Baggage

Honesty. Why is it so hard to get right? Why do we put so much effort into avoiding the truth about how we're doing in our daily walk? Every Sunday service has a meet-and-greet time. Why does it seem that 'good' is the default answer to 'how are you?'. If we're doing so 'good', why are our lives filled with trouble, pain, and all sorts of trials?

Are we afraid of exposing who we really are? Do we think that 'good' is all anybody else wants to hear, so we don't bother telling them the truth?

I'm guilty. I do this all the time. And I confess it's due to feeling that others don't want to hear about the not-so-tidy bits of my life. I've had experiences in the past where I try telling how I really am doing during the meet-and-greet time, and more often than not, I get utter confusion. When people don't hear the magical codeword indicating everything is fine and dandy, they tend to panic. (what do I do? what do I say? ahhhhhhhh...)

Granted, this is anecdotal, and rule #1 in constructing an argument is that all anecdotes are evil. Fair enough.

Alas, I've never been very good at social conventions. Perhaps it's not socially proper to tell others your problems in a casual context. Perhaps people who undergo periods of depression and anxiety should be sequestered from public view. Perhaps one of the prerequisites for social gatherings is that you check your emotional, physical, and spiritual baggage at the door. Perhaps so.

But if so, it doesn't seem right.

If this sounds like a bitter diatribe, I don't mean it to be. Maybe the problem is me. Maybe I'm being too sensitive. Maybe the vast majority of the people I shake hands with mean what they say.

Maybe so, but deep down inside me, I have doubts, which is why I'm blogging on the subject.

Say what you mean. Mean what you say. It's harder than it sounds.

Until next time,
- Daniel

Flirtation

WARNING: The following is the brainchild of a certain late-night Google Chat session. You know who you are.

Flirtation. It affects us all. Sad but true.

You may not be married.

*cheers*

You may never have been engaged.

*CHEERS*

Shoot, maybe you haven't even dated.

*C-H-E-E-R-S* (ouch, that Josh Harris crowd is deafening)

But you've flirted or been flirted with. You know you have.

Go on. Fess up. Confession is good for the soul. I'll wait...

...

Still recalcitrant, eh? No hurry, I've got all day...

...

There now. Don't you feel better?

Now. Where was I? That's right. Flirtation. It affects us all. Christian Homeschoolers more than most.
:cries of rage:
(argh, would somebody please do Harris crowd control?)

That's better.

Why do I say this? Well, we view flirtation as one of the seven deadly sins, so we don't talk about it. To quote Hogan's Heroes:

"I know nothing, I hear nothing, I see NOTHING."
~ Sergeant Schultz

But it happens regardless, and you need to know how to deal with it. That's why I'm here. No, it's true. Even yours truly has been guilty of occasional gallantry and the victim of the odd coquette. Fortunately, both problems have similar solutions, and neither involve joining a monastery or nunnery for the remainder of your useful life.

If you're the perpetrator of serial flirtation, stop. Take a deep breath. Then, ask yourself if being asked to go to a movie is equivalent to a marriage proposal. I thought not.

If you're the victim of serial flirtation, stop. Take a deep breath. Then, ask yourself if you should go on a hike with that girl with the involuntary giggle or that guy bereft of the concept of personal space. I thought not.

Overly simplified much? Probably. People like to flirt.

What? You don't?

You're telling me that if someone commanded you to flirt with that handsome hunk with the supercomputer inside his cranium, you'd have a hard time complying? Or, for the guys, if a warrant was issued for the arrest of two people--you and that charming lady around your age with the athletic build and long eyelashes--you'd be hesitant to run off together and be put on the FBI's most wanted list?

If you said 'yes', I have news for you. You're not human.

We have met the enemy and he is us.

Until next time,
- Daniel

The Benefits of Getting Older

I have brothers. Four of them. They're getting stronger than me, faster than me, and taller than me. I'm desperately trying to stay ahead in the wit department, but it's not easy.

Regardless. I have one key advantage. I'm the oldest.

This may not seem like an advantage, but it is. With age comes wisdom. With age comes monetary resources. With age comes the opportunity to break new ground in the prank/retaliation department. (Face it, just like with the first horror movies, there aren't any cliches to avoid. It's a virgin, untouched domain, and I'm the first to get to it.)

I'll admit some of my early attempts were amateurish and prone to backfiring. The pillow trap over the door, the raisins filled with Cayenne pepper, the 3AM radio alarm set to Mexican polka music, yes, amateur to a tee. I suffered almost as much as the prankee.

That rhymed.

...

Hey, but this time, I'm prepared.

See, two of my brothers have birthdays in November. Nathan and Marcus. The 1st and the 10th. Like two unsuspecting binary numbers.

