Humo(u)r

Things that make me laugh...

(This may only be funny to New Yorkers... I don't know how vibrant the hipster community is in the rest of the country and the world.)

The quote of the day: "Isn't it odd that the most serious things are the funniest things? Death and sex especially" - Peter Kreeft

Soggy socks

The preparation. The time. She showered. Applied make-up. Fixed her hair meticulously. She tried on three different sweaters before choosing the green one. Yes, the green one is good.

She made sure to leave early, to give herself plenty of time. Being rushed is no good. Being rushed is unsettling to the soul. Being rushed might dampen the spirit of tonight. She locked up.

She walked. The train was on time. She rode. She read as she road. She transferred. She remembered the last time. Last time was good. Large pots of hot soup. A dozen bottles of red wine. Bodies crowded into the small space. All spaces in the city are too small. The warmth of the soup and the wine and all the bodies. Good memories.

Her stop. She got off. Climbed the stairs. It’s cold! The snow still fresh. She tightens her scarf. Shoves her hat down over her ears. Pulls her mittens on. Crosses the street to the liquor store. She browses. Which bottle is right for tonight?

She paid. Walked out. No money for the homeless. Lit up. Held the cigarette in her right hand, and the bag with the wine in her left. Her purse slung over her shoulder. She trudged. Through the snow. Her boots heavy. The snow crunching. Her skin numb.

She stopped. The orange hand, the green light, cars rushing by. She waits. Looks to the right. No cars. She steps. Off the curb. Right foot in the snow. Left foot in the puddle. The wine swinging at her side. The cigarette burned almost to the filter. She watches the ground. Her boot has a leak and she wants to avoid soggy socks. The orange hand.

It rounds the corner, the headlights shine on her legs. Her head is bowed down, trying to avoid soggy socks. She gets hit.

The cigarette sails from between her fingers, lands in the snow. It goes out with a small hiss. The wine hits the ground beside her, rolls partially out of the bag. It rests beside her head. The bottle is only slightly cracked, so the liquid creeps out in a thin line. The red liquid, traveling across the white snow. The warmth oozing out, sinking into the cold.

A servant of all

Last week New York hosted the coldest weather I’ve ever experienced. This is my fourth winter here, and while I actually prefer Northeastern winters to Texas winters, the temperatures last Thursday and Friday were anything but pleasant. I’ve been dubbed a freak for my sincere feeling that cold weather is invigorating. Perhaps it was growing up amidst fickle Texas weather that inclines me towards a good hard winter, but in any case I usually enjoy it. But not last week. Last Friday morning I checked weather.com before leaving my house, as usual, and was met by the sobering news that the wind chill was -5°F. -5°?!? I didn’t even know what that felt like. Well… now I do. No amount of layers guards against a wind chill of -5°F. The ten minute walk from the train to work that morning rendered my face and legs numb. Every time I stepped outside my muscles tensed up and ached, and my entire body felt like a perpetual brain freeze. But it’s given me a new perspective… the forecast for tomorrow (high of 36°F) thrills me... I won’t even need a hat and gloves!

Last Thursday I was in the Lower Lobby of the Empire State Building waiting for a friend to get out of a meeting so we could grab coffee. Suddenly a crowd of people formed in front of the television in the lobby, and when I went to join them I heard a woman who had just come from the observation deck saying that she’d just seen a plane land in the Hudson River. For the next 45 minutes, the crowd grew as we watched the event unfold:

It’s been dubbed “The Miracle on the Hudson”, because all 155 people aboard the plane survived. But a swim in that wicked cold river is not what those people expected when they woke up that morning.

I also came across this video last week:




I watched fellow Texan (yes, I did just admit it) Jason Castro on the last season of American Idol, and was drawn to his pretty blue eyes and crooked smile more than to his performances. But this video made me like him more; and appreciate his ability and willingness to articulate his faith so effectively. When asked about his life goals, Jason said he wants to be a servant of all. Oh that this would be the answer launching from my tongue whenever I'm faced with that all-too-frequent question!

The long weekend was a pleasure. I took it easy: spent some time organizing and sorting, reading, watching movies, and playing guitar. The spontaneous worship session on my sofa with my roommates and soup night at the Walkers were highlights. Now I'm back into the swing of routine, with classes and work and commuting and homework filling up my hours. It's a nice place to be, for right now... a cozy comfort zone.

A question: since when is "hot" spelled with two t's? I observe with chagrin that Facebook is mutilating our written language skills.

