Let me join the chorus of local bloggers celebrating Craig Biggio's 3,000th career hit tonight. He only needed three hits going into tonight's game to reach the milestone, but he decided to do even better: Bidge went 5-for-6, including a hit in the bottom of the 11th inning that helped set up Carlos Lee's spectacular game-winning grand-slam.
There's not much else for the Astros and their fans to be happy about right now - the team's .418 winning percentage is currently tied for third-worst in Major League Baseball - which makes tonight's game all the more enjoyable. This is a well-deserved accomplishment for one of the greatest people to ever wear an Astros uniform.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Friday, June 22, 2007
Jury duty
Earlier this week, I was called for jury duty and ended up being selected to serve on a jury for a DWI case. As it was a misdemeanor, the jury I served on was comprised of six persons (as opposed to the twelve-member juries required for felony cases).
This was the second time I have been called for jury duty in Harris County. The process is fairly straightforward: you go to the jury assembly room downtown, and after some administrative procedures you are selected to be included in a jury pool. From there, you are led to a courtroom and the jury selection process, known as voir dire, begins. There is a lot of sitting and waiting involved because criminal court dockets are full and a lot of activity occurring in the courtroom is completely unrelated to the trial at hand. Harris County's suggestion that you bring along reading material or something else to keep you occupied while you wait is good advice. Even after the jury selection process was over and the six of us were empaneled, other business taking place within the courtroom meant that the trial itself didn't begin until late in the afternoon.
The defendant was a young lady who was pulled over after a police officer observed her break a couple of traffic laws. He pulled her over, determined that she had been drinking, administered a field sobriety test, and decided to take her downtown. There, they performed a breath test on her and gave her another field sobriety test in a special room with markings on the floor and a video camera that records the test. The arresting officer, the station supervisor, and HPD's breath test expert all testified on behalf of the prosecution (the defense called no witnesses of their own). This last witness is a young lady with extensive training and knowledge of the testing equipment being used as well as the manner in which alcohol is processed in the body. Her job is essentially to calibrate the equipment and to testify as to its accuracy in court.
The defense attorney's strategy seemed to be the "spaghetti defense," i.e. throw everything you can at the wall and see if anything sticks. I guess it made sense, seeing that he was facing an uphill battle, but overall his performance was wearisome and weak.
The trial only lasted an hour and a half the first day, and was subject to constant interruptions the next day; we (the jurors) spent most of the time locked in the jury deliberation room, chatting about baseball and summer travel plans and what books we had read. Finally, however, the trial itself ended and we returned to the deliberation room one last time to decide the case. Nobody really wanted to be jury foreman; I finally agreed to do so. We discussed the case.
I was not prepared to convict the defendant based on the field sobriety tests alone. The officer's testimony of the defendant's performance on the scene was not fully convincing (there was no camera in his cruiser to record the tests) and the defendant seemed to perform well during the second videotaped test at the station. The fact that the defendant's breath alcohol sample was well above the 0.08 limit, however, was a fact that none of us could get around.
I'm sure that there are plausible arguments against the validity of breath tests. I don't know how much stock I would put into them, but I was at least hoping to hear something substantive in that regard from the defense attorney. That simply didn't happen; his cross-examination of the breath-test expert was as feeble as it was tedious and he did nothing to give me or any of the other jurors a reasonable doubt as to the validity of HPD's breath-testing equipment or the results it produced.
So we all agreed that the defendant was guilty of driving while intoxicated. We went back into the courtroom and rendered our verdict.
After the verdict was read, the judge told us what her sentence would likely be. As a first offender, she would be sentenced to probation, a fine, community service and alcohol counseling. The judge noted that this punishment was essentially the same as what she would have received had she agreed to a deal with the prosecutors prior to the trial. In that regard, I really can't fault her for exercising her right to a trial by jury because she really didn't have anything to lose and everything to gain.
Hopefully, the defendant will learn from this experience and will be more judicious the next time she goes out to a bar. Fortunately, nobody was hurt or killed due to this person's actions and, most likely, the only long-term consequence she will face as a result of this trial is an extremely high auto insurance rate. As somebody who frequents a couple of bars in Midtown myself, this experience has given me a new perspective as to my decisions and their possible consequences, as well.
After the trial, the prosecutor and the defense attorney had the opportunity to meet with the jury, on a voluntary basis, to find out why we reached the verdict that we did. The prosecutor took advantage of this opportunity; we gave her suggestions as to her courtroom demeanor and the evidence she produced. The defense attorney chose not to meet with us, which is unfortunate because there was a lot I wanted to say to him. We were then sent home; our duties as jurors had come to an end.
All in all, it was an interesting experience.
