To Radiate Positivity: Homecoming (Part 2)

Feel free to check out Part 1 if you haven’t already!

In Bonnaroo culture, it’s normal to high-five strangers, hug your neighbors, and treat everyone like you know them. Bonnaroovians want the festival to be an indulgent, music-fueled, dream vacation. So it is.

For the rest of America, it’s normal keep to ourselves and mind our own business. We find comfort in our personal bubbles.

Back home again in Indiana...

I live in Bloomington, Indiana, one of the most culturally diverse and progressive towns in the state. There are numerous art festivals and events to give citizens a strong sense of community. There are even homeless folks who come from all over the country because of the town’s hospitable reputation. This town is famous for its friendliness and positive vibes.

But it’s no Bonnaroo. Although it’s not a fair comparison, we can learn from the communities’ differences.

When I walk around town and the IU campus, there aren’t high fives—there is hardly a “hi.” If you’re a stranger, you're barely spared a passing glance. When I make eye contact with someone on the sidewalk, they usually look away or through me.

On my way to work last week, I saw large sections of the sidewalks fenced off for a festival. I tried telling a lady she was walking towards a dead end, but she ignored me. The worst case scenario is a slight inconvenience, so I let her go. I heard her yell, “Jesus!” when she reached the end. I don’t think she was saying a prayer.

That same day, I ordered some lunch at my favorite food truck, Juancho’s Munchies. I was waiting for my food when I noticed the next guy ordered a meal I like. I tried saying, “Good choice, that’s my go-to,” but the man gave me a look and ignored me. Shame on me for intruding on his private affairs.

Until I went to Bonnaroo, I never realized how much we ignore each other every day.

Bloomington is the most friendly town I’ve ever lived in by far. But I can’t help but wonder if our culture has a low standard for a town’s friendliness in the first place. On The Farm, I overhead someone say, “Bonnaroo is nothing short of life changing.” I thought he was being dramatic and deep to a Bonnarookie, but now I understand. This music festival opened my eyes to a new standard of friendliness.

I’m an introverted person. I enjoy time to myself and I’m fine if I don’t say more than five words some days. I understand the desire to be alone. But we’re a social species. We have a biological instinct to be a part of a community. We may enjoy alone time, but we can’t handle staying alone.

Bonnaroo is a symbol of humanity’s social excellence. It’s a vacation from the egocentric culture we’ve all come to accept. Now that I’ve been through the looking glass, I see that our personal bubbles aren’t protecting us; they’re confining us.

If the Bonnaroo experience is shaped by its community, why can’t our communities do the same?

Maybe I’ve got the Bonnablues. Or maybe some of Bonnaroo’s craziness stuck with me. But I’ll try my hardest to Radiate Positivity until I figure it out.

Goodnight, sweet prince.

To Radiate Positivity: Bonnarookie (Part 1)

Bleachers tore it up. Literally—Jack smashed his guitar.

BONNAROO!

That’s how people greet each other at Bonnaroo. Along with high-fives, hugs, and the occasional offering of candy. That’s not a euphemism; a couple guys walked up to me and gave me a fun-sized bag of Skittles.

This was the vibe of the festival. The words “Radiate Positivity” are posted all over The Farm, and Bonnaroovians act accordingly. Nobody’s a stranger there; they’re all friends that haven’t met yet. It’s an environment I had never experienced before.

Kendrick Lamar put on one of the best shows of the festival. His set was sick—almost as sick as what I witnessed in the crowd. A guy was frantically trying to exit through a sea of entranced, fully-hyped people. We were stepping aside to let the guy through, and he vomited all over a girl in front of me.

Time stood still for a moment.

The crowd formed a meter-wide radius around the scene. The girl was visibly mortified and didn’t know what to do but scream, “IT’S ALL OVER ME!” The crowd parted open a path to let her leave. It took us approximately three seconds to get back into the show. As Kendrick Lamar says, “Bitch, don’t kill my vibe.” We complied.

That incident is the embodiment of Bonnaroo culture. If something unfortunate happens, we deal with it and we keep the party alive. Through the 90+ degree weather, we still crowded together, jumped up and down, and screamed our lungs out.

Beaker made a guest appearance.

