Note: Some links are no longer active.

And investment firm needs to learn some politeness and get the sticks from out of their asses. Here’s the story over at fool.com. And the article that inspired it by Neil Cavuto. It will make you say “Ah hah! Karma works!” (at least that’s what it did for me) So go read it. It takes two minutes!

I found the article over at Ed’s Place.

And in more personal news, I reopened an account for a MMORPG (Massive Multiplayer Online Role-Play Game, aka lots of folks killing monsters and beasts and sometimes each other in a game) I used to play. And after a little over a week, I’m done again. I was right to quit playing last year. I was right to fight the urge in February. As I was playing a couple days ago, it suddenly came to me that the game I was playing took very little creativity. I could control what my character said, and even gestures and such, but basically I had to kill monsters to level up and gain new abilities just like everyone else. And in the end, I’d have a character that was just like someone else’s out there, even with all of the options available to me. And it would take hundreds if not thousands of hours to do so.

So, the idea of playing lost its appeal to me. At the same time, I know that the comaraderie is what makes the game come to life, and I was even beginning to get some of that with new people I was meeting, but it isn’t the kind I want anymore. All of this I say with no intention to belittle those who play these or other Multi-player games. It just isn’t for me anymore, and I had to try it again to figure that out.

Tracy Chapman has a soulful voice in my estimation. And I think that quality is discernable from her CDs. What isn’t discernable is how much more powerful and riveting her voice is live. I also didn’t realize how absolutely cute she is when speaking. We saw her (maybe a few less than) a million years ago at one of the Lilith Faires, and the big stadium, or perhaps my seat in the boonies didn’t allow me to realize just how sweet, humble, and charmingly humorous she is. This time, we were in the 13th row of a very small venue and Tracy and her band were fabulous.

There are always one or two annoying people or things at any given concert. There are people who tend to be idiotic in public, and if you get a large enough crowd together (say more than 20), then they are quite unavoidable. For this night there was the woman who randomly shouted things out that made nearly no sense in light of the setting, and even that wouldn’t have been so bad but for her voice. How to explain...? Think of the baby voice of Joey Lauren Adams in Chasing Amy, then make the voice more baby-ish and high pitched, louder, and with a whine, and there! You have the woman in question. Now place her in line for the restroom right behind you shouting out “Rush the men’s room” and “Stampede” and other things that I can’t even recall verbatim because they were so non-sequitor. Then place her 4 rows back and across the aisle from you during the concert, and when Tracy is talking to the entire audience about the cute ducks that were around for sound check the woman was responding as if it was her and Tracy having the conversation one on one and the rest of us weren’t there. And of course she sang, but thankfully it only was annoying for one song.

In spite of that one woman, I had a blast. I shrugged off the annoyance, because what else am I going to do? (I so wanted to tell her that she was in public and she could use her “grown up” voice now, but I refrained, because I’m trying to be more of my old self… the nice person I used to be before I was corrupted by those around me. Teehee.)

Besides the concert, itself, being great—soulful, rocking even near the end, and jammin’ for the encore. One of the surprisingly great things was the people seated right next to us. Four men, the one right next me named Dean, and he was apologetic over their frequent trips to the restrooms (they were consuming beer) and we were on the aisle, and the rows were tightly squeezed so we all had to shift back or out to let them pass. And because he was so polite, and so excited about being there, and loved the concert as much as I did, there was instant rapport. And that made the night all the more special.

I wrote about the effects of an outdoor concert before (Yay, Pearl Jam!). And the San Diego air was cool, but not cold. The night was clear of much of the humidity, though there was some cloud cover, and every now and then a slight breeze would pass. And I felt the bass, the drums, and the electric guitar. And Tracy’s voice gave me chills at one point. There’s a certain earthiness to it, raw like the dirt, but refined like a path traveled upon, and like the earth there is a quality of honesty and purity (assuming here that the earth in this simile isn’t plundered or contaminated with waste).

So, another great concert-going experience.

