$104.50 That was the amount flashing at the top of the cash register. Had I really just spent that much on philosophy? I guess 'philosophy' wasn't entirely accurate. Depends on how you categorize authors like Hunter S. Thompson, Woody Allen, Truman Capote, William Shakespeare, Sun Tzu and Ayn Rand. Yep, that's what was causing the crude, narrow handle of the heavy plastic bag to cut into my fingers as I walked back to my apartment. The price wasn't nearly as daunting as the sudden realization that I was now compelled to read all of this. Did me no good to simply own them. Was there time? Most people fail to read this many books in a lifetime, never mind going out and buying them all at once. And what caustic effect would all these diverse opinions have on my mind when I did read all of them.
Better handle this one cautiously, I told myself. Figure out a game-plan. Start out with Thompson. Read it as furiously as possible. Like plugging your nose and swallowing the medication all at once. After that, In Cold Blood will be like a refreshing glass of cool water to remove that God-awful grape taste of The Rum Diary. Don't get me wrong. I loved the Gonzo journalist. But the crazy bastard's writing was enough to keep me up for 48 hours rethinking everything about my life. So after that and an enjoyable reading of Capote's Perry and his shotgun it was time to tackle the behemoth. A small quiet voice in the back of my head had told me while standing in the bookstore, "You're completely mad. Absolute bonkers. Rand's masterpiece is over a 1,000 pages long. For God's sake the publisher's probably still proofing it. Put Atlas Shrugged back on the shelf. Better to start with the gateway drug. Pick up Anthem. It's an easy read and you can build up to it." But I wasn't listening to reason. No, not today. Never again.
I weighed the paper brick in one hand, sizing it up in my right as my left balanced the stack of five, small Woody Allen short stories. It was like Harrison Ford in Raiders right before switching the bag of sand with the golden idle. Just before that boulder destroyed the entire temple... I swallowed hard. I could do this. I'll break Atlas Shrugged up into section and read a Woody Allen book in between. Like swimming the English Channel and coming up for air in five places. I'd heard from several reliable sources that Ayn's book had a habit of rewiring your brain. But my brain had been wired from age 10 and on with Woody Allen films. I figured this would indeed be the safest way to handle the read. Treat the rewiring like diffusing a bomb.
That left the Shakespeare and Sun Tzu. That was simple. I'd save The Art of War for when I was feeling formidable and in need of strategizing. And ten minutes of Shakespeare monologues everyday before bed. Not just to put me into a good comatose state, but I'd heard from an astute writer and friend that it was exactly what the actor/writer in me needed.
I headed towards the bookstore exit with what was left of my will power, shielding my eyes at the Watchmen display table. I'll see the movie, I told myself. I can not believe I just thought that! Turning down the graphic novel isle was volume two of the complete Detective comics. The pointy-eared, cowled, caped crusader glared his narrow eyes at me from every cover, beckoning me to continue with his training. Can't stop here. This is indeed bat country! The doors were in sight. Avoid isle 3, D-F. You've already read the Sherlock Holmes novels. Which leaves you to be pestered by Dickens and Fleming. There'd be time for David Copperfield and James Bond novels later. I rushed past the eighty different Obamas smiling from the magazine racks and pushed open the doors. Stumbling into the streets of Old Town Pasadena, I breathed in the fresh air.
"Spare change?" The voice broke through my reverie. I looked down at the friendly faces of several street musicians that had camped out on the sidewalk. "Spare change for starving artists to buy marijuana?" They couldn't be serious. Heck, I couldn't be serious. Not after what I had just done. I glanced down at the plastic bag, nearly bursting with the oddest assortment of mind-altering novels. Conscious-expanding novels. I smiled, digging into my pocket for the fifty-cents I had in change left over from the spastic purchase a few moments ago.
I dropped the two quarters into his hat. He grinned and nodded at me. The two of us sharing a common understanding without ever knowing it. I turned and began walking back home. Once again I was swept up with the overwhelming clarity that I was where I was supposed to be. Now I just needed to start doing the things I was supposed to do. Become whoever it was I would become. I rolled my eyes. The books weren't going to do it for me, naturally. But they'd give me something to do on the trip.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
A Short Tale of Morality and the Dangers of Time Travel
Renowned scientist Walter Krumpson, not only known for his extensive research of quantum physics, but that he also had the good sense after having been raised in Duluth, Minnesota to move to Santa Barbara, California, was listening to public radio one afternoon when he heard the following distressing news:
"Today's temperature was -62° Fahrenheit. This winter has marked the coldest day ever for Minnesota in recorded history." And with that, the radio began playing Vivaldi's Le Quattro Stagioni. Krumpson immediately turned off his radio, due to his sudden racing thoughts, as well as the fact that whenever he heard classical music, especially from Italy, he immediately craved italian food and he had just ordered chinese takeout.