The problem with my past pranks is that there wasn't any motivation behind them. Your brother hands you raisins. Ummm... suspicious much? He asks you to come upstairs. Creeeepy. The indicator light on your alarm is on, when you know it's never supposed to go off on Sunday morning. Yeah, you get the picture...

Now, try these on for size:

• "Happy Birthday Nathan! Let me cut you a slice of this raisin applesauce cake..."
  
  
• "Hey, Marcus, could you come upstairs for a minute? I'm gonna need some help getting your birthday present downstairs..."
  
  
• "Nathan, make sure you turn your alarm on: birthday breakfast at IHOP tomorrow..."

Not bad, eh?

Oh, they have no idea (and fortunately, they don't read this blog), but they're in for some very memorable moments.

Now you see why I've been training for an ultramarathon. I'm counting on the fact that I can run farther than they can. If so, you'll either have a prank report or I'll be incognito for 61 years (assuming those life expectancy tables are correct).

Until next time (maybe),

- Daniel

How to Get Lost

Who knew? Who knew that there's a 5,100 acre forest within walking distance of the largest metropolitan area in Oregon?

I sure didn't.

Yesterday, I took it upon myself to explore this new wonder. Like Moses and the burning bush, I approached the forbidding depths on foot in fear and trepidation. Unlike Moses, I left my shoes on. Also unlike Moses, I took the trouble of mapping my route via satellite first. Not that it did any good, but at least I tried not to get lost. That counts for something, right?

There are a number of factors which conspire against visitors to Forest Park. First, there are the trees, which--while not exactly old growth--are thick and gnarly enough to obscure any kind of view. Second, there are the roads and trails, which are poorly marked and have the tendency of going anywhere but where you think they ought to go. Third, it's hilly country (downtown Portland lies at 50', the mean elevation of Arlington Heights is 1000'), so unless you have a topo map, good luck finding Dr. Livingstone.

During my adventure, I took a wrong turn and ended up way too far south (the sound of cackling chimps was the giveaway). Heading north from the zoo, I detoured through the International Rose Test Garden (the view of decrepit roses and rotting blossoms is breathtaking in late October) and the Japanese Gardens (Don't get excited. North America and Japan lie at the same latitude, so yeah, they share common foliage. My advice? If you're tired of fir trees and climbing ivy, don't visit Japan).

Finally, I hit a familiar landmark--Fairview Blvd--and was golden for about ten minutes. The map said to turn right on Wildwood trail in 0.3 miles, so I did. Except it wasn't Wildwood trail. (Well, it felt like 0.3 miles.)

So I'm walking up this unmarked trail, which I just know is the wrong trail (funny how that works), looking for my next turn onto Cherry trail, which--of course--never appears. Then, wonder of wonders, I crash out of the bushes and stumble right into the Hoyt Arboretum parking lot... which... of course, was my desired destination all along.

Needless to say, I'm beginning to rethink the wisdom of a 50k trail run. Yes, there'll be a lake on my left-hand side for the entire race. Still, with my track record, I don't know that tempting fate is a great idea.

Not to dissuade anybody from joining me, of course. Getting lost is a character building experience. Moral of the story: You want character? Hang out with Daniel.

Laplace Transform of x^2 + e^x

Yes, readers who understand a bit of calculus are going to have an unfair advantage during today's blog post. Hey, I make the rules, I can use calculus if I like. Besides, calculus is the key to life (also, 42 is the answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything.)

Roughly speaking, calculus can be divided into two general disciplines.

• Integration - calculating the area below curves
• Differentiation - finding the slope of curves

As the advanced mathematician can attest, either of these operations is vastly more difficult to do than their algebraic underlings. (how I cry for the days of multiply, divide, add, and subtract.)

When you get really crazy and deep into the mathematical curricula, you learn about something called the Laplace transform. It's a handy way to analyze mechanical, optical, and electronic systems, but one of its niftiest side-effects is what it does to the basic operations of calculus.

Simply put, differentiation and integration become multiplication and division, respectively. Take the Laplace transform of a function, divide it by s, then find the inverse Laplace transform, and voila, you've integrated. Ditto for multiplication.

All this to say, I wish there were a Laplace transform for life, but alas, there doesn't appear to be. Let the alchemists have the gold; give Indy the holy grail; all I want is a coherent way to unravel life's mysteries, is that too much to ask? (no, 42 doesn't check out... its derivative is zero and its integral over the entire real line is infinity. Bo-orring.)

And for the record, the Laplace transform of x^2 + e^x is 2/s^3 + 1/(s - 1). It may come in useful some day. You never know. (I take check, Visa, PayPal...)

