Exit Ramp

UPDATE: If you're here to read Exit Ramp, my latest short story--well, time's up. To minimize the chance of plagiarism (or perhaps merely to soothe my own suspicious heart), I decided to leave the story up for only a few days. In those few days, I've gotten significant and constructive feedback.

To everyone who's commented, I thank you. To everyone who's given me their input through other channels, I thank you. To everyone who put up with my incessant promotion of this story on Facebook and Twitter, I thank you. I'll stop now.

One last point: if you really want to read Exit Ramp, contact me on Facebook, on Twitter (@ThePontificator), or by leaving a comment here on the blog.

Long live The End.

Boon

Friends--faithful readers--yea, even you unfaithful readers--I'm doing something special. I've written a brand-spankin'-new short story, Exit Ramp, and I'm going to make it available here, on my blog, for a very limited time.

Why is this cool?

Unless you know me well (or had class with me) you've never read any of my fiction. I don't share my fiction with a lot of people, unless I have to. I think it has something to do with my fear of being told that I'm mediocre.

More specifically, I don't usually post fiction here in the Uninformed Opinion. I tend to confine myself more to, you know, uninformed opinions. Nonfiction, of a sort. As far as I know, I've only ever posted one other short story here, and that was a throwaway story anyhow. Exit Ramp is going to be the first bit of serious fiction I've ever posted here.

Most importantly (to me, at least), Exit Ramp is of the same cloth of which my novel is written. It's drawn from the same universe. It doesn't share narrative elements or characters, but it does share themes and what I call "universe details". All three of you who are eagerly awaiting the opportunity to read the novel may whet your appetites here: it's a small foretaste.

Details:

Because I don't like the thought of my creativity out there for anyone to potentially copy/paste, Exit Ramp will only be available for a few days. It will be posted Wednesday, April 11, at 3 pm. I will remove it on Friday, April 13, at 12 pm. In that time, feel free to share it and comment on it. But, y'know, please respect my intellectual property and all that.

Long live the experiment!

Why Not Rather Be Wronged?

I was teaching Sunday School last week, discussing Paul's exhortation about suing fellow believers in secular court (from I Corinthians). And a certain verse popped out at me. I Corinthians 6:7.

"Actually, then, it is already a defeat for you, that you have lawsuits with one another. Why not rather be wronged? Why not rather be defrauded?"

Those who know me well are familiar with my distaste for philosophical arguments that devolve into hairpulling, caterwauling ad hominem-storms. This verse sums up my position perfectly.

Sometimes, it's okay to be wronged. For the sake of peace, it's all right to lay down, turn the other cheek, let people walk on you. Should that be a habit? No. Should it be our first reaction to opposition? Absolutely not! But in some circumstances, it is perfectly fine to "be defrauded" for the sake of peace.

My problem with human argument is not the argument side, it's the human side. People, living breathing prideful people, are the ones doing the arguing. And without a massive dose of self-control, which is a rarity in today's self-indulgent culture, those people will let themselves, their human flaws, seep into the discussion. "Your argument is incorrect" is heard as "You are incorrect". And BOOM goes the insecurity.

My proposed solution to these repeated breakdowns, turning the other cheek, doesn't happen very much. Why? Because nobody wants to lay down. Nobody wants to be wronged. It's that ever-present human flaw, pride. People, in general, are proud, and the thought of giving up and actually letting the other guy win, well, that's just unthinkable.

Give it a try, dear readers. Just once, see what happens if you turn the other cheek. Not on something big--don't shoot yourself in the foot here. Wait for a small dispute, then lay down. See what happens.

Long live peace!

A Failure of Mindset

I think I had an epiphany tonight. I was practicing piano, for the first time in a long time, and I was flubbing rather badly. I stopped, and I looked at my hands, and I realized two points.

1. I failed as a student of piano.

2. That failure is due to my philosophical approach to piano.

The reason has to do with technique. Learning how to play piano is all about mastering the technique. There is a list of "musts" that every piano instructor will probably agree on:

You MUST have good posture. You MUST hold your hands correctly. You MUST understand the art of correct fingering. You MUST learn how to read music, and you MUST learn how to sight-read music. You MUST understand how to practice. You MUST accept the discipline of daily, intensive practice.

I got two of those MUSTs down. Why? Because I wasn't focused on learning the technique. I was focused on results, rather than process. I tried to learn how to play piano pieces, rather than learning how to play piano.

Good piano players can be given a sheet of music they've never seen or heard before, sit down at a piano, and play it. Eventually, and perhaps not brilliantly. But they play it. Good piano players have learned the technique. They have learned empirical skills that can be theoretically applied to any piece of music. (I say theoretically because there's some music that defies empirical ability. See: Liszt's Rondo Fantastique. It's said to be unplayable.)

I never focused on learning how to warm up correctly, or how to cross over during trills, or anything about good pedal work. I only tried to learn the pieces I was assigned at that time. I never even thought to myself, "Ian, you need to learn how to play the piano, not just how to play a few piano pieces."

And now I pay the penalty for my mistake. For when I sit down to play piano, after an absence of several months, I struggle. I flub. I flop. I falter. My technique is imperfect, in the archaic sense of that word: it is incomplete, and therefore it is unusable.

In an interesting aside, one might compare the technique required for Playing The Piano to the technique required for Reading A Literature. And one might compare my inability to grasp the technique for Playing The Piano to my inability to grasp the popularly accepted technique for Reading A Literature. My hope is in the fact that Reading A Literature is a science rather than an art, and therefore results are more important than technique.

Long live depressing epiphanies!

