10,000 flushes

Often times, I'll be walking around somewhere, and I'll see someone and think, "if I were (somewhere else) that would be (person I know)."

The association is often triggered by a gesture, gait, posture, or hairstyle. Sometimes, I even sit down in a public area and decide to 'assign' someone I know to everyone I can see. I create a world around me filled with people I know (but don't really know). It's great! I get to see them interact with each other in strange ways and ignore people they should acknowledge. I watch them make uncharacteristic purchases and laugh nervously. Sooner or later, my fantasy world dissolves into reality and I emerge invigorated on the other side.

This evening, I experienced a version of this fantasy with a whole new twist. I sat in the front row of the first David H. Liu Memorial Lecture in Design of the quarter and experienced Rives for the first time, and for the millionth time. As it turns out, Rives is my friend Scott (aka :srw: - you know him) exactly. Rives gave a design talk loaded with a free association of his path from paper engineer to multimedia artist, to spoken word poet, to observer of everything, to TV host living out the same free association fantasy that started the whole thing. Scott,
if you don't
know him, writes
emails like this. With
lines that allude
to a poem enough
so that you wonder
if they are meant
to be a poem and
then eventually you decide that
they must be so
you spend longer than
you should
composing your response.

The arc of connections between Rives and Scott is strong enough that multiple people noticed and pointed it out, including Scott, who happened to be sitting in the second row behind me and two seats to the left. I sat through the talk wondering if some sort of neat vortex would envelop the room as two soul mates oscillated on the same wavelength in such close proximity.

The whole experience made me wonder who my personality match would be. Who do people think of when they think of me? Do people ever get reminded of me when I'm not around?

The magical evening had more in store. Post-lecture, I stood with Scott and two other great friends, Jean and Capra, and we did a quick debrief about the latest in our lives. Capra told some stories of her recent trip to Amsterdam and highlighted, for me, two separate hotel bathroom experiences she'd had. One hotel bathroom had strange tubes that smelled of pee, and the other involved a stay on a houseboat that left something to be desired. Then Jean, one of the best if not the best synthesizer I know, said, "I think of you every time I'm in a public bathroom." Amazing! People associate me with public bathrooms. It all started when I put this
















up in the women's bathroom last year. People that don't wash their hands after visiting the bathroom gross me out, and I wanted to call them out on it. Excitingly, the installation and meaning behind it have followed me since. I'll take it where I can get it. I might not ever experience the Scott-Rives vortex, but there's a chance that every day someone somewhere makes their own little vortex, washes their hands, and thinks of me. I love you all.

Reflection, Day 9

This is the second to last day in the time of Reflection. For that opportunity, I thank my great, great grandmother Rosenthal. Being part of such a club often affords an opportunity for reminiscing, maybe among old friends or simply peers. At a wedding in my hometown this past weekend, I had suspected an opportunity for just that, but collective nostalgia was not particularly viable given that most of the people I know from the era appropriate for the draw of guests were not in fact invited, or at least did not attend. It occurred to me then, that as an activity, reflecting seems to be a sort of edgy version of reminiscing, where the past is placed somewhere forward—launched—with a trajectory: an unexpected bounce.

Several years ago, I saw a baseball game played at Disch-Falk Field in Austin. There is something unexpected and shocking about that field: it is covered with Astroturf. Possibly that does not seem shocking (and it is pretty cool to actually use “Astroturf” given the close proximity to Houston), but the fact is that the field is outdoors and there is no shortage of full-time grass staff at UT; in contrast, the field at Texas Memorial Stadium is better tended than most any thing, anywhere, and it is most certainly real grass. Further, the shade of green is the sort that raises questions.

