Things are changing. Lots of things are changing.
About two months ago, Brandon started talking to me about applying for a position at his branch. See, Brandon is a branch manager with the same bank that I work for. Have I ever mentioned that before? Well, I have now. His idea was to get me back up to the Roanoke area and into a position where I was making a little more money.
But I was hesitant. I wasn't sure what it would be like to go to work for one of my best friends. What if I got the job and got up there only to turn out to be a disappointment? I didn't want work to affect a friendship that's been around for ten years. But I gave in. It was the promise of a possible pay raise that won me over. I mean, yeah, it would be cool working with Brandon, but really, it was the money that got me to push through the application.
So I applied. I interviewed. And I didn't get the job. My former roommate didn't hire me. What was I supposed to think? If I can't get a friend to hire me, how could I get another job anywhere? Well, we talked it out and he said that I did great in the interview with him. His reasons for going in another direction made total sense to me, so it really didn't bother me all that much.
But that wasn't the end of it. He told me about another opening at a different branch in the area. It was actually a branch that he had been an assistant manager in a couple years back. He told me that the manager there was interested in interviewing me.
So I applied. I interviewed. And I got the job. So at some point in the next few weeks I'll be making the move back to Virginia. I'll be working for the same bank, but in a different capacity. I'll still be doing a lot of teller work, but I'll be doing a lot more with it.
So yeah, things are changing. My job title is officially changing. But the Legends of the Bank Teller will keep going on.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
Dropper
Hi, my name is Aaron, and I'm a dropper.
It's only been a few hours since I last dropped something. This morning as I reached into the drawer for a pair of socks, as soon as I picked them up I dropped them on the floor. I swore under my breath as I bent down to pick them up again. My second attempt was much more successful as I maintained a kung-fu death grip upon them.
There was a time when it seemed that there was no name for my condition. And then one evening, while watching Friends with a group of friends, we realized that I suffered from the same ailment as Chandler Bing. In "The One With the Ball," Ross and Joey start throwing a ball back and forth and realize that they've been doing it for hours without dropping it even once. Then Monica joins in. And when Chandler wants to play too, she almost refuses to let him in because he's a "dropper." He successfully plays with everyone and never once drops the ball.
But at the end of the episode he asks why they all think he's a dropper. This is followed by a lot of short scenes of Chandler dropping different things. Hilarious on television. Problematic in real life.
I wasn't allowed to play intramural flag football with the other kids in college. I used to say it was because I was too out of shape for all the running involved. But really, it was intramural flag football. Was there really that much running involved. No, I knew I would drop the ball if someone foolishly threw it to me. So I watched my friends play from the sidelines week after week.
I drop my keys at least twice a day. It happens when I'm doing something so difficult as pulling them out of my left pocket and transferring them to my dominant right hand.
I drop money, particularly rolls of coin. This can be big trouble as they tend to burst, sending loose coins all over the place.
I drop clothes. Not only the pair of socks I mentioned earlier, but t-shirts, jeans, shoes, belts, etc.
Anything that finds its way into my less than capable hands has the potential of being dropped on the ground. It's a sad and lonely existence. What happens if I have a son someday who wants to play catch in the back yard? No one wants to play catch with a dad that, more often than not, can't catch the baseball.
Maybe there's hope for the droppers of the world. Maybe I could get some special velcro gloves, but then I would need to make sure every possible item I hold is wrapped in equally appropriate fabric. Perhaps I could wrap duct tape around my hands, sticky side out.
If you see me in public, beware. I am that guy who will pick up one apple off the pile in the produce section, causing all the other apples to tumble onto the floor. I am the guy that will carry too much in his arms and then drop it all in order to catch the one thing you're trying to throw me. I am the dropper.
It's only been a few hours since I last dropped something. This morning as I reached into the drawer for a pair of socks, as soon as I picked them up I dropped them on the floor. I swore under my breath as I bent down to pick them up again. My second attempt was much more successful as I maintained a kung-fu death grip upon them.
