The summer never really arrived here, but suddenly, now that we are back at work, we get an Indian summer. So today, (Sunday,) we packed some sandwiches and books, and went out for a long walk, across the river, to another side of town, and around, to a hill on the outskirts of town, on which sit the ruins of the old town "castle." I don't know how big it was to begin with, but not very would be my guess. It was blown up as the Nazis were leaving, though no one is really sure why or by whom.

So we had a picnic there, and ate our sandwiches while looking over the river, and then went and sat on the ruins and read our books in the sun. After we had read for a while, we went to a beer garden in the town square, and sat outside, drank some beer, and kept reading and intermittently talking.

When we finished, and the sun was slowly sinking, we went for a walk around the town square, looking in all the shop windows. One of my students has a factory that makes women's bags, and apparently one of the stores on the square carry his products. So we went looking for them, and though we never found them, we had a good walk, and looked at lots of interesting designs in the windows.

Now we are home, and Cynthia is making a potato soup for dinner. It has been a good day.

Adventurous I ain't.

I have been on vacation recently, (more or less, meaning I work one day out of every two or three,) which has resulted in my sitting around far too much. Which has led me to question "what the fuck am I doing here? Why am I sitting around locked in my house when I could be out having "adventures"?

Which, of course, was the exact same question I used to ask myself at Gouno. Then I would embark upon an expedition, to . . . hmmm . . . hmmm . . . hmmmmmmm. The river! Along the way I would accidentally collect about 47 small boys who would attach themselves to me like burrs to velcro, and would proceed to spend the next 4 hours attempting to climb, swim, wade, fall-down and otherwise stumble painfully about, till I tired of the utter green magnificence, and realized that, while interesting, unless there was something more of interest to be found here, it really was Milo time. It never turned out to be much of an adventure.

So, in a similar fashion, I have recently repeatedly set out from the house, bearing with me a few items, and bravely went to . . . hmmm. A pizzeria!! A cafe!! A bar!! Well, in all honesty, I wander about first, looking for . . . something, until eventually it occurs to me that a beer might be in order. So, although I have made it out of the house, it really hasn't added up to much adventure. Until recently.

My wife and her friends, (OK, they are mine too, I suppose) decided to go to Szczawnica, (yeah, go ahead, try and pronounce it.) I agreed because it was "lovely, and so beautiful." When we got there, it finally came out, (what had been rather indirectly hinted at previously) that there really was nothing there unless we were to take bicycles, and pedal toward the old Red Cloister in the hills, on the Slovakian side of the border. Not willing to be a poor sport, (but knowing that bicycles often sense my unease with them and attack,) I agreed to rent this two-wheeled contraption, and we set off down the trail. It was fun for a while, but eventually the sheer rock cliffs around the river, the rushing brown torrent, the green forest and gently rolling hills began to merge together into a somewhat red-faced, slightly out of breath and lightly bespeckled with mud experience dominated by overtones of extreme hunger. Shortly after this fact had blossomed into full prominence in my mind was the exact moment when people began enquiring cheerfully about my welfare, and making generally pleased noises toward the surrounding plant life.

"Isn't it beautiful?" they would breathlessly enquire, looking off into the distance at something I apparently had not seen. "Look at the trees!" they would say, leading me to wonder if they were referring to something in particular, or just the fact that there were, in fact, a very large number of trees all around us. "Oooh, isn't the river nice?" Which comment led me to wonder exactly what the difference between a nice and not-nice river might be, and if I really wanted to find out.

It wasn't too long after this that a sort of semi-detached hallucinatory rationality set in, and I began to analyse what this scene required to really bring out the beauty, and make it a really pleasant, top-notch experience. And it occurred to me that if we could just knock down some of the trees, and build a really nice art-museum which could have a nice coffee shop/bar with large, plate-glass windows maintained spotlessly clean, through which one might stare at the nice trees,and the rushing river, while drinking a good espresso, and pondering the delicacies that the delicate young thing in the apron was carrying to other patrons every time you glanced up from your book or conversation, then we could REALLY have something here.

