Perhaps it’s the sheer contrast of the items in my (short) reading list that are responsible for all the confusion. The System paired with Questionable Content preach of polar extremes, and the game we’re all unfortunately trapped in, being the band that they share. No sooner is the System keen to banish the moral issue than QC is to bring it up, though both in a comedic manner. The undertones, too, are far more serious, underscoring the half meant jokes like subtitles of a foreign movie. The System, oddly enough, was the more meta-fictional of the two.
Interesting too that the choice of wit and humor is used to attack what would normally be an awkward or ponderous subject, making light matter of a phenomenon that easily plagues us all. It’s it light and funny attitude, self-depreciating at times, as the good book says, that keeps it in good company, or in QC’s case, good following.
The same holds true for a book I’m reading now — life and times of and editor who’s been through hell and back, and with a relative I’m coming to know even better now, though he’s departed, through his words.
No better is it best exemplified than in a song I’ve recently come across.
“Dress it up with the trappings of love. I’ll be captivated…”
1.27.2006
1.17.2006
Passive, Aggressive, Recessive
In high school, we were taught about how genes and how two kinds: dominant and recessive, are responsible for how traits are passed, or perhaps chosen is the more appropriate term. The dominant gene will always overpower the recessive gene, taking precedence even in the presence of the recessive gene, hence the name. The recessive gene only surfaces when in the company of other recessive genes. It is a tacit, brooding gene that can live peacefully among the dominant ones. It will never overpower the dominant gene and can only reign in its absence. But before I continue, this story needs a little segue (Yes, we’re meta-fictional today).
Of all my romantic encounters, I’ve only been truly honest to one of them. Of course, had I known that that kind of honesty would warrant hours of therapy in the future, I might have chosen a more deceitful approach. Yet hindsight, as they say, is 20-20. And my philosophy professor will continue to argue that while the past cannot be changed, its meaning is as adaptable as evolution itself.
Never mind about my logic in telling her this. What I did say was that I was somewhat petrified of the thought of commitment. A foolish thing to say, I know, especially at quite a raw state (of maturity). Looking back, I realize that I was, indeed, half right. Many years (and scars charged to experience) later, it’s not commitment itself I fear but something much farther down the road. Every nerd, even at the instinctive level knows and fears this fact of life. In fact, anyone who hasn’t resorted to physical displays of dominance for lack thereof knows why — these are the recessives.
Now in this day and age, it goes without saying that we have, in fact, defied the laws of evolution, and that ‘survival of the fittest’ no longer exists, at least not on the physical plane. ‘Survival of the fittest’ has crossed over into the fiscal plain, fittest being the most financially capable (or perceptive at least) of sustaining life.
Yes, life's a bitch in the urban jungle. Recessives continue to be recessive while the dominants have moved on to less tangible displays of dominance. It’s still very animal kingdom-y if you ask me.
I’ve long been aware of my recessive state, not to mention been made aware of it. Yet growing up, I've never been endowed with the tools to overcome it, and have since made conscious efforts to reverse it. Identity, however, is bestowed right down to DNA, and cannot be revoked nor replaced. And even on the fiscal or perceptive plane, I find myself, through the stinging bite of experience, lacking.
Let’s keep all my skeletons in the closet and Freudian sub-consciousnesses securely subconscious. What I speak of is an inevitability and not just a possibility. Being a recessive, how long do you really think it will take before the better half will seek a member of the dominant faction? A fulfilled life, after all, by nature’s definition, is passing on one’s genes to the next generation (one capable of sustaining life, remember?) and beginning yet another cycle. Instinct, a facet of ourselves we have failed to reprogram, dictates it.
Indeed I’m afraid of failure, and with good reason. A factory defect, as my workplace calls it, has no other solution than replacement.
I choose not to begin for the sole reason that I know it will not continue, or perhaps will, but with serious impairment to mobility, as most factory defects, if unchecked, proceed.
Friends will easily call it pessimism. Yet, time and time again, my so-called doomsayers prove themselves right. Chronicles of history, novels, and even the realm of fiction do well to highlight the writing on the wall. Watch the recent movie loosely based on another movie, loosely based on a rumor, and you’ll see the stark difference between dominants and recessives.
Maybe I’ve lost my naïve romanticism. Maybe I’ve come to realize that “Kiss me you passive aggressive fool!” just doesn’t cut it anymore. And neither will “Sorry.”
They just don't go away that easily.
Of all my romantic encounters, I’ve only been truly honest to one of them. Of course, had I known that that kind of honesty would warrant hours of therapy in the future, I might have chosen a more deceitful approach. Yet hindsight, as they say, is 20-20. And my philosophy professor will continue to argue that while the past cannot be changed, its meaning is as adaptable as evolution itself.
Never mind about my logic in telling her this. What I did say was that I was somewhat petrified of the thought of commitment. A foolish thing to say, I know, especially at quite a raw state (of maturity). Looking back, I realize that I was, indeed, half right. Many years (and scars charged to experience) later, it’s not commitment itself I fear but something much farther down the road. Every nerd, even at the instinctive level knows and fears this fact of life. In fact, anyone who hasn’t resorted to physical displays of dominance for lack thereof knows why — these are the recessives.
