Ben Franklin's Schedule

After taking a closer look at the schedule I noticed something. Aside from the fact the dude never slept or ate snacks, he began each day with a question, "What good shall I do today?" He ends the day with a similar question, "What good have I done today?" It seems like people have no time to answer these questions. I wake up and immediately I'm in a rush to get ready for class. I don't have time to think about what good I could possibly do. The same can be said for the end of the day. By the time I'm winding down, the last thing I want to do is relive the day, unless it was Christmas.

Ben Franklin was an interesting guy. He invented stuff. Like the Franklin Stove, bifocals, and lightning rods. He played instruments and chess and even wrote books. He was a politician. He signed the Declaration of Independence and served as an ambassador in France. He was the first Postmaster General and ran his own newspaper. He was an activist. He started clubs so people could meet and discuss how to make their cities better. He had a moral compass guided by the same 13 virtues he wrote as a 20 year old. Tell me this guy wasn't legendary. I mean, he did just about everything. I can't help but wonder what kind of coffee he drank in the morning.

I want to have a life like that. I want my skills, accomplishments to transcend industries. I want to own businesses or a racing team, be a politician, write books, contribute to a newspaper, be a college professor, and work in advertising. I'd like to become a better cook, learn how to fix cars (or anything for that matter), drink all different types of coffee, try all different types of food, and live in different countries. I'd like to spend and waste less, learn to channel my thoughts, angers, and emotions, and be a better person. Ben Franklin died way back in the 1700's yet the man is still teaching me a thing or two about a fulfilling life.

The World Will End Because of My Luck

I will probably never do anything very admirable. I will never fight in World War II or the Korean Conflict like my grandfathers. I won’t live on a farm, grow crops, and feed people like my grandmother. I won’t work for the state advocating for the rights of senior citizens like my mom. The most admirable thing I’ll ever do is probably have kids. Even then, everyone has kids, so what’s admirable about that?

Even if I grew up during World War II or the Korean Conflict, I wouldn’t have done anything admirable anyways. Mostly because I’m unlucky. I know how luck works and in that understanding I know I don’t have any. I can see it now. I’d be drafted and like the millions of other optimistic Americans, poised to save Europe from fascism. Unfortunately, I’d get food poisoning while at basic training. Doctors at the time would misdiagnose my food poisoning for some rare disorder. They would use experimental drugs as treatment and I’d lose the use of one of my eyes. I wouldn’t be able to fight in the war, I’d never see action, and I’d return home after being discharged and work in hardware store.

Heck, what if I didn’t get food poisoning and was never discharged? I’d probably get shipped off to some country where people only eat potatoes and cheese. Already I’m unlucky, I hate potatoes. Even here I wouldn’t see action, but at least I was serving my country, right? After my first week in this country, I’d eat a bad piece of cheese. I’d get dysentery. With this dysentery I would somehow lose the use of one of my eyes. I would inevitably be medically discharged, return home after never seeing action, and most likely end up working in a hardware store.

Let’s say I was on the Titanic. After drinking too much coffee, I’d scold myself as I searched for a lavatory. I would find a small bathroom in the hull of the ship with a quaint nautical theme. As it would turn out, this particular lavatory would be in the direct line of the infamous iceberg. While standing at the urinal, appreciating the nautical art, the iceberg would rip through the walls. I would be the first casualty of that infamous night. I wouldn’t even have the chance to carry terrified women and children into lifeboats. So much for trying to be admirable.

Sure, this is all speculation, but I’m unlucky. Things like this happen to unlucky people. I’m amazed I haven’t been hit by lightning, attacked by a shark while swimming in a lake, or trampled by a herd of rickshaws. If the world ends in 2012, as it’s predicted in the Mayan calendar, it’s because of my bad luck. I would be the sole reason all life as we know it would cease to exist. Even then, I wouldn’t be able to witness the world imploding in on itself because I’ll be asleep. See, it would be just my kind of luck to fall asleep during the end of the world.

Like I said, I’ll never do anything admirable and my excuse is simply bad luck. I want to do something amazing, I really do. I daydream about saving someone’s life, stopping a bank robbery, or helping an old lady walk across the street. I imagine winning the lottery and then donating the millions to charities across the world. Thing is, I would never win the lottery. And if I did win the lottery, it would be revoked after a glitch in the lottery system is revealed. See? I can’t even donate money to help others because I’m unlucky. Before I can even do something admirable, something unlucky happens. A fluke? A coincidence? I don’t think so.

The Author's Picture

One day, some bored employee who worked for a book publishing company decided they should put a picture of the author at the end of a book. Sometimes the author's picture can be found on the back cover or the inside sleeve of the book's jacket. I can understand the need for a short biography at the end of a book. I'm interested in knowing how many kids he/she had, where they live, and what their dog's name is. Because you never know when interesting factoids like these can be brought up in conversation. Think how scholarly you'll sound when you reference R.L. Stine to Bexley, Ohio or Dr. Seuss, also known as Theodor Geisel, to Springfield, Mass.

Thing is, people are judgmental. We're rude, ignorant, and superficial. We do judge a book by its cover. Freshman year I was taking a class on the evolution of American thought taught by a Ghanaian immigrant. He had lived in this country for two years and was teaching me about the evolution of my country's thought. I couldn't take the man seriously. The same can be said for my high school gym teacher who was the coach of the chess team and could barely walk. I swear, I'm not making this stuff up. We develop answers to questions we don't understand. Everyone does it. Why is she fat? Well, she ate too many cookies one day. Why does my neighbor never wave? He's antisocial of course.

