Swimming In The Ethical Gray Area

So I had training for hours and hours today. It was actually pretty fun, because all of us are English geeks who find bizarre word choice and other such nonsense to be absolutely hilarious. Here's my favorite sentence, a delightful piece on The Communist Manifesto by Student A:

In doing so feudalism came to an end, therefore paving the way for bourgeoisie to convert Europe into what they believed would be a "perfect" communist country.

This is from a paper they gave everyone to critique -I'm not even sure that a student actually wrote it. I will not post any actual student work on this page, so enjoy this little before Ann and her honor council goons stop all my condescending fun.

We had a trial run today, wherein one of the experienced tutors and I staged a mock session. Once again, we were laughing the whole time, but overall I think I did pretty well. Not great, but I think I could help some people, maybe.

O.k, enough of that.

The Germans Were Never Great With Dates

Ah, the sights, the sounds, the smells of a Lawrence University Oktoberfest. It's a state fair in my very own backyard.

In fact, that's exactly what it's like. The ambient music--which I can hear from my room--is a nonstop showcase of bad covers of bland, unoffensive, classic rock. Or maybe they just have a stereo system turned up incredibly loud. I wouldn't put it past these people -on the way back to my room I saw a man in a cowboy hat stirring a huge batch of kettle korn.

In any case, there's not much up at the moment. Last night I watched When Harry Met Sally up in Ann's infuriatingly kitsch room, with Ann, Jamie, Molly of Stillwater, some other random girls, and, briefly, Jonas.

For its genre, a genre I dislike, When Harry Met Sally is a very good movie. Probably the best 'romantic comedy' I've ever seen; it may even be better than Loser. It's certainly better than Sweet November, the worst movie I've ever seen.

Plus, it expounded a suspiciously familiar theory on intergender friendships, and it's always nice to know how original your friends are.

The best part was the disjointedness of the movie. All the missed connections, the easily crushed sentimentalism (Lady: "He's never going to leave his wife, is he?" Sally: "No, he's not. Everyone knows that.")- the whole thing reminds me of Murakami or Pynchon or [third pretentious-sounding author] or Markson. It's a pillow book, a zuihitsu of random truths that could be watched from any point and still understood.

Well, that's a bit over-the-top. I'll probably never see that movie again.

Afterwards Jonas and I visited Jinx and Rock Show Girl, and when Jonas left to find a ride to work in the morning, the conversation turned to Germany. I told my biking-down-the-hill story and Rock Show Girl told her own I-wasn't-ever-really-drunk-stories and Jinx just sat there, amaziningly enough. It's nice to know that someone seems to have made the same decisions in Germany that I did.

Well, Oktoberfest is a bit quiet at the moment, so I'll prepare myself once again for conscious thought. Later.

I'm still Crazy Dan, which seems to have become a full-fledged nickname. Not since grade school, when I was somewhat affectionately known at 'Hobo', have I had a nickname that was neither a taunt nor a pathetic device reinforced mainly by me. A true nickname sticks, and doesn't need to be referenced. And this one won't seem to go away, so in a way, I'm satisfied.

My moniker is Jinx's invention, of course; she lives just upstains, because all the coolest cats live in The Fire Hazard That Is Orsmby this year.

Ann, The Politician, Jonas, Meg(h)an, The Poet, Sockless Pete, Dungeon Master, Modern Hippy, The Humanist, Rock Show Girl -yes, the exciting cast of people with nicknames you'll never remember is back and ready for an entirely new season. In Ormsby.

Rock Show Girl and Graham must be kept forever seperate; I believe this more and more each day.

Our room is exciting. We're postering up the walls with an exciting new duct-tape technique, and soon this room will be plenty colorful, a celebration of our collective good taste. Requiem For A Dream, Crouching Tiger, Memento, Existenz, which Jonas loved for some reason… the list goes on, but not here.

And it's enormous, especially now that our beds are bunked. The ultimate contribution of my AP scores seems to have been this room, because they certainly aren't getting me out of here any quicker.

In non-location-related news, I've been busy prettymuch since I got here, with all the paperwork and training for jobs and such. Things have been pretty hectic, and I can't get anything done in the room -every time I try to blog Jonas' Gamecube distracts me and I just give up, and I had to go to Briggs early today to get my reading done.

I think that there's little chance I'll ever get work done this year while Jonas is in the room, which is no problem because I didn't get anything done in the room last year either, and a roommate who entertains me is a step up from Greg, whose mellowness and vastly different interests were as much a detriment as an asset. Jonas out-insomniacs me though, staying up until three each night while I'm off to bed at two.

