From the Archives - Bits & Bobs Volume IX

Introduction

This is the ninth installment in the “From the Archives – Bits & Bobs” series. Volume I is here, Volume II is here, Volume III is here, Volume IV is here, Volume V is here, Volume VI is here, Volume VII is here, and Volume XIII is here. (The different volumes have little or nothing to do with one another.)

As with other installments, these are taken from emails to various friends and family members, back when I archived them as simple text files for posterity. Who know that posterity would come in the form of a blog? I sure didn’t, as the Internet was (almost) entirely unknown in those days…

January 15, 1995

I filled out a W-2 the other day and was about to check “Single” as I’ve been doing for about 15 years, and then realized, “Wait a second—I’m married!” Then, I had to look at all the worksheets to see how many deductions to claim. I was shocked to realize that as far as the IRS is concerned, I do not qualify as the Head of the Household. Just what in the hell is going on here when a man doesn’t automatically qualify as head of the household?

July 6, 1995

We have some houseguests from Holland. In their honor we just ate “Gourmet,” a Dutch culinary tradition (you might even say celebration). I got the Gourmet set from my brother. You have these little burners, that burn Sterno, with little 4-inch non-stick pans on a cage above them, and you throw in little pieces of meat and vegetables, kind of like fajitas. It takes forever, and it’s a lot of fun, like a great movie that you don’t want to end. You get to try all kinds of different combinations—I ate at least ten different pans of food. It’s great. The only problem is that the flame goes out every so often and it’s kind of scary relighting it. I’m sure after doing this dozens of times I’ll get overconfident, squirt Sterno right into the dying flame, and blow up my kitchen.

July 30, 1995

I had an epiphany recently. I was going to brush my teeth and I noticed that E—’s toothpaste tube wasn’t rolled neatly from the end, but was squeezed in the middle. This shouldn’t have bothered me too much, since we have separate toothpastes (not really by design, but because I accidentally bought tartar control, which she doesn’t like). But I figure I’d roll her tube up for her. Well, not really for her, since she doesn’t give a damn, but for me. I can’t stand to see the toothpaste tube disfigured like that. Well, when I rolled it up, I realized the cap was open. I realized this because toothpaste squirted out. It was a big mess, all over the cap. This is the kind of stupid modern cap that has a little flip-top. The top was all coated in goo. I reflected meanly that it was probably pretty gooey even before my little mishap. I removed the cap and rinsed it carefully in the sink, which is when I had my epiphany that I’m really a totally absurd person. Actually, it’s not really an epiphany, because this fact has been dawning on me frequently, possibly due to the tendency one has to compare his behavior to that of his spouse. E—’s lack of attention to such details amazes me. “Amazement” perhaps don’t cover her responses to my own quirky pedanticism, and to the obvious torture that entropy inflicts on my life. We’ve had a certain amount of marital friction along these lines.

So, are you the same way? (I think I’ve seen signs that you are.) If so, does [your wife] mind? Only moments ago, I halted my train of thought, noticing a bit of lint on my keyboard, and plunged into my desk drawer to retrieve a little nylon brush, perfectly suited for cleaning out a keyboard. It’s the brush that came with the Norelco electric razor I bought in 1985 to shave my legs with. The razor wore out in six months, and the replacement blades cost more than a new razor. I sure wasn’t going to buy new blades, on general principle, but I couldn’t bring myself to replace the whole razor and throw away the almost perfectly good old one. So I took the only possible remaining option: I began using a Bic. Before retiring the electric razor to some special burying place (or perhaps I still have it somewhere), I inspected the nylon brush that came with it, and determined that it would be excellent for cleaning the keyboard of my typewriter. Well, that little brush has lasted me four keyboards since then, and I always know where to find it instantly. I even brought it on the bike tour. Does that make me ridiculous? [2023 update: I still have, and use, that little brush.]

September 12, 1995

[Trigger warning: the following anecdote involves heavy drinking. Let me just say, before you proceed, that these days, as a responsible salary man, husband, and father, I appreciate quality beverages and enjoy them responsibly. I haven’t drunk recklessly in ages, and my kids can vouch for me in that regard.]

