I found several packs of glow sticks while cleaning the apartment last weekend. Why do I have the glow sticks? Well, a while back I ordered a camouflage tent. Not an actual camping tent, but the kind a kid uses to make a fort in the living room. Oddly, the tent, which is meant for ages 3 and up, shipped with an order of Axe body spray and 8 glow sticks.

Before the tent arrived, I had never known that 3 year-old children wear body spray and throw raves. Perhaps the tent is part of a miniature Burning Man experience for toddlers; I am not sure. Just remember that when you're shopping for a child nothing says "appropriate gift" more than Axe and glow sticks.

We snapped a glow stick, grabbed a camera, and tried our hand at long-exposure photography. The interesting thing is that the glow stick's length gives the drawing a sense of depth that isn't achieved with sparklers or LEDs.

I should have made a Pac-Man ghost.

Hypnosis Glow Stick!

Heart!

Experimental Globe! I think it looks like the Death Star.

Self explanatory.

Turn off the lights, and I'll glow! To the extreme, this is my favorite.*

Spelling!

More Alphabet Awesomeness!

Don't act like you're not impressed!

* = Bonus points for catching the reference.

The Setup

Today I found the rough draft of an English paper I wrote in high school. I spent most of my time in high school being bored. And I relieved much of my boredom through creativity. Thankfully my teachers recognized this, and as long as I had no ill will, they let me get away with some pretty absurd mischief. "Smart and bored" is an excuse that can get you a lot of lenience.

Of all my high school teachers, Mrs. S* had the unfortunate opportunity of dealing with the brunt of this creative output. I cannot express how genuinely grateful I am that she was an excellent teacher and that she tolerated me even when I tried to push her buttons. I viewed every assignment as an opportunity to push the rules. Although she often questioned, with good reason, what the hell I was doing, as long as I stayed within the rules, she actually graded my papers with seriousness. (Anyone from my community will know who she is, so I might as well use her last initial. But the rest of you will just have to know her as Mrs. S.).

2 Quick Examples

1.) As an exercise in technical writing, she assigned us to write 3 pages of instructions. I asked if I could write about how to make microwave popcorn, and she responded "If you can write three pages, then yes." I wrote three full pages of instructions on the process. I even covered scenarios such as how to purchase a microwave.

Sometimes my rule bending created new rules for later classes. The following year when she gave the same assignment to the class below mine, she specifically stated "And you can't do it about something like how to microwave popcorn."

2.) Generally, we were not allowed to use the word "I" in papers. After Christmas break, she had us write about what we did during break. I penned 12 detailed pages about every inane thing I did. And I used the word "I" but always as quoted by someone else: "Then, 'I' as Mark Twain once said, went downstairs and found my toothbrush." And instead of writing "You're a twit! F-" on my paper, she actually graded the paper and gave me a decent grade.

The Assignment I Found Today

During the phase of high school English where you have to read Shakespeare, the assignment was to write about "If Shakespeare could visit us today, what would he be most impressed with." That is the draft I found today. And in advance, yes, I really drafted, submitted, and received a grade on the following:

The modern sanitation systems of today would probably impress Shakespeare the most. It would be fun to let him experience the different phases of toilet technology and to let him have some genuine fun blowing up a few toilets with cherry bombs. He might reminisce about the olden days of chamber pots and how a full bladder gave more definition to the word "overflow".

First, I'd take William to use an outhouse to show him the start of the chamber pot's evolution and to let him get used to the novel idea of separating the bedroom from the bathroom. Next, we'd progress to the first flushing toilets, which sometimes exploded due to gases that returned back up the pipes. It would be funny to see his face after he had fallen victim to an exploding toilet. Then we'd move to the non-exploding toilets of today. Surely he'd be much more calm and mild mannered to not have the toilet blow up on him during his next deposit.

After he'd become accustomed to the action of flushing, the next logical step would be an introduction to toilets that flush automatically. Perhaps he'd be amazed at our laziness and aghast at how much precious water we waste flushing toilet paper.

Scene I

We find Bill entering a typical non-handicap stall. The toilet is the traditional white porcelain with a black seat. The label "automatic" is near the lid's hinge. The stall doors are red and the floor is an uninteresting pattern of inch wide gray tiles. The lid is up.

Shakespeare: Hesitantly opens the stall door.
Toilet: Flushes.
Shakespeare: Surprised by the unexpected flush, he gains his composure and closes the stall door.
Toilet: Flushes.
Shakespeare: Lowers the lid so that he might engage in a number two.
Toilet: Flushes.
Shakespeare: Commences duty and takes note of the quite lewd but humorous limerick scrawled on the stall door. The limerick has creative use of vocabulary but poor meter.
Toilet: Flushes.
Shakespeare: A stricken look crosses his face as he realizes the stall is out of toilet paper.
Toilet: Flushes in a mocking fashion.
Shakespeare: "Oh, shit. In this dear stall I find my fall. / No toilet paper to be found I must / Look elsewhere."
Toilet (Soliloquy): Flush, flush, flush.
Shakespeare: Starts to raise up in a very careful and peculiar fashion.
Toilet: Flushes.
Shakespeare: Opens the stall door and with nimbleness peers in to the neighboring stall.
Toilet 2: Flushes.
Shakespeare: Grabs a handful of toilet paper and begins his retreat to the first stall.
Toilet and Toilet 2: Flush in unison.
Shakespeare: Wipes with relief.
Toilet: Fails to flush.
Toilet 2: Flushes.
Shakespeare: Leaves the stall.