Now, it rather deserves mentioning at this point that sometime prior we had crossed the border into Slovakia, and sometime prior to that my bicycle had begun revealing its true nature. Whenever it was necessary to pedal hard, the chain would attempt to slip gears, resulting in your feet flying off the pedals, and your teeth flying toward the handle-bars. But, of course, as long as you changed gears, (which it could kind of, sort of, do) you could avoid this problem, unless you were going up anything much resembling an incline, in which case you were shit out of luck, and might as well get off and push.

As we progressed further and further away from the cluster of houses behind us which I mentally referred to rather wistfully as "civilization," my annoyance at the monotony of nature's majesty increased proportionally with my hunger, till it was difficult to refrain, when asked "How ya' doin, Matt?" from answering "What part of mud-spattered, out of breath, hungry and sore-assed would you care me to comment on?"

Then quite suddenly my self-pitying reverie was interrupted as my bicycle began doing a fair imitation of a drunk man on stilts. I slammed on the brakes, (to much cursing behind me,) and began fiddling with the front wheel, which was flopping back and forth freely, loose enough to be able to rub the brakepads on either side. I immediately could see that this was an emergency of the first order, and would require helicopter evacuation. To calm my sense of rising panic, I immediately ate my share of the lunch, which helped significantly. As my belly slowly filled with sausage and focaccio bread, I nourished myself mentally with thoughts of myself walking, pushing this damned infernal machine, suffering every step of the way, encountering pitying looks from passing hikers as I struggled up, and then down, one gentle incline after another, making my way back to civilization, where there would be beer and over-priced kielbasa.

My loving wife, eventually sensing that something gloomy was missing from her life, came back to find me. Despite all attempts to reason with her, she insisted that giving up was not the logical answer to most of the difficulties life presents one with, and suggested rather that we cast about for some tools with which to fix the problem. I half-heartedly tried the nuts with my fingers, and was delighted to find that they were rock-solid-tight. There would be no fixing it. Eventually the other members of our party returned, and after some debate, in which I felt I was doing well, and moving them steadily toward the idea that I must, for the good of all, begin walking back, Peter suddenly grabbed the bike, turned it back over (I had been enjoying the sight of the damn thing with its wheels in the air, like some sort of helpless beetle on its back) and pronounced he would ride it.

I cannot describe the humiliation of my defeat. After such a fortuitious turn of events, to be robbed of your martyrdom at the last second by someone who casually shrugs and takes your burden of suffering upon themselves and cheerfully soldiers forward was almost more than I could take. I fought back bitter tears of resentment as I watched him ride off, wheel wobbling like a wobbly wheel, while I was left with the better, still functioning bike. I was left with no choice but to follow.

As it turned out, the cloister was only another 10 minutes of muddy riding away, and as they had beer and over-priced kielbasa available there, they did a pretty good imitation of rudimentary civilization. After beer and kielbasa, I could no longer stomach the guilt of allowing someone else, (regardless of how brave,) to continue carrying what by all rights should be MY ticket to feeling sorry for myself, and so insisted that I would ride it back, despite the fact that he claimed to enjoy it, as it made the ride more interesting.

Which, it turns out, it did. The rubbing against the brakepads, the extra-hard peddling to overcome the extra resistance, the constant rythmic screech, and the side-to-side wobble were just the things for taking one's mind off the over-abundance of all things natural currently encroaching aggressively on one's person, among which had to be counted a fine layer of sweat.

The trip back seemed to take much less time than the trip out, which seems always to be the case. When we got back I forgot to dismount a little ways out and push it mournfully in, which meant we had to stand about longer, and stubbornly refuse to pay for some minutes before Rachel, for the benefit and better comprehension of the stubbornly insisting owner, did a fantastic impression of pushing the bike uphill and downhill, and sweating egregiously on the long walk, to the cloister and back. Which finally did the trick, and saved me 3 dollars.

On the busride home, before falling asleep, I pondered the whole concept of adventure, and finally came to the idea that adventure only occurs once one steps out of the zone within one's control, and allows chance and Mr. Murphy to play an unusually large role in determining one's happiness and comfort quotient. My final conclusion (which I suspect most people just grasp intuitively,) was unless one has a specific worthy goal in mind, (ie, we are going to hike through the woods to see an old temple in Cambodia) which will recompense one for the time, discomfort and expense, one really might be better off watching someone else's adventure on the discovery channel. Unless you just get off on mud and trees.

