It's my last night in the bay area. The past few days have been hard to take, in terms of the time creeping by and my being here in this apartment, spending a little too much time with hanna.
My confrontational last day of work was Wednesday. On Thursday, I went out to dinner with gorby at an ethiopian restaurant in downtown berkeley. He picked up the tab, of course. This gets embarrassing after a while, as my friends enter adulthood and I stay 16. After dinner we got smoothies, sat on a concrete wall, and talked about the historicity of jesus.
On Friday, I went to san francisco on my own. I went first to the san francisco museum of modern art, which was one of the highlights of my two months out here. Then, I walked up through chinatown to the pier 39 area, which was garish and tourist-y. Then, on the advice of a tobacco store clerk, I walked back down again to the north beach neighborhood and little italy. There, I had a sausage sandwich at a well-known pizza restaurant. It wasn't very good.
I walked into a private art gallery to look at some awful abstract paintings. There was a group of three people, one of which invited me to sit down. They played a video of a woman wrapped in a felt, purple snake taking her clothes off to a recording of some tribal-sounding music. The snake's head was a hand-puppet, which the woman manipulated while she danced around in a mysterious way. The snake took off her top, and took off her panties. Then, it did inappropriate things to her as she gyrated on the ground.
All the while, congas and flutes played. It seemed like the kind of thing that takes place in some low-rent university theater, with only the camera man and a two or three grad students hanging around with their arms crossed. I laughed, and the other three laughed, too, because the video was such an obvious self-parody. I liked that the gallery-rats didn't take themselves too seriously, an attitude that is a credit to any artist. I would prefer an artist be able laugh at his or her self than be any good -- at least that way he or she is decent company.
One of the three, who bragged about being a third-generation san-franciscan, gave me a list of hip, 'inside' things to do in san francisco. I may have misunderstood some of them, because his speech was pretty lisp-y, but here they are in case a reader wants to be inside and hip:
It sounds like some of these might have been interesting, if I'd had more energy.
On Saturday, hanna and I drove to mark and wei's place for one final barbecue. Hanna always hints, in a round-about way, that I drive there and back, because she likes to look around at the scenery instead of concentrating on driving, to paraphrase. In spite of her explanation, her wishes have more to do with wanting relief from driver-duties; she drives to mark's house an awful lot. Driving there stresses me out a bit, because I was never able to learn the route, and hanna would have to direct me, exclaiming 'LEFTHERE!' or 'RIGHTHERE!' at the last minute.
Yesterday, I sat around the house and biked to borders in the early afternoon, where I read a book on google hacking. I saw 'batman begins' in the evening, in downtown concord. Today, I went to borders for several hours, this time reading a lot of martial arts books, including 'kung fu for girls and 'muay thai: advanced thai kickboxing techniques'. From this last one I grabbed an evocative quote, which I'll presently add to my email signature database:
"Thailand has poisonous and spiny animals. They rarely attack." -- Christoph Delv, _Muay Thai: Advanced Kickboxing Techniques_
I don't know what I'll do tomorrow. Possibly go to borders a third time, possibly eat various meals at jack-in-the-box (which I don't believe exists on the east coast). Maybe I'll catch a matinee. Hanna is leaving very early tomorrow for her weekly sojourn to clearlake, california, where she does some cleaning for a few folks. I'll be alone on my last day in concord. I don't really feel like packing. In some ways, I don't really feel like leaving.
My flight leaves at 10:45pm tomorrow evening, which means I get to the airport at 9:15pm, which means mark and I drive from the north berkeley BART station to oakland international at 8:45pm, which means that I catch the 8:00pm BART out of concord, which means that I call a cab company at 7:00pm and say 'I'm going to the BART, and then to the airport. I want the driver to show up at precisely 7:45pm'. As the reader might remember, I had a bad formative experience with the punctuality of concord cabbies.
I'm wrapping up my bay area experience, a little over two months after my flight first landed in oakland. Tomorrow, it's back to dulles international, and then back to Maryland.
