"Hey James. Cute iPod Nano!"
"Oh, thanks! I'm so excited with these iPod thingys... I only got one last week!"
In retrospect, my response made me seem much less cool. I sure do miss the days where one could be a sexy geek without the added requirement of being techno-savvy.
I woke up in a sour mood this morning, which explains why I snapped at him at breakfast. I'm not exactly the sort of person who permits his whole day to be ruined just because he "woke up on the wrong side of the bed." But, I am exactly the sort of person who permits his whole morning to be ruined just because he "woke up on the wrong side of the bed."
Unfortunately, I don't even recall precisely what I snapped at him about. We were just sitting in the booth, and I suddenly got defensive. Of course, I was overwhelmed with conflicting emotions; and, in such instances, I get defensive. Thus, it should come as no surprise to me that I snapped, momentarily: metaphorical jaws agape, with fangs barred. It was over in an instant, and forgiven by Zach even faster. But still, when I asked him this just a few minutes later, I believe I blushed an even deeper shade of red than I usually do, momentarily reliving my childish behavior moments prior.
"Would you?"
"Would I what?"
"Would you want to get domesticated with me?"
"Domesticated" has become a loaded, and comical, recent addition to my vocabulary. Our household has been following with some interest developments in the Washington State Legislature this session, which began earlier this month and runs through April. While many bills of interest to myself have been submitted already, two in particular stand out. One would legalize gay marriage in this state, putting it on the same level as Massachusetts in regards to legal recognition of same-sex relationships. The other would adopt basal level "domestic partnerships."
The former, to me, is a noble cause with absolutely no chance of even a floor vote. The latter, however, I initially saw as a pragmatic first step... a step that would take years, if not decades, to pass through both houses and receive the signature of the governor. I was quite taken with the idea of domestic partnerships for a simple reason: they're what I was saving up for.
Most people save up for retirement, or a nice vacation. Maybe some nice clothes or an expensive bottle of champagne. I was saving up on principle: I wanted Zach to be able to pull my plug.
Pulling the plug... It's such an odd (and almost morbid) thought to ponder during breakfast. But, that's what I couldn't help but recall this morning, as I sat there being defensive (about something of absolutely no consequence) simply because I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. But, you (the reader) must realize this: sleeping next to Zach does strange things to one's head. Despite my best efforts these past three years, I can't help but be drawn to him... drawn to him to the point that I begin to worry about what might happen to him should "something" happen to me.
That's the phrase that's right and proper to use, right? "Something." It's a nice, all-encompassing word. It includes nearly all the reasonable possibilities, including my own stupidity, being hit by a bus, cut lots by a serial killer, or being crushed by my refrigerator during an earthquake... and the outcomes are just as variable - from drooling vegetable to "really, most sincerely dead" and everything in between. Should "something" - anything - happen, however, I'd worry about what would happen to him.
For anyone who knows Zach, you're probably laughing at this point. For we all know full well what he'd do should "something" happen; following a general announcement to the heavens that he's "free at last," he'd cremate me, get arrested trying to scatter my ashes into the already-polluted Puget Sound, and eventually move on. Any notions that he'd be in some sort of "difficulty" or trouble in the event of "something" happening to me are entirely laughable: I've no property or money to dispute, and my few posessions are of no consequence to anyone living or dead. Yet, as a pseudo-Southerner, I do most things "on principle," dodging the pragmatism Zach, as a good Midwesterner, so fervently clings to. The fact that I have no property or money to leave to him is not the issue to me; I want him to have that option - that right - that responsibility. Thus, my ridiculous dilemma: I want him to be the first in line to inherit my Nothing, should "something" happen to me.
Lawyers, wills, and living wills, as it turns out, are expensive, particularly if you're a pseudo-Southerner who, thanks entirely doing everything in his twenty-six years "on principle," has little money. I'm a graduate student, and graduate students don't get paid much. But, some time ago, I opened a little account to begin saving mony for those attorney fees. I was, and am, determined to let Zach make the decision, and let him inherit my Nothing, when the time comes.
