An obligatory statement on social media

"Nothing happens by accident; scenarios present themselves and we have the choice of which path to take; make wise decisions. When the pieces are properly aligned on the chessboard of life, it's checkmate."

If we're on Facebook at all, we likely have "friends" on the site whom we barely know. And if you're at all like me, the vast majority of these contacts post a neverending stream of cat pictures, selfies, and political propaganda. I can't bring myself to defriend them, though, because at some point I obviously considered their inclusion important - even if I don't currently remember them at all.

There's this guy named John who is a Facebook friend I barely know - I remember meeting him several years ago, and I remember a brief but surprisingly intellectual conversation, but I think that may have been the only time we actually met face-to-face. He does not post cat pictures, selfies, or political propaganda. He does not use social media to glorify himself, idolize celebrities, or spread partisan talking points. He is one of those rare people who uses social media - that all-consuming thread in which we can spotlight anything we want to thousands of other human beings - to try to inspire them.

"My drive and determination will not accept failure. The one's who are willing to work harder than the next will be successful; the one's who have an iron will to go above and beyond will last long."

The Difficult Meaning of Meaning

One of my students challenged me a couple of weeks ago to tell him what, in all the world, meant something.

This student, a rather intelligent one, ascribes rather heavily to the "speck of dust in the universe" philosophy that in the grand scheme of things, one tiny person in one tiny city on one tiny planet in one tiny galaxy can't possible be a part of anything meaningful. As the Animaniacs put it so eloquently in verse a couple of decades ago, "It's a great big universe, and we're all really puny." Such is the curse of intelligence, I think: if you're as bright as my student (or the Warner Brothers), these are the kinds of questions that plague you, because only with intelligence can you really comprehend just how tiny you are in the grand scheme of things. I imagine that this would be a source of great anxiety for me, as well, if I were that intelligent. Happily, I'm not.

After probing him a bit to learn the source of the question and attempting to get him to answer it for himself, I finally gave my own interpretations of why we matter. Unsurprisingly, he was not convinced. My meaning is not his, nor is it yours.

This lady I met at the party

I was at a party tonight, and I met a woman.

Not the kind of party you probably go to - this was a "Hey, We All Just About Survived Another Semester" party with the other PhD students and candidates at GT who weren't removed from the program in some voluntary/involuntary fashion. It mostly consisted of bowling, enjoying free food and beverages, and using really big words (most of which I freely admit intimidate me).

After a couple of hours, I strayed away from the main group and noticed the drink table, behind which our bartender/drink server stood. It occurred to me that she looked very alone. It also occurred to me that we'd been there quite some time and she didn't have a chair. Then it occurred to me that I was thirsty.

So I went and asked for some water. She asked if I was sure, because nobody else was drinking water. I said I liked water. Then I asked her how she was.

Feedback and Volunteering in Organizations (with the Muppets)

Maybe if I type up all of these research-oriented thoughts in my head, then I'll be able to assemble them a little more clearly. On the other hand, even if it doesn't help with my research, it might ease my guilt over not blogging lately. So let's kill two birds with one stone. Unless of course you like birds, gentle reader, in which case I will be doing no bird killing today. In that case, we will be... ummm... hitting two... targets?... with one... ummm... you know what? I'm no good with metaphors. Asking me to write a good metaphor is like asking Kenny Chesney to be a decent human being. Wait, that was a decent metaphor, wasn't it? Never mind.

In modern workplaces, whether they be offices, retail stores, schools, small businesses, large firms, or non-profits, the concept of "going above and beyond" is becoming increasingly important. There's research backing that statement up, and plenty of it. Organizations expect their team members and employees to not just do what is explicitly listed on their job descriptions, but also to do other things that benefit the organization, the people who work there, and the customers they serve. Many organizations even manage to work these "things-that-are-not-in-the-job-description" into the job description itself, oddly enough. They do this by including a line at the end of the official list of duties that says something like: "Employee shall also perform other duties beneficial to the company outside those listed here, as determined by management." When I was in the corporate world, I called that "The Auschwitz Clause," because under language like that, the company could direct you to do just about anything, from killing innocent people to selling yourself into slavery to buying Kenny Chesney albums.

