Why I Would Suck As a Diplomat

Remember that integrity thing I was talking about earlier? Why don't you just go ahead and toss mine out.


The other day I was talking with my sister Jen on the phone, doing some catching up. She told me she just got back from running 13 miles. An immediate alarm went off in my head.

JD: Wait, Jen. Are you--? **deep breath** ...Are you training for a marathon?

Jen: Yeah. I was thinking about running one at the end of February.

**Insert crotch-punched-feeling here**

See, for the past few years, I have slowly been getting boxed in on the Endurance Sports Front. Various family members and friends have -- unsuccessfully -- attempted to persuade me to run marathons or other distance races. I was always against long-distance running. All that self-discipline, goal-achieving, and sense of accomplishment was for snobs. Being the stubborn person that I am, the more people suggested I participate, the more I dug in my heels.

Jen was my last hope. Although Jen ran a half-marathon this year, I felt like she had yet to cross over to join my sister Juli and her husband Ben on the endurance sports side. Yes, 13.1 miles is more than I've ever run and is extremely admirable, but the operating word there was "half." She was still with me; not with them.

It all changed with that fateful phone call. With that conversation, I became the pariah of my family; I am the North Korea/Iran to my family's international community. I am isolated, becoming marginalized, and my family is tightening the grips on me. Am I being passively coerced into doing a marathon?

I'm afraid I might go against everything I've preached for the last few years and choose to run a marathon. Something tells me I would suck at the negotiating table in international politics -- I'd buckle before the other guy even said anything.

It's all politics.

As for everybody else that contributed to the pressure, you know who you are.

Folsom, CA -> Sacramento, CA. Bring it.


Endnote: My family has never tried to manipulate me into doing this -- This must be my competitive side kicking in.

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Running Concert Diary

Went to the Beastie Boys concert about three weeks ago. Time to check a life goal off of the list. I should probably set some real ones now.

Some famous writers have a "mailbag" of some sort, where they answer question from readers. I don't have one of these. I did, however, get a text question regarding the concert from a reader and will open with that:
Q: Well, did it change your body and soul?
JD: Yes, it did. I will attribute part of it to seeing the Beastie Boys live, but I will pin a larger part of my nirvanic experience on the contact high I got from the kids around me toking weed.

That mailbag was exhausting. While I'm at it ("it" = copying better writers), I will follow Bill Simmons' running diary format and take you through the "Get Out and Vote" concert I went to on 28 Oct.

6:59 -- Dave and I are sitting in the bleachers, waiting for the 7:00 start time; Dave is mid-sentence when Beastie Boys Mike D and MCA come out to MC. I'm halfway to the stage taking pictures with my camera before Dave realizes I'm gone.

7:00 -- Mike D and MCA introduce the opening singer, Santogold, with the obligatory "we're on the same tour, so we have to say she's super-talented, even though we've never listened to her music ourselves." Out walks a woman with two backup singers dressed in bug-eye sunglasses and shiny gold suits, like you would see alien invaders wear in old crappy sci-fi movies. Dave leans over to me and asks how much I want to bet that the backup singers are Santogold's two best friends from high school riding the gravy train. I chuckle my agreement.

But wait: Doesn't having a "gravy train" imply you've attained a level of success?

This is all a means to an end, I tell myself.

7:17 -- Santogold is still on stage and announces her next song. What is she still doing here? Weren't we courteous in tolerating her three songs? She is quickly becoming the Jar Jar Binks of this concert -- the annoying, unwanted sidekick whose presence the audience grows to hate.

7 freakin' 40 -- The excruciatingly long set -- 40 minutes -- ends to token applause containing undercurrents of resentment that Santogold took so much time.

Means to an end.

7:55 -- Norah Jones calms my nerves with her performance. I drift off to sleep and dream that her voice and Sarah Mclachlan's fight each other for my affection.

8:03 -- Norah spouts some politically-charged comments, and I am surprisingly OK with it. Hell, with that voice, she could advocate crystal meth usage, Tom Cruise for President, and nuclear war, and I'd agree with everything she had to say.

8:25 -- Jack Johnson walks on stage to huge applause. Also, this is apparently the universal cue for everyone to light up their joints. I didn't get the memo.

