I'm society's fault.

The prodigal son wasted his substance with riotous living--trading in 'the good life' for some funny stories, cool scars, bad habits; maybe an embarrassing disease or two. One might imagine his elder brother occasionally romanticizing those adventures, staring into space on a dull day in the pasture, or after a round of fruitless bickering with his parents. It would be hard to live at home, nothing really your own until your father dies and gives it to you.

Surely he didn't envy the pleasures of the debauchery; but maybe the audacity, the wildness. I'll reiterate that I have no idea how a grown man could live at home until his parents died... although in those days I don't suppose you had to wait that long.

I wonder how our generation will be regarded by the Saxons, Amorites, Mongols, Incas, etc. with whom we'll inevitably mingle in the afterlife. I can only imagine how they'll interact with one another, but I bet they'll all agree that we are about as weird as humans can be, and still be considered human.

The thought occurred to me at work, as I listened to my iTunes; mouth dry, eyes unfocused, and utterly vulnerable to suggestion. My mind was active, but absent... like the times when you're exhausted and just about to fall asleep, or just about to wake up, and you can't tell the difference between conscious contemplation and dreaming, and you're almost totally oblivious to your surroundings. In that state, I was thinking about Kyra, and found myself possessed of radically fluctuating feelings, changing at intervals of 3 to 5 minutes--and realized that I was unconsciously absorbing the attitude of whatever song was playing at the time.

Of course that's an extreme example, but I don't think you could find any historical culture where the adage that 'life imitates art' could possibly be as applicable as in ours. Everywhere there's music playing, everywhere a television on; a constant stream of someone else's assumptions and ideas force-fed to us, almost from the womb. I grew up imitating the witty, passive-aggressive banter I saw on sitcoms; developing wildly unrealistic romantic expectations based on films where people meet, fall in love, and consummate their relationship in 90 minutes or less (with time for a dramatically-significant fight somewhere in there); and I don't know how much of my teenage unhappiness I can attribute to that, but it can't have helped.

"People worry about kids playing with guns, or watching violent videos; that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands of songs about heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery and loss... did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?"

Rob Gordon (John Cusack), High Fidelity

Previous generations had penicillin, the atom bomb, constitutional democracy... our contribution to human civilization will be a generation as obnoxious and self-involved as Will and Grace, as puerile and delusional as The Notebook, and as habitually mopey as Dashboard Confessional.

In other news, I just learned that the Wikipedia article for "Nice Guy" links directly to the article on "Involuntary Celibacy". And I just quit my job, and school doesn't start for another week. So there's been a lot of free time lately. See above.

--Kevin

Apparently my subconscious is a grade-A sociopath.

My dreams never seem to have a lot of symbolic merit... generally they're like bad action movies. Last night, I was crouched behind a brick mailbox outside a bank, holding a black snub-nose .38 Special. Kyra and my mom were sitting on the ground, leaning against the side of a sedan parked in front--Mom with a revolver like mine, and Kyra with a semiautomatic. I had to show Kyra how to use hers. (Which was fun, to be honest.)

I can't remember what we were trying to steal, but I don't think it was just a simple bank robbery. Anyway, I was still checking the cylinder when about a dozen guys ran out the front door with Kalashnikovs. I guess these were the bad guys, because I started shooting, and took out two of them (with only six rounds... I'm quite a marksman), and then we ran off, and I woke up.

I fell back asleep almost immediately, and found myself again crouched behind cover, facing a highway onramp that was barricaded by a tanker truck hastily parked across it. Inside the truck was a nuclear device, and my mission, oddly enough, was to either steal or detonate it. You know, whichever is easier. I had a vague awareness that I was the bad guy, but I didn't really care. The driver of the truck was heavily armed, and had me pinned down behind whatever I was hiding behind. So I had to sneak around, climb up the overpass, and wait for him to give up and drive away. As the truck approached my hiding place, I found an MP5 submachine gun (just lying around, I guess), and took a few careful shots at the windshield and the engine block.

