Like Yourself

I recently exchanged phone numbers with some folks I met at school.

We hadn't talked much, but they were girls that I would say "hi" to every now and then, before and after class, and during class breaks.

Throughout the weeks, we spoke less and less. Near the end of the semester, I received a text from one of the girls. It was one of those loooong texts with a beginning, middle, and end. This "text" was six messages long, and I barely even had a chance to register the words into my mind before the next ones came pouring in.

Long story short, the girl wrote stuff along the lines of "do you like me?" and "I can't tell if you like me" and my personal favorite, "are you pretending to be nice?"

Pretending?

Let me say this: If you're so curious as to whether or not someone "likes" you (whatever that means)... first of all, it shouldn't matter. Why would you want everyone to like you? Not even the most kindhearted people in the world are "liked" by everyone. Some are even despised by cynics for being selfless (try wrapping your brain snakes around that lamp space).

Second of all, if I liked a person and they ask me whether or not I "liked" them... that is the moment I stop liking them. I'm a sympathetic person, and I understand if a person has anxieties and insecurities, but I'm not a fan of others projecting their insecurities onto the outside world.

When I lived in Anaheim, I had three really great roommates... and another guy that we had to live with. I liked him just fine for the first week. He was a little odd, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

One day, my odd roommate walked in the door and we greeted each other. Out of the blue, he asked "...are you mad at me?"

This is a concerning thing to hear, even for a person who isn't neurotic (like me). It defined him as a person. It determined how the upcoming four months of sharing an apartment was going to be.

"No", I said, "why would I be mad at you?"

Then I got mad. Mostly because I realized I was living with a person who was lost in himself.

The Universe Knowing Itself

My last post was very Descartes ("I think, therefore I am"). Today, I want to talk about space.

Hey van Gogh, paint this.

What fascinates me about the universe is that it's already so vast (and still growing), though it's totally possible that life on Earth is the only life around.

Wrap your head around that idea for a second. Earth could be the beginning (and hopefully not the end) of the only sentient beings to ever exist.

Why is that such a big deal? Astronomer David Kornreich (via Space.com) claims there could be as many as 10 trillion galaxies in the universe. There's an estimated 100 billion stars in our galaxy. Multiply the two and you get 100 octillion stars, which Blogger doesn't even think is a real word. 100 octillion looks like 100,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000. Yeah.

Skyandtelescope.com uses a different estimation for the number of stars in our universe and decided on 70 billion trillion. Now, we can talk about the stars in the "observable" universe, meaning the 13.7 billion light-years we think is as far as we can see of an even bigger universe, or the fact that our universe could be part of a complex system of universes (a multiverse, as Space.com calls it), or the curve of space-time distorting our view of distant objects' distance from Earth, but let's just stick with numbers for now.

If the universe really does have 70 billion trillion stars in it, there must be planets out there with proper living conditions for other creatures? Well, the closest star to our sun is Proxima Centauri, which is 4.24 light-years away. That's pretty far. The chances of a space rock orbiting a star close enough to not burn or freeze its inhabitants is probably also very unlikely.

The reason I'm so nuts about this idea is that if we are the only conscious beings, that leaves the rest of the universe as very big... and very stupid. The nebulae, stars, and space objects that fascinate us have no idea what they are, can't perceive themselves or anything around them, even though they are moving fast. There's that BS question about whether or not a falling tree would make a "sound" if no one is there to hear it, but I think it would be a shame if the whole universe existed with no one there to appreciate it.

Carl Sagan once said "We're made of star stuff. We are a way for the cosmos to know itself." This is such a beautiful concept because if we are the only living things in the universe, we're also the only chance it has at understanding its secrets.

Let's go.

You are a Thinking Thing

I'm a misanthropic optimist.

What does that mean? Let me put it like this. If we met, I'd probably give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you're a good person. And if you're not cynical like me, we'd get along fine.

Just don't expect me to enjoy mosh pits.

I haven't blogged in ages. And to all my reader(s) out there, I am sorry my good man (or woman... or Jenner's gender). I'd apologize for not writing for a while, but I was taught that sometimes the best excuse is no excuse.

This is some time we're living in.

Now that I'm back online, I want to talk about something exciting-- the chances of being born. I've been contemplating it and realized the chances of being born are closer to zero than anyone can imagine.

