I'm Just Not Geeky Enough

I am a geek. I've pretty much always been a geek, and I've never really been ashamed of that. I spend an inordinate amount of time with my Playstation. I own Optimus Prime and Blaster transformer toys. There is a barrel of monkeys on my desk at work, nestled amongst my four monitors. My kids have Star Trek, FFA, and Metallica onesies. I can name the pilots and colors of the five Voltron lions (I miss Sven). I have Jim Henson's autograph, and I'm staring at a statue of Kermit the Frog right now. I have a large collection of Alice in Wonderland and Sherlock Holmes memorabilia. I listen to gothic rock. I often say things like, "Why am I still talking while there's science to do."

Yes, I'm a geek... but this weekend, I learned that I'm just not geeky enough. What taught me this? Why... Dragon*Con, of course. (note the asterisk - some people seem to get a little snippy if you leave it out or replace it with a hypen. I'm not sure how you pronounce the asterisk, though...).

Another Twin Update, and a Fallacy of Self-Monitoring

Have I bragged about how awesome my new home office here in Atlanta is? Seriously, when I learned I'd be moving here to pursue my doctorate, I imagined a grimy, dirty, tiny, urban apartment. I definitely did not imagine a spacious sunroom office with a balcony surrounded by trees and a creek. Seriously, it's a joy to work in here (and I'm getting a surprising amount of work done today, despite the fact that I was left alone with the twins - they've been pretty quiet and well-behaved, and yes, I'm knocking on wood as I type this. Honestly. Simultaneously. It's a sight to see.).

But that's probably not the kind of thing you're looking for if you read this blog. You're either looking for organizational psychology, baby updates, or a cheap laugh (or if you're Kerry, you're hoping I'll mention you). Well, you, dear reader, are in luck, because you're going to get all three in this post (but I'm not going to mention Kerry).

It's been a while since I've talked about self-monitoring in these (virtual) pages, and as I know for a fact that some of you aren't interested in the slightest in this, I should warn you in advance that I'm going to spend the next four paragraphs talking about it. Feel free to skip down if you'd like.

Life Is Good

• Sandy Springs (where I live) and Atlanta (where I work) are beautiful in the month of September. Every day is a good 10 degrees cooler than it is back in Louisiana, and clouds are a rarity rather than an omnipresent expectation. For the first month and a half here, at least, it seems like a beautiful place to live.
• The Saints defeated the Vikings in regulation, owning 3 quarters of play and limiting Brett Favre to mediocre statistics. And then the Colts lost....
• At last, my Pandora station is customized sufficiently so that it no longer plays Nickelback.
• I have finally found the opportunity to award my first nickname to a deserving party at Georgia Tech. There is a young lady in one of my classes who, although I've never met in person, is undoubtedly deserving of her new nickname. This is because she has demonstrated in class a remarkable capacity for asking questions related to a complete and utter misinterpretation of simple concepts. For instance, after a teacher says, "Two plus two equals four," she might be expected to reply, "Why do you say that two plus two equals fish?" Thus, her nickname is Fish. I'd be more patient with Fish, I promise, if she wasn't always ignoring the professor and talking to one of her friends.

The Curious Cajun's Guide to Atlanta

• When first entering Atlanta, the Curious Cajun may notice a plethora of lanes to choose from on his interstate of choice, far more than the one half, one, or two lanes the Quaint Louisianian may be accustomed to due to our state's smaller cities and profligate road construction.  Do not be alarmed, dear reader, as roads of three to six lanes are entirely normal in this new and strange land.  Although this may seem similar to arcade games of yore such as Pole Position, Outrun, or Turbo, be advised that the local constabulary looks with disfavor upon joyfully weaving left and right with careless abandon from the near lane to the far lane and back.
• The Curious Cajun undoubtedly has One Love when it comes to chicken fingers, cole slaw, and fries in an easily transportable box... however, do not expect to find Raising Cane's in your new home of Atlanta.  Instead, you'll enjoy Chick-Fil-A... and Chick-Fil-A... and more Chick-Fil-A!
• The Good Lord Above has truly blessed ye olde Atlanta, for there is Mr. Pibb here.

The Joy of New Orleans Winning

"I'm going to Albertson's to improve my business casual wardrobe."

I gave voice to that sentence today, the first time in my life that particular statement has passed my lips.  Now that I think about it, it's probably the first time that sentence has ever been spoken anywhere, by anybody.

