Important Reading

In a lecture, Sagan shows a photo (taken by a probe near Jupiter) of a nearly invisible earth among millions of other points of light and says:

"Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader," every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there--on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.

The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds.

Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves.

The Earth is the only world known so far to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand.

It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known."

Why I Will Dominate the Art of Fantasy Baseball

I want to dedicate this post to a certain someone. You know who you are.

It’s amazing what human beings can do when provoked. There have been stories, possibly urban legends, where a surge of adrenaline and a spike in endorphins can enable the weakest weakling to lift a car over their heads. Now, granted, it may not be true, but it does seem possible to ‘hulk out’.

I’ve seen more than a few friends punch holes through solid walls. Not exactly their proudest moment, but after I’ve gotten them to calm down, I’d subtly examine the damage afterwards with a bit of admiration. Usually their anger would subside quickly and suddenly. They would be apologetic and offer to fix or pay for any damages afterwards.

But of course everyone is different. Not everyone espouses the “hulk smash” philosophy whenever they get a bit angry and frustrated. Like everyone else, I get angry at certain people. And fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you look at things), I don’t smash various objects in a fit of rage. I do something much more passive aggressive.

I make bets.

Now, making bets was something you did back in grade school to prove a point. “I’ll bet you a million dollars”, was something that we would say to each other just to end the conversation. Our conviction was so strong that we were willing to put up a million dollars just to prove that we were right. Occasionally, someone would up the ante to 10 million dollars, and the next person would raise the ante up to 100 million dollars, and so on and so on, until we were tired of naming higher numbers. To my knowledge such a bet has never been paid out on – of course, most elementary kids have a net worth of approximately zero, and if they did have any net worth, it would be very doubtful that their parents would allow them to bet it all on the fact that say, Wolverine first appeared in the comic book issue of the Hulk and not Spider-Man.

Unfortunately, that part of my childhood hasn’t died in me just yet. And I do have some worth to give away, so my bets are not ridiculous notions. Not much in terms of net worth, but some. The problems occur when you meet someone with the same problem, because then, in a stupid act of machismo, the ante keeps rising and rising until someone backs down. And now that we do have some net worth, the implications are a bit more serious and have higher odds of paying out.

Now let’s name this person “Sam”. Sam shares this similar trait of upping the ante, along with being a trash talker in nature. So naturally, after a few drinks have been consumed and something competitive comes up as the subject matter, the tone becomes a bit more belligerent, and inevitably, the bets start coming out.

A few years ago, I bet Sam my brand new car that I would defeat his team in fantasy football. Not exactly something that was very prudent, but I made my point and he backed down. Now, was it a rewarding experience for me when he did back down? Or did I hang my head in shame, realizing that it was a foolhardy exercise that reverted me back to my childhood? What do you think? Of course it felt good that he backed down, because I WON.

The other night we began a conversation about fantasy baseball. Now, I’m aware of my limitations as a fantasy baseball owner. Our league is only a $30 league, and that’s probably about as high as I’m going to go since my knowledge of fantasy baseball isn’t that comprehensive (not to mention myself being a bit low on funds). Last year I placed fifth, losing to Sam’s team in the first round. Sam won it last year, and I called it a fluke since his knowledge was equivalent to mine. But of course, Sam being a trash talker, declared himself as a ‘stats dependent’ master as his excuse as to why he didn’t know who Alex Rios was. And then he went on a rant about how his skills at fantasy baseball were not translatable to fantasy football, since fantasy football was ‘all luck’ and fantasy baseball was ‘a lot of skill’. Now, to me, this was despicable. It’s like being honked at the intersection when you’re waiting for the red light. And then they drive by calling an idiot for no discernable reason.

So of course bets were made, the rest of table was bored out of their skulls, but I now have to something to focus on. Much to the chagrin of my girlfriend, I have declared my new goal this summer to become the master of fantasy baseball. Now when I get angry, I become focused and obsessed. I’ve already read a few books on the subject and watched more games in my lifetime this past week. To the one single reader I know reading this post, I know you don’t care and you never will. But I will prove you wrong “Sam”. You know who you are.

Brad Pitt

Brad Pitt sucks at picking up women.

Yeah, you heard me. Brad Pitt sucks at picking up women.

Now, you might read this and laugh, thinking I’m a delusional, pompous ass. Well, I’m going to take it a step further, and I’m going to say this: I am better at picking up women than Brad Pitt.

