eric says.’ This could have become emasculating rather quickly had it not been for the all importance of my rebellion. (We’re getting to the point, I promise!)

For a while in the art world, it was hotly debated how a bubble ought to be painted. Fortunately a brave soul finally took a stab at creative genius and composed a picture with a bubble that carried a skewed reflection of a window on its surface, conveying the shape and properties of the bubble. From that point forward other artists included windows in their bubbles (even when no windows ought be present) in commemoration of this brilliant stroke. The name of this valiant artist from the Netherlands is unknown to me, but I include here a picture like his (or possibly his) called Vanitas Still Life (1603) by Jacques de Gheyn the Elder.

I include this story because this is how I feel about my rebellion. I am not the type of person who will create giant changes in the system. I will most likely not even add some little element to the discussion that blows people’s minds for a while. However, I will continue to rebel in my mind because I need to search out truth and beauty as best I can. So, while I was never any good at breaking-free as an adolescent, hopefully I’ll do better at clarifying who I am (or am becoming) now.

Despite Popular Belief, I don't have AIDS

2007-09-24T18:19:00.000-07:00

I was recently reminded that there is a vicious rumor being spread by the American Heart Association that I have HIV antibodies. Due to this unprovoked attack on my character, I am not in fact infected with HIV, nor do I possess antibodies, nor do I have AIDS. I take this moment to clear up this matter once and for all:

Back in the fall of 2005 I donated blood at San Luis Obispo’s Tri-County Blood Bank, (either to save lives or pay off vampires – I don’t care which) and after being poked in both arms and having the plasma sucked out of me I was released with meager compensation (sticker, grape juice). I did not go for the rewards; however, I would now like some restitution for my slandered name. Two weeks after donating my very life-blood (namely: blood) to the Man, he took an unwarranted stab at my character.

A letter from the Blood Bank arrived in the mail with two stamps as red as the fluid they work with, one reading “URGENT” and the other “CONFIDENTIAL.” I hungrily opened this letter, only to feel my hands grow cold and see them turn white. My heart began beating quickly as I read: “You have been diagnosed positive for HIV antibodies […] we must permanently defer you from donating blood […] we have included several numbers for you contact for information on HIV/AIDS.” I was terrified. I ran around the house informing my roommate about my cruel fate – stigmatized forever. Finally Johnny calmed me down and made me realize that it was next to impossible that I would have contracted AIDS since the last time I donated blood (which is in fact true). After re-examining the letter, it stated that mine was most likely a false-positive test.

Apparently false positive tests happen relatively frequently while false negative tests are nearly impossible.

While I believed I did not have AIDS, I endured a grueling year possessing the knowledge that I may actually be carrying HIV antibodies until World AIDS day finally rolled around when I could get free HIV testing from the Cal Poly Health Center. Many people have commented that I must not have been too concerned as I did wait a full year prior to being tested, but I still call foul!

Naturally I tested negative, (hence the picture below) but the thought of having HIV still haunts me.

This brings me to the present. I was recently in a group that I was asked if anyone had ever tested positive for a serious illness, and (as I am not accustomed to telling lies) I fessed up to the truth – I have tested positive for HIV antibodies.

So for all of you who think that I am engaged in elicit activities and thus have contracted HIV, let me inform you now that I am HIV-free! The tests came back negative and I am still the same Eric you have (or maybe haven’t) come to love.

A Quick Disclaimer

2007-09-24T08:30:00.000-07:00

If you have spent any significant amount of time with me, you may have observed that I have a tendency to get carried away in the moment and mislead people. I fully intend to do that with this Blog.

I am not accustomed to keeping a journal, and as such, this will not be a logging of my days, but rather I hope to give a true accounting of what my life is like – and unfortunately that does not always deal with reality. And so, in this realm where accuracy may not be my best guide, I will report on my happenings via my (perhaps unwelcome) gusto and charm.

And with this not particularly helpful preface, I leap unabashedly forward. Maybe just a little abashedly…