I had questions that day, after the game, and for the first time in probably a couple of years, I reached out to a friend of mine from high school—from the same era as the bride in said wedding—to investigate the field and get a player’s perspective. This guy was scouted by several pro teams, played serious college baseball, and ultimately chose instead to play for Harvard. The correspondence was via email. What I received read in the unique voice of my friend—someone I admired for countless reasons—and matter-of-factly addressed the baseball issues, followed up with anticipatory discussion of plans for a return visit home. I learned that two days after that email was sent, Josh died in an automobile collision while working, as he had been, in Eritrea on projects of aquaculture research.

One of the benefits of artificial turf is the consistency of ball bounces—truer hops. I played lacrosse in high school and consistently marveled at the physically impossible trajectories a white Brine ball could follow. I played on grass and never really made the connection with turf surface until learning of the baseball analog. Upon reflection, I am a bit surprised and somewhat disappointed at my ignorance.

I remember driving to north Austin to buy cigarettes the night I heard Josh had died. I remember seeing, as I had thousands of times before, a fairly provincial church on the way. The great part of that church was the tiny yellow neon cross on the roof-ridge: at night the juxtapositions of scale and seriousness spinout what might seem a fairly decent place to the ironic. I remember thinking that telephone poles really had amazing power, with an unearthly sort of animation, unexpected even of living trees.

I have enjoyed an aphorism despite outwardly disapproving of aphorisms: predictability is the enemy. Only recently has it occurred to me that remembering, reminiscing, and reflecting are all different. I had expectations of this wedding trip: decadent times slathered with nostalgia, but have been unexpectedly shocked by the lively trajectory of reflection, divergent from the slow orbit of reminiscence. As a result, I find I am without prediction: unprepared, but willing.

exposing expertise

"Hi, how's it going?"
"Not bad, thanks. So, what type of work do you do?"
"I'm an expert welder."
"Wow, great. I will come to you with all of my metallurgical needs."

insert fine line here

"Hi, how's it going?"
"Not bad, thanks. So what type of work do you do?"
"I'm an expert maverick."
"Whatever, chump."

The fine line raises two different issues.
1. Hard skills vs. soft skills
2. Reaching and claiming expert status

Welding is a hard skill. If a welder claims to me that she is an expert, I assume that she has reached a certain level of measurable achievement in her craft.

Mavericism - is it even a skill? Note: It's not even a word. When Sarah Palin tells me that her team is the maverick team (and a team of mavericks, and has been a maverick, and that senate maverick, and maverick is us) does she think that saying it aloud makes it true? I am much more critical on claims of expertise in soft skills than hard skills. They're harder to measure and evaluate, and even tougher to demonstrate.

With both hard and soft skills, how do you ever know that you've reached expert status? With hard skills you might take an exam or fulfill a certain number of hours as a practitioner of your art and then be granted a piece of paper with artfully arranged ink that qualifies you as an expert. But, more often than not, whether through practice, talent, or experience, you are an expert whether or not the national governing body deems it so. Sure, someone out there in the world is better than you, but sometimes it's nice to let the humility fly away.

A few days ago the opportunity arose for me to test out claims of expertise. A colleague was walking around our work area looking for a squash partner. He moved around the room asking a bunch of different people, many of whom are frequent squash players. I have never played squash with any of these people but know that some are pretty solid players and others are newer to the sport. I know that the colleague that was looking for a partner was advanced beginner level, maybe intermediate. When he got to me and asked if I wanted to play, I responded with, "You don't want to play with me because I'm quite excellent at squash."

This caught him and the others off guard. They all thought I was joking and tried to get me to admit to a ruse. In fact, I am quite good at squash, but I'm not sure that anyone believed me.

Revealing skills to others is strangely exposing. The line between bragging and truth is weak without an additional party to substantiate. In the spirit of exposure, I offer you this:

I am an expert at spitting small objects. Give me a watermelon seed and I will spit it farther than you. Ask me to hit a target with a cherry pit and I will land it closer than you.

Doggonit, Joe, now that there is straight talk.

Is it possible to speak a salad?