First day of statistics class and it is already boring, but I didn’t expect parades and fireworks. I may live close to Disneyland, but I’m not that delusional (yet). My expectation was that the definitions and the concepts would be dry, but that hopefully when we start doing applications and analysis, things might get a little more exciting. It looks like that will be the case. However, the instructor has an accent and it is obvious that English is her second language. I didn’t mind at all because she speaks carefully about 90% of the time, and slowly enough so that she is comprehensible (at least to me). Also, she has extremely legible handwriting and she writes just about everything on the board, so even if a word here and there gets a little garbled, you can just read it. There is also a handicapped woman in the class who is very eager to learn and asks questions and volunteers answers and such, and actually her focus and inquisitiveness remind me of me.

What is a little disconcerting is the laughter that occassionally arises from the back of the room (at both the instructor’s accent and the handicapped woman’s contributions) from a small group of boys. I say boys because to call them men would be an injustice to men everywhere. We are in college, and even if these are high school juniors or seniors, they should realize they are in a college class and act appropriately. I know, I know—the old lady inside of me is coming forward here, but really I just prefer that people show respect, not only for the instructor, but for the other students who have a strong desire to learn.

I know these things happen, so I’m hoping over the next 5 weeks that they either learn to control themselves or possibly skip a lot of class. Either would suit me just fine.

As I was buying my book, though, the student worker at the book store asked me if I was buying the study guide, but it was out. I wasn’t going to buy it anyway because I don’t need to spend the extra $35+ for it when I know I can learn the material from the book and lectures. He commented that he bought it because the instructor was so hard to understand. I just blinked and said I had no problem understanding her, and that ended the conversation as the purchase had been completed.

This is Southern California. When did people start having problems understanding non-native accents? Do people just freeze at the sound of an accent? Because I was thoroughly impressed with the instructor’s ability to be clear in spite of her accent of which she obviously was aware. Is it so hard to tune-in, pay attention, take notes, and ask questions for clarity in today’s college classroom? Or maybe they just don’t want to take responsibility for their own education, and like to lay blame for any failure on someone else. That said, the student clerk at the bookstore at least had the right idea. He was aware of a problem for himself and countered it with the study guide. I have a feeling the boys in the back won’t even bother with that and will spend the rest of the summer blaming the instructor for how poorly they did in statistics.

P.S. We’re heading down to San Diego tonight to see Tracy Chapman in concert. (for those of you keeping track of my concert addiction)

I did get all A’s, and I’m very much happy and relieved to know. This means another quarter on the Dean’s list (the third), so that means I’m on the Chancellor’s list for the year. I’ve never done that before. A few Dean’s lists here and there, but never straight through. Woot!

Nothing much else to tell, except I’m still being a slacker, and will likely do so until Monday when my summer class starts. At that point I’ll get back to being responsible and doing things that aren’t all about being relaxed and groovy (aka lazy lazy lazy).

Yesterday, I finished reading a fantasy genre novel. And there were sea battles and sword battles, romance (not to mention sex, sex, sex) and love squabbles, intrigue and foul play, costumes and revelry, prisons and hostages, gods and goddesses, and of course one very beautiful heroine and her gorgeous hero consort. The book, Kushiel’s Chosen, is written by Jaqueline Carey and has a prequel (that should be read before this book to avoid a helluva lot of confusion) and a sequel (still only available in hardcover).

And so in this book I lost myself. I was able to dream along with it of sea creatures and gods that pull this way and that. But something was different. Mostly I lost myself in the story, this is true, but I began seeing things like a writer. This is what they (the collective of professors over the past 9 months) have been talking about. I understood it at the time I was taking classes, and reading specific texts. Reading like a writer. But it became even more clear when I was reading this novel that wasn’t specifically something the literary world would deem “literature”, but rather “genre”. Personally, I don’t really care about the categories. I understand them and how and why they are used, but I just enjoy a good story or good writing.

So, what does reading like a writer mean? I’m not sure it is all that clear of a concept, and it is likely different for every writer. It felt more to me like I was reading like an editor. There were dozens of sentences I wanted to correct, and even that wasn’t a big deal, considering the book is on the heavy side of 600 pages. Previously, if I struggled with a sentence I would have blamed it on myself, my reading abilities, but now I understand the possibility of a good writer writing confusing, unclear sentences. Every other sentence can be brilliant, but that doesn’t mean every sentence will be, and writers are human and make mistakes, and editors are human and don’t always catch mistakes. Before returning to school, I didn’t even think about these things. Now, I do. Am I better off for it? As a writer, yes. As a reader, it can be annoying, because I remember the blissful ignorance with which I used to read, but still I’m going to have to go with yes.