We didn’t bother those who passed out on the grass. We didn’t bother people’s campsites. There’s bound to be some bad apples with 60,000+ people in one place, but the honest folks far outnumber the jerks. The Lost & Found section of the Bonnaroo website lists hundreds upon hundreds of phones, wallets, bags, and keys lost on The Farm.

I had never seen so much trust among strangers in my life.

One night, I was at a “charging tent” where I sat with a handful of folks, our phones plugged to the table. A guy stumbled to the table and plugged in his phone. He was under the influence of something strange. He asked us if we could watch his $500 luxury item called an iPhone while he took care of something. One joker said, “Sure, but how do you know that one of us won’t steal it?”

The thought blew his mind. The joker convinced the guy he wasn’t serious and he would watch the phone. Sure enough, nobody walked off with it. The guy came back and was ecstatic to see his phone. He was happy. We were happy. We didn’t know each other, but we were friends.

After a weekend of some fantastic shows, it was time to go home. My buddy Kelly and I were exhausted and partied out. I looked forward to a hot shower and sleeping in my bed. I was ready to go home, but at the same time, I wasn’t ready at all.

I didn’t realize much I would miss everyone.

Feel free to read on to Part 2!

Less is More

Source: Staffan Vilcans

I come from a family of packrats.

You won’t find them on an episode of Hoarders. You won’t find mummified cats buried under mountains of garbage. But you will find the clutter unbearable to be around.

Growing up, I didn’t notice the clutter. I had always been able see past all the boxes and totes around the house. It was like having an extremely lame version of x-ray vision. I was far too acclimated to this lifestyle, and I never thought twice about it.

My family had moved from a two-story house to a one-story house 15 years ago. You would think this meant we had to minimize our belongings, but we accumulating things instead. Compound that habit with our tendency to hold onto things, and we have a problem.

My dad sees value in everything. He would repurpose anything he could—especially boxes and containers. He does not believe in throwing away food and he always made sure to pour our milk to the very last drop. Thanks in part to his habit to never waste, I’ve never gone hungry and I learned how to stretch a dollar down to the last penny.

My mom is very sentimental about her belongings. Family is the most important thing in her life, and her habits reflect that value. She loves to keep things that remind her of her baby boys, including baby clothes and toys. Unless I have a baby anytime soon, these items will remain in boxes indefinitely. I just have to convince her that I’m way cooler than a baby version of me.

I appreciate everything my parents have done for me. I’ve always had food on my plate and a roof over my head, and I wouldn’t be who I am today without them. But their “save everything” lifestyle has led to a cluttered house that seems to be getting more full every time I visit.

Since I moved out of my parents’ house, I chose to live a more minimal lifestyle. I knew I had the same packrat tendencies as my parents, and I did not want it to take over my life.

I tidy up when I notice clutter. I’m quick to get rid of things before I think they could “come in handy.” At least twice a year, I purge my belongings to be sure I only have things that I need and use often.

I even began noticing psychological benefits from my lifestyle adjustment. Whenever I tidy up or reduce my belongings, I get an endorphin rush. I can feel the weight come off my shoulders with every item I throw away. As silly as it sounds, I’m defeating my personal demons every time I tidy up.

None of these changes came about on my own. I coped with my packrat tendencies with the support of my significant other and through research. I found online resources about hoarding and forums dedicated to those affected by hoarding. It’s encouraging to read about how others have overcome similar problems.

I recently visited my parents to help reduce the clutter. I always felt like I had unfinished business in that home, and this was the only way to deal with it.

As I sorted through boxes, I came across an old trapper keeper I used in 8th grade. This very item is an artifact of my own hoarding tendencies. I was face-to-face with one of my demons. Why did I keep this thing? I took a look inside and the memories came flooding back. I vividly recalled bits and pieces of my 8th grade year. I was having a nostalgia attack.

But the memories weren’t special; they were just mundane events that happened ten years ago. Neither the memories nor the trapper were worth keeping.

So I threw it away.

I can see why my parents keep things, but I think they should be more picky about things and memories that are worth keeping. It’s like an unedited video; all the great moments are captured, but it gets lost in rest of the footage. And nobody wants to watch that video.

Their house is slightly less cluttered today, and I’m not sure if it will ever be truly tidy. But at least this packrat has turned into a modest mouse.