The driver panicked and lost control of the truck, crashing it into the side wall, whereupon I jumped out from my cover and ran toward the cab, firing wildly to keep him pinned down. He stumbled out of the truck, clearly disoriented, and I grabbed him from behind and choked him out.

Then I looked up, and realized I was playing Counter-Strike at a party with a bunch of people I didn't know, except for one or two old high school acquaintances. Which explained my laid-back attitude toward the morality of what I'd been doing, I suppose. And then I woke up for real. It's been a weird morning.

--Kevin

Looks like the Republicans are being punished for nominating another godless Episcopalian.

McCain's choice of vice president is interesting, but not nearly as interesting as everyone's response to it. I'm not sure what I think about it yet. Everyone else seems to have an opinion though, and all the noise from the pundits has been pretty revealing.

Here's what I know about Sarah Palin: she's 44 years old, she's Pentecostal (which is at least as weird as being Mormon) and she's been governor of Alaska since 2006. So far her approval ratings in that office have been in the 80s and 90s--having only won the office by 48.3%, which is interesting.

Naturally, her youth and relative inexperience may force the McCain camp to attack Barack Obama on issues other than his youth and relative inexperience, but I think that needs to happen anyway. I don't think most people are threatened by Barack Obama's inexperience. The ideological foundation of democracy, what we're taught to believe from childhood, is that we, the people are clever enough and wise enough to govern ourselves--that we don't need steady, conservative, wiser heads managing our affairs. Whether that's entirely true or not, it runs deep in our collective feelings, and we love to vote for a rebel idealist, untouched by the establishment.

At best, these attacks on Obama's inexperience have been a gift-wrapped donation to Obama's campaign. They give him license to rage against the partisan political establishment as if he were not a part of it; they divert attention from his depressingly orthodox voting record, and practically make Obama's argument for him, that a vote for McCain is a vote for the status quo, a vote for four more years of disastrous incumbency.

But what fascinated me most about this decision was the utter hypocrisy it revealed on both sides of the melee. The liberal pundits called Gov. Palin a "featherweight", claiming that McCain's choice was the dying, desperate gasp of a badly mismanaged campaign (a claim to which there may be an unfortunate amount of truth).

Here's the deal, though: she has just as much political experience as Barack Obama, but her time has been spent in the executive rather than legislative branch of government--which, if you value experience at all, is very significant. A legislator may learn a lot about the executive by close proximity and observation, but I can learn the same things watching C-SPAN. I would place more value on someone who had at least some on-the-job experience. In the words of Mitch Hedberg, "It's like if I worked my a-- off to become a really good cook, and somebody said, 'Hey, you're a really good cook... can you farm?'"

Perhaps McCain's selection was a brilliant gambit, to tie up his detractors. They have attacked his decision, naturally; but now he can ask them to clarify the reason for their double-standard. Surely they wouldn't attack the inexperience of a VP candidate who is just as seasoned as their nominee for the Presidency... so what is the real difference? Is it just partisan gamesmanship because she's on the wrong team? Is it (gasp) that she's a woman?

But judging by the McCain campaign's performance to date, I doubt it's anything of the kind. Maybe they are just grasping at straws, trying to steal some novelty. It depresses me, because I really do believe that John McCain is a good man, and he'd make an excellent President; and in a perfect world, that would be enough. Even in our world, it's keeping him afloat in spite of his pathetic salesmanship, his association with the incumbent party, and his almost-Messianic opponent; but I don't know how long it can hold up.

There have been so many deep, substantive ways in which he could have taken command of this campaign, instead of all these half-hearted attacks on Barack Obama's character and capability (made while insisting that he's really a nice guy). I really feel like I could be doing a better job, if only someone would ask me. If he could just find a way not to look constipated every time someone turns a camera on him, it would be a start.

--Kevin

Well, I try my best to be just like I am...

My family and friends enjoy a perennial, good-natured exasperation with my cavalier (or inept, depending who you ask) management of my personal affairs. For this reason, I'm occasionally treated like a precocious but ignorant child... amusing, lovable, but not really fit to be let outside unsupervised. If there's one thing about marriage that fills me with dread, it's the thought of binding myself to a woman who feels this way about me.

