kdrexel's blog

I felt it was time to let some video goodies out of my bag. 

First up, a cartoon bit from Saturday Night Live that was banned.  It's brilliant, written by the creator of Triumph, The Insult comic Dog.  You'll quickly see why it was banished, which is simply supports its own premise.

Next up, the intersection of "PowerPoint culture" and philosophy.  A lovely little bit of animation.

Thanks to J-Dog and the wonders of presales, I just picked up my 3-day pass to Coachella.

http://www.coachella.com/

If you've never heard of it (I hadn't until a few months ago) it's a big-ass music fest in Southern CA. How big? The lineup:

http://www.coachella.com/updates/news/2007-lineup-announced

Not *everyone* I hoped for is there... but I'm not complaining.

The tickets stung a little, I admit. The base price was $252, and with TicketBastards' oh-so-smugly-named "convenience charge" of $25 (I PRINTED OUT MY OWN TICKET... wtf does this get me?) plus an additional $8 charge, and then tax on all of it... the total was about $290. Yeah, I think it will be a good time. And for that price... it had damn better be.

In other news, I finally put up a website to house all my ridiculous random crap. It's a work in progress and always will be.

http://www.xanadeaux.com

The major theme is "randomness" and it's all original work (if you can even call some of it "work"). It's just a bunch of odd crap, really. Some of which you might have already seen. If you don't enjoy it, that's fine... be glad it was free and move on.

Very little real news on my end. My professional life continues to be splendid and my personal life continues to be mellow. Dating continues to be a flatline, and I've wasted more than my share of time trying to theorize why. What's the point? Theories rely on logic and if there's one thing dating isn't, it's "logical."

My car is almost paid off. Go me.

Next step: get medical insurance again. I hurt my left knee last January (here's lookin' at you, Mike) and it still bothers me. Gotta get that looked at.

The five-year-old niece continues to amuse and amaze. On this last Martin Luther King day, she let me know that "Martin Author Kane" was a man who had a dream that more people would ride the bus. Indeed, indeed.

Hope all is well out there in Utah, California, New York, London, Baltimore, D.C., and everywhere else my lj pals and rl pals hail from.

With gusto,

Kyle

Greetings, online world-

I realize my posting has slowed down. This seems to be a reflection of the many ways I have changed in recent months. You see-- I usually write more when I am unhappy... and lately, I am pretty darn happy.

My life is more orderly and balanced than I can ever remember, and I feel quite good most days, both physically and mentally. I still need to take care of some overdue situations and assorted small fires need to be put out, but none of it seems overwhelming. For the time being, chaos does NOT prevail in my life.

I go to bed at a reasonable time and I get up at a reasonable time. I don't eat too much and I don't work crazy hours. I keep a close eye on sources of stress and limit my exposure. I try to do a little every day to learn new things or practice a creative skill. I try to spend time with friends and take opportunities to enjoy myself.

Of course, there have been some sacrifices.

I realized that my approach to some aspects of life have been unrealistic, particularly regarding how many ways I could divide my energies. The fact is, a full-time job needs the majority of my energy, and there's not enough energy left over to do much more than take care of the duties of life. No more moonlighting as a film producer. No more part-time jobs on the side. No more night-clubbing on a regular basis. Just 8 hours of work, 8 hours of sleep, and 8 hours for my other interests. That's the math.

I also seemed to think that some behaviors did not have real, problematic consequences. To be specific, I didn't seem to grasp the toll of drinking. Somehow, I had gotten it in my head that a few drinks a week was a fine and healthy thing. It didn't seem to register that *not drinking at all* was an option, nor did I even pause to consider the benefits of abstaining. In December, I recognized that I'd been drinking pretty regularly since I was 15. I am now 30. Thus, if I drank once a week (on average) for the last 15 years, that means I've spent quite nearly TWO WHOLE YEARS of my life with a drink my hand. (52 weeks times 15 years = 780 days.) Considering that mammals do not naturally produce alcohol in their biology, and it's used to *sterilize* things, I can't imagine that my physical self is better off for having been dosed with alcohol constantly for over a decade.

