In high school I was voted "most huggable", a declaration I make enough that it's turning apocryphal. I can't recall if it was a school-wide voting process or even if such a grand title is officially listed in any yearbook (and I'm certainly not traipsing down to the storage boxes in the basement to validate this claim). All I can say, with honesty, is that I would not give myself any "most -able/most likely to -" designation without merit, so there must be some amount of truth involved. There must be someone out there that can corroborate this claim.
If I'm allowed to brag, I am pretty fucking good at hugging. Being mushy in a lot of places (more now than in 1997) certainly helps, but the secret to a good hug is dedication. You need to want to hug that person, to hold her up, to carry the burden of the world for a few moments, and join forces against whatever trials await. Don't treat it like a courtesy, or a chore. Hug her like they're going to blow away in the wind if you let go. I use "her", but I've probably hugged more men than women in my lifetime (I was also in three musicals, president of the show choir, and in my younger days I was a first tenor, if we want to keep blowing stereotypes out of the water). All of this unsolicited advice, and I act so grandiose and haughty about it. Bow before your lord of the hug!
When I'm meeting new people, this honor usually comes up in conversation. I don't just blurt it out, obviously, because then those people might think that I've been hanging my hat on something so worthless for over 15 years, and it's clear that I haven't. Sarcasm is tricky in print. Reactions have varied from a total lack of interest to a quizzical raising of the eyebrows. A few have requested a demonstration...fewer than I would have assumed. If I met someone that declared himself the greatest whistler of all time, you're damn right I would demand a performance. Whistling doesn't usually require close contact with a total stranger, though.
While my abilities to give good hugs are debatable, I think it's safe to say that I've hugged more humans than would be considered typical, assuming the census tracks such data. I went to a wedding last weekend, and in the initial introduction of various family members I was hugged by an aunt (not my aunt...although all of them are pretty big on hugging). She embraced me and I thought "I think we'll get along just fine". And guess what?
Most Huggable. That's what people thought of me in 1997.
If they voted on such affairs in adulthood, you can keep your Most Likely to Succeed, or Best Personality, or Funniest. I'd rather have another term in the same office.
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Kerplunk.
Saying something seemingly exaggerated and outlandish like "I almost died today" reeks of melodrama. Such an opening sentence is akin to a teaser that you'd hear on the news...assuming some people still watch the news on TV...and if they don't I would welcome suggestions on a more relevant analogy. "This breakfast food might be giving you cancer! Find out what it is when we return!"
Luckily my penchant for digression saved any readers from such foolishness, but I do have some explaining to do.
There are eight elevators at the office. Seven of them are clearly designed for transportation of people and mobile wheels (carts, wheelchairs, etc.). The eighth is a freight elevator, with heavy burlap hanging from all the walls and a 12 foot ceiling. I suppose this was designed for the bulkier items (desks, cows, etc.). All of the elevators operate without discretion, and I was the lucky soul the freight elevator chose for my trip back up to my office.
So I pressed the button for my floor (13, for the superstitious), and up I went...until it stopped. It didn't gently glide to a halt like I had grown to expect from an elevator. It slammed on the brakes, as if some rogue elevator was going horizontally and burned through the intersection. Seconds passed, and then it fell. I wish there was a less traumatic word, but I don't know how else to describe the sensation of suddenly feeling the effects of gravity halfway up an enormous office building.
It only fell a few feet before stopping again, but that was plenty. That was more than enough to make me wish I had brought my cell phone, and to wonder how quickly I could text something retrospectively morbid like "elevator's crashing, love you!" to the people I cared about. Nothing happened for about 15 seconds (which felt more or less like a fortnight), except that the 13th floor button was no longer lit. I pressed it again, timidly, afraid that the monumental shift in weight required to press a button would rock the compartment and send me down. But, instead, the door opened, and I got out on what turned out to be the 12th floor.
I took the stairs the rest of the way. Obviously.
I wish I could cull something inspirational from such an event. Like a "live life like it's your last day" sort of adage, but nobody does that, do they? If we all tried to maximized the life experience on a daily basis nobody would have jobs, or buy groceries, or pay bills. We'd all be scaling tall mountains or fighting grizzlies with our bare hands.
But the day progressed, more or less, like any other. I worked, drove home, took my daughter to karate, threw a load of laundry into the washer. The only difference is that my mind occasionally drifted back to that moment in the shitty freight elevator when I felt my feet, albeit briefly, rise from the floor.