As it turns out, I was not the only local blogger that served on a jury this week. John recounts his experiences as a juror for a drug possession case here and here. My misgivings about the number of people who begged out of jury service during voir dire are not as pronounced as his, although that might be because my prospective jury pool for this case was much smaller than his (20 people as opposed to 60) and so there simply weren't as many opportunities for people to weasel out of service.
There were, to be fair, a couple of people who had legitimate reasons as to why they couldn't serve on the jury. One man explained that he would have been able to serve on a jury that day, but a two-day trial would be problematic because the other supervisor at the shop where he works would be gone the following day and, if he had to serve, it would have left his shop's employees without any supervision. Another person, by the questions he asked and answered, clearly seemed to be confused about the purpose and process of jury service. But there were also two or three other people who simply claimed that they didn't think that they, for whatever reason, could be impartial jurors. Perhaps they were being honest; perhaps they were lying just to get excused.
The system only works when citizens do their duties. Sometimes these duties involve a hardship or inconvenience. The alternatives to said hardship or convenience, however, are unacceptably worse. This is something everybody should consider before they try to shirk off their next jury summons.
This was the second time I have been called for jury duty in Harris County. The process is fairly straightforward: you go to the jury assembly room downtown, and after some administrative procedures you are selected to be included in a jury pool. From there, you are led to a courtroom and the jury selection process, known as voir dire, begins. There is a lot of sitting and waiting involved because criminal court dockets are full and a lot of activity occurring in the courtroom is completely unrelated to the trial at hand. Harris County's suggestion that you bring along reading material or something else to keep you occupied while you wait is good advice. Even after the jury selection process was over and the six of us were empaneled, other business taking place within the courtroom meant that the trial itself didn't begin until late in the afternoon.
The defendant was a young lady who was pulled over after a police officer observed her break a couple of traffic laws. He pulled her over, determined that she had been drinking, administered a field sobriety test, and decided to take her downtown. There, they performed a breath test on her and gave her another field sobriety test in a special room with markings on the floor and a video camera that records the test. The arresting officer, the station supervisor, and HPD's breath test expert all testified on behalf of the prosecution (the defense called no witnesses of their own). This last witness is a young lady with extensive training and knowledge of the testing equipment being used as well as the manner in which alcohol is processed in the body. Her job is essentially to calibrate the equipment and to testify as to its accuracy in court.
The defense attorney's strategy seemed to be the "spaghetti defense," i.e. throw everything you can at the wall and see if anything sticks. I guess it made sense, seeing that he was facing an uphill battle, but overall his performance was wearisome and weak.
The trial only lasted an hour and a half the first day, and was subject to constant interruptions the next day; we (the jurors) spent most of the time locked in the jury deliberation room, chatting about baseball and summer travel plans and what books we had read. Finally, however, the trial itself ended and we returned to the deliberation room one last time to decide the case. Nobody really wanted to be jury foreman; I finally agreed to do so. We discussed the case.
I was not prepared to convict the defendant based on the field sobriety tests alone. The officer's testimony of the defendant's performance on the scene was not fully convincing (there was no camera in his cruiser to record the tests) and the defendant seemed to perform well during the second videotaped test at the station. The fact that the defendant's breath alcohol sample was well above the 0.08 limit, however, was a fact that none of us could get around.
I'm sure that there are plausible arguments against the validity of breath tests. I don't know how much stock I would put into them, but I was at least hoping to hear something substantive in that regard from the defense attorney. That simply didn't happen; his cross-examination of the breath-test expert was as feeble as it was tedious and he did nothing to give me or any of the other jurors a reasonable doubt as to the validity of HPD's breath-testing equipment or the results it produced.
So we all agreed that the defendant was guilty of driving while intoxicated. We went back into the courtroom and rendered our verdict.
After the verdict was read, the judge told us what her sentence would likely be. As a first offender, she would be sentenced to probation, a fine, community service and alcohol counseling. The judge noted that this punishment was essentially the same as what she would have received had she agreed to a deal with the prosecutors prior to the trial. In that regard, I really can't fault her for exercising her right to a trial by jury because she really didn't have anything to lose and everything to gain.
Hopefully, the defendant will learn from this experience and will be more judicious the next time she goes out to a bar. Fortunately, nobody was hurt or killed due to this person's actions and, most likely, the only long-term consequence she will face as a result of this trial is an extremely high auto insurance rate. As somebody who frequents a couple of bars in Midtown myself, this experience has given me a new perspective as to my decisions and their possible consequences, as well.
After the trial, the prosecutor and the defense attorney had the opportunity to meet with the jury, on a voluntary basis, to find out why we reached the verdict that we did. The prosecutor took advantage of this opportunity; we gave her suggestions as to her courtroom demeanor and the evidence she produced. The defense attorney chose not to meet with us, which is unfortunate because there was a lot I wanted to say to him. We were then sent home; our duties as jurors had come to an end.