So I stopped drinking. It's only been since Jan 1st, but I'm feeling better already and think I will continue on for a while... probably a year. (BTW - Nothing tragic sparked this. No DUI or fistfight, no puking in a bathroom stall, etc. Those seem to be the usual catalysts, but in my case, I just made a decision. Nothing more.)

The hardest part might be over: telling all my friends that I'm not going to be drinking (although I'll go out with them, still). It's interesting and new to be in situations without drinking. I anticipate that the most challenging new situations will be in dating.

Fortunately, I don't date much anymore.

That's another change for me. I'm not chasing down the pretty ladies like I used to. Just not feeling the urge. It's been years and years since I met anyone that made me feel good, just by being with them. Someone that presented the exciting possibility that life might be better for sharing it with them. I've felt a couple sparks here and there, but they've all died quickly... some fading away, some vanishing in an explosion. None of them particularly rewarding or inspiring.

Sure, I still think the idea of romance and partnership is fine and dandy. In an abstract way, I hope I feel the warm glow of love again. The comfort and security of knowing somebody thinks you're special is waiting for you to come home.

But when I think of it in concrete terms... it loses some appeal. I've been on many mediocre or otherwise disappointing dates in the last weeks, months, years. They fail in so many different ways. For instance, I might like them more than they like me (or vice versa). Or we both sense the mismatch. Or we both want it to work but a confounding hidden variable is present and the relationship never materializes. And some times, the reason for failure is baffling and resists classification.

I'm still planning on going on dates. I still hold out hope. But the idea of being a bachelor is gaining ground. I like my life and I'm not sure what I think a girlfriend / wife would bring to it that I can't have in other, separate ways. It would take a stellar person to convince me that being with them is better than being alone, someone special enough to dispel the suspicion that I was simply tired of being alone... and willing to settle for another person who was settling for me.

Am I maturing? Maybe. Am I losing some spark? Maybe.

But I am happier than I have been in many years. Perhaps ever. It might not entirely sound like it, I'm sure. But I am. I'm mentally level, feeling strong, smart, and brave.

Obviously, part of why I write less is that there is less to write about. Drama is nil. Dating infrequent, and mundane. And my other thoughts, I generally keep to myself.

Will I transform more? Is this a lasting change? Who knows. But I'm feeling open to change, so long as I keep feeling good, let it happen.

Until next time,

Kyle

- 1 -

I discovered that I was a robot, quite literally, by accident.

I was helping my friend Dan move when it happened.  We were losing a battle with a hide-a-bed on the final hairpin turn up the set of stairs to his new apartment; why we had trouble here, after successfully navigating all previous identical hairpins, I have no idea.

 I was on the lower end of the extremely heavy, unwieldy and unbalanced sofa, following Dan’s lead in this torturous waltz upward.   He slipped on a step, jolting me backwards unexpectedly.  My balance was thrown, and I strained to maintain control.

My left hand, cupping a lower corner of the sofa, found itself crushed against a metal handrail.  I could feel a dangerously intense weight bear down on my left ring finger and I reflexively yanked my hand away, instinctively trying to avoid injury.  

The pain had been sudden and severe… but now, no pain registered.  When I glanced at my hand to verify that my finger was intact, I instead found myself staring at an empty socket between my middle finger and pinky.  

My brain flickered and wobbled as I attempted to comprehend:  I was now missing a finger.

Adding to my confusion was the realization that my hand was not gushing blood.  Although I’d never considered this precise scenario before, I was subconsciously comfortable in assuming that losing a finger would result in some degree of bleeding.  The torn edges of skin were crested with scarlet rivulets, but nothing more.

It required some willpower to peer into the wound—and when I did, I discovered something far more horrible and strange than the milky, curved cartilage at the end of a metacarpal.  

