Self-Indulgence Post: Eating Pizza with a Fork!

Eating pizza with a fork? Seriously, are you a martian?
Okay, so "eating pizza with a fork" was the writing prompt I posed upon my fellow, amateur writers the other day. I used the same writing prompt several years ago myself. It was actually a story I wrote about irony. I even referenced Alanis Morissette's famous, cult-classic of a song Ironic. It was by no means my "magnum opus." Quite far from that in fact. Actually, the literary piece I wrote was just an ordinary story about how humans go about their daily routines doing stupid things and expecting positive results. When their plans go awry, they are astonished. Is it irony or stupidity? Or both?

Oh, wow, really...like throwing gasoline at a roaring fire isn't going to further enrage the already fiery fury into an inferno? Seriously? You never thought to just throw water at it? Hmm? I wonder why the gasoline in the fire idea didn't work and extinguish the flames?!! I'll tell you why it didn't work. Because on this logical planet we call Earth, two plus two has and always will equal four. The movement of the moon will always create unpredictable waves. The Earth will always revolve around the sun and NEVER, EVER the other way around. Pluto will never again be a planet. The acronym, MVEM-JSUN will always stand for My Very Eager Mother - Just Served Us Nachos, and it will always be  the English-language mnemonic that elementary teachers will use to teach their students how the Terrestrial/Rocky planets and Gas Giants are aligned within our solar system. Whew. What a mouthful that was. I am out of breath, aren't you?

Anyheeeow . . . Logic is never stupid and stupidity is never logical.

If you want to know what irony really is and why eating pizza with a fork is so strange, ponder the following stories (A and B).
Story A: A group of California lifeguards were off duty one Sunday, so they decided to have a poolside party immediately following a football viewing party. One of the lifeguards is not a fan of football (in fact he utterly hates football); he wants to go swimming instead of watching the game. The homeowner (also a lifeguard) is about to give the football hating lifeguard some safety instructions and pool rules when the homeowner gets a phone call and leaves the room. The anxious lifeguard goes outside alone and jumps into the pool without much caution. He does not notice the broken vent that sucks the contaminants out of the pool; the same open vent that is missing the grid-like cover. Upon jumping into the pool, the impatient lifeguard immediately gets sucked into the vent. He bumps his head so hard on the concrete wall where the vent is located that it knocks him unconscious. In the meantime, the other lifeguards are inside the house watching the football game never noticing their buddy is drowning until it is too late. "Two bits, four bits, six bits a dollar . . . all for the dead man, stand up and holler!" Now that's irony, folks.
Story B: A snotty, wealthy man invites his girlfriend (who is, pardon the cliché, from the wrong side of the tracks) to dinner before going to watch the movie he has anxiously been waiting to see. He is a finicky eater while she is not. She is Irish, but he is Italian, so he suggests Italian food. She goes along with the idea; she wants pizza anyway and figures she can order one at the Italian restaurant. They arrive at the dining establishment, he orders chicken parm, she orders pizza. His attitude grows sullen by her proletariat order: pizza? He warily decides to let her order the common-man's dish, but when the pizza arrives, he is going to make sure she uses a fork. The waitperson arrives with the food. The snobbish man reaches for the fork and insists his girlfriend use it to eat her pizza. Furthermore, he proceeds to show her how to eat the pizza with the fork. He places the fork in his mouth when the man sitting behind him suddenly has a seizure and bumps into the persnickety man. The snob inserts the fork so deep into his mouth that he literally stabs himself to death. "When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that's amore!" So, how's that "eating pizza with a fork" working for you, you bourgeois chump you?

Self-Indulgence Post: Anecdote: Barnes and Noble and My Love of Russian History!

The Last Days of the Romanovs: Tragedy at Ekaterinburg
I usually find this book in the bibliography section at Barnes & Noble (B&N). Today, I could not locate it (I doubted anyone had bought it), so I had several employees searching for it for a long time. It turns out the book was misplaced in the poetry section next to the Pablo Neruda book, Five Decades: Poems 1925-1970. It is actually the same Neruda book I was reading last week and have been wanting to buy for an extremely long time. Is it uncanny that the same two books that have captured my attention for such a long time ended up side by side in the same section? As Neruda might say alas: "Quizas!" ("Perhaps!").
Oh, and I made a friend while at B&N. It was a lady who has been studying Russian history, the Romanovs, Rasputin, the Russo-Japanese War (1904), The First World War (1914-1918) a.k.a. The Great War, etc.... If you know me and my ♥ of history (esp Russian history), well, you know you won't be able to shut me up after I begin talking about it.