The BART is over. Mark and wei's house is over. The mexican ghetto and its tiny swimming pool is over. Biking around concord is over. The art store is over (thank god). Hanna is over. My room here, with the foam rubber bed, one real pillow and one fake pillow in the form of a folded blanket in a pillow case, and felt tapestries on the wall, is over. This old dell latitude, pentium III laptop, which I ventilate by propping up its back end with a phone book while blasting with a fan at eight inches away to keep it from frying itself, is over. Three meals, of varying edibility, prepared for and served to me every day, is over. My surrogate 'gary fisher' mountain bike, which has something like an 11-inch frame, necessitating the seatpost's extension to heights far beyond the safety limit, is over.
My sunglasses are definitely over; I somehow broke them two days ago. Every time I find a pair of sunglasses that aren't too narrow for my head, making me look like dr. Strangelove, I break them.
I come away with a few things added to my arsenal: some velcro sneakers that rub my achilles tendons raw, a $40, 10-watt 'crate' guitar amplifier, a set of fifty-dollar hair clippers, a black wal-mart shirt speckled with a light-grey vegetation print, a pair of red, grey and black reversible athletic shorts, and some new socks. I never changed the strings on my guitar, which I'd planned to do.
I brought some stupid things from Maryland. My dress shoes and suit, because I had fantasies of getting a real job. It reminds me of the time, right after college, when I bought a cell-phone, thinking it'd be ringing off the hook with offers from prospective employers. Bringing my laundry detergent was pretty stupid. Bringing my jew's harp and metronome was pretty stupid.
My laundry detergent and the unneeded replacement bike-seat are staying here, for hanna's enjoyment. The challenge will be to carry all of my baggage on the BART tomorrow: backpack, guitar, big duffel bag, and amplifier. Hopefully I can avoid taking another bag.
I lost some weight, exercised regularly, was hungry before almost every meal, trimmed my beard into a goatee, got a fairly serious tan (or suffered some sun-damage, depending on how you look at it), and shaved my head to about an eighth of an inch of hair. My arm, which I badly hurt during my first few days here, is only now beginning to heal.
I'm looking around the room now, making sure I have everything ready for tomorrow's packing. I'm also trying to think of other things that are now over. I could go into greater detail about everything, but then this entry would never end.
There are so many things, so many memories and mental ghosts that accumulate, even after only two months. Leaving is like saying 'goodbye' to a tiny little life. I'll miss the produce and the weather, and I'll miss having mark and wei around, but that's about it. Everything else helped constitute what was beginning to be an icky familiarity and routine, which I despise, and yet cling to because new things are so scary and hard to adjust to. Maybe it gets easier the more you do it.
I'll miss 'bicycle boulevard' (a road intended for use by cyclists), otherwise known as Virginia avenue, in berkley. Biking from the north berkeley BART station to work and back was the most fun I had during my workday. There are a few people at the art store whom I won't exactly miss, but whose company I appreciated in a shallow way. Just to keep the tradition alive, I'll say 'never again will I work retail' now, before the next gig inevitably starts.
My mother's house in Maryland is going to feel foreign and uncomfortable. For one thing, my stuff there has been routed out of it's nestling in with the rest of the household. What I didn't bring to california is stuffed into boxes or a huge canvas duffel-bag.
I'm reminded of moving from catonsville back to gaithersburg after graduating. I refused to unpack for a month or so, being so disgusted with living back home and planning to leave so soon that I thought unpacking to be a bad idea. As it turned out, I stayed there for three years, latched onto my mom's computer. Now, I'm coming back, after just two months away.
I'm leaving the bay area right at that point where concord, berkeley, san francisco, the BART and everything was starting to feel familiar, but not in a good way. It's just another suburb here -- the metro stop, a minimal downtown, several shopping plazas a few miles away, etc. I was getting the lay of the land down pretty well, but I'm not going to miss concord. It feels barren and without a soul -- it's like gaithersburg, which I won't be overjoyed to see again.
I'd like to live somewhere other than the suburbs. I wasn't overly impressed with san francisco, but that's probably because I don't really know, and am not really interested in knowing, how to enjoy the company of any major city. Berkeley was better, with its low-slung, junky-looking, crowded blocks of independent, idiosyncratic restaurants and stores, and the odd folks who hang around there, especially at night.
Let me think of more memories and ghosts. Mark and wei's jock-nerd synthesis roommate greg (a surfing astrophysics post-doc), with whom I got along really well, and from whom I borrowed 'Star Wars II'. Mark and wei's co-owner, who was a bit of a shit. The all-uphill bike-ride from the art store along the impossibly steep hills and sharp bends to mark's house. His narrow street, which necessitated parking a car with its wheels popped up on the curb, and half its width hanging over the sidewalk.
