An exercise in inconvenience: If you ever want to alter your daily routine significantly, leave your cell phone at home. Go without it for just one workday. Even if you don't usually get that many calls or text messages during those hours, you'd be surprised how cut off from the world and vulnerable you can feel just because you don't have access to your phone. At least, that's how it was for me today.
For those of you who haven't yet joined the 21st century, please purchase a cellular phone as soon as possible. Do the rest of us a favor, buck tradition and cut the tether of the land line. You might not know this but all of your cell phone-having friends consider you a relic of the past. Like the vestigial wings on the kiwi, a person without a cell phone is a nonfunctional nub incapable of operating at the same level as his or her peers. Your deficiency in one of the most basic of human skills -- the ability to communicate -- makes you primitive. Accordingly, the rest of us look at you in the same manner that we might one of our ancient ancestors, like the Australopithecene: you are vaguely familiar because we see a reflection of our past in your visage, but the fundamental differences are obvious and impossible to ignore. Frankly, we'd rather not associate with your kind if we can help it; you make us uncomfortable.
What is most perplexing is that, unless there are monetary prohibitions, you are purposefully removing yourself from the realm of human interaction. Not only do you inconvenience yourself, but you also frustrate those of us who have grown accustomed to being connected at all times with the rest of society. Ask anyone who has ever had a pressing need to get a hold of you when you weren't at home whether that is true.
Like vegetarianism, anti-cell phone sentiment demands a substantial price be paid just to prove a point. Strident opposition to the cellular phone will virtually guarantee eternal solitude and depression-inducing loneliness. If that's not bad enough, you -- and your kind -- will surely become extinct, or at the very least obsolete, as progress brings those of us who harbor no fear of technology closer and closer together. You stand now at the point of no return. Do you really want to go the way of the cave man simply because of stubbornness?
Some of my best haircuts are by gay guys.
Actually, that's not entirely accurate because all of my best haircuts have been the product of non-heterosexual hair stylists. Despite this obvious trend (and it is very obvious), I can't pinpoint exactly why gay men are so superior to their straight or female counterparts when it comes to this profession. It seems to stem largely from the fact that gay stylists feel comfortable enough -- and perhaps obligated by a sense of duty to clean up straight guys like the fab five on Queer Eye -- to supplement my amateurish requests by applying their own flair, for the lack of a better word. Now, by "flair" I certainly don't mean to imply that I'm frequently the recipient of frosted tips; rather, the word suggests those little touches, like texturizing, which propel your hair one step closer to the holy grail of hairdos: controlled crazy. It's almost as if each one of the gay hairstylists I've had was looking out for my best hair-related interests, and in doing so, strived mightily to construct the best possible configuration of my hair.
Most female hairdressers, on the other hand, take my suggestions too literally, and fail to deviate to any significant degree from the standard "trim" which I request. This repeated outcome is partially my fault, however. I can't deny that I lack an adequate vocabulary for describing exactly what I want done to my hair. Plus, my masculinity prevents me from using one of those hardcover hairstyle books to point out an acceptable look. Because of those shortcomings, our encounter often results in little more than a much shorter version of my current hair, usually crafted with about as much motivation as she could be expected to muster while carrying on an involved conversation about moisturizers with two other equally bored female employees. I guess they figure that guys want nothing more than to leave with a haircut which delays their next appointment for as much time as possible. In many cases, they would not be wrong.
Having a heterosexual male cut my hair, on the other hand, virtually guarantees a military-style flat top, with the probability increasing to 1000% if said male is a barber. Sure, he asks me what I would like done, but the barber’s interpretation of my answer is invariably flat on top, short on the sides. As a strict constructionist, he flatly refuses to accept any of these “new-fangled” trends that us “kids” prefer.
Realizing that straight males and women bring ruination upon my head, when I enter a hair-cutting establishment, be it salon, barbershop, or generic chain, I immediately scope the scene, hoping -- no, praying -- that there is a gay hair stylist to address my hair-related needs. I'm never proactive about it -- that is, I don't actively seek them -- but if one is working that day, I give my name, sit down, and watch intently as the other customers receive their reckoning, knowing full well that I will either be sheared carelessly like a sheep, buzzed up like a soldier, or, if fate spares me, able to rejoin the world with a confident swagger.
Maybe the next time when I'm in pursuit of controlled crazy, and I hear "next" only to look up to see a straight guy standing there waiting for me, I'll refuse and save myself the indignity of a bad haircut. He is heterosexual, after all. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
All of us who drive daily -- basically anyone not living in New York -- have first-hand knowledge of what it's like to be stuck in traffic for hours at a time. It is not a pleasant experience. Because of the feeling of utter helplessness and of being trapped in an immobile metal cage a.k.a your car, there are few events that induce more frustration -- especially when you are blessed with a manual transmission.
Today I had the unfortunate luck of getting stuck in traffic not once, but twice, because of a huge accident which involved a tractor trailer jack-knifing, smashing into six other vehicles, and blocking all four lanes of west-bound I-80. Not only did the collision cause a halt to traffic as far as 10 miles away in neighboring Vacaville, it also clogged virtually all of the streets in Fairfield. Thousands of people like me lost hours of their day as a result. Worst of all, according to the preliminary news reports, the truck driver's loss of control caused three fatalities.
As frustration mounted, I realized that no matter how much the wreck inconvenienced me, the impact it had on my life was nothing more than that of a severe inconvenience. By contrast, there are some families out there who lost a loved one today. While I will never regain that hour of time, those poor souls will never again see their family member.
So, next time you are stuck in traffic, fuming because of a wasted hour or two, think about how lucky you are to be where you are.
