Longtext Posts

Oh! I have the slipped the surly bonds of Earth — Put out my hand and touched the Face of God

"High Flight," John G. Magee Jr.

There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Twilight Zone.

The Twilight Zone, Rod Serling

Space flights didn't use to have apexes. An apex is the top or highest part of something; in reference to flight, it describes the point where the craft is farthest away from the hard, unforgiving ground below. Airliners have an apex of about 40,000 feet over the earth, zipping along until they come to their point of destination, where they touch gently back down on the runway.

Space was different. When you reached the edge of outer space, it made no more sense to refer to your flight in relation to earth than it does to imagine our galaxy as a geocentric one. What is up when there is no gravity? What is down when you can look up and see the earth?

Even in reference to shuttles, which merely orbit the earth, the word "apex" seems inadequate. Using 5.6 million pounds of thrust, the gleaming white planes blasted into and out of the atmosphere riding the back of a rollicking red rocket en route to low orbit, high orbit or even the moon. For eons, man stared out into space (sometimes thinking it was God, other times thinking it filled with vermicious Knids) and wondered. The shuttle stood as the preeminent example of man matching up against nature. Not defeating it, mind you (see Titanic, The, for reasons why one should not think oneself above Mother Nature). But able to meet it on its own terms, to work together to harness the capability of man and prove ourselves not limited by constraints of time, energy or — finally — gravity.

As Discovery whisked away into the sky over Florida this afternoon on its final voyage, it signaled an end. Not an end to space flight, or technological advances, or (metaphorically or literally) even reaching for the stars. It signaled an end to an age of exploration, of adventure. It's an end of an era in which we thought there was still more to find out.

Think about it. I'm not claiming that there aren't still many (innumerable) scientific advances to be made, gadgets to be invented and boundaries to be pushed. But it does seem like the grand experiment, the drive to achieve a symbolic victory for humanity, rather than for country or group, does seem to have reached the end of its line.

Where once Houston and Cape Canaveral stood as the gateways to space, now there are "commercial spaceports" (or at least, very badly thought-out plans for them). We're not sending up publicly-funded vehicles in order to further scientific exploration, we're equipping wide-body 747s with harnesses and padding so the obscenely wealthy can feel the effects of barfing on a multiple-hundreds-of-thousands-of-dollars plane ride, in 30-second intervals.

It's not a symptom, but a side-effect, perhaps, of a society that seems to have turned from once noble — or merely not-shallow — goals. Where once people strove to became famous by displaying a talent or being the best at something, now they strive be famous for ... being famous. The superficiality that has infected our culture is seeping into what formerly were the bastions of rationality and solid principles; look no further than Climate-gate, or the fact that controversy constantly swirls around scientific theories manufactured because of "difference of opinions," or those who insist that the function of government is to lavish money upon the already wealthy at the expense of those who need help the most.

This is, undoubtedly, a rosy-colored view of the causes of history, but it's a clear-eyed look at the effects. Man untethered himself from the earth at Kitty Hawk, Man turned a weapon of unimaginable destruction at Nagasaki into a source of energy. And man wrenched himself free from terra firma and set himself down on another celestial body, for no other reason than he could.

I do not intend for this to be a eulogy for our collective exploratory nature, though it very well may serve as such. We seem to be set on a track that takes us further and further away from collective achievement and points squarely in the direction of personal accomplishment. This is not a plea to save the space program or pour more money into NASA. I don't know the feasibility of building new shuttles; I don't know the future. Nor, at this moment, do I particularly care to contemplate it.

Instead, I sat outside after work last night and looked up at the stars, just imagining what it was like. I sat watching the liftoff on the biggest TV I could find, trying to comprehend what it means to have multiple times the force of gravity strain to keep your body on the earth, but through the collective intelligence of generations rip yourself away.

Those who went before us soared so majestically they rendered the word we use to mean the highest altitude, apex, meaningless. How far up are we now meant to go? I can only hope that we, as a generation, as a society, as a species, follow their example: Don't worry about how high we can make it. Think instead in terms of how to redefine what it means to fly altogether.

Last month, I was pleasantly surprised to discover I had quite a bit of vacation time racked up at work. Once we passed through the busy season, I took the first opportunity to use it. I decided to take an entire week off and go camping - much to the surprise of nearly everyone I told.

Apparently, mine is not an "outdoorsy" dispositon.

Originally, the plan was to head to southern Idaho or Montana. After thinking about it further (and checking the state of my finances), I overruled that decision in favor of a campground we own a lot on in Western Washington. Adjacent to Mt. Pilchuck, itself nestled in the foothills of the Cascades, it seemed like a good place to get away from everything. Plus, I could take two or three days to venture up to Canada and make sure it was still there.

For the better part of four hours, I raced the clouds and the rain across the state. It was only upon arriving in Seattle that I realized they had separated, flanked and beaten me. Outsmarted by the weather yet again.

Thus it was rain, light hail and barely functional windshield wipers that greeted me as I drove into Seattle, Owl City pumping through the speakers. Though it's only been less than six months since I last laid eyes upon the Emerald City, it seemed like considerably longer. Whenever I used to cross the I-90 bridge, it used to feel like coming home, even though I've never lived in Seattle and haven't even had an address on the west side of the state in five years. Apparently, that's starting to catch up with me on a psychological level.

There exists in all of us a struggle between two people - the "ideal" self one aspires to be and the person who truly lives at any given moment. It is not a very "solvable" problem, in that the only way to do so is to stop growing as a human being. Sometimes, the difference between the two is vast. Whereas you might have been dreaming all your life of growing up to be a hot-shot lawyer defending the rights of the downtrodden, you may instead find yourself working a low-paying job as a social worker.

There's nothing inherently wrong or bad about the choices you've made in your life; they're just different than the ones you expected to make. Very rarely do things in life go exactly according to plan, but for most people these slight diversions don't seem large enough to alter the over-arching narrative they've constructed for their life. It's only a slight hiccup, after all. It's not until months or years later that everything hits them at once, that they're not where they expected to be, that the path they previously envisioned laying out before them in fact forked quite some time ago.

My realization was nothing so consequential or monumental as that. But as I drove around Seattle, looking for a place to park and walking around a bit, I realized that my vision of myself was drastically different than the one I pictured in my head.

