Sushi Tuesday!

Today was a good day. Clinically straight-forward appointments, followed by S-U-S-H-I sushi! Sixteen of us took over half of Sushi Para and proceeded to demolish their all-you-can-eat BYOB offering.

The six miles of riding was also pretty nice. It wasn't really enough to get me really worn, but it did work up a nice sweat. The peach Bicardis were pretty sweet, too.

I also apparently have the ability to drive girls wild with my wink. Too bad I don't have the ability to write for shit.

Fuck this post.

The last week or two I've been totally exhausted. Bone tired. I'm having one of my bouts of self-disgust, too, since I've been rather unproductive and too self-indulgent for my own good. High-calorie shit diet, minimal work done, shit piling up, bleh. I can't even think of anything worthwhile to write here.

The only high point the last few days has been totally wearing myself out biking, and tonight I can't even do that thanks to the raging thunderstorm that started on my way home from school.

Tomorrow night I'm having a ton of sushi, at least, so that'll feel good. I think I need sleep and a lack of distraction. I still have three movies left that I borrowed from Mike last night, so eventually I'll be done with this little phase and get back to life.

I hate my TV in a way that I can never express. I am too easily wooed back.

"Thanks for ruining the picture."

At the beginning of August, I went to a conference for orthodontic residents in Ann Arbor, MI. They took a group photo, after making us move back and forth five or ten times. I don't know why the photographer couldn't just move over.

I got sick of it quick:

Don't sit too close to the TV - it'll rot your brain.

I borrowed a bunch of movies from John last weekend, and I've watched them all already. Not that it was a waste of time, but the ease with which I ignored other responsibilities to accomplish this TV watching was scary. It's really a piece of good luck that my VCR conked out on me last spring. The time is much better spent reading or writing or riding.

Being the total aging emo kid that I am, I ended up watching several romantic comedies. The tear-jerkers. It's been a long time since I've watched a romantic movie - or any movie, for that matter - with someone to cuddle with.

I know it's lame to admit to feeling lonely, but sometimes I feel like my whole life consists of dentistry and underground music. I have trouble finding time to really get together with friends (note that I still had time to watch six movies) or even sleep enough, so I don't know how much of this is my fault.

I'm ashamed to be an American

Fighting terrorism through torture and secret detention, coming soon to a neighborhood near you!

UPDATE: The New York Times weighs in. And, oh, yeah, torture doesn't work.

I finally registered to vote at my new address last night

Well maybe you do but maybe you don't
Exercise your privilege in the right to vote.
Fuck "rock the vote" and fuck all the rest,
What we need to do is throw cans of tear gas.
17% 18-25
It's a total fucking war between us and them,
And our collective middle fingers is what we'll extend.
Fuck Gideon Yago and fuck MTV,
Fuck the state-controlled media that decides what we see.
17% 18-25
FUCK THIS WAR!
You think that you can cope,
You didn't fucking vote,
2 double-0 6,
World War III!
Power to the People!

- The Suicide Machines, "17% 18-25"

March of the Evolutionary Loopholes

My undergrad major was environmental science. At Northwestern, this meant I took classes in many departments: biology, chemistry, civil engineering, economics, political science, geology, etc. Not planning on using my undergrad degree for anything approaching a career, I thought it a great major, since I gained informational background in many areas - a true liberal arts education.

What reminded me of this tonight, though, is the concept of charismatic megafauna, a term I've remembered from the environmental politics course I took once upon a time. It's a reference to animals that have popular appeal and so can form the basis of conservation campaigns and fundraising drives.

In other words, How cute!

Those are the words I heard over and over from my girl friends upon the release of March of the Penguins. I never saw it; I didn't have much interest in a movie about penguin reproduction, especially not with the relentless female chorus of So cute! surrounding any mention of the movie.

Last Friday, though, I was at John's place prior to heading out to the Point to try and light a soaking wet wind-bedeviled birthday bonfire. I was looking through his and Rebecca's DVDs and borrowed a bunch, including March of the Penguins. Tonight I had some time free, and it was the shortest movie available (meaning I could finish it) and so I had some ice cream and watched it. It was nice, it was interesting, and I found Morgan Freeman's narration at times enlightening, and at times way too anthopomorphic, but one thing stands out in my mind.