We went down to Ventura to participate in D—’s blowout 30th birthday party. P— drove us down there, with [his wife] L—, and even got us a motel. (I’d envisioned just passing out on a sofa or something at the party, but a motel was entirely welcome.) The only problem was, once we got to the party, P—, who is a very starchy sort, given to extreme temperance, seemed determined not to have a good time. He and L— sat by themselves on a sofa and watched—and in fact judged—the mêlée unfolding around them. It was one hell of a party. All kinds of people were there whom I hadn’t seen in ages, such as B—. Well, the more fun everybody else began to have, the more visibly annoyed P— seemed to become. By 9:30 he had his jacket on and was making noises about saying our goodbyes and heading to the motel.

The next piece of this story requires some background. At your wedding, I became somewhat inebriated, perhaps as the result of obliging half a dozen old friends who wanted to drink a shot with me. (I’m not sure what the origin is of this strange custom.) Well, I began talking to S—’s sister. She asked me what I did for a living. My response, as I began, threatened to ramble out of control, since I really didn’t have a good answer. So I backed up and started over by telling her the highlights of my day: getting home, changing my shoes, and hanging up my suit jacket. From here my logical faculties completely broke down and I circumnavigated, in tedious spirals, what would have been the point of my story if there had been one. My shoes featured prominently, for reasons I cannot recall. I do not believe that my story was very interesting. However, I believe S—’s sister was at least somewhat amused, because she giggled through my little monologue. It’s always at least somewhat amusing, in a voyeuristic sort of way, to watch a drunk person trying to make sense, his rhetoric completely disintegrating and being replaced by loud, doggerel emphasis. If nothing else, my rambling was benign.

Anyway, the next time I saw P— he recounted at length the foolishness of my drunken oration, which he’d witnessed at the wedding. (I had actually half forgotten it, until he mentioned it to me, at which point I remembered every detail with complete clarity.) P— expounded with much emphasis on what an absolute idiot I had been, and how glad he was that he wasn’t me and doesn’t have to live anything down. I didn’t (and don’t) quite get his point, though he took pains to make it.

Okay, that’s the background. Now we’ll return to D—’s party. P— grew increasingly vexed with me, since I was ruining everything by having a good time and enjoying the company of not just my friends but of complete strangers. For example, I got to chat with M—, a former star rider on the cycling team I’d never before met, whom I gather P— was kind of intimidated by. Well, while I was chatting with M—, about who knows what, P— came up to us and said, “Hey Dana, why don’t you tell him about your job, and your shoes.” This annoyed me, encapsulating as it did his general piss-poor attitude, and I am curt even when sober as you well know. I responded, as one does, “Why don’t you blow me.” Well, M— was drunk enough to find this the funniest damn thing he’d ever heard. This annoyed P— further, and he decided it was time to leave.

It wasn’t even 10:00 yet, and D— and I hadn’t even yet shared the sophomoric delight of travelling naked. To this day I regret having squandered the opportunity to bike naked through Isla Vista with D— years ago (having chosen instead to do something else with R—, which only seemed like the better idea at the time). This time I wasn’t about to leave before accomplishing that, so with the clock running out, D—, B—, and I ran out of the house, out the back door, as if escaping. As we abandoned our clothing and ran across the beach, mooning the moon as it were, I could hear L— and P— harmonizing: “We’re leaving!”

Now, the ocean was a good 200 meters from the beach house, and we aren’t great runners, and it seemed to take an eternity to make it to the surf. Then, for some reason the water felt merely cool, not icy cold as it truly must have been, and hence our swim was not rushed. Nor was the ensuing sand fight. To make matters worse, by the time we returned to the house, our clothing had been stolen. By now it was going on 10:30 and P— was livid (in the silent, tense, purple style that is so much more annoying than if he’d spewed profanity or something). It should be noted that nobody else had even thought of leaving the party. In fact, there was a cake fight in full swing. By the time I had recovered my clothing and put it back on, P— himself had become an innocent civilian caught in the crossfire: he’d had a giant wedge of brown/blue/pink birthday cake ground into his jacket by one of the blessed Dionysians. P—, the party atheist, dragged me out to the car, our wives following along, and we left behind a party that was still in full swing. Fortunately, once we got to the motel P— treated us to a live reading from a book of fine literature by Laurence Sterne. This seemed to revive his good spirits and was a nice way to wind down the night.

