"Cause we’re gonna need more than money and science to see us through this world"
January 25, 2010 § 1 Comment
Honie has a weekly assignment in her history class that requires her to pick a current event, preferably one that affects internationally. She does a short write up, the usual who-what-why, and for extra credit, she asks a family member for his/her opinion on the chosen subject. And because she’s an ambitious (and persistent) over-achiever, there hasn’t been a single week where she hasn’t sent me a cnn.com link.
And each week, I read those articles; ones that don’t make the televised highlights, ones that are unlikely to make Twitter trends because they aren’t about failed bombing attempts, sex-addicted golfers, or the greatest punk’d episode involving an aluminum air balloon. She picks articles that aren’t the most popular or talked-about; a shooting of Togo’s soccer team, or an attempted assassination of a Danish political cartoonist, or even, a human fat smuggling ring (well maybe you talk about these things, and I’m just triumphantly unaware). She picks articles that I would have otherwise passed by, news I wouldn’t have heard of if not for her dedication to five measly extra points. Yet, I have noticed a recurring theme in the stories she chooses, and so I recently asked her:
“Why do you pick such depressing articles?”
And she looked at me, in her now perfected I’m-on-the-brink-of-teenage-hood-so-everything-you-say-is-dumb look, and said, “cause that’s all there is”.
There are really only two channels ever watched in this house: KBS World (Korean) and CNN. When Michael Jackson died, CNN remained on the entire day, from the initial announcement of him being rushed to the hospital, to Anderson Cooper late at night. We spent the better part of our Christmas watching looped images of an idle plane on the ground. And when Balloon Boy happened… okay, so I wasn’t riveted by that one, because, let’s get real… there was no way that kid was in there – that thing looked like something that’d be popping away on my stove during a Friday night with the 7th season of 24. When major things are going on in the world, CNN becomes the most prominent voice in the room (how about some endorsement points here, CNN?). We’re usually not even sitting around the television, eyes glued to the screen, but we hear it, on the way to the kitchen for the third cup of coffee, or when we’re frantically searching for a cell phone that’s unfortunately been placed on vibrate. On top of Don Lemon’s sexy baritone filling our empty living room, my parents subscribe to a couple of Korean newspapers, and I check NYT twice-daily. And now with Honie having CNN as her third-most visited page (right behind Gmail and Failblog), it’s safe to say that as a family, we’re generally aware, more or less, of the major events in this world.
And aside from occasional silly viral videos being mentioned (YouTube “surprised kitten”), the material is almost always gravely serious, reminding us how awful human beings can be to one another. It can be anything as trivial as congressmen calling the President a liar, or unbelievable as a 98 year-old retiree killing her 100 year-old roommate in a nursing home – with the nightly news, it’s hard to see the scale of good and bad being anything than completely lopsided.
Honie and I were never into beauty pageants, but at one point in our lives, we truly believed and hoped world peace was possible. Looking back though at that fleeting moment in time, we might have had better luck investing in the existence of unicorns or the likelihood of either of us marrying Zac Efron. I feel sorrier for kids today, because I think idealism tends to escape at a much younger age – Honie is not yet thirteen, and she is skeptical of approximations and assumptions, and finds political frauds and scandals underwhelming. Perhaps I was more naïve or sheltered than her, but I don’t remember being pessimistic until I was learning to parallel park.
It’s a frightening moment when you realize how high your tolerance has become, when despicable, gruesome, evil acts no longer have the ability to truly shock you. You accept that there are people in this world who will always be miserable human beings. You accept that lies, manipulations, and pettiness are just as much a part of human nature as is ignorance, jealousy, and greed. Next time you watch the news, try taking a shot each time you hear any conjugations of two words: corruption and violence. Half an hour later, you’ll be ready to take off your top and dance on a table. Had I started this drinking game from Honie’s age, I would have already died of liver failure.