What, was that too cheesy? Sorry not sorry.

Time Keeps on Slippin’

It has been a month since I changed jobs. I feel comfortable in my new environment, but I also feel like I just started working there a week ago. My company hired two new people since I started, so I’m not the new guy anymore. Hold on, I need to double check the calendar...

It has actually been nearly three months since I started.

Crap. What happened?

The last thing I remember is my departure from my former job. It felt just like breaking up with a girlfriend: we got along well, we spent a lot of time together, and “it's not you, it's me.” I still keep in touch with a few of my old coworkers, so we’re just friends now.

As for my current job, things are going smoothly. I do online marketing for Solution Tree, a publisher that specializes in professional development for K–12 educators. I’m learning so much about different softwares and processes, it’s no wonder I lost track of time. In fact, it feels like time is passing quickly these days.

I had a moment in the last year where I had to actually think about my age. Like Blink 182, I had to ask: what's my age again?¹

Since college, I felt the days get shorter, the seasons shift quicker, the years blend together. The other day I shared a cake with my roommates, feelin’ 22.² Today I realized I celebrated another birthday since then. In a couple months I’ll be 24—nearly a quarter century old.

After reflecting on my mortality, I conducted some research³ about time perception and I found answers that don’t point towards early-early-onset Alzheimer’s disease.

Age/Year Relationship

Some theories are based on the assumption that our brains perceive time in relation to our lifetimes. In other words, every year you experience makes up a smaller fraction of your entire life. For example, a year makes up your entire life on your first birthday. When you turn 2, a year makes up ¹⁄₂ of your life. At age 3, a year is just ¹⁄₃ of your life, and so on. The length of a year is constant, but each year makes up a smaller and smaller chunk of your entire lifetime.

Source: The Local Yarn

Logarithmic Time Perception is another example that is summed up with this equation: change=log(age). It takes 10 years for change to go from 0 to 1, but it will take 90 more years for change to reach 2. The idea is that we perceive so much change in our early years that we perceive time to move slowly. The inverse is true in our later years.

Source: Google Graph Calculator

Aging Brain

If you’re into theories that are less math-y, psychologists have studied how aging affects the brain’s ability to perceive time. In these studies, researchers asked participants of various ages to estimate when 3 minutes had passed. The subjects ages 19 to 24 estimated an average of 3 minutes and 3 seconds—an excellent estimation of time. However, the subjects between 60 and 80 estimated 3 minutes and 40 seconds.

The above results are evidence of the aging brain’s slower processing speeds. This is due to shifts in our brains’ chemical makeup as we age. Because it takes longer to process information, an aging brain may perceive the world to be more fast-paced than it used to be.

Of course, the world didn’t speed up. The brain slowed down.

---

There are many other theories of time perception out there, and they all seem to share a theme: we’re on the fast track to our inevitable demise.

Don’t despair! These theories offer ways to counter the perception of sped-up time.

The most common answer to “slowing down time” is to break routine. When we create new experiences, our brains pay attention to them differently than a repetitive experience. It’s why we stop noticing our daily commute. It’s also why we recall things in relation to memorable events like weddings, vacations, or world events.

Of course, having a novel experience is easier said than done. We’re all tied down with our jobs, budgets, classes, and other responsibilities. But there are little novel experiences that we can take advantage of every day:

• Do volunteer work
• Get to know coworkers
• Try a new sport or hobby
• Join a club

The list goes on and on. Yes, new experiences are a time investment, but so is everything else in life. You have the right to spend your time however you please—like reading this blog post.

As for myself, I’ll try to focus on breaking my own routines, including my habitual neglect of this blog.⁴

Thanks for wasting some of your limited time on this Earth with me.

1. This reference is 16 years old. Ouch.^↩
2. This reference is only 3 years old. I’ll take it.^↩
3. Frantic Googling^↩
4. Sigh. I'm working on it.^↩

Tell a Fairy Tale Day

For my final day at work,¹ my coworkers surprised me with a story they collectively wrote in observance of Tell a Fairy Tale Day.

Each section was written by a different person with the intent to liven up the workplace on this day full of bittersweet goodbyes.

Enjoy!

---

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Ace who not only was a pioneer in his field, but also was rumored to have Superman-like powers.