December 10, 1995

My new job begins tomorrow. I gave my old employer  a whole month’s notice, so that I would have time to tie up all the loose ends and train my replacement. We hired a good guy, looks like Uncle David did as a young man. Good academic credentials, including a law degree. Made it kind of odd training him: “Well, I’ve no use for this job anymore, but I’m sure you’ll be great!”

The new job is about five blocks closer to home than the old one. It’s on the edge of the Financial District near Chinatown. The building is a newer one than my old one, but slightly less spacious. If my old building was a giant Buick, this one is more like a nice new Nissan Sentra. The furniture is more modern (Star Trek ballistic nylon, coated steel) than the stuff at my old building (opulent leather, cherry wood). And this is the kicker: a cubicle rather than an office. Did you ever see my old office? Probably not. Well, it was sweet. Great view, great chairs (high back, ergonomic chair for me, a sumptuous black leather chair for my guest), great lighting. A door I could close. Vertical blinds. Framed Ansel Adams print on the wall. Now I’ll have a cubicle. I haven’t seen it yet, but I envision the kind of fabric-covered partitions I can stick notes to with thumbtacks. Surely buzzing fluorescent lights overhead. It’ll be an unimpressive task chair (like the dumb-looking webbed chair Spock had to sit on in the Star Trek movies). These are my fears. The reality could be nicer, but still . . . a cubicle. O, what I’ll sacrifice for job security, unlimited growth potential, stock options, vision benefits, and cool people to work with!

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From the Archives - How to Be a UCSB Student

Introduction

It’s not back-to-school time yet, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned about the younger generation, it’s they they’re organized and plan ahead. So as a service to them, and because it’s a slow news day, here’s a college how-to guide from my archives. Enjoy please enjoy.

(A note on this post: it’s quaint to consider the advice I gave on how to kill time back in 1989, long before the Internet.)

How To Be a UCSB Student - January 9, 1989

Chapter One: Attending Classes

Part One: The Lecture

Don’t leave your apartment until five minutes before the lecture starts. That way, you won’t be the first one to show up. Showing up late has several advantages: 1) you can choose a seat in the back without losing face with the professor, 2) you can choose a seat next to a beautiful girl without looking conspicuous, since it will be one of a handful of seats left, and 3) you waste the minimum amount of time in class, leaving more time for what life’s really about: hanging out.

(A note to this guide: I have arbitrarily assumed the reader is male. If you are female, swap the pronouns and change “beautiful girl” to “gorgeous guy,” etc.)

Pick up a copy of the school paper, the Daily Nexus (which for some reason everybody calls the Daily Necro) on the way to the lecture so you’ll have something to do. Granted, the Nexus is a rag if there ever was one, but still better than the lecture. Hasn’t anybody told these professors it’s pointless to lecture children? That’s like, Parenting 101.

Always bring your notebook. It’s amazing how many notes your neighbor will take if you’re setting a good example by scribbling away like a stenographer on speed. Of course, you don’t have to take actual notes; random doodling will do. If you’re the artistic type, draw; if you’re like me, meaningless scribbles, grids, and designs will do. Or, you can keep a running tabulation of the professor’s tics. Here’s an excerpt from my notebook this morning: 

• Number of times arm tangled in microphone cord:  3
• Number of apologies (e.g., for overhead projector being broken):  8
• Number of times repeated the same thing, broken out by transitional phrase: 
• “As I’ve said . . .” 6 
• “Again . . .” 8 
• “Once again . . .” 4 
• “To repeat . . .” 2 
• “If you will…” 3 
• “As you know . . .” 4 
• Number of times made the following announcement: “Please, those of you in the front, move in so that the people standing can have a seat. Otherwise the fire marshal will come in and kick them out. So just move in closer. I know this lecture hall is big enough.”: 2

Always remember: if you must sleep, don’t snore. You might wake up your neighbor.

Part 2: The Foreign Language Class

Unlike with the lecture, show up to this class good and early. Those back row seats fill up quick. Don’t worry about the professor getting offended; he’s outside smoking and will arrive late. He’ll never know you chose to sit in the back.

If possible, sit behind a tall person. That way, you minimize your chances of being called on (i.e., looking stupid). Or, employ the “zone defense”: sit next to a loud-mouthed teacher’s pet. Since foreign language teachers call on one region of the classroom at a time, you could escape.