Later.

At Lawrence

At Lawrence. Let the wild ride begin.

Conclusions The Day After The Last Day Of Work

So, I was going to say something about work.

Yesterday was not a good day of work. I had to deliver to Girls Port, which is some sort of group home for teenage girls without social skills who enjoy insulting delivery drivers. Then there was this new guy working, who looked like a cross between Gary Oldman and scrambled eggs. As tolerant as I try to be, I just couldn't look the guy in the face.

And I had to work with Bryan. Bryan isn't a bad guy; in fact, he's kind of funny. But there's something off about him. He's smarter than everyone thinks he is, as I think I've said here before, but it's not just that. He's got this aura about him, this serial killer aura. And he may be telepathic. I just have no other way of explaining his amazing people skills.

Unless he's immortal… you see, he just moved here from California, so my theory is that maybe he's been alive for hundreds of years, and he moves from state to state every few years to hide the fact that he doesn't age. That would certainly explain his use of decidedly old-school skateboarding tricks.

I also worked with Matt, this guy who used to go out with my friend September. Matt has supersensitive hormones- if he sees an attractive girl on the side of the road while he's on delivery, he'll turn around and drive past her again. You used to see September and Matt walking around the high school, committing all manner of PDAs.

He and Bryan and this old burnout named Brad are actually about the only people there who do their work. Bryan doesn't do that much work, but compared to Dan S and Julie, who do nothing and spend each night calling each other slackers, Bryan is a dishwashing god. Yes, dishwashing between deliveries is prettymuch all the drivers are responsible for.

Dan S. is probably the coolest guy at work, but everyone rags on him. Rightly so, of course, because he calls himself The Slacker and refuses to do any work, but nevertheless, he always has a interesting story to tell about his romantic adventures or his violent encounters with Brainerd neonazis. He's like a tall, lanky version of my hetero-life-buddy Larson, who lives a life so perpendicular to mine that every detail is bizarre. A last note to Dan's credit: On the back of his neck he has a tattoo of the all-seeing eye, which probably the single greatest tattoo ever tattooed.

Forgetting Brad, the forty-year-old burnout who seems to speak only in cliches, Julie is the last of the nighttime drivers. Julie, like Dan S, doesn't do any work. Work gets done, though, because she almost always works with her fiance Greg, who also happens to be a manager, and he does most of her work for her. And yells at Dan S to do the rest. So Julie sits around and eats candy or whines to Greg or makes pleasant conversation with the drivers, because she's a nice person, after all. I just feel bad for Greg sometimes -his relationship with Julie is where it should be forty years from now.

Greg is my favorite manager, I guess. I never really had a problem with any of the managers, but Greg lives a normal and apparently happy life without the naivete of many in his situation. He goes to CLC, Brainerd's finest college, but he's aware of the quality of the education he's receiving. And he's made the crucial decision to transfer after two years. I don't know how old he is, but at 19 or 20, he's already an adult. A whipped adult, sometimes, but still an adult.

And, if I may digress, Greg has the best theory of inflation.

One night, while closing with Greg and Dan S., Greg called us over to the register area to see a "counterfeit twenty-dollar bill". It sounded plausible, so we went over and he showed us the bill, which looked real but lacked the little strip and other anti-counterfeiting measures.

So we were gazing at the bill in amazement when I happened to check the date. It was from 1973, which explained the lack of modern security devices. Greg was crestfallen, but then perked up after processing the date of the bill.

Greg's Theory of Inflation

Greg: You usually don't see bills this old around…

Our Bold Hero: Well, paper money doesn't last so long in circulation -this is in pretty good condition for a bill that old.

Greg: It's not only that; we shouldn't have accepted a bill this old.

Our Bold Hero: What? It says right there "LEGAL TENDER FOR ALL DEBTS, PUBLIC AND PRIVATE".

Greg: Yeah, but there's some law that says you have to trade in all your old bills each year. Otherwise they aren't good anymore.

Our Bold Hero: Really.

Greg: Yeah, each year you're supposed to trade in all your old bills for new bills at the bank, but some people don't do that, which is why there's inflation.

Our Bold Hero: Wait…what? I took economics, and that doesn't… what? I don't think that's true…

Greg: Well, think about it. A 1973 dollar is worth more than a 2002 dollar because there are less of them… the government makes all this new money and… it's kinda hard to explain.

The other nighttime managers, Beth and Cory, are virtual opposites. I was going to do a daily feature here of "Reasons Why The Assistant Manager Is Crazy", but I didn't work with Beth every night, and some nights she didn't say anything weird anyways.

