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Craft and Draft: Resumptives and Summatives and Appositives, oh my!

March 4, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

Bust out those style guides, argue over those serial commas, and question the legitimacy of those split infinitives, because it’s National Grammar Day!

After Halloween, my birthday, National Hat Day, National Homebrewing Day, National Wizard Day, and National Drink Beer and Play Video Games All Day Day, National Grammar Day is my favorite. To celebrate the wonders of this syntactically accurate 24-hours, I’ve decided to talk about three of my favorite grammatical tools:

Appositives and resumptive and summative modifiers.

I normally don’t go for such low-hanging Oz-born fruit in my post titles, but for once, comparing these three constructs to lions, tigers, and bears is actually appropriate. I mean, not directly appropriate, as they’re not technically dangerous apex megafauna, but pretty indirectly appropriate as they are powerful and should be treated with respect.

These three are some of the best spells in the grammar-wizard’s tome of arcane writing knowledge. They are also three of the most challenging to master and use correctly. They help embroider and embolden your prose with more eloquent definition of your subjects, and can add lyricism and emphasis to your writing that phrasing and branching may not.

Much like parallelism, modifiers can transform stumbling, unnatural writing into flowing, organic writing with a few flicks of the predicate and shakes of the subordinate clause.

In Apposition to

Outside of our little grammar bubble, the word “appose” (similar in definition to, but not to be confused with “oppose”) means “to place in juxtaposition or proximity.” When inside said grammar bubble, apposition is the idea of placing one noun next to another to “rename” the first noun.

In practice an appositive is like a fancy adjective, with which you describe specific qualities of your noun, using another noun. For example:

“Oliver, a guy obsessed with wizards, wrote a book about ancient magicks.”

The appositive in the sentence above provides additional, specific knowledge about the main subject and has another noun (or nominative clause) that could theoretically replace the original noun.

An appositive cannot rename a noun that is somewhere else in the sentence:

“Oliver wrote a book, a guy obsessed with wizards, about ancient magicks.”

In this case, my appositive follows the noun in the direct object position (“a book”) which makes it sound like it is renaming the book. This sentence doesn’t really make any sense (unless the book is alive and sentient and really into wizards and wizard culture and HOLY CRAP awesome short story idea).

An appositive always renames the noun that precedes it and is always another noun or noun clause.

In addition to basic renaming or specification, appositives can put on some fancy-ass pants, and rename a subject more than once to create a very rhythmic effect:

“Oliver wrote a book, a treatise on men of mystery, a tome that would bridge a gap between science and spirit, a collection of words woven with the sinew of sorcery.“

Appositives are like grammar-guitar solos in the middle of your sentence-songs. They’re in the same key, but give the main melody a little variation and a lot of vivification.

Resuming Resumptives

I think, in all the untamed wilds of the grammatical jungle, that resumptive modifiers are my favorite tool. Don’t tell the adjectival clauses though, it’d break their little nonrestrictive hearts.

The resumptive modifier is exactly what it sounds like; it “resumes” a sentence where it left off, creating an echo-like effect for the end of your original sentence. It shifts the emphasis of a sentence from the main verb of the subject, usually to whatever information is found in the object position:

“And so she wept for his soul, a soul forever doomed to read about, talk about, and be in the company of wizards.”

Where the original sentence would have been focused on her weeping, the resumptive modifier makes the sentence more about his soul. This is a great tool for opening, transitioning, or closing a section where you really want to leave the reader with a clearly defined point of focus.

You can also chain resumptive modifiers together, or repeat an idea to branch into another, tangentially similar idea:

“And so she wept for his soul, a soul turned malignant by years of abuse, abuse of dark magic that should have been left interred.” (Chained resumptive modifiers can make a sentence pretty dense, but pack an amazing syntactic wallop and carry a ton of information in not a lot of words.)

“And so she wept for his soul, a soul entwined in distant lore, a soul that wandered a shadow world of near-forgotten ideas, a soul that had little hope of ever finding the light of tangible reality ever again.” (the resumptive is repeated to add to the idea of this weird guy’s soul)

While resumptives are awesome, they still have rules. To create a resumptive modifier, your original sentence must end with a noun or an adjective, and the section that follows must include (or be) a subordinate clause. The modifier would be incomplete or not make sense otherwise:

“And so she wept quietly, quietly as to not disturb her brother.” (Resumptives with an adverb are redundant as you could just take one out and have the exact same sentence)

“And so she wept for his soul, a tired soul.” (No subordinate clause is also redundant, as you could just include the adjectival information in the original sentence)

For effect, it is still possible to use these forms, but know that if you do you are breaking a grammatical rule and some readers may find this wording garish or silly or just plain pointless.

Summarizing Summatives

If resumptives resume, then summatives…?