Whenever called on, dodge the complex grammatical construction being tested. For example, if the teacher asks the foreign equivalent of “Have you been to a restaurant yet with your roommates?” you can avoid the tricky past-tense structure by responding, “I don’t have any roommates.” And remember, in a pinch ,“I don’t know” or “I can’t recall,” in the foreign tongue of course, is better than nothing.

During downtime (i.e., whenever you’re not being called on), devise strategies for sitting next to the hottest babe next time. Example: remember what seat she’s in today, and take that seat tomorrow, forcing her take an adjacent seat. (Bonus: she’s bound to notice you!)

Part 3: The Discussion Section

For once, you don’t have to worry about the professor calling on you. There’s only the T.A., who’s as anxious to reduce student/teacher impacts as you are. Still, choose a seat in the back. That way you can check out the ladies without craning your neck and looking conspicuous. As with the lecture, show up late, so that you can choose your seat according to where the best girls have situated.

The discussion section was created so that students with questions about the lecture could ask them freely in the more open atmosphere of the smaller class. However, under no circumstances should you actually ask any questions. First of all, the ill-prepared T.A. will only confuse you, and second, your students will hate you for it since it could mean a full‑length section. If nobody asks anything, the T.A. may run out of things to say and let everybody go early. This is the best-case scenario for all concerned.

Part 4: The English Class

This class is an hour and forty minutes long. No advice I could give you could possibly prepare you for what you are about to undertake. Only supreme mental discipline can prevent you from going completely mad.

Never, never look at the digits on your wristwatch. The seconds will seem to be moving in slow motion, as though the liquid crystal were starting to freeze. Do not strike the watch! This is only an optical illusion. Also, don’t look at the clock on the wall. It will seem to have stopped, which is demoralizing.

Try not to think about your situation, about how much time you have left, or how bored you are. Try to think positively: “When I get out of here, the first thing I’m going to do is run around. I’ll find a big field to roll around in and celebrate my freedom!” or, “If I get through this, the rest of my life will be gravy. Just gravy, man.”

Keep your fingernails long. That way, when you’re on the verge of falling asleep for the fiftieth time, you can press them into your palm for an extra few moments of (albeit excruciating) consciousness.

Chapter Two: Attending Parties

Part One: The Party Goal

With a few exceptions, parties pretty much mean the same thing to everybody: mass consumption of alcoholic beverages, accompanied by half-assed socializing and ear-splitting music. But every true party animal knows that to be successful at partying is just like being successful at anything: you must first have a goal. Some people announce their party goals to friends, while some keep it to themselves. Either way, a basic party goal is something like this: “I’m gonna get so f—ing wasted, they’ll have to haul my ass outta there on a gurney!”

Now, I should probably come clean about something: I don’t actually party myself. I just ride my bike really, really hard. It’s cheaper this way, and I don’t vomit so often.

So how do I know anything about partying? I interview the experts. An interview is very easy to get, because party animals love to brag. I don’t even need to ask any pointed questions. On Monday morning I’ll be like, “Dude, how was yer weekend?” and my classmate will be all, “Dude, I was so wasted! Big kegger on DP [Del Playa, the fashionable street in Isla Vista, the student ghetto]. Cops showed up and I was so blitzed I couldn’t even find my bike. So I’m  haulin’ ass outta there on foot and halfway home I’m like, damn, my pants are on backwards!”

Part Two: Training

Training is important in partying. If your tolerance is low, you won’t stand a chance in most drinking games. Certain games, like “quarters”, actually require skill, so the more parties you attend, the higher level you can achieve. Before a three‑day weekend, you should party on Tuesday and Wednesday and maybe even Thursday, to make sure your throat and liver are properly toned. Tapering is a good idea: take Friday off and do something relaxing, like studying or sleeping. That way, you’ll be fresh for the big event. This is what I’m told, anyway.

Part Three: The big night

You don’t want to be weighed down with a lot of food on the night of a big party, because that’ll make it harder to get drunk. Also, more food in the body increases the likelihood of vomiting and of course your output. So load up on chips and stuff, maybe Steak-ums if you must. Travel light to the party; the more jackets, wallets, and jewelry you bring, the more likely you are to lose them or get them ripped off.