The climb of about 50 feet via staircase to mark and wei's front door, that always left me partially winded. The thumb-print reading door-lock, onto which mine was coded and with which I never ceased to be impressed. Hanna's orange, grey and white semi-friendly cat with only half a tail, that hung around aloofly at mark's place, occasionally killing mice and leaving them around the house, but who meowed happy greetings whenever hanna showed up.
The all-female, all-tattooed cadre of managers at the art store. Crossing san pablo ave on the way to work every day, and every day softly singing that line of 'american life' by primus:
spending spare time down on san pablo ave; once a week gets a woman for the night. And he writes home tales of prosperity...for the boy we have american life.
Finding the post office, and then the movie theater, in concord. The look of all the buildings and streets. The feel of the road under my bike tires.
My bedroom dance -- taking my evening medication, settling in on my side, eventually crushing my collar bone with the weight of my own torso, resigning to shift entirely onto my stomach, and gradually falling asleep with a few fits and starts. Being woken up prematurely by the piercing dawn, then wrapping a blanket over my eyes and dozing for another hour or so. Gulping down my morning meds. It's all subtly different from the bedroom dance in gaithersburg, just because it was done here, in a different place and with a different feeling.
Wei's friends: lakshmi and marlene. I met them a few times. Greg's friends at one of his parties, one of whom crushed my hand to the point of pain in not a handshake, but a MANSHAKE. Meeting up with two computer friends.
Seeing peter's red truck 100 feet or so down from where I waited on the curb at the airport, when I flew in two months ago. The first two weeks here, when Peter and I lived together in hanna's apartment, driving around in his truck and spending some time with peter's gamer friend, who never leaves his apartment. Peter's ipod. Hiking around on mount diablo, a nearby park. Peter, hanna and I had a picnic there one day.
The first few days when I was unbearably depressed until I adjusted my medication. Spending a time at the apartment on my own, during which it turned into a filthy, subhuman pig-sty, with half-eaten food, crumbs, dirty underwear, and trash strewn all over everything. Another week, where I lived at mark and wei's place while maya inhabited the apartment. Then, the hanna years. Then, the hanna freak-out, after which I bought my ticket home.
There are so many little details -- sights (racks of paints at the art store, the 'end bike route' sign in concord that marked the street that took me from the main drag to hanna's residential street), smells (the varnished wood and sweaty laundry in mark and wei's study, eggy food being fried up in hanna's kitchen), sounds (the BART accelerating from a stop, mexican children screaming, laughing and playing in the pool outside the window) and textures (sticky, dirty, rubbery hand-grips on my surrogate bike, four cold, little, metal buttons on mark's thumbprint-encoded door lock, with 1, 2, 3, and 4 engraved on them) -- that it's impossible to get them all down.
I'll miss it here, not because it's a particularly nice or wonderful place, but just because it's a small part of my life that's disappearing.
Everything is made up of one self-directing substance (quanta), and therefore what appears to be our self-direction is synonymous with the universe's (everything's) self-direction. Universal self-direction is synonymous with the demonstrably unpredictable behavior (self-determined behavior) of quanta, since these quanta compose the universe. a conscious (or self-directed) universe is synonymous with a pantheistic god, but this is semantics. Consciousness can be defined as 'self-direction' (or vice-versa), but this is also semantics. The definitions are convenient and perhaps evocative, but unnecessary. 'self-directed universe' and 'conscious god' are the same thing. Really, the only statement that's necessary is 'quanta behave randomly' -- everything else is derived from that. But, in order to illuminate the path, it's necessary to cook up some language.
The universe exists (there is something). The universe is a self-directing substance, according to quantum mechanics. Therefore, the universe is one self-directed thing, or a conscious god.
(quanta behave randomly)
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(quanta are self-directing)
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(quanta make up everything)
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(everything is self-directing)
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(self-directing universe)
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(conscious universe)*
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(the universe is an entity)*
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(god)*
*if you don't like any of these starred items, leave one or
all of them out, and stop as early as 'self-directing universe'.
Or, as I said, stop at the first item -- that's all that's
really needed.
