I somehow crawled up into some sort of wellness blog limbo.
By following comments, and their respective owners, from a friend's blog, I found my way to a whole world of self-proclaimed savants of mental, physical, and spiritual well being.
I must admit that I found some inspiring blog posts and inspiring personalities. However, one pet peeve that got down to my subcutaneous tissues is the formulated post title.
"Seven Ways to Covet Love Today"
"3 Amazing Ways Sorrow Can Fulfill You"
"57 Angles to Lay a Brick"
"11 Ways to Wax a Dolphin"
Evidently, these titles above are fictitious. But, what is it that makes people believe that their writing will be more attractive if they apply this formula to their titles? Is it those lame, self-improvement books, the likes of which plague the shelves of Borders?
One of those lame books, I am reading right now. Perhaps therein lies my real frustration.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Sunday, August 28, 2011
And you shall rest warm...
The storm was escorted by her entourage of clouds. The remaining vision at the dusk of Sunday was simply stunning. The skies got scrubbed and a new, fresh coat painted.
While it was drying, I had to snap a picture.
Hypnotizing, isn't it?
While it was drying, I had to snap a picture.
Hypnotizing, isn't it?
Dilated hurricane pupils
As we expected, Irene was a bit of a let-down (no, we are not masochistic or ill-wishing, or jinxing, or nothing of sorts). She dissipated into a tropical storm as she reached the NYC area.
We really did not feel much in our apartment. The night was fairly calm.
In the morning, we woke up in the eye of the, then, tropical storm. It sped up significantly and moved out of the area within an hour. We let the rain subside before heading out to assess some of the damage.
What we felt was not indicative of what it left behind.
However, what it harmed in Jersey City was nothing close to what it caused in other areas. Here are some examples.
A knocked down tree ripped a fence of the Bergen Light Rail.
This is one of the many drains on a street intersection. It is not doing its job well because the entire city drain system was overwhelmed. Basically, we cannot drain the water in the streets if the drains are flooded.
Van Worst Park got smashed up a bit. It is a miniature park. There is debris all over the ground and the city blocked it off.
One of the more interesting things to see is how the owners and inhabitants of brownstone-style buildings cope with the flooding. The basements of these 4- or 5-story buildings imperatively flood when a rain snout passes through.
It seems that most of them are equipped with sump pumps and they begin dumping water as soon as they can. Some have provisional piping for this temporary use, yet, some others have it built into their house entrance.
You cannot gather this from the pictures, but that water is gushing out aggressively.
And after all that, nothing really interesting to add, but plenty of street flooding.
Jersey City downtown has intersections that are like little pockets where flood waters tend to gather.
More flooding.
And yet, more flooding.
This is Choo's old block. Some poor car got stuck in the flood there. Every building on this block got the basement flooded and they are dumping water on the street.
Zoom on the stranded car. JC's finest are around.
One of the things on the positive side of the tale, that I particularly enjoy much, is the solidarity that comes out of people, in the light of a disaster.
We saw people crawl out to the streets immediately after the rain stopped. People gathered on street corners, people gathered in front of houses. People helped people move debris, move the water, and people talked. Behind the curtain of the remaining wind howl, chatter could be heard everywhere we went.
Down the street, in Hoboken, a huge tree fell down onto the street. In Long Island, more of the same, and much more flooding than here. Somewhere, further North, a family had to be rescued from their own home.
Irene, August of 2011, people will talk about her.
We really did not feel much in our apartment. The night was fairly calm.
In the morning, we woke up in the eye of the, then, tropical storm. It sped up significantly and moved out of the area within an hour. We let the rain subside before heading out to assess some of the damage.
What we felt was not indicative of what it left behind.
However, what it harmed in Jersey City was nothing close to what it caused in other areas. Here are some examples.
 |
A knocked down tree ripped a fence of the Bergen Light Rail.
This is one of the many drains on a street intersection. It is not doing its job well because the entire city drain system was overwhelmed. Basically, we cannot drain the water in the streets if the drains are flooded.