Ever since I moved to Idaho, I've joked that I never actually admit that fact; I always just say I live in Eastern Washington. As with all jokes, there's a small kernel of truth at the center. In reality, I never even traveled to the eastern half of Washington state until I was 17. Aside from the superficial political difference, the western and eastern halves of the state always seemed to be two completely different places.

The west side was urbane, modern and contemporary. Even if you didn't live in Seattle, it was the place you identified with - and not just when people asked where you were from ("near Seattle" is the answer given by those who live anywhere north of Vancouver, south of Canada and east of the Cascades. It's just easier).

The east, by contrast, moved at a slower pace. Though not all farmers, theirs was a simpler way of life, not nearly so crowded or developed. They had Spokane, which was okay as small to medium cities go, but nothing to write home about.

I've always considered myself to be "from the west side," with everything that entails. During college, I always pictured myself moving back at some point after my sojourn out East, picking up exactly where I left off. But as I tried to navigate through the ridiculously narrow roads, try to navigate without being able to see anything more than the streets and the enormous buildings that rose up all around me, I noticed that - at the very least - I am woefully out of practice for west side living.

Yet at the same time, I felt a pull in the opposite direction, the other half of the dichotomy asserting itself. I still missed just walking around in the rain. I still missed being in a city where you could look up and see buildings towering over you. I still missed the culture that comes with having a million poeple in the same area. But instead of being the primary thoughts I was having, they were instead dancing on the periphery, secondary.

This reprioritization actually came as somewhat of a shock, despite having lived almost 8 months in Coeur d'Alene and the four and a half years prior in the small hamlet of Pullman. Obviously I don't take this as a sign I'll settle down in CdA forever or never move back to Western Washington, but it does come as something of a shock to realize fundamental aspects of your character are far different than you had expected.

Helluva way to start a vacation.

Everyone wants to be special. Everyone wants to have that one thing they're the best it, what they're known for - in many cases, what defines them as a person. I am not everyone. I accept the fact that I am good at a lot of things and the best at none just as I accept that I know a little bit about damn near everything, but am an expert in practically nothing.

This scattershot approach to life works for me, and I do not question it. But this is not to say that I am ordinary. Far from it, as everyone who has ever met me (and most people who have only heard of me) will readily tell you. This, however, extends primarily to my towering height, outsized wit, and/or spot-on impression of Sir Lawrence Olivier.

It's amusing what people will believe when you present them with a secret identity.

That's right. I - and, I suspect, many others - possess secret superpowers that ordinary mortals would exhibit polite interest learning about. It's always a struggle, trying to keep the lid on my innate gifts, but I've managed to keep them under wraps for quite some time. I only bring them into the open now to encourage others to shed the mask they have been living behind, and reveal their true selves to the world.

It is with this high-minded ideal in mind that I present this list of my Perfectly Ordinary Superpowers. Each POS on its own is powerful and frightening, but you shouldn't be alarmed. I am no more dangerous than any other 6'7" rage-filled Irish giant you might cross paths with, but keep in mind that if you should wrong me, things could some become very ... uncomfortable for you (largely as a result of this first power, but still).

Super Awkward

We've all met awkward people before. Whether it's the painfully cheesy guy who's convinced he's the most hilarious thing since sliced bread or simply the loner girl who's perfected the piercing stare without ever mentioning a word to anyone else, they exist all around us.

Rank amateurs, says I.

I possess the unique ability to turn any situation excruciatingly awkward at the drop of a hat. It can be as simple as dumping Diet Pepsi all over my khakis when I first meet someone, or as silly as saying the wrong thing ("Who could possibly like x?" I boom as part of a joke, to which I invariably get "I like x," seeping acidly from another's lips in return). Regardless, it as a skill as of yet unmatched by anyone I've met. Though, to be fair, were I to square off against another who powers in the same range as mine, it would be a distressing meeting for everyone in the general vicinity.

Super Reflexes

We're not talking about whacking my knees with tiny rubber hammers. I'm taking reflexes here, people, like hearing your boss walk down the hall to ask you to work over the weekend and being quick enough to duck under your desk and silently roll out the door.

Granted, a vast majority of the situations where I call upon my reflexes are in fact of my own making, but my sloth-like speed and aging bovine-eqsue grace have proven themselves time and time again. Two quick examples:

As I walk down store aisles, there's a large amount of kinetic energy that needs to be stopped if, say, a small (stupid) child decides to cut in front of me and I'm barely paying attention. I've yet to trample any young'uns, but my quick movement usually requires half-throwing myself at shelves. This action causes an equal and opposite reaction of products leaping off the shelves in some sort of retail suicide attempt. On one occasion, I slammed into a shelf of clocks with my back and felt them wobble. I automatically reached my hand up and pinned one against my back in mid-air. holding it there.

An elderly female clerk, who watched the whole thing, stared at me as I tried to catch my breath and feel around to get a good grip on the clock. She scowled at me. "I know it fell, where is it?" she demanded. "Trapped between my hand and my back. Gimme a second," I responded loftily. Only my deft hands saved that timepiece from shattering on the unclean floor, doomed forever to the "clearance bin" for maladjusted products.

Similarly, during high school I went to a McDonald's while on a basketball trip. Being a mere (where the value of "mere" is six feet, three inches) freshman at the time, I obediently stood in the back of the line while the older players ordered and received their food. When I finally got mine, the box of fries for some reason stood on its two little "feet" about an inch away from the tray's left front lip. A senior tried to squeeze down the same narrow aisle as me, so I maneuvered to the side to let her pass. She still accidentally bumped me, causing the fries to tip over and hurtle toward the ground. Without even thinking, I reached with my right hand (hanging onto the tray with my left) over the breadth/depth of the tray, grabbing and arresting the fries mid-fall. I lost a total of three fries that day.

Super Sleep

Technically, this isn't the ability to sleep so much as the ability to wake, but "Super Awakening" just doesn't have the same ring. Besides, my powers, my names.

I have no practical need for an alarm clock. I currently roll out of bed with nary but my cell phone to wake me, but even its (hilarious) ringtone alarm remains largely superfluous, serving only to elicit small chuckle as I roll over to turn it off, completely awake.

