The subtle dynamics of parkinglotdom have once again been impressed upon my mind. I perfected a new move today, actually, which is what brings this to mind. I rolled into the lot with about 15 minutes until class started, only to be greeted by a handful of fellow parking lot sharks circling the lot waiting to pounce on the first available spot. Rather than patrolling the lot aimlessly like my fellow sharks, I backed into a faculty reserved spot to eat my beef and potato burritos from Taco Bell (they can’t ticket you while you’re in the car) and I waited… Needless to say, my patience was rewarded and I got a spot. But this got me thinking about how the girl whose spot I took felt about the whole situation.

I imagine that every person walking into that lot to get into their car would have one of a couple of reactions. First, there’s the paranoid reaction. You’re walking to your car and suddenly you realize that you’re being followed. You dodge between some parked vehicles to lose them, but no matter what you do, there’s another one right there behind you. You make your way to your car almost in a panic, and you fumble with your keys, trying to get inside as quickly as possible to make the nightmare end. There’s no question in your cramped, neurotic mind. They’re out to get you (or at least your spot). You look out your rearview mirror and see them sitting there, silent, waiting… You pull out of the parking lot, swearing to yourself that from now on you’re walking to school. Creepy.

The other possibility is that you walk into the lot and stop with a smug, satisfied smile on your face. You look at the cars circling and realize that you have the ability to grant a parking space to some poor, desperate soul. And you also have the ability to deny it. The heady pleasure of the awesome power you hold over the lives of your fellow students almost makes you dizzy. Then you realize that you’re hungry and you’ve been on campus all day. You get in your car and pull out, and yet you still feel a sense of superiority over the driver that pulls into the spot you just vacated. You smirk knowing that if it wasn’t for your magnanimity, they would still be circling the lot aimlessly. “I am a good person” you think to yourself as you drive away. You can’t wait until you get to leave the lot after school tomorrow.

It never ceases to amaze me how comfortable people are within their automobiles. It’s like they think that they’re invisible, that somehow the car windows have magically become one way glass. How many times have you seen an otherwise staid and respectable businessman rockin’ down the highway playing air guitar along with his favorite Doobie Brother’s album? Or an attractive woman picking her nose with a vengeance? I’ve even seen the occasional clothes changer. This begs the question, what is to be done? I think that providing a proper role model is key. Ponder upon this:

Fish in captivity (i.e., in your fishbowl) live lives devoid of privacy. Everything they do is in plain sight of anybody who wants to see. Sure, maybe the plants offer some protection from prying eyes, but when in you live in a transparent glass bowl, that can only do so much. No, the fish is every bit as visible as a person in a car. However, how often have you seen a fish singing along with his radio, let alone picking its nose. In fact, I think that fish are supremely mortified by their exposed existence. They float aimlessly around their bowl with the vacant stares of the mentally detached. As a result, in my experience, fish become extremely boring to watch, which I’m sure figures into their master plan to get us to leave them alone. If only we were more like fish, only not as smelly.

A few years ago Blockbuster ran a series of commercials featuring Kevin Bacon. In these commercials, there would be several people in line at Blockbuster, and the person in front of the line would have forgotten their Blockbuster card (this seems to happen whenever the movie store is busy, and particularly when I’m in a big hurry.) Fortunately Kevin Bacon just happens to be there, and through sometimes convoluted means, he establishes a connecting link through four other people (who, incredibly, just happen to be in line as well) so he can vouch for the person trying to rent the movie.
Apparently these commercials were based on the idea that each of us are connected to everyone else on the earth by no more than 6 degrees of separation. What this means, then, is that you know someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows (insert celebrity name here, e.g. Kevin Bacon, Christopher Walken, Tom Cruise, Nate Kartchner, etc.).
The purpose of this blog is to tell you that this is absolutely true. You, my dear reader, are six degrees from Kevin Bacon. Allow me to explain. Kevin Bacon starred in a little film called “Footloose” which was filmed here in Utah, apparently. The movie used the home of (get ready for this…) my friend Allison’s mom’s parents. So here’s your six degrees. I know Allison, who knows her mom (the connections are fairly obvious), who knows her parents, who know Kevin Bacon because he was always at their house for the filming. Now here’s the kicker: you mathematicians out there would have caught that there are only five degrees separating me from Kevin Bacon. That’s right. If you know me, you are six degrees from Kevin Bacon. Congratulations.