"How could anyone know that for sure?" he shouted, standing up from his chair. Those that knew him could tell instantly that his great mind would not stop thinking until a discovery was made. Unfortunately for Walter Krumpson, no one knew him, and he would later die alone and penniless trying to invent a dishwasher that used neither water, soap, nor dishes.
Having just completed a thesis entitled "The Theory of Irrelativity: Einstein the Hack" at the University of California where he taught a class on presentism, which as a side note he was never on time for, Krumpson believed it was time to put his theories to good use.
Over the next 8 days he slaved away to create a working time machine. The first five attempts were failures, but made for excellent and efficient low-energy toasters. Finally, at the end of day 9, after a sleepless night, no food, and dismantling twelve of the neighbors' vacuum cleaners, Krumpson succeeded.
A trial run was necessary for an invention of this magnitude. Would he visit the Founding Fathers as they wrote the Constitution? Travel back to the Renaissance? Experience the burning of Rome? Or catch last week's Lakers game? Always the stickler for efficiency, Walter decided to go back 9 days and make up for the time he had spent on creating the device.
Putting on his goggles, he plugged in the machine and began to pedal. A blinding flash of light filled his living room and suddenly everything grew silent. As the light faded, Walter removed his goggles and spat out his snorkel. His face glowed from sheer joy, but it could easily be mistaken as severe radiation burns. Not only was he back 9 days in time, but his carpet had never looked cleaner.
He immediately snapped into action and fired his cleaning lady. After catching up on the television shows he had missed, Walter Krumpson made plans to bring his machine back to Minnesota where he, along with a thermometer, would begin making trips through history and discover if -62° Fahrenheit was truly the coldest day ever recorded in his home state.
Quickly taking up rooms in his hometown, he began making preparations for his time-travel. He would travel light, taking only what was necessary. Gloves, hat, heavy wool coat, flashlight, a thermometer, a novel to read on the trip, microwavable dinners, and a ball of string he had been saving since childhood for sending packages.
But to what year would he travel back to? The ice-age had always sounded cold to him. But at what precise time would he find a temperature colder then -62° Fahrenheit? Would thirty-thousand years be enough? And how long would he be required to pedal for that distance? Finally, after much research and a game of rock-paper-scissors against himself that ended in a draw, he decided on the year 45,000 BC.
Pulling on his coat, Walter strapped on his goggles. He turned on his machine, remembering to unplug the hairdryer in the other room to prevent shortages, and then began to pedal furiously. The blinding light returned and in an instant, the furniture, walls, cars, buildings and people around him vanished and he was left amidst a white background of snow-covered hills and a raging blizzard and a wind that howled against his face.
Walter leapt off the machine. The moment of truth! He dug a gloved hand into his coat and pulled out the thermometer to take a reading. -65° Fahrenheit. He had done it! His name would forever go down in history as the one who discovered the coldest day in the recorded history of Minnesota.
Suddenly, and without warning, a Neanderthal appeared through the snow, which Krumpson at first mistook for his Uncle Theodore, who had died of a ruptured intestine after switching his diet to only allow him to eat cardboard and all-bran cereal. Walter realized his mistake when the Neanderthal, instead of returning Krumpson's hug, took hold of the thermometer. Staring in horror, Krumpson could only watch as the seven-foot-tall, hairy-knuckled, mouth-breather snapped the thermometer in two, raised one end to his lips and gulped down the mercury. Ironically, the Neanderthal also died of a ruptured intestine.
Heartbroken by his chance for greatness ruined, Krumpson returned to the present and dismantled his machine, convinced that time-travel could only lead to violence and more expensive broken thermometers. It was only later that same day that his mind again began having racing thoughts. To what effect would one dead Neanderthal have on civilization? What could have been lost? The secret of fire? The art of communication? The ability to walk upright? His own very existence?
And after having rushed out of his room and into the nearest public area, Walter Krumpson was met with the disastrous news that would forever change the course of human history: Not only did the entire state of New Jersey cease to exist, but he found that regardless of what grocery store you visited, you could no longer buy paprika.
