The New Twenty

Upholding the family tradition of displaying the birthday bounty for the camera.

As of 5:43 this evening (Hawaii Standard Time), I am thirty years old. So why am I still smiling? Because I realized today that I simply needed to adjust my standard. See, I was a little worried about turning thirty because my entire life I've heard from old people who wish they could have stopped aging at 29, so I was under the impression that 29 is the pinnacle of human perfection, and then it's all downhill from there. And perhaps that was once the case, but things have changed. This is the twenty-first century. This is not your father's Oldsmobile. Don't believe me? I present as evidence examples from the two most important measuring sticks of American culture: hip-hop music and superhero comics.

1. In the song "30 Something," rapper Jay-Z declared that "30's the new 20, nigga." And who can argue? Ten years ago, hip-hop was a young man's* game, and today we have people like Jay-Z, Wyclef Jean, Common, the Wu Tang Clan, who are all pushing forty, still putting out albums and being pretty successful. If these old men are still cool, then clearly I am too.
2. For a good forty or fifty years, Batman and Superman were both generally considered to be 29 years old--the aforementioned pinnacle of human perfection. But by the time I started reading superhero comics in the nineties, that age had been pushed up to 33. Batman's young ward, Robin, was by then in his early twenties, so it simply didn't make sense for his surrogate father to still be 29. In current comics, these brightly-clad ideals of manhood seem to be in their mid-to-late thirties. A product of ever-growing backstories that need to fit in chronologically, but also an acknowledgment that the readership is aging. A couple decades ago, the prevailing logic was that comic book readers wouldn't want to read about protagonists old enough to be their fathers, but the fact now is that most comic book readers are in their twenties and thirties, so it's a non-issue. Finally these men can age. By the time I catch up to Batman and Superman, they'll be at least forty. And if they can still look good in tights, then by golly, so can I!

In conclusion, I may be thirty, but I am still younger than Batman and Jay-Z. Any questions?

*No, I'm not ignoring women, just acknowledging that hip-hop for the most part does.

Signs of the Last Days

This is my 900th post. One month from Saturday I will turn 30. Yesterday FoxyJ told me that she thinks my hair is thinning on top.

It's all downhill from here.

Post 899, In Which I Do Not Blaspheme

Today was International Blasphemy Day. The purpose of the day is "to remind the world that religion should never again be beyond open and honest discussion." I support the principle behind the occasion--it is important to protect the right of free speech that has so often been denied by religious authorities with more power than they should have had, and it is equally important to remember that ideas are not immune to criticism simply because they are based in faith--but I have chosen not to participate. I have little respect for religion itself and not much more for most religious organizations, but I respect and love a lot of religious people. If I were to blaspheme publicly for the sake of blaspheming, I might succeed in making the statement the day is meant to make, but I would also likely offend many people I've no reason or desire to offend.

A couple of years ago a close friend of mine observed that I "care about people more than ideologies or institutions"; as this came from someone whose opinion I value very highly, I was quite flattered by her observation. I don't know that it's always true--I often let my ideologies get in the way of my concern for people--but I certainly try to make it true. Ideals are important to me, but ultimately I believe the living, breathing human being standing in front of me is far more important than whatever ideology separates us.

That said, I believe it's for the good of the world that there are also people who are willing to offend, to be in-your-face and confrontational in order to make the rest of us question our ideologies. I simply am not one of these people and couldn't be if I tried; confrontation makes me physical sick, knowing that I've offended someone makes it impossible for me to think of anything but that offense for days or weeks thereafter. If everyone in the world were so weak-kneed, we might never have any wars, but we might also never effect meaningful change. I like to think there's room in this world for both warriors and peacemakers. If it doesn't offend you, I'll stick to being the latter of the two.

Proof of My Inability to Learn From My Mistakes

Summer 2000, Spain



September 2007, Hawaii



May 2009, California

Because Every Good Portrait Should Be Obamiconned

The New Me aka HRG Fob

Now with added happy pills!

The Old Me, Obamiconized

For Future Reference

The old me:

The Not-So-Great Depression

Symptoms of depression, according to the National Institute of Mental Health:

• Persistent sad, anxious or "empty" feelings

Check.

• Feelings of hopelessness and/or pessimism

Check.

• Feelings of guilt, worthlessness and/or helplessness

Check, check and/or check.

• Irritability, restlessness

Double check.

• Loss of interest in activities or hobbies once pleasurable, including sex

Check.

• Fatigue and decreased energy

I'm too tired to even check this one off.

• Difficulty concentrating, remembering details and making decisions

What now?

• Insomnia, early–morning wakefulness, or excessive sleeping

Off and on, yes, and yes (to the extent I can get away with it).

• Overeating, or appetite loss

Yes to the former.

• Thoughts of suicide, suicide attempts

No, thankfully.