I saw metal.  

The interior of my hand contained a metallic, finely machined concave socket.  Only a few drops of blood collected in my finger’s vacancy.   The interior of the socket seemed to be composed of several metals, a mixture of dull and shining parts.  A faint glimmer was visible the ring at the base of the socket; in my brief glance, I could not say if the glimmer was reflected light or the emission of faint energies.
    
Dan could feel that something was wrong on my end, but could not see though the monstrous sofa.  He yelled something (I wasn’t paying attention) and set his end of the sofa on the stairs.

The finger, pinched between the handrail and sofa until now, flopped unto the ground and began writhing erratically, like a tail that had discarded by a lizard escaping a predator.

I scooped the twitching object up, and gazed at the metallic stub of the otherwise familiar finger.   The flesh seemed as warm as its still-attached counterparts, and somehow heavier to hold than I might have expected.  The smooth metallic post at the base of the finger appeared to be a perfect geometric compliment to the socket. 

Holding my left ring finger in my right hand, I aligned it with the wound on my left hand and compared the post to the socket.   

At that moment, I realized Dan was making an effort to squeeze around the sofa and find out what was going on.   I panicked, and for reasons I still can’t explain, I jammed my finger back into the socket.  I can’t say I consciously expected that to have any effect on my situation—after all, a severed finger would not re-attach if I pushed it against my hand.   Yet, that’s exactly what it did.

With an undeniable, solid click, something that was both a feeling and a sound—my finger was connected to my hand.  And working.  There was a temporary, vague discomfort in the joint, but that’s all.  A very faint hairline of blood encircled the base of the finger, and after a few moments it was difficult to tell where the separation had been, hidden in the natural creases and wrinkles of the knuckles. 

“Are you ok?” Dan asked.

“Yeah… I’m… I’m fine,” I replied, amazed to realize that I meant it.

“Then let’s get done with this crap and go get some hot wings and beer, ok?”

Despite having the foundations of my reality crushed by a single horrific event only moments before, I couldn’t think of any reason to disagree.   Hot wings and beer sounded good, and it’s pure folly to confront existential crisis on an empty stomach. 

I admit, I was not the greatest company during the wings-and-beer feast; I half-expected to wake up at any moment and emerge from a strange, elaborate dream.   But the dream refused to release me, and the moments dragged on—forcing me to address the reality of my poor companionship, and explain away my distant demeanor as indigestion.

As soon as I got home, I wandered around aimlessly, unable to think about anything except my irrational fear of looking in a mirror.  In retrospect, I think I was afraid of discovering a new, unfamiliar face or some other visual symptom of having my self-perception irreversibly warped.  I imagined turning to face my image, and discovering a strange face staring back.  Somehow, I could both imagine it being radically different--or altered very subtly.   Adding to my anxiety was the suspicion that even if nothing actually changed, it would be difficult for me to see anything the same.

When I finally climbed out of my own thoughts, I found myself sitting on the edge of an ottoman, staring at my hand like a lost, rejected version of The Thinker.

Looking at my hand did not bother me, strangely enough, considering that it was the origin of this perplexing event.  I kneaded the alarming knuckle with my other hand and tried to feel irregularities, perhaps even some geometry that suggested the metal shapes I saw.  But everything felt normal.  

Or, perhaps I should say, like it used to.

The scene in the stairwell cycled again and again in my internal theater, and I re-reviewed it with increasing skepticism.  Is it possible that I imagined it then, much like I am reviewing it now, I pondered.   We all have imaginations, we all have vivid dreams, and it is far more plausible that I had a daydream. 

Despite the fact I had arrived at a very sensible conclusion, and I felt completely comfortable adopting it without reservation—I found it impossible to deny the astonishing fact that my finger had popped off, it was metal, and it popped back on.  

It is very difficult for people to accept experiences that are genuine yet have no place in their reality.  

The phone rang. I was startled partially by the noise, partially by the fact that my new reality still contained obnoxious telephones.  