If recent rumors from the state capitol are to be taken at face value, however, my slow savings may give way to a less expensive option. Domestic partnerships appear to be gaining ground; they would offer essentially what I'd attempt to seek in an expensive legal contract: permission to visit me in the hospital and make decisions on my behalf, inheritance in the absense of a will, the right to arrange a funeral, and a handful of other marriage-like privileges. As news has spread of the potential for the domestic partnership bill to make it through one house of the state legislature this year, I couldn't help but salivate... not over domestic partnerships themselves, but the possibility of domestic partnerships! Here I was, fretting over Zach's inability to inherit all my Nothing (on principle!), and there's this bill hanging before the state legislature that, in theory, would rid me overnight of my concerns.
I kept my trap shut for a few days, expecting the carrot to vanish in a whirlwind of state politics and parliamentary procedure. This morning, however, I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Specifically, my sinuses were wracked with a cold-like plague that has, one-by-one, been ravaging my peers and co-workers. Zach, home for the weekend from the state capitol, had spent a restless night next to my sneezing, coughing, tossing, turning, and snoring form. On top of that, I awoke frustrated that my immune system had thus far failed to rid me of the virus in question, and our asthmatic cat was wheezing.
Perhaps it was the sheer nobility he displayed when confronted with my illness-induced schizophrenia. Or perhaps it was the chivalrous way in which he instantly agreed to accompany me to Pike Place Market for breakfast, despite the fact that my nose was red and swollen, my balance shaky thanks to filled sinuses, and my attitude generally irritable enough to stun a yak at fifty paces. Whatever it was, I couldn't help but smile through my dry, cracked lips as we journeyed downtown, and made a resolution in my mind: today, I'd ask him. I will ask him, to get domesticated with me... if we get the chance.
Thus, on the second floor of Lowell's, we shivered in a drafty booth with no view of the polluted Puget Sound, and my quick-yet-stupid mouth snapped at Zach. I fumed at my vitriolic tongue, and stared out the window to the level below, where a young man laid out apples and citrus, onions and potatoes. Zach sighed and dodged the bullet, again accepting me for the flawed, swollen-nosed man I am. I pressed my dry lips together, staring down at the fruit stand below, praying that I could reverse time and take back what I said. Instead, we mumbled through a few lines about state politics, and found ourselves reconciling over discussions of the domestic partnership bill. "Now or never," I thought to myself.
"Would you?"
"Would I what?"
"Would you want to get domesticated with me?"
"Huh?"
"I mean, you don't have to! I just... thought I'd ask."
From high school, when I realized I was a homosexual, I'd also resigned myself to the fact that I'd never marry, and never be able to ask any man to join me in any sort of agreement to that end. Unless a move to Massachusetts, Connecticut, New Jersey, Vermont, or California is in my future, I believe my high school assumption will still ring true. I thought, someday, years from now, once I'd saved enough money, I'd draw up a contract with Zach, and we'd unceremoniously sign it, and then go home and pet our asthmatic cat. And yet, here I found myself savoring the almost-burned-but-still-so-delicious sausage links at Lowell's (the only reason to eat there, particularly if the window tables are already taken), asking Zach to speed up the process of contractual agreement by a few years.
And, he agreed.
I immediately hit the brakes, admitting I was pulling the cart before the horse. "Domestic partnerships probably won't happen this year anyway," I told myself in between nose blows. "Even if they make it through both houses and the governor signs it into law, there'll be a citizen initiative to overturn the legislature that will lead to a postponement of the law's implementation until late this year or next November." Something will probably happen, I told myself, to delay the bill somehow.
Still, as I savored my sausage links and looked at his beaming, unshaved face, it was nice to sit in that drafty booth in that drab restaurant and think that of the money I was slowly saving as a back-up, rather than the primary means for Zach to inherit my Nothing, visit me in the hospital, and - in the eyes of the law - be Something to me.
