Road Trip '08!

Alas!, the little weasels of change clung to my face incessantly, forcing me to once again uproot myself and journey in search of distant and different surroundings. Faith!, this search will no doubt be hard with these weasels on my face. I have tried everything to appease them. I have sold my 300zx to raise cash for the trip, I have purchased a massive van to in which to tour the United States, and I have weeded my belongings down yet further to try and lighten my carbon footprint. However, it would prove that only actually getting in my van and driving for extended periods of time in one direction would give me the strength needed to pry these critters off my face, knock them unconscious against my drivers door, and hurl them under the tires of the speeding tractor-trailer illegally passing me on my right. Look out, Mr. Speeding-Truck-Driver-From-Utah-erson, I have your 1-800 number. And you have dead weasel on your treads. And yes, I do drive with my passenger-side window down.

As you have probably gathered, things have changed. I no longer am employed; in fact quite the opposite. I am rather proudly un-employed. I have taken it upon myself to explore the USA as it was meant to be experienced- by driving across it. I will do this in this behemoth (pronounced ba-hwee-mith). No really. Deciding on a name for it was quite a chore. My friend Joe suggested calling it the Shaggin' Wagon', but I found that rather cliche. Being the 1337 person that I am, I expounded upon that and came up with a name entirely new and rather unpronounceable to the untrained: Sh4g'n' W4g'n'. This will be pronounced Sha-four-gan Wah-four-gan. I think that it's an epic name fit for an epic motor carriage.








As you can see, I can fit a full-size couch in the back of the van. I had to take out one of the captains chairs to do this, but it was certainly worth it. The van has shag carpeting (even on the ceiling!) and has little red lights lining the wood panelling all the way along the rear of the van. The previous owner used the van to haul his and his buddies' dirt bikes on the weekends, so they gutted the back of the van, leaving just bare metal floor and plywood siding to protect the windows. One free beanbag chair, one free couch (Craigslist!), and one red $20 Wal-Mart carpet later, I have a stylin' rear seatin' section.

The van came with a stereo headunit, but the speaker wires fried, leaving the driver (um, me) without the capability to listen to the radio or cassette tapes. Seeing as I will be driving this van a lot, that situation had to be rectified. I purchased a power converter that plugs into my cigarette lighter, off of which I run a set of desktop speakers. It's a 2.1 piece setup; the woofer goes on the floor, and the speakers fit nicely in the pouches behind the two front seats, respectively. This allows me to plug my iPod directly into the speakers, giving me 18 (marketing) hours of music. I believe closer to 14 hours is actually feasible. I do, however have to be careful what music I play in it. It being a road-tripping van and all, certain music selections may be much poorer choices than others. Playing Boston, Journey, or Springsteen, for instance, would create an instant black hole consuming everything related to highway travel instantly. This would cause me to potentially lose friends if not totally succumb to the ultimate of cliches. Let's start off with some Satriani instead.

One downside to the van is, of course, gas. The Sh4g'n' W4g'n' gets between 10-15 miles to the gallon, and it holds at least 30 gallons (one 15 gallon tank, one 17(?) gallon). At today's gas prices ($4.15 a gallon), it would cost me about $124 to fill the tank completely. Average that with the MPG, and I calculate it costs me about $18/hour to run the van. Yikes.

I cannot worry about gas, however. After all, I'm sure people always considered gas to be expensive, and this is probably the only time that I will have in my life to have an adventure of this magnitude. And I intend to have plenty of adventures, my friends!

Overrated for the time being!

    While browsing my del.icio.us RSS the other day I stumbled upon this article dealing with the hype surrounding a college education these days. It seems that more and more people are spending life savings on college only to graduate to a college-graduate-saturated job market, thereby suffering relegation to menial, high-school-dropout jobs. The article quite completely confirms my wariness of blindly stumbling into college at eighteen only because it is the supposed ‘next step’ in life. While this is my general feeling now, it wasn’t always so.
    I took a year off after high school not because I was wary of college; it was because I hadn’t taken the initiative to apply to any colleges during my senior year. That, however, turned out to be the best choice my laziness ever made for me. If you have read any of my entries from last year you know my current life situation -  i.e. working full-time at a real job to save for continuing my post-high-school education. I have decided that I am fine with however long it takes me to save enough money, provided I have a steady job. I imagine myself doing a job interview in the future and saying “Yes, it’s true, I don’t have a degree in business administration. I do, however, have excellent references from a company I worked at for four years right out of high school and was promoted three times in.”