That's right. I don't need technology to tell me when it's time to get up. My body takes care of that on its own. Unless I'm incapacitated (read: stone drunk) or already sleep-deprived the night before, I can wake up within five minutes of whatever time I want to. Suck it, Circadian rhythms. Your internal clock has nothing on mine. And we're not even talking about waking up an hour early and having to keep checking the time, or even doing it on a daily basis at the exact same time. I can set my internal alarm early, late - it matters not. I may not be the most chipper person in the world, but I rather suspect that has more to do with my refusal to drink coffee than anything else.

Consider yourself warned, citizens. Prior knowledge of the existence of my superpowers implies a waiver on your part regarding any damages you may sustain from my exercise of them. One day, you just might wake up ... but I'll already be ready.

It's Dec. 31, which means I’m parked in front of my television starting my annual personal Twilight Zone marathon. Though I stole the idea from the SciFi channel, mine’s better because a) there aren’t any commercials and b) I have the full complement (the original series and the remake from the ‘80s).

But, as with whenever I watch movies, I need something else to do at the same time. Since my blog has lain dormant for more than a month, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to update with a summation of this year. However, seeing as how distracted I am (“ooh, pretty flickering black-and-white television!"), it’ll be largely composed of lists

Thoughts that have occurred to me only since I've lived in Idaho:

• "When that nice young man driving by as I was walking down the road yelled, 'I will set you on fire!' at me, was that a threat or a come-on?"

• "Hmm ... It's New Year's Eve, and my apartment faces both downtown and the outskirts. From which direction am I least likely to get hit with a stray celebratory bullet at midnight?"

My top entertainment products produced this year:

• Castle (TV show)

• The Wordy Shipmates, by Sarah Vowell

• In The Loop (movie)

• God Is A Twelve-Year-Old Boy With Asperger's, by Eugene Mirman (standup)

• Zombieland (movie)

• The Unusuals (TV show)

• Star Trek (movie)

• My Weakness Is Strong, by Patton Oswalt (standup)

• The Magicians, by Lev Grossman

Things I miss about Pullman:

• A bus system that takes you everywhere in town, for free

• Bars populated by people that don't look ready to kill me for being younger than 40 and/or giving them unwelcoming looks when they loudly proclaim their bigotry

• The town being small enough to walk everywhere you could want to go

• New Garden

• The people

Job titles of four positions I applied for but didn't get:

• Anything with the word "newspaper" (a few small-paper editors, sports writing, etc.)

• Social networking director

• Text processor (for a bible software company, but I withdrew from that one fearing damnation)

• Editor, I Can Haz Cheezburger group

Discomfiting realizations from 2009:

• Remember how much we were looking forward to 2009? Look how that turned out. Now consider how optimistic people are about 2010. And how often do the expectations of optimistic people come true? We're in for a rough year.

• As our body of knowledge amasses in ever greater qualities, our ability to use the truly innovative kind of imagination decreases at a similar rate. In earlier times, people were able to conceive of interplanetary travel with relative ease. Now that we know how difficult and expensive such trips would be, we can walk into a movie like Avatar secure in the knowledge that, if such things are even in the realm of human possibility, they are so far off in the future as to be fictional.

• Much along the same lines, as interdisciplinary studies become the norm, the propensity of revolutionary new ideas appearing will decrease drastically. Great breakthroughs are usually found by people who have no knowledge of dogmatic "facts" (generally accepted principles that may not be the case) in a particular field. Obviously, most people who claim such things (think perpetual energy) are cranks. But Einstein was able to formulate his theory of relativity because he didn't know the rules of the system. Once everyone is grounded in precisely the same knowledge, the chances of a brilliant outsider to see something no one else did are greatly diminished.

Things I'm sad are no longer with us:

• The Post-Intelligencer

• A friend from high school

• Jon Updike

• B. Dalton stores

• The Rocky Mountain News

• Ted Kennedy; and with him, civility in the Senate

• Walter Cronkite

Things people thought might have disappeared I'm glad are still around:

• Ernie Harwell

• Web comics

• Used bookstores

• Sbarro's

• Borders

• Miramax

Things I wish would disappear:

• Athletes in the news for things other than athletics (Michael Phelps, Tiger Woods, etc.)

• The phrase "raising Cain"

• People being surprised when politicians act like politicians

• Archie comics

• Printed phone books

• TV news

Technical skills I have learned while on the job that weren't strictly necessary:

• How to use XSLT to style/translate XML files

• Working knowledge of ASP.NET

• Advanced Javascript magic

• Useful tricks for AfterEffects, Illustrator and Blender

Women I would gladly marry if only they would rescind the restraining orders:

• Tina Fey

• Sarah Vowell

• That one girl from high school

• Zooey Deschanel

The Six Most Recent Additions to My "To Read" List:

• Her Fearful Symmetry, by Audrey Niffenegger

• Gilligan's Wake, by Tom Carson

• Angler: The Cheney Vice Presidency, by Barton Gellman

• The Big Rewind: A Memoir Brought To You By Pop Culture, by Nathan Rabin

• Looking for Calvin and Hobbes, by Nevin Martell

• His Name is Still Mudd: The Case Against Doctor Samuel Mudd, by Edward Steers

Things I’ve learned from watching The Twilight Zone:

• Most alien planets/asteroids look like Death Valley

• Windows in the 1950s had the tensile strength of wax paper

• Time must have worked a helluva lot differently back then (direct quote: "Well, we can't see the movement of a clock's hands, but they move")

• In most alternate realities, Earth ceased to exist by the mid-80s.

• Military officers can be knocked out with a swift punch to the gut

• I'm 90% sure the father of Tim Matheson (Otter from Animal house) wrote for the show

• All scientists are required to possess a full complement of chemical-filled beakers. Even if you're a physicist with a time machine, next to it should lay a full spread of fancy tubes and Bunsen burners on a table.

• Turns out it was earth all along

Once six o’clock — my tenth hour of work — rolled around, I figured it was okay to take a call. It wasn't as if work was particularly difficult, being my first day and all, or even that I was busy. The last hour and half or so had been spent waiting on someone else to finish up. Until that point, I felt somewhat uncomfortable taking a personal call on the job. Now? Probably in the clear.