There was a time when it seemed that there was no name for my condition. And then one evening, while watching Friends with a group of friends, we realized that I suffered from the same ailment as Chandler Bing. In "The One With the Ball," Ross and Joey start throwing a ball back and forth and realize that they've been doing it for hours without dropping it even once. Then Monica joins in. And when Chandler wants to play too, she almost refuses to let him in because he's a "dropper." He successfully plays with everyone and never once drops the ball.
But at the end of the episode he asks why they all think he's a dropper. This is followed by a lot of short scenes of Chandler dropping different things. Hilarious on television. Problematic in real life.
I wasn't allowed to play intramural flag football with the other kids in college. I used to say it was because I was too out of shape for all the running involved. But really, it was intramural flag football. Was there really that much running involved. No, I knew I would drop the ball if someone foolishly threw it to me. So I watched my friends play from the sidelines week after week.
I drop my keys at least twice a day. It happens when I'm doing something so difficult as pulling them out of my left pocket and transferring them to my dominant right hand.
I drop money, particularly rolls of coin. This can be big trouble as they tend to burst, sending loose coins all over the place.
I drop clothes. Not only the pair of socks I mentioned earlier, but t-shirts, jeans, shoes, belts, etc.
Anything that finds its way into my less than capable hands has the potential of being dropped on the ground. It's a sad and lonely existence. What happens if I have a son someday who wants to play catch in the back yard? No one wants to play catch with a dad that, more often than not, can't catch the baseball.
Maybe there's hope for the droppers of the world. Maybe I could get some special velcro gloves, but then I would need to make sure every possible item I hold is wrapped in equally appropriate fabric. Perhaps I could wrap duct tape around my hands, sticky side out.
If you see me in public, beware. I am that guy who will pick up one apple off the pile in the produce section, causing all the other apples to tumble onto the floor. I am the guy that will carry too much in his arms and then drop it all in order to catch the one thing you're trying to throw me. I am the dropper.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Flock
Timothy waited in breathless anticipation. His hopes were high and he knew with absolute certainty that the Rapture was about to happen on the other side of the world. He had read the literature, he had listened to Harold Camping's messages on the radio. There was no way that this was not going to happen.
In preparation for the end, he had been telling everyone he knew to get ready. After all, he had friends in his life that he knew he wanted to see in Heaven. When you enjoy spending time with people, wouldn't that translate into eternity?
Tim had given serious consideration to selling everything he owned. He thought about putting his house on the market, but knew that, in this economy, there's no way it would sell before Judgment Day. He was going to sell his car and then donate the money to be used to print more tracts to spread the news, but his family intervened.
They didn't believe. They couldn't understand how Tim could be so sure that the Rapture would happen on May 21, 2011. They had been nice enough to not call Camping a whack job, like most of the public had taken to doing. Timothy knew that was probably his family's opinion of Camping, but he appreciated them not voicing it.
But Tim humored them. He chose to keep his car. He still used a good chunk of his savings to print more literature about the impending Rapture. Some of his friends and family tried to go further with their arguments. For some it wasn't enough that Tim wasn't getting rid of all his things. For some, they just wanted to be right and wanted him to be wrong. But all they could come at him with was the verse in Matthew when Jesus says, "But about that day or hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father."
If that was all they had, Tim figured they didn't have much. These friends weren't biblical scholars like Mr. Camping was. Camping had facts to back up his numbers. There was more to biblical prophecy than Matthew 24:36. Tim tried to point this out, wanting desperately for his friends to be saved. But they wouldn't listen. They just went on with their lives. He could tell that they were disappointed in Tim's choice to believe, but it was his belief. He could only attempt explain it to them, he couldn't force it on them.
And now, May 21 was upon him. Tim sat in front of his TV with it tuned to CNN as the hours ticked away. It was nearly midnight. That meant it would soon be 6pm on the other side of the world, on Christmas Island, where the Rapture would really begin. He waited for the urgent news coverage telling the world that the earthquakes had begun. He was literally on the edge of his seat.