The final visit would be the to most luxurious of bathrooms. The bathroom above all bathrooms, the bathroom other bathrooms strive to be - the bathroom with an attendant. The old bard would marvel that another person waits within olfactory range while one tends to business. The attendant waits and provides one with moral encouragement, comments on the weather or smell depending upon which is worse, assists in grunting noises, sprays aerosol in liberal amounts as needed, tells stories about "the one that wouldn't go down", helps with any "what did I eat" identification needs, assists in wiping if you have two broken hands, and if the deposit is record breaking he'll cast one plaster mold of your discharge so that you can place it above the mantle of your fireplace and another mold to hang on the Wall of Fame.

Dare Devil Hospital – Where our strict policies mean bailing out is your passengers only option. Yes, this is the real sign outside of the hospital/x-ray place.

While running last Monday I injured my foot. After I finished the run, each step I took caused sharp pain and I had to limp. My medical history is a complete bore. The most complex medical procedure I've undergone was a set of stitches at the age of 8 when my neighbor cast his fishing pole side-armed and caught my face with his lure. The doctor had to cut my cheek open to remove the hook. Monday's injury reduced my locomotion to a limp and as I limped around, I'd start to laugh. Then the thought of people seeing me limping around and laughing made me laugh harder. It was a viscious cycle.

I was laughing because the story of my injury is completely unimpressive. Basically, my body can't handle advanced forms of walking. It is a great story to add to my last injury - a scar I received while making tapioca padding.

Person: "What were you doing?"
Me: "Running."
P: "With anyone else?"
M: "Yes, about 15 others."
P: "Where were you running?"
M: "Near televisions."
P: "Were you in a riot?"
M: "No, I was passing the time while I waited for Laura to finish the eliptical."

Yes, I injured myself on a treadmill at the gym without having an accident or even trying to be impressive. I didn't misstep, trip, or choreograph an OK Go dance.

Tuesday I visited the doctor. He narrowed the injury down to either a broken bone or a pulled tendon, the former requiring a cast, and sent me to get an X-Ray. The x-ray excited me, because it trumped stitches as the most complex medical procedure I've had. But I had never realized how boring an x-ray is. You just lay there for a few minutes and then shell out some money. It is like getting a prostitute but minus the hang over and her hot nurse outfit. Later you receive a picture by e-mail, as either a personal record or blackmail.

The x-ray showed I hadn't broken anything, and the procedure hadn't even left me any new super powers. That meant I'd carried a spider and a scorpion in my pocket all day for no apparent reason. Damn it, Obama. Fix our non-super-power-inducing health care system. On the other hand, one more super power would probably have given me another lame weakness aside from treadmills and tapioca.

The really good news is my medical history continues to be a bore, and I don't have to get a cast. Both of which I am very thankful for.

One of our San Francisco friends decided to take an extended vacation. Before she headed off, she put her belongings in storage, and then gave us some of her unwanted things to us. Of note is that I received a cigar.

I hadn't paid much attention to the cigar, but then on three separate days three different friends asked me about the cigar. "Why do you have a cigar? Do you smoke cigars? Do you have a cat that smokes cigars?" I almost threw a press junket for the cigar just to speed up the inquisitions. I skipped the idea because I didn't have the two things a good press junket inquisition requires: a PR rep, a platter of delicious foods, and ruthless efficiency. I mean, the three things: a PR rep, a platter of delicious foods, a ruthless efficiency, and an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope. I mean the four things, oh damn it.

The conversations built my curiosity, and for the first time I read the label on the cigar: San Cristobal De Le Habana -- a genuine Cuban cigar. I'm not sure if you know the significance of a Cuban cigar, but it is pretty vast. Think "the light saber of tobacco."

In a video game, equipping a [Cuban Cigar] would give the following perks:

• +5 to Salsa dancing
• +10 to Leadership
• +15 to Endurance
• +4 to Nachos
• -3 to Human Rights
• +5 to TIE Fighter Piloting

Yes, Cubans are big on nachos and Episodes IV through VI. And aside from being in line to control a banana republic of my own, I now can grow a beard in one day, legally own a fixed-gear bicycle without being a hipster, drive speed boats with extreme precision, and have a legitimate reason to own AND wear a hat like this:

The light in my hallway must be either prude or burned out, because it isn't putting out photons. I haven't replaced the bulb yet, because the ceiling is tall and I have to use a ladder (specifically I am 5'9 with arms of normal length and the ceiling is 12'). In the mean time, Laura put a most awesome note on the switch:

If an alien ever plants its young inside of me, I'll pretend the alien is a female that way the story has a silver lining.