Summarize. You win one million SAT/GRE vocabulary points.

Unlike a resumptive, which only modifies the previous noun, a summative modifier sums up the entire independent clause of a sentence with a single noun (or nominative clause). A summative modifier is a perfect tool to nudge your reader into believing something about your sentence without beating them over the head with, “HI THERE READER PERSON, THIS IS WHAT THIS SENTENCE MEANS AND WHAT YOU SHOULD TAKE AWAY FROM THE STORY.” It’s more subtle and sneaky, and when pens are down, better writing.

For example:

“The wizard lost the battle, a defeat that would mark the beginning of his end.”

You’re very slyly giving your reader supplemental information without having to break it into a separate sentence. This improves the flow and let’s the reader draw the conclusion you want by providing literary breadcrumbs. This has the added effect of naturally “rounding out” an idea, making it a perfect way to end a chapter or section.

Just for fun…

…let’s use all three tools in one sentence:

“Hadrax, a red robed silhouette on the horizon, began to wave his hands, a signal to those below that meant incoming fury, fury that came from a wizard pushed too far for too long.

I’ll include my usual grammatical tools disclaimer: these are great, amazing, wonderful, lovely, super effective constructions, but be judicious. They are very fun to write, and very easy to get carried away with. An entire paragraph of resumptive modifiers is going to be dense and confusing. An entire section of summative modifiers may make your reader feel like you’re spoon-feeding them too much information. Too many appositives and your reader won’t know which descriptor is most important.

Use sparingly, parental guidance recommended, caveat emptor, et cetera, et cetera.

I wasn’t kidding. The first step is admitting you have a problem and then writing about it.

Review: The Hobbit (An Unexpected Journey)

December 15, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

Spoiler Alert: If you still haven’t found any time in the past 75 years to read J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit, this review may contain spoilers. And wizards.

“What is he doing? The Hobbit isn’t a beer! I can tell, based on a small sample of his work, that this guy probably definitely doesn’t know anything about movies. Who is he to say if a collection of scenes with characters and action cobbled together is good or not? Clearly, he’s super-unqualified to write a movie review, and we shouldn’t listen to anything he says in principle alone.”

This is all true. I am not (and only very rarely, after many beers, claim to be) a film critic. I only go to the movies a few times a year, and the majority of my time spent appreciating cinema involves re-watching Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom for the 28th time (I’ve been keeping track).

But I am a huge Tolkien fan. I’ve read and analyzed The Hobbit/There and Back Again at least four times and the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy at least three times. I’ve powered through The Silmarillion in my quest to absorb the history of Middle Earth, and may or may not have a strange infatuation with wizards that permeates every mystical pore of my life (yes, I have a wizard on my desk at work, and yes I have two staves, both of which are imbued with the magical essence of awesomeness).

My wife and I are known to regularly watch the original Peter Jackson trilogy as the darker days of winter encroach on our social lives; retreating into the depths of Moria to seek the warmth of the Balrog’s fire. We often quote Tolkien in an attempt to look nerdy and cool. Hell, even our wedding reception was inspired by Bilbo’s eleventy-first birthday party!

I’ve got some authority here, if only the kind garnered from being a devoted, studious fan.

I had been looking forward to The Hobbit since it was originally attached to Guillermo del Toro and was elated when I heard Peter Jackson would be back at the helm. Jackson meant more McKellen, who begat more Wood, who begat more Blanchett and more Weaving.

I had very high hopes.

And those hopes were met.

Casting – A wizard, a hobbit, 12 dwarves, and a whole mess of goblins

Martin Freeman might be the single best casting choice in the history of film. Seriously. He has the perfect mannerisms to capture the accidental hero inside Bilbo: engaging reactionary facial expressions, awkward and unsure body language, humorous quips, and perfectly timed vocal responses. He may have ruined himself for other movies now because he was such a convincing hobbit. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to picture him in any other role.

Sir Ian McKellen (a personal hero of mine, second only to Patrick Stewart) was back in usual form, spouting wisdom and being more of the bumbling “grey” version of Mithrandir that is representative of his role in the original book. His performance seemed a bit rusty for the first ten minutes (while the opening exchange with Bilbo was funny, McKellen seemed to be getting used to wearing his beard again), but by the time the dwarven group was assembled, my favorite wizard had been reborn on screen. I squealed like a school boy when he unsheathed Glamdring in the troll hoard, because I’m the kind of person who gets excited over swords that have official names.

Richard Armitage completed the trio of protagonists, and was a compelling (if slightly less hairy than expected) vision of Thorin Oakenshield. He seemed more brooding and pensive than the bull-headed and arrogant Thorin of the novel, but it worked well with Armitage’s embodiment of the nomadic, homeless Prince.

