Pics from Phone

Its a wonder about phone plans. I used to be very conscientious about what text messages I sent and received, because I had a plan that allowed a limited number per month. I recently switched to next step up - an unlimited plan - but was skeptical that I would change my texting habits. How adorable.

The feature I am most surprised to find myself using is picture messaging. I don't really send pictures to others. Instead I send all sorts of photos to my email address. The messages are automatically filtered into a special folder, and wait patiently for me to extract whatever information I thought was important enough to remember at a later date, but not important enough for me to find a pen and paper (ugh, sooo 20th century).

I decided to look back on the past few messages / photos I sent myself, and found such a strange window into my life that I had to share. Enjoy!

When Katie and I were looking for an apartment, I used to wander around neighborhoods taking pictures with my phone. This was really useful, because I could take a picture of the phone number, take a picture of the house, and be on my merry way. The downside was that I looked like a vagabond "casing" the neighborhood, looking for the next place to rob.

Many of my posts actually start from photo or text messages I send when I'm struck with an idea. Remember that strange message I posted about my "Plan of Action" for blogging again? That was a text message I sent myself on March 6, at 2:09am.


This is a photo of the bus route I took every day during the winter. The bus system here has an awesome web page that lets you track the location of your bus using GPS. Why wait outside like a sucker, when you can just sprint to the bus stop at the last second? Yes, that was me running down the stairs like there was a fire; I lost track of time. Its a little like playing chicken...trying to wait until the very last moment to leave, all the while increasing your risk of missing the bus. And with buses on my route only coming every hour, the consequences are severe. I have been humbled by a long, cold walk home on at least one occasion. Other times, I went back to my computer to kill time until the next bus.


One text message simply says "May 19." Anyone know what this means?


I saved the best for last: pictures of stinky winky. It seems he is at his most adorable when there isn't a camera in sight. Luckily my phone is never too far away.

Driving Music

My cousin recently wrote me about a flashback she had while she was listening to a Sublime song. She said it reminded her of how I would play "Rivers of Babylon" every time I drove her home from school, almost without fail. I was dumbfounded, but it brought up a similar memory of mine of a tape my sister would play when she drove me to school.

While my brother was the epitome of intelligence, I remember my sister representing all that was cool. She had an easy smile, could make friends with anyone in a half hour, and she didn't care about what anybody thought of her (so I thought). My high school identity was more "Rachel's brother" than it was Mark.

But she had some of the most confusing taste in music. In addition to hearing songs from the Beatles, the Doors, and Blind Melon I remember riding to school at a break-neck pace in her blue Topaz listening to Bjork.

Listening to Bjork is the most disconcerting musical experience a high school freshman can have. It rejects normal harmonies and rhythms, and leans heavily on electronica. There is nothing normal in it to cling to. I grew up on music like Michael W. Smith and Weird Al Yankovic, and thought I had really evolved when I bought Alanis Morissette's album. I was wrong.

Bjork was pure chaos. Noise. Until about the 10th time I listened to it. Then it started to infect me like a virus, and before long I was singing "There's more to life than this" to myself.

It affected me, and I'm confident that my sister had no idea how much of an impression that music made on me. That's exactly how I felt when my cousin told me about how distinctly she remembered hearing Sublime while I drove her home.

Weird.

The Trial - A Junior High Tragedy

In a class today, my professor was telling an anecdote about a time he was almost "laughed off stage" for using a cubic term in his regression model of (boring and irrelevant details removed). He specifically cited that it had damaged him because he was young, and hadn't developed a tough skin yet. He was still carrying around the scars of that single event.

My professor specifically cited being young as the reason he wasn't able to cope with what was probably an intense and embarrassing event. Was it traumatic? I mean it wasn't Darfur. But since he was young - unaccustomed to the rough edges of adult life - his inability to cope with the event made it traumatic to him.

His confession made him seem more human and endearing - he is otherwise quite intimidating. It reminded me of a "confessional" blog post that I had promised I'd write about an embarrassing situation of my own. So here it is...

One of the coolest things in Junior High was getting out of class. It broke up the monotony, and set you apart from the rest of the herd. YOU were special, and YOU were going to leave class right now, because YOU had more important things to do than read "The Outsiders."

I was picked to act a part in a mock-trial for History class, and eagerly jumped at the chance to be out of class for nearly half a day. I excitedly read over my role in the trial. I was a witness to the murder of some lady down by the town dam...ok, I wasn't a witness, but I was certain I saw the killer running through the park right after I heard a scream. That was all there was.

There weren't any lines, so I kind of brushed up on what he might say and tried to get some clues from my teacher. She wasn't clear, but said the attorney (an 8th grader) and I were going to get into a shouting match at some point, and I was going to run out of the courtroom. What? I thought I was just some witness. Before I could clarify my role, it was time to act. I was certainly not in my element, so the teacher offered to help me if I looked over at her.

"Action"
I get "called in" to the courtroom (ie the classroom), I am read my rights, and I sit down in front of a bunch of my schoolmates. Wow...I did not think this through.

As an aside, I might mention a couple of points that I think everyone understands at heart: Jr. high is not a kind and gentle place. Further, the single goal of Jr. Highers is to impress their peers. On the other hand, the single greatest fear of Jr. Highers is public embarrassment - it could mean excommunication.

Despite my fear, I resolve to finish what I started. I tell my piece to the prosecutor, we chat for a while. No further questions. Then the defense attorney comes up. This is where it gets a little hazy, but yet very vivid. He asks a couple of questions. I look over to the teacher. She nods yes, I assent. She nods no, I dissent.

"Well now" says the defense attorney "your testimony doesn't match what (other witness) said."

Huh? This isn't what we agreed on. Oh, crap. Things start to heat up a little bit. The questions start getting more pointed, and the attorney is starting to kind of yell. I look over to the teacher, hoping to get some help out of this worsening situation. I get nothing but nods.

I am being berated by this guy...and - it turns out - I am being accused of being the killer! From what I can put together, the evidence is pretty good too. At this point, I desperately want to break character and explain to everyone in the class that this is not what I agreed to. I was just supposed to be a witness. In fact, I didn't even know this poor lady who died by the dam. In fact, what was she doing hanging out by a dam in the middle of the morning? Hey Brett (attorney), how 'bout you calm down. Nobody actually yells in a courtroom.

But I didn't break character, and the situation became real. I was cornered and scared. I can't remember how it ended, but eventually I played my role by fleeing (thankfully) the courtroom.

In reality, it probably all happened so fast nobody really noticed. But my psyche was shot. I was supposed to perform another "show" for the next class period, but I just couldn't find it within myself. I told the teacher I was out. She would have to find someone else.

Why did this shake me so much? Why do I still think of it every once in a while? Clearly, I was not meant for the stage. But I think that my professor had a decent answer too. I was young. I didn't have a thick skin. It was my very innocence that made me so vulnerable to harm.

I like writing the occasional confessional blog post. I get to exorcise my demons by blogging about them, and hoping that others share my experience. I think it also gives a glimpse of my humanity, and if you're anything like me you eat that stuff up.