I got 88 problems..

I want to find the man who decided that piano chords should only sound good when you hit notes that are like a foot apart from each other, and I want to make sure he starts singing a whole octave higher for a while. I don't have big, flexible man hands. Mine fall into the category of really soft and a little bit childlike. Super useful for backrubs, but for piano I'd be better off using something like boxing gloves. Or my face.

I bought a cheap-ish casio keyboard as part of a plan to achieve life goals. I'd established that I wanted to be able to play the intro to Don't Stop Believing, truly a classic composition of our time. I came into this with the idea that I could 'teach myself' how to play. It's a slow process, and along the way I've learned a few lessons.

1. My left hand is basically useless. One of my hands can glide over the keys fairly proficiently, doing a sort of somersault upon itself to hit scales in sequence. One of my hands exists solely so that I have a backup place to hold things at parties.

2. These two hands do not like working together. In movies, when the FBI rolls in to track down the killer, the local police force isn't happy with this decision. This is exactly how my hands operate together. Any situation where the left hand occasionally but not always has to play notes at the same time as the right hand (basically every song ever written) leads to a communication breakdown.The addition of the left hand to the right throws a giant spanner into the works.

3. Running before you can walk: Good idea? I have a large collection of beginner piano lesson books from a former girlfriend. These books are full of songs that you'd say were cute if your 6 year old cousin played. I haven't been six for a while, so I am loathe to spend time mastering them. It's like learning to be good at wii bowling. I mean, you *can* put in the effort to do it, but when you absolutely nail it, nobody's going to be impressed with your accomplishments in a meaningful way. I also have the sheet music to Blue Rondo a la Turk; a song where the time signature has a '+' in it. Worth the risk of irrevokably damaging tendons in my hand for? Absolutely.

4. Sheet music might as well be written in morse code. I went through 6 years of band, and I cannot actually read music. I learned what all the dots mean, just enough to learn what the starting notes are and when I shouldn't play. Everything else is guesswork. Making lucky guesses over and over again. This is kind of a metaphor for my life as well. I don't actually know what the word insidious means, but I know the times when I can use it.

But that's just how I roll. I don't always do things the smart way, but I try and do them MY way. Speaking of, I should try and learn to play Sinatra's "My Way". Anyone want to give me a hand with these boxing gloves?

Motivation Muffins

A body at rest tends to stay at rest. A body in motion tends to stay in motion. These are excellent expectations of physics that apply to things that you can pick up and throw at people. Sadly, we're told that once you get down to the level of things that only people with PHDs in sciences get to see, these expectations don't apply. I'm talking sub-sub-sub particles at the point where something as seemingly simple as "motion" is hard to define. But I'm not a scientist. I know enough to know that I'm wrong as soon as anything more advanced than 8th grade chemistry is involved.

One thing I am good at is overthinking things and then applying a shoddy analogy based heavily in pop psychology to round the whole thought out. I'm the Half-bakery from The Phantom Tollbooth And today's special from the half-bakery is motivation muffins.

Motivation is very much like a muffin. Some people have the wherewithal to take raw ingredients and produce muffins themselves. Then there are the people who have muffin experience limited to what Starbucks is selling that day. Both metaphorically and literally I am at best a Starbucks muffiner. Give me the raw ingredients; some time, some experience and a goal to work towards and I choose the easy way out.

This is where I do my damndest to avoid mixing metaphors like batter for these muffins is similarly mixed. Some people are self-motivators. Tell them to make muffins and they will. Give them a goal to work towards, and they will push themselves to achieve the best possible outcome. The goal that gives them the most internal satisfaction, that builds character, that demonstrates value and a sense of self worth. They are bodies in motion, and they tend to stay in motion.

For others, Starbucks provides a tempting alternative. Using different energies, different types of skills, some people will get their muffins handed to them. They might not have the strong desire to take a hands-on role in achieving a goal, but they know people who are. And there isn't anything wrong with this. Some tasks are ones best left to people who are good at them. I might cook my own meals but nobody's expecting me to build my own car or mine my own baking soda.

I bring this analogy up as part of a point that though not very significant, might need mentioning. The point being that when I said that I'd worked hard to get where I am today, the fact of the matter is I really hadn't.

