The Black Swan

Nassim Nicholas Taleb, in his book The Black Swan, examines the impact of the highly improbable. His basic thesis is that random, improbable events are those that matter the most. He uses 9/11 as an example.

The title of his book comes from the story used to teach the scientific method: if you believe that all swans are white, each white swan that you find substantiates your claim. But seeing a black swan changes everything. It breaks the rule and thus necessitates a new one.

What do you think a swan tastes like? Chicken? They look delicious. I’ve written menus before, and I would LOVE to describe a swan dish. And eat one. You’re not so pretty when you’re in my stomach, are you? You stupid bird.

Taleb’s book focuses on the world-altering potential of the black swan. But think about your life. Unfortunately, your character is measured most by times you step outside it. All of the combined days that you don’t cheat on your spouse will never stand up to the one that you do.

Once in a while, if you’re lucky, a black swan might manifest itself in someone you meet. Someone that changes your assumptions and forces you to reconsider what you thought you knew. Marry that person. Or kill them.

So what the fuck do I do now? Impact of the random and highly improbable? My life is just a string of random events. I’d like to be defined by that clearly angry outburst about swans a few paragraphs above. Nicholas Thayer: hater of swans and author of garbage. If you are truly judged most by the moment you are most outside of your character, then perhaps I am perceived as normal. Yeah right.

If you home school your children, you deserve a slap. I feel sorry for your kids if the only social interaction that they get is with you, someone so afraid of the real world that you keep your child locked up like a zoo animal. One of the many benefits of devout religious followers. Society is bad! God is awesome!

Don’t fear the black swan, you Jesus freak. I am having serious issues with focus right now.

There is a novel in me somewhere. I feel it inside me – fucked by my own saliva-inducing fantasies about writing something that someone might actually pay attention to. Sometimes I have random moments of inspiration that feel worthwhile, but I don’t write them down. And then they’re gone.

Characters jump in and out of my head. And titles. And lines. And paragraphs. Fleeting words mashed together in a dizzying hysteria of verbs and nouns. My head fills itself and purges. Bulimia of the mind. Someday I’ll write some of them down instead of forcing myself to combat insomnia with this unnatural trash.

Then, just maybe, I’ll write something that doesn’t digress to a powerful hatred for water fowl and home schooling. Maybe.

Happy Valentine's Day

I recently gave my class (I’m an Assistant Professor of English at a community college) a writing assignment that is due on February 14th. Valentine’s Day. They gave the melodic “ughhhh” that they tend to unanimously offer when I make them do something that they really hate.

“Happy Valentine’s Day” I said. “But I’m single, so I don’t really care.” Got a few laughs. Apparently, people have a high regard for any excuse to buy overpriced flowers and candy. Guys, if you’re buying flowers and candy, you’re completely unoriginal. Girls, if you’re receiving flowers and candy, you’re extremely lucky. Ordinary is better than solitude, right ladies?

Love thy best friend

Last year on the lover’s holiday, Jay and I had both recently become single after long relationships. We started dating them a week apart, and more than a year later broke up with them a week apart. Jay and I tend to do everything together. I’ll probably send him a Valentine this year, because I think that there is a good chance that we’re soul mates.

There is nothing wrong with celebrating Valentine’s Day with your significant other. If you’re with someone, you might want to celebrate your togetherness everyday, but it never hurts to have an excuse. Valentine’s Day is just a more specific version of Thanksgiving with less turkey and in some cases more chocolate and the color pink.

Love thy bottle

Last year, as a couple of fresh bachelors with the whole world on our platters, we decided to celebrate our singlehood with all the other poor, single freaks at the bar. Of course, we drank a good amount at our house while our taken roommate was out wining and dining his sweetheart. I’m not sure, but I think that our “pregaming” that night consisted of drinking an entire bottle of Three Olives Grape Vodka between Justin, Jay, and myself. If any chefs out there have been seeking out a good recipe for disaster, look no further than: 1 bottle of vodka, Nickel, Jay, Justin, Valentine’s Day.

This part gets a bit blurry. I’m not sure where we went first. Justin somehow detached himself from the group. Jay and I ended up in Sunny’s (no other place like it – the ‘club’ in Fredonia known for underage patrons, hookups, and general douchebaggery), of course talking to all the lonely, single girls desperately seeking Valentine’s Day attention.