I am comfortable saying butterfly in four languages: papillon, farfalla, mariposa, and… butterfly. [Crowd cheers] I learned the Italian word, farfalla, last. While muttering it to myself as memorization technique, it occurred to me how the word is anonomopeaic in each of those languages. Try it: whisper each of the words softly and see if you can place the wing motions of the insect. I was pretty shocked. I cannot say whether this trend holds true for any other languages—my best guess is that Russian will be an instant counterexample, but I am still surprised.

It is hard to identify a favorite word: they all have a role and are all pretty interesting. The bit on "Inside the Actors Studio" where James Lipton asks a celebrity her favorite curse word is excellent, maybe because of the experience in hearing and seeing a word, if only partly, in context. I admit that I find it incredibly satisfying to deliver the line with a blank face: shut the fuck up. It is hard to keep serious after delivery. The multi-tiered significance of a word in the context of language seems to have a parallel with the sense of smell and its ability to overstep into adjacent senses. Diane Ackerman has a really interesting discussion of this in her book.


Naming things, such as cars, boats, et cetera, has never really interested me. The whole butterfly thing, though, made me reconsider that position. I found that I could identify at least one instance where I did have a name, or at least an association, for something without realizing it. About ten years ago, I drove to San Antonio to see a friend who was there giving a presentation on primate behavior. When traveling, I like to find and explore music stores. I stopped into Alamo Music downtown and came across a Taylor Leo Kottke 12-string guitar. Other than seeing Kottke play one himself, I had never encountered one in person. (As an aside, I was at a show in Columbia, Missouri where said guitar was stolen between the end of the show and the encore). The one at Alamo was great. I left it there and made it late to meet my friend. I ended up driving back to San Antonio the next day to buy the instrument. Willie Nelson named his guitar Trigger; my guitar named itself “lechuga”. At least that is how it occurs to me. I am not exactly sure how the tactile experience of playing a 12-string translates to lettuce, but it does. It could be the number of strings being similar to a section cut of an Iceberg head or possibly the sensation of muting chords that seems like chopping through said head. In my mind there is also a very “clean” sensation in playing that particular guitar that reminds me both of eating a salad, as well as audibly pronouncing the word: leh-choo-guh—saying “lettuce” has a similar, though less pronounced effect. I love that guitar for many reasons, one of which is its capacity for saving me from the bother of convention in deciding a name; I wish other things, such as meals, would take similar initiative in removing me from the decision-making process.

racism, backpacks, and a Tuesday afternoon

Dear Library, Dear Library

I walked by the Palo Alto public library today and in the front window they have a hardware store-type sign that says: "Yes, We're Open!" in neon orange on black.


My first thought was that the sign was utterly inappropriate for an institution as grand as a library, albeit a local branch. I love everything that libraries seem to stand for: massive amounts of knowledge, the exaltation of all learning, the preservation of physically life-sized tomes that require the use of gloved hands and climate-controlled rooms. In fact, the biggest downside of Tim Berners-Lee's great contribution to the world is the obsolescence of microfilm and microfiche. I miss picking out a film reel of the 1979 Boston Globe, carefully winding it into the massive machine, placing my face in front of the viewfinder, and the subsequent feeling of swimming through the newspaper at whatever pace I felt appropriate. Spin the wheel on the microfilm and see what gem you land on...it puts Google's "I'm feeling lucky" to shame.

Coincidentally, this past Christmas eve I sat across the aisle from Tim Berners-Lee at church. Being a proper Unitarian celebration, we spent the entire time singing Christmas carols. I don't know him, but my mom knows his wife, which is generally the way of most connections and enough to sneak a few glances. I was struck by the vigor with which he sang the carols, full of gusto and facial expression. What a bizarre reality: the man that essentially enabled the internet sings an enthusiastic Noel in a church across the street from the library that taught me to love microfilm.

In any event, as I pondered what might make a better "Yes, We're Open!" sign for the library this morning, it occurred to me that maybe local libraries are now exactly like mom and pop hardware stores. They both have regular customers, many with wrinkles, that come in to browse regularly. They're safe places where you can ask for help from someone who couldn't want to help you more. They have specific smells. Finally, and sadly, they're usually overlooked for bigger, shinier, pricier, and often more incompetent versions.