And there was no breaking news. Anderson Cooper signed off. Piers Morgan was a repeat from earlier in the night. No word of an earthquake on Christmas Island.
Tim was a little disappointed, but was undeterred. It was only midnight where he was in Maryland. He could wait up a few more hours. Maybe there just wasn't a news outlet available right away on Christmas Island to report that the Rapture had begun. Maybe he would have to wait to hear about a more populated place like New Zealand or Australia.
And still, there was no breaking news.
He went to bed early that Saturday morning feeling lost and confused. Timothy still wanted so badly to believe that he would be raptured with the true believers when 6pm rolled around to his own time zone. But it was harder to believe unconditionally when it seemed that it wasn't happening like it was supposed to.
Where was the earthquake? Why weren't people vanishing from the face of the earth? Why weren't they being called into Heaven?
Tim's sleep was restless that night. He woke early on Saturday and immediately checked newsfeeds on the internet, hoping to find out that someone had made a mistake and just simply not reported the news that earthquakes had, indeed, been striking the other side of the planet. But there were no reports of the global earthquake.
By this point, most of the world had passed through the evening. Some of the planet was well into May 22. He had been duped. A lot of people had been duped.
How could he have been so wrong? How could Harold Camping have been so wrong? Were his numbers simply off? Tim never considered himself to be a particularly stupid or gullible person, yet he had somehow been taken in by Camping's sheer certainty. He had even gone through Camping's reasoning and checked his math. Tim was so sure that Camping was right about all of it.
But he wasn't. He picked up his phone and called his brother.
"Tim," was all his brother could say when he answered. He let out a heavy sigh.
"Thank you, Jay," said Timothy.
Jay was a little confused. "For what?"
"For not answering with an 'I told you so.' For convincing me not to sell my car and all my things. For not being a jerk about all this when you very easily could have." Timothy was more than a little heartbroken. Jay could hear it in his voice.
"Hey, man, you're my brother," Jay started. He could hear that Timothy had started to cry. "Look, I may not hold to the same beliefs that you do, but that doesn't stop me from loving you just the same. I really do wish he had been right, because I hate to think about what you're going through right now."
Timothy sniffed and wiped tears away from his cheeks. He thanked his brother again and even apologized for trying to push his beliefs onto him and the rest of the family.
Jay cut him off. "You never have to apologize. I'm just sorry that you're hurting so badly right now. I'm sorry for all of Camping's flock. There are a lot of you out there who are probably in need of a shoulder to cry on."
"Probably."
"Tell you what, why don't you come on over here and we'll have a cook-out. Stacy can go to the store when she gets the kids from soccer practice. We'll grill up some steaks and have a not-quite-the-end-of-the-world party. How 'bout it?"
Tim could appreciate what his brother was trying to do for him. He didn't much feel like celebrating, but he couldn't turn him down either. Maybe a night with his family would be exactly what he needed. Life would go on. He figured he may as well start living it a little more from here on out.
Today's prompt comes from Sunday Scribblings.
In preparation for the end, he had been telling everyone he knew to get ready. After all, he had friends in his life that he knew he wanted to see in Heaven. When you enjoy spending time with people, wouldn't that translate into eternity?
Tim had given serious consideration to selling everything he owned. He thought about putting his house on the market, but knew that, in this economy, there's no way it would sell before Judgment Day. He was going to sell his car and then donate the money to be used to print more tracts to spread the news, but his family intervened.
They didn't believe. They couldn't understand how Tim could be so sure that the Rapture would happen on May 21, 2011. They had been nice enough to not call Camping a whack job, like most of the public had taken to doing. Timothy knew that was probably his family's opinion of Camping, but he appreciated them not voicing it.
But Tim humored them. He chose to keep his car. He still used a good chunk of his savings to print more literature about the impending Rapture. Some of his friends and family tried to go further with their arguments. For some it wasn't enough that Tim wasn't getting rid of all his things. For some, they just wanted to be right and wanted him to be wrong. But all they could come at him with was the verse in Matthew when Jesus says, "But about that day or hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father."