This hasn’t happened yet, but I don’t think it far-fetched at all.

Back to the article, I was particularly struck by the idea that colleges promote that their graduates get good jobs. From the article:

     “Colleges trumpet the statistic that, over their lifetimes, college graduates earn more than nongraduates, but that's terribly misleading. You could lock the collegebound in a closet for four years, and they'd still go on to earn more than the pool of non-collegebound — they're brighter, more motivated, and have better family connections.”

    This is me. In NO way  do I feel that not being in college now has forever barred me from returning to pursue a degree. The only reason I don’t return to college under a college loan is because I don’t know what I would use my education for. I don’t want to accumulate debt only to graduate and go flip burgers to pay my $700-a-month loan payments. Colleges don’t guarantee you a job. In fact, it seems more and more that a diploma just proves that you paid a lot of money for four years of organized education.
    This isn’t to say that the non-college-educated have totally equal footing when competing for a job with a recent graduate. Certificates still look good on a resume.

But, debt looks even better.

Think about it. College students with massive amounts of debt need jobs. They need jobs badly. They aren’t going to quit a job just because they don’t like it, because they have that loan payment coming up next month. If I was a manager, I would totally hire someone who was dependent on the position I gave them - no matter how crappy. Graduates also maybe getting married around the time they leave school, having postponed the wedding until “we’re out of school, babe.” A recent graduate who has to keep his new family financially afloat?

“We can get some good overtime out of him!”

    I have no beef with a college degree - I just don’t want it unless I need it. besides, I actually rather enjoy being totally independent at age 20, away from college parties and wanton pleasures offered to the normal, ‘independent’ college-aged coed.

    I went to college to learn stuff, but learning certainly doesn’t end now that I’m taking a hiatus. Heck no. I still learn stuff, read books, churn out essays, thoughts, and blogs, and have philosophical debates with friends. I do, however, look forward to the day where I have the means and the motivation to continue my pursuit of higher education.

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Updates from random corners in the circle

-I recently ordered a custom t-shirt from Zazzle.com and was very pleased with the quality of the shirt they sent me. It was affordable, well-made, and attractive. Their website was also extremely easy to use, making everything from creating an account to customizing the shirt a painless process. Way to go, Zazzle!

-I saw Saul Williams perform at the Troc in Philly on April 11th. He rocked my socks off for a good 1.5 hours, performing poetry readings, material from his new album, and some of his older stuff as well. I have never been so impressed with a concert. It was fantastic.

-I finally got my hands on a copy of Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon:Desert Seige for Mac. I got it partly for the sake of nostalgia, partly because it is just a really friggin good game.

-After giving a listen (or six) to the new singles by My Brightest Diamond, Weezer, and Coldplay, I took the initiative and pre-ordered each of their respective new releases, due out in June. June is going to be a fantastic month for new music. Stay tuned.

-I reconnected with my friend Mikaela, whom I hadn't had any contact with since I was perhaps 13. It turns out that we have a ton in common despite the long disconnection.

-I finally got my hands on a copy my The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan. This is a book that I have been aware of since I read an excerpt from a home-schooling reader in second grade, but had never actually attempted to read until recently. I like it a lot.

-The music of Klaus Schulze continues to fascinate me in ways I never thought possible. The music is simple yet incredibly complex. It is infused with something more than just the sequencers used to program it, the sounds that swirl together to form patterns, beats, rhythms, and melodies. There is something more in the music that cannot be replicated, and that is what keeps me coming back time and time again. I have listened to his four track, 1.1 hour long epic En=Trance from 1987 probably over 50 times and it still mesmerizes me.

-I purchased Living-Color-guitarist Vernon Reid's latest work, Urban Mythology: Volume One, and it has received heavy rotation in my cars CD player along with Californication. Both albums are brilliant, though I have to say that Reid's release is slightly superior.

Slow motion for all

I close my eyes and relax as the car pulls up to my house. I step out, and the car leaves me in the dust. The house is a familiar sight, a comforting place. I often find myself retreating into its closets and dark pantries in search of a quiet distraction from the bustles of daily life.