Beth is thirty-something, Julie's sister, a firm believer in spankings, and has six children of her own. She's the crazy kind of Baptist; the kind that thinks immorality is infectious. And she seems to have the same guilt-driven work ethic that I grew up with, because if anyone is standing around she'd rather make up work than let them relax. She's nosy, but pleasant in a way.

Cory is moody, at least according to Greg, and this theory at least seems to hold some weight. I've never had a problem with Cory, though many of the other employees seem to dislike him, but I have noticed that, if he's in a bad mood his managerial style adjusts accordingly. Belligerent customers and slacking employees alike cannot escape his wrath. At the same time, if Cory is in a good mood no one has to do any work. Incidentally, one of our cooks is Cory's brother and friends with Dan S, which only goes to show that everyone knows everyone at Giovanni's…

And with that I'll conclude this, well, catalogue. I didn't mean to let it get so large, but it's a pretty good description of my coworkers, which in turn is a pretty good description of what it was like to work at Giovanni's all summer. It was a good job, and, compared to everything else I've done, it was an easy job. I certainly know my way around town now, though I think my driving (especially my parking, because a delivery driver needn't worry about his parkjob) is worse.

The Deathtrap, in fact, is in the shop right now, which gives me ample time to stay at home and pack. All this driving killed the starter on the van, but since I was going to take it in today anyways, it's just another thing to fix. Well, speaking of packing, which I certainly am…

Conclusions On The Last Day Of Work

Ugh.

Tomorrow I pack. Classes start in a week.

Alternative Universe Escape Plan B

Everyone looks vaguely like everyone else, when you're driving around. For some reason though, after I'm through noticing all the bald guys who look like older versions of Graham, the remaining doppelgangers are all Lawrence replicants.

Perhaps this is my fault, given my habit of mentally pigeonholing (not to mention nicknaming) the various semifictional characters who people the Lawrence campus. Perhaps all runners don't actually look like Jamie, and it's just that I associate Jamie with running…

And so on. The examples are as tedious as they are meaningless. Although I really do associate Jamie with running. And the Clem Snide song "African Friend".

I had reading to do, but dramaturgical considerations have kept me up. Now, to sleep.

I Know What I'm Reading Today

Joel Stein has his own website. He's witty.

On The Merits Of Style Manuals

Normally, I hate nonfiction. Well, not 'hate', just… 'don't read'. But I'm reading this required reading, this Style: Toward Clarity and Grace that Lawrence is making me read (yes, that kind of required reading) and it's pretty good.

The authors don't give any real 'rules' for writing, or, if they do, they gives examples of when people have broken the rules to create more effective writing. They're well-educated, but relentlessly wishy-washy nonetheless.

I still have a huge problem with the idea of a 'style manual', however. Everyone has a writing voice; it develops organically, according to the literary tastes and other preferences of the writer, and I've always wondered how resilient the individual writing voice really is. Could a manual of style ruin writing?

Probably not, but I'm overprotective of my sad little voice, and I don't want any book telling it not to use the passive or to avoid nominalizations or to stop relying on polysyndecton for effect. Certainly not any nonfiction book, in any case.

Well, as I said before, this book is relentlessly wishy-washy and I'd have to say that I agree with the authors' recommendations, especially since they refuse to call them 'rules'. And most people, myself included, are only going to improve their writing with guidance from such a book. If the writing voice is so fragile, it's its own fault, after all.

And the book makes some excellent points about style and content -like me, it puts more emphasis on style than most people would.

Which I suppose is to be expected, but it's more evidence for My Theory that all good writing is at least partially 'about' writing, and all good music is at least partially 'about' music. It sounds like a Prof Fritzell theory, really. It's weird to miss the school part of school.

But this time next week, I'll be back.

That's a bit too dramatic of blog ending for my taste. So here's another sentence to ease you out the door.

Later.

An Early Halloween

So I'm back. This weekend, for those of you not on the social A-list, was Graham's birthday blast.

Last night we all piled in to our vehicles, or other people's vehicles if you weren't driving, and went to Grand Slam in fabulous Eagen to play a single round of 'lazer tag'. My team, the evil red team… well, we lost, though we had much more spirit than the wily green team. And better outfits. And better hair.

There was a fashion show, but I repressed that memory.

For pictures, see Graham's site. He probably has pictures up by now.

On the way to Applebees for dinner, I tried to remember an old movie, with a singing frog and sensory deprivation and moons and pizza pies. Graham didn't believe me, of course.

But thanks to the folks at imdb.com, I know that I was not remembering one movie but two: Frog! and Frogs!. Find them, rent them. Believe.