If that was all they had, Tim figured they didn't have much. These friends weren't biblical scholars like Mr. Camping was. Camping had facts to back up his numbers. There was more to biblical prophecy than Matthew 24:36. Tim tried to point this out, wanting desperately for his friends to be saved. But they wouldn't listen. They just went on with their lives. He could tell that they were disappointed in Tim's choice to believe, but it was his belief. He could only attempt explain it to them, he couldn't force it on them.
And now, May 21 was upon him. Tim sat in front of his TV with it tuned to CNN as the hours ticked away. It was nearly midnight. That meant it would soon be 6pm on the other side of the world, on Christmas Island, where the Rapture would really begin. He waited for the urgent news coverage telling the world that the earthquakes had begun. He was literally on the edge of his seat.
And there was no breaking news. Anderson Cooper signed off. Piers Morgan was a repeat from earlier in the night. No word of an earthquake on Christmas Island.
Tim was a little disappointed, but was undeterred. It was only midnight where he was in Maryland. He could wait up a few more hours. Maybe there just wasn't a news outlet available right away on Christmas Island to report that the Rapture had begun. Maybe he would have to wait to hear about a more populated place like New Zealand or Australia.
And still, there was no breaking news.
He went to bed early that Saturday morning feeling lost and confused. Timothy still wanted so badly to believe that he would be raptured with the true believers when 6pm rolled around to his own time zone. But it was harder to believe unconditionally when it seemed that it wasn't happening like it was supposed to.
Where was the earthquake? Why weren't people vanishing from the face of the earth? Why weren't they being called into Heaven?
Tim's sleep was restless that night. He woke early on Saturday and immediately checked newsfeeds on the internet, hoping to find out that someone had made a mistake and just simply not reported the news that earthquakes had, indeed, been striking the other side of the planet. But there were no reports of the global earthquake.
By this point, most of the world had passed through the evening. Some of the planet was well into May 22. He had been duped. A lot of people had been duped.
How could he have been so wrong? How could Harold Camping have been so wrong? Were his numbers simply off? Tim never considered himself to be a particularly stupid or gullible person, yet he had somehow been taken in by Camping's sheer certainty. He had even gone through Camping's reasoning and checked his math. Tim was so sure that Camping was right about all of it.
But he wasn't. He picked up his phone and called his brother.
"Tim," was all his brother could say when he answered. He let out a heavy sigh.
"Thank you, Jay," said Timothy.
Jay was a little confused. "For what?"
"For not answering with an 'I told you so.' For convincing me not to sell my car and all my things. For not being a jerk about all this when you very easily could have." Timothy was more than a little heartbroken. Jay could hear it in his voice.
"Hey, man, you're my brother," Jay started. He could hear that Timothy had started to cry. "Look, I may not hold to the same beliefs that you do, but that doesn't stop me from loving you just the same. I really do wish he had been right, because I hate to think about what you're going through right now."
Timothy sniffed and wiped tears away from his cheeks. He thanked his brother again and even apologized for trying to push his beliefs onto him and the rest of the family.
Jay cut him off. "You never have to apologize. I'm just sorry that you're hurting so badly right now. I'm sorry for all of Camping's flock. There are a lot of you out there who are probably in need of a shoulder to cry on."
"Probably."
"Tell you what, why don't you come on over here and we'll have a cook-out. Stacy can go to the store when she gets the kids from soccer practice. We'll grill up some steaks and have a not-quite-the-end-of-the-world party. How 'bout it?"
Tim could appreciate what his brother was trying to do for him. He didn't much feel like celebrating, but he couldn't turn him down either. Maybe a night with his family would be exactly what he needed. Life would go on. He figured he may as well start living it a little more from here on out.
Today's prompt comes from Sunday Scribblings.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Jurassic Park
Author: Michael Crichton
Published: 1990
I read this when I was a kid. And as much as I've always loved the film, I thought the book was better. Even at the tender age of 11 or 12, whenever it was that I read it. I picked it up again, thinking that, as an adult, I'd be able to better understand some of the technical jargon that Crichton laces throughout the novel.
