Me, a philospher?
In college my sophmore year I switched my major from accounting to journalism. To meet the requisites for this major I had to take a philosophy course. I took it in the spring semester from a Belgian professor. It was ethics. It was my favorite course I had taken up until that point and I flirted with the idea of changing majors again. It would have been my fourth time in as many semesters, so I decided against it.

That summer I met a woman studying philosophy and she fired my imagination. I learned through her about the two branches of philosophy, continental and analytical. Continental is frowned upon and is concerned greatly with some of the bigger questions in life, like "What does it mean to be a human being?" Analytic philosophy is much more concerned with knowledge, like "How do we know we know something?" Analytic philosophy is much more practical, which is probably why I gravitated to Continental philosophy.

Though I graduated with a journalism degree, I wound up with enough hours in philosophy to claim it is a minor, though I didn't, the main reason being I already had a minor squared away in psychology. After college I took a job at a newspaper with the idea that I was part of the fourth branch of government and could make a difference. Still, I yearned to explore the philosopher in me and, after the woman who helped me figure out what jazzed me up about philosophy and I split, I decided it was time I explored this side of me. So I went to grad school in philosophy.
To make a long story short, I loved it and I learned a lot in a very short period of time. But things began bothering me. For one thing, it seemed it was hard for other people studying philosophy to "turn it off". I even found this to be true professors. I got to where I just wanted to hang around some guys who talked about football and drank beer -- a side of myself I don't think I realize was so important to me. Second of all, you really need to be committed to being a philosopher, almost to the extent that you give up all possessions. To make my way through grad school I worked as a delivery guy for a group of interior decorators. I'd go into these beautiful, well-appointed homes. I was surprised at how "individual" the homes were. I began to realize I was not going to be one of the professors asked to give opening addresses at philosophy conferences and that I would never write a book that would take the philosophical world by storm. I'm just not that smart or committed to philosophy. I began to realize the best I could hope for would be teaching introduction to philosophy at a small community college in Idaho and I'd have a hard time making a home as individual as I would like for it to be. I began to realize that accomplishment was much more important to me and so, after a year and a barely started thesis, I quit grad school.

So now, here I am, a technical writer with a major corporation. I'm in a great position and I like my job, and I've even discovered I can use part of my training as a philosopher in my job (two semesters of logic). It's been more than a decade since I've taken a philosophy course and several years since I've even cracked open a book by a philosopher. I've barely even considered the profession in recent years. But now, as retirement comes closer and closer, I'm beginning to think, could I teach an introductory philosophy course at a small community college? Does this side of me need to be explored again? Have I become too technical and analytical? Do I need to again start asking myself, "What does it mean to be a human being?" Do I need to find a little bit of what attracted me to the nebulous questions in life and show that side of myself to my family?

Perplexed

I caught myself saying to myself today "I hate it when things I do work and I don't understand why!" The situation was work and I did something and it made no sense to my why what I did would work. In fact, it was the exact opposite of the way I was expecting it to work.

I think there is a lesson in there for me. Does it really matter? (Well, at work it does, because I have to explain what I did and I can't.) Should it take away from my basking in the glory that it works? Should I try and think about what I did and figure out why it worked? Or should I just go on and find the next thing to work on? I tend to overthink and this was a perfect example of it. What I should say is "That worked. Good for me."