Or, alternatively, you can factor out the time and expense, add in extra pay for the discomfort, and set a price on the experience. At 30 zloty an hour, plus 5 zloty extra for discomfort pay, I have 35 zloty per hour over the course of 6 hours, (that includes time spent waiting for the bus) which is 210 zloty, plus 6.70 times 2 for the bus ride, plus 20 zloty for lunch, brings us to 233.40 zloty. Then, all I have to do is figure out how much satisfaction, monetarily speaking, I derive from telling the story. Roughly, I would say about 7 zloty worth. Maybe 8. Then it is just a matter of telling the story enough times to repay myself in satisfaction for the time and expense the story cost me in getting. Which means I only need to tell it another 28.175 times to break even.

Women are the answer!!

Intersections of any sort are fascinating. Intersections are frequently where it is at, (whatever it may be.) Intersections are the reason the blood begins to smear and the contemplation comes to a crushed conclusion. Take the intersections out of a story, and you will have one long, self-involved noun. Physics equations show the balance between intersecting forces. Crashes occur at the intersections. Boxing is nothing but dancing while looking for a good intersection between Fist A and Jaw B. If I were either the assassin or the detective, I would still be looking for the intersections.

The reason for this is that it is when two forces meet that eddies and swirls and counter-currents and whirlpools are born. Currents under momentum suddenly meet, are deflected, transfer forces to other parts, cross again, re-establish direction, and shoot out under greater momentum than before, moving with greater force as the new single, larger, mass establishes a new direction that synergizes the incoming force of both.

A week or so ago I wrote my brother an email in which I laid out, in not precisely exact order, the issues I would most like to see prioritized by our next president. They were:

Climate change
The health of our environment
The population boom crisis
World poverty
Education
Human rights
Women's rights
Civil rights/Political freedom
Employment
The international economy
Various domestic economies.

The order of importance, (rough and subject to change as it is) is based on my perception of the number of people who would be affected over the period of time the problem affects us. Thus, you can imply, I perceive the problems posed by climate change and/or pollution to affect a wider number of people for a longer amount of time than the overpopulation of the earth. Or, conversely, I view the beneficial by-products of one as being greater than the other - so it could be said that I view fostering education in an area as producing further long-term benefits for a greater number of people than fostering civil rights, or the local economy. However, Education is placed higher on the list than civil rights or employment because it will result in not only a better educated person, who calls upon a wider set of resources to formulate solutions to his problems, but results in a more employable person, who will in time promote his local economy. Thus some issues may be more important because they exert a "trickle-down" influence on others in the list. To go further, the newly educated person, who now enjoys greater employment opportunities, who is operating in an expanding economy, will most likely then begin to seek greater civil protections from his state, thus increasing his civil rights. So we see that some issues on the list could also exert a "trickle-up" effect.

Once one begins to consider these "intersections" it becomes apparent that the most critical issues may not be the most important, since some, ostensibly of less import, could effect greater results among a wider number of areas, at possibly less expense to resources invested. It is these intersections producing synergistic relations among elements which should most grab our attention, and to which we should direct a greater proportion of our resources.

Unravelling the ball of string from the perspective of intersections necessitates asking slightly different questions. Rather than asking which issues are most pressing, or affect the greatest number of people, perhaps we should be asking which particular issues affect the largest number of other issues. In other words, which issue enjoys the greatest number of intersections?

We have already belabored the quite evident symbiotic relationships between employment, economy, poverty, civil rights and human rights. It does not take much thought to establish a similar relationship between population growth, pollution, and contributing to climate change. The more people eating, drinking, pissing and making plastic, (barring the emergence of new technologies) the greater our collective carbon emissions. The less people producing babies who require plastic diapers and toys, the less people who will someday leave on lights, drive cars, and replace remote-controls for their numerous TV sets.

To my mind, then, the way to most effectively reduce poverty, grow economies, promote civil rights, reduce pollution and thus avoid worsening the effects of climate change are to A. promote employment, and B. discourage reproduction. The obvious solution proposed by the intersection of these two concerns is mandating a 17 hour working day for all males, with selective forced sterilizations where any remaining over-abundance of amorous energy might necessitate intervention. The main problem with this scenario, unfortunately, is the reduced energy levels brought about by the lengthened working day, so critical for reducing population levels, may cripple the ability of the individual to agitate for greater rights, thus short-circuiting the synergy of our cycle.