I thought there was very left in this world I could be surprised by. But I, along with the rest with the world, watched in stunned silence as the details of the Haiti earthquake unfolded. I watched people run in chaos, caked in dust, rubble, blood, and despair. I watched the desperate attempts to search through annihilated buildings for the slightest hint of life. This wasn’t about adultery or bailouts or NBC late night. This was devastation in its truest form. There was no sleaze-ball to shake your head at, no malicious terrorist group, or deranged individual to blame. Instead, I covered my mouth with my hands, held my breath, and cowered at the threat of tears.
It’s easy in times of disaster to feel helpless, to surrender and to pity. You watch the images of destruction and the lives affected with an unshakeable feeling of hopelessness. For a country already living in destitute conditions, this earthquake could have been considered the final straw.
But whatever feelings of despondency I may have initially felt disappeared almost as quickly as it came. You could finally put your lightening-fast thumbs to good use, texting in donations. In a matter of seconds, you could donate $5 or $10 instantly. You could assuage that feeling of helplessness down a few notches, just with a few clicks. College students were donating their weekend money usually reserved for Busch Light and Pho. Minimum-wage workers were pledging half their weekly paychecks. Kids were pooling their allowances.
During a time where the majority is still icing from the steel-toed kick in the economic balls, people were contributing what they could, all with the general lament to be doing more. We were reminded, that despite our own difficulties and problems, we could be far, far, worse.
My friend Billy took the initiative to help to a whole new level when he aimed to hit $1000 in donations. He challenged his friends and family to help achieve it, and in less than a day, he had accomplished the mark. Just a few days shy of two weeks in his endeavor, Billy has surpassed every target he had set, and is now well on his way to a whopping $15,000.
And I’ve collected a few similar stories since: a couple dancer friends of mine held free, donation-encouraged classes to raise nearly $900. A brilliant photographer friend offered a wedding package that made me want to propose to the next dude I saw, just so I could take advantage of the discount. A few corporate friends challenged their companies to match donations. People threw keggers and carwashes. Several pledged part, if not all, of their tax returns.
I am fortunate and privileged to be able to call these folks my friends. And besides the obvious inspiration and encouragement these individuals demonstrate, they also remind me that no matter how cynical and jaded one may become over time, nothing is ever truly lost. Inspiration can come in the most unlikely of places, in the darkest tragedies, but in the most potent dosages. After all, hope forever remains as the foundation of idealism.
I am not naïve enough to think that other terrible things in the world have not been happening simply because the Haiti earthquake is taking the forefront. Haiti coverage and interest is slowly dwindling, and before you know it, Honie will be right back to sending me articles about shootings in obscure cities in countries I don’t know how to pronounce. We’ll be right back to the finger pointing and head shaking. With the recent election in Massachusetts, I’m bracing for another healthcare shitstorm. And I’ve got two words for you: Stimulus Project.
It’s unfortunate that the only times we seem to set aside our differences and work altruistically and cohesively are times of disaster and desperate need. Still, I hope that I carry this reminder with me for a good long while – that no matter how big of assholes we can be to each other, we always hold the capacity to change, no matter how temporarily. My friends, as well as the rest of the world, have shown an overwhelming level of generosity and compassion to a country that we otherwise know very little about. Just because the good stuff doesn’t make the front page, doesn’t mean they don’t happen, or that they matter any less. The good stuff doesn’t need to be acknowledged in print or by Campbell Brown to feel vindicated (but it doesn’t hurt either!).
PS. Read up on Billy’s crusade at http://billysbirthday.tumblr.com/ He is offering up his time and services to help you, all while you help the greater good. And ladies, when Billy says he’ll do ANYTHING for you, I’m not entirely sure he means removal of any pants. But I could be wrong.
"Yeah darlin’, I need a plan to understand, that life ain’t only supply and demand"
January 2, 2010 § Leave a comment
I finished a book the other day, and after that last page, I couldn’t help but notice how noticeably different the book looked than when it first reached my hands.