Quantum mechanics establishes that, at any given point in time, there are an infinite number of possible futures, and that the path of reality along these futures is determined by the random behavior of quanta of time, space, gravity, matter, energy -- the quanta that make up everything that exists.
Let's say I make a conscious decision to pull down my pants in public and sing the french national anthem. This involves thought processes, which are comprised of neuro-chemical activity in the brain. Those thought processes are affected by memory, which is stored in some unknown way, but certainly in a way that isn't magical -- it involves physical structures in the body. All of this electro-chemical activity is made up of matter and energy, which is made up of the same quanta that make up the rest of the universe.
There is a possible future in which the randomly-behaving, or self-determined behavior of, quanta making up your brain tell it to tell you to pull down your pants and sing the french national anthem. There's also a future where this doesn't happen, at least not on that point -- perhaps later in the day. It's my contention that both futures (or any other number but one) don't exist. However, this is i irrelevant, because the existence of one future preceded by random events and the existence of many futures preceded by random events both beg the question 'why is this particular future happening?'.
Every thought and decision one has and makes is determined by a perception of the surrounding environment, memories of that perception, the firing of neurons and the chemical activity of neurotransmitters. All of this is real. As a part of reality, it's all governed by the same laws of randomness/self-determined behavior that make up the rest of the universe, which of course includes us.
It's all one substance -- everything is, literally, one. Self-hood is an illusion. 'we' don't make decisions. Rather, choice is determined by memory, perception and brain structure, which are in turn determined by the behavior of the elementary particles of which they're composed.
'We', and our brains, are nothing special. There's nothing about 'us' that makes us into discreet entities, and nothing that absolves 'us' from the rest of the laws of reality. We aren't magical gods. We aren't even entities. There is no 'we' to begin with; 'we', being composed of it, are necessarily extensions of the universal substance.
Consciousness is another way to refer to self-determination. If I've eliminated there being discreet entities in the universe aside from quanta, then what 'we' experience as self-determination or consciousness is universal self-determination or consciousness, which everything shares. This universal self-determination is synonymous with the implications of quantum mechanics: that quanta behave in a random (self-determined) way. If their behavior isn't self-determined, then it must be directed by something else, which is by definition composed of quanta. All is self-directing. The apparent randomness of quanta is synonymous with the universal consiousness's decision-making process, so to speak; with its reality-making. The randomness of events is a manifestation of a sort of divine driver's seat.
So then, 'our' will is free. Or, better said, THE will is free. Anything can move in any direction at any time, and what we call quantum randomness can just as easily be called self-determination, which in term might be called universal consciousness. Since everything consists of quanta, every 'thing' determines its own reality; reality is self-guiding.
Once the term 'we' is rejected, the phrase 'we create our own realities' starts to make a bit more sense. Reality creates itself. Since we are not a part of everything, but rather ARE everything, what seems to us like our discreet conscious minds and decision-making processes is actually the universe's quanta bouncing around 'randomly' in self-determination -- ultimate, all-encompassing consciousness. God has discovered itself.
God (noun) -- one universal self-directing entity.
Our consciousness is the same as the universe's consciousness, since everything is one. The universe's consciousness is synonymous with what is called the random effects of quantum mechanics, because a reality composed of quanta behaving in non-determined ways is necessarily self-directing, or conscious.
In other news, I've made my web statistics public again. here they are. Notice that IP address are mysteriously DNS-resolving, and are now human-readable. I have no idea why this is happening, but it's a great development.
Now, one can see that school-children in fremont, california, were reading my blog. One can also see that many of my hits disappointingly come from crawler bots, usually google's or inktomi's.
Stats will refresh every time my 'stats' shell-script is run, which will happen automatically, once a day at 00:00:00 GMT (5:00pm PDT, 8:00pm EDT). The reader can now access these stats from index.html by clicking on the tiny vomiting bee. The bee was made tiny to solve the design problem that ensued when instructions for getting stats were added to the index page.
I sent an email to to the director of retail operations, dick blick, inc. Here it is:
Dear Mr. _______,
Thanks for your prompt response.
I was employed, from May 10th to June 16th of 2005, by "The Art Store" #_______ in Berkeley, California. About two weeks ago, some difficulties regarding my housing situation came up, which necessitated a move back to Maryland (my flight leaves at 7am tomorrow morning). My last day at "The Art Store" was Wednesday, June 16th, 2005.