Pretty sure I was right about that.
Don't get me wrong. I was a pretty bright kid. Back then I had a basic understanding of what DNA was and what it meant to clone something. After all, clones are a sci-fi staple, and being the son of Lee Peck, I was raised on science fiction.
Michael Crichton does go into a lot of technical detail about the biological technology involved in genetics, as well as the complicated computer systems that are used in the cloning process and used in operating the prehistoric zoo. Not having a Ph.D. in any of these related fields, some of it was still a little over my head. But, like 11- or 12-year-old me, I got the basic gist of it.
There are a lot of little differences between the book and the movie. These are differences that are easy to forget about when you only read the book once 20 years ago and have seen the movie a few dozen times. For example, in the movie, Dr. Alan Grant is portrayed as a guy that really doesn't like kids very much. In the book, Grant loves kids because they tend to have an insatiable fascination with dinosaurs. Another difference, he and Dr. Ellie Sattler do not have a romantic relationship. She's his student, nothing more. In fact, he mentions to the kids while they're trapped in the park that Ellie is engaged to a nice doctor in the Chicago area.
Another change is in the character of John Hammond, the financier of Jurassic Park. In the movie he's portrayed as an eccentric little man who simply wants to entertain the world with his biological creations. Sure, the novel version of the old man wants to entertain the world, but his driving force seems to be dollar signs. And he really doesn't care much about the consequences of his actions. In the film he survives to regret the creation of Jurassic Park. In the book, he dies still imagining that next time they'll be able to get it right.
There are other changes that I won't go into here. After all, it's a really good book and if you haven't read it, it's worth picking up, even 20 years later. Sure, some of the references are a little outdated since the majority of the story takes place in 1989. But still, we're dealing with extinct animals. So it's kind of a timeless tale. And I always find it interesting to read Ian Malcolm's take on things. He has a few nice little explanations about the dangers inherent in attempting manipulate the natural order of things.
I think it's amazing that Malcolm clearly died in the novel (they mention the Costa Rican government not allowing the survivors to bury him yet), but he makes a comeback in the sequel novel (and movie) The Lost World. I never read that book, but I always thought the movie was something of a disappointment. The book is on my list though. I'll get to it soon.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Question of the Week: Forty Points
If you could increase your IQ by forty points by having an ugly scar stretching from your mouth to your eye, would you do so?
Shoot yeah. I mean, I like to think I'm fairly intelligent as I am now, but just because I think it doesn't necessarily meant it's entirely accurate. I'm no dummy, but I'm sure I could always stand to be a little smarter. And you know, this face isn't winning any beauty contests as it is. What's a scar gonna do to me? You know what it'll do? It'll add character. People who would otherwise forget me after a first meeting will suddenly be like, "Who's that? Oh, the guy with the scar on his face. Would not want to run into him in a dark alley."
*Question of the Week comes from The Book of Questions by Gregory Stock, Ph.D.
Shoot yeah. I mean, I like to think I'm fairly intelligent as I am now, but just because I think it doesn't necessarily meant it's entirely accurate. I'm no dummy, but I'm sure I could always stand to be a little smarter. And you know, this face isn't winning any beauty contests as it is. What's a scar gonna do to me? You know what it'll do? It'll add character. People who would otherwise forget me after a first meeting will suddenly be like, "Who's that? Oh, the guy with the scar on his face. Would not want to run into him in a dark alley."
*Question of the Week comes from The Book of Questions by Gregory Stock, Ph.D.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Legends of the Bank Teller: Episode C
100 Legends of the Bank Teller. Who'd have ever thought that I'd be here that long? I know when I started doing these posts, I really didn't think I'd have that many stories to tell from behind the teller line. Honestly, I wasn't sure I'd be able to do 50. But here we are. Actually this is 101. I accidentally labeled two of them as number 64. Oops. So let's not dwell on unimpressive milestones. Let's get to today's legend.