Around noon, I had checked Facebook and saw a note from an old high school friend who I hadn't spoken to in years. Under the subject heading, "Hey...", the rather cryptic message read, "You should call me today. It's important. Anytime after 1:00. My number is (###) ###-####."

With the office to myself, I decided to give him a call. I really couldn't fathom the reason he wanted me to call; I assumed there was some sort of party being planned, or some celebration in the offing.

When he picked up, the first thing he asked me was if I had heard about Rachel. I wasn't quite sure what he meant. We were the same age, having attended the same school from kindergarten right up through college. We were both in band, we had a number of activities and classes that overlapped, and I was fairly certain I had seen her at a barbecue two days before graduating college, about three months prior.

"No," I replied honestly. I hadn't really heard anything beyond the vagaries absorbed through Facebook. Things like extracurricular activities, internships and the like. When I heard who the call was in reference to, I kind of assumed she had done something major. Maybe she won some national award? Unsure as to why this required informing me, I really wasn’t sure what to expect. I certainly wasn’t ready to hear the news.

"Dead?..." I stammered. "How? What happened?" My mind raced through any number of scenarios: car crashes, plane crashes, muggings ...

"She killed herself."

"Oh."

Several seconds passed in silence.

"Wow."

"Yeah."

...

"Damn."

"Yeah."

He related how our band director heard the news, then instructed old students in the area to get ahold of those who might not have heard. Apparently, there was to be a memorial service held on Friday or Saturday. Would I be able to make it?

It was Tuesday. Literally my first week, my first day on the job. I hadn’t even filled out my W-4 yet. I had just finished getting my new apartment ready, and hadn’t even gotten my furniture out of storage. I was sleeping on an air mattress on the floor of my living room. Not to mention I now lived in another state, an additional 90 miles on top of the 250 miles I put between me and my hometown during college.

“If it’s on Saturday, I’ll absolutely be there. I probably can’t if it’s on Friday.”

We caught up a bit, then, about where our lives had taken us after high school, but I wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention. My mind just kept repeating what he had said, over and over. Finally, after wishing each other well, we hung up.

Rachel and I had our share of run-ins over the years. It wasn’t adversarial or anything like that. But from a very young age, both of us were culled from the herd as “smart kids.” Smart kids, in a school district like ours, were expected to do a lot. We were both taken out of classes for the “gifted” program in elementary school, sat next to each other in the “honors” classes in middle school, and frequented the same courses a year ahead of when we were supposed to in high school.

Smart kids aren’t the ones who wind up dead before they hit 30 – at least, not without a good reason. We can be victims of violent crime, sure. But it’s the other people in high school, the ones who don’t go anywhere, they’re the ones you read about in the newspaper. The obituary section is for the kid who never cared, who never tried; he’s the one who was caught stalking and trying to rape a teenager not a year and half after he graduated high school.

Not us.

I recalled a recognition luncheon, for a scholarship we both received. I hadn’t seen her there, but apparently my father ran into her father at some point, and they spoke. My dad told me that Rachel and her sister had apparently talked about me quite a bit. We were always at the head of the class, and whenever I would get a higher score on a test, they would return home and complain about it. I had never known this, but I always felt a certain sense of rivalry with them—and I lost just as often as I won.

I really didn’t know what to do at that point. I just stood in my office and stared at the Starbucks across the street. Standing 350 miles away from where everything was happening, where I felt I should be, I definitely felt lost.

My fingers played with my phone. I had to call someone, find someone I could share the news with. Problem was, I didn’t really keep in touch with anyone from high school. I kept in regular contact with two people: one I worked with, Dale, and one I went to school with, Mallory. Dale lived 15 miles away from my hometown; and besides, he was a guy—not the sort of person you talk to about these things. Mallory moved around a lot as a kid, only settling in Arlington her sophomore year. She didn’t really have the same connection with everyone, and talked to even fewer of them than I did.

I called Mallory.

I told her the news rather abruptly, and she was understandably shocked. She was probably more worried about me, as I kept stuttering, rushing through my sentences and trailing off. I felt bad about just dumping it on her without pretense, but how do you prepare someone for that sort of thing? “Hey, so you know how Michael Jackson died? Well, you’re never gonna believe this, but …”

There didn’t seem to be an appropriate segue.

We talked about how strange it was, how Rachel was the last person you’d ever expect to do something like that. I didn’t know much about her situation. I knew she had graduated and landed a pretty swank internship over the summer. I assumed she was still with the company, or looking for something else to do. Having just extricated myself from the pits of unemployment, I knew how difficult such a process could be, but it didn’t seem that overwhelming.

We talked for about 45 minutes, and she graciously told me I could crash at her place on Friday night if there was going to be a service on Saturday. She made me promise to keep in touch with her during the week, and we said good-bye.

I left work about half an hour later and walked to my apartment. I checked the mail, took off my shoes, sat down in front of my computer, and generally went about my business.

But in the back of my mind, thoughts were still festering. They strayed from the somber to the downright petty. I felt curiosity about what caused her to do it. Sadness and grief for Rachel’s family, who I didn’t know particularly well but had run into over the years. I particularly sympathized for Rachel’s twin sister—I couldn’t fathom how she felt. I wondered what was going to happen if I went to the funeral, and how I could possibly afford another trip to the Westside—considering I hadn’t gotten paid and had just finished buying everything for my new apartment.

As I struggled to force myself to fall asleep, my main focus was on the line of questioning Mallory kept up during our conversation.

“Why are you going to the service?” she asked. It wasn’t demanding, she honestly didn’t know why I would drive the six-plus hours just to attend a service for someone who I wasn’t very close to.

I started to speak, but hesitated. Truth be told, my reaction had been more gut instinct than anything else. No long-term planning guided my decision. I just said I would go.

“I feel a sense of obligation,” I finally decided upon.

“Obligation? Why would you be obligated to go to a funeral? It’s not like anyone’s going to look down on you for not making the trip,” she replied with infuriating logic.

“It’s not an obligation to them,” I answered. “It’s not for the people who are going to attend, it’s not even for the family… It’s for her. When you go to school with someone for that long, when you’re around them that much… You just have to, you know?”

She gave what can only be described as a verbal nod of assent, clearly unconvinced.