I have two issues with my treatment by the managers of store #_______.
First, I notified three managers of a disability, requesting accommodations (as are legally required under the Americans With Disabilities Act), and was ignored by all three. I am brain-damaged as a result of being hit by a car while crossing a street in 1997.
Difficulties associated with my brain damage include visual problems, memory problems, and cognitive problems (logic, reasoning, and learning). Accommodations would have consisted of an understanding that I might not pick up on things as quickly as might be expected, and that I might have trouble with visual-tasks (such as identifying products in "The Art Store"'s stationary guide).
Management should have gone slowly, and present training in a way sympathetic to my deficits. Assistant manager Gayle _______ trained me in a quick and cursory way, and her demeanor was positively hostile, I assume because I wasn't learning procedure quickly enough for her. At one point, she told me, when I asked a question regarding paper-type, "I've already trained you in paper. You're not getting any more training." This was after I had told her about my disability.
The second incident occurred on my last day of work. My concern here isn't so much a legal one as one of management's inappropriate behavior.
Mid-way through my shift, I was angrily asked to leave the premises by manager Michelle _______, and was declined an explanation.
I tend to store my unused sunglasses around my neck, often forgetting that they're there. Michelle angrily told me to take them down, telling me that my appearance was "unprofessional." I agree, in fact -- I merely forgot that they were there. Hers would have been a perfectly reasonable request; I would have been happy to have taken them down without question under normal circumstances.
However, Michelle had expressly told me, during our interview, that there is no dress-code at "The Art Store" apart from no open-toed shoes (an OSHA regulation) and no obscene t-shirts.
Michelle's accusation of my appearance being "unprofessional", while I was neatly, cleanly and conservatively-dressed, strikes me as inconsistent, because almost every employee and manager at store #265 wears "unusual" clothing, has piercings, has oddly-colored hair, and has their upper body almost covered in tattoos. This includes Michelle, whose tattoos are dark, colored, and come sprouting out of her shirt collar.
Assistant manager Gayle _______ not only sports piercings, oddly-colored hair, sexually suggestive clothing and tattoos, but one of these consists of the words "Still Don't Give A F*ck", without the asterisk. This message is presented to customers, since she usually wears tight, deeply-cleaved half-shirts and jeans around her hips.
These adornments are apparently not a problem, while sunglasses worn around the neck are.
Sorel _______, the general manager, is certainly responsible for her employees' appearance, and the conduct of her managers. One of the managers (Jeannie Lyndon) I spoke to regarding my disability agreed to tell Sorel about it. Either she didn't, or Sorel ignored her.
I'm most concerned with management's violation of the Americans With Disabilities Act. I consulted with a lawyer (Michael H. _______, specializing in employment discrimination), who advised me to file a complaint with the California Department of Fair Housing and Employment (www.dfeh.ca.gov).
I haven't yet done so yet, hoping that in alerting you the problem can be resolved in some way.
Thanks for reading -- I know Dick Blick Inc. Is concerned with the fair treatment of employees, both current and former.
Sincerely,
A Supplicant
Power comes from the ability to disseminate information, as I've said. I hope the managers at 'the art store' get in a huge amount of trouble, or at the very least get a bit annoyed. I think it's safe to say that blick, inc will talk to them. Time is money, remember.
Today was my last day of work. It didn't end well.
Michelle told me to take my sunglasses off of my neck while I worked. I replied 'why? People (employees and management) come in here covered in tattoos and with shit stuck in their faces'. I had been planning for a while to point this out if I was ever asked to alter my appearance.
'Do it because I asked you to'.
'But why?'
'Do it because I asked you to'.
Mussolini could have learned something from michelle.
I walked past the office window on my lunch break, and wiggled my eyebrows at michelle and another manager, who were inside. This wasn't planned. I was throwing a lunch-bag in the dumpster, and the office window happened to be there -- I didn't realize this, and was sort of shocked to see jeannie and michelle's heads in the window. When I noticed them there, I wiggled my eyebrows in greeting (this is how I greet people when I'm wearing my sunglasses).
After I got back from lunch, michelle called me into the office. She wanted to 'just call it a day' -- for me to go home.