After taking a brief hiatus from blogging, necessitated by a virtual wasteland of thought resulting from too much homework, I am back. Concerning my last post, it’s gratifying to see that one simple quote can create so much discussion. Natalie, keep up the good work.
This last week I discovered facebook.com, which is a fairly addicting website and the partial cause for my lack of blog-age. For those of you not familiar with this site, facebook.com is “an online directory that connects people through social networks at schools,” according to their website. I was up until 3 am the other night, connecting myself to people through social networks at schools. It’s that enthralling. I am not alone in my facebook frenzy. Apparently it has become all the rage on college campuses across America. So what is it about facebook.com that people find so incredible?

Ponder this. Remember when the high school yearbooks would come out and you would do everything you could to get the most signatures in your yearbook so you looked really cool, like you knew a lot of people? Forget the fact that 90% of the girls who wrote “call me this summer” didn’t really mean it and were horrified when you called, or pretended(?) like they didn’t know who you were. It was the quantity of names in the book that mattered. I think that facebook.com is the college iteration of the high school yearbook. Case in point: I look at my profile and I see a heartening 19 friends at BYU. 19 is a lot right? I feel pretty good about myself until I look at a fellow student’s profile. She’s sporting a cool 63 friends at BYU, along with a host of other friends from a gaggle of other schools. Ouch. This realization leads to a panicked facebook.com session as I try to rack my brain for more friends that I could possibly add to my facebook.com friend list. The drive to have as many people on the rolls as possible isn’t unique to me. Indeed, far from it. In fact, I know a kid (who goes by “Rico Suave” on facebook.com) who wrote a program that has allowed him to add an unprecedented 1403 people to his “friends” list. Now that’s extreme. How can a newb like me ever hope to compete with that kind of friend firepower? The fact of the matter is this: I can’t. But that’s not going to stop me from trying. So support my campaign by listing me as a friend if you haven’t done so already. Rico Suave, here I come.

Coming up: 6 Degrees of Kevin Bacon

UPDATE: The Deseret News did a scare article on Facebook.com. Check it out here! Thanks to Kat.

The other day as I was walking on campus, it happened. I was minding my own business, when, looking up from my New York Times, I realized that one of my fellow pedestrians was on a collision course with me. My counterpart realized this at about the same time, and then followed a moment that has been repeated numerous times in the past to countless members of humanity. The moment of indecision. You know what I’m talking about. There is the pause while the two parties size up the situation. Then there is the simultaneous step to the left. Then there is the mirror move right. This pattern of mimicked movement may go through several repetitions before one or the other finally forges ahead in frustration, leaving both pedestrians to rush hurriedly away to their destinations. However, for me it was different. Some time ago, I examined this indecision and saw it for what is was: a lack of dominant leadership. From that point on I decided that I would be the one to take charge. Instead of pausing to evaluate, I would choose a direction and go without hesitation, thus giving my counterpart a chance to base his reaction against my action. Therefore, when I was faced with the situation I alluded to at the beginning of this blog, I went left, and my fellow pedestrian continued on to my right without missing a beat. Granted, I realize that this appproach has its hazards. There’s always the threat of running into a fellow leader, literally. In addition, some pedestrians, not accustomed to having somebody take charge of the situation, might panic, and nobody wants to see that. But these are risks that we each must be willing to take to bring order to the world of walking. Therefore I appeal to you, my fellow pedestrians, to take charge, and eliminate the scourge of indecisive walking. Just make sure you stay out of my way in the process.

I think that if I was going to choose a type of action movie character to be, I would want to be the sophisticated bad guy. I mean, let’s look at the perks:

1.) You have incredible power. Not superpowers, necessarily, but power to command men who will do just about anything for you for no apparent reason. Somebody insults you? Steals your joke? Looks at you the wrong way? With naught but a word or the slightest of gestures, they’ll mysteriously disappear and you’ll never have to see them again. I think that I would use this power to eliminate the “annoying-comment-makers” in several of my classes.