“What’s your earliest memory?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Probably something with my family, when I was a real little kid. Why?” she responded.

“I guess it kind of explains why I’m going,” I said. “My earliest memory, the very first thing I can remember, involves Rachel.”

“ It was in second grade, and she was wearing her glasses to school for the very first time. I can see her clearly, sitting there in Mrs. Webb’s class, and she is just bawling because she’s afraid she’s going to be teased.”

I fell silent for a moment.

“That’s why I feel obligated to go. My very first memory includes her. A lot of my high school memories from band include her. I even remember in middle school honors, we held weekly competitions where the winner would get to move either their or someone else’s seat, and one week I moved her. I don’t remember why, I don’t even remember where … but I know it was her.”

“Okay,” Mallory said after a pause. “That kinda makes sense.”

“Yeah,” I said. Not really, I thought.

They planned the service to be held in the performing arts center at the high school. This was actually going to be my first trip back to my hometown in at least three years, and the first time since the month after graduation I was going to see a sizable number of people I knew.

In another of many firsts, it was the first time I had seen the performing arts center, as it was built a year or two after I graduated. When I walked in the front doors, the first two people I saw were signing the guest book. One was my best friend throughout most of high school, with whom I had a falling-out with during junior year. The other was a mutual female friend.

I actually didn’t recognize him. I thought I knew who he was, but enough doubt remained in my mind to prevent initiating conversation for fear of being mistaken. It turned out not to matter, as the girl embraced me as soon as she saw me, calling me by a nickname I hadn’t heard in four and a half years.

As I made my way into the theater (and yes, it felt very strange walking into a theater for a memorial service), I saw grown-up versions of the kids I had known. Some of them were instantly recognizable, though only in two cases had they not aged a day. Others might as well have been ethereal phantoms from the 19th century, for all the familiar they seemed.

The crowd only half-filled the auditorium, with a clear physical delineation between those who knew her, and those who knew of her. I sat with the latter group, farther away from the stage.

Whether for good or bad, this was not the first memorial service I attended for a high school classmate who committed suicide. A boy involved in my youth group had done the same thing during my freshman year, so I felt oddly prepared for the service.

The service part was a bit strange, at least to me. I had never attended a Catholic memorial service, so I was a little overwhelmed by the iconography and rituals. Other than that, it seemed a normal (if such things can have a “normal”) memorial. The priest—for whatever reason—told us Rachel had been studying for her master’s at UW, and simply become overwhelmed by the pressures of life.

I was definitely not expecting the stories that came when they opened up the mic to the audience to share memories. The family went first, describing intimate moments most of us in the crowd were not privy to, but enjoyed for the love and warmth contained in the stories.

Then her kindergarten teacher stood up, describing how — even from that young age — she was bright, caring, and full of life. I was mildly surprised by this, as the woman who stood up was my kindergarten teacher as well. Apparently, our stories had been more intertwined than I thought.

Following that, a number of people affiliated with the college we both attended stood up and spoke of their remembrances. She had been a counselor who gave freshman tours, and a boy from her group related how personable she was. Another—who wasn’t even in her group—confirmed this. Members of the various student organizations she was involved in also spoke out, praising in her in the kindest possible terms.

By no means was I surprised that people would remember her in such a way, as it jibed perfectly with my own memories. What seemed strange about the whole thing was simply how much of her life had taken place after high school. A vast majority of the people in the audience knew her from her years in Arlington, yet there we were, hearing stories regarding things we never even thought about. Even I, who spent an additional four years at the same college, two of those at the student newspaper, didn’t know about them. Sure, some of the events sounded familiar — I knew what the tour group was, I knew the various organizations — but it still felt like hearing stories about a stranger.

As I imagine is the case with everyone, I had defined her in relationship to my own life. I don’t think this a terribly foreign concept. It’s a bit like playing peek-a-boo with a small child — once something’s gone out of their vision, they forget about it. In the same way, as people pass in and out of our lives, we are able to write their background stories only insofar as we know them. If you haven’t seen someone for a year, you can still pick up a friendship. But there are so many things, so many experiences they lived through, that you’ll never be able to truly comprehend. You’re left, instead, with a partial portrait — and I would imagine not a great many of them are ever completed.

Following the service, I reunited with a number of my favorite teachers and people from high school. A group of us hung out for a few hours, just as we used to. Then, just as I had driven back into my past, it was time to strike out again for the present.

Rachel still pops up in my thoughts every so often, though not nearly as much now as when it first happened. I’ll see a death notice while reading the news online, and that will get me thinking. Or her profile will pop in the “Mutual Friends” list when I’m randomly surfing Faceboook—that’s jarring, but not nearly as bad as the “you should reconnect” notifications that scared the absolute hell out of me.

But the strangest effect of all of this has to do with a song I hadn’t listened to in years. After getting my whole apartment set up, I went through and re-filled my iPod with a random assortment of music. While at work one day, about a week after the service, Vitamin C’s “Graduation (Friends Forever)” started to play. Even though the song was released in 2000, it nonetheless managed to ingrain itself as “the song” for every class from 2000-2005.

The opening lyrics go, “And so we talked all night about the rest of our lives/Where we're gonna be when we turn 25/I keep thinking times will never change/Keep on thinking things will always be the same/But when we leave this year we won't be coming back.”

The song doesn’t have the most beautiful melody. The lyrics are not terribly inspired. But for whatever reason, when I heard those words, I flat-out lost it.

I hurried to the bathroom, tears in my eyes, and haven’t been able to listen to the song since. I’m not sure I can. It’s the line, “Where we’re gonna be when we turn 25,” that gets me. When I hear it, I’m reminded of the simple but obvious fact that she’s not going to turn 25. The thought that, statistically, there will be probably others in my class who won’t turn 25 — maybe even me.

The second is stranger, though this time it has nothing to do with ephemeral pop culture. While it still holds true that I generally define the people I've known in terms of their entry into my consciousness, I also find myself spending greater amounts of times actively seeking them out. Where I previously just let those people go until they organically sprang back into my life (which, being 200+ miles away from most of them, didn't happen often), I now go out of my way to at least think about them, check up on Facebook and see what they're doing. Even though I do not see them any more often than before, their lives seem so much more relevant to me now, and thus their link more tangible.