My friend Jim called to ask if I was interested in attending a concert in two weeks, and if he should pick me up a ticket while he was buying his own.  I told him that I would appreciate him buying me a ticket, and that I’d pay him back. 

There was no additional chitchat; he is a busy man with no use for gossip.  He disconnected. 

And just like that, life carried on, indifferent.  

The next day, I was forty minutes into my morning routine before I remembered anything at all from the previous day.   I was not jolted by the recollection, nor was I able to reject it as a bizarre dream that had passed on.    It felt oddly matter-of-fact, like the day after discovering that one of your great grandparents was from a race unlike your own.  It doesn’t change what you are in the slightest bit, nor is there even a standard way to feel about it.  You’re just made of slightly different bits that you presumed.

This discovery did not alter the fact that my boss expects me at work in the morning, nor that my landlord expects rent on the first.   Whatever I was, I was not an ATM, and had to earn a living like everybody else.

That thought gave me pause. 

Earn a living.  Earn a living?  Was I, in fact, living? 

I have posted on this theme before, but the recent deaths of climbers on Mt. Hood has compelled me to write again.

And I know that writing stuff like this makes me seem like a prick, or a stick-in-the-mud at best, but...

Why do people persist on climbing mountains? And more importantly, why do we continue to waste resources and risk more lives trying to save these people when they disappear? And finally, why do their friends and family eulogize these dead climbers as some kind of heroes who gave their lives for something they love?

Take a deep breath and think about it before calling me heartless, or taking a shot at my masculinity. Try to think through the romantic notion of humankind as the conquerors of nature. Step back a bit.

Mountain climbing in icy/snowy conditions is very dangerous and practically always pointless. When a climber, however experienced or well-equipped, sets out on a route up a remote, icy incline - they are effectively saying, "I will risk my life and the lives of those who try to rescue me for nothing more than to fulfill an ego need."

They are willfully and gleefully putting their lives and the lives of strangers at risk, to crawl up a slope and then back down... ostensibly to brag about it or just feel personally smug.

And when things go wrong, they die or are injured, and become stranded. Any number of folks must then also drop everything to scour that same dangerous area repeatedly, spending days and many tanks of fuel just to drag back whatever they might find.

These men (as they almost always are men) leave widows, children behind. And often, considering the expense of climbing as a hobby, these people tend to leave professional vacancies, too. One less doctor, lawyer, or whatever.

Yet, time and time again, people look at the climbers simply as men following their passions--as not reckless people who value their personal accomplishments more than the rescuers' lives, who feel that moment at the top is worth the risk of abandoning everyone who relies upon them.

I see the climbing of Mt. Everest as the ultimate symbol of cowardly men who want to be seen as heroes. Men who apparently cannot find real battles to fight, meaningful dangers to face. Rather than risk their lives to make a difference, they do something ridiculous (and very difficult) to pretend they can do anything. I don't deny that climbing Mt. Everest would be grueling. It would be. But it would also be grueling to nail your own feet to the floor. (The difference being, you're putting fewer people at risk and they'll have no problem finding you if something goes wrong.)

I'm sure anyone who reads this will think I have lived a safe, easy life and never took a risk. This is partly true. I have taken risks, but I never willingly put anyone else at risk to satisfy my ego.

Sure, the rescuers are also climbers and probably sympathize with the alpine-addicted, and don't mind risking their lives... which, not ironically, affords them their own chance to become heroes by rescuing them. Rescuers often are genuine heroes, and I don't mean to put them down; but I can't help but notice the reciprocal relationship.

Do I expect then to ever stop? Hell no. I wouldn't even seriously try to suggest that they do. A thousand pages of reasons to avoid thrill climbing will not derail a single climber, because they are driven by something totally irrational.

Unfortunately, this entire argument applies to many other things humans seem to obsess over. A mind-boggling number of people dedicate their lives to very expensive, difficult, dangerous and absolutely selfish pursuits. Their monumental, lifelong efforts amount to nothing more than trivia. And that's the real tragedy.