After breakfast, we walked around the fruit and vegetable stands, and I stopped at one stall to buy some dates. The stand owner suggested I try one first. As I sank my teeth cautiously into one cold and sweet fruit, I caught Zach brushing his hand through his hair in the corner of my eye. I love it when he does that - one of his many gestures of detachment and preoccupation that I've always found adorable over the years.
As I turned my head to watch him, I squeezed the date I was biting too hard and fumbled, nearly dropping it.
The vendor joked, "Hey, you're gonna have to pay for that!"
I beamed back, "Yes, I certainly will!"
dportsymphonyguy: [Name of acquaintance] drove his car into a ditch.
ISleepInADrawer9: Wait, is that a symptom of hepatitis?
For over a year now, I've spent a great deal of energy trying to earn the respect of my labmates. As far as graduate students go, I think I lean a little more towards the bumbling, inept, slow, and ignorant variety. I don't see such a characterization as a self deprecating exercise intended to garner unearned accolades to the contrary; I don't fish for compliments, and find the very practice unappetizing and pathetic. Instead, I see the above admission as a raw embrace of reality, and a call to action. I fully acknowledge that, in the scientific realm, I've much to learn and, generally speaking, my progress has been slower and wrought with more errors when compared to my academic peers. I'm making progress, though, in my own way.
Thus, faced with such a cliff to scale, I tend to lean on those around me for support and encouragement. Zach, of course, has bravely (masochistically) risen to the challenge, as have several friends. But, I've spent over a year now trying, and I fear making little progress, in acquiring the respect (and therefore support) of my immediate co-workers - my partners and collaborators in science.
Since, naturally, most of their interactions with me occur on a purely professional and scientific playing field, I felt I could only deserve their respect through my abilities as a scientist; and, since I unfortunately progress slowly in scaling the cliff (see above), it should come as no surprise that, over a year after beginning my efforts, I felt I still had much to do to earn their respect and support.
Today, however, I discovered that my strategy for the past year, to earn and deserve their professional respect, is horribly flawed and ineffective when compared to another strategy that I spontaneously employed for about five minutes this morning...
...all I had to do was sing the lyrics to Shoop. And now they love me.
Overheard on the bus:
Man: "So, what else did you learn in school yesterday?"
Son: "The State of the Union Address."
pause
Man: "The what? What's that?"
Son: "It's something in the Const'tution that says the Pres'dent has to talk to Congress, and George Washington gave the first State of the Union."
Man: "Oh, really?"
Son: "Yeah, and so Congress and the President always have to talk once a year."
Man: "Oh"
Son: "Did you know that?"
Man: "Uh... sure!"
Son: "But, last night you said Dem'crats and Congress are all traitors and comm'nists. So, why should the Pres'dent have to talk to them?"
Ah, Billy. Your father, despite his outdated Red Scare hot air, obviously has not read the U.S. Constitution. Specifically, Article II, Section 3:
"He shall from time to time give to Congress information of the State of the Union and recommend to their Consideration such measures as he shall judge necessary and expedient."
What? You, an American citizen, haven't read the U.S. Constitution either? Shame on you.
As I told my co-workers, you could at least tune in (9:00PM EST) to hear the U.S. House of Representatives Sergeant at Arms utter this phrase for the first time in history:
"Madame Speaker, the President of the United States."
I've discovered newfound respect for any teacher I've ever known. I'm amazed at the amount of energy I've invested that's been drained from me with only two lab sections of an introductory biology course to teach each week.
At this point, I've decided to give up attempting to impress one of my sections. Nervous energy on my part led to a bungled introduction, and my recovery efforts have since been hampered by a few troublemakers and general undergraduate apathy. I'm still hoping to inspire, or at least help, some students on an individual level; but, my success in this area is far from assured. In my other section, however, I've fared better. I dubbed this section the "good section," as I've managed to reach a fragile equilibrium of respectful interaction with the students, which is entirely surprising since my teaching style is recklessly and randomly constructed from a collection of contradictory sources, including Edward James Olmos' performance in Stand and Deliver, Miss Hoover from The Simpsons, Mr. Brocklehurst from Charlotte Brontė's Jane Eyre, and the Ministry of Silly Walks.