(The other problem being that governments employing forced sterilizations have a record of being taken out of power at the first opportunity. Apparently people resent them.)

Education has already been named as a factor which has an immediate and obvious bearing on not only personal efficacy, but employability, and economic growth. Could education also be used to lower the birthrates? Some agencies have tried the direct approach, educating the population regarding birth control, such as condoms and contraceptives. The main problem encountered is that men intuitively recoil from stuffing their most acutely concentrated collection of nerve-endings into a tight rubber bag with a constrictive rubber-band at the end, before engaging in something commonly thought to be "fun," simply because the woman is concerned about avoiding another pregnancy. Men are rather comparatively short-sighted at the best of times, and famously so as the moment of truth approaches. The pressing physiological concerns hardwired into their being to take precedence over rationality tend to override most other concerns for a thankfully brief period, which has been known to result in shortsightedness during, chagrin shortly thereafter, and offspring some time later.

Fortunately for all concerned, the reproductive process typically entails the presence of another individual, for whom the "oops" factor presents a slightly greater measure of inconvenience, and who thus tends to favor a more reasoned approach to reproduction, if at all possible. Unfortunately for all concerned, among the majority of societies, this cooler-headed half of our species is traditionally expected to bow before the wishes of her husband at home, is often credited with less native intelligence, and is endowed with less political power in the society at large. This results in lessened earning potential, as men are more favored for jobs, as a result of having been favored for more education. Thus the woman, who could naturally act as a brake on the reproductive rate, is, due to her lower social position, economic dependence and lower level of education, placed at a significant disadvantage when attempting to reason with her more physically, socially, politically and economically powerful partner.

The solution, then, to this particular confluence of unfortunate facts is general education for women. Reproductive education alone is clearly insufficient to act as a counterweight to generally held perceptions regarding reproductive roles and rights. What is needed is education for women which results in greater economic independence, higher social standing, and improved sense of their own legal rights. Thus a woman who does not wish to risk pregnancy could negotiate with her partner on firmer, more equal ground, to the long-term benefit of all.

Research upholds, and further reinforces this conclusion. Not only is women's education the single greatest correlating factor with falling birthrates, but an increase in women's education also leads to a greater improvement in the health of the society at large than an equal increase in education among men. This is because of the money which a woman earns, a greater portion is saved, and invested back into the family. A greater proportion is spent on household and collective needs, as well as on children's needs, such as clothing and healthcare. Contributing to the cycle is the fact that the lower number of births per family results in freeing up more resources to be invested into the education and advancement of of the already existing children, thus ensuring the continuation of the benefits onto the next generation.

So just as education has an impact on employment, the economy, and on one's perception of one's natural rights, so education of the world's largest marginalized group could have a direct impact on population growth and pollution, in addition to applying more hands to our economies, and more minds to our remaining problems. Education of women, and the furtherance of women's rights, is a key component to every issue listed above, from reducing worldwide poverty to promoting the health of our environment. And who knows, it could well be a woman scientist who eventually encounters the key to reversing climate change.

The America Second Party

I don't suppose there are many of my stateside brethren who are currently unaware that the US is going through yet another Presidential cycle. It seems every time you turn on the telly you are confronted with some aging patrician with politician's hair and smile and an indistinct air of oiliness about the way his shirt sleeves are rolled up. Sometimes you even get more than one of them on the screen at the same time, and I begin to weep and dry-heave for America.

In the midst of writing my brother a wandering email-almost-epistle yesterday, I had occasion to ask myself the question, "What are the issues that are most important to me?" And, oddly enough, "Domestic Security" didn't even come up. I didn't realize it till just this instant, but it's true - the main issue that is currently cornerstoning every Republican's platform never even entered my mind. Well, I suppose that just shows why I will never be president.

In fact, my whole list is replete with examples of why I will never be president. Frankly, almost everything on the list is horridly America-Second. I am an America-Seconder! Does such a designation exist? I must go check . . .