And I'm tired. Goodnight.

Leaving After Work

Happy Birthday, Graham.

My bags are packed, and I'm ready to go to Graham's shin-dig as soon as I'm done with work. My costume fell a bit short of my hopes, but for $5, it's a quality getup.

Later.

Even Though Caligula Sucked

I finished The Stranger last night, in one sitting. It was a really short good book, like Catcher in the Rye in a way. It's been years since I read something cover-to-cover like that… though the back cover on this old copy (I got it at a library sale) calls the main character "an ordinary man", which misses the point entirely. I think.

Whatever. I've got some mowing to do, then some shopping, again. All this tip money never sees the bank.

Later.

My Waist: Where Is It?

I tried to buy some clothing today, but I just can't find jeans that look right.

Right now I have two, maybe three, good pairs of jeans. I'll still wear my other pairs, but I recognize their deficiency, and even my so-called 'good' jeans are no more than functional, cut to fit as many loyal Target shoppers as possible.

Perhaps that's what I get for buying cheap, inferior merchandise: cheap, inferior merchandise.

Shoes (I bought shoes today, too, going for 'Hadley' instead of my usual 'Anton') that wear out twice as fast, at a third of the price.

Huzzahs all around. Target has, until now, always provided me with clothing that gets the job done, goes home, sits on the couch and watches Entertainment Tonight. But this time, I couldn't even find anything that fit. I walked into the store wearing jeans that, when I tried on an identical in-store pair, no longer fit.

In fact, according to the measurements I took at home (my mom used to make clothing, you see), I shouldn't be able to wear what I'm wearing now. And it certainly shouldn't be loose. But I double-checked… the measurements are right and the jeans (in their ill-formed way) fit. Chaos reigns supreme. And my waist… wherever it is… is no doubt laughing. But that doesn't change the fact that the ball is in a few days and I have absolutely nothing to wear.

That was meant to be a whimsical reference, not a reference to Graham's assuredly whimsical birthday box social. On that front, I rented Back to the Future II today and got a good feel for the 'spirit' my costume should adhere too. Plus, it's a good movie. I also rented Jackie Brown, which led to a discussion in which my dad referred to Pulp Fiction as a flop. Film Lacking Ordinary Perspective, perhaps, to steal a good acronym from the Lawrence Hedonists, but a failure? No.

Speaking of failures, I caught of few snippets of Rush Limbaugh today, and listened to him tell America how little he knows about Mutually Assured Destruction.

Rush: We're not talking about Mutually Assured Destruction here. The reason Russia and America had so many weapons during the cold war was so that, if one attacked the other, the country attacked would have enough warheads to destroy the attacking country.

I may be taking what Rush said out of context, here, but he does it all the time. I've decided to throw my political enthusiasm behind The World Rock Paper Scissors Society, at least until The Wishy-Washy Moderates Society gets organized.

Politics has begun to leave a sickly taste in my mouth and an AM Radio buzz in my ears… It's all posturing and issues and shrill discussions and parties and networking and moral superiority and people convinced about their rightness. I suppose that's a good thing to be convinced of, but not zealously. Not unless you're really, really informed. Tomorrow…

Tomorrow, or today by the time you read this, is 9/11. Remember all those people we knew who died that day? I don't; maybe you knew someone, but I didn't, and the lives of these strangers in some big office building aren't any more important to me than the lives of any other randomly chosen group of tragically dead Americans. Which is to say: I care, you see, but I don't need to mourn these lost 'heroes'.

How many people a year die of AIDs? In car crashes? Of heart attacks? Weren't they all living the American dream, too, with its fast, democratic roads, its 500 grams of saturated fat, and its openminded support of even the stupidest personal choice? Were they heroes?

Being innocent and in the wrong place at the wrong time doesn't make anyone a hero, no matter how American they are. Heroism is evident only in action, never in character. I guess I just can't handle misuse of the word hero. Not since that one Onion article I can't find a link for…

O.k, that was enough bitterness. I just can't get excited about the country (though I don't think America is a bad place to live… living here is like driving the largest SUV on the road… in every possible way that simile can be understood).

At least, I can't getting excited about it the way other people can -whether they're seriously patriotic or just blindly jingoistic- so all this fanfare I'm expecting, all the television specials and especially the merchandise -no one can ever, ever, ever commemorate a tragic event with a shirt- is really going to bug me. Probably I'll try to go out, then if that doesn't work I'll just avoid all human contact and reflect or something.

Wow, it's late.