They really aren't that cute.

I'm not even going to try to write something worth reading

I was thinking the other day, after reading a bunch of random blogs, that my writing has gotten less and less story-like and more and more a list of activities and events that had transpired. It had become so passive. And probably boring.

The funny thing is that this change is probably a subtle and insidious result of my (vain) desire to have more readers. I didn't really give a shit when I started, but MySpace had a rather prominent counter associated with its entry page, and I got all ego'd up in it. I'm going to get back to writing for the art of writing, rather than for some perceived audience.

Right now I'm just exhausted, though, because I'm not self-responsible enough to go sleep on time on the weekend, even when I've got to get up early. I'm too tired to go to Mina's show in Chicago tonight, and I'm not even going to try to write something worth reading.

Low-key night so far

I think I missed the Pilsen Circular Mass tonight. I got to the plaza at a few minutes after six and no one was there, and it was getting pretty overcast. No one else was waiting there with their bike, either. I pumped up my tires and sat for a few minutes listening to music. John Stoner showed up about a quarter past six, and told me that there were heavy showers heading toward the city...I decided to just go home. I also decided to stop by school to use the bathroom, which was a fortunate decision since I got in just after it started pouring big heavy drops of rain. By the time I got out, it had pretty much stopped, and I even saw dusk-painted clouds on the western horizon when crossing north over the Ike.

I had some thoughts on my relationship with food which I'll have to relate at some other time. I gotta run out to Hyde Park for John's bonfire if it isn't too wet, and then over to the Westin for the Bottom Line seminar.

Yeah, so, I live a real exciting life. Sunday I've got to nail down a fair amount of work I need done by Monday.

When you don't control your own government, people want to kill you

Another reason to blame America first: more on CIA illegal domestic activities and torture.

Simple

Sadly, the funniest thing in The Onion this week is a Simple Shoes add that says "Feet stink. I wish we sold beer."

I told them to stop fattening me up

I got my bike back yesterday. $157. That also included the two ankle straps I bought. Hopefully I can go without so much damage to it for a while. Must keep tires fully inflated.

Last night I went out with Trish and some of her friends for her birthday. It was fun, but damn, I was getting tired at the end. We had dinner at Leona's, then went to see Roy Hargrove at the Jazz Showcase downtown. I was so pooped at the end of the night that I just crashed when I got home. This means I haven't showered in two days, so I really must do that tonight.

Marcela keeps buying me food to thank me for helping her out with things. Yesterday it was a bagel, today it was Kit Kat balls. Then Sidhi volunteered to get me food tomorrow. I told them to stop fattening me up.

Aside from having a real busy day, nothing too eventful happened. Tomorrow I need to get my old OrthoPli instruments together to see how much refund I can get from Gary Tippy.

Tomorrow I'm going to meet my parents for dinner since my brother will be in town. The movers are bringing their furniture to their new house tomorrow morning. Friday I'm going to do the Pilsen Mass ride and then head down to Hyde Park for John's birthday bonfire before checking into the Westin for the Bottom Line seminar this weekend.

I wonder when I'll get any work done.

A Photographic Experience for the Night

I got home around 10:30 tonight. I guess I'm back up to fourteen-hour days now. You see, I just spent four hours playing with photos and presentation outlines.

Last March, Neal and I gave a few lectures on interdisciplinary orthodontics to some of the restorative faculty. Afterward, one of my old dental school instructors asked if we'd be interested in presenting at the meeting of the Chicago Odontographic Society this fall. We said yes, of course. We were also asked, through our department, if we'd care to give a similar lecture to the second-year dental students. And, again, we did. And it was good.

So next Monday is the day we have to give our presentation to the Odontographic Society. I luckily planned ahead and have recent photos on the two patients I plan on using (as well as their consent). I spent tonight reorganizing the photos and outlining my part of the presentation. This took longer than I expected, but in the process I've refamiliarized myself with the cases, and picked up things I hadn't seen before, most of them good.