One morning Ace came into work as usual to find an interesting object at his desk. An object so enchanting, so magical, that only Ace could control its power.

As Ace drew nearer the object began to hum and vibrate and shoot out pulses of neon green light.

Fearing it could be kryptonite, he immediately picked it up, ran outside, and hurled it into the sky, where a red-tailed hawk swooped down and grabbed it with his talons.

The hawk, greedy for the mouth-watering catch, looked down and before he knew it, a flock of Canadian geese knocked him from the sky. He tumbled and lost his prized catch.

Needless to say, there on the ground was a big grizzly bear named Ol’ Joe. Now, Ol’ Joe was able to find the neon green light object pulsing rapidly in the dirt. Having also found the red-tailed hawk lying there and not responding to his call, Ol’ Joe snatched up the object and began to run—running like nobody’s business.

Ol’ Joe ran till he came to a raging river. He set down the stone to figure out how to cross. Suddenly the red-tailed hawk, now recovered, swooped down and took the stone and looked for Ace. The hawk knew it was meant for Ace.

The stone was meant to harm him! The hawk had a difficult decision to make. Not wanting to make the decision alone, the hawk flew to the city, seeking guidance from his cousin, the street pigeon.

On his way to the city, the hawk flew over Ace. Ace, having a very high Midi-chlorian count, felt the presence of the stone above him. Ace brought forth his magic wand, pointed it at the hawk and with a swish and a flick movement and speaking the “vera verto” spell, he turned the hawk into an umbrella, the object of mystery balanced in the crook of the handle. Ace was giddy with anticipation as he anxiously awaited.

Alas, a strong wind caught the umbrella and carried it many miles to the west. It finally came to rest in the outskirts of the desolate village of Ville de Russia. There lurked the evil wizard, Mavid Dakey and his simple-minded henchman, Kam Slennert.

Kam, who was known for his braying laughter, rushed over to grab the green stone when he heard over the intercom, “Alright you lazy bastards, time to stop screwing around with this story bullshit and make our glorious president Mark Fernandes ‘with an s’ look like we are selling RIBs!”

Recognizing the voice over the intercom as that of Dutton James Hewetson IV, Ace donned his Judo gi, applied the shine-waza technique to that tyrant, and rescued his coworkers from the clutches of despair.

---

1 I got a new job in Bloomington. More on this in a future post!^↩

Web Guy

You’re the web guy

I hear that a lot at work. I am the company’s web developer after all.

My title doesn’t completely describe my role though. In addition to coding websites, I also write copy and work on graphic design, both of which come together in marketing and web development.

When I began my job, I was asked what I wanted my official title to be: web designer or web developer. To the company, my title choice would not affect my responsibilities; I would be doing the same work regardless of my title.

I chose “web developer” because I knew I would be responsible for every aspect of the company’s websites. Also, “developer” implies that I’ll be tinkering with code. More specifically, I consider myself to be a front-end developer.

Because web development takes place on a computer, I’m also known as a “computer guy” around the office. I become the backup IT guy when the IT guy is out. This often involves restarting a computer, downloading RAM, or installing Google Ultron.

I’ve got things under control.

Know your role, Jabroni

Sometimes actors are known for a specific role and become typecast in that role. Sometimes comedians are pigeonholed into a schtick.¹ Sometimes the company web developer experiences the same prejudice.

As the web guy, I am sometimes overlooked for projects that don’t relate to, well, the web.

For example, our sales manager once asked me to look up the cost to outsource white papers about our product applications. He asked me because, as the web guy, my Google-fu is impressive.² However, as the English degree guy, the idea of outsourcing writing jobs in my own place of employment irked me.

Instead, I downloaded some of my own writing samples and presented them in his office. I looked him in the eye and told him that I was willing to write the document.

After a bit of convincing, he assigned me the task. He knew about my English major background, but he didn’t ask me because he wasn’t sure what kind of writing I could do. He’s also used to me being the web guy.

I don't want to give the impression that I'm complaining about my job. On the contrary, I really enjoy my job and I’m glad to have the opportunity to use my entire skill set to benefit the company.

My complaint is on the sociological implications of job titles in the workplace—a problem that isn't exclusive to my company, but companies all across the country. But that's a research project for another time.