Van Worst Park got smashed up a bit. It is a miniature park. There is debris all over the ground and the city blocked it off.
One of the more interesting things to see is how the owners and inhabitants of brownstone-style buildings cope with the flooding. The basements of these 4- or 5-story buildings imperatively flood when a rain snout passes through.
It seems that most of them are equipped with sump pumps and they begin dumping water as soon as they can. Some have provisional piping for this temporary use, yet, some others have it built into their house entrance.
You cannot gather this from the pictures, but that water is gushing out aggressively.
And after all that, nothing really interesting to add, but plenty of street flooding.
Jersey City downtown has intersections that are like little pockets where flood waters tend to gather.
More flooding.
And yet, more flooding.
This is Choo's old block. Some poor car got stuck in the flood there. Every building on this block got the basement flooded and they are dumping water on the street.
Zoom on the stranded car. JC's finest are around.
One of the things on the positive side of the tale, that I particularly enjoy much, is the solidarity that comes out of people, in the light of a disaster.
We saw people crawl out to the streets immediately after the rain stopped. People gathered on street corners, people gathered in front of houses. People helped people move debris, move the water, and people talked. Behind the curtain of the remaining wind howl, chatter could be heard everywhere we went.
Down the street, in Hoboken, a huge tree fell down onto the street. In Long Island, more of the same, and much more flooding than here. Somewhere, further North, a family had to be rescued from their own home.
Irene, August of 2011, people will talk about her.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
The Harm Before The Storm...
Mass panic attack makes me laugh.
I cannot help this, it is a phenomenon of sorts. For me.
Irene is at the door steps. She is knocking. She sent people into a shopping frenzy. Stores ran out of batteries, flashlights, water. They ran out of water.
THEY FUCKIN' RAN OUT OF WATER. I should come back to that some other time.
They also hiked up the prices. I paid $2.59 for a lame 1" candle. J doesn't know yet, she'd throw a fit.
Back to the mass panic.
Things tend to slow down for me in these hectic scenarios. As much as I hate people, I love watching people. Oh, how I hate people.
I am in the supermarket. Shoppers scurry around paying no heed to others' faces. They are on dire scavenger hunts for whatever it is that the store currently doesn't carry any more. Outside, it is a sunny, warm, fading-summer day. It speaks naught of the foreboding of the storm to come. For that, you have to come into this supermarket. Inside, you find a demonstration of the entropy theory with people for matter. That's all we are. Wasted heat.
People push through like a bee hive. They are piled on top of each other. Hearbeats are a-racin'. Breaths grow shorter. My claustrophobia is starting to kick.
I am waiting in the neverending, serpent line now. The back of my knee gets checked by someone's shopping basket, and the stranger is ten feet away by the time he utters the unwilling "Sorry". I absorb the man in front of me and his cart heaping with stuff as I glance up to confirm that this, indeed, is the express lane with twelve items maximum. What appears to be his daughter comes to him and utters something in Korean, all out of which I grasp only "Express!" He looks around beffudled, searching for the mysterious Express sign. I don't believe he still understood it. An old Korean man, in a new Korean market. Irene, you wretched succubus!
I have been significantly desensitized toward disaster and panic. Perhaps it's a number that War pulled on my psyche, perhaps I can tactically predict that I can handle a situation in an instant, but it is simply a disconcerting lack of care, and that's what it is.
Here I get to the intent of this post. There is a dimension of my ego that has gotten its jollies by always purposely inviting chaos into my everyday life. Toyed with risk in most common situations. I am not talking about taking up bungee jumping. I am talking about making your car hydroplane. I am talking about allowing yourself to be down and out. There is an eerily playful aspect to knowing whether you could handle a situation, and how you would handle it. It's like Kramer pushing the gas tank beyond "E".
I am, obviously, not unique in this respect. Men tend to have this quality more than women, as a stereotype.
This, to me, comes confusingly coupled with sheer laziness. I know I am lazy and everyone close to me knows it. My mind is always working to find the optimal shortcut for carrying out a task - try to do it smarter, not harder.
