Snowdrift

Spring is here, and the blossoms covering the trees have been magnificent. The trees are now leafing out robustly, so the blossoms are falling like snow and fading away. Walking down the street this morning, I came across a sight that I can only describe as a "spring snowdrift."

Selfish

Earlier this week, I spent a day at the courthouse for jury duty. My name didn't get called, so it ended up being my only day of service. However, that was enough to make me think about the role of law in human society. And it boiled down to the simple conclusion that we humans as a race are selfish creatures by nature. Countless laws at the local, state and federal law exist to prescribe and proscribe what we can and can't do. Thousands of citizens across the country report for jury duty every day because there is a constant flow of criminal proceedings and civil disputes requiring prosecution and mediation. Why is there so much conflict, why are so many laws necessary? Because we humans are selfish; left to our own devices, we will always do whatever we can to get ahead; we will push the envelope as much as possible to take as much as we can for ourselves. So in a sense, we are more civilized than animals, because we have created a legal framework to protect ourselves from each others' selfish impulses. But one can also argue that, because such a framework is even necessary, we're no better than any other species of animal.
 

Spring

Ah, spring is here at last. Not that this past winter was much of a winter—thank you, global warming—but even without snow, it was cold and crappy enough to earn the name "Winter." Today is our first day of 70-degree weather, and I'm loving it. Cassie had a brilliant idea, which you employers interested in boosting employee morale should consider: the first time the mercury goes over 70 each spring, give us the day off. Call it an "Anti-Snow Day." As I walked down the street at lunchtime and felt the sun on my face, I almost felt like I was back in southern California. Except for the honking horns. And the skyscrapers. And the hordes of people. Oh well, at least enough sunlight snuck down between the tall buildings to warm my face.

Nudity

In the past three years, I have lived in southern California, northern Virginia and New York City. In all three places, I have regularly visited the gym. In so doing, I've made a curious observation that I don't understand. In SoCal and New York City, which are ostensibly more progressive and liberal than Virginia, men in the gym locker room are much more self-conscious and shy about nudity (and, conversely, they're more open and comfortable about it in Virginia). In New York, for example, most men wrap a towel around themselves before pulling off their pants. In the steam room, they wear shorts or wrap several towels around their bodies. If you are nude for any length of time while you're changing clothes, you can sense a vibe of discomfort from the men around you. By comparison, in Virginia, men walked from their locker to the jacuzzi fully naked, they stood around talking to one another totally nude, they even stood in front of the sink and shaved without a stitch of clothes on. They were completely at ease with their own nakedness and that of the men around them. It seems contradictory that men in a more conservative part of the country would be more liberal about locker room nudity, and vice versa. It's an observation for which I have no hypothesis. Would anyone care to venture one?

Honk

One aspect of life in New York City that I have not yet adjusted to (and might never) is the constant horn honking by New York drivers. They honk at anything, anytime, for any reason. At traffic lights, they have lightning-fast reflexes: the instant the light turns green, their hand reaches the horn faster than the foot of the driver in front of them can reach the accelerator. Car service drivers picking up a fare sit in front of apartment buildings and honk, instead of calling the customer on their cell phone to let them know they're waiting (despite the fact that every one of these drivers has a Borg implant Bluetooth device in his ear and talks incessantly on the phone while driving). And then there's the second on my list of annoyances, the double-parker, who engenders no small amount of honking himself from passing cars. Occasionally, you'll see a "Don't Honk Horn - $350 Penalty" sign, but that has about as much effect as the "Speed Limit 65 mph Maximum" sign on California freeways. To the native New Yorker, perhaps the horn honking sounds like birdsong. But to this beach bum, it's as enjoyable as bird crap.

Contact?

I happened to be browsing our great country from space, thanks to the wonderful satellite view technology of Google Maps, and on a whim I zoomed in on Pike's Peak. As I then browsed the surrounding country, I came across a very interestingly shaped lake to the west of Colorado Springs. The shape of Big Tooth Reservoir would merit little more than a passing glance to the average person, but to a Star Trek fan like me, the lake leaped off my computer screen. To illustrate what I mean, take a close look at the image comparison below. Coincidence? Or is it a deliberate mark left by Starfleet Command to signal imminent first contact?


[Click image to enlarge]

Death

There's been no shortage of celebrity deaths recently (Suzanne Pleshette, Heath Ledger, and most recently, Roy Scheider). In fact, celebrities die all the time, just like the rest of us. Why do we care so much? Why do their deaths captivate us? For some reason, Scheider's death sent me into a more introspective mood than the typical celebrity passing, and made me ponder those questions in greater depth. I don't have definitive answers, but I think maybe the deaths of celebrities remind us of our own mortality. We put these people on pedestals, and they sometimes take on a larger-than-life persona. When they die, it shows that death comes for us all, sooner or later. And, when an actor has a strong tie to a specific time in your life, their passing can make you take greater notice of the passage of time in your own life. I, for example, have childhood memories of seeing "Jaws" for the first time. Scheider, whose famous line "We're gonna need a bigger boat" became an indelible piece of pop culture, epitomized that movie in many ways. So to hear of his death, I can't help but look back at my life, most of which has been lived in a post-"Jaws" world, and see that nothing—and no one—lasts forever.