The rest of the cast was lovable enough, but some of the dwarven makeup seemed to be intentionally overdone as a means to tell them apart form each other, and did very little to develop their individual characters. Voice actor Barry Humphries did an admirable job as the Great Goblin, but was a bit too articulate and well-spoken for a giant, cave-dwelling monstrosity with a ballsack for a neck. Andy Serkis, as usual, makes my heart cry out for (and cringe in reaction to) a hilariously schizophrenic, young Gollum.

Visuals – 48 vs 24 and Star Wars Syndrome

There was debate over Jackson’s decision to film in 48 frames per second versus the traditional 24. For those who don’t get a warm rush of serotonin from reading about technical specs, 48 frames produces a more realistic image, as it effectively captures twice the detail per each second recorded (see here for a visual example). But making things more realistic (especially scenes in a high fantasy movie) isn’t always an amazing idea. Movies retain a certain level of whimsy and escapism because they actively don’t seem real, something that could be lost with a more true-to-what-I-see-all-boring-day style of filming.

But, as I didn’t bother with the extra expense of the 3D version (another rant for another time), I barely even noticed the shift in frame rate. The only times it snarled it’s hyper-realistic warg-teeth was during large sweeping fly-over shots. The usual blur of the background came off too crisp, like I was watching the actors run around form inside a helicopter, not form behind the comfort of the proverbial fourth wall.

My biggest fault in the visuals of the movie were the overcooked action scenes. Jackson had nearly 10 years of technological advancement to try out in his prequel, which he did without reservation.

I call this “Star Wars Syndrome.” George Lucas dramatically altered his own vision of medieval swordplay light saber duels with acrobatics and Wushu as soon as he had the technology to do it. Compare Luke and Vader’s final battle to Obi Wan and Anakin’s lava-duel. You wouldn’t even imagine the same director and artistic mind came up with both of those fight scenes if viewed independently.

Jackson, unfortunately, seemed to contract a case of SWS. Long gone are the intense, one-versus-many steel on steel combat scenes of the original trilogy. The clean, believable sword play of Aragorn is replaced by frenetic pile-on scenes, where the dwarves seem capable of super-human (super-dwarven?) abilities, and able to escape pretty much any situation unscathed. All of the fight scenes in The Hobbit feel over-designed, preferring silly, choreographed tumbling and striking over impressive displays of heroic badassery. I almost found myself waiting for the fight scenes to end, which is a discredit to the franchise, and oddly out of sync with my normal enjoyment of a film like this.

I think this is a great example of where technology loses to good old fashioned training. Armitage and his dwarven buddies would have been much more believable in a fight if they’d actually been swinging their swords and axes, not relying on a computer to magically do it for them. I kept thinking that someone in the production staff had made the executive decision that the Legolas “use-a-shield-as-a-sled” scene was the greatest thing ever, and made it the model for all of the fight scenes in The Hobbit.

This was still a beautiful movie. A lot of time was invested into the makeup and design of the sets, and the closing scene of Smaug’s eye opening looked incredibly authentic. Orcrist, Glamdring, and Sting were captured beautifully, and Rivendell was gorgeous, as if that is a surprise. Hindsight is always favorable and I’ve grown mighty fond of the original LOTR trilogy, so perhaps my opinion of the action is too tainted by nostalgia.

Length – Three instead of One?

The Hobbit is only ~300 pages (depending on the copy you’re reading). Splitting the original content into three, three hours movies seems a little bit excessive. As reluctant as I am to advocate for less Tolkien, critics have a point. There seemed to be a lot of scenes that were added just for the sake of padding the main plot points of the original novel so that it could span three full length movies. Jackson decided to turn a one-sentence reference to Radagast the Brown into a full character arc, including some silliness with a sled pulled by rabbits and some bird poop in wizard hair.

My theory is that Jackson realized this was his last chance to sink his dragon fangs into the Tolkien intellectual property. Once this series is over, it is unlikely we’ll see another LOTR or Hobbit reboot in our life time, making this second trilogy the final culmination of Tolkienage in video form.

Does that forgive some of the bloat?

Yes and no. I could have done without some of the 20 second long sweep shots of dwarves running across the same-old landscape and Jackson certainly enhanced certain scenes to make them more important than the original events of the book. I still didn’t find the movie too bloated, and the clever dialogue and placement of new (previously absent action) made 2.5 hours fly by. I never wanted things to move any more quickly, but I also have a full-blow case of Tolkienitus.

Those who are not as enamored with him as an author (or with the lore of Middle Earth) might find a bit of tedium in the less engaging sections of the movie. To those people I say: Hang in there. The best action of the Hobbit comes in right around the group’s arrival at Laketown (which I’m thinking will happen at the tail end of the second movie).