         The exterior of the house is a light grey, fading with age. Its two stories are complemented by huge wrap-around porch, complete with a rickety wooden porch swing. The banister poles are from France, hand crafted. The entrance to the house is a single screen door that swings on a hinge coupled to a spring. It opens in, swinging to the right. Inside is a large lawn surrounded by four walls. The bright green grass, healthy and sweet, invites you to take your shoes off and frolic about. In one corner sits a marble mahjong table with tiles set up, ready to play. A half-full pack of Marlboro Reds sits open on the table. Next to it is a Zippo emblazoned with an image of Aladdin Sane, vintage 1973. Against the far wall is a fireplace, a real one, with a real stone mantle. Sitting in the opposite corner is a marionette, painted completely black, playing the theme of Beethoven's Ninth on a cello with only one string, the C string. In the middle of the lawn is a cup of fur, emanating heat and light, and casting deep shadows across the room. Arranged around the cup are comfortable leather armchairs. It is here where religion, art, politics, love, and other topics of passion are discussed.

         Passing through the lawn, we come to a room completely covered in tan linoleum. The floor, walls, and ceiling are covered seamlessly. The room absorbs all sounds, rendering any shouting useless, reducing it to nothing but a whisper from a four-year-old. Volume is not a currency here. On top of this tan sheeting is the most vibrant graffiti you can imagine. Beat poetry, homegrown recipes, passionate propaganda, and creative Japanese puns all adorn the four walls in black, sprayed-on fashion. A fifth wall in completely covered by a massive mahogany bookshelf. Perusing the shelves one will find ancient books. Classics, unmolested by nosey librarians, retain the crispness and quality produced by a master printer and his press. The books speak life into those who read them.

         Moving on we come to a wrought-iron spiral staircase, built purely in defiance of building codes, ascended and descended at will by all who wish. It leads to the second floor, a trip we shall make slowly. The triangular steps do not provide an easy journey; the loud, resounding CLANG! made as each step brings us closer to where we journey or farther from where we are most comfortable. As our eyes clear the second floor we are allowed time to reconsider. Our feet are still several steps from the top; we can choose to spiral backwards, back down to solid ground. But this time we continue. We cannot ignore what our eyes have now seen. We must ascend.

         My foot makes it to the top, a deep breath punctuated by a soft thud as my foot rests on the wooden floorboards of the second story of this Victorian abode. The room is vast, with off-white walls and a single chandelier in the center of the vaulted ceiling. My face softens; this is the place I adore. Under the chandelier sits a lone wooden desk. The wood is dark brown, the desktop smooth but imperfect. The desk has four drawers. One is shallow and wide, right above the space provided to occupy a chair and a pair of knees. It is filled with gold-gilded fountain pens. To the right of it are the three other drawers. The bottom two drawers hold nothing. Empty. The top drawer is half-full with blank loose-leaf.

         It is here where one can write uninterrupted, away from the voices, the demands, the obligations and hassles of daily life. One can bring whatever inspires them up to this room and stay however long they want, providing that they add nothing to the room then they once again descend the spiral staircase. I sit down at the desk and write page after page of poetry dedicated to the most beautiful girl on earth. The words flow, abounding from my pen, jumping on to the paper and smiling up at me. I create for hours on end, filling page after page. As I conclude each page, I fold it up carefully into the shape of a paper airplane. Then, taking aim at the window directly ahead of me, the only window in the room, I launch the paper plane, laden with my words, across the room. The aim is always true; indeed, it is as if the folded poem is walking on air. It glides out the windows, over path and pasture, coming to rest wherever the butterfly's wings dictate. What a fantastic death abyss. It waits for that someone, I know not whom. That someone who needs to feel loves, who needs to be reminded that there in joy in the world, that they are loved, or that there will never be greener grass than that beneath their feet. They are free to love, and be loved in return.

 

I, in the room, close my eyes, kick back, and smile.

 

I open my eyes and here I am, liberated, ready to continue my day.

 

The car drives away.

Select Musical Tastes - Why These?

It’s odd how I remember the exact time and place I first was exposed to select music.

 

I was in 10^th grade, cleaning my room one afternoon the first time I heard the Goo Goo Dolls Gutterflower album.

I was riding a Shinkansen from Tokyo to Kyoto in 8^th grade the first time I heard Linkin Park’s Hybrid Theory on a classmate’s MD player.

I was lying on my floor doing math homework the first time I heard the Three Doors Down Better Life album.

I first heard Nirvana’s epic Nevermind on an airplane while traveling from Tokyo to Okinawa in 10^th grade.

The first time I heard any material from Kid Rock, Offspring, or Creed was from a mixtape I made off the radio in seventh grade.

The first time I really listened to the entire Temple of The Dog EP was while painting the outside of my summer cabin the summer before I went to college.