I read and I watched

Today marks the end of my last Christmas break. As sad as that is, I can at least boast a wonderful month free of classes and homework, full of naps and friends and pleasurable activities. I spent some of my break with my family in Texas. Imagine hanging out with these people all day every day:

I also got to spend time with long-lost cousins and old friends:

I spent a good portion of my break reading and watching movies. I read three books (don’t worry, there are no spoilers!):

1. The Color of Water by James McBride - This is a great memoir about racial identity. The author is mixed race: his father was a black man and his mother a Jewish woman. He was raised in New York City in the 60’s, and was constantly faced with struggled concerning his race and identity. When he became a journalist as an adult, he convinced his mother to finally tell her story, and this book is a blend of his telling of his own childhood with his telling of her story.

2. Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates - This book was published in 1961, but this year’s release of the movie starring Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio has made it popular again. It’s a powerful, challenging story written in a compelling style. I did see the movie, but I’m glad I read the book first, because it develops the characters much more completely. I discuss this at length below.

3. The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch - This book had been recommended to me by a few different people, so I stole my dad’s copy and read it. It’s short and concise, full of practical advice and sound encouragement from a dying man. The book is based on Dr. Pausch’s final lecture, which he was asked to give after receiving a terminal diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. The title of his lecture was “Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams”, which he gave primarily to leave behind a legacy for his three small children. I enjoyed his personality, which came through the writing, but the content of the book lacked depth and failed to challenge me.

Thanks to cheap movie theaters in Texas and my Netflix account, I also managed to view quite a few movies. In the theater I saw (no spoilers!):

1. Quantum of Solace – Enjoyed it even though I hadn’t seen its prequel, Casino Royale. Daniel Craig isn’t my favorite Bond actor, but I suppose Pierce Brosnan’s time is past, and no one will ever top Sean Connery.

2. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button – Good story, and though the film was a bit slow and drawn out, it held my attention until some kid pulled the fire alarm in the theater and we all had to evacuate. Cate Blanchett delivers a brilliant performance as usual, and the premise of the life of Button – that he ages backwards – is a fascinating idea to lose yourself in for three hours.

3. Valkyrie – Since I love history, especially the WWII era, I’ve long been interested in seeing this film. I was most impressed by the pacing of the movie – it wasn’t too slow, though the majority of the film is about a very small period of time. It was well acted, and the intensity of the conspiracy translated well on the big screen.

4. Changeling – This movie turned out to be very different than what I expected it to be. From the previews I expected a sentimental tragic story led by Angelina Jolie. In fact, the story has many more layers than that of a terrified, panicked mother fighting to find her son. I was pleasantly surprised by the elements of conspiracy and murder hidden within this story, and found it an extremely compelling movie. The best part? It’s a true story! (I’m a sucker for that.)

5. Slumdog Millionaire – This film swept the Golden Globes last night – winning Best Original Score, Best Screenplay, Best Director, and Best Picture-Drama – which is no surprise. It’s a unique and stirring story, the cinematography is amazing, and before the final credits had run I vowed to purchase the soundtrack. My one complaint about the movie is its all-too-familiar focus on young love. The inspiration of the story shouldn’t be about teenagers in love, but about the possibility – however far-fetched – of an underprivileged boy from terrible circumstances getting a break and a chance at a better life. I felt that the movie failed to place the emphasis on this point that it deserves.

6. Revolutionary Road – Now to launch into this story. (WARNING: Below are details about the movie/book which may ruin it for you if you haven’t seen/read it and plan to. In addition, if you haven’t seen the movie or read the book you might not understand much of what I say below.) I decided to read this book upon hearing the general premise of the story. I was interested to see the approach Yates took in examining the trend of conformity to suburban life which emerged in America in the 1950’s. I was deeply affected by the book, because I identified with the characters and the story gave life to some questions and fears I have about my own life.

After I finished the book, I went to see the movie with Erica. Seeing the story on screen invoked an even more emotional response from me, and Erica shared this feeling. However, we had very different views of the story; and everyone I’ve spoken to since has had lots of different things to say as well. The first questions I asked Erica was, “Who do you hate more, Frank or April?” She said she didn’t hate Frank at all, and sort of hated April. To her, April’s self-inflicted abortion at the end was an act of selfishness and revenge, a way to have her way at last despite Frank’s wishes. But to me, April was a desperate woman willing to do anything to hold onto the future she felt slipping through her fingers. The book offered more insight into April’s process of making the decision to give herself the abortion. It detailed her realization that she didn’t really hate Frank, but that she had made a mistake in trying to make him into someone he wasn’t. The whole idea of running away to Paris was hers, and she’d tried to manipulate him into sharing her enthusiasm. But the fact was that Frank was content where he was, working his dull job and living his lackluster life. Sure, he was a sell out. But April realized that as his honest choice, and her mistake as expecting more from him. This inspires fear in me: that we can so easily change into people we don’t even like, that no matter how special we’re told we are, or how unique we think we are, it’s so much easier to give up the fight to live the life you want when you’re young and have your whole future ahead of you. Frank and April saw themselves as superior, soaring above conformity. And yet, when it came down to it, Frank chose a job with a bigger paycheck and a nice house in the suburbs. One of my favorite pieces of dialogue is from a fight the Wheelers have. It occurs when April first begins to realize Frank’s true preference to stay in Connecticut instead of making the move to Paris:

APRIL: You don't want to go, do you?