Overall – Firsts are tough; see Sorcerer’s Stone, A New Hope, and Fellowship of the Ring

I can’t lie, I totally loved this movie. It brought back all of the giddy memories of standing in line waiting for the midnight opening of Two Towers and Return of the King. It blew on the embers of my dwindling interest in swords and sorcery fantasy, stoking the fire of imagination. I now wait very impatiently for the mass market paperback of A Dance with Dragons to come out to feed my burning desire for more and more fantastic stories.

I’m particularly glad that Jackson understood the tone of the book and directly applied it to the film. The Hobbit is considerably less serious than the LOTR trilogy, and would have felt awkward and heavy had the producers and cast forced the same dour, fatalistic overtones of near hopelessness.

If you’re a Tolkien fan, I don’t need to tell you to go see if, because you probably already have.

If you’re a fantasy fan, go see this movie, if only for a great representation of a very influential book and author.

If you’re not a fantasy fan, you should still go see this movie, because it is actually pretty funny, and very well executed once your eyes adjust to the 48 FPS.

9.5 out of 10.

Well, what can I tell you? Life in the wide world goes on much as it has these past age, full of its own comings and goings, scarcely aware of the existence of hobbits… for which I am very thankful.

How to Meet a Wizard

July 17, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

Little known and oft ignored fact: there are thousands upon thousands of wizards living along side us. I know because I have apprenticed to a few, and am training to be a wizard myself.

Due to the fetters or civility and modern society, many of these people are forced to ply trades far less fantastic than traditional wizards. Since they can’t focus their powers on the arcane, they instead focus on being very good at one, specialized thing.

I was preparing a delicious serving of Carolina style short ribs when I decided that human blood might be a good addition to the recipe. My blood. Lots of it. From my thumb, via knife, into the delicious chili sauce.

This plan didn’t turn out as well as I had hoped, and I ended up hemorrhaging enthusiastically for several hours. I should have listened to my wife and gone to the hospital then and there, but I had to look tough, because, y’know. I wrapped the wound in Wendy’s napkins and duct tape, hoping that my mechanic’s bandage would staunch the bleeding and prevent the need for medical intervention.

My prescription of beer and Advil didn’t work. Turns out alcohol and ibuprofen are blood thinners. Who knew?

Admitting that perhaps this cut was beyond my healing abilities as a level 17 cleric, I drove around on Monday morning looking for an open Urgent Care or Patient First. I avoid hospitals when I can. Wizards don’t live at hospitals, anyway.

The man who saw me wasn’t even trying to hide that he was a wizard. A Stitch-Wizard, to be exact. He was five-foot-one, 85 lbs, wearing a red, 1970s paisley tie that was tucked into the top of his pants. His wrinkled skin betrayed years of scrutinizing eldritch magical tomes, and his puffed grey mustache was a vain attempt to distract from his amazingly shaped wizard beard. He spoke with power and wisdom; his eyes were kind and showed me ancient, guarded knowledge.

He used his magical powers to get rid of my thumb pain and stop the lifeblood from flowing out of my body. It was awesome.

Be observant when you are out and about, for you may be interacting with wizards every day.

What manner of man are you that you can sew up skin without spells and staves?

Comfort Level

March 3, 2011 · by Oliver Gray

When you injure yourself, you learn a new language. The syntax of this language is number representations of ideas; pain is gauged on a subjective scale of 1-10, progress is measured in proprietary, illogical measurements of negative degrees, and exercises are doled out in 30 second increments.

Twice a week I am asked “where I am” and I respond obediently with “3” or “5” depending on the day. I quickly added this new linguistic subset into my own verbal lexicon, growing to understand how and why it functions the way it does. I’ve tried to explain pain and can say that it is nearly impossible to describe to someone who hasn’t felt it, so an abstract scale somehow works.

Pain can be tolerated and mitigated. I am nearing the 6 month anniversary of my injury (hooray for arbitrary celebrations for unremarkable lengths of time!) and am happy to announce that my pain is dramatically lower than it was when my bone was in many, many fragments. I still have days where I feel like the metal in my arm is being assimilated into the Borg Collective, but fortunately those days are becoming a rarity. With meditation, breathing exercises, visual distractions, mental distractions, coffee, beer, happy pills (and many other things I can’t think of because of the happy pills) pain can be nearly negated.

Unlike pain, there is something that comes with being badly injured that few mention, probably because it is masked by or confused with pain. While you can manage and reduce pain, there is no way to improve your level of comfort. If you are uncomfortable, you are uncomfortable; no medication or distraction can bring you any solace.

Normally, when you are uncomfortable, you can make a slight alteration to your environment or placement in said environment and be comfortable again in short order. When you are cold, you can put on a long-sleeve shirt, if your butt is numb, you can move to a more comfortable chair. But when the discomfort is inside your skeletal system, you can do nothing. Your most comfortable outfit doesn’t help, resting in a certain position is impossible for any length of time, and what was once mundane becomes awkward and clumsy as discomfort quickly sets in.