Ruth's Chris and the Usual Diversions

WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN'T FIND MY BLOGPOST DRAFT?!? I WAS ALMOST DONE WITH THAT POST! IT WAS BRILLIANT! IT HAD BABY PICTURES AND BANANAS AND PAC-MAN AND... and... seriously, it's lost? Dang it. You mean I have to start writing it all over again? Ugg. That really sucks.

Hey, wasn't Ugg that little purple guy from Q*Bert? I LOVED that arcade game. It apparently made a great babysitter, because my mother would drop little nine-year-old Jim off at the university arcade for an hour or two with just a dollar in his pocket, but that dollar would be more than enough to keep me playing and entertained the whole time I was stuck there. I miss arcades.

The post I began yesterday that somehow got erased was about some of my experiences at Ruth's Chris steakhouse. Don't get me wrong: I'm not the kind of guy who eats a lot at places as fancy as Ruth's Chris - I'm much more likely to be found at your local neighborhood Popeye's. Although I tend to get confused every time I go to Popeye's, now that you mention it. There's a reason for my confusion... a good one, I think. It all started a long time ago, back to even before I was kicking the SLU undergraduates' butts in the local arcade.

And We're Back!

The NeverTown has long sat silent and empty, cold winter winds whistling through the barren streets that never were. My apologies. I've been finishing up my first semester as a doctoral student and research assistant at Tech... and in case you hadn't heard, I have twins. We just finished a trip back home to Louisiana with the boys in tow. It was nice to see everybody there, but the trip really had only one primary purpose: to introduce Benjamin and Kristopher to my one last living direct-line relative who cares about them. Grandma Mabel was pretty excited to say the least. Gotta say, though, I was very disappointed that she didn't have a chance to make her famous gumbo. Damn, I miss that gumbo. Despite that, she remains my favorite person in Louisiana (although my good friend Kristy has got to at least be in the Top 5).

Also got to hang out with some old friends (where I learned I was Eternal, Chunky, and Pure), and revisit my briefest of workplaces, Best Buy #1157. Nice to see the old crew again, but nicer to know that odd men named Bubba can no longer yell at me for failing to instruct my team to sell services to people who don't honestly need them. I like to think I subscribe to a more ethical version of salesmanship, which served me well back at Schwan's and Trustfile, but maybe I just don't want it enough. Who knows?

It Comes Before a Fall

The beginning of a recent Facebook chat:

"Hey. Did you and Debby have twins?"

"Hold on, let me check."

"Yeah, I think we did."

***

And so, here we are. I'm surrounded by three computers in my apartment sunroom/office, uploading pictures to Facebook, chatting with well-wishers demanding updates, and fielding multiple requests for a new post to the NeverTown. Meanwhile, Kristopher James Lemoine (the middle name is for my father, not me!) is nestled in a baby swing to my immediate left, undoubtedly confused by the blinking screens, furious typing, and cacophonic gothic rock emanating from my speakers. He's stirring a bit right now... stretching his arms and hands out as best he can from his nest within that Classic Winnie the Pooh blanket.

Wait, he's asleep again. Back to typing.

Five Years from our Date with Katrina

As today is the five-year anniversary of the walloping of Louisiana by Katrina, today seems an appropriate day to repost one of the more important things I've ever written (not that it has a lot of competition). This was an e-mail I sent out to most of my friends a couple of weeks after Katrina hit us: September 12, 2005, the first day following the storm during which I had both power and internet access. I lived in Louisiana during Katrina and worked disaster relief, and it changed me. Here's what I had to say then, a lot of which is still hopefully worthy of some thought today. I certainly still stand behind it, despite the fact that I didn't even know who Kenny Chesney was back then.

On the Last Week in Louisiana - Part Three

I'm sitting now in what tomorrow will not be my home, surrounded by an insane number of small brown boxes... mostly because I own an insane number of books.  It's a depressing feeling as I look around.  Usually I'm the first to remind people that we have to give up the lives we have, to have the lives we want... but this house has been more important to me than I'd realized. I don't think I've ever lived in any one place longer than I lived here.  I've moved about an average of every three years for my entire life, so there are few specific buildings that I actually feel any home-like connection with (although McVoy Hall at LSU, and the Loranger High Auditorium and Ag Shop are three).