At least, not always. I spent 4 years as a Communication major - a major based heavily in theories that are quite obvious to anyone who's ever spent more than 10 minutes thinking about how people work. There's also a component of Communication theory that deals with questions about whether people in like-minded argumentative enclaves seal themselves off further as a response to attempts by argumentative interlocutors to argue in the Brockreidean ideal, but that's something only G. Thomas Goodnight would ever think about.

High school me spent many hours learning how to do things like read law cases and journal articles quickly and how to write compelling papers. High school me was the one who did all the work. High school me made mean motivation muffins. I was wound up like Cameron from Ferris Bueller's day off, but damn I could bake. This oven was running hot hot HOT. Needless to say, I got burned out.

So college me went from a body in motion to a body at rest. I didn't work as hard, and I didn't do as much. Some of this was because I didn't really have to. There were a lot of college freshman who spent time learning recipes for motivation muffins that I'd learned already. But as tendencies become habits become character traits, becoming a body at rest made me into a little bit of a slacker. Now that I'm working even less frequently, it's astounding how little I do with my day.

But I'm trying to make an effort to do more. I've got life goals, and the Brothers Mcelroy have tacitly granted me permission to lead a life as ridiculous as possible, which I will be sharing with you. Time to break out the recipe book.

I'd rather be occupying Wall Street

Being a college graduate in this economy is like being in the center of a bizarre hurricane of economic and psychological turmoil. Unemployment is high, the number of available jobs for recent grads is scarce and there is rightfully a lot of anger at those believed to be responsible for this (choose one: situation/calamity/clusterfuck).

As a recent graduate, I'm in a unique position to run headlong into this steaming pile of excrement called the economy. No safety net, no experience, just a 'So long, don't let the door doesn't hit your ass on the way out' attitude and a bundle of student loans.

You could say it's my fault. You could say, "What do you expect? You're a humanities major and all they ever amount to is grocery baggers and humanities professors. Worse, you're a communication major, which only exists to introduce business majors to someone hot to marry" And to an extent those are true. But I've done generic office work; something that a lot of Americans do. But try and find that now. Go on, try. I can either work for insultingly low pay/no pay or I can try and get a paying job where I don't have the experience to do it. Which is to say, The only options available to me are low/no paying jobs.

I grew up, spent my entire life believing that if I went to college, if I worked hard and got into a good school, that when all was said and done, that I'd have a job. I spent my entire school career believing that the harder I worked then, the better off things would be for me now. I don't believe that I deserve to have a job just because I went to college. I'll just say this: don't call me entitled for believing that I deserve a job. I worked my ass off to get here. Believing someone who works hard should be rewarded isn't entitlement; it's fairness.

It's fairness. It's justice. It's the idea underpinning the very capitalism that some claim the Occupy movement is undermining. In order to be a capitalist, in order to believe that there should be as few safety nets as possible, that the invisible hand of the market is a benevolent force that lifts and helps all who deserve it, you have to believe one fundamental tenet. You have to believe that those who work hardest at making the society the best will be rewarded the most.

If hard work towards good ends doesn't translate into a better reward for a person, then why in G-d's name should I abide by your system? If all are not equally treated, if some hard work is more equal than other hard work, then the system is flawed. If I can work hard, apply myself to a job so well that in 19 days I not only get offered a paid position, but wind up taking over my immediate superior's position - if I work that hard and yet my reward is a salary that's just pissing distance from the poverty line, then something is wrong.

I worked hard, I did all the "right" things, but I'm not able to get the reward I deserve. Someone who made the sorts of dangerous trades that brought the country and world to the brink of financial collapse - someone who did all the "wrong" things - is able to reap the benefits. But hey, that's the new reality. Screw over or be screwed over. So be it.

Anatomy of a phobia

From time to time, you'll hear of people with phobias of seemingly ridiculous things. People afraid of string, chins, the number thirteen - things that are not scary. Because there are things that are scary. The dark? Pretty terrifying under the right circumstances. Things of evil and danger lurk in the dark. Heights? they're apparently one of the things that we're born to be afraid of. Bugs to a lesser extent are scary. They're creepy, crawly and when they're in your space or up close and personal, they can be a little intimidating for something that you can easily crush with your foot. But how can somebody have a true phobia of something ridiculous? How is that even possible?