All in all, it was an interesting experience.
As it turns out, I was not the only local blogger that served on a jury this week. John recounts his experiences as a juror for a drug possession case here and here. My misgivings about the number of people who begged out of jury service during voir dire are not as pronounced as his, although that might be because my prospective jury pool for this case was much smaller than his (20 people as opposed to 60) and so there simply weren't as many opportunities for people to weasel out of service.
There were, to be fair, a couple of people who had legitimate reasons as to why they couldn't serve on the jury. One man explained that he would have been able to serve on a jury that day, but a two-day trial would be problematic because the other supervisor at the shop where he works would be gone the following day and, if he had to serve, it would have left his shop's employees without any supervision. Another person, by the questions he asked and answered, clearly seemed to be confused about the purpose and process of jury service. But there were also two or three other people who simply claimed that they didn't think that they, for whatever reason, could be impartial jurors. Perhaps they were being honest; perhaps they were lying just to get excused.
The system only works when citizens do their duties. Sometimes these duties involve a hardship or inconvenience. The alternatives to said hardship or convenience, however, are unacceptably worse. This is something everybody should consider before they try to shirk off their next jury summons.
The very hungry caterpillars
Earlier this week I found these guys munching on Lori's dill plant in the front yard garden:
With the help of the internet, I was able to identify these guys. Lori and I also thought it would be a good idea for Kirby, who is a fan of this children's book, to bring them to his preschool for his show-and-tell:
Kirby brought the little guys safely back home and Lori put them back on the dill plant. They soon afterward made their way over to the adjacent crepe myrtle, attached themselves to the plant's stems and molted into pupae. Fearing their vulnerability to hungry birds or other predators, I decided to bring them inside for protection:
Now we wait for a couple of weeks and see what happens.
With the help of the internet, I was able to identify these guys. Lori and I also thought it would be a good idea for Kirby, who is a fan of this children's book, to bring them to his preschool for his show-and-tell:
Kirby brought the little guys safely back home and Lori put them back on the dill plant. They soon afterward made their way over to the adjacent crepe myrtle, attached themselves to the plant's stems and molted into pupae. Fearing their vulnerability to hungry birds or other predators, I decided to bring them inside for protection:
Now we wait for a couple of weeks and see what happens.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Kenny Phipps is celebrating tonight
One of my classmates at the University of Houston College of Architecture was a guy from San Antonio by the name of Kenny Phipps*. He was a huge San Antonio Spurs fan, and he never let anyone forget it. He had Spurs posters and other memorabilia around his drafting table, and during the evenings he could oftentimes be found at his desk, working or studying while listening to Spurs broadcasts on the radio (given San Antonio's proximity to Houston, AM radio broadcasts of Spurs games were not at all difficult for him to pick up at night).
It wasn't exactly easy for him to be a Spurs fan surrounded by Rockets fans, especially during the mid-1990s when the Rockets and Spurs were actually both very good teams (the Rockets, of course, winning back-to-back titles during this time) and had a healthy rivalry going. But Kenny never backed down; he gave as good as he got from his Rocket-fan studiomates and the basketball-related banter that resulted was oftentimes a light-hearted distraction from the monotony of model-building and drawing.
Whenever the Spurs won, Kenny would march through studio shouting, in a slightly-shrill tone, something along the lines of "Spurs, baby, Spurs! Oh, yeah, baby! Spurs!" Over time, the phrase "Spurs, baby, Spurs!" became an identifying catchphrase for him. To this day, when I think of Kenny I think of him gleefully uttering those words.
After graduation, as happens so often, I lost touch with Kenny. Last I heard, he had moved back to San Antonio and started a family. But that information is several years old.
However, as the San Antonio Spurs - having swept a thoroughly outclassed Cleveland Cavaliers team - celebrate their fourth NBA title in eight years this evening, I know that my old friend Kenny Phipps is, somewhere, right now, jubilantly screaming something incoherent about "Spurs, baby, Spurs, oh yeah, SPURS, BAYBEE!!!" Remembering Kenny the way I do, that thought brings a smile to my face.
(*I'm using Kenny's real name in this entry because I don't think he'd object to anything I've written here about him. Besides, maybe one day he'll come across this post while egosurfing and get back in touch with me...)
It wasn't exactly easy for him to be a Spurs fan surrounded by Rockets fans, especially during the mid-1990s when the Rockets and Spurs were actually both very good teams (the Rockets, of course, winning back-to-back titles during this time) and had a healthy rivalry going. But Kenny never backed down; he gave as good as he got from his Rocket-fan studiomates and the basketball-related banter that resulted was oftentimes a light-hearted distraction from the monotony of model-building and drawing.
