...'Cause I Wrote Something and Thought Someone Besides My Prof Should Read It...

For as long as I can remember, I have heard varied opinions from teachers and professors regarding the subject of what literature is. I always understood their points of view, but never quite agreed with them. Although I agreed with most readings that they considered being literature, I rarely agreed to why they were. To me, there always was far too much emphasis in analyzing nuances between the lines, and trying to determine if the author was making a political or social statement. To me, what makes a book a piece of literary work is much more subjective, and much simpler.

In the morning, when we get into our cars and turn on our radios to begin our commutes, we often hear meaningless songs. They might have a catchy tune, but they are superficial in nature, meant for no more than monetary gain. Less often, we happen across a song that reminds us of a family member who has passed, a girlfriend who cheated on you, or a missed opportunity. We feel a connection to the musician, we can relate to things they are singing about. We feel emotions, not as a society, but as a person. Some might argue that literature discusses politics, society, religion, or the human condition. In my eyes, literature is about the condition of being human.

For me to consider something a piece of literature there is no need for iambic pentameter, no need for rhyme or structure. Quite simply put, I want to feel. I want a book that will make me forego much needed sleep to finish a chapter. Not just because I want to know what happens next, but because I can sympathize with the main character, and I want to see him or her thrive. I want to be excited when I know that the protagonist is going to pull through, and I want to be depressed when he or she doesn’t. I want to resent the antagonist, but still relate to them in some way.

Literature doesn’t need to be analyzed. It gratifies instantly. I can’t put it down, because it makes me laugh out loud. It makes me sad on a personal level. Literature isn’t limited to stories, or people and places. When reading scientific texts, I often find myself in awe of discoveries being made, and imagining the possibilities.

The difference between literature and any other text is the difference between a blues song and a pop song. When listening to a blues song, you know that the artist feels his music. When reading literature, you know that the writer feels his words. Literature creates a deep and emotional connection between the reader and the writer, using the printed page as the medium.

What I read isn’t a political statement. It has no moral or societal implications, nor should it be a judgment of my character or who I think should be in charge. What I consider literature is a reflection of the way I believe that most people see the world, not as nations, cultures, societies, or any other types of groups. We see the world as a large place that’s hostile and often isolates us. It is a foreboding place, where humans, despite our best efforts, repeatedly make the same mistakes. When I read, I want to know that others feel the same way I do. It makes life easier, and makes me feel less alone.

Small Talk

Anyone who has ever spent more than a few minutes in my presence is well aware of two things. The first and foremost is my unadulterated hatred for those bubble lids that come on some specialty drinks from Starbuck’s. As inexplicable as it is, this device throws me into a tizzy every time I see it covering my beverage. I have come to the conclusion that this reaction stems from some sort of childhood trauma involving a backseat, a quick brake by my mother or father, whoever happened to be driving at the time, and a 16-ounce Icee covering the face, chest, and crotchial regions of an eight-year-old boy.

Besides my parents vividly teaching me that 16-ounces is too much of anything for a eight year old, every five minutes or so they told me, just as your parents told you, never, ever, ever to talk to strangers. Like the bubble lid, this is something that I carry with me to this day. Well aware that in the adult world, a few exceptions must be made, I keep my conversations with the random Joe as short and sweet as possible. Anyone and everyone who has spent any time with me are aware of my distaste for small talk.

For anyone who I might run into in public, who I have not known for more than a few months, let me quickly fill in my part of the conversations you so want me to be a part of:

I don’t care about your sports teams. I will never care about your sports teams, even if they are my sports teams. I watch sports for the joy of watching sports, sitting back in front of the TV or at the ballpark and relaxing for the day, not to argue with you yahoos about who has the best pitching or quarterback.

I have a phone that makes it rather easy for me to look up the weather for the next few days. If I am waiting for my food and you are a cashier, I do not need to speak to you of the forecast. If I want the current conditions, I will glance out the window.

Finally, and most importantly, if you are not a friend or a member of my family, I do not give a damn about your political or religious affiliations. If you want to vote for whomever or pray to a geode, that’s fine and dandy, but you have no business imposing your views onto anyone else.

All this being said, whenever I am in a public situation that requires a fair amount of waiting, such as a doctor’s office, I do my best to bury myself in a magazine, a book, or if readily available, a gaming apparatus such as my GBA or PSP.

Most women, although more outgoing and social creatures will by their natural distrust of anything with a penis, are kind enough to leave men to our own devices when in a waiting room. This arraignment works to the benefit of both the female and the male in any given situation. First, the female can rest assured that she is not going to be psycho-killed by a loner who she happened to be nice to. The man, on the other hand, can get a few minutes of respite from women. When it comes to doctor’s offices, the chances of being left alone are increased considerably, due to the fact that (and I am saying this as a warning to everyone out there) doctor’s offices are the worst place to pick up a date. This goes doubly for the waiting room of an urologist. Common sense should suggest that there is a good possibility that the potential date has some sort of disease that you should avoid.

Most men, when coming into contact with other men at a medical facility, will keep their space such as the women will. They will pick up a magazine, sit in a corner, and wait for their turn like all of the other infested people in the office. Although the threat of disease still exists, a man is much more likely to open a conversation with another man in this situation. First of all, men do not feel as threatened by men as they do when trying to converse with women. Second, chances are that the first man that walked in the door took the only copy of Time or Sports Illustrated off of the magazine rack, which is full of Conde’ Nast and Oprah magazines, and now the second man has nothing to do.

Such was the situation early last week when I stumbled into my doctor’s office. As I usually do, I showed up at the requested time, fifteen minutes before my scheduled appointment, so that my doctor could see me forty-five minutes after my scheduled appointment. I grabbed the only aviation mag’ left on the rack, checked myself in, and took a seat.