OK, not so surprisingly, the America First Party has been reborn, and surprisingly, I half agree with one-quarter of what they say. However the America-Second designation doesn't exist at all. The closest thing is America's Second Harvest, a nationwide foodbank. So now that I have finally found my true political designation, what are the philosophical underpinnings to this one-man movement?

Basically, the belief that the already best-fed can go to the back of the line for the buffet, and wait till others are served. Primarily, it is my belief that the already richest and most powerful nation should not place economic growth as the primary consideration for making larger decisions. It is not necessary that we, the rich, continue to grow richer at the expense of taking action on other issues.

Secondly, that power, true power, is only partially derived from having the biggest guns. When we see a large, overly-muscled policeman humbly doing his job, and assisting small children with finding their mommies, we feel a natural surge of goodwill toward those who protect the weak, care for the insignificant and small, and seek the good of others; how much more so when it is a person who could by right of force be overbearing and insufferable without fear of consequence? Yet when the same fellow swaggers, and appears to glory in his strength, his untouchability, and shows even the slightest disregard for the well-being others, we naturally detest him, and wish to resist him, for we see two of the most dangerous traits of humanity combined in one entity: selfishness, and a desire for power.

To those who say that they wish to restore American greatness, and American primacy, I say this - you can spend all the time you want trying to herd cats with a stick, and they still won't listen. But strap a sausage to your ass and start walking toward the milk dish, and every single one of them will follow you. When the rest of the world, (and there are some who are just too culturally blinded to see it even when it is true) sees that America is leading toward a better future for all, most will listen, and most will follow, more whole-heartedly and with less effort on our part, because they perceive that we seek a greater good.

I fully recognize that this sea change will not be immediately evident, that not all nations will be able to perceive this, or believe it, and that the great majority will continue to seek their own good as a primary goal. Be that as it may - the difference between a tycoon and a leader is the tycoon seeks his own good by whatever means are available, and the leader seeks the good of those who are led, often at personal cost to himself, by operating according to deeply held values. I leave it to you which word you would rather see applied to our country.

For the truth is this - as travel, exchange of information and transaction of commerce occur between ever further removed points around our world, we will find the common good ever more important. What issue affected only a region, a nation, or even a continent before, now comes to affect all of us, as everything from trade goods to market volitility to infestations and infectious diseases spread more quickly and widely than ever before. Whole labor forces move across borders en masse these days, bring with them the power of their sweat and the problems of their own country. Interdependence is the inescapable future, and the nation that recognises this and leads the way toward a more healthy interdependence will be the global leader, and will, on some level, earn the respect and admiration of those it assisted and led.

And that will constitute a greater power.

Max

I have been more than fortunate in my life. I am, in fact, one of the most fortunate of men on our entire planet. I am exceedingly wealthy in friends.

Which is not to say I have that many. The contrary statement could well be true. I have only a few. Yet those I have are friends exhibiting qualities by which the word itself ought to be defined. Among this small number I count Max, and his wife Maria.

This post is about Max. It has a specific purpose, intent and aim. It is, (and I am not bothered to say it) intended to prompt Max to continue writing. The aim, intent and purpose of this posting is to inspire not guilt, but inspiration. By addressing here the role Max has played in my life, I hope to prompt, persuade, prod, propel and provoke Max into writing again.

You see, Max has achieved what few others could ever lay claim to - Max has created a community, in his own name. Without intention of ever doing so, Max has brought together people on different sides of our world, by sheer interest in his words - in the words he has written.

Max writes (normally) everyday. Nonsense shit, often. Pointless but interesting shit, frequently. And not so occasionally, true gems. Things that make the whole internet sit up, stop fondling its own balls, and pay attention. Suddenly, because of something Max said, people's inboxes fill up with mail from unknown and nevertheless welcome quarters, because we are discussing something that Max said. And underlying the whole conversation, often between strangers, is the idea that "you must be a half-way decent person, if Max is your friend, (despite the fact that you sound like an idiot..)" And oddly enough, the theory seems to hold true.

Max has thus created around himself, by investing nothing more than 10 minutes a day, an online community. A group of people who, if they met each other for the first time, would know a lot about the other already, simply by virtue of having discussed the ideas that Max leaves us with. Thus, technology combined with brilliance and persistence has made, or re-made in a new form, that most basic of human necessities - a community.