One of the best things about the undeniable and eternal fact that the New Orleans Saints (the greatest football team ever in the history of the mankind) are Super Bowl Champions, is that this lifelong Saints fan can finally find Saints stuff for sale.  When I was a kid, I wanted a Saints t-shirt, but I had trouble finding one. If I wanted a cap, I might have to special-order it. Posters were impossible to find in my neck of the woods. Today, on the other hand... if I want something as obscure as a limited-edition-collectible-Saints-Super-Bowl-Express trainset, I can get it quickly and easily for only three easy payments of $23.32, plus shipping and handling.

Hence, my desire to go to Albertson's, one of the many grocery stores in town with a large assortment of Saints merchandise in the front of the check-out area.  They have nice polos there, and I feel a strong force compelling me to beef up my Saints attire in advance of my move to Atlanta, home of the Atlanta Falcons, who, as everyone knows are Not Half The Team The Saints Are.

It's hard to explain to anybody who didn't grow up in Louisiana what it was like the night the Saints won... after forty years of utter, utter failure (as the Great Gonzo would say, "If at first you don't succeed, fail, fail again!") we in the New Orleans area finally had something to celebrate. Traffic was stopped on the interstate because we were dancing on top of our cars.  You couldn't walk down the street without a stranger hugging you and asking you about your momma. For one magical night there was no crime in the city... everyone was celebrating together.  Sandwiched between two Gulf Coast disasters as it was (though we still liked BP at the time), it's one of the truly great sports stories for the ages.

Of course, Barack Obama had picked the Colts to win.  There's something there for the examining, I think. I'll bet Kenny Chesney picked the Colts, too.

But somehow, despite all the cool Saints merchandise I'm finally inundated with... despite the shirts, shorts, hats, glasses, steins, posters, signs, wastebaskets, luggage tags, drink-warmers, flags, windsocks, bobbleheads, train sets, footballs, baseball bats, special-edition Monopoly games, and even sexual novelties, I can't help thinking that something was left out.  Something that would be a fantastic addition to our office desks and our children's toychests:

Action Figures.

Here's the starting line-up as I see it, keeping in mind that every toy set needs some good guys and some bad guys:

• Drew Brees:  With quick-firing arm action, the Drew figure comes with a football accessory which, when placed into the patented Arm Launcher, can be propelled over 30 feet forward with enough forward momentum to break a six-inch board of balsa wood.
• Marques Colston:  Right out of the packaging, this figure's hands are covered with super glue. Like Gorilla Glue. The first thing he touches, that figure's going to be stuck to for the rest of your natural life.
• Tom Benson:  No action features... doesn't really do much of anything anymore... thank God his daughter took over. Comes with a clipboard that references trading Reggie Bush and Drew Brees to Cleveland for a Big Mac and fries, and a miniature tassled parasol.
• Peyton Manning:  With new Peyton-Pout technology, this figure's face can go from determined football hero to sulky grumpy five-year-old at the touch of a button!  This figure comes with a Reebok shoe, a Mastercard, a pack of Oreos, a bottle of Gatorade, and a box of Wheaties.
• Brett Favre: No real action features on this one, but on impact the leg joints will bend any way imaginable on a three hundred sixty degree axis.  Accessories: a waffle.  Unlike the other figures, the Favre figure is specifically made to lay flat rather than stand, as in the following classic portrait:

Okay, that was a cheap shot, I admit.

Seriously, though, I hope Favre's back for the rematch that opens the season. I think the Vikings have a really good shot with him at the helm, but I'll still put my money on the black and gold.  It's a great time to be a Saints fan... how many times in our lives have we had the opportunity to say that?

Babies, Saints, Asylums, Banquets, and Social Metaphysics

It seems like it's been far too long since I've added anything to my blog, especially considering how many people, to my surprise, seem to be reading it.  It's odd when somebody comes up to me and randomly mentions self-monitoring, Donkey Kong, or Kenny Chesney. So I must assume that you, dear reader, are real, and not the figment of my unfocused imagination that I formerly assumed you to be. I hope you're as pretty as I imagined you to be, and I hope you really are wearing that skimpy lingerie.

So let's cover a few different topics, from the leadership psychology stuff to the random stuff, to make sure everyone's happy.

Debby came home with new ultrasounds of our twins yesterday.  She oohed over Baby A's spinal cord and his or her habit of teaching him or herself how to breathe.  She ahed over Baby B's detailed little skull and his or her propensity to rub his or her cute little head. Meanwhile, I just thought that Baby A and Baby B were lousy names for fetuses... fetus's... fetusi? feeti? Feet?  As I keep telling her, I prefer Nathaniel and SuperFly.  And I also still think they look just like Mr. Peanut. Seriously, I've got to find a tiny top hat and cane for sale somewhere.