A Window In

It's been hard for me to blog meaningfully of late, because in addition to work I've been trying to get back on track with my novel. I have only so much creativity to expend every day, you see. Anyway, here's a rare bit of cross-promotion, in celebration of the fact that in my editing of my novel, I recently passed a significant milestone: 60,000 words.

A word of explanation. I won NaNoWriMo with this novel, 57,000 words. Of course, many of those words were of questionable quality, so I've been doing quite a bit of cutting. The fact that I've been cutting so much, but have still been able to add 3,000 important--dare I say essential--words, is an accomplishment. So here's a screencap, which incidentally includes a glimpse of one of the pivotal early scenes in the novel. Just a glimpse. Nothing more.

Click on the image to see a wider screencap.

Long live tortoises!

I, Contemptible Archetype

What is the thing that I am?

I am Barista.

I have long hair. (The length varies.)

I do not always shave. Sometimes I neglect shaving accidentally; sometimes I am unshaven on purpose.

I look down on you as you order your drink. No matter what your order, I subtly and nonverbally communicate to you that you're an idiot for drinking slop like that.

I follow Stephen Fry on Twitter.

I know why Stephen Fry's nose is crooked.

No, I won't tell you. Google it.

I wear t-shirts and other clothing with slogans that are incomprehensible to you, but deeply meaningful to me.

I have volunteered in at least thirteen other countries, all of which are infinitely superior to this one.

I am fluent in Espresso Italian. That is to say, I do not know Italian, but I am convinced that I do.

I have a beautiful Espresso Italian accent. That is to say, I have the accent of an American speaking Italian, but I am convinced that my Italian accent would put an Italian to shame.

I despise the letter x, simply because so many people see fit to insert it into the word espresso.

I have a quirky blog.

I write self-referential blog posts. Also, I write self-self-referential blog posts.

I understand the importance of offering iced drinks to customers, but that doesn't mean I approve of it.

I speak demeaningly and snidely of Charbucks.

I long to travel one day to that holiest of Meccas, Seattle.

I do love sports, thank you very much! Every year I choose the most obscure team I can find and learn everything I can about it, then drop it abruptly when it becomes mainstream.

I can recite Jack White's ode to Detroit word-for-word.

I smoke a pipe.

I try other coffee shops and inevitably end up "setting them straight on a few things".

I Yelp! Oh, how I Yelp!

I have built a roaster from hand tools and kitchen implements, and I roast coffee in my parent's garage.

I used to have a tumblr, but it became way too commercialized, way too fast.

I am going to see the Black Keys in May, it's true, but I'm going ironically.

I pluck my eyebrows.

I have written a novel. It has not been published. It probably will not be published.

I was one of the first to disbelieve the Kony 2012 scam.

I am experimenting with my signature. Its latest iteration is pointillist.

I have never, ever used a trending hashtag, and I never, ever will.

I shudder when people refer to coffee as "java".

I shudder when people refer to coffee as "joe".

I shudder when people refer to caffeine as "that extra jolt, ya know?"

I shudder a lot, come to think of it.

I used to have a beard, but I couldn't find organic beard shampoo, so I shaved my beard off.

I named my beard. It's name was Wilgus.

I used the incorrect form of its just now. I know that. I did it to annoy you.

I created my own personal blend of coffee. I import the beans in small amounts at ridiculous prices. It tastes like heaven in a cup.

I will never share the recipe for Ian's Blend. It accompanies me to my grave.

I do not plan on being buried. I want to be cremated and have my ashes sprinkled on my garden, which I have set aside in my will as open to the public for foraging.

I have seen Patton Oswalt's stand-up live four times. His best was the third time I saw him. His material is a little tired now; it needs to breathe.

I am convinced that people care deeply about my opinion. In my mind, that's why they look so attentive when I'm talking to them.

I can't tell the difference between an attentive look and a glassy-eyed look of absolute boredom.

I am far too self-aware.

I am nowhere near self-aware enough.

I used to like Bukowski, but then Modest Mouse had to go and ruin him for me.

I am infinitely outraged that Kurt Cobain is a playable character in Guitar Hero 5, since his personal philosophy was diametrically opposite to the commercialism of the video game industry.

I have to go do some yoga. I suppose I must end this post.

I end my quirky blog posts on my quirky blog with a quirky yet reliable signoff. It's often a non sequitur. Something like this:

Long live deprecation!

"Ooooh, What's That?"

Gender-neutral nouns, I'm a barista. I work at a coffee shop, and I make people drinks, and it's an okay job, I guess. My biggest problem with it is that I don't have much opportunity to be creative in it. Perhaps that should be rephrased: I'm too lazy to be creative in it.

I can be creative, I suppose. I can pay attention to my banter at the counter, for instance. I can figure out if the "LOL @ THIS WETHER" gambit works better than "HOWZ UR DAY GOIN?" gambit by comparing tip totals on different days. I can keep struggling fruitlessly at creating even halfway-decent latte art. I can try to come up with more labor- or cost-saving methods to run the shop.

Or I can try to create new drinks.

I've tried, you know. I've tried coming up with new flavor combinations. I even tried steaming espresso shots in milk. (It turned out to be terrible.) I've tried this, and that, and the other, and then I've forgotten that I tried this already, so I try it again, and then I remember that I already tried it and it wasn't that great.

I think my problem is that I'm infatuated with newness rather than quality. The quality I'm aiming for is not deliciousness but newness. I want to come up with something nobody's ever tried before.

And if it tastes bad...well, that just pushes me more precipitously toward my next essay.

I've become addicted to the open-ended question "ooooh, what's that?"

Maybe I should try writing sonnets on paper cups. That should exhaust some of this excess creativity roiling about inside of me.

Long live juices, creative or otherwise.

EDIT: Speaking of creative juices, check this out. 


GAWSH I love independence.