I met Max my first year of college - an impressionable year by any standard. Max was an unmoving beacon of stability even then; he was a rock, upon which events and turmoil (of which there would be plenty,) smashed and spent their energies.

We spent much of the first semester of our acquaintance discussing literature, and by the end of the first month of our acquaintance, had established a deep and lasting respect for each other. One of the first things I noticed about Max was the quality of his friends. I can assume he noticed the same about me, as my friends and roommates of that period were, and are, people of the highest caliber. Max and I spent afternoons sitting in fields discussing literature, liquor and love, (to steal a phrase from him, "the quivering relations between man and woman.") Which was appropriate as Max was getting married that summer.

I came to recognise a quality of thoughtfulness, a premeditated air to all that he did. Max was no fly-by-nighter. Max spent time deciding what he wanted, where his effort would be spent, and then moved with conscious steps in that direction. His solidity of character was to serve as an anchor to my own life later.

The second year of our acquaintance, Max made his home in a truck-stop. He came to have his own table in the greasy-spoon cum-drunkard hangout which masqueraded intermittently as a business enterprise under the name Stateline Cafe. He would stay at his table, drinking coffee (50 cents, at that point, bought you all you could drink for as long as you could stay,) for 24 hours at a time. He achieved a grudging respect from the toothless waitstaff, and the hapless owner, who would even tolerate his books and such remaining on the table when he had to leave for class, from whence he would return immediately thereafter. I do not recall if Max ever received flying jelly-packets to the head, with the salutation "Hey, college-boy!" (as I did,) at 2:00 in the morning, but if he did, no doubt he handled it with dignity and aplomb.

Because that was what characterised Max. Max was steady, steadfast, sure, with temerity, poise, firmness and a presence of person that could put many global leaders to shame. If I had to, I would compare Max with Chirac. Always talking, always sincere, and always sounding suspiciously as though he knows you know he is right, if you would have just taken the time to listen earlier.

This precise quality is what has allowed Max to beget "the intangible extasy of Maxness," a concept that has yet to take the world by storm, but will probably end up becoming the intellectual forebear of a great philosophical movement someday, on par with the "Chicken soup for (insert your demographic name here)" series of books.

The intangible extasy of Maxness is less complicated than many of the worlds leading paradigm-arrangement systems. It has as its underlying belief something we can all comprehend and admit into the realm of possiblity - that inside Max there is a small man, called the Ego-man. He is probably round in shape, and broadcasts a general air of vague sketchiness about his character, the kind of fellow you wouldn't want to turn your back on, for suspicion he would be found either smearing your wife's chest with chocolate and bad intent, or cleaning the last scrap of meat off your chihuahua's bones by the time you turned back round again. (Were it not for the total absorption he showed in his current task, which precludes all else.) He is clad in nothing more than a loincloth, red body paint, and abundant chesthair. Said fellow has all the self-conciousness restraint of a mongoose in a chicken coop, and spends his whole day beating out interesting rythms on his drum.

And while he beats his drum, and admires his own chesthair clumped with paint, he dances a little dance, and chants a big chant. And he chants :
Max is Great.
Fuckin Great.
Yah, yup, yum and yahoo.
Great fuckin Max.
Max eats a cheesburger
cuz its fuckin great
Max read his book
cuz its fuckin great.
Great, great, great,
Max is great.

And then he goes on to sing the cigarette song, followed by the coffee song, the Maria song, the family song, the work song, and then he sings an antihistab song, and then he starts again, with minor variations on the theme.

And the fact is, if you sit around Max for too long, you begin to hear the song, too. And you start to sing along. But you don't realise it until he gets up to go to the loo, at which point you have that odd feeling that you are singing a song that has left the room. And then you understand.

I ain't overjoyed

In retrospect, this realization, like many, has been a long time in coming. It is always that way, at least for me. Once I realize something, I also suddenly realize that I have in fact known this for some time now, the only difference being that it has finally become so damn painfully apparent that a retarded monkey under heavy sedation in a sensory-deprivation chamber would have taken notice by now.