I think if John Prine was sitting across the aisle from me right now he'd likely have a song about the graying of the local public library. It wouldn't go like this, but if it went like this, it'd go like this:

To the tune of Dear Abby

Dear Library, Dear Library,
You're not open late.
You have some free parking
and an RFID gate.
I love new book smell
but you don't have it there.
Won't you serve me a coffee, won't you blend me a pear.
Signed, Jamba-lover

Jamba-lover, Jamba-lover,
You have no complaint.
You drink what they tell you,
and you eat what they ate.
So forget about box stores,
forget cell phone calls.
Won't you come read a novel,
won't you bypass the mall?
Signed, Dear Library.

Dear library, Dear Library,
You are full of misfits.
People hang there for hours,
and no shower is legit.
I like to read books,
but you don't allow food.
Can't I just use the internet, can't I do it in the nude?
Signed, Naked Reader

Naked Reader, Naked Reader
You have no complaint.
You piss away hours
on Hulu for jaint.
My librarians all tell me
they're not used at all.
Won't you close online Boggle,
won't you help slow our fall?
Signed, Dear Library.

Who is Joe Biden?

Where is Joe Merchant? Both are mysteries. I turned to Jimmy Buffett to answer the latter, looking toward Warren Buffet for the former. Warren could only offer a song, so there is still some doubt in both counts. It is a funny thing living in a state where your vote might actually count: you should probably try to learn something about the candidates. I regret not having people around me on both sides of the fence politically. It made for interesting conversation, as well as a chance to learn something amidst the crossfire.

Biden’s website does little to stir my emotions other than to make me think of Hallmark or American Greetings cards of the highly cursive variety. The copy on the site covers a spectrum from bland to poor. How is it possible that someone in the public eye, someone with a knack for crafting winning legislation can front such banality? Aha! Sweet Wikipedia, the source of potentially incorrect information, steer me toward controversy! In 1988, according to said source, Biden plagiarized a bit of melodrama from a speech by British Labour Party Leader, Kinnock. Hard to fault him for culling the tones of a Briton, but no citation is a poor citation. In engineering shorthand: NG. What’s that Wiki? Oh, he plagiarized in law school as well? Was the incident brought before any sort of Honor Committee? No. The incident was dismissed and the course grade ultimately dropped. From the outside this seems reasonable based on Biden’s claim of ignorance at referencing etiquette, but in fact, no, it is not reasonable. The fact is that university systems are plagued today by mechanics that make truly actioned responses entirely impossible; faculty are burdened by the very notion of reporting violations for fear of initiating processes lengthy as their own tenures rather than those of the students in question. So, again, Biden: NG.

In stepping back a bit, I am further displeased by this potential lack of academic integrity based on yet another piece of linguistic evidence (this time free of the Wikipedia wellspring): the naming of Biden’s legislation. Consider two examples: the Violence Against Women Act (VAWA) and the College Affordability and Creating Chances for Educational Success for Students (ACCESS) Act. The first seems to be an excellent piece of legislation, but in my immediate mind, I cannot offer a more inappropriate misnomer, coupled with an acronym that makes me wonder if VAGA or VULVA was only narrowly defeated just before press time. As for the latter, again, I have to raise issue at being a slave to the acronym. If this is the manifestation of original thought, perhaps we would be better off having a ghostwriter. Maybe John Updike has some spare time.

What do I like about Biden? The answer is certainly not his moldy history with original published thought. Alaska is a much better place than Delaware, though George Thorogood does put on a good show with his Destroyers. No, the one thing that might have me convinced despite the apparent history of misplacing the thoughts of others is his surprising willingness in lending a hand to local businessmen, even in rival states.



That is the sort of thing that we need now. Harry Doyle, I support you for Office.