Which reminds me of one of my friends from high school who hot-boxed his cat once. Afterwards, the cat careened its way back to his parents' room. Five minutes later, his parents called him into their room: "Tim!" "Yeah?" "Why does the cat reak of dope?" "...because we hot-boxed him."

8:48 -- I notice that the guy in front of me, who is about the same height but weighs about 230lb, has been completely motionless with his hands in his pockets since Jack Johnson has started playing. I've seen roadkill move more than this guy. I'll be checking in with him later.

9:05 -- Sheryl Crow walks on-stage in a tightly tied black trenchcoat that screams either "I am completely naked under here" or "I am selling cheap watches out of this thing." She looks seriously haggard, as if she hasn't slept or eaten since she and Lance Armstrong broke up. Rough year for Ms. Crow.

9:28 -- I consider yelling out "home-wrecker!" in between songs but decide not to. Sheryl decides to spout political drivel at us, using cliched phrases like "you can make a difference! I know you can!" Spare me.

Besides blinking, Roadkill remains unmoved.

9:42 -- The percentage of Sheryl's set has shifted to 85% political rant, 15% music. I could see her pursuing a political career filled with pointless rhetoric and little action.

Means to an end...

10:06 -- Still have this sneaking suspicion that in between some songs, Sheryl will spout off some more political drivel and then tag on, almost as an aside: "Hah... funny thing... a portion of the ticket proceeds will actually go to my next botox treatment since I have missed my last two. Anyway, the next song is 'Every Day is a Winding Road.' Sing along if you know the words!"

10:10 -- I've been here for 3+ hours. What did I come here for? I can't remember anymore. Dave reminds me that I came to see the Beastie Boys.

10:15-11:15 -- Beasties enter to "Sure Shot," bring the house down, and I spend the next hour screaming every word to every song.

Roadkill remains unchanged the entire time. Unbelievable.

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Still Holding Strong

I like to think I'm a man of commitment and integrity. When I say I'm going to do something, I make an effort to follow through and do it.

I was recently put to the test.

In order to alleviate boredom when things get slow on a weekend shift at work, we change the channel on a couple of the TVs in the office to watch football, movies, etc. A week ago, during a particularly slow Sunday shift, my shiftmates decided to watch Titanic on TNT. I suppose this isn't anything extraordinary, considering the movie grossed more than the GDP of most African countries.

However, I promised myself long ago that I would never watch this movie, because I loathe it like Seinfeld loathes Newman. It's weaselly. It thinks more highly of itself than it should. And it keeps showing up at my door, wanting attention that I don't want to give it.

You know the opening 30-minutes of Saving Private Ryan? And how you as the viewer are completely drawn in, your eyes glued to the screen because you are entirely engulfed by the brutal reality of it all? Titanic is the antithesis of Saving Private Ryan for me. I'm repulsed by it. Somewhere between Kate Winslett getting naked and a love story crammed with more cliches than a "Grey's Anatomy" script, I developed a less-than-zero desire to see this movie.

And so when faced with the choice of watching Titanic or 4+ hours of boredom (the commercials for movies on TV are ridiculous), I chose boredom. At least I kept my integrity.

But seriously, that ship took forever to go down. I kept looking up at the TV, hoping the movie would be over. It kept dragging on.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to wipe up the venom I just drooled all over my keyboard.

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Pre-Concert Checklist

I knew that to get the most out of my Beasties' concert experience and to guard against unforeseen contingencies, I needed to plan ahead. I made a pre-concert checklist; just to make sure I didn't miss anything. By 27 Oct, I must:

--As I am scheduled to work 28 Oct, place threatening and anonymous middle-of-the-night phone calls to co-workers until someone swaps shifts with me... check. This was the first attempt in my life at being intimidating, but I made sure my phone call verbiage contained phrases like "bottom of the river," "bust your head open," "broken kneecaps," and "say 'hi' to your mother for me." It worked. I got the day off.

--Go to a Halloween party donning large sunglasses, a 'fro wig, and bright orange jumpsuit a la Beasties 1998 tour, and bring the house down while rapping "So Whatcha' Want" on Rock Band II... check.

The megalomania that "Rock Band" brings
is unprecedented.

--Print Google Maps directions... check. I know many of you are saying: "Josh, you just bought a nice GPS;" and I'm saying: "Yeah, but what if China decides to shoot down some satellites that day? I'm not risking it."