I'll do my best to explain what it's like being afraid of something that for all intents and purposes you shouldn't be afraid of. I'm afraid of mushrooms. Yes, mushrooms. It gives me a lot of anxiety when I come across them unexpectedly. Does the idea of avoiding mushrooms dominate my thoughts? Am I totally paralyzed by the thought of encountering mushrooms in my day to day life, even when there's no actual danger? Well no. I'm sure there are people who are afraid of other "normal" things in that way. But it's all a matter of degree. You can be more afraid of something, or less afraid of something.

I look at it like this: The degree to which a normal person should be afraid of mushrooms is so much smaller than the degree to which I am. I'm making a moderate issue out of something that to a normal person isn't even close to being an issue.

This fear of mushrooms wasn't something I was born with. It's a psychological stumbling block, and I can remember the moment when I developed my fear. I was probably 10, and I was at a family gathering for something on my mother's side. Once you get to cousins, and children of cousins on my mother's side, I'm not super familiar with them. It was also held at a little park/rec hall in the middle of nowhere, where there was a very inadequate playground. Between people who were close with each other, but whom I wasn't close with, and no other real distractions, I wasn't having fun at that gathering.

Someone suggested I try playing with a distant cousin's dog. Throw a stick for it. Dogs love fetch, dogs love sticks. But younger me didn't really like dogs. Younger me didn't like throwing sticks to dogs. Younger me was even really bad at selecting sticks for dogs. I selected a stick about the length of a soda can, but it was of a good thickness for fetch. I brought the stick up towards my face to toss the stick...

And there it was. It was about the size of a potsticker, and it was right in my face. Right. In. My. Face. All my dissatisfaction, all my unhappiness about being at this family gathering found a symbol, found a way to make themselves manifest.

I freaked out. I dropped the stick, flung it to the ground and probably let out a little scream. I don't remember anything beyond that. I wasn't in complete mental breakdown mode, I'm pretty sure. But I did not like it, not one little bit. Of course my younger brother and sister found out. And because all children are little shits when it comes to opportunities to traumatize their siblings, the rest of that summer was spent with small mushrooms shoved in my face. I dreaded the rain. I dreaded nature walks. Any chance that fungus would arise, and I did my best to avoid it.

I'm not sure what it is that I'm afraid of. With something like a fear of crossing a bridge over water, there's lots of tangible things that one could be afraid of. But for me, it's not as though I'm afraid I'll ingest a poisonous mushroom and die. What I'm "afraid" of is the mushroom itself. To me, the act of being in the close or unexpected proximity of a mushroom is as frightening as watching a horror film. My chest tenses up. I might let out an involuntary little yell. Most of all, the thought of getting to safety enters my mind. I want to get in my car, get back in my house, go someplace where I know that I'm free from mushrooms.

Time and repeated exposure to the real world have helped, thankfully. I'd like to say that I'm all better now, but that's not true. To me, "all better" means that I wouldn't have this negative reaction. I wouldn't react at all if I was "all better". But I can't do that. I just make accommodations. I know that mushrooms live in the produce section of the grocery store, so I draw a little 3-foot bubble around where they are and I avoid them. I don't make eye contact and I don't get too close. I read labels on soups, sauces. I read menus very carefully and ask if it's ambiguous. I ask to have things made without mushrooms if possible. If that's called into question, I phrase it as an allergy. Which is a real thing: I used to work near a woman who became allergic to mushrooms. If a restaurant can be expected to cater to a real food allergy, they should be able to cover my phobia.

To this day, I still react. Scenes from the remake of Alice in Wonderland made me sink low in my seat, gripping the armrests as though I were undergoing the Ludovico Technique. Recently, following a rare raining in Southern California, a house near where my car is parked had a lawn with maybe a dozen largish mushrooms. Again, I felt that panic, that tightness in my chest. I looked away quickly and instinctively as though I was being shown a real, live torture scene. To this day, I could not touch a portobello.¹ Even if you offered me money, I probably would not. If by some accident, or sufficiently large reward I did touch one, I would flinch, react as though it were a hot stove or festering wound. I'd immediately be filled with the urge to scrub that hand clean. To wash all of the mushroom away.