In a society where we make judgments in a matter of seconds- why do we insist on including pictures of authors with their books? By nature, authors and writers aren't very attractive people. The men are usually short, started balding at an early age even though they have plenty of hair on their arms, have disproportionate noses, super big or super tiny ears, and you can practically smell their coffee breath by just staring at the picture. And women authors/writers pretty much look like men anyways. OK, I'm exaggerating. But for real, you're at a bookstore casually walking through the aisles and a certain paperback catches your eye. Maybe it's the design on the spine or its title. You look at the synopsis on the back and become disgusted when you see the author's picture. Maybe it is a crusty old man wearing a cardigan sweater or maybe it is hot babe.

I guess if the writer is good looking, having their picture isn't a bad thing. I know if I had to choose a book between some ugly dude and a dime-piece I'll take the latter. But if a writer is ugly and has yet to establish themselves in the literary world, a picture is nothing more than a massive deterrent to the casual buyer. It can make or break their potential career. Imagine if Stephen King hadn't established himself as one of the greatest horror novelists of all time and you saw his picture on the back of some innocuous book. Would you buy it? You don't need to answer. I already know. That's why it's time publishers face the facts. The people who write their books are ugly and the people who read them are superficial. Take out the author's pictures and make every book a mystery no matter what the genre. Let me try to imagine what they look like as I conjure up images of the Marlboro Man or Meryl Streep. It certainly wouldn't hurt.

Small Thoughts on Adolescence

In middle school I had a job working with a painter named Joe. My family hired him to paint the outside of our house and do some work on the inside as well. He was a terribly slow painter. It took him months to get all the work done at our house. He practically turned into a member of our family, eating dinner with us on many occasions. That’s probably why he felt obligated to give me a job when my mom asked. So much for summer vacation. The job was boring and I didn’t know what I was doing. I probably misplaced every paint brush and roller the guy had. And for some reason, Joe loved Long John Silvers and hated when I snapped my fingers. Even though I never saw him stop at Long John Silvers, he always had a bag of fried chicken leftovers nearby.

---

The toy department in stores these days is nothing like they were when I was a kid. I could spend hours fingering through the different Matchbox or Hot Wheel cars in search of a rare find. Back then, Lego hadn’t transcended into the video gaming industry and Lincoln Logs weren’t a novelty. That was a long time ago. And I wonder, when was the last time I actually went up and down the aisles looking for a new toy? At what point did I think I was too old or too cool for toys?

---

After I grew out of my toy phase and began buying video games I wanted to get the brand new Game Boy Color. It was going to change my life. Instead of having to play Sega in the basement, which was the scariest place in my house, I could play the Game Boy anywhere- it was hand-held. My parents said they wouldn’t pay for it so every few weekends I’d go to my aunt and uncle’s farm and help them mow the lawn or weed the garden. While mowing along the chicken coop I was faced with a decision. Do I cut the big chunk of grass near the hornets nest or skip by it? Skip by it of course, this is the country, wasps, horseflies, bumblebees, and hornets are bigger than my face out here. After finishing up the mowing, I went inside when my aunt pointed to the patch of grass near the chicken coop and said I had missed a spot. No I didn’t, I thought to myself. As I lugged the lawn mower back to the coop I prayed I wouldn’t get stung. Then when I started the lawn mower and began chopping down the blades of grass, nothing happened. I wasn’t stung and a week later I got my Game Boy Color.

Writing About Art

I went to the Kresge Art Museum and looked at a few different pieces of art. This writing was inspired by a piece of American and Asian Art.

American Art

My grandma grew up in Minnesota. She lived on a farm with hundreds upon hundreds of acres. Even though she lives in suburbia and her life in rural Minnesota is a thousand miles away and decades in the past, she still calls it, “store-boughten bread” and goes to the farmers’ market almost every weekend. I often wonder what it would be like living in the country, working on a farm, and if I would have the hands, muscles, and testicular-fortitude to cut it. I once helped out my family’s contractor at his house doing yard work. He said I didn’t know what hard work was. So did my dad. Funny thing is, they never lived on a farm and my grandma never told me I didn’t know what hard work was. Hopefully she’s right

Asian Art

Two and a half walls of art surround me. Colors clash revealing stark images of body parts, anguish, and terror. How can something be so angry and look so angry, yet take the color of bright yellow and pink pastels? This is the visual representation of patience. Seemingly calm and cool, then in an instant- BOOM! Anger. It is like the scariest woman I ever knew, my elementary school piano teacher. The gray haired old lady looked fragile and gentle in her cardigan sweaters, but when she spoke it was like a dinosaur screeching from a Jurassic Park movie. “That’s the wrong note! The note is ‘C!’ ‘C!’ A 'C' I said!” She’d yell over and over until I corrected myself. Amidst the tick-tock of her grandfather clock and the pitter-patter of her cats running around the house, I’d sit in fear hoping not to make a mistake. Then, out of nowhere I’d hit the wrong black note and with my deflated body and cringing face, I’d listen to her yell, “you played ‘B’ flat! Play ‘A’ flat!"