Also, I noticed one plot point that I saw near the very beginning that the heroine took the next 200 pages to discover, but maybe the author intended it that way. Even with that said the rest of the action was immersive enough to keep me very interested. Would I have noticed this as a reader before my return to college? I think so. So, not much learned there.

I enjoyed the book. I enjoyed the first one, too, when I read it last spring. And after months and months of reading for school, reading assigned literature, and not reading just for pleasure (except on breaks and even then I read what would be considered “literature"), I felt indulgent in this book. I felt a little bit naughty (and not because there are some S&M aspects to these novels) in luxuriating in this book. I loved that feeling, and now I’m feeling the urge to read something more responsible that will build my mind. It is as if I ate candy, cookies and ice cream for days and days until there was no more, and I loved it (and didn’t go into sugar shock) and now I’m feeling guilty and thinking with some dread about salad bars and lean proteins and all things good and nutritious. But secretly I just want to go get some candy and indulge some more. That’s what reading this book was like for me.

Maybe it was nurishing in its way, in a way that is often not recognized. A reward, a moment of pure enjoyment for the mind. My mind definitely deserves it after the work it has done over the school year. Relaxation brings its own nurishment after labor. I need to remember this and not feel so guilty about it.

I was driving down a fairly busy street (it is the one that goes from downtown directly into the University) when I saw a man walking in the middle of my lane and facing me, so he knew I was coming. It just so happened that an ambulance was coming from behind him, so I pulled over to the side of the street. At the very same time another man decided to J-walk and paused directly on the yellow double-line that separated the two sides of the street as the ambulanced passed. All of that took place about forty feet in front of me.

There was no traffic coming behind me, so as I pulled from the curb, I moved out into the left lane as the wandering man with a grocery bag in his hand was still walking (more like weaving) in the middle of the right lane. The J-walker also had made it to the right lane and was heading for the curb as I passed. And as I passed the weaving-bag-holding-man screamed obscenities and wove his way towards my car as if he could catch a vehicle going 25 mph and kick its ass. And I was angry for about 3 minutes (or maybe less) at this man. And then I realized, why be angry? He has his own problems and his own anger that has nothing to do with me. And he is likely insane or suicidal, both things that deserve a bit of compassion. Besides a police car was heading that way, though probably for the same thing the ambulance was heading to, but maybe he would see the street-weaver and help him.

About 8 blocks later, a large semi-truck hauling gas, or milk, or maybe just empty shining, silvery liquid-container trailers (2 of them) made a left hand turn from the right hand lane because apparently he missed the left hand turn lane. I was the one fortunate enough to be at the front of the left hand lane that separated him and the turn lane, and I got to watch him nearly mow down the on-coming turning traffic, make the wide turn (barely), and not hit my car (though I was a bit scared about that last one). All of this just minutes after the other. When had the streets turned into this lunacy? Was there some dramatic shift in the driving universe in the past nine months that I have mostly been driving the mile and half back and forth from school?

But luckily, I made it home in one piece. And I even drove up into the mountains later, yesterday afternoon, and was able to breath clean air instead of the cut-it-with-a-knife brown air we had down here. I do love the mountains, and it pains me to see the devastation of the trees. I heard there’s a beetle that is killing them in large quantities, and the National Forestry Service, the caretaker of the majority of them won’t do a thing about it. Very sad.

Hmmm, I feel like all I’ve done is complain lately, but actually I’ve been getting more sleep (overall), and been in an all around more positive mood as of late, even when noticing things that upset me. I’ll try to see if I can come up with something positive to ponder and write about.

At 5am this morning I was in a jail lobby, doing what I do for money—mostly just filling out paperwork, but paperwork that gives a solemn promise backed by large sums of money.