I have a very distinct memory of the first time I heard Radiohead’s 2003 release, Hail to the Theif. I was sitting on a couch in a basement in Minnesota with my friend Alyssa, staring at the green Xbox CD screen. I was 16.

I was doing homework on the computer in my dad’s study one night during my senior year while listening to Yahoo! Launchcast radio. Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” came on, and my music taste was forever altered,

I was standing in my basement room, 16 years old, when I first heard Eddie Van Halen play “Eruption” on the radio. I was speechless for a good five minutes.

What can fill a coin with a hole in it? A common thread.

We stepped out of my car and walked towards the glass door of the coffee shop. I held it open for her, and then followed my nose into the shop filled with the enticing aroma of gourmet coffees brewed-to-order for the yuppie elite. I, however, was no yuppie. I was sixteen, tall, thin, reserved, and cynical. I had Adidas on my feet, and was dressed in bland khakis and a black polo as mandated by the overlords who ran my private Lutheran high school. School had finished for the day, and I had succeeded in securing the company of an attractive girl to join me for coffee. We had journeyed in my very unattractive-yet-unabashedly-functional maroon-colored Buick to a place called Meg’s, which served magnificent, if not slightly overpriced, coffee and baked goods. The joint was furnished with red couches and throw pillows, a giant beanbag chair, bookshelves with last years novels shelved haphazardly on them, and of course the little round tables impressed with checkerboard patterns. It was basically the aftermath of a supercollider experiment involving a Starbucks and a pediatrics waiting room set in a suburban Illinois city.

            Stepping up to the counter we ordered our respective beverages, I a double shot of espresso and she a frappuccino. We collected our drinks and seated ourselves at a table for two situated against a wall beside a basket of books. One of the books, I noticed, was a paperback copy of Thomas Harris’ Hannibal, a book I would start reading that year and finally, after an extended hiatus, complete in the February before my twentieth birthday. We sat facing each other for a few minutes, silently taking in the atmosphere. Our meeting was one-on-one, as I preferred, and uncomplicated by flirting and the usual teenage insecurities involving a semi-formal date due to the ruggedly handsome boy whom she was already dating.

            She was unequivocally gorgeous. Wisps of her golden hair fell loosely at her cheeks, framing her soft face, perfect eyebrows, and light pink lips. Her soft blue eyes, twinkling like twin dewdrops in the morning sun, were vibrant, engaging, and hauntingly mysterious. Her smile put me perfectly at ease, as though I had known her my whole life. Her posture radiated self-assurance, her bracelet-clad forearms leading to hands that were no strangers to the dog-eared pages of literary masterpieces. There was no façade about this girl. She was straightforward, honest, and to-the-point in an almost brutal way. Not one to ever be taken for a loop, she meant what she said and said whatever she meant, and expected the same from whomever sat across from her.

            There was very little laughter in our conversation. We both knew enough of each other’s backgrounds to feel comfortable, allowing us to bypass the normal conversational puddles of witty banter and entertainment preferences, instead diving right into topics of philosophy, worldviews, and religion. She believed in a single loving God who had a purpose for her life; I was beginning to reject my Baptist upbringing, instead choosing to believe that religion was an opiate for the masses and I was part of a forgotten generation; the all-singing, all-dancing scum of the earth. Until I met her I had reveled in belittling my Christian peers who, as I saw it, blindly followed the God of their parents. She, however, was the first person whom I had ever met who was not fazed by my criticism of her beliefs. I suppose a better way to say it is that she was the first person I met whom I didn’t feel was threatened by my rejection of the/her Christian faith. She was the first person who accepted my beliefs, and in return expected me to accept hers. And I did.

            I didn’t feel attacked when she would smile at me and ask, “So how’s God?” I would freely answer, “Well, not much is going on with him right now. I guess god (in our online chats I made it a point to specifically not capitalize god, while she made it a point to hold shift for point-three seconds) is around but I don’t really care about him right now.”

            Our conversations usually ended the same way. She would smile and encourage me that God was after me, at the same time assuring me that I could rebel all I wanted because if God wanted me, I was going to come around sooner or later. I smiled and told her that I thought her naïve.

            She finished her frapp (I had downed my double shot by the time I finished reading the testimonials on the front of Hannibal), and I drove her back to our school parking lot where I dropped her off at her car, thanked her for her company, waved goodbye, and drove home.