It seems trivial and shallow to complain about something as minor as being uncomfortable. Discomfort is almost always short lived which makes it seem like nothing; try being uncomfortable in the same capacity for 6 months. It becomes a big deal at about the 2 month mark. Persisting numbness in fingers is annoying, painful, and limiting. The inability to sleep without waking up every hour or so to reposition is maddening for a single night; on the 180th night your sanity has long since unraveled. Frustration mounts and eventually overflows until you sort of rewire your brain to accept that you can’t be comfortable the same way you used to be.

It is vexing and humbling, but most importantly, it gives you perspective. I took for granted getting cozy next to a fire with a book and being able to play with my cats as if I were a cat myself. I can now appreciate what even more disabled people have to suffer through; especially those who suffered their injuries years into their lives.

The next time you have a paper cut that stings for a few days, or a bruise that aches for a week, imagine that feeling lasting indefinitely. Appreciate the times when you are pain free and can be comfortable if you so choose. Wear clothes that fit well and flail your joints about with reckless abandon. You never know when you might not be able to anymore.

Good role model.

A Child of Fantasy

February 8, 2011 · by Oliver Gray

I spent the majority of my waking childhood doing one of three things: reading books, playing soccer, or playing video games. It was a simple existence in which I put fun, fantasy, and anything surreal ahead of the mundane and every day. As a child, I was indulged; my wild imagination a wonderful thing that was fostered and encouraged by pretty much every adult I encountered. My mind danced with thoughts of magic, adventures across improbable landscapes, and a life of constant adventure and excitement.

This mentality continued into young adulthood, but my fantasies became more elaborate and vivid, opening up new vistas of possibility and entertaining strangeness. The books I read were more sophisticated, their language and concepts twisted and unreal, feeding my desire to experience the impossible. The games I played evolved with graphic engines, creating more realistic representations of monsters, castles, and the prior’s nonstop siege of the latter. I was able to indulge my insatiable imagination more than ever. Even my soccer became a calculated game of strategy; the physical exertions of the sport had become trivial and I enjoyed analyzing the war-like breakdown of an unfolding game just as much as I loved scoring a goal.

In college, I was free to indulge to an almost ludicrous extent. While still in high school I had been limited by my parents influence and observation. On my own, I could flood my mind with weird and archaic literature and play copious amounts of games to the maximum extent I could absorb them. I was not just free, I was unchained. My mind went into overdrive, seeking to experience any bit of fantasy I could get my hands on (or mind around) and I would often find myself reading a book, watching a movie, and playing a game simultaneously. I loved the freedom of overindulgence despite the mental and physical ramifications.

My success in college was simply a byproduct of this fantasy-lust; I just so happened to study a field that benefited from mental flexibility and rampant creativity. I actually enjoyed reading the things I read and writing the things I wrote, which I am sure not many college students can say with a straight face.

I never stopped to think that my obsession with fantasy was unhealthy for my development and perceptions. I always considered it normal, just a hobby like any other. I knew many who were as fanatical or even moreso, and figured I was a functional, social being somehow unaffected by something that consumed me so wholly.

The effects were subtle. I did not devolve into a schizophrenia where I thought I was actually a wizard casting spells in my cubicle. I did not dodge imaginary dragons while driving my car. I didn’t even consider myself particularly fantastic, despite constantly being awash in the genre.

I did however build a massive repository of expectation, preconceived notions, and overly exaggerated perception. Any time an adult described something to me, I gathered every tiny piece of information about the topic and began to construct my imaginary idea of what this thing would be like. With emotions I aggrandized what it would actually feel like, expecting it to be as obvious as cold water on a hot day. With events, I expected wondrous celebrations; wildly yet surreptitiously planned and executed. Sensations were not spared either; I always imagine alcohol to taste like candy, having a job being a daily adventure in a hip environment, and various achievements literal milestones that I could tangibly see, touch, and remember with pride.

This doesn’t sound bad. I had very, very, very high expectations for things. This meant I had a powerful curiosity and tried almost anything I could. Exotic foods, various athletics, even sources of altered states, when the opportunity presented itself. I was not out of control, but I was certainly hedonistic for a period, in an attempt to reach that exalted pinnacle of emotion that I had built in my mind. In college I played the role of hedonist to an extreme at times, hoping to get a brief taste of what seemed so ordinary and accessible to others.

When I didn’t feel these things, I was confused. For a bit, I considered myself a sociopath, incapable of feeling the gamut of the human psyche. But one day, I had an epiphany about my life and all my experience. If I remember correctly, I was reading the introduction to Walden for the 4th time. I had not not felt the various emotions and sensations I sought, I had felt them in a way completely polar to how I had expected to feel them.