--Find the correct person to take my second ticket... check. This was extremely important. It would be like picking the godfather for my firstborn child, minus the fact that I'm not Catholic. Regardless, I considered having people submit a 250-word essay outlining the reasons they should attend the concert with me...

...then I realized I'm ridiculous.

--Obtain forged prescription from a doctor for anti-anxiety pills and start treatment during the week preceding the 28th... still working on it.

So I guess the list remains a work in progress.

Now if only I could apply this kind of thorough preparation to things that matter, like, say, the food storage that my Church leaders have advocated for so long...

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A (Hopefully) Fortunate Series of Events

Last week, it all changed. The ball started rolling when I checked my Gmail Inbox.

--The Initial Tip-Off:

That's a screenshot of my Gmail Inbox. Yes, I understand the disturbing implications of me having daily Google Alerts on anything about the Beastie Boys sent to my inbox. Get over it.

--The What:
--The Details:
Richmond Coliseum, Richmond, VA Tues, Oct 28 2008 7:00PM. I seem to remember Richmond having one of the higher homicide rates in the nation. I hope they've taken care of that by the time I get there. It's a "Get Out and Vote" concert, so I will likely get an earful of political propaganda, but I've endured much worse for much less.

Anyone who wishes to see me scream like a 14-year old girl at a Backstreet Boys concert, tickets may still be on sale at ticketmaster.com.


--The Unknown Variable:
How long is the Beasties' set going to be? How long are we going to have to suffer through listening to these other losers? Correction, "losers" may be a little harsh; Jack Johnson's music has a kicked back, all-I-want-to-do-is-surf-and-smoke-pot charm to it, and Norah Jones is good Sunday music. Aside from being attractive for a 46-year old (a "Diane Lane All-Star Team" member, according to Bill Simmons) and having dated Lance Armstrong at one point, I know nothing about Sheryl Crow. All I'm saying is this mix of artists has me nervous that the Boys are going to pull a George Washington (don't give me this "written in the Constitution" crap. I'm not buying it.) and step down to make room for lesser performers. I would prefer that they pull an FDR.

--The Possible Obstacle:
I'm scheduled to work that day; a 10am-10pm shift. I emailed my supervisors to let me swap shifts with someone for that day, but haven't heard back yet. I realize planning usually goes in the reverse order (ie make sure you can go and THEN buy the tickets), but if tickets got sold out because I was waiting to hear back on work schedules, I'm pretty sure I'd commit seppuku right then and there.

--The Context / Implications:

Until this week, life was an unsatisfying, burdensome, and hollow culmination of "life lessons," schooling, diplomas and degrees, working a real job, and relationships with friends and family.* The reason for this gaping abyss of unfulfillment that likely would have haunted me to my deathbed: I had yet to see the Beastie Boys in concert (see this entry for previous scarring attempts at attending a Beasties' concert), and based on their age, it seemed they would not tour again and my life would remain in the metaphorical toilet. This changes that. It was meant to be.

What I'm saying is as far as destiny and import are concerned, my attendance at this concert ranks somewhere between Frodo destroying the Ring and Luke Skywalker toppling the Emperor and the Dark Side.

Keep your fingers crossed that I can work my schedule out. If I don't, the mere fact that I had tickets at one point might serve as some sort of fulfillment for me.

Maybe.

*Relax, friends and family: I'm going for effect here.

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Life Experiences to Music

I've been thinking about quitting my job and chasing my dreams; of going into the studio and pounding out that rap album that I've always had bouncin around in my head...

...trading my inheritance for a bowl of porridge? Not quite. But close.

But honestly, if anyone has listened to a rap album all the way through, characterizing it as 'formulaic' or 'unoriginal' is a Battlefield Earth understatement (with incredibly rare exception). What do rappers do on rap albums, you ask? Subject matter is usually confined to these or similar life experiences:

1. Drugs, combined with expensive alcohol and/or malt liquor;
   
2. The 'heat' [guns] they 'pack' [carry on their person];
3. Women and how easy it is to find them;
4. How many people from rival gangs they've shot/times they've been shot by rival gangs;
5. The cars they own;
6. Protecting turf;
7. Dislike for and willingness to stand up to cops;
   
8. Any combination of the above can make for a decent track
   

Simple, right? I mean, all I have to do is follow this equation, maybe chant my own name a few times, come up with a catch phrase or two, and I'm set for life. That's why I think I got this down pat.