My alarm went off at 6 am, and I momentarily began my automatic wake-up procedure. I didn't feel particularly rested, and realized why; the wind had been blasting and gusting all night, rattling the windows. This recollection lead to another: the 520 floating bridge was almost certainly closed due to the wind - and it's by far the most direct route to work (at least 10 miles shorter than any other route). I knew that I shouldn't even bother trying to go to work until the traffic reports filter in.

I woke up again at 8 am and checked my work email. No alarming emails were warning me not to come in (like the ones I received a few weeks ago during the so-called winter storm). I checked the WSDOT traffic info site for additional info, and learned that my guess was right: the bridge is closed, and would be until noon or so. I also noticed that there were puzzling blank spots on the traffic flow map, but I wasn't sure what it meant, if anything.

I sent an email to my co-workers explaining that I would try to make it in as soon as I could despite the bridge closure, and to please keep me updated.

I watched morning news and made coffee, took a shower and changed into nice clothes--I was preparing for a presentation with higher management and wanted to look nice. I put on new shoes, slacks and a nice shirt.

By 10 am, I'd heard nothing from anyone at MS, and it didn't seem likely that the 520 would open anytime soon. I decided it was probably time to brave it and take the long way into work.

Heading east, across I-90, traffic in the opposite direction was not good. Heading north on 405 was easy, but again, southbound traffic seemed awful. I took the 520 east exit and was again stunned by the traffic on the other side of the road--a parking lot of cars pointing west. The stationary vehicles went on and on until I reached my exit at 40th, an incredible traffic jam in the making.

As soon as my eyes turned from the traffic, I noticed my first sign that I was in for an ordeal: the intersection had no power. The traffic lights were dead, and cars proceeded in jerky, asymmetrical clumps.

At this time, I noticed that my fuel light was on. I forgot to get gas, because I always use the gas station on my way to the 520 on-ramp... which I did not take, due to bridge closure.

I carefully navigated through the three non-functioning intersections and pulled into my building, only to find people wandering about like the aftermath of a half-hearted fire drill. The parking garage had no lights and almost no cars.

By 11 am, it was clear there would be no presentation.

Thirty minutes later, I was walking along 148th ave, to determine if the nearest gas station had power. Along the ten block route I saw three full grown trees on the ground, uprooted by the wind.

Traffic was slow, like confused cattle. Several cars were parked next to the pumps of the gas station, hoping that the power would return soon.

I mulled over my options. At that moment, my family was coming over from Spokane and they expected me to meet them in Arlington, a short distance north of Seattle. They expected me to meet them in about three hours.

With almost no gas, I knew I couldn't get stuck in traffic anywhere for very long without idling away what little I had. I called my parents, and they claimed that they had power in Arlington.

Two basic questions came to me: where was the northern boundary line for the power outage, and I could I make it there without running out of gas?

Only one way to find out, I thought.

By the time I reached Totem lake via back roads, my fuel gauge was on empty. Having never actually run out of fuel in this car, I did not know how accurate the meter was. I pulled over at a gas station, also closed, and re-assessed the situation.

The scene was surreal and grim.

Other drivers desperate for gas would occasionally pull into the place I was parked, and quickly turn back around. I decided to scout for gas stations on foot.

My assumption was, at least ONE gas station should be smart enough to have a back-up generator... after all, most run on gas--and that's the one thing they do have. My assumption was wrong.

Absolutely nothing was open. Employees of various establishments huddled together near the windows, eating packaged foods. Other places had single employees stationed out front or inside, acting as a guard.

I walked to a place where I could see the 405; the traffic was sluggish in both directions. Even if I tried to get on the 405, I'd again face running out of gas while idling. However, across the 405 I could see a Fred Meyer store bustling with people. They had power and people were flocking there.