But I manage. I can live a normal life 99.99% of the time. Even when I do come across a mushroom, I think I'm getting better over time. Less anxious, less afraid. More normal I guess. I'm just glad that I don't have a fear of something more fundamental, something like driving.

1. I even refused to listen to the Dire Straits song "Portobello Belle"

The written word

I still know how to write cursive. It's one random and useless skill I picked up in elementary school that I still have in my head, along with other gems like long division or how to spell words without using spell check. I rarely use it. But this is because I go out of my way to avoid writing things on paper at all. My handwriting is abysmal. It sits on the page in tiny clusters, like a bundle of paranoid sticks cowering in the corner of the page. Letters are not of a consistent size, they bob and weave, or slowly slide off the edge of the page. Lined paper helps a little, but I crammed everything together without white space on the page. At the end of the year, the notebook would have 30 pages of an unrelenting barrage of scribbling in the front, and thirty blank pages that escaped the fury in the back.

This is why I like the computer. All the words I write come out clean, crisp, legible. Each one devoid of personality in and of itself as reading Times New Roman is wont to do. It's probably for the best that this happens. I'd rather that my words came across with clinical reassurance as opposed to the thought that they might have been written by a disturbed teenager. I don't need that negative energy. Times new roman is the double-blind; the great equalizer. All text becomes refreshingly similar, like fast food. It may not be a spectacle to behold but you know with certainty it will be adequate.

This must be why so many of the great philosophers and figures in history wrote letters to each other. Receiving a letter from Voltaire in a script that's flowing and a joy to behold must have made the experience that much better. I bet the thinkers with bad handwriting became lost to history because people didn't like receiving letters from them. As though the letters would be better, cleaner and more legible if the writer simply took more time. It might be an insult - how dare someone quickly slap together a letter and send it off in such haste, when I put forth so much effort into my letters?

Is it possible to just be bad at handwriting? Like how some people claim to be bad at math, so they don't get tasked with doing math-y things in groups. Maybe what I need is to write more, to get my hands used to the movements of cursive. You know, muscle memory. Then again, that's what I did in 3rd grade, and my handwriting sucked then too. The bad math person uses a calculator, I use times new roman.

And that's the joy of the computer. When I want to change the tone of my writing, I can do it on the fly. I can set the type in any font I choose, at any point without any need to re-do everything I've done. Of course, you lose the effect of immediacy. Something written in the moment of passion, anger, sadness carries with it that power, captured forever.

Ode to the dorm mattress

I remember the joys of dorm living. My experience might be a bit different than most dorm living: In exchange for paying through the nose for a meal plan and campus housing, I got to live in the brand-new and pretty swanky dorm. It wasn't all luxury, but it had some perks like air conditioning, bathrooms we didn't have to share with the whole floor and most importantly brand new mattresses. A good mattress is critical for so many things. You spend 1/3 of your day in bed. You also spend about half of your early morning class sessions in bed. So a good, firm, supportive mattress is key. Now your standard dorm mattress is wrapped in the kind of industrial plastic used by serial killers, and comes in the least useful size imaginable: your feet will not dangle over the edge, but no other accommodations are made for your comfort. Twin-XL is already a sort of specialty size, but why not make the mattresses even just 4 inches wider? Those are comfort inches. What matters most is that these were brand new. Unspoiled. Pure as the driven snow. Put a mattress in close proximity to a coed group barely post-pubescent, add alcohol and a certain joy of new found freedom, and things are gonna get freaky. After one year, this mattress will be saturated in easily a half-dozen fluids, usually of human origin. They say that doorknobs and phone receivers contain the most bacteria, but I doubt that. I challenge you to drunkenly hook up entirely supported on a doorknob. But my mattress and I had many fond memories. The times I slept alone. The times I slept also alone. The times I slept on the floor because I had passed out thereupon. I miss thee mattress. I should like to visit you again. But only after you've been soaked in hospital-grade sanitizer. Ew.