2.) You get to wear snazzy clothes. For this one, I refer you to Raz Al-Ghul (Liam Neeson) in Batman Begins. First, he appears in a filthy prison camp wearing a grey silk suit. Who does that? Later on he appears in a sharp black evening tux at the Bruce Wayne birthday party. In fact, the only time he’s not dressed like a GQ model is when he’s wearing his ninja suit, which has its own special appeal. I’d be OK with that.

3.) Life is fairly easy for a sophisticated bad guy. You don’t have to get into any fights that you don’t want to (you have thugs for that.) In fact, you can spend all your time hobnobbing at charity balls with the creme de la creme of society, vacationing in exotic locations, or relaxing in your luxurious and technologically advanced secret hideout. In fact, the only work actually required of you as a sophisticated evil villian is to devise the plans and pull strings behind the scenes at the aforementioned balls. In the meantime, your archenemy, Superhero X is swinging from rooftops, getting bruised and beaten, and generally experiencing a miserable existence.

4.) Finally, you get to talk in a sophisticated and sexy clipped English accent. Who wouldn’t want that?

That said, I do realize that there are some disadvantages to being a sophisticated villian, namely, in the end of the movie, you’re probably going to die. But at least you can rest assured that you’ll go out with a bang.

This morning, like most mornings, I woke up and went straight to the computer to check my email. And this morning, like most mornings, my inbox was empty. So I checked my work email. Nada. My student email account. Nope. The email account I set up specifically to receive junk mail. Nothing. Rejected by junk mail?! For several days running?!

Blast.

Don’t tell me I’m the only one who’s ever felt the effects of email dejection. I’m positive its one of the more common ailments of our technologically burdened society. For those of you in need of greater explanation, here’s a firsthand account of the successive stages and possible symptoms of email dejection:

Mild: You open your email account minimally, only when needed, taking it for granted that you will have an email in your inbox. When the page loads, however, you are mildly disappointed that your only email is from Amazon.com offering you 30% off. Slightly letdown, you delete the email and go on with your day.
Moderate: You open your account frequently, specifically with the purpose of seeing if anything’s in your inbox. As the page loads, you cross your fingers and pray that something’s there. Yes—blessed day—you have an email telling you to “order now for 30% off.” 30% off? Off what? Who cares—you got mail!
Severe: You check your email account far more than necessary, each time being fully aware that there’s a better chance the Royals will go on a winning streak (come on: 44-92?) than there is of you having something in your inbox. Still, you continue checking it, more frequently and compulsively than ever. Eventually, overcome by email dejection, desperation kicks in—you end up ordering something for 30% off and revel in the sheer pleasure of having the confirmation email waiting for you in your inbox.

Unfortunately, there is little you can do to combat the effects of email dejection. Possible treatments include: distractions, decent employment, and abstaining from technology for given periods of time. However, these are temporary cures that will only work for small amounts of time. Long-term solutions include subscribing to a daily email list (click here), joining clubs, and, generally, making better friends.

For those of you out there struggling with email dejection, know that you don’t have to suffer by yourself—not when you can order things from Amazon for 30% off!

This past week I have come to the realization that I am officially a cell phone addict. I should have seen it coming. All the signs were there.
When I first got a cell phone, I said the same thing as everybody else. “I can just turn it off.” And at the beginning, that’s the way it was. I was independent, and my phone was merely a tool to be left at home or taken along according to my will. But then I began to experience “cell phone creep.” The phone became an entity unto itself, unwilling to be left behind. And should the phone be neglected, it would wreak its psychological revenge. The uncomfortable feeling of missing weight in my left front pocket. The phantom call vibrations on my leg, causing me to feel for the nonexistent phone. The near panic of being disconnected from the social communications network that has come to comprise my world. These are but a few of the many symptoms of phone withdrawl that I have experienced, and yet I still wasn’t willing to give up my illusion of control.
But it gets worse. There is yet another dimension to my addiction. When I bought my first phone, I was in cell phone sales. I felt that in order to be an effective salesperson, I had to buy the nicest phone with all the gadgets: the camera, the voice dial, the MP3 ringtone player, and the plethora of other options of dubious value. I no longer sell cell phones, but I still have the phone, and I have come to rely on the multitudinous features. Forget the fact that putting anything into the daytimer program is an arduous process, and the voice dial has proven to be too much effort to utilize effectively. I need these functions. I’m addicted.
This brings me to the means whereby I finally recognized my addiction. My contract with T-Mobile is at an end, and I am about to migrate my number to Verizon wireless in order to join my parents’ family plan, and along with this occasion, I will need a new phone. However, as I have looked at phones, I realized that I wouldn’t, couldn’t use one of the free phones. It has to be one of the nice ones. I am not just addicted to having a cell phone any more. I’m addicted to having a nice one.
They say that with addiction, sometimes it takes hitting rock bottom before you realize your predicament. Perhaps I’ve hit that point. But at least you can get ahold of me no matter where I am. And that’s worth it, right?