There is no better feeling than making out with a random sorority girl on the stage in front of everyone else at the bar. Oh wait… actually, there are several better feelings than that. For example, eating a pine cone. I didn’t care that I despise people that do that kind of thing. I even remember her name … a Valentine’s Day miracle! Amanda.

Jay and I staggered out of Sunny’s, not ready to be done with our rampage quite yet. But it was two o’clock. Last call is two o’clock. What to do?! Luckily, I was employed by one of the fine drinking establishments in Fredonia. They welcomed us with open arms and pint glasses full of gin with a lime and splash of tonic. Too much.

Love thy Queen

It was quarter to three by now. We stumbled into our apartment and undoubtedly disturbed the sweet, sweet lovemaking occurring in our roommate’s bedroom. We both tried to go to bed, but the alcohol needed to get some revenge. Time for vomiting. Jay is naked by now. I don’t know why. He crawled into the bathroom from his bedroom, still nude, and sat on the toilet, needing to poop and puke at the same time. What a horrible combination! But he pulled it off… the skillful and naked drunken Jay, sitting on the toilet, taking a shit and vomiting in between his legs.

But I had to puke too! I was at least partially naked by now as well – I think my pants were MIA. I tried to dethrone him, physically, from my tactical position on the bathroom floor (I, too, had crawled into the porcelain Queen’s chamber from my sleeping quarters).

What a scene. Two naked full-grown (at least physically) men, nude and fighting over the rights to the toilet. I’m pretty sure that everything that I drank that evening found a new home in the bathroom sink. And I found a new bed for the evening – the bathmat. Jay managed to get up and go back to bed after the battle royal… but I didn’t fair as well. Goodnight, sink. Goodnight, shampoo. Goodnight, pile of towels.

Sadly enough, this was my favorite Valentine’s Day in 23. But there is no greater love than that between best friends, bottles, and toilets.

Every writer that has ever touched a pen to a piece of paper writes about love. Maybe not all the time, and maybe not directly. But they all do. It is extremely trite to try and write some insanely insightful, deep look into what ‘love’ is. I’d even call it insulting to the actual experience. Fuck you, Nicholas Sparks! Drivel. Nonetheless, writing about love really tells you about yourself and your experiences with the L word. Try it. I’ll make a very typical and unoriginal attempt at it:

Adam left work and entered the rainstorm that he had watched mindlessly out of his office window all day. He felt down and lonely. He had forgotten his umbrella. Of course, as soon as Adam began his six-block journey to his studio apartment, the rain intensified. It was driving rain, the kind that stings when it hits your forehead. He tried his best to cover his head with his expensive leather briefcase, but the rain was too clever, dodging his best efforts as the wind changed directions frequently.

Three blocks from home, Adam ducked into a tiny theater that he was sure he had never noticed before in countless trips back and forth. He heard music coming from behind the big oak doors that separated the lobby from the actual theater. Soaking wet and shivering, he opened the giant door just enough to fit through and slid into a seat in the back row.

He sat, at first, wringing out his shirtsleeves, pants, and tie, hoping to dry off a bit in the dry stale air he was now immersed in. But his attention quickly drifted away from his wet clothing as he caught her out of the corner of his eye.

She floated across the stage, imitating the wind. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. The stinging sensation that had been caused by the cold and wet was replaced by warmth and longing. Adam felt something new; the general boredom he had come to know was suddenly replaced with intrigue. He watched intently as she glided back and forth, her feet absolutely silent.

The performance ended and the few people peppered throughout the small theater clapped half-heartedly. But Adam wasn’t finished watching her. He left work early the next night and watched her again. And again the next night. He kept going back to the tiny theater, sitting in the same seat in the back row, and watching the wind. More light, silent feet. More intrigue.

Adam watched her at the same time every night for seven straight days before deciding that he wanted to introduce himself to her. The night of the seventh performance, he walked around back and waited on a step in the alley near the rear exit.

It was a half an hour before she finally emerged. Like he had for the last seven nights, he sat and watched her.

But this time, he watched her as she slid off her tiny slippers and threw them into a big duffel bag. She put on sneakers, let her hair down, and pulled an oversized hooded sweatshirt over her head. She sighed as she heaved the duffel bag up onto her shoulder and raised her cell phone to her ear to check her voicemail.

She walked down the steps, passed Adam, and continued on down the street. He didn’t say a word. Neither did she. He just watched her with a strange sense of horror coming over him. Adam was in love with the wind, not the girl.