At the front desk, there appeared to be a gentleman in his mid to late forties, complaining and causing a scene because he was on his lunch hour and couldn’t be seen immediately. After the receptionists finally got him to shut the hell up, he took a seat next to me.

“Man, these doctors always take their fucking sweet time…” He said as he took a chair next to mine.

“Don’t you think?”

I could see by the look in his eyes that he was waiting eagerly from a response from me, and knowing that people pester me more when I ignore them than they do when I give them short answers, I mumbled out a, “yeah…whatever…” Which was much more polite than the, “I think you should leave me the hell alone…” that was sitting at the tip of my tongue.

My strategy, when dealing with these social butterflies, is to keep the answers as short and as sweet as I possibly can, without sounding rude, in the hope that the guy will lose interest in the conversation and fade into oblivion.

“Whatcha reading about?”

“Planes…”

“No shit! I was a pilot a few years back… lost my license because of a back injury I had in a crash. It was nothing serious, no one was killed, but I broke my back in six places and my son broke his arm. It was a damned miracle that we walked out of that heap in one piece! Such a shame I can’t fly anymore, I used to take my family everywhere. What’s your interest in planes? You a pilot?”

I should have just said ‘no,’ but instead “I am studying to be an aerospace engineer.”

“Is that right?! Well, I just keep seeing the darndest things on Discovery and TLC, you know, like Seconds From Disaster, where they show how engineers screw up the plane and hundreds of people die-“

Needing to change the subject on him before I punch him in the teeth, I interrupted.
“I never got your name…”

“I’m Rick! And you?”

“Jake.”

Rick stuck his right hand out in hopes that I would shake it.

“Sorry man, I never shake hands in a doctor’s office, you know how it is.”

Seemingly dejected, “Yeah, I guess…”

I found a crossword puzzle in the back of the magazine and started to fill it in. Seeing the puzzle, Rick took it upon himself to look over my shoulder and start giving me answers.

“Aileron!”

Confused, “What?”

“Six across is aileron!”

Well aware of what the answer was, and annoyed to all hell that the man refused to leave me alone, I decided that it was time to end this conversation.

“So Rick, what are ya in here for?”

“Oh ya know, routine checkup type thing. How about yourself?”

“Do you know what a stressed induced psychotic episode is?”

Stunned, Rick leaned back. “Uh… kinda…”

“Well let’s just say I am recovering from one, and need to refill my meds.”

“Meds?”

“Between you and me, Rick, I don’t think I need the meds, it was an isolated incident, but if I don’t take them they revoke my parole.”

Hook.

“Do you mind if I ask what happened?”

“Well, towards the end of last semester, I was sitting at a dinner downtown studying for a math final. If I were to do poorly on the final, I would have to retake the class. A guy sat down next to me and started making small talk, asking me what was good there, what kind of math I was doing, and interrupting the work I was trying to accomplish. Finally, I snapped.”

Line.

“What did you do?”

“I took my pen and stabbed him in the leg with it.”

For added affect, I clicked the top of the pen I was using for the crossword.

Sinker.

“I…I…I’m gonna grab a magazine…”

“That will shut him up…” I said to myself as I smirked. My turn to see the doctor was only a few seconds later.

Poor Career Decisions

I have always found it curious as to the type of jobs not only that people choose as either part time or for a profession, but the jobs in which are actually in demand in the real world. Take the next few cases for example:

The real estate sign holder dude

I suppose if you were a teenager and were looking to make a few quick bucks over the summer to pay for your dating expenses, or to save up for college, this wouldn't be a bad gig. But the fact is that most of the people I see around town holding up and waving these balsa wood signs are in thier 20's and 30's. This leads me to believe that these unfortunate people were either born with a very dehabilitating learning disability, or they are complete morons. Considering thier function, you know that these people must make squat fo pay, I mean, for God's sake, thier employer had to have done a cost-benefit analysis between a dude and a stick, and decided that the dude was the cheaper option.

The Porta-Potty Cleaner

I'm not sure what paths these poor souls took in thier lives, but I know one thing: you could never pay me enough to do this job. There are homeless people desperate enough to eat thier meals out of a garbage can who look down on this job. Even if it paid a half-million a year, it wouldn't be worth it. If you think about it, you would have no chance at having a wife or kids. The foot-thick stench of shit, piss, and whatever that green stuff is, is enough to repel any potential mate for up to a year after leaving the job. Forget about having anyone else who wants to hang out with you, including long time friends or family. The only chance you would have for companionship would be from others who carry the foul odors you do. Even then, you would be limited to hanging out at someone's house. Even if you and your work buddies can handle it, the patrons at Chili's would start puking when you were within 30 feet.

Deodorant Research Scientist

Imagine, if you will, going through 4-5 years of college, then into Grad school. Taking loans out, working your ass off day and night throughout your late teens and early twenties to become a researcher for Old Spice or Gillette. It is one thing to get stuck in a shitty job because you were never able to go to college or weren't intelligent enough, but these people have educations and chose to sniff armpits for a living. I bet their parents are proud.

Elephant Fecal Collector

Imagine being the ever supporting parent when your son or daughter came to you with their dream in hand.

kid: mommy! daddy! I know what I want to do when I grow up!

Dad smiles at the child and all of the child's innocence.

dad: what would you want to do?

kid: I want to run away to the circus!

Dad and Mom are now laughing.

mom: what do you want to do in the circus, honey? tightrope walker? trapeeze artist?

kid: I wanna hold a bag at the end of an elephant and catch its shit before it hits the ground!

-Jake