Part Four: Being a “Party Animal”

There is plenty of room for self‑expression here. There’s no “right” way to party—just be yourself, only drunk. But don’t overdo it: having to get your stomach pumped is a real downer, and inconsiderate to whoever has to take you to the ER.

Part Five: The Day After

There is, I’m told, no greater bonding experience than being hung over with your friends and neighbors. Stand in a really long line for a greasy brunch place and recount your high jinks loudly enough to be overheard (but not too loud—remember, everyone’s head is pounding!). If you can’t remember what happened the night before, just make something up. I mean, who’s gonna fact-check you?

Part Six: Trophies

In addition to the immediate gratification of partying, you can have material reminders of your glorious night. Beer bottles, wine bottles, rum bottles, and beer cans can be displayed on the windowsill as a statement: “I party hard, and I party often. Come over any time.” If your beer intake is enough to render a mere beer bottle unexciting, just keep the bottles with fancy labels, like “Smirnoff” or “80 proof.”

I have to admit that, although I’m perfectly fine being sober at night and non-hung-over in the morning, I do kind of envy those trophies. But it would be silly to display beer bottles I snaked from somebody’s recycling. So I collect souvenirs from my long bike rides instead. Botts Dots, knocked loose by trucks or fast cars, make excellent trophies from the road, as they are unique to the highway atmosphere without being as messy to carry as roadkill. I have so many Botts Dots now, I can afford to discriminate and keep only the best specimens. Criteria include completeness (absence of chips or cracks), finish, and rarity. A mint, Ohio‑made Ray‑O‑Lite with white and red reflectors is a prime example of a rare find, as it requires the cyclist to ride the wrong way up a highway exit (as I did the other day). I think it’s pretty cool I had the nerve to do that—while stone sober, no less!

Chapter Three: Blowing Off School

Part One: Getting Bored

This step is really easy. In fact, I’m sure your professor will be glad to help. I know mine are.

Part Two: Getting Distracted

Even in the drabbest of classroom environments, a reasonably intelligent student can find distractions. Take that wall over there. Isn’t that texture interesting? And there’s always graffiti. I have whiled away countless minutes pondering “MARK E. IS HELLA GOOD TO ME.” But be only a consumer of graffiti. Getting Distracted does not include writing on desks or walls. I mean, everything really profound has already been scrawled. What makes you think you could contribute anything to the canon?

There is no better place to lose track of a lecture than UCSB. Why? I can answer that in one word: babes. I don’t leer or stare or stalk, mind you, but who wouldn’t appreciate the ladies at this school? Even if I honestly try to pay attention in class, I absolutely cannot resist gazing upon my classmates. This doesn’t mean rubbernecking, though—not at UCSB. At this blessed school, no matter where you look yet another fabulous babe is showcasing her beauty, as if solely for your benefit. This is true in the Liberal Arts department, anyway.

Part Three: Falling Behind

How can you blow off school without falling behind? After all, if you keep up with your classes, you’re really not blowing off anything. You’re just managing your time well, which is totally lame.

If you’re somehow managing to keep up anyway, it never hurts to skip class and go play Robotron at the pool hall.

There’s more to falling behind than skipping class, but not much more. The other step is to not study. If you can’t resist cracking the spine on a fresh textbook, just don’t buy it in the first place. You can save several hundred dollars per quarter this way.

Do cram for your exams, though. Being fried from Dead Week is a quintessential part of the college experience and you won’t want to miss it.

Part Four: Sleep

Although you can get plenty of sleep in class, being tired should be no problem. If your hobby doesn’t wear you out, its aftermath will (be it a hangover, or sheer fatigue). That’s why you need to take a nap every afternoon. Now, there is a right way and a wrong way to take a nap. Closing the window shades, disrobing, getting in bed, and crawling under the covers is the wrong way to nap. This is just too deliberate. Better to flop down on the nearest article of furniture, fully clothed, and pass out. If you aren’t tired enough for this technique, you need to exercise vigorously or drink heavily beforehand, depending on your particular bent.

Go to bed late. That doesn’t mean staying up studying, either. Use your imagination. Make phone calls. Watch TV. Listen to the stereo. Read something worthless, like the school paper. If you can’t waste the evening hours alone, friends are a great help. No matter how lazy you think you are, you’re bound to have an even lazier friend. If you find yourself wired at two in the morning with none of your homework done, you have achieved the highest college calling: you are hanging out.

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