Matter of fact, I came across another blog by a guy who uses math to predict the chances of being born. Someone else summarized his thoughts into this amazing infographic (which you can right click, open in a new tab, and zoom in on if you're not already an eagle).

The point he makes is that the chances of being born as "you", meaning all of your ancestors procreated down the line until you came about, are pretty much impossible. It's a tricky concept to grasp because when you think of it, your life was inevitable. There couldn't have not been a "you"... right?

Think about all the millions of potential brothers and sisters you could have had, each born with slight variations. Some might be more prone to genetic disorders, or genetic advantages, they would each inherit physical, mental, and personality features of your mother or your father, the quirks of your grandparents, and so on.

Now forget about all of that and think of being born as someone else from a different family entirely.

Forget about that and think about being born as an animal or an insect.

What determines whose consciousness we start off with? You could have been born as one of your siblings just as easily as you could have been born as pop culture phenomenon Carrot Top, chef Gordon Ramsay, or the homeless veteran holding up a sign in front of your favorite supermarket.

In the end, we're all stuck in our own bodies. There's no Jimmy Neutron science experiment that will transfer your mind into another person's body (which Jimmy ended up doing with his crush, Cindy, via telephone lines). You're you. And even though most of modern human life is spent doing mundane tasks, returning e-mails, driving around, waiting in lines, and sleeping in hopes you'll wake up with enough energy this time, you have the gift of perception. You're literate, which allows you to put yourself in someone else's imagination. You've seen good things, bad things, and probably lots of Kermit the Frog. But in everything you've experienced, in every choice you'll ever make, there is a "You" and I encourage you to make the most of it.

Be well.

-Philip

Kiwi and Cocaine

Halfway into my Disneyland internship, somewhere around ten Brazilians moved into our Disney dorms and started working alongside the rest of us interns.

I took a liking to them them right away... didn't know them as well as I would have wanted, I'll admit. But they knew how to party.

I should note that I'm not much of a partier, but I love new company. And they were fun to be around.

Among the Brazilians was guy that I ended up spending the most time with. He'll remain unidentified for his own privacy, but let's call him "Hank", for simplicity's sake.

One night, Hank invited me downstairs from my 5th floor corner apartment to one of his boisterous Brazilian bashes.

There was something different about the way the Brazilians threw their parties. We all lived in one building, five floors tall, so it was hard to not know where and how everyone partied. The following are nicknames I'm giving them now: There were the "Kings" in room 400 with their castle made of beer cans. There were the "Saints" in 506 (literally the nicest people I've ever met) with their innocent, but euphorically fun board and video game nights. There was also a room that threw a party the first week with a view of Disneyland's fireworks.

Hank's party had none of these things. Hank's party didn't even have a window. But when you were at Hank's party, you felt like you were at a rave. At least, I did.

"You want a drink?" Hank asked me over the degrading American music.

"Yeah. What have you got?"

"I'll make you the special. You've never had this before. Trust me," which sounds suspicious.

Hank went behind the bar and mixed some stuff.

"Try this," he said as he handed me a grainy concoction of green slime in a shot glass, "It's a kiwi shot."

It looked like this minus the cuke.

We smiled, clinked our glasses, and I took the shot.

I have never felt so juiced in my life. The normal confident, drowsy, drunk feeling that comes with a heavy shot didn't affect me the way it should have. I wasn't tired. I didn't feel drunk. I was feeling something else that made me feel wired. More confident than a normal person should be, too. I felt invincible and quick, like a bolt of lightning. So I did what anyone in my position would have done-- I ran downstairs, out of the lobby, around the corner to Vons, and bought a jar of peanut butter.

Once I ran back to my apartment, I ecstatically crafted a sandwich, ate it voraciously, and made my way back to the party. I don't believe I was gone more than twenty minutes. Then again, I'm convinced I was on crack-time, and I don't know how that conversion normally works.

I don't have proof as to whether or not Hank laced my drink with something stronger than booze. I'm not even concerned. But the next day, I ran into one of our mutual friends-- a well known party animal-- and he mentioned something about a kiwi drink the night before.

"Did Hank make it for you?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, "I don't know what he put in that shit, but he must have put cocaine in it or something."

Twitterology

Twitter seems to get more people into trouble than anything else these days.