This flash of insight came, just like its predecessors, in a moment when my emotions were on the more extreme end of my emotional spectrum. I was walking along, pushing a bicycle whose mere sight I have come to loathe, and trying to make up lame anti-bicycle jokes.

Q: "Why did God give bicyclists hands?"
A: "It'd be pretty difficult to push your bicycle home without 'em!"

This was the 2nd time this bicycle had been out of the house in about 2 months. During the majority of those 2 months, it was languishing with a flat tire which I used as an excuse to avoid having to use the damn thing. When I finally got it fixed, and back out the door, now it had another flat, leaving me stranded about an hour and a half's walk from home.

So as I walked my stupid walk, and joked my stupid jokes, I had plenty of time to notice the crappy architecture of the buildings I walked past, and the shabbiness of many of the stores, whose bald and paint-skin chipped mannequins clustered in faux conversation outside dusty-windowed stores. I noticed that what few buildings didn't look as though the designer nursed a grudge against humanity had their plaster falling off in large chunks, revealing the brickwork underneath. And everywhere, all the buildings are coated in a coal-smoke residue that could pass for the color of dirty dark concrete, were it not for the streaks under the windows on either side, where the water washed off the sills, and left cleaner streaks to stand out.

The sidewalks are all made of individual concrete paving stones, frequently broken, pushing up out of the ground at odd angles, grass growing up between the blocks. My useless pointless fucking bike bounces and rocks over the jutting, angled blocks, and I curse boredly to myself.

All the while the cars go by, the sun shines down like something I haven't seen since a past life (which is not so far off, in case you were wondering,) the birds and bugs squawk and screech, and life is generally pleasant, considering. Then suddenly it occurs to me. This general pleasantness in outdoor life, this hideous lack of consideration for they eyes of passer-bys on the part of any architects, this small, humming, inbred small-town self-satisfaction - WHERE HAVE I SEEN IT BEFORE? And the answer comes to me - Hesston, Kansas.

Now, if your life has seen anything signficant happen during the last 9 years, this may be an indication that you are unfamiliar with this particular metropolis, so allow me to help you. The wikipedia entry for Hesston, Kansas, which has no pictures whatsoever, (due to the fact that there is nothing there worth taking pictures of except 2 girls who have been raised on nothing but corn and milk, and there are other websites for that sort of thing,) states that the population in 2000 was 3,509. And since credible research has demonstrated that the median IQ is indeed rising, we can assume that the population of Hesston has probably declined since 2000, since no person with the braincells necessary to steal candy from a person in a semi-vegetative state would remain in Hesston. I know this because I had a friend who lived his life in a highly functional semi-vegetative state, and even he left Hesston.

Nowy Sacz reminds me of Hesston. How can this be? How can a town of more than 100,000 remind me so much of a town of 3,500? Well, I suppose it is due largely to the magical, reality-bending forcefield which seems to be present in most small towns, which make them all resemble one another. But that aside, let's try to reason it out.

Is it the physical town itself? Well, yes and no. I mean, the buildings are in a dreadful state of disrepair - no doubt about it. Whereas Hesston was, on the whole, very well kempt. But Nowy Sacz is improving everyday, and slowly becoming a cleaner, nicer, less gray place to live, which is encouraging to see. When I first arrived here, I puzzled long and hard over the buildings that were painted on one or two or three sides, with the other side(s) left concrete gray. I pondered - had they run out of paint? Was paint truly that expensive, that the building had to be painted in stages? (This was not such an unreasonable assumption, as you could see many houses that had obviously been built in stages with the material available at that time.) It was only over the summer that I saw workmen erect scaffolding, and apply six-inch blocks of styrofoam all around the building, and then cover it in a light layer of mud, and paint it that I realized . . . they were insulating and painting at the same time. And the combined cost was indeed too much, so they were doing the buildings in stages, improving the heat retention and the appearance, one side at a time. Nowy Sacz, after the long, dark night of communism, is indeed on the mend. But it still has a long way to go.