...on Wookies and Friendship

Oddball friends. You know the type. Friends who are friends due to intrinsic factors, not extrinsic ones. You know who I'm talking about. They could be Imperial slave traders on Kashyyyk, and you'd still have a blast hanging out with them and doing stuff together. Your friendship isn't tied to a common hobby, a common occupation, or even common interests, and yet there's a bond that seems to transcend all of that.

Maybe you've only thought of friendship in terms of commonalities. That's perfectly fine. Many great friendships are built on that principle. And yet, there are those oddball people you know, who, against all odds or reasoning, you genuinely like. Just because.

Now I'm not saying that you should buddy-up with slave traders or find a Wookie to hug. No, just like in marriage, you don't proactively seek people who are in every way opposite from you. Regardless, they'll show up, invited or no, and you need to do... something... when they arrive (staring blankly at the wall and reciting digits of Pi isn't going to cut it.

Now, it's true that we naturally gravitate to people with common interests. Geeks like geeks, nerds like nerds, rednecks like rednecks, and so on. Why? Well, they're the people we typically feel safe around, who we think will respect our eccentricities and with whom we can get the biggest bang for the buck from our social time. But, what are you supposed to do when Sam the zookeeper from down the street stops by your weekly LAN party at Joe's house? Worse yet, what if he's an entertaining chap who can spin elephant dung into a humorous yarn?

Why, one approach could be to hand him a copy of National Geographic before hunkering down behind your twin plasmas to wrap up that game of Starcraft. But why? I mean, sure it's strange (heaven knows zookeepers need a strange sense of humor). And sure, you're probably a bit put off and confused. But by golly, the safe option--the easy out--seems more like an avoidance of risk. And risk, my friends, is one of the most underrated parts of friendship.

Risk. That four letter word gives us a sinking feeling in the pit of our stomachs. Risk can yield ridicule and very small gain for our efforts. Nevertheless, that effort, I believe, is what creates the potential for some great friendships. Say you're a geek. You can talk math, science, and literature all day long with likeminded people, with little to no risk that they're going to think you strange. Ah, but go outside that circle and try befriending someone you wouldn't normally have much in common with. I think you'll find that wonderful things can happen.

I'm sorry to keep going back to marriage, but it's a good example. Take a guy, who may be interested in monster truck racing, football, and bungee jumping--and a girl, who may be interested in gardening, knitting, and literature (or swap the two--I've met male knitting aficionados, but I'm not naming names). Normally, you'd expect fireworks, demolition, utter failure. And yet sometimes--in spite of all odds, they find that the effort they pour into making the friendship work, causes them to become less self-centered around their own personal likes and dislikes, and show that friendship can be more. Of these, a portion decide to get married, and often--these marriages last for life. The old adage, "opposites attract", is often true, and yet it shouldn't be. At least, not in the way we typically view friendship.

So, next time Sam tells that raucous tale about the time 10 bull elephants ran rampant around the zoo, dropping potent smelling parcels everywhere, give him a chance. It could turn into something special. (the friendship--I'd count the story as a lost cause).

Until next time,

- Daniel

Cameras and an Appeal to Dignity

Cameras. Everybody and their cat owns one, and sometimes it seems like the cat is the better photographer. (hint: it's all about the perspective). Consequence? We're the best documented generation since documentation was invented.

Is this a good thing?

Well, on the one hand, you'll never forget how to make that positively disturbing facial expression next time Aunt Gussie wants a kiss. But, as Reb Tevye would say, "on the other hand..."

We're egotistical enough as a society. (Don't believe me? Babysit a couple of toddlers or sit near the returns counter at your local department store for a couple hours. You'll come around.) It's true that everybody is special in their own special way, but I personally have exhibited enough special moments to realize that the vast majority of these should never see the public spotlight.

And yet they do, and are commented on rapturously and often to hilarious effect. The trouble starts when we start to get the idea that we're some kind of Victor Borge or Charlie Chaplin. The snowball effect ensues, and before you know it, you're falling down a rabbit hole at terminal velocity (I don't care what Lewis Carroll says about physics), and see that the floor is hard, unrelenting, and coming up fast.

The people who do this best (worst?) all seem to hail from Hollywood. One day you slip on a banana peel. People laugh. Next thing you know, you're falling down stairs and getting hit in unmentionable places. The ironic thing is, it's probably not even you doing these things, but some poor guy who appears in the credits as "Stunt Man #1", "Stunt Man #2", and so forth.

Not that cameras are bad. Nor that using (or attempting) humor is a doomsday trigger. But please. For all that is good and wholesome. Don't throw away your dignity. It's like a golf ball hit awry. It'll either hit a water trap, never to be seen again, or go through the window of a multi-million dollar mansion, where it will be held up and displayed for all your golfing buddies to see...

...and laugh over.

Won't somebody please think of the children!

Until next time,
- Daniel

(credits to Julia H. for the pic of my attempted suicide)