A few months ago, when I occasionally fancied myself as a serious writer, I was working on a story that concerned parallel universes, inspired somewhat by Hugh Everett's Many Worlds Theory. I don't claim to have any vast knowledge of quantum physics, but I'm well aware of Hugh Everett because of his son, Mark Oliver, who is the lead singer and multi-instrumentalist for the Eels. It's a bit embarrassing that alt-rock would inspire me to read up on a physicist, although I can't think of any other bands whose members have parents that are moderately famous in the world of science. The elder Everett posited his theory at the quantum level to describe a function like light, which behaves occasionally as a particle, and occasionally as a wave. Everett basically said well, whenever it functions as a wave, in some other universe it functions as a particle. At a less microscopic level, the theory says that whatever action you take in this universe, your doppelganger takes the opposite in a parallel universe. But, there is rarely a dichotomy. Often there are dozens of possible actions, or more. Add to that the fact that humans perform millions of actions a day and that there are billions of humans, and there must be a near-infinite, if not an infinite, number of parallel universes.
It's a theory that begs skepticism, obviously, as there's absolutely no concrete proof (which is why it's not the Many Worlds Law). But it's a curious thought, to me. Some other universe's Tim drove a BMW to work today, another might be under the weather and called in sick, still another is vacationing in Europe, and one is fluent in German and has a handlebar mustache.
And one probably plummeted to his death in an elevator. RIP, Nega-Tim!
Luckily my penchant for digression saved any readers from such foolishness, but I do have some explaining to do.
There are eight elevators at the office. Seven of them are clearly designed for transportation of people and mobile wheels (carts, wheelchairs, etc.). The eighth is a freight elevator, with heavy burlap hanging from all the walls and a 12 foot ceiling. I suppose this was designed for the bulkier items (desks, cows, etc.). All of the elevators operate without discretion, and I was the lucky soul the freight elevator chose for my trip back up to my office.
So I pressed the button for my floor (13, for the superstitious), and up I went...until it stopped. It didn't gently glide to a halt like I had grown to expect from an elevator. It slammed on the brakes, as if some rogue elevator was going horizontally and burned through the intersection. Seconds passed, and then it fell. I wish there was a less traumatic word, but I don't know how else to describe the sensation of suddenly feeling the effects of gravity halfway up an enormous office building.
It only fell a few feet before stopping again, but that was plenty. That was more than enough to make me wish I had brought my cell phone, and to wonder how quickly I could text something retrospectively morbid like "elevator's crashing, love you!" to the people I cared about. Nothing happened for about 15 seconds (which felt more or less like a fortnight), except that the 13th floor button was no longer lit. I pressed it again, timidly, afraid that the monumental shift in weight required to press a button would rock the compartment and send me down. But, instead, the door opened, and I got out on what turned out to be the 12th floor.
I took the stairs the rest of the way. Obviously.
I wish I could cull something inspirational from such an event. Like a "live life like it's your last day" sort of adage, but nobody does that, do they? If we all tried to maximized the life experience on a daily basis nobody would have jobs, or buy groceries, or pay bills. We'd all be scaling tall mountains or fighting grizzlies with our bare hands.
But the day progressed, more or less, like any other. I worked, drove home, took my daughter to karate, threw a load of laundry into the washer. The only difference is that my mind occasionally drifted back to that moment in the shitty freight elevator when I felt my feet, albeit briefly, rise from the floor.
A few months ago, when I occasionally fancied myself as a serious writer, I was working on a story that concerned parallel universes, inspired somewhat by Hugh Everett's Many Worlds Theory. I don't claim to have any vast knowledge of quantum physics, but I'm well aware of Hugh Everett because of his son, Mark Oliver, who is the lead singer and multi-instrumentalist for the Eels. It's a bit embarrassing that alt-rock would inspire me to read up on a physicist, although I can't think of any other bands whose members have parents that are moderately famous in the world of science. The elder Everett posited his theory at the quantum level to describe a function like light, which behaves occasionally as a particle, and occasionally as a wave. Everett basically said well, whenever it functions as a wave, in some other universe it functions as a particle. At a less microscopic level, the theory says that whatever action you take in this universe, your doppelganger takes the opposite in a parallel universe. But, there is rarely a dichotomy. Often there are dozens of possible actions, or more. Add to that the fact that humans perform millions of actions a day and that there are billions of humans, and there must be a near-infinite, if not an infinite, number of parallel universes.
It's a theory that begs skepticism, obviously, as there's absolutely no concrete proof (which is why it's not the Many Worlds Law). But it's a curious thought, to me. Some other universe's Tim drove a BMW to work today, another might be under the weather and called in sick, still another is vacationing in Europe, and one is fluent in German and has a handlebar mustache.
And one probably plummeted to his death in an elevator. RIP, Nega-Tim!
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