This blog post is about a web guy that wants to write more than code. So let's get back to that.

What would you say you do here?

Look, I already told you: I deal with the written word so my coworkers don’t have to! I have writing skills; I am good at dealing with writing! Can’t you understand that? What is wrong with you people?!

Sorry, I’ve worked in an office space for too long.

There’s no single label or title for my skill set. I develop websites and I write copy.

I generally don’t like labels. I think labels lead to prejudice, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.³ But I wouldn’t be writing this in the first place if it wasn’t for my label.

In a dream world, my perfect title would be “digital rhetorician.” I use rhetoric to present information though digital media, specifically though writing, graphic design, and web design. But “digital rhetorician” is meaningless to most people, which defeats the purpose of a title in the first place.

Until I figure out a better title, I’ll stick with “web guy.” My web powers may not help me fight crime, but they pay the bills.

Oh, and I can write stuff too.

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1 You should check out the deaf guy on YouTube.^↩

2 Googling is half my job.^↩

3 Not to be confused with bigotry, which is always a bad thing.^↩

Done and [Hopefully] Tasteful

It’s better done than perfect.

This is a concept I struggle with constantly.

I don’t consider myself a perfectionist. The word “perfectionist” carries a negative tone. I picture a stressed out student working hard to get As for the semester. The only moment of respite comes after grades are posted before Christmas break. “That’s great! Now I’ve got to think about my grades for next semester.”

Oh, wait. I was that student.

But I didn’t get perfect grades in all my classes. There was always a class that I got an A- in or, God forbid, a B. It’s not a 4.0, but I am proud of my GPA.

I remember many late nights of studying, working on projects, and writing papers—nothing out of the ordinary. But I also remember when I spent extra time putting the “finishing touches” on a project or paper.

My habits paid off for the projects I spent extra time on. But it also led to neglected work for other classes and a lack of sleep.

And I’m still in this cycle.

I want to be a better writer. I want to be a better web developer. But I keep bogging myself down with never-ending tweaks to my projects.

Even now, I find myself trying to edit while I write. Yes, editing is important, but I lose my flow of thought and my pace slows down significantly. If I’m not producing in a timely manner, I fall into a rut.

I recently watched an inspiring video in which Ira Glass, a public radio icon, describes the gap between our personal taste and the quality of our own work.



My favorite line from the video is: “The most important thing you can do is do a lot of work.”

It’s not complicated. Everybody knows that practice makes perfect. But we hear “practice makes perfect” so much in our culture that it carries very little meaning. Mr. Glass is simply reminding us what that phrase is supposed to mean.

So I wrote this blog post.

Because I need to get things done. Because I’m tired of personal roadblocks. Because I want to build better habits.

I’m not going to settle for “good enough.” Instead, my goal is to settle for tasteful enough. My taste will let me know that my work is not perfect. That’s okay—it means I recognize the ways I want to improve. It’s my responsibility to take this knowledge and apply it to my future projects.

After all, a piece of work is better done and tasteful than incomplete and imperfect.

Say My Name

The other day, I was at Panera to get my favorite soup and sandwich combo.¹

It was the usual process: the cashier asked for my order, I gave her my order, and I gave her money. At places like Panera, however, the cashier asks for a name.

I hesitated. She wants to know my name?

I regained my bearing and said, “Howard.”

She smiled, thanked me, and handed me the receipt. I noticed a twinkle of suspicion in her eye. What kind of person has to think of their own name?

Apparently the kind of person named Ace.

I used to give restaurants and coffee shops my first name. Because my name is unique, I usually have to repeat myself or spell it out. Then I brace myself for the reaction.

Typically, there are three kinds of reactions when I introduce myself. I get interrogated, complimented, and/or denied.

Some reactions are easier to reply to than others—it all depends on whether someone wants to make my life difficult.

Interrogation

“Is Ace your real name?”
“Is Ace a nickname?”
“Like Ace Frehley?”
“Like Ace Ventura?”
“Like Ace Young?” ²
“How did you end up with that name?”

Most of these questions lead to single-word answers: Yes. No. Yes. Yes. Yes.

However, the final question requires a history lesson about my family.

Once upon a time, I had a great uncle named Asa whose nickname was “Ace.” My dad thought the nickname was neat, and I happened to receive that name. I lived happily until a cashier interrogated me.