Each month we get together early in the morning to discuss updates to bank operations. These meetings are led by an operations manager who comes to let us know what we're doing well, what we're doing wrong, and shares with us the important topic of the month. I say important, but to me it just seems to rehash some common sense issues that some people still have a problem grasping. Mostly because they lack common sense. It happens.
This month's topic revolved around safe deposit boxes. Why these things still exist is beyond me. People can buy some pretty affordable home safes from Wal-Mart. Keep your valuables nearby. It's what I'd do if I had something valuable. Anyway, we recently had an issue of a customer who had gone extremely delinquent on his safe box payments. So we had to drill his box and get rid of his belongings.
No one really knows what's happened to this customer. He isn't dead, because he's made loan payments as recently as a couple months ago. Those who have tried to contact him get a working voicemail recording, so he's been paying his phone bill. One of our co-workers mentioned that the problem could have been amnesia.
The operations guy didn't quite hear her, so he got her to repeat what she said. Again, she asked about amnesia. But he still didn't understand her. She said it a third time and finally it clicked. It didn't resolve anything about the delinquent customer but it helped to bring the conversation to a close.
In the operations manager's defense, she was pronouncing amnesia as "umnesia." I knew what she was saying right away. I mean, really, it wasn't that far off from the proper pronunciation and you could really pick up the context clues. And if you ask me "umnesia" works.
I mean, go up to a victim of memory loss and ask, "What's your name?"
"Ummmm..."
Each month we get together early in the morning to discuss updates to bank operations. These meetings are led by an operations manager who comes to let us know what we're doing well, what we're doing wrong, and shares with us the important topic of the month. I say important, but to me it just seems to rehash some common sense issues that some people still have a problem grasping. Mostly because they lack common sense. It happens.
This month's topic revolved around safe deposit boxes. Why these things still exist is beyond me. People can buy some pretty affordable home safes from Wal-Mart. Keep your valuables nearby. It's what I'd do if I had something valuable. Anyway, we recently had an issue of a customer who had gone extremely delinquent on his safe box payments. So we had to drill his box and get rid of his belongings.
No one really knows what's happened to this customer. He isn't dead, because he's made loan payments as recently as a couple months ago. Those who have tried to contact him get a working voicemail recording, so he's been paying his phone bill. One of our co-workers mentioned that the problem could have been amnesia.
The operations guy didn't quite hear her, so he got her to repeat what she said. Again, she asked about amnesia. But he still didn't understand her. She said it a third time and finally it clicked. It didn't resolve anything about the delinquent customer but it helped to bring the conversation to a close.
In the operations manager's defense, she was pronouncing amnesia as "umnesia." I knew what she was saying right away. I mean, really, it wasn't that far off from the proper pronunciation and you could really pick up the context clues. And if you ask me "umnesia" works.
I mean, go up to a victim of memory loss and ask, "What's your name?"
"Ummmm..."
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
AFI 81 - Spartacus
Spartacus
1960
Directed by Stanley Kubrick
Netflix sleeve: Stanley Kubrick directed this epic saga based on ancient events, chronicling the birth of a vagabond slave-army led by an ex-gladiator named Spartacus (Kirk Douglas) that threatens the sovereignty of all-mighty Rome. This film has everything, including a wonderfully funny (and Oscar-winning) performance from Peter Ustinov as the cowardly owner of a gladiator school. Laurence Olivier, Charles Laughton, Jean Simmons and Tony Curtis co-star.
Here's one I thought I would really enjoy. Turns out, it didn't do much for me. See, I loved Gladiator. It was awesome and epic and I just naturally assumed that I would like Spartacus in the same way. After all, I kind of viewed this as Gladiator's intellectual father. Or maybe grandfather. Don't get me wrong, it was a pretty decent movie. Just not as great as I had been expecting. Maybe I simply over sold it to myself and was disappointed with the actual product. Maybe I was just waiting around for Jean Simmons to paint her face and sing about how she wanted to rock and roll all night and party every day and that just never happened. See what I did there? I made a Kiss joke. 'Cause the names Jean and Gene sound the same. Get it? Shut up, you know it was funny.