I guess the world just isn't ready for that technology. I often imagine George Washington tweeting about his mixed feelings before a battle, Abraham Lincoln tweeting what he thought about the "dank" play his wife was dragging him to see, or Harriet Tubman posting her whereabouts while liberating slaves. These tweets would be out of character for these historical figures, of course, but we adapt to our environments, and not always in our best interests. I'll never understand why a congressman would tweet a photo of his "Netherlands" to someone, but that happened in our world's timeline, probably even more than the time(s) we all found out about.

A luddite is apparently is against technology. I wouldn't call myself a luddite because I grew up playing video games, invested enough hours in them to call some of their settings second homes.

I also like typing what I write (a typewriter won't do-- I edit the hell out of my stuff). I will say that the direction technology is going is getting unsettling. All my child development teachers say the same thing about children... they're addicted to iPads.

And that's a shame because those parasites sap the life out of you. I'm talking about iPads, not children.

iPad? Fuh Q.

What's wrong with iPads? They're not hurting anybody. Yeah, but they're weird. As a guy who's used to typing on a real keyboard, watching movies on a tube t.v., and playing video games with ergonomic controllers instead of my greasy fingers on a smudged screen, it's just a stretch. But I'm not going to get into reasons you should boycott Apple products (even though you should). You see, I think all tablets are janky. And shoving your face into a screen instead of admiring your surroundings is an easy way to cheat yourself out of life.

Then again, this is all coming from a guy who loves posting close-up photos of furniture and still has Flappy Bird on his phone. I still have goddamn Flappy Bird on my phone.

If only the maker made something more original. I suggest "Flappy Bird Kart".

FIREWORKS!

They're really loud. A lot of people have asked me why I don't like fireworks. It's not that I don't like them. Looking at them's alright, a little repetitive, though. I reckon every firework show can be 95% shorter. It would also be nice if they had a mute button.

At Disneyland, Fantasyland cast members (myself included) would rope off Toontown and Sleeping Beauty's Castle, as well as every ride in Fantasyland so that in case of a fire, nobody would burn to death. It's a nice gesture. We'd stand guard with our orange crowd control sticks and redirect people around the Matterhorn if they're trying to get to "it's a small world" or Tomorrowland, once in a while shaming knuckleheads who ducked under the ropes.

I remember working alongside some firemen, really cool guys with a lot of life experience. We'd talk until the fireworks went off. I have a lot of respect for the Disneyland fire department. If I'm not mistaken, they're mostly (if not all) retired firefighters who happen to work at Disneyland because... well, why not? One of them told me his wife pushed him to work there for free tickets, and so that he'd have something to do.

Every time we'd block off Fantasyland, we'd also block off the restrooms. This led to a lot of angry individuals trying to get to the nearest one.

"Are you serious?", they would ask when I told them the second closest restroom was in Tomorrowland. I've rarely ever seen so many angry faces in such short amounts of time. I once had a discussion with a fireman, a guy who has most likely stared death in the face time after time, who agreed with me when I said that working at Disneyland was hard. Of course, every job should be at least a little challenging, otherwise it's purgatory with a paycheck. What made working at Disneyland so tough was that you really get invested with people's plights. And often, they'll take it out on you even while you're in the act of helping them. You just have to endure it.

Storybook Land during the fireworks was a little different from the ropes. We'd stop right on the canals to get a view of the show in our boats, our guests right there with us, surrounded by fireworks shot off in Toontown and Fantasyland. Sounds great on paper. As it turns out, it'll do a number on your ears. I recall a few little kids freaking out from the noise, trying to hide deep in their parents' embrace. Of course, once you're on the ride, you're in it for the whole shebang. That's why we warned everyone as they boarded around firework o' clock.

Once in a while, the booming voice of Disneyland's announcer would come on and say "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls (always leaving out transsexuals and hermaphrodites), due to high winds, Disneyland will not be showcasing its fireworks display...".

One night, that voice made the cancellation announcement while I was on the Storybook dock and a teenage kid in line started bawling. I asked him what was wrong and he replied, in a British accent, "I'm crying because there's not going to be any fye-uh wuks tonight!" I had no idea other people liked them so much until then. I've always known them to be nifty, but for some people, they're really awe-inspiring.