Now, you might ask yourself, Tim, how many women have you been with?

And I would reply, first off, its really none of your business. But since I brought up the subject, I will answer your question. Not many, not many at all. Definitely not as many as Brad Pitt, definitely not as many as Ed Norton, and probably not as many as Steven Spielberg. Maybe more than Danny Devito. Maybe not.

Now how am I better at picking up women than Brad Pitt?

I am. Because I don’t have the fortune, the looks, or the fame. I’ve struggled to seduce, sweet talk, and finagle my way into the hearts and minds of every woman I’ve dated. I’ve learned how to adapt my game, maximize my potential, be all that I can be – in short, I’ve struggled like a mofo yet I’ve delivered the goods to the table and consistently outkicked my coverage. Granted, it's not that difficult when the bar is set pretty low, but I think I've done pretty well considering that I'm unemployed and have awful taste in clothes.

How does Brad Pitt pick up women? He stands there, and wiggles a little finger. Hundreds, no - make that thousands - actually, make that millions - of women come to him easily, without effort, thanks to the fortune blessed upon him by God. Women crow about him on a daily basis. “Oh, he’s beautiful.” I’ve had one woman say that to me randomly in my entire lifetime – and there’s a good probability she was on copious amounts of drugs, or alcohol, or both.

But the point is, I’ve persisted with the few tools I’ve got - mainly with a lot of charm and a little bit of alcohol. And if you ask Brad Pitt how to pick up women, odds are pretty good that he’ll answer ‘Just stand there, and the women will come.” If you ask me, you’ll get a longer story. A much better story. A story that’s forged by trial and error, years of experience, and compounded wisdom.

And that’s why I’m better at picking up women more than Brad Pitt.

Hello me, it's me again!

According to http://howmanyofme.com/, there are 17 other people in the world with the same name as me. And somehow, I managed to meet one of them. In this day and age with modern technology, it's really not that difficult if you stop and think about it.

It all began with an innocently mistyped email address. In my haste to email myself random thoughts and ideas (which I do from time to time), I accidentally sent it out to the wrong email address. One question led to the other, and we are now having a small and superficial email conversation. So yes, now I do know that there is an alternative me living in Silicon Valley where the weather is 60 degrees, and he knows that there's an alternative him living in Chicago where it snows relentlessly. Now, I do understand that honestly, in the scheme of things, it's really just a random coincidence. But my name isn't that common, if there's only 17 of us. And I've never ever met anyone in my life with the same name as me, so it's definitely something that needs to be exploited and explored until the novelty wears out.

Why am I talking to someone else over the internet with the same name as me? Is it because it's taken on the aura of conversing with an alternative presence in an alternative dimension? Is it because I secretly believe that we were headed for similar destinies and now I want to compare his successes with my failures?

Or maybe I'm just really, really, really, really frickin bored.

The Death of Xanga

I remember the days when Xanga was a phenomenon, at least amongst my friends.

People who signed onto Xanga had something to say. After years and years of bottling up experiences and wisdom, people had finally found a place to (excuse the term you perverts) ejaculate their thoughts and feelings onto the page to share with others. It came at the perfect time - right when all existing webpages became stale and trite, and before the birth of myspace had occurred. Sure, there were those occasional drunken moments when people let loose on a Friday night, but this was done under an alcohol induced haze of pent up feelings and frustration with loud music thumping in the background and other loud conversations obscuring the message. Oftentimes the clarity and the eloquence of what the speaker wanted to say increased with the amount of alcohol consumed, which led to an ironic result of the speaker not remembering if anything was said at all. If anything, what was most important, the speaker's desire to be heard was not fully sated.

And then came Xanga. Xanga became an extension of peoples' personalities. You had the people who recapped daily events in a droll monotone; the abstract dreamers who pontificated about God-knows-what; the sarcastic smartasses who'd write quick one liners making fun of everyone including themselves for posting on Xanga; and the ones who actually used Xanga as it was probably meant to be used, as a place to vent and bitch and to share their innermost feelings. In other words, a place to show the world who they really were and what their place was meant to be in it.

Unfortunately, after time, people on Xanga soon discovered something disheartening. People who wrote columns in the paper were paid for a reason - writing something interesting for an extended period of time was extremely difficult. Entries became stale and disjointed, and people began to run out of things to say. They got lazy, and there was a decrease in quality and production across the board.