I also spent some time helping out Marcela and Siddhi, and listening to music. Such is life.

For fuck's sake, yes! I just want my pedals to work!

On Friday, I took my bike into Upgrade for a repair of the pedal/crankshaft. They said it should be ready the next day.

On Saturday, the guy told me that he'd accidentally stripped out the new crankshaft with my old pedal and would have to find a new one to replace it and get it mounted and it wouldn't be ready until Sunday.

Sunday I waited for the shop to call and tell me it was fixed. They didn't.

Today I called them, they said it was ready. I left school, took two trains at rush hour to get there, and the original guy told me he couldn't find another crank, and would it be okay if he did some repairy thing that I can't remember and use my original crank? For fuck's sake, yes! I just want my pedals to work! Shit, couldn't he have done that over the phone? Anyway, that has to set overnight, so it'll be ready in the morning at 8am when they open. So I walked back out and across the street and down to the subway and waited for the train. I took the Blue Line back to Medical Center and walked the three blocks back to school, getting back over an hour after I'd left.

Tomorrow I have a 7am lecture, so I won't be able to pick up my bike until the end of the day.

Twizzlers Make Mouths Happy

Last night I went to the grocery store in a fit of self-pity and despair and bought myself two cartons of ice cream, a bunch of Baby Ruth bars, and a "family pack" of Twizzlers.

Before this story continues, there's something about Twizzlers and me you should know: I cannot resist them. In fact, I have one hanging out of my mouth as I type this.

When I was a kid, I'd always get the huge family pack when I saw a movie...and it would be gone by fifteen minutes in.

In the summer of 1988 I stayed with my aunt and uncle and cousin in their vacation condo in Sarasota. There was a basket out with a large pack of Twizzlers in it. I knew I wasn't supposed to eat them all, but every time I passed by, I pulled at least 2-3 Twizzlers out of there, until they were all gone, and replaced by....more Twizzlers! Talk about positive reinforcement.

In the summer of 1990, I was at Boy Scout camp in northern Wisconsin. Being the ravening bunch of juvenile delinquents were fancied ourselves to be, we made a habit of stealing soda from the camp store warehouse late at night. One night this kid Brandon managed to pick the lock into the store itself and we went to town, each of us taking about two dollars worth of candy - except for that dumbfuck Brandon, who decided it would be a good idea to take cash from the register. We of course got caught later that night. Or some kid ratted us out. But they found us back at our campsite. We did manage to dump a fair amount of the goods into the woods, which is where the Twizzler connection is - over the next few days while out in the woods, I'd come across a package of Nibs and eat them.

I'm sure you can imagine what my addiction and depression allowed me to do last night.

No, not that! That's disgusting! And would it even technically be possible?

I ate enough that my insides rebelled at me. Uncomfortably. As soon as I got up this morning.
And now I'm eating more.

What I don't understand is why Hershey thought that Twizzlers needed a reclosable top "for freshness." I mean, they're the fakest shit ever! Are they gonna spoil?

The best part is this, on the back:

Did you know...
Strawberry Twists are a low fat candy! That's right, the same great tasting Twizzlers you have known and loved are low in fat, as always. Nothing has changed.
Twizzlers fun you can eat!

Like it's healthy shit! Regardless, there are apparently 18 servings in this bag, and I'm almost done with them. This doesn't make me happy, just full of flavored starch.

"All quitters are romantic."

I let the day be wasted. The bike shop still has my bike. After doing some stuff around the house - mostly reading and listening to music - and taking a nice long nap, I was feeling pretty unhappy with myself, so for the first time in years I went out and bought ice cream and candy and watched With Honors, which has plenty of tear-jerk moments.

No schoolwork done today. Tomorrow night I plan to pick up my bike and then head back and pull a late night at school and hopefully finish the textbook I have to read. Right now I want to sip my beer and listen to music and read something. I have no idea what. I've picked up where I left off in Cinderella's Big Score, but I can only read so much of that consecutively. I'm down to only two books in process right now; the other is The Gulag Archipelago, which I started a year ago. That book is one of the very few Marta-associated items I still have.

