Steve Jobs: A Humble Reflection

Outside the Apple store in Georgetown, the mood is quiet, even reverent. Even the few media types, armed with their cameras and notepads, don’t seem much like talking. They act as if they are attending a funeral. In the corner of the front entrance, to the side of the wide, swinging double doors, lies a humble shrine dedicated to Steve Jobs. Jobs, who died yesterday after a battle with pancreatic cancer, leaves behind a legacy as one of the most influential people in human history.

Jobs almost single-handedly created the modern technological climate that we live in every day. As Fortune Managing Editor Andy Serwer once put it, he was a “once-in-a-century innovator.” Where would this generation be without their iPods, iPhones, and iPads, not to mention the internet? Some people might forget that Jobs’ computer firm, Next, created technology that was used to create the World Wide Web. And one would be remiss in remembering Jobs to forget his hand in the rise of successful computer-animation company Pixar who, under his leadership, was able to grow from a struggling company into an international media powerhouse.

But here, on the streets of Georgetown, the size of the shrine does little to match the stature of the man for whom it is built. Several ancient Macintosh Pro monitors line the makeshift monument, relics from another age, pulled from basements and attics and dusted off; their floppy drives a testament to how quickly the pace of technology marches on. There are a couple of flower bouquets, a few candles and, in the middle of it all, a bright green apple. On the silver back of an old iPod, a fan has written “Steve Jobs: RIP.” Most of the young people walking by the shop stop, just for a few moments, to take a picture of the humble little tribute with their iPhones. More than most people in history, Steve Jobs may have achieved true immortality.

Suffering Sells

The old axiom states that sex sells. I think, perhaps more so, suffering sells—at least on the internet.        

            A few clicks from your mouse will lead to a whole host of miseries, primarily instigated by bloggers and social media. Now, there’s nothing inherently wrong with the concept of suffering—it’s simply part of the human condition. And, doesn’t the purpose of a blog, (or Facebook, Twitter, etc.) at least to a certain extent, like in the ability to vent about things that upset you?

            Yes, but, I think the key to suffering, particularly as it relates to individuals in the online world, is to awake yourself from the delusion that you are suffering alone. Yes, times are hard for everyone, yet, all over the internet, people seem to think that their particular form of suffering is unique to them.

            I understand that most people who consider themselves artists believe that their suffering is their main selling point, but let me offer a bit of advice. You aren’t the only one who had to walk away from your house. You aren’t the only one who suffered a heart-wrenching breakup. You aren’t the only one who lost your job. So, stop writing like you are. And, before you parade your suffering as art in a VanGough-esque act of self-mutilation for the world to see, remember that it could always be worse. And, for someone else, it probably is. In the meantime, how about a smile? It couldn’t hurt.

Life According to The Simpsons

In a recent essay about pop culture references in TV comedy, Matt Zoller Seitz wrote about “The Simpsons,” the longest running animated show of all time. In discussing the episode “Krusty Gets Kancelled,” Seitz wrote “if it were a poem, it would need to have nearly as many footnotes as “The Waste Land”.” Indeed, my childhood experience was often filtered through the cultural “footnotes” that “The Simpsons” provided, and my primary source for learning about many public figures was America’s yellow family. For example, I recently read a piece written by Tom Wolfe. The first thing I thought when I read his name was “oh yeah, he was on a Simpsons episode!” In the episode, he was hosting the Word loaf festival along with Gore Vidal, Michael Chabon and Jonathan Frazen (I’m still not sure who they all are). I suppose I felt smart just for knowing the name.

But, “The Simpsons” has provided me with more than just an inflated ego. Many times throughout my life, I have come across moments that have perfectly mirrored an incident on an episode of my favorite TV show. Of course, I immediately have to point out the connection, an impulse that generally receives quizzical looks from friends and family. When I bring up these mediated epiphanies, my mom often says, while rolling her eyes, “life according to ‘The Simpsons,’” but I can’t help it. To know that someone out there must be experiencing the same things I’m going through and coming out the other side with nothing but laughter is encouraging. The fact that that man happens to be the brilliant Matt Groening is even more exciting. Is Seitz’ T.S. Elliot comparison accurate? I think so.

Chillin' at the Quality Inn

I began to sort our laundry into piles as my mom passed it to me through the window. Oliver, our cat, sat in the corner in misery. He had not been outside in weeks, and his litter box really smelled. Later that night, I tried in vain to play my video games in peace, knowing full well that living with four people in one room would allow for precious few quiet moments. This was our experience living in the Quality Inn for three months.