            These meetings were to be the basis of the beginning of our relationship. They were also the spark for my spiritual search for truth, and the beginning of my journey to take ownership of my own beliefs. It was another two and a half years before God finally claimed me; before I finally submitted myself to His will. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I think I have a friend named Julie to thank.

Thank you.

A Memory Bank of Synthetic Colors

I had a fascinating conversation with a young lady yesterday about our first respective memories. Hers was of disembarking a plane at age three and meeting being introduced to a little girl with curly red hair. I tried to think of mine? What was my first memory?

I have several, and I don’t know how to put them in chronological order.

My strongest early memory is manufactured, a situation drawn from a picture in a photo album. I was three, and we had just moved into our house in Japan. It is a simple memory, one of my family sitting on the floor next to the washing machine chowing down on corn on the cob, taking a break from moving our stuff in. But I have photograph of this, and I suspect I don’t really remember the meal on the floor at all.

My earliest memories do definitely come from that house, however. I lived there from age 3 to 5.

I have a memory of cutting pictures of cool looking motorcycles out of a magazine and keeping them in a little black metal basket. My brother did the same, and we were both adamant about the motorcycles we "owned" being unavailable for the other to have, or even hint at liking.

Another memory of breaking a glass bottle on the street, unfortunately for me, in front of my father. He made me pick all the little pieces up and throw them away.

Another memory of snatching a toy car that my brother received as a Christmas present and opening it for him, for which I was reprimanded.

A flash of a movie I saw at a baby sitter’s house of a man who drove a blue car getting chased up some stairs by a police detective. The movie terrified me, and to this day I still have no idea of the name of it.

Sneaking a scoop of margarine straight from the little plastic tub. It was gross, but the reaction it prompted from my parents was worth it.

Stealing a LEGO sword from a pile of LEGOS in a house that we visited for Christmas. None of my LEGO people had any weapons, and this kid had a ton of them. He wouldn’t miss one, right? I didn’t count on my parents knowing the entire contents of my LEGO collection as well, and they noticed when I had a new addition. Busted!

Playing Go Fish, and declaring my favorite colors were pink and purple.

My father bringing home a tiger puppet from one of his trips. Whenever he was gone for more than a few days, he always brought something back for my brother and me.

Taking a new toy home, a rubber Stegosaurus, and putting it next to my lamp on the nightstand and staring, fascinated, at the outline of it in the dark until I fell asleep.

Eating too many moyashi (mung bean sprouts) one night and throwing up into a blue plastic basin. This was the first time I remember being sick.

Being too terrified to watch the movie Benji on TV.

The first foods I vividly remember were rice, curry, and cheese tara (チーズタラ).

I remember standing at our sliding glass door in front of the concrete deck leading to our yard, staring at the pouring rain and flashing lightning and thunder. I don’t think I’ve ever been afraid of thunder.

Out of these memories, six are positive or neutral, and six are negative. Why is this division so equal? Was I aware, even at a young age, and the difference between right and wrong? The existence of good and evil? Was I conscious of a balance in life – that good and bad things happen to people regardless of their behavior? How does this affect me as a person today? Am I more likely to accept that bad things happen, or am I more likely to write off my bad behavior as inevitable? Do I accept the consequences for my behavior, should it warrant said consequences?

I do find it odd that so many of my early memories have to do with me acquiring material possessions via legal or non-legal means.  Why aren't my first memories of going places or meeting new people? 

Even from my first memories it is clear that I do things for the sake of a reaction, for shock value. My behavior wasn't so much about acquiring a physical object as it was gleaning knowledge about behavior and reactions of people. This is still largely true today, though I rarely resort to such unscrupulous means to do so.

Take that, Postmodernism!

“I'm sure this goes against everything you've been taught, but right and wrong do exist. Just because you don't know what the right answer is, maybe there's even no way you could know what the right answer is, doesn't make your answer right or even okay. It's much simpler than that. It's just plain wrong."

wrong.”

- Dr. Gregory House, M.D. 

This brilliant quote came after Dr. House had given a class of medical students a scenario involving a snakebite patient. The hypothetical patient had been allergic to the first administrated dose of anti-venom. House then made the students choose whether or not to risk giving the patient a dose of different anti-venom (still having the potential to induce another allergic reaction and possibly death), or to forgo giving the anti-venom and wait to see what happened once the first allergic reaction subsided. The class vote was split 50-50. Half the class had killed the bitten man; the other half had saved his life.

“It is in the nature of medicine that you will screw up. You will kill someone. If you can’t deal with that, find another profession…or teach.”