On being shitfaced
I had a conversation today with an old friend of mine who's known me since I was a pre-teen. Therefore, we have watched each other since before we started drinking. This is important because we have known each since before we started drinking. We remarked that, for us, drinking is different for us from what it was when we first started drinking. Mainly, drinking was about getting shitfaced. Exactly why that was a goal is something I don't think we figured out. Suffice to say getting shitfaced just wasn't a big deal. You'd sleep late, possibly into the afternoon, wake up, feel bad, eat a cheeseburger, feel better, drink a beer, feel fine. You might get a call from someone saying "Man, you were shitfaced last night." And you'd say, "Yeah, wasn't that cool?" There really were no implications to being shitfaced.
Things gradually changed, though. Eventually, it was O.K. to be "tipsy" at a party... it was even kind of cute, especially if you were "a good drunk". You could be a little more tipsy at a wedding because the drinks were free and it would be rude of you not to partake in the bride's parents’ generosity. It was not, however, O.K. to be shitfaced at a party. The time to be shitfaced was relegated to hanging around a bunch of guys at a ranch where you could pass out in the back of a pick up truck and wake up drenched in sweat to a very bright afternoon sun beating down on you. Guys would pass by you making the occasional "Hey, how 'bout some bacon fat smothered in chocolate syrup?" comment -- anything to make you throw up. And that's something you wish you could do: throw up hard. Sometimes you would, but you wouldn't feel any better. And no cheeseburger could help you now.
As you got older, a hangover would last the whole day. Eventually, even two days. So you'd have to be more particular not just where you got shitfaced, but when you got shitfaced. Sometimes you'd cross the line and get shitfaced when a) you didn't mean to, b) felt like taking a chance, or c) didn't eat the whole day. Of these, c) gradually became the reason you most often became shitfaced and not because you were just drinking for the sake of getting shitfaced. So, in general, getting shitfaced became something to be ignored entirely.
Now, as I approach 40, I hope never to be shitfaced again. And I haven't been in a very long time (relatively). Hangovers, though, still happen. On more than one occasion I've had three hearty meals and then met a friend out for beers. Over the course of three or four hours, I will have three beers. For a while, this was the magic number. Sometimes I would be on my way home after having three beers, but then someone else would show up who had had no beers and I wouldn't want him to drink alone. Now, though, I usually wish him well, and see to it that he hangs around with someone who's had two beers or with someone who's none-the-wiser like I used to be and believes he'll be O.K. with a fourth beer.
Now, even a third beer is cause for consternation: I might wake up feeling fine, I might not. I'm still taking chances and have to ask myself, "Do I have a presentation to give tomorrow?" or "How far am I supposed to run with so-and-so tomorrow?" If I was convinced I had nothing pressing or requiring physical excursion, I was in for a third beer for sure. But, now I have kids, and I have no idea what my next day will be like. They might want to run around a park or something and they might want to do so for 10 minutes or for three hours. I have to be ready for anything. Two beers is becoming the limit.
The point is, drinking is something totally different. I'm not sure what it is now. I know when I get home from a long day at work, I want a beer... sometimes a martini. When I have a nice meal, I want wine. When I'm at a party, I want to loosen up. When I was young, I wanted to have a feeling of euphoria. Now I know that euphoria comes with a price I'm not willing (or, more precisely, able) to pay. And my states of euphoria gradually are, of necessity, being diminished. I'd settle for being able to talk to someone without feeling like I'm boring them.

What's up with this blog?

So, I haven't really done much on this blog. Like many things, you start off with nifty intentions, ideas of what it's going to be like, and aspirations that something like this will enhance your life. None of that has really happened. My first post, a deeply personal post, really didn't garner much attention. Frankly, I was dissapointed. The only person that responded was my mother. She did so in her quite eloquent way, but in a private e-mail message. My second post likewise received no comments or feedback. Again I was dissapointed.
At this point I asked myself, what was I expecting from starting this blog? I'm still asking myself that question. I think the answer is coming to me now. I was hoping this blog would spur me to write. I used to write for a living, first as a reporter for a small daily, then as an editor of a small computer magazine, then as a technical writer. (I still am, technically, a technical writer though I don't write any more and haven't for a few years.) But it hasn't and writing doesn't come easy to me any more. It's odd because I can remember writing concert and album reviews, along with front-page articles about proposed changes to a municipality's trash pick-up operations and city budgets. I'd write short stories and short screenplays for short films after writing articles about Sun Microsystems' latest incarnation of the Sparc chip. I'd write comic pieces for a short-lived, limited-printing, self-funded magazine. In short, I used to write a lot and it used to be very much a part of who I was.
So why hasn't this blog spurred me to write? I think that's the real question. I'm not sure of that either. I've been playing a lot of music lately (which is another passion of mine, but you wouldn't know it from this blog), but I'm not sure that's really eaten into blog time. I don't think I could use "lack of time" as an excuse. I haven't made writing a priority, and I was expecting to.
I think, eventually, I came to see myself as not a "good" writer. I'm not saying I'm a bad writer, but I think that a) I don't have the technical skills to "make a story come to life", b) even though I think I have some keen insights, I am constantly awed by the keen insights of other people that makes my insights look totally assailable, and c) I have a limited imagination. I think this last one is the main deal. I began to realize that art I really appreciated usually was done by people who just did thinks totally differently. The modal playing of Miles Davis, the paintings of Picasso, the writings of Tom Robbins. They think in ways that I just couldn’t even if I had their technical skills and all the time in the world. It’s quite humbling. And as I’ve grown to appreciate these things, it has diminished my “joy” in writing.
So, what now? Well, like I said, I’ve been playing music more, but I’m not breaking any new ground. I’m playing bass (an easy instrument to play) in country bands (an easy music to play). I no longer have the idea that I’m going to be part of “the next big thing”. So, I think this takes away some of the passion, but adds back a lot of the fun.
And maybe I should take a lesson from that. Maybe I should start writing again. Maybe I will.

I read recently that George W. Bush may go down in history as this nation's worst president. I believe this is because George W. Bush is really, really dumb.