Now in this day and age, it goes without saying that we have, in fact, defied the laws of evolution, and that ‘survival of the fittest’ no longer exists, at least not on the physical plane. ‘Survival of the fittest’ has crossed over into the fiscal plain, fittest being the most financially capable (or perceptive at least) of sustaining life.
Yes, life's a bitch in the urban jungle. Recessives continue to be recessive while the dominants have moved on to less tangible displays of dominance. It’s still very animal kingdom-y if you ask me.
I’ve long been aware of my recessive state, not to mention been made aware of it. Yet growing up, I've never been endowed with the tools to overcome it, and have since made conscious efforts to reverse it. Identity, however, is bestowed right down to DNA, and cannot be revoked nor replaced. And even on the fiscal or perceptive plane, I find myself, through the stinging bite of experience, lacking.
Let’s keep all my skeletons in the closet and Freudian sub-consciousnesses securely subconscious. What I speak of is an inevitability and not just a possibility. Being a recessive, how long do you really think it will take before the better half will seek a member of the dominant faction? A fulfilled life, after all, by nature’s definition, is passing on one’s genes to the next generation (one capable of sustaining life, remember?) and beginning yet another cycle. Instinct, a facet of ourselves we have failed to reprogram, dictates it.
Indeed I’m afraid of failure, and with good reason. A factory defect, as my workplace calls it, has no other solution than replacement.
I choose not to begin for the sole reason that I know it will not continue, or perhaps will, but with serious impairment to mobility, as most factory defects, if unchecked, proceed.
Friends will easily call it pessimism. Yet, time and time again, my so-called doomsayers prove themselves right. Chronicles of history, novels, and even the realm of fiction do well to highlight the writing on the wall. Watch the recent movie loosely based on another movie, loosely based on a rumor, and you’ll see the stark difference between dominants and recessives.
Maybe I’ve lost my naïve romanticism. Maybe I’ve come to realize that “Kiss me you passive aggressive fool!” just doesn’t cut it anymore. And neither will “Sorry.”
They just don't go away that easily.
1.09.2006
Of Cars and Courtship
Sometimes you have to just immerse yourself in testosterone — nothing like a good day of having your balls hanging from your chin to clear your head. Or perhaps there’s more to grabbing the wheel and purposely hanging your life by a thread that puts things in perspective. Whatever the case, there’s always been an inseparable bond between men and cars that women, save for a rare few, will never truly understand.
Handling a car takes an odd mix of finesse and brutality in order to extract its true potential. Finesse in the way you shift the car’s weight around, and brutality in order to fight the forces of gravity from all directions, and of course your own self preserving instincts. Only lately did you need the muscle to fight the car’s good sense as well. They (the cars) are growing up so fast.
Yet track days and courtship aren’t that far apart. It’s all a matter of controlling the flow of things. Men would like to think that they control the courtship, but it’s all under the controls of the laws of attraction. The same goes with cars as well. While we’d like to think we have absolute control of the car, it’s actually physics that dictates where the car goes, regardless, in some occasions, of where the front tires are pointing. Draw out all the vectors of the forces and you'll realize just how miniscule our control really is. The driver’s job is merely that of shifting weight, as the wise Dr. Clunky says. It’s a matter of shifting the weight to create favorable conditions for us to manipulate the car to do what we really want.
That being the case, you realize that there’s very little control us men have over anything. We just hope that we have enough mettle and skill to shift things to more a favorable position. That, perhaps is where a lot of experience, and a very sensitive derriere (for driving) comes in handy. As for the other case, it’s a sensitivity that’s not as instinctive as we’d like it to be. The signs are there, however, just not brightly lit, nor reflective at night.
Handling a car takes an odd mix of finesse and brutality in order to extract its true potential. Finesse in the way you shift the car’s weight around, and brutality in order to fight the forces of gravity from all directions, and of course your own self preserving instincts. Only lately did you need the muscle to fight the car’s good sense as well. They (the cars) are growing up so fast.
Yet track days and courtship aren’t that far apart. It’s all a matter of controlling the flow of things. Men would like to think that they control the courtship, but it’s all under the controls of the laws of attraction. The same goes with cars as well. While we’d like to think we have absolute control of the car, it’s actually physics that dictates where the car goes, regardless, in some occasions, of where the front tires are pointing. Draw out all the vectors of the forces and you'll realize just how miniscule our control really is. The driver’s job is merely that of shifting weight, as the wise Dr. Clunky says. It’s a matter of shifting the weight to create favorable conditions for us to manipulate the car to do what we really want.
That being the case, you realize that there’s very little control us men have over anything. We just hope that we have enough mettle and skill to shift things to more a favorable position. That, perhaps is where a lot of experience, and a very sensitive derriere (for driving) comes in handy. As for the other case, it’s a sensitivity that’s not as instinctive as we’d like it to be. The signs are there, however, just not brightly lit, nor reflective at night.