I recently came across a fascinating phrase in my leadership research: the Social Metaphysician.  When I hear something like that, I tend to think of a new-age mystic, sitting crosslegged about three feet above the ground as he repeats, "Llama llama llama llama llama..." (which shows that I've watched far too much Animaniacs in my day), but it actually refers to the person whose whole frame of reference is based on what other people think of him.  Nirvana, to the social metaphysician, is having everybody like them.  They have no personal standard of what is true or what is good, they just act on the cues of those around them, doing what they expect the people around them would like to see them do.  They just want to be popular, and they're willing to sacrifice anything and everything toward that goal, in an almost sociopathic way.

Thinking about pop culture in general, and a few people I know specifically, I wonder how widespread that is. It's the ultimate high self-monitor (which, as a reminder, means somebody who spends more time than a low self-monitor reacting to cues and events in their environment to craft a positive impression of themselves in the minds of others), and while high self-monitoring can have benefits in fields like sales, marketing, politics, or even leadership (still researching that last one), this seems unhealthy.  In fact, it turns out research has shown that social metaphysicians have self-esteem issues, and major psychological problems later in life.

Makes sense to me.  So if you find yourself awfully concerned about how other people view you... don't be. Because you could end up in Arkham Asylum or something.

I just attended a high school FFA banquet, one which mercifully and oddly I did not have to give a speech at. It was a great affair with some highly intelligent and skilled kids earning lots of great awards.  As I drove away, I saw one of those highly intelligent and skilled kids on the side of the road, leaning on a police car and signing a speeding ticket.  Oops.

Meanwhile, as I continue to prepare for the inevitable move to Atlanta, and continue to bet myself just how many Atlanta Falcons fans I can piss off with my unabashed Saints love, I find myself wondering if I've been betrayed by one of my long-term close friends. I'm a country boy - I'm not good at coping with things like that. I wonder.....

And speaking of the Saints, thank you Coach Payton, you're right, we are so not interested in Jamarcus Russell!

The thing I love about airports...

... is just how much you can tell about a city by taking a careful look around in its airport.

Take my home airport of New Orleans, for instance. The airport is bright, colorful, and gaudy. It's also usually messy, and your bags never get anywhere on time. And the food is great, even the Lucky Dogs that are sold right out of the cart. Just like the city... just replace the bit about the bags with "nothing gets done on time, because most the residents are drunk."

Take the nearby airport of Baton Rouge. Average, mediocre, and generally boring in almost every respect, save for a few LSU novelty stores. Just like the city.

Or take the Los Angeles airport. It's jam-packed with advertising, crowded, and lacks any system of mass transit (like the small trains and buses in most major airports). It also features many people who don't speak English and look at you like you're stupid if you have the audacity to speak English. Just like the city.

Or take the Oakland airport. It's done up in a strict monochrome color scheme, drab and depressing, although you can see a little bit of the future in the design every now and then. Just like the city. And, in fact, just like the football team.

Or take the Detroit airport. There's technology and bright lights everywhere you look... not useful or productive technology, but more the kind of thing you might expect to see in a theme park, almost as if the airport was desperately trying to prove it was still technologically relevant. Just like the city.

Or take the Portland airport. There are recycling bins everywhere, but you can't find any good fried shrimp anywhere, no matter how hard you look. It's really good looking, but it's awful wet in there... maybe I'm just unlucky, but it seemed like the roof was leaking. Just like the city.

Or take the Las Vegas airport. There are slot machines everywhere you look, complete with lots of old people pouring their entire life savings into them, and the best selection of good food of any airport of its size. Just like the city.

Or take the Atlanta airport. It's big, and it has a good transportation system, and there's lots to do, but oddly they hide their best culture in the basement (I'm specifically referring to a fantastic display of Zimbabwean art that for some reason, they display in their rarely-seen underground areas). Just like the city.

Or take the Orlando airport. There are more Disney merchandise stores than there are functional airplane gates, leaving the airport with little function other than to support a lumbering entertainment behemoth or two. Just like the city.

Or take the Nashville airport. You used to be able to find some really cool stuff there, but now it's just Kenny Chesney drek.  Just like the city.

I'm sure there are more, but I'm tapped out. I'm off to Tucson to look at cactuses... cactees... cacti! I wonder if there will be stucco in the airport....