He sat there for a few more minutes before getting up, his boredom returning, and began walking back to his small, lonely apartment. Just then, he felt a stray raindrop find its way through the maze of buildings and signs to his right cheek. Cold, boring rain.

Aww, how delightfully sappy I can be. If any pretty girls suddenly feel impelled to go out on a date with me, please e-mail me. Every girl in the world must want Nicholas Sparks, and it makes absolutely no difference what he looks like. Exercising your brain will make you just as attractive as exercising your body. What is the real love muscle: the brain or the labia?

My middle name is Adam. Any time I write about love, it always ends with disappointment. What does that mean? I’m not a pessimist; I think I’m just taking my own route. I wouldn’t even consider any of my relationships as disappointments. As long as you learn something, it is a success. Or at very least, my failed relationships have afforded me material for my future trite, sappy love novel. Drivel.

I’m a sexual optimist. I’m not even sure what that means, but I love to say it.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

It Is All Relative

Recently, my good friend Scott discovered that he is severely colorblind. At the age of 23. I was standing in his bedroom while he was getting ready for us to head out to the bar for the evening when the infamous conversation occurred:

Scott: “I think I’m going to go with this burgundy shirt tonight.”
Me: “…Do you even know what burgundy is?”
Scott: “Yeah, it’s this dark reddish color.”
(Points to the shirt he was now wearing)
Me: “That shirt is dark gray, man.”

Turns out he had been wearing a dark gray Rooster Fish Brewing shirt I had given him for weeks thinking it was some dark shade of red. It was his favorite shirt!

You can imagine what followed. A couple days’ worth of us harassing him about how he saw things differently than everyone else. Failed online colorblindness tests. Teasing him for the fact that when he is driving and the road is wet it looks red to him (he thought it was some sort of strange chemical reaction).

His world of colors is different than ours. Not knowing he was colorblind, he learned that a banana is yellow. But the “yellow” he sees might actually be purple. So he sees purple and his brain says “yellow.”

My insanity (or randomness) leads me to believe that I have a similar disorder where I see common things that trigger my brain to spew random thoughts that have little to no association with those things. I could probably entertain a shrink for hours that wants to play a word association game with me. She says “love,” I say “garden weasel.” She says “childhood,” I say “gravy helmet.” She says “This is costing you $300 per hour,” I say “Apple Jacks.”

I immediately had a strange fantasy where Scott exists in a psychedelic world where the colors are all fucked up and there are unicorns prancing about offering him snacks and insider trading tips. Oh, what I would give to live in Scott’s world of purple bananas.

What we experience is completely relative to what we are. We all know what pain is. But we don’t all experience it in the same way. Some would say that we all have a different tolerance for pain… and that’s bullshit. That’s a scientific-sounding way of saying that “pain” is a general term for a bunch of unique experiences.

What we feel depends so much upon what we are and what we’ve been. Imagine three bowls of water. One is icy cold. One is room temperature. One is near boiling. If you stick your hand in the cold bowl first and then the room temperature bowl, it feels hot. But if you start with the hot bowl and move to the room temperature bowl, it feels cold.

What the fuck? I guess I have no idea what is hot and what isn’t. Which is a bad quality to have when alcohol and unattractive girls are lurking. Right Rocks?

That middle bowl of water feels like a different temperature depending on what precedes it. The same holds true for any other sensation you’ve ever had. That’s the entire theory behind comic relief. “Relief” implies a means to give you a break from all the tragic ones. But it is also making the tragic ones feel much more tragic.

Think of the ramifications! Your mood or the five minutes immediately before meeting someone could completely alter your relationship with them. Maybe you’ve met the girl/boy of your dreams already. But two minutes before meeting them you dropped a piece of toast on the floor butter-side down. Fuck toast for destroying your one true chance at happiness. Perhaps the person you’re with now isn’t ideal for you but you were in a good mood when you met him/her because you found $20 in a random pair of pants that you usually don’t wear. The most significant thing in your love life could be toast or pants. It’s all relative.

All your experiences are just yours. No matter how much someone tried to recreate your experience, it would not and could not be the same.

I envy Scott, because at least he knows one of the things that makes his experience unique. Purple banana unicorn land. For me it’s just a complete guessing game. I’m random, but no more unique than you are.

How does gay sex work with unicorns, anyway, what with the horns and all?

It’s all relative.