            We had just moved to a strange and unfamiliar place known as Indio. In addition to our room, our reduced rate of $50 a night got us a continental breakfast (complete with pre-packaged cereal and bland scrambled eggs that required a liberal dousing of salt). One time, my brother and I got into a betting war with our parents over the nature of the Cheerios they served (they insisted they were honey nut, but our youthful taste buds could easily detect the distinct lack of sugar). It turns out we were right, but, as parents, I suppose they reserved the right to decide not to pay us.

            The hotel manager, who reminded me of Apu from the Simpsons (a high complement), seemed to barely tolerate our stay, particularly when our room began to grow mold and we had to move all of our belongings to another room. While most of my memories of living at the Quality Inn consist of swimming in a very cold pool and watching surprisingly engaging telenovas at the Laundromat, I know looking back that I grew closer to my family during those three months than any self-respecting twelve-year-old should.

A Perfect Strike

The pins ungracefully crashed to the polished floor as he bowled his first strike of the game. And what a strike it was. He turned back to me and gave me a thumbs up, accompanied with a big, toothy smile that seemed to say “Here I am world, just try and stop me.” He came to sit down next to me while he waited for his next turn. He held out his hand in front of me. “Hi, my name Tony.” My hand met his halfway, and we shook. He shook hands the way he bowled, aggressively and stronger than he probably realized. “Did I get your name?” he asked. Yes, he had gotten my name; several times, in fact. But I didn’t mind meeting Tony again. In fact, I was honored. “My name’s Kyle,” I reiterated with a smile. He seemed genuinely glad to meet me again for the first time.

He sure loved to talk about his siblings, more so than most people I know. “I have two brothers,” he told me with confidence.  He got up again to bowl, and this time he did not get a strike. In fact, he only hit a few pins. But, he was unwavering in his resolve. “One of these days, I’m gonna get a trophy!” he told me. Despite the fact that he is a grown man with Down’s syndrome, I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that one day, he will.

Japan and Me

9,700. That’s the current death toll for the disastrous earthquake that has shook (literally and figuratively) the nation of Japan to its core. There is another 16,500 missing. It’s kind of hard to take in. Living a life of relative comfort and seclusion from the global experience, responding to something like this on a personal level is confusing and difficult. I remember when the death toll was back at 3,000. The first idea that popped into my head was “wow, only 3000. That’s not so bad.” I’m sure many other Americans thought the same thing.

 As the death toll and, to a greater degree, the number of persons missing, continues to rise, I have to continue to wrestle with my initial reflections. What is it that makes 3,000 “not so bad?” Is it the number itself, or my interpretation of the number? Sure, it could be a lot worse (it now is), but does the fact that circumstances aren’t at their absolute level of devastation imply that somehow everything is going to be okay? That the destruction is somehow insufficient to grieve over or take action against? If that’s the case, I’m a lost cause, because, of course, the situation could always be worse. The earthquakes could have caused Japan to sink under the ocean, or the nuclear reactors could have blown the whole island to complete smithereens. Would that have been enough to burst my bubble and wake me from my optimistic and complacent reverie? Maybe.

But in this circumstance, all I can think about is the fact that only one American has been reported dead as a result of the destruction. As such, my immediate world will not be affected in any real or lasting way. I have to wonder, though, would I, or Americans in general, care a lot more if we were the 9700? Yep. It would certainly bother me to be dead.

Interview Assignment: a Lesson in Self(ish) Reflection

She was one of those girls who was in several of my classes, but for some reason I never talked to. I finally decided to do so. She had always seemed like one of those people who would be interesting to talk to, and indeed she was. She told me her name was Elise, and that she was an art major. While nursing majors are nice and all, it was nice to meet someone studying something else. I didn’t waste time getting down to the big question.

 “So, what are you planning for spring break?” “Oh, not much,” she replied. “I’ve got to study for my midterms.” “Yeah, I know,” I replied, assuming I already knew everything, “I’m just trying to get through this week, too.” She gave me a hard look that seemed to say “Shut up and listen for one second.” “Actually, I have midterms after spring break, so I’m going to be spending my break studying,” she replied with a mock enthusiasm that can only be described as endearing. Once again, I had failed miserably in my attempt to control the conversation. “Wow, that sucks,” I replied, and I really meant it.

“What about you?” I was more than a little surprised by her question. I can’t remember the last time someone asked me about me, and I certainly didn’t need any more of an excuse to talk about myself. “Well,” I replied, “I’m pretty much going to just chill out and do nothing. It’ll be nice for a change, and I’m pretty sure I’ve earned it.” I knew immediately that she could see right through me to my self-aggrandized core; women are scary like that. But, all she had to show for it was a smile; I think to show that she pitied me. And, while I slink away and make a note to work on my self-centeredness, that will be enough.