Sometimes I feel sorry for the students, and wonder if some morally defining episode earlier in their lives has set them up for a dose of karmic payback in the form of ten weeks in my own version of the maiden voyage of the Titanic. Other times, I drink. Most often, though, I wonder where I've thus far gotten the energy to remain standing and talking for three hours, despite the fact that I'm petrified of speaking in front of crowds and answer 60% of my student's questions with a firm "I don't know." But, this past week, I actually had to teach them precisely where I get the energy to teach them make a fool of myself: aerobic respiration.
I'd actually been doing quite well Thursday afternoon with my "good section." A brief introduction and subsequent (unfortunately) overhead-led lectures on glycolysis and the tricarboxylic acid cycle had unfolded well. The students seemed inquisitive and interested, participating at a level that gave me hope that I was not leading them astray. They even laughed repeatedly at my dry humor.
Unfortunately, as we reached the apex of cellular respiration, the moment where biological significance and aesthetic brilliance collide, my infective enthusiasm overwhelmed my cerebral cortex as I guided them through the critical concept of proton motive force using an overhead diagram. I did not realize that my inspired emotional side had, moments prior, taken the helm, and that my lecture had sharply shifed from all head to all heart.
Thus, I also failed to notice that, instead of writing "PMF" (Proton Motive Force) in bright blue marker on the overhead, I'd instead fervently scribbled "PMS!!!"
The next day (which was yesterday, for those of you not yet sufficiently confused), my students took their first exam. Several students from my "good section" have since thanked me for giving them such a "wonderful and effective way" to remember the importance of proton motive force in aerobic respiration.
I'm still trying to decide whether they were serious or joking.
My cat spent last night outside, mostly because she wouldn't come in by the time my head hit the pillow. This happens every now and then, and she usually seems perfectly fine spending the night catching mice and leaving them for me by the door. But, starting at about 4:00AM, I started hearing her meow, ever so gently, by the bedroom window. Heavy with sleep, I rolled over and hugged a pillow. Periodically over the next hour and a half, though, I'd hear her again from different windows in the apartment - each protested call rising another notch in desperation. Finally, at around 5:30AM, she broke my slumber sufficiently for me to stand up and let her in, though I failed to notice that she was soaking wet.
An hour later, my still-drenched cat was sitting by the heater, furiously bathing herself while letting loose a fury of calming purrs. I, dressed to kill for another day of teaching my students letting my students walk all over me, looped by backpack over my shoulder, walked out of the apartment, and walked right into the natural terror that so traumatized my cat: snow!!!
At least two inches on the ground, with more falling fast. I grinned, glancing up and down the streets. Usually filled with early-morning commuters like myself, scurrying to offices downtown, the streets were absolutely deserted. Not a soul was out, nor had a single pair of tracks from a car or bicycle penetrated the blanket. My booted feet stepped confidently, relishing the long-forgotten soft, muted crunch of snow-covered ground. I was on an alien world, an Earth feed wholesome spoonfuls of Quiet. I felt guilty for the penetrant sounds of my breaths, muted giggles, and footfalls as I made my way to school, and for the earlier screams of agnony from my pet.
Surely, such disruptions are sacrilege.
Problem:
1. First day of teaching somewhat... disastrous.
2. Twenty-two students making voodoo dolls.
Solution:
1. Pepperoni pizza (thin crust)
2. Full Sail Amber Ale
3. Coffee ice cream
4. Feet propped up on the coffee table, body slouching in the couch
5. Ludwig van Beethoven's Concerto for Violin and Orchestra in D on the stereo
6. My cat curled up in my lap
7. Name change and relocation to a country without undergraduate students
Unfortunately, 6 and 7 aren't happening currently... the former because my cat abhors all humanity, the latter because I'm pretty sure voodoo dolls would still work even if I assumed a new identity and opened up a used bookstore on Tristan da Cunha.