"Today's temperature was -62° Fahrenheit. This winter has marked the coldest day ever for Minnesota in recorded history." And with that, the radio began playing Vivaldi's Le Quattro Stagioni. Krumpson immediately turned off his radio, due to his sudden racing thoughts, as well as the fact that whenever he heard classical music, especially from Italy, he immediately craved italian food and he had just ordered chinese takeout.
"How could anyone know that for sure?" he shouted, standing up from his chair. Those that knew him could tell instantly that his great mind would not stop thinking until a discovery was made. Unfortunately for Walter Krumpson, no one knew him, and he would later die alone and penniless trying to invent a dishwasher that used neither water, soap, nor dishes.
Having just completed a thesis entitled "The Theory of Irrelativity: Einstein the Hack" at the University of California where he taught a class on presentism, which as a side note he was never on time for, Krumpson believed it was time to put his theories to good use.
Over the next 8 days he slaved away to create a working time machine. The first five attempts were failures, but made for excellent and efficient low-energy toasters. Finally, at the end of day 9, after a sleepless night, no food, and dismantling twelve of the neighbors' vacuum cleaners, Krumpson succeeded.
A trial run was necessary for an invention of this magnitude. Would he visit the Founding Fathers as they wrote the Constitution? Travel back to the Renaissance? Experience the burning of Rome? Or catch last week's Lakers game? Always the stickler for efficiency, Walter decided to go back 9 days and make up for the time he had spent on creating the device.
Putting on his goggles, he plugged in the machine and began to pedal. A blinding flash of light filled his living room and suddenly everything grew silent. As the light faded, Walter removed his goggles and spat out his snorkel. His face glowed from sheer joy, but it could easily be mistaken as severe radiation burns. Not only was he back 9 days in time, but his carpet had never looked cleaner.
He immediately snapped into action and fired his cleaning lady. After catching up on the television shows he had missed, Walter Krumpson made plans to bring his machine back to Minnesota where he, along with a thermometer, would begin making trips through history and discover if -62° Fahrenheit was truly the coldest day ever recorded in his home state.
Quickly taking up rooms in his hometown, he began making preparations for his time-travel. He would travel light, taking only what was necessary. Gloves, hat, heavy wool coat, flashlight, a thermometer, a novel to read on the trip, microwavable dinners, and a ball of string he had been saving since childhood for sending packages.
But to what year would he travel back to? The ice-age had always sounded cold to him. But at what precise time would he find a temperature colder then -62° Fahrenheit? Would thirty-thousand years be enough? And how long would he be required to pedal for that distance? Finally, after much research and a game of rock-paper-scissors against himself that ended in a draw, he decided on the year 45,000 BC.
Pulling on his coat, Walter strapped on his goggles. He turned on his machine, remembering to unplug the hairdryer in the other room to prevent shortages, and then began to pedal furiously. The blinding light returned and in an instant, the furniture, walls, cars, buildings and people around him vanished and he was left amidst a white background of snow-covered hills and a raging blizzard and a wind that howled against his face.
Walter leapt off the machine. The moment of truth! He dug a gloved hand into his coat and pulled out the thermometer to take a reading. -65° Fahrenheit. He had done it! His name would forever go down in history as the one who discovered the coldest day in the recorded history of Minnesota.
Suddenly, and without warning, a Neanderthal appeared through the snow, which Krumpson at first mistook for his Uncle Theodore, who had died of a ruptured intestine after switching his diet to only allow him to eat cardboard and all-bran cereal. Walter realized his mistake when the Neanderthal, instead of returning Krumpson's hug, took hold of the thermometer. Staring in horror, Krumpson could only watch as the seven-foot-tall, hairy-knuckled, mouth-breather snapped the thermometer in two, raised one end to his lips and gulped down the mercury. Ironically, the Neanderthal also died of a ruptured intestine.
Heartbroken by his chance for greatness ruined, Krumpson returned to the present and dismantled his machine, convinced that time-travel could only lead to violence and more expensive broken thermometers. It was only later that same day that his mind again began having racing thoughts. To what effect would one dead Neanderthal have on civilization? What could have been lost? The secret of fire? The art of communication? The ability to walk upright? His own very existence?
And after having rushed out of his room and into the nearest public area, Walter Krumpson was met with the disastrous news that would forever change the course of human history: Not only did the entire state of New Jersey cease to exist, but he found that regardless of what grocery store you visited, you could no longer buy paprika.
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