Unlike other money-hungry bloggers who will remain nameless but will be hyperlinked shamelessly (link), I hereby pledge never to host ads of any sort on this site. Those seeking escape from the ubiquitous captilistic schemes which indiscriminately siphon away hard-earned cash will find solace here.
Enjoy your expense-free stay.
PS - I think it is no mere coincidence that Google, in all its infinite wisdom, is hosting ads for headache medicine on his site.
Because of the sheer number of people also trying to attend the Red Bull Grand Prix yesteday, the lines to get to the track parking lots were immense -- and by immense, I mean miles long. So it actually required more time -- almost two hours -- to get from the track entrance to the parking lot than it did to drive the 85 miles from Menlo Park to Monterey. That is ridiculous.
In our excitement and infinite stupidity, Chris and I jointly decided to forego getting gas on the way down to the track even though I had little more than a quarter tank when we took off that morning. Unware that we would be idling in line for hours, we figured that such a minimal amount of fuel would be nothing more than a footnote to our journey.
After moving along at a snail's pace or slower for about an hour in the entry line, the "you are about to run out of gas, idiot" light came on. But whenever we stopped on a hill (this happened often), the gauge would move back into safe territory, so we both ignored our impending doom by attempting to race a woman who chose to walk to the track rather than contend with the unbearable traffic. In the end, she won, but at that point the gas situation had progressed from irritating annoyance to doomsday scenario, so we paid her victory no mind.
If you are like me, you'd figure there was no better place to be than in the middle of a venue where gas literally fuels the entertainment. Not only that, but we were surrounded by countless cars and motorcylces, all of which presumable contained some of the much-needed energy source. But alas, none of the Laguna Seca staff, those not-so-helpful volunteers and equally disinterested paid workers, could assist us in any way other than offering insightful advice such as "I'd coast if I were you" and "Uh oh."
This predicament took on extra significance because, in my ten years or so of driving, I have never run out of gas before. There have been a few close calls, but I can truthfully state that, barring the occassional mechanical failure, my car stops only when I command it to. Fate has not yet shamed me with the prospect of walking (or catching a cab) to a gas station or calling Triple A to beg for a pick-up. Given our situation -- stuck at the far end of a gigantic parking lot of a race track crowded with a record amount of attendees -- I was certain that the streak was going to come to a humiliating and inconvenient end.
Fortunately, due in large part to my skillful coasting and the timing of our exit from the track, I managed to pilot my car to a gas station before encoutering the loss of power that I presume accompanies running out of gas. There, I had to convince an unsuspecting military-ID carrying patron to purchase gas for me, but that is another story altogether.
For now, I still bat 1000.
This Sunday, Chris and I will be waking up at the crack of dawn and venturing down to Laguna Seca Raceway in Monterey for the Red Bull US Grand Prix. But unlike numerous times before, the purpose of this excursion will not be to see racecars piloted around the world-famous course. Rather, we will be witnessing the first US appearance of Moto GP, the premiere motorcycle racing series in the world, in more than 10 years. This event, scheduled to bring in almost 200,000 attendees, also marks the most popular event held at Laguna Seca in the track's 50-year history. 
If our past experiences at Laguna are any indication, this should be quite a spectacle. Especially when we see the 200-horsepower prototype bikes going down this turn, the infamous corkscrew, more a three-story drop than a corner. We will undoubtedly also be entertained by the antics of Valentino Rossi, the reigning king of Moto GP, and also, at an annual salary of $30 million, one of the 10 highest paid atheletes in the world.
Oh, and regardless of what Al Qaida does, I'll never stop riding the subway.
Like Rodion, I've been watching the HBO show, Entourage, lately. Thanks to the limitless generosity of the Internet, I was able to procure the entire first season and all of the episodes from the current one. Dan and I started watching Entourage when it first came on the air before I moved to New York. We both knew right away that it was going to be a hit. After a long hiatus because of school, I've finally managed to catch up from where I left off with Vince and the boys.
If you are unfamiliar, Entourage is about four friends from Queens, one of whom, Vince, is a huge movie star. In pursuit of fame and fortune, the gang relocates to Hollywood. The three non-movie stars -- Vince's older brother, a washed-up actor named Johnny Drama, his best friend, E, and the enigmatic Turtle -- comprise the entourage referenced by the show's title. They basically follow Vince around, basking in his glory and reeping the considerable benefits of being close friends with a very famous movie star. Supposedly, the show is loosely based on Mark 'Marky Mark' Wahlberg's early years in Hollywood. (This claim is lent credence by the fact that he is also the Executive Producer)
The greatest thing about the show is just how much fun the guys are having. Their life consists of outrageously expensive purchases, hob-knobbing with other movie stars (primarily female), and attending parties at exlcusive clubs or Malibu beach houses (been there, done that last one). None of them, not even Vince himself, take any of it seriously. Rather than fret about practical matters, such as whether they can afford their current lifestyle or where Vince's next job will come from, they are content to ride the wave of celebrity for all its worth, even if that attitude results in their good fortune fading away. It hasn't yet.
The morals of the show, so far as I can gather, are to enjoy life, to value everything that you are given, to take advantage of once-in-a-lifetime opportunities, to enjoy your youth, and, most importantly, to cherish your friends. Time flies, money comes and goes, but if you don't stop to experience life, you'll miss out on countless adventures.
This philosophy resonates strongly with me, as I'm a firm believer in the value of the present. The future is critical, of course, but too many people forego the now, which is all you really have when it comes down to it, for the sake of long-term plans. As long as you aren't self-destructive, it's perfectly viable to always enjoy where you are at the moment. And having fun now doesn't necessarily mean you will pay later provided that you can achieve a balance.
Wise words from a guy living at home with his parents.