I cannot, unfortunately, repeat the clichéd idea of the dead live on in the hearts of the living. I believe this sentiment denigrates the sanctity of death, shielding us from its permanence and functioning as an emotional crutch that allows denial and repression to linger on and strangle those left behind. Dead people have, in every respect, passed on. That does not, however, mean they did not have an impact while they were alive. What I will take away from Rachel are two things: the way in which my interactions with her shaped me (for the better, in every case I can think of), and the ability to pierce what previously seemed an impenetrable veil between the present and the past. I find myself much better able to comprehend others in their own right, rather than the imperfect refraction I saw when gazing through my personal perceptual prism.

Even though "Graduation" is skipped when I hit shuffle and barred from my iPod playlist, every time I hear it — or even when I’m reminded of it — I think about her, and what the entire experience meant to me. And once I'm ready and capable of hearing it without losing control, I hope it will signify a profound shift in my reaching out toward those friends who might once have fallen by the wayside.

I've not made much of a secret of my purchasing a Kindle, largely due to my evangelizing the stupid thing whenever the opportunity arises. Despite what some people would have you believe, I do not ardently desire the death of printed books, libraries, or puppies (an unrelated story for another time). I do, however, believe that printed books could use some competition. My purchase of the electronic daemon-tome was justified (to myself) on the basis of a few facts:

1. It's cheaper to purchase new books on the Kindle than to buy the physical copy. Most books are released as hardcovers, with paperbacks that follow a year or two later. For the most part, I don't mind waiting as a) I don't want to spend $17-20+ for a book, and b) I dislike reading hardcover books because I never know what to do with the jacket. There are, however, certain exceptions (theDresden Files series, to name one) that I would buy anyway, and it's not so bad to find out about new books and be able to snag them for $10 a shot. Recent excellent acquisitions because of this: The Magicians (absolutely recommended to anyone who liked Narnia), Idiot America and Fool.

2. Used Kindles, which are just as usable as the new ones, are cheaper than the $300 entry price point. I got mine for $175, which means that after 17 or so hardbacks, I broke even.

3. Free e-books are available, both legally (public domain—antiquities,classics) and not-so. I've read all of Dan Brown's books (so I have a legitimate basis to criticize them), but have not had to pay for it using anything other than my time, intelligence and a smidgen of my soul.

4. It's far more convenient I read. A lot. And rather quickly, too, which means that going on a trip or moving no longer means carting around an extra half-dozen books._

5. Most importantly, there is no material difference between the electronic version and the paper version.

This last point would have been an absolute deal-breaker. While some books obviously would not translate to the Kindle very well (graphic novels spring immediately to mind), I assumed the experience of reading an e-book would be akin to reading a regular book. Hell, I was willing to give them slack and only count those books purchased through the Kindle Store, and leave the ... (ahem) other books out of the comparison. Unfortunately, this has not been my experience thus far. By and large, I've been ... okay with the quality of the books purchased through the Amazon store. There are, however, serious glaring problems with a few books that—had anyone in a position to edit such things actually proofread the books—are frankly inexcusable, at least to a word-nerd like me. In order of increasing severity:

• Justified text
  This is wrong. Justified text is impossible to read, because it stretches out the spaces inbetween words in order to be able to fill the line. Most people use typography and design as contextual clues to how words should be read. If you randomly insert spaces into the text, people assume they're supposed to read those passages slower. One can only imagine the savage corneal-rape that would occur should someone try to read a Jonathan Safran Foer or a Douglas Coupland novel. The biggest problem with using justified text is the way it screws with paragraphs. For those novels that use this method, it creates an unwieldy mass of text scattershot around the page, clumping together in strange places like random animals fornicating in the night, casting unseemly and surreal shadows.

• HyphensCoupled with the fact the Kindle treats hyphen breaks the way most computers do (i.e. not breaking up hyphenated words), long-phrases-used-for-comedic-effect get broken onto different lines. Don't even get me started on the books that used hyphens for the print versions, dumped the text on the Kindle and left the hyphens in even though they didn't occur at line breaks in electronic form.

• Footnotes
  For the most part, this isn't a huge issue. There are, of course, exceptions to this rule. For those who use explanatory footnotes to explain a word (Shakespearean plays, etc.), this would be mildly annoying. For those who use/abuse the footnotes to throw in a joke or two (Christopher Moore, author of the aforementioned Fool), this would be a huge pain—trust me, I tried to read it, and the footnotes didn't help much. But for those whose entire book depends upon footnotes (I'm thinking specifically of Bill Simmons' Now I Can Die In Peace, which consists solely of reprinted columns that are footnoted with context/jokes. The footnotes comprise fully half the book's length), it's an absolute deal-breaker. I would not buy one of his books for Kindle, simply because it would be such a huge pain. To click on each footnote is a three-step process, and another step/page load to get back to the original text.

• Laziness
  This last point kind of covers the first two, but is more encompassing. While lazy layouts are certainly annoying, it's simply infuriating to purchase a product the publishers so clearly didn't put any time into. Aside from the aforementioned extraneous hyphens, the biggest thing I've noticed about Kindle books is they're poorly spell-checked. In David Cross' I Drink For A Reason, his two uses of the words "conscious" are replaced by "conscience," even though they appear in completely different sections. Public Enemies, in addition to hyper-hyphenation, also suffered from numerous misspellings.

The bottom line is I hate being sold a product that is inferior.I realize  these are extremely minor points, but I purchased the Kindle with the  expectation the electronic products would receive the same oversight as the printed products. While it would be foolish to sell the Kindle at  this point (given how many books I've purchased on it and what the return would be), it's also unlikely I'll be impulse-buying a lot more  titles—at least, until I'm convinced they've actually started to care about the reading experience of each one.

I've been poring over the Craigslist jobs postings for the tri-state area and beyond, applying to anything that seems like it could fit. A week or so ago, an ad popped up for I Can Has Cheezburger, creators of the ever-popular LOLCats and the FAIL Blog. They were looking for an editor for a new site and – despite being dangerously under-qualified – I decided to apply.