Sometimes I don’t want to give a history lesson.

Sometimes I just want some food.

Compliments

The following is not a complaint against compliments. As a culture that is obsessed with bad news and obsessed with feeling outraged towards bad news, it’s nice when we acknowledge something positive.

With that said, I don’t feel like I deserve compliments for my name.

I appreciate the thought and I always say “thank you.” But what else am I supposed to say?

I didn’t do anything to earn my name—it was given to me at birth.

Should I call my parents so you can personally compliment them on their taste in names? Should I tell you about my family history before you interrogate me? Should I make up a story about how I earned my name in a past life as a WWI fighter pilot?

Am I thinking too deeply into these compliments?

Probably.

I should just say “thank you.”

Denial

The most frustrating but, thankfully, the most uncommon response to my name is denial.

I’ve met skeptical folks who refuse to accept my name. After I introduce myself, these people would assume at least one of the following:

• I’m joking.
• I’m trying to be cool.
• I’m trying to force a nickname.

Thankfully, I don’t have to interact with these people for more than a few minutes. It’s not worth the effort to convince them otherwise, especially if I never see these people again.

It’s easier to smile and nod.

---

Whenever I must surrender my name, I use my last name: Howard.

I’m not a pilot, I’m not a poker star, and I don’t “ace” everything I do.

Why is my name Ace? It’s because my parents named me Ace. But unless we’re going to interact for more than a few minutes, my name is Howard.

Now...

Say my name.

via wifflegif

<sup>1. [The Sierra Turkey sandwich and broccoli cheddar soup.]↩
2. [Thanks to the ephemeral fame of American Idol contestants, I don’t hear this one anymore.]↩</sup>

A New Chapter (Part 2)

Check out Part 1 if you haven't already.

To recap, I've recently gone through some lifestyle changes. I imagine Dr. Seuss would have said:

Some changes are significant,
some changes are so small.
It's the changes that we learn from
that matter most of all.

It's amazing how a simple rhyme can sound profound (see: rhyme-as-reason effect). It's like I just gave a short graduation speech.

Anyway, let's get started.

I abandoned my flip phone.

This blue workhorse had always been good to me.

It woke me every morning with its sweet melody. It remembered important things like phone numbers and appointments. Through my busy schedule and all-nighters, this phone was a constant that kept my life in order.

When I neglected to charge this phone, it survived for an entire week. The phone willed itself to stay alive because it knew how much I depended on it.

However, I did not reciprocate the care my phone gave me.

I've dropped it more times than I can count. I've stupidly thrown it in frustration. I eventually stopped flinching when its battery ejected on impact.

And now I am putting down this workhorse like it has a broken leg.

I received an iPhone 4 from a coworker. By today's standards, this phone is old and sluggish. By my standards, it's the most advanced piece of technology that had ever touched the lint of my pocket. It does everything my old phone can do and more...

As long as I never drop it and I charge it daily, that is. The iPhone's delicate nature demands that I treat it with more care than I've ever given my flip phone in its entire life. I can only hope for the kind of reliability I've grown accustomed to for the past four years.

I'm sorry, old friend. I didn't deserve you.

I joined a new martial art.

If I'm not getting choked or locked in an arm bar, I'm unsatisfied.

No, I'm not into that stuff. I just enjoy martial arts.

The feeling had been nagging at me for months. I had been so focused on finishing school and getting a job that I neglected one of my favorite hobbies: Judo.

Unfortunately, the nearest Judo club was an hour away from my new apartment. Unless I wanted to commute a couple more hours a day, I would have to take a break from Judo.

However, this didn't mean I would have to take a break from grappling. I looked up other martial arts in the area and found a Jiu-Jitsu club nearby.

Judo and Jiu-Jitsu are sister martial arts. Both are grappling arts with their own distinctions: Judo focuses on throwing techniques and Jiu-Jitsu focuses on ground techniques. There is a lot of overlap between the two disciplines and many martial artists cross-train in both.

I decided to give it a shot.

After my first class, I knew I found the right club. The instructor is very knowledgeable, the students are supportive, I got my butt kicked, and I had a blast. I didn't find a martial art; I found a missing part of my life.

I could see myself doing this thing for a long time.

Turning the Page...