I like buying my books slightly used. I don’t like them highlighted or written on, but thanks to places like half.com, I can buy them “like new” or “very good”, and in just the condition I like them best. I like knowing that another set of eyes have read (or attempted to) the words I’m about to absorb, that another person chose this book out of countless others for one reason or another.
The thing is though, a book’s condition rapidly deteriorates once in my possession. In my first year at college, when I naively bought my books from the UW Bookstore brand spanking new (and at full price), I realized very quickly that my 220-dollar chemistry book was no less informative than a used 150 dollar one. I would write in the margins, highlight passage after passage with different-colored fluorescent markers, and spill various caffeinated beverages on its glossy pages. After a particularly frustrating and stressful night (coinciding with midterms, surprisingly enough), they would get hurled across the room, bruising the wall, and leaving the pages hanging on for dear life along the seams.
This book I just finished is no different. The pages are curled upward, and the front cover refuses to lay parallel to the rest of the body. The corners of pages are creased in various sizes of triangles, and if I shake the book, I know that a rain of popsicle sticks, ticket stubs, and a Costco card will come pouring out (I’m an opportunistic bookmarker, using whatever is within reaching distance). Some of these pages may be speckled with smeared chocolate flakes, or dimpled by occasional teardrops, all providing evidence that those pages were indeed read. They were laughed and coughed over with a mouthful of PJ&J, cried over in silence, fawned over with deep respect and admiration, frowned and occasionally gagged over. My books will provide proof that they have lived and suffered with me.
Anyway, before I throw this latest one onto the pile stacked against the wall, I decide to search for other works by the author. I open Amazon and there, taking center stage smack dab in the middle of the home page is an ad for Kindle, apparently the #1 Bestselling Product On Amazon. I’ve heard of this, but know very little, so I click the accommodating link. It’s a sharp-looking thing, isn’t it? It’s clean, looks relatively simple to use, and can hold up to 1,500 books. Holy crap, imagine all the money I could have saved on shipping.
I’m reading over the details, and find myself being more and more lured into this thing. It’s masterfully flirting with me, and like a girl buzzed off wine at the bar, I’m responding, finding it more attractive with the slightest wink and nudge.
And just when I think that I’m about to sneak the Kindle my number on a paper napkin, a voice (Morgan Freeman’s?) reminds me of all the good times with my paper backs and hard covers, and I suddenly feel cheap and guilty. Sure, the Kindle is sexy in the modern, new world way, and I’m all for anything that promotes reading, but can it offer me all the other non-literary services an actual book can offer? Can I throw it at a boyfriend’s head during a heated argument? If I curl up with a Kindle in bed, how high are the chances that I roll over it with my big, fat head and crack its pretty little face? If I tip my water bottle on the pages of a book, I can lay it flat for a day or two until it dries curled and rumpled, but will a Kindle be as forgiving? And what about that universal, connected feeling I get from having a slightly used book delivered to me?
I have no doubt that a gadget like the Kindle is the future; a future where libraries are obsolete and Barnes and Noble will merely become Starbucks cafeterias. And I am not entirely eliminating the possibility of having one of my own some day (I just envisioned my entire Don Delillo collection shaking and wetting their pants). But for now, I will risk paper cuts and questionable stains if it means I can hear the whistling of pages turning. Sometimes when I’m writing, I purposefully stack a pile of my favorites around me like a fort, because I am convinced that they are sending me inspirational vibes. How will Kindle offer me that?
My dad doesn’t know how to turn on a computer. We’ve programmed his cell phone with an address book and speed dial, but he doesn’t use them. He gets impatient when customer service via email doesn’t respond fast enough (anything longer than the time it takes for water to boil). He has no idea what texting is and still buys CDs. He prefers face-to-face meetings to conferences over the phone, and voice message machines to inboxes. And while the world “archaic” comes to mind when describing my dad, there’s something undeniably simple in his old-school approach.
Nowadays, you have maintain and advance with technology if you want to keep your head above the water. Anything less than cable internet will become intolerable. If it’s not an iPhone or a BlackBerry, it’s not a cell phone. If you don’t have a Facebook, you don’t exist. And if you don’t know what eBay or Craigslist is, well, you can go ahead and kill yourself now.