I'm gonna go do something and pretend I don't feel sorry for myself the rest of the night.

I'm so proud to be an American. Not.

This is part of the American plan for "winning hearts and minds." I feel safer already. I mean, if an organization bombed my country, invaded, and then arbitrarily started imprisoning people I knew, I might get a little upset. Our government is not exporting democracy, it's exporting fascism.

And it's a bit rediculous that it took four and a half years for a determination that Geneva Convention provisions apply. And the US Military is still targeting journalists.

And so another Saturday passes without any real accomplishment

My bike is still in the shop. New pedals needed, new crankshaft (the shop inadvertently stripped out the new one they'd already mounted) and new bottom bracket as well. This is going to run me close to $200, I think. So I better ride the shit out of my bike again to extract as much value as I can, right?

Last night I went to Samantha's birthday party. That was way more than I expected. I assumed it would just be people getting together and having some drinks at a club or restaurant. But an outdoor lounge party on the river with open vodka bar I was not expecting. Nor the boat trip out to Lake Michigan and then down to the Museum Campus harbor. Considering how much I'd had to drink before I got on the boat, it maybe was a good thing; if I'd gone straight home from the party, I'd have probably been too nauseous to lay down.

As it was, Danny and I ended up being the only two from the boat walking over to the el. In the six years I've known him, we've never gotten to be real good friends, but I think we both realized it would be good to be better friends. We walked and talked and rode the el home, and it was a good close-out to the night. I, of course, got home near 3am after all this and stumbled around for ten minutes before I went to bed and slept for eight and a half hours.

Today I've just been in a weird mood. I updated the firmware on my MP3 player, so of course the interface software I bought doesn't connect now...although the company does upgrade it frequently, and the firmware update was just released yesterday. I spent a while sitting in front of the ol' laptop reading email or news or whatnot. Being bikeless, I didn't feel like driving, CTA-ing, or walking to school to do any work, so maybe tomorrow I'll get something done. But really, I didn't feel like doing that even if I had my bike. I did no writing today despite there being plenty I want to get down. Finding the motivation to put this in was tough. It was weird that the only thing that really made me feel better was eating. So I ate some bread and cheese and read a lot. Then I fell asleep and took a good nap. And now I've found the will to write something before I pack up and head out to WNUR. And so another Saturday passes without any real accomplishment. Let's see if I can kick my Sunday's ass, at least.

Motivation by plagiarism

I've had a weird day and can't seem to find the right mood to write in, so I'm just going to start with a bit of quotation and hope my own words will be stimulated thusly.

On that note, here's Mark Anderson again, from All the Power:

The stench is what I remember most vividly now - burning rubber mixed with wood, paper, and human flesh.

Only moments before, all was different. I had heaved a long, exhausted sigh, buckling up my seat belt while sitting on the runway of D.C.'s National Airport. A long night of last-minute preparations and almost no sleep was now behind me. At last I could relax into a final breather before the trek that lay ahead.

Tomorrow - September 12, 2001 - I would begin the second of three Dance of Days book tours at an arts center in Minneapolis, Minnesota. That meant 8000 miles in three weeks; 5000 of those by car, all by myself.

Still, I was excited. Slipping on some earphones, my thoughts drifted to dear friends I would soon see. I closed my eyes, reclined, and smiled. It would be so nice to get away from my intense work in D.C., reconnect with friends, have time to think, all while seeing the wide expanses of North America again.

My reverie was rudely interrupted by an airport representative who brusquely announced, "Gather up all you personal belongings. We are asking that you leave the plane immediately, as the airport will be closing at this time."

An audible groan passed through the plane. A couple hundred disgruntled air travelers rummaged around their seats, spilling out onto the tarmac to join an impromptu caravan headed to the airport's front doors.

I was probably grumbling more than most. Just another bomb threat, I thought. We'll move outside, stand around for a few minutes, then come back in, go through the whole boarding rigamarole again. The delay would doom me to miss my connection in Pittsburgh. I was exhausted, bone-tired.