In addition to the standard resumé, they also were looking for a commentary on what constituted Internet culture. Always interested in tackling a challenge, I attached my resumé and sent them this cover letter:

Oh hai! I herd u was looking for an online editor with managerial skills that don't make people scream, "you're doing it wrong!" I may not have the devilish good looks of Domo-kun, but if there's on thing I do know it's how to navigate this vast series of tubes we live and dream in.

Fresh-faced, eager and straight out of college, I've spent the last two years as an editor of The Daily Evergreen, the student n00bzpaper at Washington State University. I've been evaluating and selecting writing talent for that entire span, the last year of which was spent at the top, overseeing daily production as well as the editorial staff. Though I don't have three years managing an editorial staff online, I do have more than two years experience working in an online-only environment, as a freelance editor, web designer and independent contractor.

The question of what Internet culture is requires two answers - what netizens know it to be, and how it's perceived by the outside world. While it's easy to festoon any Web site with gratuitous "Chuck Norris doesn't sleep, he waits" quotes and whatever quasi-meme happened to hit 4chan in the last week, the true Internet culture requires referencing those means in a meaningful way. The best, most recent example was using the Konami code in the search bar on ESPN's redesign, which resulted in unicorns popping up all over the page. It was an Easter Egg - you had to know the Konami Code, it required a bit of looking around or just guessing in order to find it, and it had a cute result that didn't really affect anything materially. In addition to cohesion, the other requirement for Internet culture is honesty.

The Internet, with its freewheeling band of private investigators who have nothing better to do than hunt down frauds, requires a brutal engagement with the material. Unless someone's willing to commit wholeheartedly, there will be some mistakes (allowing people to call "shopped!" or "fake!") that come through. I think it's why people find the Internet so fascinating - a medium that allows for the most anonymity of any publishing model ever created still allows us to see people at their weakest, their most vulnerable and (by virtue of the first two things) their funniest.

I don't have a whole lot else left to say, other than to wish you luck in your search and if you have any questions feel free to e-mail back at this address or call me at (425)299-4683. Though I'm currently living in Pullman, I'm more than willing to move back to Seattle.

I have no ending for this, so I'll just hope you'll click this link to have Keyboard Cat play me off - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yu_moia-oVI.

They were extremely nice and responded back with a personal note that let me down gently, but also mentioned a position as a moderator they had open. And though I was sorely tempted to be able to put "I Can Has Cheezburger" on my resumé, I ultimately had to disqualify myself from consideration, since I'm still looking for something in journalism.

Regardless though, most fun I've had writing a cover letter in a long time. Plus, I got confirmation that I did in fact RickRoll the editor of the FAIL Blog and I Can Has Cheezburger. That's gotta count for something, right?

As I sat down in the dark, empty newsroom, I was suddenly hit by a realization. I wasn't going to blog about it, but I figure you've got to have some milestones in life.

As of right now, I will be starting on my second year of employment at the Evergreen.

Wow, it feels really weird to say that. I'm honestly shocked I'm still working here. Last summer, I was only working one job (computer repair, 20 hours a week), and was getting really bored. I saw a house ad looking for columnists, and seeing as how I love the sound of my own voice (figuratively, of course [or should I say, literarily]), I ventured down to the Murrow dungeon and grabbed an application.

It wasn't the first time I considered working for the Evergreen (I had picked an app that spring but never bothered to fill it out), but it was the first time I actually turned my application in. I filled it out and turned it in on June 17th, and promptly thought nothing else about it.

On the 19th, I got a call from Kellie, the opinion editor at the time. She said to come on in for an interview on the 20th (a Wednesday). I was somewhat surprised it was so quick, but I figured I should have a sample ready to show her in case she wanted to see how I wrote. I did some research, looked up some quotes about WSU in the press recently, and wrote up a quick column.

When I went in, Kellie went over the basics with me, told me I was hired and asked when I could have my first column in by. It literally took about that long. I showed her my sample column, to which she made a few suggestions/edits and printed it. I remember walking between Murrow East & West staring at my watch around 4:30. Damn, I thought, I'm gonna be in the newspaper. And I didn't have to get arrested or anything.

I didn't even know columnists got paid at that point. I was perfectly willing to do it for funsies so I wouldn't be so bored. I wrote about half a dozen columns, submitted my name at the end of the summer as someone willing to do it again in the fall, and dismissed it when I didn't hear anything.

Then, on the Tuesday of Work Week (the week before school starts when all the sororities and fraternities clean/repair their houses), I got a call on my phone. It was Lisa, telling me the Evergreen needed an opinion editor and someone (I'm assuming it was Mel) had mentioned me as someone who was capable of handling it (translation to my ears: Your copy didn't require too much work during the summer ... but I showed them!).

I called her back and was invited to visit the newsroom the next day.

Well, I dutifully turned up and was immediately intimidated by all the people who were busily and purposefully going about their work. Clearly, these were people who knew what the hell they were doing. Being far too nervous to speak, I was lucky Lisa happened to be coming out of her office and introduced herself to me. She (along with Tor) pulled me into the office and closed the door, with Lisa behind the desk and Tor seated in the pink comfy chair. I don't think Victor said much beyond quizzing me on some InDesign stuff, and it mostly consisted of Lisa couching everything in terms of language that implied I was taking the job, or else (it was a masterful job of persuasion). That was pretty much it. The next thing I knew Lisa led me outside the office, announced I was the opinion editor (I specifically remember Kaci yelling, "Finally!" or "Thank God!"), and off I went.

That was 10 months ago.

I still feel a little foolish typing in "deeditor" at the login screen every day, but I've mostly gotten over it. And ... I'm in charge? I still haven't stopped looking over at the editor's office, expecting Brian or Lisa or Tor or somebody to walk out and tell me what to do or pointing out how to do something better. It's always a bit of a jolt to realize how far away Tacoma, Spokane and the 'Couv really are.

I won't say every day working at the Ev is fun, because God knows there are those ridiculously frustrating days that make you feel all stabby. But I almost always feel better walking into the newsroom than I do any place else, and there aren't many other locales that I can say that about.

And even though this summer's provided its own set of ridiculous happenstance, I still feel we're able to take whatever comes at us and keep on rolling. As long as there's a passionate core group, this paper's never going under. Thank god for the summer staff, by the way. They freaking rock, even if I never bother to tell them (because there's always more work to be done).