Whenever the Spurs won, Kenny would march through studio shouting, in a slightly-shrill tone, something along the lines of "Spurs, baby, Spurs! Oh, yeah, baby! Spurs!" Over time, the phrase "Spurs, baby, Spurs!" became an identifying catchphrase for him. To this day, when I think of Kenny I think of him gleefully uttering those words.
After graduation, as happens so often, I lost touch with Kenny. Last I heard, he had moved back to San Antonio and started a family. But that information is several years old.
However, as the San Antonio Spurs - having swept a thoroughly outclassed Cleveland Cavaliers team - celebrate their fourth NBA title in eight years this evening, I know that my old friend Kenny Phipps is, somewhere, right now, jubilantly screaming something incoherent about "Spurs, baby, Spurs, oh yeah, SPURS, BAYBEE!!!" Remembering Kenny the way I do, that thought brings a smile to my face.
(*I'm using Kenny's real name in this entry because I don't think he'd object to anything I've written here about him. Besides, maybe one day he'll come across this post while egosurfing and get back in touch with me...)
Alternate "Sopranos" ending
Okay, I'll admit it. I liked the way it ended. But for those of you who, four days later, are still griping about the manner in which The Sopranos ended, here is an alternate ending with a bit more "closure" that you might appreciate:
Video via Max Silvestri.
Video via Max Silvestri.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
A frustrating experience
My father went in for spine surgery today. It was a routine and relatively noninvasive procedure (keeping in mind that "noninvasive" and "spine surgery" probably don't belong in the same sentence) to correct a herniated disk that had been compressing his spinal cord and apparently causing him severe and debilitating sciatica pain. The procedure reportedly went well and if all goes according to plan he should be released from the hospital in the morning.
The fact that my dad had to have surgery is, by itself, not frustrating. He's getting old, and these things happen. What he finds frustrating, rather, is the fact that this procedure really should have been completed several months ago.
My father had been suffering from sciatica since early this spring. In an attempt to seek relief, he went through a veritable merry-go-round of doctors, orthopedic surgeons, neurologists and other specialists, and took battery after battery of tests, MRIs, myelograms and other diagnostic procedures. At first, his doctors told him to take up a vigorous exercise regimen, in hopes that physical activity would resolve the problem. When that approach didn't work, they told him to do the exact opposite: get plenty of rest and avoid as much physical exertion as possible. They simply hoped that the problem would resolve itself (to be fair, herniated disks often do repair themselves over time; my father's condition, however, was clearly not getting better). The painkillers they prescribed him were woefully inadequate, as well; the pain in his legs and hips was oftentimes searingly intense and conventional painkillers simply didn't work.
It wasn't until a couple of weeks ago that he was finally sent to a spinal specialist who looked at all the available data and, unlike all the other professionals my father had been referred to, realized that the only reliable fix for this problem would be surgery. An appointment was set and, as of this evening, the procedure is complete.
I'm not really clear as to why none of my father's other doctors wanted to take the surgical route, or why it took so long for my father to be referred to a specialist who finally did decide to go ahead with the surgery. Perhaps the medical profession, as a whole, is so afraid of lawsuits that they avoid surgery for these types of ailments at all costs, hoping instead that the problem will eventually resolve itself without the need for medically-invasive procedures. Perhaps the insurance companies, looking to keep ever-spiralling medical costs under control, ask doctors to refrain from recommending surgical procedures if they can help it. And perhaps my dad's doctors were so worried abut my dad developing an addiction to powerful painkillers that they refused to provide him with medicine that would offer him real relief from his pain. While I can't completely fault the medical profession for wanting to err on the side of caution, my father's experience nevertheless seems to paint an impression of a health care community that is directed not by the doctors themselves, but rather by their legal counsel or their accountants. Is the fear of lawsuits - be it from botched surgeries or from patients addicted to painkillers - or the need to keep costs down really so pervasive that it creates an attitude of inaction so entrenched that the patients themselves are forced to needlessly suffer without resolution for months until decisive action - one of my father's doctors admitted that surgery was a "last resort" - is finally taken?
Not only, after all, did their reluctance to pursue the surgical option until now cause my dad to experience so much pain for so long, but it's also affected my parents' summer travel plans. They had to cut short their annual trip to New Orleans (I accompanied them and will write about it in a later post) this past week, and, depending on how long it takes my dad to recuperate, the big several-weeks-long trip they were planning to make to the west coast later this summer could be in jeopardy as well. It just doesn't seem right; my father, naturally, feels like the medical community has let him down.