I'm okay with the BP oil spill, because it now we have dead animals to use for bio-fuel. Forget jet packs. I'm all about the dolphin powered car.

One of my friends wants to go on an expensive ocean fishing trip. Basically, you go fishing in a kayak. When you catch a giant fish, you let it pull your kayak around until it gets tired. Then you pull the fish to shore and eat it. I think he should take the poor man's version of the trip. The idea is the same, but instead you just rent a rickshaw.

This is a blank page from the beer log I keep. If a prostitute kept a log, her journal probably has the same headings and categories.

I'm going to invent the most addictive game ever: Grand Theft Dance Dance Halo Rock Farmville.

Health insurance should really have co-pay options for the toy robots I purchase. Sure, toy robots don't improve my physical health, but they do improve my mental health.

The operations team at work is completely awesome...

From: Operations
To: Me

"Package for you!"

From: Operations
To: Everyone

"Please don't leave your empty shipping boxes in the mail room! Instead, put them on the metro cart next to elevator so they can be disposed of!"

From: Me
To: Operations

"I didn't open my package yet... Don't panic, but there might be a tiger loose in the mail room."

From: Operations
To: Seth

Check it out. In China, they might implement a new bus system called the Straddle Bus (seriously). I think deep down they really wanted to call it the HumpBus, but I'm pretty sure there is an adult website with that name already (it also features straddling). The idea (for the bus, not the adult website) looks like this:

Among other things, that image seems to prove that: if you're going to steal Photoshop, at least take some lessons with the money you saved. Also, this bus would look much more cool if it had teeth or at least dropped cool power ups for your car like the game Spy Hunter. Maybe it should look more like this:

Or if they wanted to make a family oriented version of the bus:

I'm a huge fan of Banksy's art, and I'm always on the look out for it when I travel. Laura spotted these this morning at the corner of Columbus and Broadway above the old Bank of America building. We live in North Beach, a few blocks away, and we often pass by this corner. We've never seen this piece before, and I can't find reference to it elsewhere which leads me to believe this is a fairly new piece of work.

Near:

Far:

Laura and I recently joined a small book club in our neighborhood, and today marked our first participation. Six of us met to discuss the book "Down and Out in Paris and London" by George Orwell. I am not going to turn this post in to a synopsis of the book. But I will say two things: First, the book is worth reading and is an easy read. Second, the book is about the time Orwell spent living on the edge of poverty in Paris and in London.

While we discussed the book, someone posed the question "Would you rather have community or wealth?" To me this is a simple question to answer: community. Everyone agreed except for one woman, and I quote her response: "It is always better to have money."

Her answer struck me, because it is the most sad answer I've ever heard to a question. Where is the soul or humanity in that answer? Note that I am not saying she is soulless our without humanity. I'm saying her answer is.

When I pressed her about this, her first point was that "Poverty is often over romanticized." And her second point was that "With money you can buy your way in to a community."

Before I venture farther, I want to pause and say that from those two statements, I'm sure that semantically she and I define "community" in very dissimilar terms. Also, her experience with community has probably not been as fortunate as mine.

To me, community is based on three things:

1. Members of a community support each other.
2. Membership in a community is earned through experience or merit.
3. Your membership can only be given up when you choose to give it up.

To her first statement ("Poverty is often over romanticized."), I'd argue:
True, poverty is romanticized in ways, however wealth is vastly more romanticized than poverty ever has been. I do not know anyone who day dreams about being poor, but everyone seems to day dream of being rich. Also, the question isn't about a choice between poverty or wealth. It is about community or wealth. Not everyone can have untold wealth, but we can all have community.

To her second statement ("With money you can buy your way in to a community."), I'd argue:
No, you can buy your way in to a club, but not a community. If you had the money, you could buy a yacht and join the local yacht "community". But the moment you lost your wealth, your membership in the community will be lost too, despite any attempts you might make. When is the last time you heard of a yacht club or country club holding a fund raiser to bring a former member out of poverty? Never, because the membership is a privilege of wealth, not merit. Wealth can purchase you access, but it can never purchase genuineness.

I grew up in a tightly knit community in rural Oklahoma. My family and my community are the two things I hold most dear. And I'm glad to have had an experience of community so strong, that I am not disillusioned that wealth is somehow better. I wish I had the grace to describe how strong and united the community I grew up in can be, but I can't do it with any justice.

If you have wealth, but not community, in whom will you find compassion? If you are bed ridden, who will visit you? If you are weak, who will finish your tasks? If you are sick, who will care for you? If you are lonely, who will talk? If you are in mourning, who will comfort you and help you grieve? If you are happy, who will you invite to celebrate?