My neck hurts.
Tagged... I believe that's the proper term for it. I'm apparently tagged, tasked to reveal five facts about myself that you, the reader, likely do not know.
One: Excess
It's a daunting task. At least, it seems so to me. When challenged to reveal something about myself that you do not know, two immediate questions entered my head. First, what have I told you about myself? And, who are you anyway?
In principle, the first question is unfortunately easier to address. I can simply look over the 570 entries for this website, spanning the past three years of my life. For better or worse, they are, after all, my words, and the primary means by which I've had communication with you, the reader.
The second question is a bit more daunting: I have no idea who you are. I know of a handful of readers, most of whom are friends, folks I met face-to-face at one point or another. There's a one-armed lesbian, my two-armed boyfriend, and a man with five cats. Most of those face-to-face encounters are folks unfortunate enough to have met me in college, when my confidence was a little more shaky and I was known to do stupid things, like smoke cigarettes. I was also nearly attacked by a raccoon. Once, I broke a chair by sitting in it. These are the times in which I met most of the readers-I-know-of. There are only a handful of you, though. The rest of my readership is largely unknown to me; that statement, of course, rests on the weak assumption that I even have readers beyond those known to me. I may not have any, which is fine. But, since I'm tasked to reveal five facts about myself that none of you know already, I must first know who my audience is. In addition, most of my known audience are folks who, if they dig deep into the crawlspaces of their respective cerebral cortexes, could likely provide tales that are not found in the 570 entries of this website. At least one reader knows that I hadn't seen Iron Chef until the summer between my freshman and sophomore years at college. Another reader could testify how profoundly inconsolable I was after walking in on my parents separating-with-the-intent-to-divorce. And at least one of you has seen me naked. Thus, actually, I could only truly provide you, the reader, whoever you may be, with new facts is to reveal thoughts, incidents, or desires that have no witnesses, and are recorded solely in the axonal connections of my big, sexy brain.
Such an unfortunate conclusion, while sticking to the literal task I was "tagged" with by Richard, could potentially backfire. While remaining true to the rules and spirit of the game, I could all too easily reveal some deep secret that could also utterly damn, tar, and feather me in the eyes of humanity. A deep-seated desire, a shameful secret, a private fetish... I fully acknowledge that my brain is as thoroughly corrupted as it is exemplary; conniving as it is cooperative; twisted as it is beautiful; backwards as it is progressive; aggressive as it is benign; and terrifying as it is inspired. In light of such a polarizing reality, I'm only reassured that you, and the rest of humanity, are just as crippled, and just as elevated, by the same design quirks. We are, after all, only human.
Thus, despite the danger that I may reveal a dark page of my dark matter, I ultimately decided that the task at hand requires me to list facts known only to myself. You, the reader, had to accompany me on a small part of the meandering thought process to comprehend my first revelation: the thorough, obsessive, and desultory introspection that pilots every decision I ponder. I am given to excess in thought, overanalyzing and second guessing to the point of aimless indecision or misdirection. I must usually be rescued from this cerebral fixation by a companion who can recognize this preoccupation and press me to action or, as in this case, by some primeval impatient instinct that surfaces long enough to push me to the next question life tosses my direction.
Zach, however, has likely already guessed that my brain is so abjectly miswired; thus, this revelation may be nothing new to him. If that is the case, let me also point out that I prefer the 1984 version lyrics to Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah."
Two: Oil of New York
When I was around two or three years old, I was apparently left unsupervised with a bucked of (Original Recipe?) Kentucky Fried Chicken. I ate all the precious skin off of every pieces.
I used to believe that folks would find this small anecdote amusing, until I saw an episode of South Park in which Cartman does the exact same thing.