Problem is, I think I lack the requisite life experiences to make a rap album.

I suppose the only thing I can do is take the most comparable life experiences that I have and throw them into the mix. Here are the closest personal parallels I could come up with for the above outline:

1. Besides an affinity for certain smells that may or may not cause a bit of a "high," the closest I'm going to get is a restrained like for Nyquil.
   
2. One time at the BB gun range at Cub Scout camp, I shot and destroyed the clothespin that was holding up my paper target -- three times! One of the counselors called me "dangerous" and "out of control."
3. At my first boy-girl birthday party in 1st grade, one of the girls spent the whole time chasing and trying to kiss me. She was too slow to catch yours truly.
   
4. Rye and I played paintball against some 10 year olds once. I think it's fair to say that we lit those punks up.
   
5. I drive a '97 Honda Civic. It has a CD player and two cupholders; no modifications.
6. When I get home from work and someone is parked in the spot closest to my door, I get semi-annoyed, but don't do anything about it.
   
7. I got my first traffic ticket the other day. I promptly did exactly what the officer told me to and threw in a lot of "Yes, sir" 's as a show of good faith.
   

Maybe I'll hold off on booking studio time and space.

For now.

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How I Ended Up with a B.A.

A lot of people talk about "defining moments" in their lives; where it all became clear and they made a critical decision, turned their life around, [insert optimistic fluff]

I can point to a couple of those in the route I chose to take in my college education. I mean, how did a kid that did Knowledge Bowl [Captain my senior year] and Science Olympiad in high school, and seemed destined for some sort of hard science degree in college (not to mention the obvious-- Asian!), end up with a liberal arts degree?

Two anecdotes.

I had a great friend in high school, Warren, who was one of the popular kids. His only quirk was that he was a serious conspiracy theorist. I'm talking "Big Brother is out to get me" -type stuff; he had read all kinds of books. One day he came with me to my computer networking job (like I said: nerd) because he wanted to see what I did. Apparently, I did something to impress him...although I didn't know until later the extent.

I walked into class the next day and a mutual friend of ours, Neil, came right up to me.

-"Dude, you'll never believe what happened with Warren in CWP (Current World Problems) last period."
-"What'd he do this time?"
-"We got onto some topic and everybody was yelling back and forth the room at each other. This went on for a couple of minutes and in the middle of it all, Warren stands up and yells: 'It's not going to matter. You want to know why?! Because when we grow up, and Josh D [we'll leave my last name out of this] owns all of you, you're all going to be nothing but a bunch of barcodes. So you'd better get used to it!' It was unreal. The class was speechless."

So was I.

-"...So, Josh. When you take over the world, I've got a spot as a favored minion, right?"
-"Uh, sure, Neil. Yeah."

I decided then and there that if I continued on my nerd/science track, I would end up being a dictator. I wasn't going to let that happen. That set the stage for my complete break with science. The complete break would come a few years later.

*****

I took Chem 105 my sophomore year at BYU. While I don't doubt the professor's PhD status (ok, I sometimes do), our ability to learn was severely hindered by his completely Battlefield Earth teaching. Almost every single concept he "taught" to us could, in his mind, be demonstrated by blowing up a hydrogen balloon at the end of class. Apparently explosions and mayhem are really solid, proven pedagogical techniques. Demonstration of the Law of Entropy? Redox reactions? Only thing I remember about these concepts is explosions. My roommate who had class in the same room after mine would be waiting for me afterwards, and as I walked out he would just say, "Another hydrogen balloon today, huh?" It was like witnessing the Hindenburg go down 12 times in a single semester.

One day in this class we were discussing electron clouds and orbits. The dialogue between the professor and a student went something like this:

-"Professor X [no, sorry "X-Men" fans...the "X" is for purposes of anonymity], the textbook says that the orbit is where the electron has a 99.99% chance of being."
-"That's correct."
-"So where is it the other 0.01% of the time?"
-"It could be anywhere, really. The room next door, Mars, another solar system..." I remember slamming my chemistry textbook shut. Science sure does a great job of explaining things. "...now if you'll allow me to demonstrate with this balloon. Could somebody turn off the lights...?"

I think that could be the defining moment when I gave up on science.

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