I didn't ever think I'd end up working as an editor (hell, I barely knew what an editor did) when I first applied for the Ev, and I certainly didn't think I'd ever move out of opinion. Regardless, I can confidently say I've never once regretted any decision I made regarding working here.

Anyway, I wanted to make sure and thank everybody who helped me out along the way. Of course, by those people I mean all the other editors I've worked with (even including some who I never served under/with, but now wish I had) and even some of my writers (*shudder*), all of whom have helped me to get better at this thing as I go along, and I only hope I can help carry on the tradition. I'd list everybody individually, but the worst thing I can imagine is forgetting someone, so it's gotta be a group thang.

In short, it's been quite an eventful year for me. But as the saying goes, tomorrow's another day. And damn, the day after that's Sunday, which means another paper.

Better get to work.

At 4:27 p.m., Pullman shuts down. Classes are canceled, businesses will close and all eyes will be on the boys in red as they take on the boys in baby blue. Families will huddle around their televisions, office workers will huddle around their computer screens and thousands will stream into Beasley Coliseum to cheer on the Cougs with one voice.

At 4:27 p.m. in Seattle, a businessman in a sharply pressed suit will instruct his secretary he's leaving early, pick up the Cougar hat he's worn every day for the past 20 years from the coat rack and head on down to the nearest sports bar (he is a Cougar, after all). Once he walks in the door his eyes will be greeted with a sea of crimson, but he'll walk right over to the first purple coat he sees and sit down next to him. Their only exchange will be mutual nods, but it doesn't matter: Everyone's rooting for the same team today.

At 5:27 p.m. in Phoenix, at 6:27 p.m. in Kansas and at 7:27 p.m. in New York City, Cougars will come out of the woodwork. Proudly displaying their crimson and gray, they'll be keeping a sharp eye out all day long for fellow Cougs, and at the appointed hour they will gather 'round CBS to watch a truly historic Cougar sports moment unfold.

At this point, it almost doesn't even matter the Tar Heels are 3:1 odds to win the whole thing. Washington State, by contrast, is at 45:1.

But really, I think everyone's pretty satisfied to get here. Anything after this is almost gratis. Look how far this team has come: 12-15 in 2004, 11-16 in 2005 to 26-8 the last two years, with a shot at win #27. Not to mention senior center Robbie Cowgill's tie in the ASWSU election for District 7 senator. At this point, Glenn Johnson should probably watch his back; if Tony Bennett (or even Taylor Rochestie for that matter) ever gets it in his mind to run for mayor, I think he'd have a decent shot.

At this point, you can say only one thing to Weaver, Cowgill and Low: You did it. You've turned around a WSU program, long the laughingstock of the league, and brought it back to respectability. The Sweet 16 establishes the team as one of the truly elite in the nation. You don't owe anything to the university, the fans, or indeed anyone but yourselves. Just know the hearts, minds and throats of thousands of Cougar fans all around the world will be following the ecstasy and misery that can only come from an NCAA tourney game.

A special note to Aron Baynes: It's time now. It's time to shed the immature, pouting game you've lapsed into for the past two seasons. Every time we see flashes of brilliance from you, it's made all the worse when you revert back to hack-and-slash ticky-tack fouls. More than any other player on the court, you will decide this game. If everyone's clicking but you, the Cougars cannot win. If you play the same stingy defense, do the fundamental things (boxing out, rebounding) and limit your fouls the way you have in the first two games, you will decide the outcome of this game. Hell, if you can do that, next year the feared center everyone worries about won't be Tyler Hansborough or someone named Lopez; they'll be worried about Aron Baynes.

There's really nothing much left to say. For two hours, Cougar fans will experience something I would doubt many of them (everyone younger than 67) will be familiar with. They'll cheer with every 3-pointer and grimace with actual physical pain at every failed defensive stop, right alongside the players in Charlotte. But when it's all said and done, regardless of the outcome, WSU and yes the entire state of Washington, will stand proud, united.

Go Cougs.

It's always odd, walking the streets at night when everyone's away. Without exception, by the end of the weekend before a break Pullman empties and I am left to fend for myself among the other rejects and townies. 2 a.m. is a sufficiently creepy time in and of itself. Now, it's literally quiet enough to hear the buzzing of the electric lights in their faux-Victorian lampposts.

As I pad down the silent streets, a truly eerie sense surrounds me. On any normal night I'd be met by a motley assortment of groups and individuals in various stages of drunkenness. These encounters are always touchy, as inebriated Cougars range the full emotion gamut from happy to out-and-out vituperation.

This night is different. Though not quite empty, College Hill is for the most part devoid of humanity (in a literal sense as opposed to the usual metaphorical sense), making for an unusually uninterrupted walk. Somewhere around one of the new apartment complexes, I stumbled across a couple.

The male, anxious and most likely horny, is furiously attempting to work the lock on the door to his house, where presumably he will enjoin the female in relations - this is his plan at least. By contrast, the female is either stalling or unwilling to go inside, and is instead twirling around on the sidewalk singing various selections from The Wizard of Oz, if somewhat brokenly.

As I inch closer, she spies and points at me, saying "this girl knows what I'm talking about!" It's unclear whether she's saying it for the male's benefit, mine or merely her own. She begins to sing again, and (somewhat enjoying silliness) I join her, though softly. She laughs, but I'm not entirely sure she even noticed.

She walks over to me, arm outstretched. "Do you want to be my scarecrow?" she asks with a smile that has just the faintest hint of sadness. She has to repeat it twice before I actually understand what she said. Looking into those dovish (albeit drunk) blue eyes, I don't really feel as if I have a choice.

"Of course," I reply, taking her arm. We skip off down the street, singing "Because, because, because, because .... because of the wonderful things he does," laughing the whole way.

When we've gone about half a block, she collapses into giggles and pulls her arm away. After regaining her composure, she walks back over to me with a much happier smile on her face. She thanks me, and I attempt to shake her hand. She does so, then reconsiders and gives me a hug.

"You're the best scarecrow ever," she concludes.

I shall probably never see her again, and the minimal impression she made on me is probably even less than the impression I made on her, at least on a personal level.

But then again, that's not really the point, is it?