This is the largest and nicest place I've ever lived, and this is where I've been both happiest and saddest, I think.  I lived here when an evil man destroyed my life as I knew it and threatened all I had.  I lived here while I recovered, readjusted my priorities, and learned to be happy with who, what, and where I am.  I lived here when I reconnected with countless friends, and finally made the effort to actually do as much community service as people seemed to assume I did.  I lived here when I finally got the Milton Berle episode of the Muppet Show on DVD, when I played Rock Band for the first time, and when I stayed up half the night with Debby and my three godsons sharing our imaginary friends' names, biographies, and current activities.  I used my imaginary friend from third grade, Bullwinkle the Very Hungry Bison. 

The Princess is in Another Castle

As I type this, I'm watching a close friend die repeatedly in a video game.  Said close friend is playing the part of a rather portly mustachio-ed and overall-ed plumber who remarkably has the ability to jump to obscene heights and float through the air, spit fireballs after eating flowers, and grow to enormous sizes with the ingestion of mushrooms.  There's a beautiful fairy princess in a pretty pink dress who is inexplicably interested in the hairy, rotund plumber, and that's who the plumber is chasing.  Seriously, I had friends in college who had acid trips like this.  So did the Beatles.  When did this become mainstream video-gaming?

Mario serves the purpose of teaching kids about persistence, I guess... if you die again and again and again, the secret to success is just to keep trying. That's good; I like that. Unfortunately, he also teaches kids to be players, and not in a good sense.  Last time I checked, he had two princesses and a seriously hot chick named Pauline in his little black book, simultaneously.

I'm not sure what all these gorgeous ladies see in him, other than his never-ending patience with constantly rescuing them.  And if they didn't have any interest in the portly plumber, maybe that would stop the endless string of abductions from the likes of Donkey Kong, Bowser, Wart, Lord Blek, Cackletta, Fawful, et. al. (and yes, I had to look up most of the names on one of the many, many wikis out there. Scary.)  For some reason all of these villains think that the best way to annoy Mario is to kidnap one of his many girlfriends.  Me, I'd just do it what I call The Ismael Way: find a big pointy stick and whack him with it.

They say you can tell a lot about a person by how they react to a crisis situation.  You'll either see the best or the worst of people in the scariest possible moments.  If the building's on fire, will you help the little old lady out, or push her aside to get to the door (here's looking at you, George Costanza!)?  If your grandmother wants to take a plane trip to Florida and you're a multi-bazillionaire, do you take her yourself or put it off for a decade or so until Oprah agrees to pay for it (here's looking at you, Kenny Chesney!)?  If your friends are in trouble, do you help them out, or do you abandon them?  How do you deal with problems?

Well, in Mario's case, you deal with your problems by either jumping on their heads, or bashing them with a hammer.  Repeatedly.  Which, I admit, is kind of cool in a way, but it's not exactly the best long-term problem solving method (and eventually your hammer or your shoes will break).  And it doesn't help if all of Mario's friends think he's really great because he jumps on things and hits them with hammers: they're just enablers.  

Lots of kids love Mario, but you know, I'm just not sure he's all that great of a role model.  I think I've already discussed his cruelty to animals and his tendency to antagonize innocent apes (checking... yup, I have, right here: http://blog.nevertown.com/2010/04/trapped-in-convention-center-and-bored.html), and I just mentioned his womanizing ways.  There's also the fact that he cheats at every single sport he's ever played.  Want to play baseball with Mario?  He's going to use controlled illegal substances (like mushrooms) to boost his performance.  Want to play tennis with Mario?  Watch out that he doesn't set the ball on fire first.  Want to race him in a go-kart?  Prepare to have him chuck turtle shells at you while you're driving.  Seriously. Turtle shells.

I seem to be that very rare breed of video gamer who enjoys video gaming, but doesn't really care for the big fat Italian fungus addict. Just don't tell my godsons.  They'd probably disown me.  I wonder how my own boys will feel about them?

Which reminds me:  Debby has also vetoed Mario, Luigi, and Donkey Kong as possible kid names.  Maybe I should try Pac-Man?