Of course, this entire rant could be for naught: there's no guarantee that the surgery was a success. My father will know in the coming days whether the pain persists. If the procedure is successful, then at least my dad will have received the care he needed later rather than never and will be able to eventually resume normal activities. If this procedure doesn't alleviate the pain, however, or if complications arise, then it's back on the medical merry-go-round again for more agony and frustration.
The fact that my dad had to have surgery is, by itself, not frustrating. He's getting old, and these things happen. What he finds frustrating, rather, is the fact that this procedure really should have been completed several months ago.
My father had been suffering from sciatica since early this spring. In an attempt to seek relief, he went through a veritable merry-go-round of doctors, orthopedic surgeons, neurologists and other specialists, and took battery after battery of tests, MRIs, myelograms and other diagnostic procedures. At first, his doctors told him to take up a vigorous exercise regimen, in hopes that physical activity would resolve the problem. When that approach didn't work, they told him to do the exact opposite: get plenty of rest and avoid as much physical exertion as possible. They simply hoped that the problem would resolve itself (to be fair, herniated disks often do repair themselves over time; my father's condition, however, was clearly not getting better). The painkillers they prescribed him were woefully inadequate, as well; the pain in his legs and hips was oftentimes searingly intense and conventional painkillers simply didn't work.
It wasn't until a couple of weeks ago that he was finally sent to a spinal specialist who looked at all the available data and, unlike all the other professionals my father had been referred to, realized that the only reliable fix for this problem would be surgery. An appointment was set and, as of this evening, the procedure is complete.
I'm not really clear as to why none of my father's other doctors wanted to take the surgical route, or why it took so long for my father to be referred to a specialist who finally did decide to go ahead with the surgery. Perhaps the medical profession, as a whole, is so afraid of lawsuits that they avoid surgery for these types of ailments at all costs, hoping instead that the problem will eventually resolve itself without the need for medically-invasive procedures. Perhaps the insurance companies, looking to keep ever-spiralling medical costs under control, ask doctors to refrain from recommending surgical procedures if they can help it. And perhaps my dad's doctors were so worried abut my dad developing an addiction to powerful painkillers that they refused to provide him with medicine that would offer him real relief from his pain. While I can't completely fault the medical profession for wanting to err on the side of caution, my father's experience nevertheless seems to paint an impression of a health care community that is directed not by the doctors themselves, but rather by their legal counsel or their accountants. Is the fear of lawsuits - be it from botched surgeries or from patients addicted to painkillers - or the need to keep costs down really so pervasive that it creates an attitude of inaction so entrenched that the patients themselves are forced to needlessly suffer without resolution for months until decisive action - one of my father's doctors admitted that surgery was a "last resort" - is finally taken?
Not only, after all, did their reluctance to pursue the surgical option until now cause my dad to experience so much pain for so long, but it's also affected my parents' summer travel plans. They had to cut short their annual trip to New Orleans (I accompanied them and will write about it in a later post) this past week, and, depending on how long it takes my dad to recuperate, the big several-weeks-long trip they were planning to make to the west coast later this summer could be in jeopardy as well. It just doesn't seem right; my father, naturally, feels like the medical community has let him down.
Of course, this entire rant could be for naught: there's no guarantee that the surgery was a success. My father will know in the coming days whether the pain persists. If the procedure is successful, then at least my dad will have received the care he needed later rather than never and will be able to eventually resume normal activities. If this procedure doesn't alleviate the pain, however, or if complications arise, then it's back on the medical merry-go-round again for more agony and frustration.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Jennifer's boyfriend
It's a phenomenon I've observed and wondered about since high school: why some of the nicest people in the world choose to go out with complete assholes.
I am not referring to good-looking women who are with men who are only physically unattractive; this happens quite often and studies have indicated that a majority of women, when looking for a mate, value personality or financial success over looks. I am, instead, talking about guys who, regardless of their physical characteristics, have distinctly unattractive personalities: people so repugnant that they really don't deserve to be in a relationship at all, let alone one with a woman as cute and as nice as the one they're with. (In fact, I'm not even talking solely about men - I've come across several a relationship where an otherwise sensible guy was, for some reason, dating a woman who was a raving bitch. I imagine these types of relationships happen in the gay and lesbian community as well.)
Anyway, a particular case in point: I know someone who is one of the nicest people I've ever met. She is very intelligent and extremely attractive, with a pleasant personality and an infectious laugh to boot. Her significant other, on the other hand, is a creep. He is sullen, short-tempered, arrogant, aloof, rude and generally unpleasant to be around. I'm not the only person who feels this way about Jenn's boyfriend, either: a mutual acquiantance of ours once described him as a "dick."