I said 'ok, but let me say something. 1) you told me there's no dress code, and 2) gayle comes in here dressed as a prostitute and you get mad at me for sunglasses?'
At that point michelle got mad, and told me to leave immediately. I told her that if I wasn't paid for 8 hours, that would constitute firing me. 'no, you'll get paid for the full eight hours'.
'Don't I get an explanation? C'mon, sunglasses?'
'We don't have to give an explanation. You're still on your probation period'.
'Not even just because you're nice people?'
'No'. Even though I wasn't fired (today was my last day), I wanted to know what it was that had pissed michelle off so badly. My 'attitude', probably, and my language. Also, she had a problem with my heroic nonconformity, which amounted to not covering myself in tattoos or sticking metal in my face. There's no other explanation for 'lip-ring, boob-shirt and full body-coverage tattoos OK, sunglasses around neck NOT OK'.
Michelle escorted me out of 'the art store'. I told her that her behavior was totally, totally inappropriate. She told me to leave the premises, and I backed out a foot into the hallway, still looking at her. I sarcastically asked if it was all-right if I picked up my check tomorrow. She said 'yes'.
At one point michelle told me that my 'attitude' was horrible -- I guess employers expect a stance of deference and ass-kissing from employees. Allow me to quote from the rapper/philosopher TI (who is currently in jail, I believe). Imagine it with bored intonation, and in a black-southern accent:
now, I ain't bad -- jess don't kiss no ass or take shee-it. An' I'm a grown man, find y' somebody t' play wee-ith. If y' 'on't like me when y' see me be'er not say shee-it; ah'll choke y' ass out like dre did that bee-itch...
I'm not rude, mean, or contrary -- I just refuse to defer mindlessly or allow abuse. Imagine that with bored intonation, and in a black-southern accent.
Michelle's request to remove my offensive neck-adornment was a bit wacky. Why are sunglasses on the neck a big deal, while head-to-toe tattoos (including 'still dont give a fuck' imprinted on the lower back), numerous facial piercing and street-whore clothing are perfectly acceptable?
The sunglasses probably wouldn't have been a big a deal if I'd said 'yessa massa' and bowed out of the office after michelle made her rudely-spoken demand. But management was acting in unreasonable authority, and I called it into question, albeit with some anglo-saxon.
Michelle called my sunglasses 'unprofessional'. This is pretty funny, inasmuch as she herself sports a nose-ring and thick, colored tattoos that come spurting out of her collar like some kind of virulent chest-rash. I guess that must be business attire.
Tomorrow I must walk in again and pick up my last paycheck. I'm calling the 'california department of fair employment and housing' in the morning, especially considering that 'the art store' didn't make any disability accommodations for me. I think the sunglasses-debacle was purely reverse-sexism, and a reaction to my not fitting into 'the art store''s culture of art-poseur-dom. Sure, you can look weird, but you have to look weird in a certain way (ie, piercings and tattoos). Goatee, short hair, xy chromosomes and sunglasses innocuously stored around the neck are out.
I was in violation of the secret dress code, even though I very clearly remember michelle telling me, when I was hired, that there wasn't one, apart from the prohibition of open-toed shoes and obscene t-shirts. Nothing was mentioned about sunglasses perched on the collar-bone. 'the art store''s secret dress code is that employees must look like Rebels. Ie, one of those who rebel in unison with their piercings, tattoos, and identical clothing. In this uniform, conformist subculture, being weird and non-professional means to have short hair, a goatee, normal clothing and sunglasses around the neck.
I look like an average joe, and this was unacceptable. Or, at least the sunglasses threw my average joe-ness into relief. Mind you, I wasn't wearing them indoors, like the terminator -- I was merely storing them on my neck because I had no-where else to put them (i didn't bring my bag to work today). And in light of some of gayle's skin-tight half-shirts cleaved down to the middle of her chest, I don't think some sunglasses around the neck is a grossly inappropriate violation of cultural norms. But, at 'the art store' in berkeley, it is.
Management has hired one or two others who don't look like everyone else, so maybe they just didn't like me, and the sunglasses were only the icing on the cake. But it's a poor excuse, really. If michelle had just said 'we don't particularly like you, we don't feel you fit well into the employee culture, and you're a snotty little prick', then that would have been fine. I'm sure this is what she was thinking. I wanted to hear it, though.