I remember a few years ago when a friend of a friend told me that a friend of a friend got dumped by her boyfriend of three years through an email. We discussed how disgusting, tactless, and just plain unbelievable it was. Just a few years ago, answering your phone at the dinner table would have been equivalent to burping, farting, and picking your teeth (at the same time). Now, it’s normal to be hired and fired through the send button. And why go through the perils of dating when your soul mate is just three clicks away? Why get to know your coworkers over a few awkward drinks when an online photo album let’s you do it…pants-free, no less?
How could we possibly have anything to talk about when through your Twitter, I already know how often your dog goes to the bathroom and that you’re allergic to pine nuts and idiots? If I can find everything from song lyrics to man-and-porcupine porn on the internet, why can’t I locate a single store in the mall that actually has change in its register? And in a time where I can order groceries, customize a wife, and diagnose myself of a rare kidney disorder online, why can’t USPS locate my fucking boxes? (Sorry, I really just can’t let that one go).
Annoying friends used to mean they were mooching off your lunch or arguing over what movie to see. Now it’s updating statuses too frequently and not replying to email/ texts within an hour or two. Thanks to my friend list, I can’t hide the fact that I’m friends with your worst enemy, or delete and ignore an ex without looking immature and bitter. It’s easy to stalk your friend’s hot friends without feeling guilty or creepy, because hey, he’s the one who posted all those photos from his Vegas trip. You’re angry because I didn’t call you about the party? Well maybe you should have checked your wall or inbox. Still mad? Well fine, go ahead and post that picture of me eating that hot dog, I’m just going to subscribe you to every erectile dysfunction newsletter out there.
Now, suddenly I’m not only aware, but also overtly cautious about which albums I do make public, and how much I curse in my Tweets. I can’t just say, “ah, hell with it” anymore without sounding ignorant and careless to future interviewers.
But there have been so much about our technology-based world that I’ve really benefited from (besides Ashton Kutcher’s whereabouts). I’m thankful I can craft and manipulate emails to make myself sound somewhat intelligible, where impromptu voice mails can make me sound like a donkey suddenly feeling the effects of a tranquilizer dart. I can ignore petulant phone calls and blame the service provider, and the de-tag button has become one of my closest allies. And if I can avoid the entire customer service center at Wal-Mart for as long as I live, I will wear a “I Love the Internetz” bumper sticker on my ass.
I love that I can order my JBrands at 30% off online, but I don’t mind going to Nordstroms or Barneys where the sales assistant can bring me the next size over in a matter of minutes. Sometimes I like asking for a recommendation from the Blockbuster employee with the hair that looks like it hasn’t seen a shampoo bottle in weeks. Some of the best conversations of post-modernism I’ve ever had weren’t in that god-forsaken English class, but with total strangers in the used book store on the Ave. The most memorable moments can’t be bottled in random, one-sentenced insider jokes along my Facebook wall, but probably captured in the album titled “Dude, Where’s My Respirator?” If I tried really, really, really hard, I’m sure I could compose something along the lines of a sentimental email, or send you plenty of “You’ll Get ‘Em Next Time” flowers or “There’s Better (and Bigger!) Fish in the Sea” boxes of Godivas, but sometimes, nothing can top a tight-squeezed hug and a fifth of tequila.
What I’m trying to say is that, there are plenty of things out there that are meant to improve our lives, but not everything needs to be. Sure, a Kindle is efficient when I need to carry seventeen books with me on vacation, but I still like getting a “very good-used” book in the mail and finding the previous owner’s receipt for anal beads squished in the pages. I want to be able to control what I say in an email to a future employer, but I want my real-life conversations with my real-life friends to be uncensored (for the most part). I want to be able to see facial expressions, not emoticons. I want to be able to interpret the tone of your voice, and throw a book accordingly.
A text message can’t give me that.
soopastryheart 