Perhaps I could understand this relationship if the guy had any other redeeming qualities. But he doesn't - at least, not any that are readily apparent. He's not very handsome, he's not particularly wealthy and, worst of all, he really seems to treat Jennifer with the same distant and testy attitude that he uses with everyone else. I am simply at a loss to explain why she is with this jerk.
I want to ask Jennifer what exactly is it that she sees in this guy. I want to tell her that a person like her can do - and in fact, deserves - better. I don't, of course, because it would be rude on my part to do so and, besides, it's really none of my business. Obviously, she sees something in him that nobody else does and if she truly is happy with him then I guess that's all that matters.
Nevertheless, I've always found it to be a peculiar, and puzzling, phenomenon. Are some people simply attracted by such lousy and mean personalities? Do they, in spite of their outwardly-enjoyable nature, have some sort of inner guilt or lack of self-esteem that makes them think that they really deserve these kinds of people? Do they, perhaps, enter into relationships with these jerks because they feel sorry for them?
Love is not a rational emotion: it doesn't have to make sense. In relationships like these, it clearly does not.
I am not referring to good-looking women who are with men who are only physically unattractive; this happens quite often and studies have indicated that a majority of women, when looking for a mate, value personality or financial success over looks. I am, instead, talking about guys who, regardless of their physical characteristics, have distinctly unattractive personalities: people so repugnant that they really don't deserve to be in a relationship at all, let alone one with a woman as cute and as nice as the one they're with. (In fact, I'm not even talking solely about men - I've come across several a relationship where an otherwise sensible guy was, for some reason, dating a woman who was a raving bitch. I imagine these types of relationships happen in the gay and lesbian community as well.)
Anyway, a particular case in point: I know someone who is one of the nicest people I've ever met. She is very intelligent and extremely attractive, with a pleasant personality and an infectious laugh to boot. Her significant other, on the other hand, is a creep. He is sullen, short-tempered, arrogant, aloof, rude and generally unpleasant to be around. I'm not the only person who feels this way about Jenn's boyfriend, either: a mutual acquiantance of ours once described him as a "dick."
Perhaps I could understand this relationship if the guy had any other redeeming qualities. But he doesn't - at least, not any that are readily apparent. He's not very handsome, he's not particularly wealthy and, worst of all, he really seems to treat Jennifer with the same distant and testy attitude that he uses with everyone else. I am simply at a loss to explain why she is with this jerk.
I want to ask Jennifer what exactly is it that she sees in this guy. I want to tell her that a person like her can do - and in fact, deserves - better. I don't, of course, because it would be rude on my part to do so and, besides, it's really none of my business. Obviously, she sees something in him that nobody else does and if she truly is happy with him then I guess that's all that matters.
Nevertheless, I've always found it to be a peculiar, and puzzling, phenomenon. Are some people simply attracted by such lousy and mean personalities? Do they, in spite of their outwardly-enjoyable nature, have some sort of inner guilt or lack of self-esteem that makes them think that they really deserve these kinds of people? Do they, perhaps, enter into relationships with these jerks because they feel sorry for them?
Love is not a rational emotion: it doesn't have to make sense. In relationships like these, it clearly does not.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Has it only been five years?
I've oftentimes noticed that nostalgia-drenched discussions about the past seem to center around the phrase "has it really been that long?" People, generally, fondly and clearly remember past events in their lives, and the perception that "time flies" in many cases creates a sense of astonishment that so many years have passed since an important event in their lives has occurred.
In this one personal case, however, the opposite seems to be true: today marked the fifth anniversary of Lori's and my return to Houston, and it really seems like it's been a lot longer than five years.
A bit of background: Lori began undergraduate studies at the University of Houston in the summer of 1991, very shortly after she graduated from Alief Elsik High School. I graduated from Houston's High School for the Performing and Visual Arts at the same time, but did not begin my undergraduate education at UH until the fall of 1991. Lori suspended her college education when she moved to Arizona in 1992; she did not resume classes at UH until after she and I finally met (oh, the magic of Internet Relay Chat!) in the summer of 1996 and returned to Houston. I graduated from UH with a Bachelor of Architecture degree in December of 1996 and was subsequently accepted to the Community and Regional Planning graduate program at the University of Texas at Austin. Lori wanted to join me, so she successfully transfered to UT, and the two of us moved to Austin in August of 1997. She and I both finished our courses at UT in May of 1999 (she would eventually receive a Bachelor of Arts in Psychology, me a Masters of Science in Community and Regional Planning). After graduation, we moved to the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex (I was offered a job at the City of Denton's planning department) and spent the next three years of our lives, from the summer of 1999 through the spring of 2002, there. Lori enrolled in the graduate business program at the University of North Texas; she earned her MBA in December of 2001.