Then I walked out of the front doors, into the smoky chaos. In that microsecond, everything else melted away. The smell was terrible, with clouds rising from a point just beyond our view, about a mile away where the Pentagon stood.

For a minute or so, I stopped thinking about my plans. Having grown up on a farm where we often burned discarded items, I knew my scents. That's not just rubber or wood, I thought grimly, that smell is bodies.

For a time, the world stopped. Hundreds milled about on the grassy slopes and asphalt streets outside the airport. People with cell phones began to report that planes had hit the World Trade Center and that it was on fire. A huge explosion had rocked the Pentagon, too, although no one knew just what had happened. One thing was soon clear: there wouldn't be any more planes flying today.

Making my way slowly back into D.C. by public transit, I saw the Pentagon on fire in the distance. I shuddered, thinking both of the many protests I had attended there and of Denise Baken, a friend from my Catholic parish, one of thousands employed at the building.

We rode in shocked silence. Finally, on African-American woman spoke up: "Well, at least maybe we will finally come together as a country now; get over this black-versus-white garbage." A white man in business suit and tie across the aisle quickly agreed. A they chattered on, seeming to find hope out of tragedy, I was left feeling uneasy. Unite around what, exactly? I thought.

I had little time to process these complex emotions. A couple hours (and many quick decisions) later, I was on my way to Minnesota in the only transport I could find: a blue Camaro borrowed from a generous friend, racing to make the 1300-mile journey in time for my first event.

At every gas station, I found the same scene: a dozen or so people huddled around a TV set, watching the day's horror unfold in stunned silence. Back in the car, I took the (for me) radical step of turning on the radio, hoping for some news. When the talk grew too bloodthirsty and jingoistic, I turned it off.

Another response, increasingly visible as I went, was impossible to ignore. As if by silent command, the stars and stripes were going up everywhere, on highway overpasses, on billboards, even on cars. The phenomenon left me a bit nervous, coming from a left-wing tradition that associates such display with right-wing views, with blinkered patriotism.

Somehow, though, this was deeper than simple politics. In the face of immense national trauma, people were reaching out for comfort, for connection, for community. Was it also the sign of a country set against the larger world, sliding toward blind revenge? I couldn't tell. Being a man on a mission, I didn't tarry with my thoughts. I hurtled on, heading west across America, past the fading day, through the darkness, searching for hope in a sea of flags.

In a way, that is where I have been ever since, where all of us on the left have been. While the wheel is still in motion, the short-term result of the terrorist attacks on September 11 was to profoundly solidify the position of a dubiously elected president, George W. Bush.

"Dubya" has cleverly used the tragedy to advance his far-right political agenda. Military build-up, stiff restrictions on civil liberties, and greatly expanded police powers have combined with two separate wars to bring the U.S. to the brink of the nearest thing to fascism since the darkest days of Richard Nixon.

Most frightening of all, this "war on terror" seems intended to be a war without end, not so different from the shadowy clashes that serve to justify the totalitarian state described in George Orwell's 1984. Words like "empire" now roll off the lips, not of radicals, but of Bush administration-linked strategists. In this new day, they barely seek to disguise the imperial flavor of U.S. policy, but rather try to redefine it as a positive good. This is no small transformation, given that much of American tradition recoils from empire, born, as this nation was, out of an anti-imperial revolution.

The mere fact that some are becoming so bold as to step from behind the smoke and mirrors - albeit still cloaked in talk of spreading "democracy" - reveals the depth of our present danger. In this scary moment, the North American left faces its starkest challenge: Will we find a way to reach masses of North Americans, based out of what is best and true in our own tradition? Or will we surrender to an understandable (but self-defeating) anti-Americanism, thereby playing into the hands of the Bush administration?

These point toward a deeper question: Can the United States of America somehow be re-enlisted to the cause of freedom?