 
Anyway...the lady I met at B&N was fascinating. Her great-grandfather was in Russia during the days of Nicholas II (the final Czarship/Tsarship reign) and the migration made by several Russians into different parts of the world during the "white émigré" (Белоэмигрант) as a result of the Russian Revolution. Her great-grandfather emigrated to Detroit, MI. 
The wonderful lady was impressed that I knew so much Russian history especially about the Romanavs (during their days in power until the tragic end). She said she could see my love of history because I spoke so passionately about it. She added that I had a gleam in my eye as I spoke. She thought I was a Historian and proceeded to ask if I was. I humbly (but with gratitude) said, "no, but thank you for thinking so." I asked her if she was a Historian. She replied, "yes, I taught at Carnegie Mellon University." I was immediately impressed by her CV (curriculum vitae). My jaw dropped once again in awe. I asked her if she knew Randy Pausch (author of "The Last Lecture"). She smiled and said, "yes, I sure did. He was a wonderful human being." She said my vast knowledge of so many different subjects was refreshing. She was impressed I knew about Pausch. I alluded to my great interest, passion, and admiration of  Pausch, and how his "last lecture" inspired me to do so much; I did not elaborate on the myriad of things Pausch's fabulous work and famous speech stirred me to do. The kind lady insisted I become a history professor. She concluded by stating that the world of psychology was lucky to get me, but that the world of history was going to suffer because I was not going to be a part of it. I thanked her again.
"AWESOME!" that is what I said to myself as I was leaving the store. I almost forgot to put down the three books I had been glancing through; including the novel The Last Days of the Romanovs, which is the book the lady saw me reading as she began the sublime conversation with me. But, whew, so glad I remembered at the last minute that I was still carrying the books. How embarrassing had I walked out with unpaid merchandise in tow. The "assets protection" squad at B&N would've called the po-po on me and off to jail without a "get out of jail card" I could've gone. The lady would've seen me on the evening news and police blotter and rethought her praises of me. LOL.

Self-Indulgence Post: Being the First in a Family (Attempting) to become a College Graduate!

The fact: being the first in your family (first gens) to attempt being a college grad. The reality: Zoinks!...accompanied by sheer panic (but not at the disco: "Panic at the Disco," that is...LOL) Hey, it's not Clown College, but sometimes you probably wish it was. At least the pressure might not be so freakin' much if we (first gens) were trying to be clowns, right? Oh, I know the feeling all too well. The pressures placed upon us by our families does not quietly subside or magically disappear. In fact, the older we get, the more the pressure increases. But, we have more control than we sometimes allow ourselves to admit.

After surviving the initial shock of being a first gen, what do we do next? Oh the mixed feelings of trepidation and agitation and ultimately of the completion. The trepidation and agitation of what happens if the completion part goes awry, that is. The huge burden that is placed on the first gens by respective families is of epic proportions. Of course the family does not [really] mean to place such a colossal load on the first gen, but the person cannot help but feel like he/she has just been dumped into a large pool of fecal matter; much like quicksand from which there might be no return or rescue; just imminent death. Yes, we first gens tend to exaggerate. It's our coping mechanism and mad skills learned throughout the years of all the pressure. How could something so important (like being a first gen) be placed on us? Who do we as first gens turn to in order to share our feelings? Of our fears of failure and lucid thinking gone aghast. The sinking feeling at the bottom of our bellies. 
Put a smoke in the pie hole and just chillax. Ugh. I hate that word: chillax. I picture an old, fat guy in his late 60s trying to be cool as he relaxes (or rather lies about relaxing when in fact, he is just plain ole lazy). 
Tangent: my bad, but I am back.
Yes, first gens, welcome to the freaking club, but chillax. We totally got this. If our families place so much emphasis on us being successful, then so be it. They need to remember that whatever we do in college and as a result of college, well, it is still tenfold better than anything they might have done. I am kidding. I have complete and total respect for my family. I would never dis them like that. My attempt at humor often comes across as smart-alecky and ever so dry.
For real, though, our families must remember that all we can do is try. We are trying for them and for ourselves. In attempts to better their lives, we must especially better our own lives.
Love us or leave us, we are freaking trying so hard.
Please just stop thinking we are going to end world hunger or bring about world peace, for that is a complete and utter fallacy. Kidding, of course. If Jesus, Ghandi, and Mandela couldn't do either of the two tasks, then the rest of us have no shot in hell of doing so. What we first gens can do is improve and better the present generation so the next gen can improve even more and so on. Although I am sure many of us first gens would love to end world hunger or bring about world peace, let's get REAL, we can't do all of that! All we first gens can do is try to better the socioeconomic situation for our immediate family and ourselves. We are doing our very best (I hate the word 'very'). We all want to buy mom a new house and dad a new truck. We want to help pay for baby sis and baby bro to attend the finest schools. We all want to move from the barrios and the slums into the middle class neighborhoods or better. We want, mom wants, dad wants, baby sis wants, baby bro wants, granny wants, uncle wants. Hell, EVERYONE WANTS!
Our families need only remember a few things: we know we are first gens; we know the future of our families' financial situation is riding on us; we know the blood, sweat, and tears mom and dad have put forth (in order for us to have better opportunities) have been great; we know the prayers are often more dogmatic in nature versus what we are actually expected to do despite what G-d might/might not want; and, we know the pride of the family is heavily riding on our success.
OMG, the huge expectations we first gens have placed upon us, but in return, dear families, what are you giving in exchange (rhetorical -- or maybe not?). After everything is said and done and we (first gens) are with the sheepskin in hand and the lucrative career in the bag, what are you (our families) going to do for us? Hmm. Think heavily on that question.
Ease off, please. For we first gens are doing our best. Please stop placing all the eggs in our baskets. Sometimes the basket gets much too heavy. We really want to make you (our families) a caviar omelette, but if you push us too much and too hard, we might only be able to create scrambled eggs with lots of that excrement we feel we are deeply sinking in right about now.