• Persistent aches or pains, headaches, cramps or digestive problems that do not ease even with treatment

Yes, no, no and yes (but persistent aches and pains and digestive problems have been an accepted part of my ongoing existence for as long as I remember, so I can't say I've done much in the way of treatment in the recent past).

You know you're a grownup when Santa brings you underwear...

...and it's one of your favorite gifts.


Apparently Santa doesn't know what size I wear, though, as he got me a size too big. It happens a lot--my rear is surprisingly petite. Today a trip to Target alleviated that problem. (They didn't have any larger rears, but they did have smaller underwear.)

And now my belated Christmas present to you, dear blog readers, a picture of me wearing my new underwear:













...keep scrolling...













...you're in for a real treat...













...and here you go, a picture of me wearing my new underwear:




And looking pretty darn sexy, with that extra chin!

Possible Reasons I Don't Remember Any of the People* I Went to High School With Who Have Recently Found Me On Facebook

1. I was secretly more popular in high school than I thought I was, so everyone knew me even if I didn't know them. And why wouldn't I be, with a face like this?


2. Similar to #1, but not so much popular as recognizable. As in, "Hey! I remember him--he was that white guy I went to school with."

3. A variation on #2: Perhaps one of the other two** white guys I graduated with was more popular than I and people are mistaking me for him.

4. The whole experience was just so traumatic that I've blocked it out.

5. I was so self-absorbed in high school that I failed to recognize there were other people around me***.

6. I am not really me, but rather a clone of me who was given (most of) my memories in order to pass as me while the real me rots in a secret prison somewhere in La Mancha.

7. Alien abduction****.




*And when I say "any of the people" I mean anyone but you, dear blog reader who happens to be a high school friend who has recently found me on Facebook. Because of course I remember you.

**Literally--I counted.

***Note that this is likely true (of me in high school as well as me in the present) whether or not it explains the failure to remember old acquaintances.

****Note that #6 and #7 are not mutually exclusive.

Because the Best Gift You Can Give is Your Conscience

And don't I deserve it?

Next Monday, November 3rd, is my birthday. I'm sure most of you have been fretting for months about what to get me. Well I have a suggestion.

See, the day after my birthday is another, though somewhat less well-known, important day. It's Election Day. If you give me the gift of voting for Barack Obama and/or voting no on Propositions 8, 2, or 102 if you live in California, Florida, or Arizona, respectively, you will not only make me happy, but you will make the world a better place. But the important part is making me happy. If you can manage to vote in California, Florida, and Arizona, all the better.

In all seriousness, if it doesn't violate your conscience and you want to donate to the No on 8 campaign in my honor (or even not in my honor), I'd be honored.

And also in all seriousness, please vote. For who or whatever your conscience tells you to vote for. But especially if your conscience agrees with mine.

Mr. Fob the Humbly Glorious

At FoxyJ's insistence, I've taken a Myers Briggs personality test. And then I took another. Both say I'm an INFJ, extremely strong on the N (intuitive), fairly strong on the I (introverted) and J (judging), and just barely F (feeling). It's apparently a rare combination--about 1% of the population. I'm flattered by the comparison made between this personality type (called "Confidant" or "Counselor") and people like Gandhi, MLK Jr., Eleanor Roosevelt, Jane Goodall, and most of all Shirley Temple, but I'm suspicious that this is describing not so much who I am as who I'd like to think I am. Take for example this description:

Beneath the quiet exterior, INFJs hold deep convictions about the weightier matters of life. Those who are activists -- INFJs gravitate toward such a role -- are there for the cause, not for personal glory or political power.

Actually, to be honest, I'm quite fond of personal glory. Not that I know what to do with it when I have it, but that doesn't mean it's not, like, one of the chief motivators behind everything I do.

But then again, who am I to question the authority of a 75-question online personality test? I obviously don't care about personal glory, if that's what the test says. So go on, tell me how wonderful I am for being so unconcerned with what people think of me. I know that's what you're thinking.

Aliens Stole His Brain!

(And his clothes.)



Notice that they cut a little spot of hair off. I'm sure that will look really cool as it's growing back in.

More Fame!

I'm gonna live forever. Even if she did spell my last name wrong. (I mean really, how hard is it? F-O-B.)

The Burden of Fame

The following poster went up all over campus today:


Now everywhere I go people stop me and they're like, "Are you the guy from that poster?" And I respond sheepishly, "Yeah, that's me." And they're like "NO WAY!" And I'm like, "Yeah, it's really me." And they're like, "Whoa. You are so cool." And I'm like, "Thanks, but really I'm no cooler than you, it just seems that way because I'm famous." And they're like, "Can you do that pose, the one from the picture?" And I pretend to be all hesitant so they'll insist, and they do, and then I strike the pose, and then one of them will stand behind me and put a hand on my shoulder just like my friend on the poster while the other one takes a picture, and then they switch places so the other one can be in the photo with me, and then I let one of them strike the pose while I take the picture so they can go to their friends later and be like, "You know who took this picture? The Poster Guy himself." And their friends can be like, "NO WAY!" And they can be like, "Yeah, it's really him." And so on.