I remind readers that I wasn't fired -- I'd given 'the art store' my notice a week ago, and today was my last day. It was only being told to leave the premises four hours before my shift was over that upset me.
I also think the matriarchy at 'the art store' (all of the managers are tattooed women) felt threatened by any masculine presence unwilling to ritually castrate himself before the board of directresses.
I talked to a lawyer this afternoon, who told me in very reasonable terms that I don't have a case. I agree, upon reflection. There's no way to legally fault management, except possibly in that disability-accommodations weren't made (what those might have been, I'm not sure). But, as the lawyer reminded me, it's hard to prove disability when one is walking on two feet. The art store didn't take me seriously when I explained to three managers why I was still confused and learning so late in the game.
Employers are allowed to play favorites, be mean, be illogical and be unreasonable as long as their unreasonable behavior does not constitute discrimination. Not wanting me there, because I didn't crawl around with my tail between my legs and didn't look like someone desperate to prove that they're original by dressing like x-thousand other 'original' people, is perfectly legal. In light of this, I think the point-of-no-return was passed when I pointed out that it was nonsensical to fault my appearance while michelle herself looked like some kind of carnival freak.
Michelle had been rude with me for a while, actually. Today, I asked her if I could take the art supply quiz just for fun. She asked what the point was, since today was my last day. I answered that I just wanted to, because I missed school, since that was the last place I felt comfortable and competent in. 'that's sort of sad' she said, meaning 'pathetic'.
'To each his own' I said. Later, she and I were talking (in a friendly way, which is what puzzles me more about this afternoon's confrontation), and she told me that she planned on going back to school. 'i thought you didnt like school'.
She snapped 'of course I do!' and made a face like an offended authority figure -- a face that said 'how dare you. Don't you know that I have your job?' I pointed out the inconsistency in her statements. I think her attitude has been horrible, but of course management is allowed to have a horrible attitude.
I looked at the 'fair employment and housing' department in california's website, and wrote down their telephone number. I'm going to file a complaint tomorrow, and if it turns out that 'the art store' did something illegal, the lawyer I talked to today encouraged me to call him back. I'd like to give the art store a legal scare, or at the very least spam the shit out of their email address. I encourage vigilante-readers to take matters into their own hands.
I'm sorry, but I just can't leave this free will-determinism-qm thing alone. It haunts me. It haunts me because I want my will to be free. I want what I 'decide' to do to affect my own destiny. But I just can't puzzle my way through the mechanics of how this might work. Every time I start arguing with myself about it, I end up refuting free will, qm or no qm.
I'm 99% sure that I'm thinking about this the wrong way, and that if I were to change my approach, my conclusions would be entirely different. Q: can one affect one's own destiny? Do what appear to be decisions along a linear path of time alter the course of that path? The absurdly obvious answer seems to be yes, of course one can. People change the paths their lives were on all the time, and people can be the causal agents of effect.
Predictably, I'm running into problems again. Let's give it another go:
Why the FUCK are we able to control quantum randomness? How does the decision-making process effect causality? I'm getting the feeling that there's an obvious answer, but that I just can't see it.
Quantum randomness ensures that the future isn't set -- that there are infinite possible outcomes at any given instant. We can't ever know what's going to happen, except in really discreet, controlled model experiments. Ok, I got that. No-on knows what's going to happen, and it could go an infinite number of ways.
A fun good thought experiment is to try to do something totally unexpected, that you wouldn't ordinarily do. For instance, grab a doorknob and yell 'toad soup!'. Or just reach out and touch some object in a room for no reason. Then, think to yourself: I just did that thing. Could I have done otherwise? Since it happened, wasn't that all that could have happened? If I had been predestined to do otherwise, I would have done otherwise. No matter how odd or random an event seems, it did occur, and therefore could not have occurred any other way.
Maybe this is where the 'many worlds' interpretation of qm comes in. Every possible outcome of every possible event -- all of the infinite possibilities at any given instant -- do occur. But no! This is idiotic. Why is it idiotic? Ouch, I think I just caught a glimpse of the infinite worlds -- it's pretty scary. I still don't understand why we can determine our own path. I guess the first step is accepting that the future isn't set (which I know). The next step is figuring out how one can direct one's self along a particular path.