The semesterly ritual of textbook purchasing is often a time of reflection for me. I mean, what else do you do with all the time you spend standing in line to purchase the overpriced (their fault) and underused (my fault) textbooks required by collegiate studies? This year was a veritable smorgasbord of ponderment. I managed to push my way through my fellow students and against all hope, locate my textbooks, only to be greeted by a line winding itself around half the bookstore. Plenty of time to think. My first thought was how carnival-like the atmosphere was. Must have been all the clowns standing around. My second thought was how much I hate standing in line.
Whenever I find myself waiting in line the mental image of prisoners in the gulag waiting for their gruel comes unbidden to my mind. Perhaps these images are a throwback from my childhood. To my memory, my elementary school experience consisted of three basic activities: class, recess, and standing in line to go to either of the former. You would stand in line to go inside to begin the day. You would then line up to go to recess. Then to go back inside? Get in line. If you want to get a drink, there’s the line. Lunch lines. Bus lines. Lines to go to assemblies. You get the picture. I wonder if I spent most of my childhood in line. Thus, with all my years of experience getting in line, I have had the time to observe certain aspects of line waiting, which I will share in a series of posts. In addition, feel free to share your own observations.
First, the amount of satisfaction you get from getting to the front of the line is not equal to the wait, but rather the amount of people waiting behind you. As I was griping about the line at the bookstore when I got back to my apartment, my roommate Mark commented to me that when he went to the bookstore earlier that day, the line had been even longer. After explaining the length of the line, he remarked bitterly “and then almost nobody got in line behind me.” He didn’t gripe about the wait, he griped about the lack of people behind him. Then I realized how much satisfaction I had felt at the register as I looked behind me at all the people waiting in line. I have noticed this same feeling while waiting in line at movie premiers and concert ticket lines. It’s true.

Tomorrow: The Economics of Line-Cutting.

It has come to my attention that there is a phenom rapidly overtaking the pre-pubescent community. This, I believe, is a very serious matter and must be scruntinized. Its affects in the near future will be vast and nigh unshakable. This rage of which I speak is directly related to underage drinking. The big brothers at the brewery are no longer satisfied with the midnight run to the state liquor store on the eve of that pivotal legalizing birthday, they have found a sneakier (if you will) approach to “slamming” this young generation of wanna-be boozers: the “Energy Drink”. Designed to . . .well, I have no idea what its original purpose was. But it’s become Everclear for 12 year olds. It used to be just a few brands and only one flavor but now they range into depths of monumental proportions. I have seen a plethora of young’uns binging on these oh-so-flavorful liquids. They are literally convincing themselves they are “smashed” and using it as an excuse to exploit their prematurely developed bodies at parties. If anyone at all thinks this pleasing or that any of these drinks actually serve a purpose to humanity other than its degredation please let me know as I am struggling to understand the vast purpose of “Boo-Koo Light” and “Chronic”. Which apparently has a such a negative affect on one’s person that it’s labeling reads, “Do not consume if you are on medications, under the age of 12, or pregnant”, which is followed by, “May become psychologically addicting.” Oh cool! Dip me up some of that, because I’d like to slip into what’s termed as the “caffeine shakes” or have my heart race at marathon-like speeds. It’s good to know that the future is in the hands of such astute minds. May the police officers of the next generation start giving out tickets that read, “You moron, energy drinks are not alcohol, you are not drunk, save yourself some embarrasment and go home now so that you are not late to 1st period English.” Until then I suppose the woes of the teen will remain a mystery and those who fall into that blessed legal age bracket can enjoy their good old reliably depressing alcohol and those of us who do not can stock up on “sixers”, and proceed to party like the “Rock Stars” we aspire to be.