A woman having just been released from the jail facility and awaiting a ride was talking to another woman who appeared to be waiting for another person to be released. The just-released woman said, “I would have had 22 children, but only ended up with 15.” And she said this with a huge sense of pride. She was bragging about her ability to procreate. I was instantly disgusted.

Here I am with no children and a desire to have just one, and I know that at the very least I would give my child an opportunity to be someone who is a positive asset in society. And her? She is sitting in a jail lobby after being arrested for god knows what and she has the gall to be proud at bringing 15 lives into this fucked up world so that they will likely fuck it up even more. I know I’m stereotyping from a few words I heard her speak, but I don’t care. She talked like trash and seemed wholy proud of herself. Like I said, I was disgusted. Maybe I’m wrong about her children. I pray that I’m wrong, but deep down, I know that I’m not.

it’s like a burning thumb
blazed up and
wave upon wave
of faces stacked, watching
deep as deep can be

it’s like your bite
a saccharin pain
a rip tide
of flesh
and bone as hard can be

it ain’t like nothing
for $14.50
on Ebay, but
zero cost
is real as fleeting can be

Inspiration for this little ditty goes to
The Broad and her link to this, and other less tangible things (yes, I just called a website tangible, lick your monitor baby).

(NOTE: The EBay link is probably no longer active. But Someone sold “nothing” for $14.50. Amazing.)

I’ve been spending yesterday and most of today in the vegetable state of humanity, except for the brief excursions out today to finish up a couple things at school. Seems I’ve been chosen as one of the two student representatives for the department, and I needed to tell them that I accepted the position. It’s a liaison position; I’m representing the students and any concerns, input, etc on faculty meetings. It is an honor, since the faculty will only suggest or accept students they can depend upon. When I heard about it, I smiled the entire day.

But as for my vegging… I really needed all day yesterday to do nothing. Every plan I made got pushed back. And as Vivian (Julia Roberts) in “Pretty Woman” said, “Be still like vegetables, lay like broccoli.” Today was a bit better. I actually showered while there was still daylight, and got in my car and drove around and dropped off things and picked up things and I rented a movie: 25th Hour. A night with Ed Norton after seeing him in The Italian Job. Even if I only like the movie a little, I’m still looking forward to it. Also, if I have a itty bitty crush on Seth Green, am I a freak?

Grad Party tomorrow, Huge Family Picnic/Reunion of sorts on my hubby’s side on Sunday. Not to mention that it was my dad’s B-day this week, and Father’s day also on Sunday (when my dad will be living it up at a hotrod show, doing the male-bonding thing). Full weekend. I’m hopeful that it will be fun, and I’ll be exhausted come Sunday Night.

I have this excitement building for next fall quarter, and I know it is premature. The peer mentor program that I’ll be a part of seems like it will be challenging and rewarding. After meeting with the Professors, and Teaching Assistants, and being praised as intelligent and prepared (all six of us who have gone through training) by one of our college’s Associate Deans and the Dean of Students, I was on an emotional high. Also, with the talk and planning for next year’s Mosaic, I’m getting excited. All this excitement and none of it actually comes into play until September. I need to curb my enthusiasm, I think.

I’m also a little sad about the people who are graduating. I’m not sad they are graduating. I mean I’m sad they won’t be around next term. I had forgotten about this part of college. I tend to think I’m so aware, and yet lately, I seem to be surprised by things I once knew.

I also found myself defending some people I don’t hardly know to a woman I just met. And I kept wondering why I was doing it. And I know it is because one guy in this gang of creative writing “bad boys” has the sort of talent that I admire. And I also got to talk to him at some length (whilst getting my drink on at the local hangout with a load of fellow students) about writing, and philosophy and things that didn’t have much rhyme or reason. And I like his genius talent, and I know he will actually be someone important someday. I think he reminds me of someone from my childhood, but I’m not sure of whom. He seems frail on the outside, skin and bones, delicate, seemingly breakable they are so thin, but he’s got fire inside of him. So, I defended him and the gang that surrounds him, and the way they can act cruelly in workshops, and the fact that they are snobs.