The past year has been one for the books.

The absolute biggest change in my life is my freedom to make decisions. As you've read, I've made a few big decisions already. I can only hope for more positive opportunities in the future.

My goals for the year revolve around growing as both a web developer and a writer. I'm going to make a solid effort to code and write more regularly. I would especially like to start putting out weekly blog posts instead of whenever-I-get-around-to-it posts.

After all, the only way to improve is to practice. Not a game—we're talking about practice.

A New Chapter (Part 1)

I normally don't write about myself, but I'll give it a shot.

Since my last post, I've traveled a long way on my journey through life. I've accomplished major goals and I've gone through lifestyle changes. I've made big decisions and accepted new responsibilities.

I'm a big boy now.

It's exciting and unnerving how much can change in just a year. I'll go over a few highlights.

I graduated from Ball State University.

These past four years were a blur. The nights were never long enough to have fun with friends, but they were barely long enough to finish my projects. I managed to fit in eating and playing video games, although I had to work around my sleep schedule.

I graduated as an English major with a Computer Science minor. Despite horror stories of unemployed English majors, I was fortunate enough to get a job before I graduated.

I started a new job.

I was hired as a Web Developer for an electronics company called Functional Devices, Inc.

As you might guess, my primary job is to maintain and develop the company's websites and databases. I work with the engineering department to keep our product information up-to-date.

I'm also a part of the marketing department where I'm responsible for updating our web banners and our social media profiles.

I even have my own window.

I'm living on my own.

I spent my first month commuting for nearly three hours a day. My schedule was soul-crushing, but the idea of having a real income kept me going.

I was finally able to lease an apartment fifteen minutes away from work. Up until then, getting up at 7:00 meant that I overslept. I'm now able to function as a proper human being.

Currently, I don't have any roommates. For the first time, I am truly independent.

At my apartment, I've got two rules:

1. Pants are optional.
2. There are no rules.

Living alone is everything I thought it could be.

---

These are just a few of my new experiences. I'll go into more detail in upcoming posts.

This past year, I've learned a lot and I've grown as a person. I'm so thankful for my friends and family who all shaped me into the person I am today.

Seriously, thank you.

Good Cop/Bad Cop

The other day, I was cruising down the highway when I saw a sheriff run a stop sign and merge into oncoming traffic. I quickly slammed on my brakes to avoid hitting him.

As he shot across the highway, I noticed his lights weren't flashing, the siren wasn't blaring, and the man wasn't even in uniform.

Seriously?

Just because you enforce the law doesn't mean you're above it. Last time I checked, stop signs were designed to facilitate traffic and help prevent accidents. Just because another officer won't pull you over doesn't mean that your actions won't lead to negative consequences.

Thankfully, there wasn't an accident and no one was harmed... this time.

I guess he deserves the benefit of the doubt. Maybe there was an emergency. Even so, why didn't he at least put his lights on? Why didn't he use his horn? Why didn't he yield to traffic? Regardless, it was a reckless move for a trained officer of the law.

Although the situation was benign, there is no reason for an officer to take advantage of his/her power. Just because cops can get away with traffic laws doesn't mean they should.

Have these guys ever watched Spider-Man? They could learn a thing or two from Uncle Ben.

I'm not preaching that cops are bad; to say so would be prejudiced. I'm sure there are more good cops who do honest work than bad cops who abuse their authority.

As with any job, however, nobody cares until someone messes up. Based on what the media feeds us, the public is mostly interested in cases of abused power, hypocrisy, and corruption. I know my interest piques when I hear about our law enforcers bullying bystanders, driving drunk, and beating up teenage girls.

While this negative media attention may fuel people's anti-cop beliefs, it helps keep a check on the dark side of law enforcement.

And as Officer Reckless has demonstrated, the dark side can be very tempting.

The First Breath

As flames dance around the home of the Ozunu ninja clan, a battered and bloody rogue clansman confronts the man he once called "Father." The two men have waited years for this moment.

A young man seeks liberation. An elder looks for retribution.

An old conflict is about to be resolved.

With conviction, the former clansman tells his old sensei,"This is not my family. You are not my Father. And the breath I take after I kill you will be the first breath of my life."

The two warriors draw their swords. Sharpened steel speaks the truth.