The Single Guy Talks About the Weather
He knew it was a mistake as soon as he opened his mouth to speak. But by then it was already too late. The path from his brain to his lips was far to short a distance and before he could take it back, the Single Guy had already made a comment about the weather.
Rule number one when having a conversation is to never talk about the weather. That's what uninteresting people and the elderly talk about when they're desperate to talk to someone. That's not an acceptable topic of conversation when trying to get into the good graces of your friendly neighborhood Spider-Girl.
But it had been a hot day. In fact, it was all any of the other customers seemed to be able to talk about. The Single Guy was getting really sick of hearing, "It sure is hot out there!" or "Man, it's a scorcher today!" He knows how to deal with these conversations. He smiles and nods while politely ignoring the topic. He runs the customers' transactions and sends them along on their merry way. And yet, he fell victim to the seed that had apparently been planted in mind.
It was the first thing that came to mind when he saw the Spider-Girl drive up to his window. He greeted her and then asked, "Is it as hot as everyone keeps saying it is?" She didn't laugh. Instead, in a symbolic act of dismissal, she waved her hand and just said no.
The Single Guy felt as if he had just witnessed all of the invisible lines of communication between him and Spider-Girl become severed. He made her deposit and wished her a pleasant afternoon before she drove away. Afterward, he mentally kicked himself again and again.
"No one wants to talk about the weather!" he yelled, berating himself.
This comes only a day after he felt as if he had made some actual progress with her. In asking about her weekend, the conversation turned to finding out that she waits tables at a local pizza place part-time. When he found this out he couldn't help but smile. He thought about how much they now had in common: they both worked second jobs in the pizza industry, they both complained about having to work on the weekends, they both freaked out a little whenever a spider was crawling on them.
And then he had to ruin it by mentioning the weather. He may has well have leaned into the microphone and said, "Hot enough for ya?" Now he's left wondering if he'll have a chance to recuperate from this misstep. Will he be able to rebuild himself in her eyes, or will Spider-Girl forever view the Single Guy as an uninteresting guy who falls back on the weather when there's seemingly nothing else to talk about?
Rule number one when having a conversation is to never talk about the weather. That's what uninteresting people and the elderly talk about when they're desperate to talk to someone. That's not an acceptable topic of conversation when trying to get into the good graces of your friendly neighborhood Spider-Girl.
But it had been a hot day. In fact, it was all any of the other customers seemed to be able to talk about. The Single Guy was getting really sick of hearing, "It sure is hot out there!" or "Man, it's a scorcher today!" He knows how to deal with these conversations. He smiles and nods while politely ignoring the topic. He runs the customers' transactions and sends them along on their merry way. And yet, he fell victim to the seed that had apparently been planted in mind.
It was the first thing that came to mind when he saw the Spider-Girl drive up to his window. He greeted her and then asked, "Is it as hot as everyone keeps saying it is?" She didn't laugh. Instead, in a symbolic act of dismissal, she waved her hand and just said no.
The Single Guy felt as if he had just witnessed all of the invisible lines of communication between him and Spider-Girl become severed. He made her deposit and wished her a pleasant afternoon before she drove away. Afterward, he mentally kicked himself again and again.
"No one wants to talk about the weather!" he yelled, berating himself.
This comes only a day after he felt as if he had made some actual progress with her. In asking about her weekend, the conversation turned to finding out that she waits tables at a local pizza place part-time. When he found this out he couldn't help but smile. He thought about how much they now had in common: they both worked second jobs in the pizza industry, they both complained about having to work on the weekends, they both freaked out a little whenever a spider was crawling on them.
And then he had to ruin it by mentioning the weather. He may has well have leaned into the microphone and said, "Hot enough for ya?" Now he's left wondering if he'll have a chance to recuperate from this misstep. Will he be able to rebuild himself in her eyes, or will Spider-Girl forever view the Single Guy as an uninteresting guy who falls back on the weather when there's seemingly nothing else to talk about?