I recognize that I can be pretty absentminded and hasty, and I don't always consider all the angles, but I really do believe that I could find a way to stave off destitution and misery without all the babysitting. And even if I couldn't, it might still be preferable.

And I hate the word "underachiever", with all its connotations. It's a polite way to call someone lazy and sloppy, and imply that they lack ambition. I love to work; I just hate drudgery. I'm meticulous, even obsessive, when I care about something; but I believe that life's tasks ought to be afforded time and effort appropriate to their significance in the bigger picture. Some stuff just doesn't matter at all; and it has to be done, but I see no reason why it has to be done perfectly or well. Maybe your peanut butter and jelly sandwiches would be more delicious if you spent an hour each time, measuring out the ingredients and ensuring a liberal and even distribution thereof, carefully applying and reapplying them and leveling your eyes with the table to check the thickness of the peanut butter; but I don't know, maybe you've got stuff to do.

And some people spend their whole lives on the details of these things that are about as important as the peanut-butter-to-jelly ratio on your sandwich--money, status, the opinions and expectations of others--and they wind up old, and with no better idea of what they're doing here than they had when they were our age. Not because they're stupid, but because they've been too busy to think about it. And then they tell me I ought to take a little more pride in how I put my sandwiches together, and offer themselves as living examples of how the course of my life might be corrected; and I love them too much to tell them how deeply disturbing I find that idea.

Of course we have to devote some attention to money, to grades, to society's expectations--as well as, indeed, the proper composition of our sandwiches--but with a healthy recognition that there are more important considerations.

So, in view of the alternative, I am grateful to be the way I am. Maybe I'll miss some opportunities, and I'm sure by the time I'm dead I will have spent thousands of dollars just forgetting where I put things; but I'll be dead. I enjoy being a dreamer, and a thinker, and possessing talents that are useless to employers. I like the fact that my happiness is not dictated by someone else's assessment of my performance. I like that my blood pressure stays at a very respectable, comfortable level most of the time. And I really don't need or want all the nonsense that I could have if I traded it all in.

--Kevin

I used to joke about the purgatorial nature of community college. It's less funny now.

Yesterday was my first and last day at Salt Lake Community College. I've determined that community college is really just an elaborate scheme to punish bad students and bad teachers by way of each other. The freshman girls, obviously enjoying their emancipation from high school dress codes, were visibly freezing in their camisoles and their tiny denim shorts, chewing gum and text-messaging and glowering periodically at the professor. There was the obligatory group of guys in the back of the class who practice that bizarre, smirking mock-politeness that seems to come so naturally to them. I was on the set of some hackneyed teen movie and the only one without a copy of the script.

Western Civ was the longest fifty minutes of my life to date. Our teacher, Lolene, prefaced a long string of her personal opinions with a practiced explanation that we would be "leaving our opinions at the door", because in this class we would be discussing and analyzing the facts. Luckily there was a student in the front of the class who used her every statement as a pretext to express some outlandish and tangential opinion, peppered with unrelated names and dates so he would appear informed and well-read. Examples: "back in the 90s, Russians were all drunks... but I'm not anti-Polish or anything"; "It's like Sean Hannity puts his face next to the Statue of Liberty, and now he thinks he's up there with the Founding Fathers--his book was just like Mein Kampf".

It reminded me of street contacting homeless guys in Memphis--that degree of craziness, but spoken in an even, erudite tone by a South Asian kid with square glasses and a green canvas shoulder bag. Which was almost funnier.

As obnoxious as it was, I could have handled it; but I got home and discovered that this nonsense was going to cost eight thousand dollars. So I immediately dropped all my classes, and I'm going to apply to LDS Business College as soon as possible. It may not be a better education, but it certainly can't be worse, and it'll only cost $2600. Naturally my grandpa, who likes things planned out and consistent, is subtly galled by this development. I know, because he keeps popping in to my room to give me new reasons why SLCC isn't so bad. Not that he's even hinting that I should reconsider my decision; he just likes to dispense vague counsel. I count at least five times today, and the first two were at 6:30 and 7:00 am; he woke me up to say, "You know, eight thousand dollars really isn't that expensive, for a year of school."