- Dr. Gregory House, M.D. [paraphrased]

My point is not that medicine is a tough profession – I will willingly concede that point. Rather, I want to home in on the nature of the quote; the intrinsic value in the nature of right and wrong.

Our culture today, the society that we find ourselves wrapped up in, tells us, for the most part, that we are autonomous individuals and can determine the nature of right and wrong. Yes, there are some rules and regulations imposed upon us by governing authorities, but when it comes to domestic, moral, ethical, or relationship conflicts oftentimes we are told to find our own path; more often then not a path shaped by mass media. It is society that tells us to “look out for number one”, “if it feels right, go for it”, “everybody else is doing it”, or “it doesn’t really matter that much, does it?” For the dwindling population whose parents instilled some strong moral values in them during their youth, their daily grind is a constant struggle between their convictions and popular culture’s sermon of tolerance.

The tolerant are everywhere: sexuality, religion, race, and politics. American society has become obsessed with one slogan “Sure, that may cool for you and all and I accept you regardless, but I don’t roll that way.” In contrast, I say that when we become tolerant of everything, we become tolerant of nothing. Such tolerance spreads a person too thin, so much so that they cannot possibly have strong convictions of their own if they are busy fully tolerating others. A society that propagates tolerance to this extreme degree is doomed to fail, but for the time being is kept alive by one great piece of
technology.

The Internet.

The World Wide Web has allowed people all over the world to be in constant communication with one another. Naturally, people are going to want to communicate with other people who have similar interests. The result is quite ironic: people from every corner of the earth can find a clique where they fit in. Somewhere on the Internet is a place for people who, after ritualistic severance of their left arm, enjoy building sandcastles decorated with LEGO car tires and silly string. Have no fear; the dark niche is there. The irony of the situation is that they have never touched one another, shared a pint at a pub, or been to each others' weddings. They have created relationships based on interests. Personal interests have trumped who the individual is as a person, as an emotional, spiritual, physical, and sexual being. On one hand, happiness could be felt for these people; they are connected. However on the other hand, humankind has literally come to a point in history where a plug can be pulled and a person’s entire reason for living can be erased. This is truly tragic.

Global connectivity has opened our eyes and exposed us to ideas and experiences we didn’t realize were possible. This in turn causes us to think, “Why is the way I do things the ‘right’ way to do it? Is this even right?” The intrinsic uneasy feeling that this reflexive question produces scares us, in turn causing us to isolate ourselves. Much like an island, this isolation allows us to observe and judge what’s happening around us, and in turn give those on the outside the same opportunity. We are aware of everything, yet at the same time, we ignore everything. We write others off as ‘unchangeable” or people that just need to stay the way that they are. If others really want to make the effort to swim out to our island we might accept them, but that will happen once in a blue moon. In this way we risk becoming complacent and apathetic.

Imagine that instead of this island of isolation, a striving effort was made to build bridges to reach out to others. Yes, there is an island, but the person on this island is happy to be in genuine connection with other human beings. It may take some hard work, and it may not always be worth it, but you will get a chance to see how other people set up their island, and there might be an opportunity to invite a stranger to your island for coffee. The more bridges are built, the better life will be.

But there still must be some discernment in the process of choosing suitable friends. Personal interests are fickle, easily changed from day to day and dependant on circumstances. Nowhere is this more apparent than is entertainment preferences – sadly the leading factor in determining friendship in an online culture. Therefore I am arguing that in order for real friendships to be cultivated, we must start by having some morals and standards of our own. Just because we can be connected to anyone and everyone does not mean that it is good for us. We need to seek out people that have the same values as us – people who care about the same issues. People whom we can genuinely click with on a level of character.

Often I hear people talk about wanting to find someone who is ‘real’. What does this mean? Honest? Engaging? Stable? Confident? I think to some degree all these are included in the definition, so let’s examine these traits. None of them have to do with what you watch on TV, buy from FYE, or where you hang out on the weekend. They have to do with your character.

We have now come full circle. Character is developed by taking a stand for things you believe in, which sometimes leads to conflict with others and steps all over tolerance’s toes. In order for us to suck the marrow out of life, however, character is imperative. Therefore we need to be discerning about what to tolerate. Yes, this is hard sometimes, but things that are hard usually pay off in spades in this life. For some this might mean getting off their greatest security blanket, the Internet, and going out to fumble their way through interactions with people face-to-face. You never know who you might meet. You may even get lucky and find someone who watches House, M.D. every week, just like you do.