Unfortunately, there was no way to reach it. The nearest way to cross the 405 on foot was two miles in either direction. So close, but so far.

I return to my car, and meet the person who owns the gas station. In broken english, he tells me that no power would be restored today. However, he'd sell me an empty gas can. I told him that I need GAS, not a can. He shrugged and wished me luck.

Clearly, my goals hadn't changed. I still had to try to make it north enough to reach a gas station with power.

By this time, the 405 had cleared and traffic flowed more smoothly. I turned the key and watched my fuel gauge rise a few millimeters above the resting position.

On the 405, I drove until I reached the end, and moved onto the 522 east. Still no power.

I reached the Arlington / Hwy 9 exit, and pressed on. My fuel gauge now settled below the last line, and I *think* I started to notice a little hesitation in the acceleration. Traffic was slowing.

At this point, I decided that I needed to get off the road and re-assess, lest I die in traffic. And currently, I was at a stoplight at the top of a hill, going upward.

I realized- I was at a STOPLIGHT. Power. I looked to my right, and a Costco sprawled out before me. With power.

With gas pumps.

And a line of cars that went around the building. There was no way I could wait in that line without running out long before. I needed to park sooner. As in, immediately.

I finally make it through the light without stalling, and take a left. I pull into the first parking lot I could find, a tiny gravel lot adjacent to an antique store and a coffee hut. I shut off the ignition.

Since nothing was open all day, and I'd not anticipated this by preparing a lunch box, I'd not eaten all day. No coffee, either. I was feeling unhappy.

I walk to the coffee stand, eat a muffin and drink an americano, and plan my next move.

I decided I'd walk the half mile to Costco, buy two gas cans, fill the cans, and walk back.

The coffee stand girl, a sympathetic soul, offered to let me borrow her gas can from her car--I suggested that I should probably learn a lesson here and buy one of my own. She giggled. I asked how late the coffee stand was open, just in case. She said "eight." It was now 3:20.

Please remember this fact, a fact I learned the hard way: Costco does NOT sell gas cans.

I walked back to the coffee stand with the intention of asking the girl if I could borrow hers and prepare to make another walk to Costco. I wait for three cars to go through the drive-through, and walk up.

The girl is gone, replaced by another. Apparently, when I asked her how late the stand was open, she didn't connect the question to the topic that immediately preceded it. Yes, the stand would be open until eight, but she and her gas can were leaving in twenty minutes.

At five... I reached my sister with what little battery I had remaining in my cell, and did my best to describe my predicament. She and her husband were almost in Arlington and would return to try and find me, with gas, as soon as they could.

It was now quite dark, and getting colder.

With nothing to do, I dug around in my car looking for something to help me. To my credit, I had stashed a car cell phone charger in a back nook, a demonstration of some rare foresight long ago.

My mood was intensely foul. All I wanted to do was come to work and give a presentation. Instead, I was stuck in Woodenville with three drops of gas, freezing my ass off.

But now I had a cell phone with a charger. I noticed that I had a voice mail. I checked it. The message was unexpected in terms of how often this happens (almost never) but expected in terms of how the day was going. It was the last girl I dated, the icy and heartless one from SLC. I hadn't heard her voice in six months. She left a short and professional message on behalf of my (our) former boss. Fortunately, I felt so rotten this visitation could not dampen my spirits further.

However, it did cause me to notice another name in my contact list-- a girl I had been friends with for many years, on-and-off. We had gotten closer again this spring and summer, but when I moved back to Seattle (where she lives) she suddenly vanished. I'd left a few messages for her in the last months, but no reply.

Admittedly, I was not in a very good state of mind, but the idea to do this had occurred a few days before when I was more moderate; I merely capitalized on the awful moment to do an unpleasant thing. I called, and (surprise!) got her voice mail. My message:

"Hello Selena... I am cold and without gas somewhere outside of Woodenville. With the spare time on my hands, I remembered that I hadn't heard from you in months. Now, I'd still like to be friends with you, but you need to put forth a little more effort to keep in touch. So, if I don't hear from you in a week, you'll be erased. Bye."