Was there a path, back in 1997, where that car broke my back and paralyzed me, instead of just knocking me on the head? Should I feel pity for that instance of me? Does he exist, in some dimension? Can I help him? If we have infinite possible worlds, is it true that everything has happened? Everything will happen? Everything happens? Everything is?
I know there are people reading this. I look at my access log -- I have about 150 html hits every day, maybe 70% of which are real people as opposed to crawler bots. Of that 70%, probably half read the most recent page. Out of those, maybe a third read more than a few paragraphs and/or avoid skipping it if it's about philosophy, religion, idiotic hippy interpretations of qm, etc. Probably half of those people care. So, I have about five people I can rely upon here. Ok, you five -- the furious five -- I want you to email me and tell me what you think about this.
Here is my question:
Can we control our fate, and, if so, why can we do this?
I always direct my table-top fan at my laptop, because my priority is to cool it off as opposed to myself. How geeky is THAT?!? Of course, it's hanna's fan, and the laptop probably belongs to mark's employer. But, it's easier to say 'my'.
I refuse to give up.
quantum mechanics
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random events
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possible worlds
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all of them exist one of them exists
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why are we in this one?
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we made it happen we were swept along
That looks like a little dude standing there. I hope you appreciate the nice little diagram I drew for you in ASCII. I enjoyed it, because it gave me a short break from thinking in circles. As I demonstrate with my ASCII-man, qm really does nothing to resolve the free will vs. Determinism issue.
Thich nhat 'thick-nut' hahn says 'we were swept along'. Everybody likes him.
A big chunk of my injured toenail just came off.
'What the BLEEP do we know?' says 'we made it happen'. Everybody likes that movie. My intuition tells me that somehow both are true, and that they're not really in conflict at all. But my logical mind can't resolve it. Maybe I should just accept it. Choose to believe? Accept jesus christ as my lord and savior? It's a slippery slope.
I can leave qm out of the picture, because we still arrive at the same question ('why are we in this one?'). It's good that I got that out of the way, at least.
I'm going to san francisco before it gets too hot in concord to breath. The cool hours here are from about 3am to noon, the peak of coolness being at dawn. Noon to 3am is pretty much unbearable, the peak of unbearableness being about 5pm. Of course, it's a continuum, but 'gotta draw the line somewhere' if we're going to use language to describe reality.
I just can't stop. It's a disease, really.
It's hot. Well into the 90s, I'd say. Right now, around 4pm to 6pm, is the hottest part of the day, since the sun's been cooking the earth all morning and early afternoon. I realized that I don't live in concord -- I live in the suburbs of concord. Not only do I live in the suburbs, but I live in the suburbs of the suburbs.
Right on the edge of concord, next to the highway, is a sort of mexican ghetto area, which is where I live. I used to think concord was 99% mexican, which was sort of bizarre, but I had come to accept it. But I've discovered in my various sojourns into town (Star Wars, the post office, safeway) that white people abound.
Of course, the mexican ghetto isn't a problem -- I'm merely stating that it exists. Mexicans seem, for the most part, to be quiet, unassuming and polite, but with a tendency to blair accordion-techno in the middle of the day and drive like bats-out-of-hell in pimped-out trucks (including, of course, el caminos, which I adore). However, they're totally non-threatening and I think pretty moral folks, inasmuch as the entire population of my apartment-complex disappears off to catholic mass on Sunday mornings, leaving the pool open.
I think I prefer mexicans to anglos, who tend to be assholes. Mexicans never toot the horns of their SUVs at me when I'm hugging the curb on my bike.
It's so hot that this laptop's fan starts spinning almost immediately after it boots up. I should turn it off before it fries. But, before that, I think I'll look up temperatures for concord on weather.com, just so I can justify my suffering. Also, it's time for some more darths.
darth boner
darth stinky
darth ape
It's only 89F; I do not yet know true pain. Hopefully, it doesn't get too bad before the 21st, and I fly back to a properly air-conditioned space, and then drive to a naturally air-conditioned one.
Hanna is going to complain about the heat, which will be almost as bad as the heat itself. When she's in a bad mood, she tends to flip out and threaten to partition me off, as I've discovered. So, we have the heat, hanna's wrath, and a job that I absolutely despise and cannot do. So, I'm glad to be going back to Maryland, where I plan to re-discover my neighborhood pool.
Then options will be considered.