And then came the Xangalock. From a business standpoint, I suppose it was a great idea. In order to read someone's Xanga, you needed to log into a Xanga account. So Xangalock basically forced those without Xanga accounts to register and log in with Xanga. Not only that, but now the Xanga writer could see who was visiting their page and when they were doing it. "Not busy now are you?" crowed a friend who had "locked" his Xanga. "I can tell." And then they added Friend's List. Now, not only did you have to sign in to read your friend's page, but now you had to request to be added to a list. So now you had to sign in, request to someone that you had to be put on their Friend's List in order to read their page. I'm sure this was just a minor inconvenience for someone wanting to read their real friends' pages, but it now it created an awkward reality for those who enjoyed reading not only their friends but those people on the periphery.

How would you request that? "Uh...I'm a friend of a friend...can you add me to your Friends' List?" Now imagine that you got denied. Yes, you can now be rejected on Xanga. How stupid would that feel? When I asked someone about why they had all these options activated on Xanga, they replied "I don't feel like being stalked." YES, YOU MORON, THE GUY STALKING YOU GETS OFF KNOWING THAT YOU ATE ICE CREAM ON SATURDAY. How many people put their real name, address on their xanga? The sad reality is that most of you would probably bore the crap out of your stalker if he had to read your entries every day. Besides, if this guy really wanted to stalk you, I'm sure there are better options than reading your stupid Xanga entries.

Yes, I'm aware that this blog probably isn't that great as well. But the access here is free and open, and I don't require people to go through an awkward pain in the ass process to read my crap. I guess the real point is this - if you're going to make someone go through all that crap to read your Xanga entries, it better be something worth putting a lock on. But the sad situation is, most of you are putting a Masterlock on a dish of dogshit.

The Nice Guy

"I thought you were a nice guy. Why are you being such a dick!"

I hate these words. I hear them a lot.

Yes, I have the rep as the nice guy. And it sucks. I hate to say it because I like nice people, I really do. But when you're seen as the nice guy, you hear these words every time you refuse to bend over. It's actually a crappy rep to have. People have these high expectations, and anything less than that elicits the comment above.

The worst is when people try to take advantage of your generous nature and say that comment, as if you owe them. Well, the surprising news was it wasn't like I asked to be this nice guy. I never asked for this pain in the ass rep. It was actually bestowed upon me because dicks like you have lowered the bar for what's necessary to be known as 'the nice guy'.

Whereas people that are thought of as 'dicks' are given the free pass.

"Oh, that's just 'Bob' being 'Bob'. Don't mind him."

And when these dicks actually do something nice, it's all sunshine and ice cream cones. Mark it in the record books, because the dick acted like a decent human being today!

In fact, if I had to make a proclamation, I'd rather be known as 'the dick. Set the bar low, and lets have a party when I do something decent. And when I act like the selfish ass that I say I am, no worries because that's just my status quo.

Wow, I do sound like a dick. I guess that's progress.

Not That There's Anything Wrong With That...

"Check out this link, hot chicks inside!"

No, it's not spam from an internet porn site. It's from an actual friend, a friend that that I know and trusted, and normally has the same taste in women as I do. And of course, being the desperate, testosterone filled idiot that I am, I click on the link without any hesitation or thought. Sadly, instead of some nubile young lady posing in such a way that's aesthetically pleasing to the eye, I get a picture of 3 old japanese dudes performing unspeaking acts on each other. Yes, I have seen pictures of 3 old japanese dudes performing unspeakable acts on each other. Why it exists, I do not know, but somehow someone in this world had the good sense that a) such an image should exist and be photographed, b)got the 3 japanese dudes to pose for him in such a fashion, c) take the picture and then d) post it online for the rest of the world to see.

Note how the second sentence says "trusted". Do such things enough and the trust must go. So now the games are more elaborate and a little more complex. Links are disguised and hidden. What appears as www.hotbikinicarwash.com in your aol IM window could actually be www.sausagefights.com. Stories are created and backed up with authentic pictures of true authentic women and alternated with blatant sexual acts between a man and a beast.

Now, the true question is, who finds these links and forwards them to my friend? At some point, there has to be a boundary between 'research for pranks' and 'yes, I enjoy looking at these pictures in my spare time'. Will we ever find the mystery man (or woman) who spends hours upon hours scouring the internet for pictures of people committing unspeakable acts of vulgarity, giggling yet hiding his true feelings from his friends and family?