Three: Song of Songs
In a particularly shameful fit of inexcusable nerdiness, I once, years ago, found it a good use of my time to assign the people in my life to specific pieces of music. I used to think of this idea in the same way I once thought of New Coke: I'm sure, once upon a time, it seemed like a good idea, and that past moral certainty absolves the instigator(s) of all blame. But, in my hardened old age, I feel flaggelation is in order to ensure I never come up with such a useless notion again.
The spark for this idea came when I was listening to the second movement of Barber's Violin Concerto, and realized this particular selection inevitably made me think fondly of my mother. Further introspection led to a second connection: I associated Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here" with tender feelings for and memories of a trio of once close friends. Those two solid correlations falsely convinced me that I was destined to assign works of music to every friend and loved one, and I immediately set myself down to the task.
Two weeks later, my grand project was in shambles. An ex-boyfriend an his selection were not working out, particularly since my boyfriend-at-the-time (and now another ex-boyfriend) found the work's overtly romantic themes a bit threatening. Two other friends protested to being assigned classical works; I'd proudly told another friend his song, only to forget it myself an hour later. I admitted to myself that I had bitten off more than I could chew, and that my subconscious mind was obsessively more interested in making a satisfying list (Oh, how I love lists!) than affectionately associating my loved ones with my favorite works of music. My efforts were abandoned in favor of more overt avenues of obsessive list-making (including an alphabetical listing of American states and Canadian provinces, drawn up from memory), a move which no doubt failed to assuade the fears of my boyfriend-at-the-time, who was beginning to think I was batsh*t insane.
Last week, years following the original list, I suddenly realized that Grieg's "In the Hall of the Mountain King" from Peer Gynt Suite No. 1 reminded me of my cat (in as an affectionate manner as possible, mind you). I was positively giddy, since I now had at least three works reminding me of three different groups of people (since the musical selections for my mother and a long-ago group of friends have still held up over the years). I cheerfully informed Zach of the good news.
I believe I have since then caught him trying to change the locks.
Four: Better Late Than Never
Today I finally bought an iPod, on the urging of Zach.
Me: "I thought you used to find it cute that I refused to get an iPod... because that meant I was yet again thumbing my nose at a wasteful society and its empty trends."
Zach: "Oh yeah. And that's really hot! But, now I just want you to be normal."
Me: "Getting an iPod will make me normal?"
Zach: "Well, it can't hurt, can it?"
Me: "Good point. I'll get my coat. You drive."
Five: Keeping Up with the Joneses
I was tagged for this task, as mentioned (far) above, by a man named Richard. He and I apparently attended college together. I cannot say for sure, since I have never met him. But, I have heard through others that we attended college together, and apparently graduated together as well. Since my college had merely 2,200 students, I suppose it is remarkable that I never met this person; but, to me, it is a somewhat unremarkable realization. While it appears to be rather easy for most of you to meet one another, it's generally not as easy to meet me.
I'm not sure if extreme shyness causes me to unconsciously arrange my social interactions in a manner that is not condusive to the formation of relationships, or instead if my excess of personal quirks and mental reservations combine to overwhelm and cripple my capacity assume societal norms. In either case, the end result is the same: fewer situations in which I successfully meet and greet my fellow men, and difficutly sustaining many relationships over great geographical distances. The former tends to occur because many of us, myself included, place great emphasis on initial meetings - situations which aren't quite condusive to the faux pas which largely define my daily existence. Just this morning, I met a young woman and needed six tries before I could communicate a thought without starting, Yoda-like, in the middle of a sentence; this afternoon, I clapped a friend on the shoulder, only to cause him to spill his coffee. On the bus ride home tonight, I accidentally elbowed a woman in the back of her neck because I just had to find out which of the two men sitting behind me smelled like doughnuts; my apology to her sputtered out... "doo-bee" (though I believe I was trying to say "sorry"). These are not strong bricks upon which a friendship can be built and sustained, and thus typically are spurned from such a meeting.