About 6:30, after many holdups, my sister arrived.

I poured the four gallons of gas in my tank, hands numb. We decide on the best way back, and I suggest we continue on 9 north, as I was originally trying to do before I pulled over.

We get on the road.

About a quarter of a mile from where I was parked, a gas station was lit up like Christmas itself, pumping gas to the rosy-cheeked folks what avoided Costco. It was hidden by trees, just out of sight from were I was.

Epilogue.

The next day, I would receive a text message:

I'm offended by your ultimatum. I can't give you the attention that you are requesting. Sorry there is no understanding. - selena.

I initially wanted to lob something back, something about how she put more effort into that text message than in being any sort of friend since I moved back... and then, I realized how idiotic that would be.

I put it all on the line--and there was the response I expected.

It's really unfortunate to lose a friend, but in this case, I don't think I lost one.

Erased.

Remember the vapid marketing buzzwords of yesteryear?

The words that lazy ad men would tack onto mediocre products... apparently to spice them up or something?

My favorites:

"Turbo" This one seemed to appear sometime in the mid eighties. I think it's supposed to draw from the inherent wickedness of fast cars in general, Kitt's Turbo Boost in particular. Anything could be repainted a brighter color, have the word "turbo" printed on it with a "swooshy" font, and sold for 20% more.

"Laser" I can't recall if this entered the cultural zeitgeist before or after Turbo. (Maybe before... was it launched by Star Wars, maybe?) I'm guessing that this word was supposed to lend a high-tech, kinda dangerous feel to... cleaning spray, exercise bikes, or shaving razors or whatever.

"2000" Obviously, this was employed BEFORE the dull, boring, no-robots-at-all year 2000. I guess the ad men hoped to convey the sense of awe and possibility contained in the YEAR 2000! So... this could not have been used any later than 1990, when it became clear than a radical futuristic world was not a decade away. In fact, the year 2000 was less "2000" than 1984 was "1984." I think NBC's Thursday night lineup in the late 80's was too powerful and slowed progress. This crappy gimmick has been lampooned ruthlessly by Conan O'Brien, among others.

"Cyber" I think this came later, perhaps in the early 90s, although I'm having a hard time tying this to a cultural event. I realize that it has roots in Gibson's sci-fi "cyberpunk" genre... but I won't give that credit. Wait, I think I remember now: this word popped up right when more people had heard about the new-fangled "internets" than actually seen how lame it was. (Oh! Animated GIFs! WOAH.) So, I think this word was supposed to capture the idea of cutting-edge information. Instead, I think it ended up on every other crappy plastic trinket with a battery, a blinking red LED, and a small speaker that made electronic-y sounds.

"-tron" My guess is that it was trying to capture some geek chic from that oh-so-hip world of chemistry, borrowing the kick-ass suffix from the end of elementary particles! Electron! Neutron! Prot- oh, wait. Positron! Tack "-tron" to something and it almost became an unstoppable robot version of whatever it used to be. (Unless it was, in fact, Robotron, which sucked.) You could take even a dull word, like "diet" and with a little suffix surgery, you get Dietron! A mighty diet with cosmic power! I credit both Tron and the Transformers with this trend, but I have no idea where it really started. Maybe there.

"e-" That one is easiest to trace. Obviously started with the advent of email, apparently to denote that whatever comes after it is now the *electronic* version! Oooh. Here comes the eCrap! Of course, that's all yesterday's fad because now we can enjoy:

"i-" The lower case way to capitalize on Mac's iPod uber design chops. Take anything that had an "e-" and it already has an "i-" or will shortly, or is going for that retro thing. At work today (I'm not kidding...) they installed a Starbucks coffee machine that brews individual cups on demand. It's called a... (wait for it) "iCup." Ask Bunkadoo about the wisdom of that name. Spell it out, giggle. Seriously, somebody thought we could think more highly of a coffee maker because it didn't just brew cups... it brews iCups. Which to me means "swimming goggles."