Tall Tales, And Ears For Hats

I got my Josie and The Pussycats DVD in the mail today. After listening to the directors' commentary and looking through the special features (e.g. the rags-to-riches-story trailer or the "Recommendations" section, which recommends The Skulls and other great Universal titles), I realized that some of the people in charge of this movie still don't get it.

The producer is clueless. On the commentary track he doesn't seem to know anything about the movie. Early on, he tries to bring up his own little bits of information, but after the directors contradict him a few times, he resigns himself to pointing out good parts. At times he seems surprised by what the directors have to say about the movie he paid for.

Deborah Kaplan, one of the directors, seems to have had a few good ideas, but the best parts of the movie came from Harry Elfont, who pushed the satire angle while Kaplan was busy concentrating on the love story.

Elfont (whistful): Originally this scene, underground in the war room, was much darker. We had a lot more pop culture references-

Kaplan (breaking in): I like it better this way.

Elfont: Really?

It sucks to know that a good movie could've been even better, but it's still a really fun and (at times) insightful movie, and I got in on the cheap, after all.

At work today I got into an odd conversation with Bryan, the guy from California who's much smarter than he looks and may be a liar (he's not 25 or whatever age everyone thinks he is… there's just no way), and Beth, the manager who may be crazy. Beth suspects that someone at my place of work is dealing, because some girl at her Baptist church confessed to buying from one of my fellow employees.

Beth, before I saw more, is a busybody. I was thinking earlier today about her conversations, and they break down into one of three categories:

#1. The gathering of information. Not a "how are you" so much as a "what are your plans". I've decided to be a little less open in my conversations with her, because all she's looking for is something to repeat.

#2. Beth talk. History, current status, anything related to the speaker. She'll work it into the conversation and go on for a while. It's certainly made me more self-conscious about my own speaking habits.

#3. The passing of verdicts. You can't mention anyone without Beth saying something which I'm sure she thinks is definitive- like "some days I really like Jon, but some days I really don't" or "I can't decide if [Shaggy] is quiet or a complete moron". As Jon himself once noted, after awhile you just have to roll your eyes, nod your head, and say "sure… Beth…"

Anyways, given this moral dilemma, Beth feels compelled to do something about the situation. And apparently, she already has. She asked Shaggy, our clever pseudonym for the potential drug dealer, if he was dealing drugs (frankly, Bryan and I both believe he is) and he said no. She thinks he is, and, as Bryan pointed out, she's trying to get one of us to broach the issue with him.

And so it goes. It was probably the most interesting conversation I've had of late, even though it looks rather bland when written out. Well, whatever. Tomorrow I shop. I have to go back, you see…

Later.

Perfect Stranger, Don't Fail Me Now

Scott Tobias liked Ginger Snaps, and we've never disagreed, so here's hoping. I'm off to watch said movie because, well, it's due tomorrow.

Night.

Because Black Goes With Everything

Good ol' Flo. Here's his latest email, which is general enough to post here.

Initializing…
Current receiver: [Our Bold Hero]
Subject: Wellbeing of, friend, location: Germany
Updating……
ready
News:
- Body-Modification taken (tatoo). Size: approx. 16 cm radius. Located: on upper back. Shape and geometry: two dragons, asian, red and black.
- Filmwork: storyboard written. Camera on way.
finalizing…
done…
loading goodbye.wav…

Flo may be a dreamer, but he gets the job done, whatever the job happens to be. There's something uniquely German about that, I think; or maybe there just aren't that many people like Flo around. Gothic nerds with leather pants are in short supply, as always.

The Unbelievable

Good gads, Graham is right. Apparently, we really are the only state that says "duck, duck, gray duck." Not that this fact makes us any less correct, of course…

I saw No Such Thing. Another o.k. movie with a lot of potential (like One Hour Photo, City of the Lost Children, and every recent Spielberg flick), this one is about a monster who can't be destroyed and the girl--herself equipped with seemingly indestructible altruism--who loves him. Or something. Maybe it was about the media. I dunno.

I spent most of today reading, fixing something, or otherwise passing the time. It looks like the earliest I need to be back on campus is the 23rd, so I have no excuse to go back early.

Night.

Subtitles?

Summer is dead, and the next two weeks are it's rotting corpse. Welcome back to Brainerd, Dan.

Obviously, I have to get back into the habit of writing again, or blogging again, or something. I actually feel a mite out of practice. I left Hamline this afternoon, after saying goodbye to Arno (and restating my intention to visit Germany within the year).

I'll miss that guy. He's weird, but at the same time he's probably the most well-balanced guy I know. We Americans all seem to have issues with something or other.

Anyways, I'm tired and it's time to go to bed.