I guess now I know what it's like to be Ken Jennings.



NOTE: Some or all of the facts in the above story may have been made up to make it more interesting. Forgive me if they fail to do so. There's only so much you can do when your claim to fame is a poster.

...and he knows how to use them...

Today I bought green tights that I will be wearing in the play I'm in next weekend. If that's not enough to make you get in line for tickets right now, I don't know what is.

One Week Later

This comparison would be more impressive if I'd posted a photo last week of the seven stitches hiding beneath that mountain of gauze and bandages, but it grossed me out enough to see them when I had to change the bandage, let alone take a picture of them.

I'm happy with how fast it's healing--much faster than the last time I had a hole in my forehead, whose round white scar can still be seen at the base of the new darkish line. The difference is that this time they stitched the hole up, so it should leave much less of a scar.

The bad news is that the little red dot closer to the center of my forehead is now officially the site of a future surgery, scheduled for mid-March, after the skin has time to heal up more and after the plays for my Spanish drama class--because I'll have a hard enough time passing myself off as a 16th-century Central American monarch without a big white bandage on my forehead.

Pity Post

Does this picture make you shed a tear for poor little Mr. Fob?

No?

What if I tell you that the procedure took four and a half hours of my life?

Still no?

And if I tell you the littler bandage is from a biopsy that will likely lead to another four-hour surgery with equally tragic-looking results?

Not a single tear?

Then get a chest x-ray, 'cause you just might be heartless.

Autobiography of My Face OR Geography of a Battlefield of a War With Myself

From the top:

I have been at war with my hair for as long as I remember. I spent years dying it different shades of brown and black because I didn't want blond hair. I didn't realize that I'd won this battle until recently when people started asking where our kids get their blond hair from and I looked in the mirror and saw a (dye-free) brown-haired man staring back. I'm never happy with a hairstyle for more than a few months, so I cycle between combed parts, spiky messes, and the occasional shaved baldness. My hair naturally parts on the right but for some reason I've always wanted it to part on the left--most likely because all the best-looking superheroes part on the left. I've recently forced a victory in this battle, too, mostly in order to cover up the scars I'm collecting on the right side of my forehead.

You can't see them very well in the photo, but the scars are fairly visible in real life. There's a tiny one toward the middle of my forehead, where we caught the lesion in time for the dermatologist to freeze it off. Next to that is a larger red spot that we didn't catch so early. The first six months of this delay is due to my own lazy negligence; the next four is how long it took to get an appointment with the dermatologist, and one more after that to see the dermatological surgeon for a consultation. In a week and a half this red spot of basal cell carcinoma will be removed, leaving a bloody crater that will eventually heal into a white scar like the one just below it, now three years old. Basal cell carcinoma is generally not lethal, thank goodness, but every dermatologist I've seen has been shocked that I've had a single lesion, let alone four, show up before I'm thirty. This means I'm likely to spend the rest of my life freezing lesions off or, if I'm not diligent enough, cutting them out. And there's not a damn thing I can do about it, because the damage was done more than a decade ago by the series of sunburns I got while growing up in Hawai'i. I understand now, to a small degree, the despair many people with more deadly forms of cancer feel at the realization that their body is betraying them.

My eyes have been a source of grief for me since middle school. In elementary school I'd actually wanted glasses and was happy to get them, but by eighth grade I was ready for contacts. The problem is my eyes weren't. I blinked through gas permeable lenses for a few years before settling into slightly less discomfort with soft lenses. The lenses I have now are the best I've ever worn, but still my chronically dry eyes don't handle them well for more than a couple hours at a time. Discomfort and laziness prescribe glasses; vanity demands contacts.

One of the boys who delighted in tormenting me in tenth-grade P.E. asked once whether my nose was stuffed or my voice was just nasal like that. I answered, honestly, that my nose was stuffed and that it was always stuffed. I have always been a mouth-breather because I simply didn't have any other option. A couple years ago I finally got a prescription for a nasal inhaler that mostly clears things up, but I still default back to mouth-breathing once I fall asleep.

On the right side of my nostril is the small scar from the fourth lesion, hardly visible. The red spot you see in the photo is just a zit. At this point in my life I only get those once in a while and they don't concern me. Except when they're inside my nostril, which is just painful.

I'm fairly certain my crooked smile is genetic, as it matches perfectly my dad's and my brother's, but I've always associated it with a time in elementary school when I had one side of my face numbed for dental work. I smiled at myself in the mirror, amused at how one side of my mouth refused to lift. The thing is, it still refuses twenty years later.

The scar under my chin is older than my memory. I assume it was some chin-splitting fall I had as a toddler, the first shot fired in a lifelong battle between my face and me.

The nice thing about waging a war with yourself is that either way, you win. But then, of course, either way you also lose.