So, you see, it is a vicious cycle. When I've found myself in risky situations, is it because I am lazy or because I am not worried and believe that I can tactically handle that situation? Consequently, with each iteration, does it make me worry even less, because now I have seen the most stress that I could see?
The panic that Irene caused reminds me of that day that I was sitting in the conference room with some colleagues and a manager stormed in, shouting "Someone just fucking flew a plane into World Trade Center", as he wielded the remote control, turning on the News. As the room filled up with people, faces magnetically turned toward that television set. They were all observing the horrors, I was only observing them. Yeah, I love watching people. You could see all five stages of grief pass over their faces like a shadow. No one noticed that I am not looking at the TV. I already made up my mind about what the TV was going to say, the moment I saw the thick, black smoke gushing out of the tower. It wasn't until an hour afterward, that my boss approached me, saying "Hey how was all this for you? You must have seen all this since you've seen war." I explained to him, then, my reaction to all of it. And how I watched him and his open mouth.
Irene does not worry me.
We can still see the statue. The bridge is harder to see. On a good day, you can see for miles. For miles.
Somewhere, out there, Irene is brewing its ploy. Bring it, you bitch!
I cannot help this, it is a phenomenon of sorts. For me.
Irene is at the door steps. She is knocking. She sent people into a shopping frenzy. Stores ran out of batteries, flashlights, water. They ran out of water.
THEY FUCKIN' RAN OUT OF WATER. I should come back to that some other time.
They also hiked up the prices. I paid $2.59 for a lame 1" candle. J doesn't know yet, she'd throw a fit.
Back to the mass panic.
Things tend to slow down for me in these hectic scenarios. As much as I hate people, I love watching people. Oh, how I hate people.
I am in the supermarket. Shoppers scurry around paying no heed to others' faces. They are on dire scavenger hunts for whatever it is that the store currently doesn't carry any more. Outside, it is a sunny, warm, fading-summer day. It speaks naught of the foreboding of the storm to come. For that, you have to come into this supermarket. Inside, you find a demonstration of the entropy theory with people for matter. That's all we are. Wasted heat.
People push through like a bee hive. They are piled on top of each other. Hearbeats are a-racin'. Breaths grow shorter. My claustrophobia is starting to kick.
I am waiting in the neverending, serpent line now. The back of my knee gets checked by someone's shopping basket, and the stranger is ten feet away by the time he utters the unwilling "Sorry". I absorb the man in front of me and his cart heaping with stuff as I glance up to confirm that this, indeed, is the express lane with twelve items maximum. What appears to be his daughter comes to him and utters something in Korean, all out of which I grasp only "Express!" He looks around beffudled, searching for the mysterious Express sign. I don't believe he still understood it. An old Korean man, in a new Korean market. Irene, you wretched succubus!
I have been significantly desensitized toward disaster and panic. Perhaps it's a number that War pulled on my psyche, perhaps I can tactically predict that I can handle a situation in an instant, but it is simply a disconcerting lack of care, and that's what it is.
Here I get to the intent of this post. There is a dimension of my ego that has gotten its jollies by always purposely inviting chaos into my everyday life. Toyed with risk in most common situations. I am not talking about taking up bungee jumping. I am talking about making your car hydroplane. I am talking about allowing yourself to be down and out. There is an eerily playful aspect to knowing whether you could handle a situation, and how you would handle it. It's like Kramer pushing the gas tank beyond "E".
I am, obviously, not unique in this respect. Men tend to have this quality more than women, as a stereotype.
This, to me, comes confusingly coupled with sheer laziness. I know I am lazy and everyone close to me knows it. My mind is always working to find the optimal shortcut for carrying out a task - try to do it smarter, not harder.
So, you see, it is a vicious cycle. When I've found myself in risky situations, is it because I am lazy or because I am not worried and believe that I can tactically handle that situation? Consequently, with each iteration, does it make me worry even less, because now I have seen the most stress that I could see?