After graduation, Lori began looking for jobs in the DFW area. She had no success; the twin events of the dot-com bust and 9/11 were particularly devastating to the Dallas/Fort Worth economy, and as the spring of 2002 progressed we decided that maybe it was time to look for jobs in Houston, which appeared to be more fertile employment territory (at the time, of course, we did not know about the impending collapse of Enron, which would eventually decimate Houston's economy).
By the spring of 2002, I also began to feel as if it were time to move on. I did not dislike my job at the City of Denton by any means. But after dealing with three years' worth of zoning changes, plat reviews, clueless councilmembers and P&Z commissioners, pushy developers and NIMBY-esque residential whiners who "moved to Denton because they wanted to live in a small town" (only to realize, after the fact, that thousands of others were making the exact same choices that they were and, in the process, causing Denton's population to grow at an exponential rate), I realized that the time for change had simply come. So, over the Memorial Day weekend of 2002, we evacuated our duplex, loaded our worldly possessions onto a U-Haul truck, and made the journey back to Houston.
In retrospect, who knows what might have happened had the economic situation up in the Dallas/Fort Worth area been different? If Lori had found a decent job shortly after graduation, it's possible that we might still be living up there today.
But she didn't, and we decided it was time to move back to Houston.
Was it really only five years ago? It all seems so distant now.
To be fair, a lot important events have happened within those five years which probably makes the span of time seem a lot longer than it actually is. For starters, Lori and I (finally) got married and had a child. We've lived in four different places over those five years: with my parents for the first several months after we moved back, at Lori's deceased great aunt's house in Sagemont for about nine months in 2003, at an apartment in Midtown for about a year and a half after that and, since we closed on it in December 2004, our house here in University Oaks for the past two and a half years. We've also done a lot of traveling over this time period: Lori and I spent three weeks in Europe shortly after we moved, and I've since traveled to Japan and the United Arab Emirates (thrice!). Last fall we took a cruise to Mexico and Belize. I've worked at two separate full-time jobs since we moved back; Lori is on her third.
Meanwhile, it's interesting to take note of all the things that have changed in our former home since we moved. The staff at the City of Denton's planning department has completely turned over since I worked there; while there still might be a couple of people in building inspections and code enforcement who have been there long enough to remember me, no employee in the planning department has been there long enough to remember when I worked there. A man who had served on Denton's Planning and Zoning Commission while I worked there is now the city's mayor. The once-desolate area along Loop 288 between Interstate 35E and East McKinney is now lined with big-box retailers and strip centers, a considerable amount of new student housing has popped up around the UNT campus, and new residential developments around the periphery have boosted the city's population well past the 100,000 mark. Parts of the city that was both my employer and my home five years ago are essentially unrecognizable today. From the perspective of a rapidly-growing city, five years is, indeed, a long time.
But perhaps this aspect of today's anniversary is most important: five years ago, we moved back to Houston with the intention of staying here for the long term, if not for the rest of our lives. In spite of the negative opinion that an amazingly large number of people across the nation have about Houston (most of whom, I suspect, have never spent any appreciable amount of time in this city), Lori and I love this city. Not only is it a dynamic, diverse, prosperous and comfortable place to live, but it truly is home. This is where we were both born and raised, after all, and it certainly doesn't hurt that both of our families live here (indeed, that was one of the reasons we wanted to move back - it's amazing how important proximity to family became to us after 9/11) and have provided invaluable assistance to us as we raise Kirby.
Looking back, and knowing now what I simply could not have known then, it really seems like it's been a rather "long," yet certainly productive, five years. Nobody can predict the future, and five years ago - as Lori and I finished packing and moved out of Denton - neither of us could have anticipated that we'd end up where we are today: successfully married, with a nice (if not old) house in my affluent childhood neighborhood, with a healthy and wonderful - if not hyperactive - 2.5-year-old boy, and with two rather successful jobs. It's funny how things work out.
Indeed, it's been five years. Five long, happy, years. I have no regrets.
In this one personal case, however, the opposite seems to be true: today marked the fifth anniversary of Lori's and my return to Houston, and it really seems like it's been a lot longer than five years.