What, oh what, I ask you, will be the next vapid marketing word fad?

Someone once made the remark that even if a lion had perfect command of your language, you wouldn't have any idea what it was saying.

Obviously, this is not a criticism on the lion's diction; this statement is attempting to convey that a lion's reality is so unfathomably alien to our own that we could not grasp the ideas it would try to express.  Some perspectives are so far removed from ours that not even a common tongue would bridge the conceptual gaps.  And to those who would disagree, and claim to know what lions think-- I posit that they are, by definition, anthropomorphizing them.  

In the case of a lion, this isn't too hard to accept.  Even though we are both mammals, and not even the most distantly related of all mammals, it's clear that we have vastly different lives.  

Other animals, such as birds or fish, have lives even more alien than a lion's when compared to us.  It is easy to believe we could not understand them.

Yet, this concept isn't really the point of this essay.  I don't expect to be confronted by a talking lion anytime soon, at least outside of Oz.  

But... I run into humans every day. 

Occasionally, I have an interaction that reminds me of the statement about the lion.  I am speaking to them, and they to me, yet I cannot understand a damn thing. 

Again, this is not a matter of poor enunciation or heavy accents.  In terms of signal, I am receiving them loud and clear.  But the content is somehow unintelligible.  Communication is not taking place.  To paraphrase a classic song, their lips move, but I can't hear what they are saying. 

If this individual were obviously a lion, bird, or fish, I would not be surprised (once I got past the novelty of the talking animal).  But no, they are human.

Even if this individual were from a very distant culture--say, a member of a tribe that roams the same plains as the lions--I might not be surprised that the gap is still too great.

But this usually happens with folks from my same race, culture, native tongue, and general geographic area.  In the grand scheme of things, when stepping back to look at the whole of humanity from a dizzying distance, we might as well be the same person.  History will not distinguish me from them just because we have slightly different tastes in music or cuisine. 

Yet, as I stare them in the face, concentrating on deciphering their words, I cannot help but wonder what I am experiencing.  The precise mechanics of the failure eludes me.  I am certain that, in a superficial sense, I appear to be in a conversation.  However, I fail to feel that instinctual timing that notifies me when to make a comment, or when not to.   The natural rules of send-and-receive don't seem to apply. 

When I do finally decide to make a blind foray into the conversational stream, I am lost again, unsure of exactly what the context is, and what my contribution should be.  Their non-verbal signals, which might help me decide when to speak, are of less use in determining what to say.

After haphazardly lobbing a comment and hoping for the best, I invariably receive another strange response, validating my doubt that I'm participating in communication. 

Somehow, according to rules that probably belong to physics and not psychology, the exchange ends.  I am unclear what the conversation meant, and equally unclear if the conversation meant anything to them.

Overall, combination of words and gestures was no more of a conversation than a sack of gears and bolts is a machine. 

How is this possible?  How is it that a person from within my own culture can still have a point of reference so amazingly different than my own that language fails to connect us?  People with similar jobs, a driver's license from the same state, a similar zip code, sober, awake, and lucid? 

Granted, these encounters are uncommon, but a single encounter is far more than I ever expected.   In fact, just the few encounters I've had have been enough to question my sanity (again).   If this was more common, I think I'd have to accept that I had brain damage.

As things stand, I choose to regard it as a reminder that even in the best circumstances, it can be difficult to be a member of society.  Even in a population that looks homogenous, hidden differences remain, lurking in our language centers and prefrontal lobes, causing two average people to be mystifyingly incompatible.  

This also speaks to the great difficulties we face in resolving international issues, where many far more obvious hurdles are scattered en route to mutual understanding.

And even as I write this, I realize that many of you will read this and mutter,

"What the hell is this guy talking about?"

I had to make a semi-loony photo even more loony.  And, of course, post it.

HAPPY