I had been in love, I had been truly angry, I had felt spirituality, pride, honor, grace, humility, aggravation, embarrassment. Unlike physical pain and pleasure, these feelings were impossibly ethereal, only felt in wisps and tickles. A lifetime of fantasy immersion had made me brace myself for these feelings hitting me; instead they tapped me one the shoulder and passed right on by without me even noticing.

The result: a general disillusionment. I am nowhere near unhappy, in fact I love where my life has meandered and am proud of the things I have accomplished thus far. I have big dreams and am taking steps to realize them, and feel, for the most part, satisfied. But I am admittedly two dimensional in my emotions, mainly because I never felt what I thought I should feel, when I expected to feel it. I had to force myself to say, “Oh, so that is what X feels like”, where “X” equals any emotion normally recognizable by a person.

I had to spend some time realigning what was reality and disconnecting it from what fantasy had taught me was reality. While this sounds absurd, it was actually quite difficult, and I still find myself underestimating certain emotions and events. I didn’t walk at my college graduation because the entire event seemed washed out and banal to me; to this day I could tell you why I thought that. I also had to acknowledge that I have experienced many, many things that I had simply overlooked, and take time to appreciate them for what they are, not what they might be.

I would say that fantasy ruined my mind, but that would be an oversimplification and overreaction. It certainly altered my judgements and made me expect more than I think is reasonable for the world we live in. But it also taught me to never take anything for granted, and instilled in me a sense of dedication and stoicism that I might not have had otherwise. Because I “missed” many emotions and feeling when they first manifested themselves, I have developed a very placid demeanor; it takes a lot of consistent frustration to push me over the edge. I am passionate, but only to a certain extent, and I do not easily get carried away.

All this as a result of many hours of Tolkien, Asimov, Lovecraft, and Sierra, Blizzard, Bioware.

I do not regret it, as with all of the above confusion about the world comes a few, dominating positives. I find fun in the mundane, by being able to project frivolity and fantastic scenarios on what would otherwise be a total snoozefest. I also have high mental dexterity; I attribute my problem solving skills and fast-thinking to the years of synapses firing over which monster to take down first. I also have developed an immense database of historical and folklore knowledge that often aids me in conversation and in writing; both of which I find myself doing quite often.

I only write this because I know there must be others like me out there who have not come to terms with why the feel (or don’t) the way they do. Others of my generation who played just as many games, read just as many books, and otherwise smothered themselves in science fiction and fantasy surely must have similar sentiments to mine.

If so, fear not. There really is a wonderful world out there, filled with amazing scenery, people, experiences, and yes, adventures waiting for you to discover it. There is sorcery abound in human interaction and pure magic in a lover’s touch. As much comfort as there is in your digitally or scholarly created worlds, they will not serve you indefinitely. I do not suggest complete removal of the thing that has defined you and that you love so dearly, just an active recognition of which world is actually real.

"Humanity has the stars in its future, and that future is too important to be lost under the burden of juvenile folly and ignorant superstition. " Isaac Asimov

Excuses are like Elbows…

January 20, 2011 · by Oliver Gray

…everyone has a couple that they bend and flex to reach for what they want or push away what they don’t. I seem to be surrounded by people making excuses and bending their elbows, spending more time coming up with reasons as to why they can’t or didn’t do something than actually doing whatever it is they need to do.

Television is bogged down with shows about people making excuses as to why they’re fat, why they’re angry, why they’re damaged, or why they’re stupid. Every corner I turn has someone new making an excuse about why they did a crappy job, let someone down, or diffused responsibility inappropriately. I overhear coworkers blaming their personal deficiencies on others and proverbially throwing people under the bus, so that they don’t have to face any semblance of reality. It is actually so common an occurrence that I am taken aback when someone displays maturity and takes responsibility for their actions.

My weekly visits with the wizards are like huge excusefests, where every single person is either complaining that something involves a slight amount of work or outright refusing to do something because it is too hard. Most people go to physical therapy to fix some kind of problem, so avoiding doing the work to fix said problem seems counterintuitive. It is almost infuriating to hear these people prattle on about how unfair it is that they haven’t made any progress, when they just stand around half-assing all of the exercises that the trained medical professional with decades of experience tell them will help their recovery.

On top of becoming more accepting of laziness, rudeness, and idiocy, our society has also become far too tolerant of people making excuses. Most of the excuses aren’t even clever or original, they are just whiny generalities spewed forth whenever someone doesn’t want to try something. Married your spouse in a rush knowing nothing about them and now regret it deeply? Just get a divorce, why waste the time and energy to fix the relationship. Got fat from a lack of discipline, exercise, and an understanding of nutrition? Screw eating right and fitness, slap a lap-band on that stomach and get to losing that front-butt. Perhaps the root cause is the decline of the virtue of patience, but a culture that glorifies instant gratification also promotes giving up instead of practice and perseverance.