A bit of background: Lori began undergraduate studies at the University of Houston in the summer of 1991, very shortly after she graduated from Alief Elsik High School. I graduated from Houston's High School for the Performing and Visual Arts at the same time, but did not begin my undergraduate education at UH until the fall of 1991. Lori suspended her college education when she moved to Arizona in 1992; she did not resume classes at UH until after she and I finally met (oh, the magic of Internet Relay Chat!) in the summer of 1996 and returned to Houston. I graduated from UH with a Bachelor of Architecture degree in December of 1996 and was subsequently accepted to the Community and Regional Planning graduate program at the University of Texas at Austin. Lori wanted to join me, so she successfully transfered to UT, and the two of us moved to Austin in August of 1997. She and I both finished our courses at UT in May of 1999 (she would eventually receive a Bachelor of Arts in Psychology, me a Masters of Science in Community and Regional Planning). After graduation, we moved to the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex (I was offered a job at the City of Denton's planning department) and spent the next three years of our lives, from the summer of 1999 through the spring of 2002, there. Lori enrolled in the graduate business program at the University of North Texas; she earned her MBA in December of 2001.
After graduation, Lori began looking for jobs in the DFW area. She had no success; the twin events of the dot-com bust and 9/11 were particularly devastating to the Dallas/Fort Worth economy, and as the spring of 2002 progressed we decided that maybe it was time to look for jobs in Houston, which appeared to be more fertile employment territory (at the time, of course, we did not know about the impending collapse of Enron, which would eventually decimate Houston's economy).
By the spring of 2002, I also began to feel as if it were time to move on. I did not dislike my job at the City of Denton by any means. But after dealing with three years' worth of zoning changes, plat reviews, clueless councilmembers and P&Z commissioners, pushy developers and NIMBY-esque residential whiners who "moved to Denton because they wanted to live in a small town" (only to realize, after the fact, that thousands of others were making the exact same choices that they were and, in the process, causing Denton's population to grow at an exponential rate), I realized that the time for change had simply come. So, over the Memorial Day weekend of 2002, we evacuated our duplex, loaded our worldly possessions onto a U-Haul truck, and made the journey back to Houston.
In retrospect, who knows what might have happened had the economic situation up in the Dallas/Fort Worth area been different? If Lori had found a decent job shortly after graduation, it's possible that we might still be living up there today.
But she didn't, and we decided it was time to move back to Houston.
Was it really only five years ago? It all seems so distant now.
To be fair, a lot important events have happened within those five years which probably makes the span of time seem a lot longer than it actually is. For starters, Lori and I (finally) got married and had a child. We've lived in four different places over those five years: with my parents for the first several months after we moved back, at Lori's deceased great aunt's house in Sagemont for about nine months in 2003, at an apartment in Midtown for about a year and a half after that and, since we closed on it in December 2004, our house here in University Oaks for the past two and a half years. We've also done a lot of traveling over this time period: Lori and I spent three weeks in Europe shortly after we moved, and I've since traveled to Japan and the United Arab Emirates (thrice!). Last fall we took a cruise to Mexico and Belize. I've worked at two separate full-time jobs since we moved back; Lori is on her third.
Meanwhile, it's interesting to take note of all the things that have changed in our former home since we moved. The staff at the City of Denton's planning department has completely turned over since I worked there; while there still might be a couple of people in building inspections and code enforcement who have been there long enough to remember me, no employee in the planning department has been there long enough to remember when I worked there. A man who had served on Denton's Planning and Zoning Commission while I worked there is now the city's mayor. The once-desolate area along Loop 288 between Interstate 35E and East McKinney is now lined with big-box retailers and strip centers, a considerable amount of new student housing has popped up around the UNT campus, and new residential developments around the periphery have boosted the city's population well past the 100,000 mark. Parts of the city that was both my employer and my home five years ago are essentially unrecognizable today. From the perspective of a rapidly-growing city, five years is, indeed, a long time.
But perhaps this aspect of today's anniversary is most important: five years ago, we moved back to Houston with the intention of staying here for the long term, if not for the rest of our lives. In spite of the negative opinion that an amazingly large number of people across the nation have about Houston (most of whom, I suspect, have never spent any appreciable amount of time in this city), Lori and I love this city. Not only is it a dynamic, diverse, prosperous and comfortable place to live, but it truly is home. This is where we were both born and raised, after all, and it certainly doesn't hurt that both of our families live here (indeed, that was one of the reasons we wanted to move back - it's amazing how important proximity to family became to us after 9/11) and have provided invaluable assistance to us as we raise Kirby.
Looking back, and knowing now what I simply could not have known then, it really seems like it's been a rather "long," yet certainly productive, five years. Nobody can predict the future, and five years ago - as Lori and I finished packing and moved out of Denton - neither of us could have anticipated that we'd end up where we are today: successfully married, with a nice (if not old) house in my affluent childhood neighborhood, with a healthy and wonderful - if not hyperactive - 2.5-year-old boy, and with two rather successful jobs. It's funny how things work out.
Indeed, it's been five years. Five long, happy, years. I have no regrets.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Women in art
Somebody forwarded this to me - a take on 500 years of womens' portraits in western art - and thought it was cool enough to share:
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