FRANK: Come on, April. Of course I do.

APRIL: You don't! Because you've never tried at anything. And if you don't try at anything you can't fail!

FRANK: What the hell do you mean I don't try? I support you, don't I? I pay for this house. I work ten hours a day at a job I can't stand.

APRIL: You don't have to!

FRANK: Bullshit! I'm not happy about it. But I have the backbone not to run away from my responsibilities!

APRIL: It takes backbone to lead the life you want, Frank.

I think that’s the truth of it: that it’s often more difficult, and takes more courage and fight, to live the life you want. Sometimes settling into living responsibly is a necessary and wise decision, but sometimes it’s taking the easy way out. April says something else pretty profound about truth:

APRIL: You know what's so good about the truth? Everyone knows what it is, however long they've lived without it. No one forgets the truth, Frank, they just get better at lying.

Right now, I’m still trying to figure out what the truth concerning my future is. And I feel pressure to sort it out before I turn into Frank or April Wheeler – either numbed into conformity or stuck married to someone who has been. Classes begin tomorrow, and I’ve been working full-time since I got back into town last week. I have rediscovered how much I loathe the 9-5 work day; no matter how nasty or cold it is outside I simply have to get out of the office building for lunch. Just to be outside, to have my feet hit pavement and to brush shoulders with the rest of the world. As I’ve worked my way through school hopping from cubicle to cubicle, I’ve been content with my part-time jobs, because they’re a means to an end… that ever-illustrious degree. The five hour shifts feel okay, but 9-5 feels like slipping into settling for the rest of my life.

Today, my black pants were a lint magnet and my socks sagged into my shoes. Bunchy.

Unfinished

Barry isn’t a complicated man. He doesn’t lie awake at night sifting through thoughts in his head. He isn’t burdened by a plethora of complex desires or fears. He doesn’t have a tendency to strain his relationships with intense conversation or inappropriate comments. When he’s at home with his wife and daughter, he likes to sit with a scotch on the dark blue sofa and chat with them. He often helps Julia with her math homework or cooks dinner while Janet watches television. On the weekends they sometimes go to the movies – all three of them – or Barry meets Jack Farmer or maybe Dan Schmidt at the cigar bar. His days at work are spent grappling with numbers and virtual boxes, and the uneven yet persistent clicking of his keyboard gives him the pleasure of knowing he’s making progress, doing good work. Barry is a man who gains a certain satisfaction from rising before his alarm goes off, coming back from lunch 5 minutes before his hour is up, and packing up to leave the office at exactly five o’clock every afternoon. Which is why, on a frosty February morning last year, when he awoke to find the space beside him in the bed empty and cold, Barry immediately felt an unsteadiness below his ribs and a sharp rise in the pace of his heartbeat.

He paused for a moment to think, to try and remember why Janet hadn’t slept in their bed. But he couldn’t come up with any explanation, and so he launched into action. He swung his feet over the side of the bed into the maroon slippers Julia had given him for his last birthday. He walked to the closet to grab his dark brown dressing gown, was annoyed that it clashed with yesterday’s black dress socks which he’d slept in, but talked himself out of bothering about it until he’d solved the mystery of Janet. He brushed his teeth quickly and more vigorously than usual, took a piss, tied the robe across his bare chest and headed downstairs.

It’s incredible the work a mind can do in a time like this – even a mind like Barry’s, which wasn’t accustomed to rigorous activity. There are 21 stairs between the first and second stories of Barry’s house, and on his way down them his mind covered a lot of ground. She could have fallen asleep on the sofa watching television. Maybe Julia had a nightmare and she slept in her room to calm her. Perhaps there was an emergency, and she didn’t have time to leave a note. What kind of emergency? Her mother, maybe her mother needed her. But wouldn’t I have heard the phone if she’d called? It must be something I’ve forgotten! She told me, she mentioned staying out somewhere for something… no, not that, I can’t remember anything like that and besides where would she be and why? It doesn’t make sense, doesn’t add up. Aw, hell –

He was downstairs, and could see through the living room to the kitchen. No one was there, it was stagnant and silent but for the murmuring of the television in the den. He wandered in there, his panic growing steadily as his eyes fixed on the coffee table. Lain side by side were Janet’s watch, her strand of pearls, and a folded tea towel.