No Spinach, Please

“No spinach, please.”

Working in a college cafeteria, this is a sentence I hear all too often. Of course, its cousins frequent my ears just as often. “Everything but the spinach.” “Hold the spinach.” “I don’t want any of that green stuff.”

Looking down at the thick, miscellaneous green goo that seems to vaguely resemble food, I can’t help but blame them. But really, what is it about spinach that people hate so much? Certainly, Popeye can’t be blamed; he admirably advertised the veggie as one which can give you that extra bit of strength to help save Olive Oil or whatever her name was (am I the only one noticing a veggie-themed pattern here)?

And, why not? Spinach is rich in vitamin C, making it beneficial for weak eyes (which squinty ol’ Popeye, I’m assuming, suffered from). It can help stabilize blood pressure and prevent tumor formation. By all accounts, Popeye must be a pretty healthy guy.

Looking down at the mushy, green mess in front of me, I can’t help but think not about Popeye, but about his friend Wimpy, hopelessly addicted to hamburgers which are slowly killing him. The burger grill sits adjacent to my serving station, and is certainly much more popular. One thing few people realize, however, is that spinach is considered an anti-aging vegetable. When I see the cute girl (the one with the disarming smile and bright eyes that are so charming, they temporarily distract me from how huge her rack is) walk up and politely refuse the green stuff, I feel like yelling after her “one day you’ll be sorry!” As she walks over to the grill to grab a burger, I picture her in fifty years, her once-glorious rack now a saggy mess, and crows’ feet that stretch from here to heaven. She cries out “Why, oh why didn’t I take that green stuff from that handsome fellow back in college? Now eternal life is forever beyond my reach!”
I shake my nutty fantasy loose (remind me to see a shrink) as I am greeted by a great smile and a small plate. “Could I just have a plate of spinach, please?” Hey, she’s cute. Maybe there’s hope after all. I’m still not going to eat it, though.

           

Our Suburban Adventure

            “Who wants to come on errands with me?”

Surely, any normal child would stare blankly, for a few moments, before returning their attention back to their Game Boy. But I was no ordinary child. When my dad posed the intriguing question, time in and time out, I would dutifully answer, “I do!”

            The massive Home Depot shelves loomed above us like the Pyramids of Egypt; it was exhilarating. I think it gave me dad joy to see me little face, awash with awe and fear. Sometimes, if I was lucky, we would venture into the wild jungle known as the Home Garden section. Truly, the Amazon Rain forest did not contain as many models of floral perfection. The lighting section contained more sources of illumination than the night sky, and the most comforting summer breeze could not compare to the breath of fresh air that dozens of spinning ceiling fans provided.  I never knew what we were buying, and I didn’t care. Shopping was an adventure.

            Now, as an increasingly cynical adult, during the rare times I am at home, my dad will, with a bit more hesitation, ask the age-old question. And, regardless of the circumstance, my younger self dutifully responds as always, and we retreat into our own private adventure, where the world, for a time, can’t touch us; no matter how old we are.

Dreams in Sweaty Shambles

"Wow, there are a lot of people here. And it smells."

 This is the first impression that a newbie receives when arriving for the first time at the San Diego Comic-Con. It's not exactly what I expect. The bright lights, the sold-out-the-night-before conference rooms, the giant remote-controlled R2-D2's, and the anime section, which contains its own unique scent (something akin to urine).

And of course, there are those annoying kids running around with their plastic light sabers, stabbing me in the groin and pretending to be Anakin Skywalker, and all I can think about is yelling after them "Hayden Christensen is a terrible actor! When I was a little brat like you we had Mark Ha...well, he was still better!" 

"Can you believe they allow crap like Glee at Comic-Con? I just don't understand youth culture, and I'm only nineteen," I ramble to myself. Why is no one ever around when I have something clever to say? Hey look, there's Peter Mayhew! Chewbacca himself. He even kinda looks like him. He doesn't look like he's getting a lot of people to buy his autograph, though. C'mon kids, he was Chewbacca! I mean, look at that gelatinous mob of sniveling brats lining up to see that guy from Yo, Gabba Gabba, whatever that is.

I decided to save my money for a personalized Simpsons portrait. Ya know, it really does look like me. Do these kids even know what the Simpsons is? Sad thought, but so is the thought of me becoming culturally irrelevant by age twenty.