Johnny Knoxville is a poser

Last night I went to see a special screening of Jackass Number Two. It was fucking hilarious! Seriously, I was laughing so hard the tears were rolling down from minute one. And one sketch almost made me puke in the theater. A fucking awesome movie. Yes, it's stupid infantile shit, and yes, I'm aware this is exactly the shit that Idiocracy was parodying. It's literally a 90-minute episode of "Ow, My Balls!" Well, maybe it's better since it's not as contrived, and much more spontaneous to boot. Plus, it makes me nostalgic for some of the stupid shit we used to do in high school or Boy Scouts. And I can appreciate a good practical joke, especially when it's played on someone else who signed up for the shit they're getting.

After the movie, Johnny Knoxville and Jeff Tremaine showed up to answer some questions...of course, 90% of the questions were about getting autographs or photos. Lame. Two kids bowed down to them. La-ame. There was one question about Knoxville's scars, and the answer was that he doesn't scar much, he just bruises, and he showed his leg which was solid black and blue. Plus, he nailed Tremaine in the nuts twice, and spent the whole Q&A with his hand protecting his crotch. Tremaine was cool, but Knoxville kept talking about how much drinking he needed to do and shit. It just came off as fake. The two studio suits standing against the wall didn't make it seem any more genuine. Don't get me wrong, I think he's a great stuntman, and well-suited for the type of acting he does, which I enjoy. And I respect the hell out of the shit he goes through to entertain. But his persona seemed forced and rock-starrish, and made me annoyed to have to sit through it.

Laura calls my dental friends "teeth people."

Tonight was the annual CDS New Dentist night. I saw my friend Sam, who I last saw at this thing a year ago. I keep meaning to get in touch and hang out with him and his wife Kelli (who is actually a closer friend to me than he is), but every time I'm up in their neighborhood it's usually too late to disturb a family with young children and stop by. I don't think I've been to their house since they had Marta and me over for my birthday dinner three years ago. (Marta got pissed at me and started kicking me under the table since she wanted to leave. Yeah, maybe I should've heeded that warning sign.) No one else from my dental class but me showed up tonight.

On my way home this afternoon, I noticed my right bike pedal was a llittle off as my foot was making circles with every revolution...When I got home I took a close look at it, and saw that it was stripping out of the crank shaft. I tried screwing it back in, but no, it was stripped a little. I got about 3.5 miles out of my 4-mile round-trip to downtown before the pedal fell off the bike. The bolt on the pedal looks fine, just the bolthole in the crankshaft is stripped smooth. So it looks like I'm gonna have to replace that. I think I busted it going over a pothole or something. I don't know. It didn't get fucked until north of Lake St, and Lake St. is a fucking mess for bicycles. So far since I got this bike two years ago, I've worn out 4 inner tubes, 2 tires, one bike helmet, one set of pedals, and a pair of brake pads. And I broke part of the handlebars last year when it fell off my porch. And now I've busted a crankshaft. Phew.

It looks like I've got a pretty busy Saturday shaping up: fix bike, get tix, meet Laura for a drink. And this weekend I'd like to get some real work done as well, which will be a nice (and welcome) change from the last few. By work I mean both zine stuff and school work.

Regarding the zine: I think I need to practice some layouts to get an idea of how much actual space will be available for text/art/whatever. Then I know how much I need to get written (by myself or others) before actually compiling/printing the damn thing.

Bill Maher talked about how stupid Americans can be in The Onion AV Club. And whose word do you trust? The IAEA or the people who told you Sadaam Hussein had WMD?

More from Mark Anderson:

Nowhere can the subjective and the objective get more confused than whilst cruising on what UK anarcho-popsters Chumbawamba have wittily described as "the Good Ship Lifestyle." Little different than child-star Shirley Temple's whimsical "Good Ship Lollipop," this ride promises us that revolution means you don't have to get your hands dirty: Just go shopping - or not, as the case may be - and it all magically works out! Ahh, if only this were so.
....
This is why the gradual devolution of a potentially revolutionary idea like anarchism into a form of subcultural "lifestylism" is so disheartening. In a way, it is here that the capitalist system finds its photo-negative, a dark mirroring of its own self-obsession. Somehow the Corporate Cool Machine has managed to trick thousands of would-be revolutionaries into believing that wearing lots of black clothing, decorating themselves with patches, piercings, and tattoos, while talking "militant" somehow threatens the system. How ludicrous!