Is it the variety of things to do, the limited offerings of entertainment in this small town? Well, that certainly may have something to do with it. I would hesitate to leap upon it as the definitive answer, since there is an occasional movie we can see here in English or Spanish, and there are a sprinkling of restaurants, of the Chinese, Polish, Pizza and Kebab variety, from which we can choose. But that gastrological cornucopia aside, (please note ironic tone) the fact remains that the streets are quite still by 9:30, and the nightlife here consists mainly of sitting in chairs around a candle in the center of the table, and listening to your friend tell a story quite similar, but different in some details, than the one he told you last week.

Is it the people? Well, yes and no. I mean, the people in Hesston were dreadfully closed off. If you hadn't grown up there, and molested the same cattle as them, well, you just weren't family. We could communicate in the same language, but there was still a barrier between us.
People in Nowy Sacz are far more open to outsiders than Hesstonites. At least the one's I deal with are far more intelligent in general, and open to outside influences, than their counterparts in Hesston. But, at the end of the day, there is still a barrier between the great majority of them, and yourself. In large part they were bred, born, and will live and die in this town. With some exceptions, their conception of life outside of Poland is no greater than my conception of a life limited to a 400 mile radius.

Which is not to say that they aren't splendid people. The ones I've hung out with have been generous, kind, and largely polite to a fault. You certainly couldn't say the same for most Spaniards. But despite their politeness, generosity and kindness, there remains a barrier between you - that you will never truly understand them, nor they you.

So . . . Nowy Sacz reminds me of Hesston, Kansas. And the fact is, every single instant that I spent in Kansas I now regard as having been a waste of my precious, God-granted life, and thus, an offense against the Almighty himself. I wish I had not been so stubbornly tough in my youth, and insisted that "when the going gets tough, the tough get rough," and had rather stuck by the maxim, "when the going gets tough, the smart move and let the dumbasses carry on in their stead." Yet, what am I to do? Having finally realized (what has been a long time coming,) that I am definitely not overjoyed to be living here, am I going to move?

The fact is, no. The job-hunting season is largely past, and I made a commitment to this school. But if you think that is enough to keep me here, you don't know your Matt very well. The real fact is that I am here for a reason; I am on a mission, and I won't quit till I get what I want. I am getting an advanced degree, which will be one more stepping-stone on the way to my ultimate goal of getting a PhD. I always said I could do time in prison, if need be. And this is a far cry from prison, but I still feel like I am doing time. I may not be locked up, but I still ain't overjoyed.

Where have all the Ninjas gone?

I recall, upon returning to the U.S. in the year of our Lord, 1985, ninjas. Not any specific ninjas, mind, but ninjas galore peeking out from a million places. The world, (or central California, at least) was absolutely infested with ninjas. Turn on the telly, walk down the toy aisle, or enter the video store, and ninjas came flying feet first at you from around every corner. There were white ninjas, black ninjas, grey ninjas and red ninjas. Rambo faced off against ninjas in his cartoon, (if you were so fortunate as to catch that particular artistic marvel,) as did G.I. Joe. Cobra was about half staffed with ninjas, if memory serves. There were teenage ninjas, little kid ninjas (sometimes in groups of 3,) caucasian ninjas, black ninjas, and of course Asian ninjas. Well, Japanese ones, anyway. The burning question of whether a Chinese person could ever become a ninja never seemed to get addressed - I have to assume that the ninja schools turned away all the Chinese aspirants, telling them to "Go kung-fu yourself," or something like that. Ninjas were so ubiquitous in the mid 80's that we couldn't even confine them to one species, (witness Splinter the rat, and the Turtles,) let alone a single ethnic group or neighborhood. There were ninjas-a-plenty in Beverly Hills, if you recall. Enough so that they formed a club, and went about ninja-ing things. (I can't be more specific because I don't really know what ninjas did when not hanging from ceilings, moving incredibly stealthily, or throwing small, very sharp objects that result in instant, fantastically silent mortality. I just did a web search, though, and actually found an answer to the question -
Q: "What do ninjas do when they are not cutting off heads?"
A: "Most of their freetime is spent flying, but sometimes they stab."
I am glad we got that sorted out.

My point, however, is that something very dramatic has happened among the ninja populations over the past 20 years. Today we have far less ninjas than we used to. I attribute this to one of two things (or maybe a confluence of both factors.) First, global climate change, and secondly, the return of Pirates. I will explain in greater detail later.