I find it difficult to sustain friendships, however, due to a lack of engagement. Most often, these relationships fail due to geographic constraints. Our society is mobile; I moved five times in my first ten years of life, for example. Unfortunately, however, I loathe telephones - wretched devices that merely amplify the personal quirks that already handicap my social interactions. My relationships often need ample face time to form strong roots, therefore. In some cases, ample face-to-face contact far in the past has set roots strong and deep enough to endure long stretches of separation (and, likely, sparse telephone contact). In many other cases, however, one of us would become dissatisfied with the gulf, and we will drift.
I am difficult to meet, and difficult to keep. Since I am no better than any other human, therefore, it takes a special breed of masochist to call me friend. But for you masochists out there, you have my loyalty, my trust, and should you ever need it, my help.
For my undergraduate education, I spent four years here. Adventures aside (hour of pour with Poje, or stealing her arm), it was a rather humble, quiet, and unassuming existence...
At least, that's how I nostalgically remembered it today, my first day as a graduate teaching assistant at a large state university - a state university with over 30,000 undergraduates (roughly the size of the town I was born in twenty-six years ago). Since this number is approximately fourteen or fifteen times the number of students at my old undergraduate institution, I think my fellow Augustana alumni can forgive me for (again, hour of power aside) looking on my bygone college years with some sugar-coated, idealistic nostalgia... particularly since these thoughts, including memories of the largest class I ever took in college (some 70 students total), raced through my head as I stood - dumbstruck, weak, and helpless - in a Goliath lecture hall next to three professors and five other graduate teaching assistants, staring at the towering mass of our charges for the quarter... over 300 of them.
And to think I once considered complaining about that class of 70.
Overheard this weekend... unfortunately at my favorite Seattle breakfast venue:
Guy #1: "Did you hear about that muslim?"
Guy #2: "What muslim?"
Guy #1: "The one who was elected to Congress? He wants to get sworn in on a copy of the Koran! Isn't that awful?"
Guy #2: "What do they normally use?"
Guy #1: "The Bible, of course."
Guy #2: "Are they gonna let him?"
Guy #1: "I think so. Those 'people' are killing us bit-by-bit... Jews and Muslims, man... they've gotten together to rule the world."
Guy #2: "'Gotten together'?"
Guy #1: "Yeah, of course they have."
Guy #2: "But, what about Israel and the Palestinians? And that Iranian guy who threatens Israel?"
Guy #1: "Just a smoke screen. To distract us from the real threat."
Guy #2: "What's the real threat?"
Guy #1: "Indonesia."
Guy #2: "Indochina?"
Guy #1: "No, Indonesia. It's a country. Like the tenth largest in the world by population. And it's full of muslims and getting bigger."
Guy #2: "Wow."
Disgusted, I got up to leave. But, they had as well, and I decided to instead keep my seat. I fumed and glared, but also managed a lighthearted mental chuckle when Guy #1 saw my copy of the Iraq Study Group Report, which I'd been reading while eating my eggs and bacon, and did a jawdropping doubletake that made him drop his newspaper.
I feared momentarily that he'd come to my table to start an argument. I didn't fear what he'd say or do; I feared my own responses to his disengaged and ignorant tirades. I feared that, rather than confront his racist and corruptive stereotypes of Jews and Muslims, or his arrogant moral superiority, or his deplorable contempt for humanity, or even his proud and heedless embrace of intellectual disengagement and ignorance... I feared that I'd instead stumble and stutter with frustration, and eventually stammer out the following pathetic, impotent, and unfortunately rather James-like retort:
"You fool! Everyone knows that Indonesia is the FOURTH largest country in the world by population, not tenth!"
He didn't come by to start an argument; he left with his friend, still ranting about a Muslim-Jewish conspiracy to enslave Christians. My dithering dignity, and his wretched ignorance, were both unfortunatetly preserved.
In my twenty-six years on this Earth, my only current regret is that I didn't join the debate team in high school.