I did back off a bit when she explained some of the things they did in class. I wasn’t in her class with them. But I recall some similar behavior in a class I had with them last quarter. These young men do act as if they are superior, and as a group they are formidable. And I can’t condone what they do at all. For all their talent combined they don’t have the right to treat people in the way they do. But in my mind I see the one I got to know away from the group, as different. But I suppose when he’s with them he is the same. I’m not sure. I don’t know why I felt compelled to defend them all for the sake of him. After I leave the university, I doubt I’d be in contact with any of them, including him.

Maybe, I was projecting. Maybe, because once, I thought that being with the right people and being cruel to the not right people was the best way to be. And I see someone with more potential and talent than I could ever hope for, and I see him where I once was. I think I see him where I once was, but maybe he’s not. Maybe that’s who he really is. And maybe I shouldn’t defend anyone, because they don’t need it. The silent observer. I can try that for awhile, because I’m no good at being anyone’s defender but my own.

[Update] P.S. I am entirely aware how hilarious the concept of The Badboys of the Creative Writing Dept sounds. So, if you chuckled even a little bit, I’m right there with you.

My partner for the peer mentoring job isn’t the woman who has animosity towards me. So, that’s a relief. Instead I’ve got nice, but a bit unmotivated young woman as my partner. If the mock workshop presentation we had to prepare is an indicator, then I’ll be doing a lot more of the leg work for this job. But I’m not really too worried. It’s the experience of it that I’m looking forward to.

So, I mentioned that I go to a lot of concerts. Tuesday night’s Pearl Jam concert was fabulous. Eddie can sing, Mike can wail on his guitar, and the entire band and guests were so tight it was an experience. Has anyone else been eeriely freaked out yet attracted to the way Eddie looks when singing? That devil meets chubby cheeked school boy… Just wondering.

I was standing out in the cool night air in Irvine, California, listening to one of the best rock bands in recent history, and I got to thinking about why I go to so many concerts. The amphitheater is outdoors (some aren’t). And I felt thie music reverberating through my skin, but from the inside out. It was as if it had originated from the space beneath my lungs, in some small pocket of movement. Then it shook and sent a wave outward, through every cell of my being. And the breeze chilled my face, and I shivered slightly from the outside in to meet the vibrations coming from the inside out. Voices, thousands, tens of thousands were singing in unison, but never overpowering the raw emotion found in Eddie’s voice. And I knew. At that moment, I knew this is what music has meant from before its creation. Not that it could be trapped on a disc, and spun smoothly, to reproduce the sound of the music, but that it was felt, and experienced by all of the senses. Of course the wafting of marijuana smoke may not have been incorporated into the experience on that first day man made a song, but I wasn’t there so who knows?

I love music. I like the sound of it and how it can stir up my emotions. I may just love concerts even more. I get the sound, the emotions, the sights, the taste, and the tactile vibrations. Now, tell me. Who doesn’t like tactile vibrations?

P.S. They played 28 songs. They so fucking rock!

For some reason, I’m stuck on two CDs. I can’t seem to get enough of Evanescence’s Fallen in the morning when I’m showering. And then during the afternoon and evening, I crave Howie Day’s Australia. And I’ve been listening to these CDs for months now. Why am I not tired of them yet? They must be that good. At least they are for me.

Yesterday was quite a day for my emotions. I’m feeling more in control today. But I’ll share a little more of yesterday’s drama...

My car got towed. Yes, that’s right, after complaining about money and the job and all that, I had to fork over $185.00 in ransom to the tow company for the 2 1/2 hours they had my car kidnapped. And I don’t blame the tow company but the “Fascist Parking Regime” that is part and parcel of University life at UCR.

I was visiting a fellow student to work on a presentation we have tomorrow, and even she told me where to park, but in the past week they changed the rules. So, as soon as I exited the vicinity of my new used vehicle (very recently given to me by my mom...for those of you following along, my mom is very generous), the security guard must have seen no permit, called the tow company who came and hooked it up within 20 minutes. Yep, 20 minutes after I arrived to my friend’s housing unit, my car was mingling with other kidnapped autos in the dirt pen of chainlink. It was happy to see me there for the rescue, and it was nursing a few small scratches from the mean, ole tow guys on its shiny new layer of paint.