Some of us either don’t have the option or the lack of pride to simply give up when something becomes challenging. Some of us have broken excuses and elbows. I am not comfortable actively dodging my responsibilities and certainly believe that hard work is necessary for success in many cases. In the past 6 weeks, I have gained 20 degrees of movement in my busted-ass elbow (1o in each direction), with an almost 45 degree increase overall. This doesn’t sound like much, but when you consider that I only had 5 degrees of movement total when I got my cast off a few months ago, it is quite an achievement.

It fills me with a sense of satisfaction. I can honestly say that, regardless or anything else going on in my life, I have worked towards something meaningful. Progress is admittedly slower than I expected, but at the end of the day, even a 1 degree increase is something to celebrate. I truly enjoy working hard, whether with the wizards, in the loathsome office, or at my cheery little home; I can fall asleep at night, exhausted by a sense of satisfaction.

I wonder what sense of accomplishment excuses-makers have. While immediate, easy gratification or validation is nice at times, it hardly leaves a lasting sense of value. Do they know the exciting energy of finally nailing every note in a song that you have been practicing for months? Do they get the warm-fuzzies when someone genuinely thanks them for all the help they have selflessly put forth? Do they even acknowledge that hard work can lead to an overwhelming sense of self worth?

I worry that the children of my generation may not know the awesome feeling of real achievement, and will only loosely associate the word with meaningless victories and participation trophies. It will be a sad day for them when they realize that despite all of their parent’s/teacher’s/coach’s/tutor’s/piano instructor’s/therapist’s reassurance that everyone is a winner, there are in fact losers. Participation doesn’t count for shit if you don’t finish the game.

Everyone is a winner or alive enough to be handed a trophy!

Rock the Corporate

January 14, 2011 · by Oliver Gray

Today I wore a mohawk to work. I got out of the shower and my hair was already half-hawked, so I decided to just run with it. It’s not the most massive plume to ever wave atop someone’s skull, but I’m pretty proud of it. I may be taking too many liberties with the concept of “casual friday”, but if women in the office can wear hats that make them look like train conductors, I didn’t think a little spike would be too offensive.

While a simple adjustment of the hair might seem tame to those who are aggressively independent and edgy, the office I slave away in is particularly sensitive to youthful frivolity. We play host to a rather…international…cast, many of who are obviously not quite settled with the idea of free-thought and non-traditionalism. They often complain when people wear sneakers but simultaneously dress themselves like extras from the original 1984 Miami Vice.

The reaction I got was hilariously expected. Upper management obviously did not love the look, and offered nervous glances; maybe this outward show of stereotypical rebellion made them worry that I might throw a chair through a window or incite a riot at any minute. I’m not exactly known as a bad boy in this office; my typical jab at the dress code is not shaving for 3-4 days at a time. For kicks, I also wore my leather jacket, an olive green union jack t-shirt, a trendy scarf, paint-stained jeans, and to top off the look, my mirrored aviators.

There is something liberating and satisfying about a mohawk. It’s like wearing an out stretched middle finger on your head, all day, that you can point at anyone to subtly say, “Hey, yea, I don’t give a shit.” I don’t actively hide the fact that I dislike the atmosphere and people in this office (here, here, and here), so it is a nice feeling to somehow get away with being a dick, without people knowing I’m being a dick, without actually being a dick. I don’t really want to be mean spirited, but it is rather vindicating to intentionally make people uncomfortable after they have made the hours of my life from 8:30 AM -5:30 PM so miserable for so long.

I think I actually scared our program director; she can’t seem to make direct eye contact with me today. I never realized a palm full of product could make me into such an imposing, 5 foot 7 inch, bad ass. Maybe if I put on some Sex Pistols and do air guitar while standing on my desk, people will leave me alone for the day. A boy can dream.

Anarchy in the UK, and such.

...And people say I don't have any style.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

December 1, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

Despite popular belief that has been perpetuated by popular TV, you do not need to be a barfly, womanizer, or functional alcoholic to maintain a healthy circle of friends; you need only injury yourself and find the nearest physical therapy office. After only a few sessions, the reception staff, therapists, trainers, interns and other patients know you and many details about your life quite well. Perhaps it is the caring nature of those who choose rehabilitation as a career or the innate empathy that is offered to injured people that creates and atmosphere of acceptance and serenity.

The typical Physical Therapy office is a magical, mystical place filled with colored putties and odd machines, the purpose of which you can only loosely surmise. There are kindly wizards who will zap your injuries with lightning and other benevolent assistants clad in identical vestments, presumably undergoing some sort of neophytic wizarding ritual. Aside from those who provide the care, the office is normally filled with the everyday citizens of all the neighboring kingdoms; trolls, goblins, gremlins, kobolds, gnolls, creeping oozlings, ogres, bandits, brigands, nameless horrors and even a unicorn or two.