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Life Story - Chapter Fifty Seven
One of those kind of awesome things about the senior year of high school was the opportunity to take psychology and sociology as electives. These classes did not inspire me to pick up that second major of Behavioral Science in college. That inspiration wouldn't come until much later, after I already had a first major in college. No, these classes were just a fun kind of thing and turned out to be easy A's.
Each semester was taught by Mrs. Russell, who also taught some of the senior government classes. I didn't have her for government, but I heard she was harder in that class than she was with her psych students. In fact, I think she may have been too easy on the psych students.
'Cause mostly we watched movies. Well, we took notes too. But they weren't the kind of notes that you had to think about when you wrote them down. She threw a transparency film on the overhead projector and we just copied it verbatim. I have no memory of the tests in that class, but I'm pretty sure they came straight from the notes. We had no textbook.
So yeah, mostly we watched movies. More so in the second semester when we entered into sociology. She showed us a lot of the 80s Brat Pack movies. I guess they're great examples of how people interact with one another. We may have actually watched The Breakfast Club twice.
We had an activity during psychology that I remember clearly. Mostly, I remember it because I was seated next to Tara, whom you may remember from my ten year reunion. The activity involved everyone sitting in a circle with eyes closed. Mrs. Russell passed out a lemon to each person. With our eyes closed, we were supposed to feel the lemon in our hands and were even encouraged to smell it. Then we had to "take the lemon and pass it to the right." That quote sounds funnier in my head because I'm still hearing Mrs. Russell's thick Tennessee accent. I think the object of her little experiment was to see if we could tell subtle differences in different lemons without the use of our vision.
As you can tell, I learned a lot in that class. They're lessons I obviously carry with me to this day.
Each semester was taught by Mrs. Russell, who also taught some of the senior government classes. I didn't have her for government, but I heard she was harder in that class than she was with her psych students. In fact, I think she may have been too easy on the psych students.
'Cause mostly we watched movies. Well, we took notes too. But they weren't the kind of notes that you had to think about when you wrote them down. She threw a transparency film on the overhead projector and we just copied it verbatim. I have no memory of the tests in that class, but I'm pretty sure they came straight from the notes. We had no textbook.
So yeah, mostly we watched movies. More so in the second semester when we entered into sociology. She showed us a lot of the 80s Brat Pack movies. I guess they're great examples of how people interact with one another. We may have actually watched The Breakfast Club twice.
We had an activity during psychology that I remember clearly. Mostly, I remember it because I was seated next to Tara, whom you may remember from my ten year reunion. The activity involved everyone sitting in a circle with eyes closed. Mrs. Russell passed out a lemon to each person. With our eyes closed, we were supposed to feel the lemon in our hands and were even encouraged to smell it. Then we had to "take the lemon and pass it to the right." That quote sounds funnier in my head because I'm still hearing Mrs. Russell's thick Tennessee accent. I think the object of her little experiment was to see if we could tell subtle differences in different lemons without the use of our vision.
As you can tell, I learned a lot in that class. They're lessons I obviously carry with me to this day.
Monday, May 23, 2011
AFI 82 - Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans
Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans
1927
Directed by F. W. Murnau
Netflix sleeve: Director F.W. Murnau's emotional odyssey stars George O'Brien and Janet Gaynor as a country couple whose marriage is threatened when O'Brien falls prey to cosmopolitan temptress Margaret Livingston's feminine wiles. Imbued with an intoxicating ambiance in style and substance, the lyrical silent film--which is, by turns, quixotic, blissful, sensual and terrifying--chalked up Academy Awards for Best Actress (Gaynor) and Best Cinematography.
I'm not sure what there is to say about this movie. Maybe it was the lack of speaking, but I kind of found this one a little hard to follow. I guess I can't really say I'm a fan of the silent picture. Absolutely not in my personal top 100. And there's a pretty good chance I'll never put myself through watching this movie again. Ever. And I don't mean to offend anyone who does enjoy this movie. It's just not for me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)