The panic that Irene caused reminds me of that day that I was sitting in the conference room with some colleagues and a manager stormed in, shouting "Someone just fucking flew a plane into World Trade Center", as he wielded the remote control, turning on the News. As the room filled up with people, faces magnetically turned toward that television set. They were all observing the horrors, I was only observing them. Yeah, I love watching people. You could see all five stages of grief pass over their faces like a shadow. No one noticed that I am not looking at the TV. I already made up my mind about what the TV was going to say, the moment I saw the thick, black smoke gushing out of the tower. It wasn't until an hour afterward, that my boss approached me, saying "Hey how was all this for you? You must have seen all this since you've seen war." I explained to him, then, my reaction to all of it. And how I watched him and his open mouth.
Irene does not worry me.
We can still see the statue. The bridge is harder to see. On a good day, you can see for miles. For miles.
Somewhere, out there, Irene is brewing its ploy. Bring it, you bitch!
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Winning!
It is the bane of the male existence. It is what builds countries and destroys them at the same time. It is testosterone. It is within all of us. How do we measure this thing? The "eye of the tiger". Sizing your opponent.
Further, how about deciding when you win?
Some people simply draw a joy from running their perceived opponents into the ground. They cannot halt their onslaught until they feel that the opponent is completely emasculated and has no chance of contriving a formidable comeback in a reasonable amount of time. They are Hannibal. They levelled Carthage so that it cannot flourish again. They pity the dead and scoff at the resistance.
Then, there is another school of thought of winning. There are winners that knock the enemy down to its knees just to be able to rebuild them back again. It's like carving the twig into a toothpick. It's wearing the sweater down to its last thread, then rolling it back into a ball of yarn. The hat tip comes when the enemy is exsanguinating, but not dead yet. And they give him a hand.
I am neither one of those. If I were to apply my mindset to that of winning, here is where it would fall, more or less. I am a lazy winner. Perchance, I simply self-indulge in victory a wee bit early. I am the victor to whom it suffices to see the gums of its opponent's jowls, the tear in the eye, see the lip quiver, see the hesitation in their voice. If I get the faintest symptom that my opponent has recognized defeat, I sheathe mine blade. I draw no particular satisfaction of seeing my challenger's agony. I am simple. I just seek a nod. A tail fold back between the legs. That is all. That's my recognition.
Perhaps it all comes back to being a pacifist at heart. Perhaps it all, also, comes inherently coupled with the mindset of always carefully choosing an adequately clever rival. I don't know how much I care to defeat the Attila's and the Hannibal's of the world. They cannot learn from it. Perhaps Hannibal Lecter. But not Hannibal, the original one. Is it all about learning?
Further, how about deciding when you win?
Some people simply draw a joy from running their perceived opponents into the ground. They cannot halt their onslaught until they feel that the opponent is completely emasculated and has no chance of contriving a formidable comeback in a reasonable amount of time. They are Hannibal. They levelled Carthage so that it cannot flourish again. They pity the dead and scoff at the resistance.
Then, there is another school of thought of winning. There are winners that knock the enemy down to its knees just to be able to rebuild them back again. It's like carving the twig into a toothpick. It's wearing the sweater down to its last thread, then rolling it back into a ball of yarn. The hat tip comes when the enemy is exsanguinating, but not dead yet. And they give him a hand.
I am neither one of those. If I were to apply my mindset to that of winning, here is where it would fall, more or less. I am a lazy winner. Perchance, I simply self-indulge in victory a wee bit early. I am the victor to whom it suffices to see the gums of its opponent's jowls, the tear in the eye, see the lip quiver, see the hesitation in their voice. If I get the faintest symptom that my opponent has recognized defeat, I sheathe mine blade. I draw no particular satisfaction of seeing my challenger's agony. I am simple. I just seek a nod. A tail fold back between the legs. That is all. That's my recognition.
Perhaps it all comes back to being a pacifist at heart. Perhaps it all, also, comes inherently coupled with the mindset of always carefully choosing an adequately clever rival. I don't know how much I care to defeat the Attila's and the Hannibal's of the world. They cannot learn from it. Perhaps Hannibal Lecter. But not Hannibal, the original one. Is it all about learning?
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