Combining a bunch of strangers experiencing varying amounts of pain in one small location seems like a bad idea. I can imagine a scenario where someone would go ballistic from acute pains causing more pain to themselves and nearby pain sufferers. The person going berserk might topple some heavy equipment and scare the older patients. The cataclysmic cascade of pain would create a veritable chaos unseen since the dark ages. Fortunately, despite mentally debilitating pain and discomfort, the patients in a PT office are generally benign. Whether it be the the overtly friendly staff, bright lighting, or subtle background music, something keeps the place surprisingly upbeat. I tend to stay optimistic as I know that wallowing in a mire of sadness and self-pity won’t make my arm any more flexible; maybe this is the prevailing mentality for all patients. Maybe the wizards cast a happy spell every morning; I don’t know, I’ve never caught them in their robes.

The exercises you are given are tedious and irritating, mostly because you feel so awkward doing them. Normally, bicep curls would not bother me, but when you are grimacing and awkwardly jerking around a bar that weighs a paltry 3 pounds, you feel quite silly. You are also provided a little timer that beeps when you are supposed to stop/switch an exercise. This is your inanimate guide to a PT session, chirping loudly when you are to move along. The therapists actually do very little during the first 80% of each session and spend most of their time floating about like factory foreman, pointing out flaws in technique or suggesting you, “slow down”. I think some of the wizards underestimate my magical aptitude.

During this time, you are often doing a repetitive motion that requires almost no cognitive processing power, leaving your mind to wander and think about the mysteries of the universe. My metaphysical pondering is often interrupted by a nearby goblin asking me how I got injured and then launching into an unsolicited 22 minute rant about how they got injured. I am usually bored/tired enough to play along, commiserating and saying, “aww” when appropriate. This seems to be the M.O. for the unchaperoned portion of a PT session. Patients ramble quietly too each other, reminiscing about pre-injury days until their beeper goes off/runs out of batteries. The wizards do not like it when the beeper is not silenced immediately which is understandable, as it is pretty damn annoying.

This week, I met a man who has been in therapy for 8 months because, and I quote, “someone tried to kill him but didn’t”. His story is quite compelling; he was mugged at a gas station for the $8 in his wallet and left bloodied for 2 hours until another customer found him. He had trauma to his neck, back, left forearm, and right leg. He is a fan of Real Madrid and told me he lost $500 to his nephew in a holiday-time bet that they would beat local rivals Barcelona. He is a pretty nice dude and I don’t know why someone would want to kill him. I hope the wizards fix him quickly.

Another woman, who seems to have a schedule identical to mine, is recovering from back surgery. She slipped a disk in her back at work (she is a registered nurse and probably has the worst bedside manner on the east coast) and now claims to have horrible burning sensations in both her legs. She moves quite well despite this claim, but does a fine job of whining non-stop throughout her entire appointment. When asked why she wasn’t taking her pain medication, she told them to, “stop trying to make her an addict” and said hydrocodone (Vicodin) would let the doctors, “control her brain.” The wizards clearly dislike her.

I also met the local commander of law; he had injured himself in a high speed horse chase or something. He had already had one knee replaced and was planning to have the other replaced as soon as he recovered from the first. His son plays hockey which, according to this man, was superior to soccer in every possible way. I did not argue with him, because he had a gun and handcuffs. The wizards seemed dismayed that he only came to appointments when he felt like it (which apparently was not very often).

After the social time is over, one of the therapists comes over to you to cast some healing spells and zap you with lightning. The lightning is not too painful, but the other things they do are very, very painful. They will apply heat and then bend your injured extremity at extreme angles. They will make you resist their attempts to bend your joint all about to “test strength”. They will even squeeze, rub, and otherwise man-handle your poor, sore appendage to stimulate nerve activity and blood flow. This goes on for about 25-30 minutes. When they are finally finished with their work, you kind of don’t like wizards for a while, but that feeling wears off when you realize they were actually hurting you for your benefit…somehow.

Twice a week you visit the wizard and meet your new, odd friends in the clean-smelling office. Twice a week you are told the same stories or get minor updates on how many degrees a person can bend something or other. Twice a week you spend money to let someone physically hurt you. It’s a very weird phenomenon, but given my progress thus far, a very necessary one.

The wizards gave me some magical clay to help speed my recovery. It is hard to sculpt, but I tried anyway (since that is probably good therapy). I have included some pictures of its awesomeness below:

I meticulously shaped it into a tofu cube.

Then I made it into a cobra, which in retrospect looks a little like a poo.

The poo-snake transformed into a sea turtle with a dented shell.

And then the turtle changed into the goddamn Batman.