I went to bed angry, but resigned to the fact that it wasn’t really worth it to be angry, because life just happens. So, I think my vivid dreams dissipated the anger for me. I woke up today feeling much more refreshed and content.

Back to music. Music’s good. And I’ll end on that very uninspired thought. I hope you all have a good week.

Coldplay was fabulous at the Hollywood Bowl last night. Even after they had left the stage for the last time, after half of the audience had filed out, and after they were probably in their limos or cars and whisked away to a nearby hotel or a posh spot for after-concert celebration, the crowd was roaring for more. And I may have been roaring as well, but I’m beyond cynical. If the house lights come up, the band has left the building. I was walking to the shuttle that would take us ten blocks to our car when the roar crescendoed twice, and I still believed that the stage held only the roadies and cleanup crew. Cynical. I dare someone out there in the world of Los Angeles, with its grimy, criminal, puss-filled streets folded up against the tree-lined groomed security of bought oases, I dare someone of the 18,000 spectators to tell me that Coldplay returned to the stage and gave the diligent, adoring optimists more of their addictive juice of music.

I feel like I should apologize for my mood. Some lesson learned a long time ago, before I imagined questioning such things, taught me this impulse to apologize. And in truth, I don’t fucking feel sorry for this mood. I feel angry. Angry again. What is this anger? Why? It is as if my
restlessness didn’t disappear, but mutated. And it isn’t just anger. I mean I do want to hit something and hurt someone. But maybe that’s just it, I’m hurting.

I think this is what it must feel like for those who work their entire lives at a job they hate in order that their family survives. They aren’t even surviving, but the family does. And can there actually be no resentment? What about the idea of debt that isn’t about money but about something bigger, some value that ties you to another human being. Indebtedness.

I love my mother, there’s no doubt of that. And she has given to me so much over the years. I am fully aware of it. And she loves me, and she doesn’t help me out of a need to control, but out of that love. The catch is that I’ve been dieing inside for years by working for her business. The job has been killing me. So why do it? So basic, right? But there’s never something simplistic about a situation like this. If it was simple, it would be easy to solve and I’d not have let it work me over all this time. There are the many complications. And even with all of that I’ve been slowly pulling away from the job. Reclaiming my life. School has helped me do so. But summer is here. Summer means more free time, more chances to work, chances I feel obligated to take. The money would mean security, a mortgage payment, food, more school next year, concerts, cd’s, and everything else money can buy.

And my mom tells me that she is becoming worn down. I know it is because I have backed away, placing more of her business back on her shoulders. I’ve been envious of the frequent trips she takes, even if semi-work related. She gets away often. And when those times come, there is a bit of resentment, that I hate feeling. Resentment because I am the lone person responsible for the success of her business during that time. Resentment because I don’t want that. I hate it. And I’d rather be in another city, in a hotel room, seeing something new, being someone new...

I love my mother. I’m indebted to her for all she has given me, and all she has helped me to achieve. I haven’t been able to simply turn away from the business completely. So, I’ve been doing it slowly. And she tells me, just yesterday, that the pressure of it is wearing her down, and so one day a week she will be turning the business over to me and the one other employee (who loses attention tieing her shoe). How do I say no? I don’t, or I didn’t. Should I feel guilty for bringing her to this point of being worn down? The answer doesn’t really matter, I do feel guilty. Do I want to tell her to hire someone else? I do. But at the same time… the money. Already, I’ve missed thousands of dollars worth of commission because I’ve had papers due, or I’ve been in class, or whatever other reason has kept me from being available.

Is money the root of all evil? Of course not. But a man or a woman has, or hell, who am I kidding, I have some need of it. And my needs (and wants) like anyone else’s are never entirely pure.

I’m not saying I want money or security given to me. I’m willing to work for it. What I’m saying is that I’m trying to figure out just how much of myself I’m willing to give up for it. And I’m trying to figure out how to survive with what I must do until I can finally draw a line and say, “There. That’s the limit. That’s all I can take. Everyone else must now figure out how to make that work for them, because I’m not redrawing that line anymore."