Recently, I watched the bloody spectacular that is Ninja Assassin.

...for the fifth time.¹

This viewing was different—the movie spoke to me more than usual.² Although the closing scene was very brief, its message was very powerful:

Raizo scales the outer wall of the ninja orphanage just as Kiriko had done years ago. As he stands on top of the wall, he sees a beautiful valley in the distance. His heart beats slowly. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. For the first time in his life, he is truly at peace.

Raizo is free at last. The ninja is finally in control of his own destiny; no more is his life dictated by the will of another. Never again will someone watch every breath he took, move he made, bond he broke, or step he took.

I wish I could've been Raizo this past semester.

My classes were very demanding—more than I was prepared for. It got so bad that I didn't have time for Judo. Even worse, I did not have a chance to get down on my Fridays.³ It's enough to make Nicholas Cage lose his $h!t.

Somehow, I endured the final stretch of the school year. Unfortunately, between spending time with my significant other, surfing social media sites, and stumbling though my new addiction called Reddit, the only time I gave myself for schoolwork was from 11:00 pm until I lost the will to keep my eyes open.

But I stayed awake.

Just as the rogue ninja had struck down his brainwashing and manipulative "father," I had earned my own freedom by slaying the past semester with my hard work and determination. As I finally sped away from campus, a sweet and liberating breath filled my lungs. Goals for the summer swam around my head. I embraced the prospect of a lifestyle change.

And here I am.

I've been home for about a month now. My landscaping job gives me a paycheck and a tan. I'm currently attending Judo classes and I recently helped a friend of mine design a website for his visual novel.⁴ Although I have been keeping myself busy, I haven't written anything in while.

It's time to scale the walls of the ninja orphanage with this blog. No more academic essays for me! I can write whatever I want—I'll even put in awesome footnotes. More importantly, I'm going to try posting at least twice a week.

The key word is "try."

<sup>1. [Critics may argue it's five times too many.]↩
2. [The movie usually tells me that I want to be a ninja.]↩
3. [I have failed you, Rebecca.]↩
4. [Check out and download Thanatos Contract!]↩</sup>

Embrace Our Tongues

Yesterday, I did something that most men must regularly suffer through: I waited on my girlfriend to get out of a public restroom.


Now, I have a short attention span and I don't have a smartphone to play Angry Birds on. To prevent myself from standing around like a worthless employee, I could either pretend to do something on my dumbphone, or stand against the wall and look aloof. I thought I would look cooler doing the latter. As I got into position, a generic group of friends walked by. A girl in the pack asked everyone a question.

"Hey, can you guys say the word, 'feel?'"

Everybody pronounced it as I would have: FEE-UL.

The girl then said, "Aw, you guys say it the right way. I say it as 'FILL.' Man, I talk like a black person."

How offensive and ignorant. First of all, the girl isn't black and neither are her friends. I doubt that she would have said said as much if there were more people around. Also, her accent isn't "black" or AAVE, it's a common Hoosier dialect. Contrary to what she believes, nothing is wrong with the way she speaks.

Ask any sociolinguist and he or she will say that all dialects are equal. Those that speak AAVE or with a Southern drawl aren't stupid. Our culture stereotypes these dialects which perpetuate the prejudices associated with them. Unfortunately, these stereotypes are reinforced every single day. From watching Disney cartoon movies to having "unoffensive" conversations like our friend above, we've been taught that anything other than "standard English" is wrong.

Think about your feelings towards AAVE, Southern accents, and even Valspeak. If any negative thoughts arise, stop and think about why you feel that way.

Before I started studying a little bit of linguistics in my classes, I was guilty of prejudice too. The important thing is that I now understand that speech and dialect derives from culture and not from intelligence. Slang, creole, and pidgin are not lesser than Mainstream US English.

Don't get me wrong—you should be aware of the context that you're using a certain dialect in. Speaking in the classroom or in a business setting is more formal than speaking with your friends. I'm saying that just because something is less formal, it shouldn't be considered "bad" or "incorrect." Otherwise, we would be putting down the culture that the dialect comes from as well.

The point of my rant is that we should stop judging and discriminating against one another based on the way that we talk. Instead, let's embrace our tongues along with rest of our differences.

Diversity is good.

Don't be a communist.