My rebuttal: "Can we talk about this later?" mumbled through the pillowcase.

"Well, I'm leaving soon. It really isn't that much, it's only $2,000 a quarter."

"We've got two weeks, Grandpa... can I go back to sleep?"

"I just think you ought to think about it, that's all."

And he slowly goes back to whatever else he was doing. I can expect this routine to continue until I am successfully attending classes somewhere (and maybe a little while after that). Which may be as long as a semester. But... it's $100 a month, and I don't have to buy groceries. So I can handle it. Philippians 4:13.

--Kevin

We're the people that we wanted to know, and we're the places that we wanted to go

I'm pretty sure that Ron Weasley is at least partly inspired by the character of Herbert Pocket in Great Expectations.

And another thing: before leaving Dallas I had lunch with my great-aunt Kathy, who is the family's resident free-thinking, bra-burning apostate here in Salt Lake. She subscribes to the Tribune and makes pervy comments about guys a third her age, which is a little endearing once you get used to it. The last time I saw her was before my mission, and I recall being annoyed with her reflexively liberal opinions and seemingly inflated opinion of herself... but this time it was different. My mission was a long, slow inoculation against bluster, and it just doesn't bother me like it used to; so this time I could enjoy all the good things about her.

I found that we actually have a great deal in common, and we see so many things the same way, especially the absurdities of Mormon culture, and that especially within our family. Of course she, like everyone else in my family, is very astute and insightful about the problems and weaknesses of everyone else in my family. It's more like anthropology than gossip... I like to consider the causes and motivations of all the weird attitudes and behaviors my close relatives exhibit.

I found Dallas basically the way I left it, which was comforting. The Collisons' house still has that weird, wonderful smell, with all its nostalgic associations, and I slept on the same squishy maroon pallet I slept on every night I stayed there since I was eight years old, with the same noisy fan spinning off-balance and keeping me awake. The dogs are still around, albeit grey-bearded and arthritic, and increasingly on Mom's nerves. I hope they never move away.

Scott and I went to Starbucks with Ujaala and Boris... we exploited their laid-back attitude and squishy chairs without buying any of their addictive stimulants. And realized later that we were a Catholic, a Mormon, a Muslim, and a Jew all hanging out... a veritable "People who are going to hell according to Jerry Falwell" sampler platter. Ujaala was very nice, and very funny, and I think my blind, unreasoning, impossibly long, unremittingly cruel infatuation with her is just about over; which is pretty significant to me, as you can imagine.

I had a bacon cheese Whataburger for the first time since my experimental psychotropic bacon cheese Whataburger in the summer of 2005, and found that it was as delicious as I remembered. Not as mind-blowing, but just as delicious. I talked to my friend Tommy who is now a Marine reservist and has really fascinating things to say.

It's weird to have a personal friend whose life for the next four years will actually be directly influenced by the impending presidential elections. For me, it will be an occasional curiosity when the news is on. Maybe something to be recreationally indignant about when talking to like-minded friends... but for him, it may be the difference between spending a year or more in a jagged desert hellhole, or every fourth weekend in San Angelo.

The weight of our republic, and all its blithe and seemingly arbitrary decisionmaking, falls almost exclusively on guys like him. The fact that he supports McCain says a lot about his character, I think. Honestly, I've regarded my right to vote with some indifference... I'm not about to get shipped off anywhere, I don't even pay taxes (so far, knock on wood). but when I think of how significant it may be to him, I want to think more carefully about it.

There's more to say, but I don't know quite how to say it, and I'd like to do it justice.

--Kevin

"Mo' money, mo' problems, Stanley. You of all people should know that."

I've recently noticed that a person's quality of writing seems to have an inverse relationship to that person's quality of life. Last week was hellish. But I didn't make creative use of my misfortune at the time, and things are better now, so I have no great expectations for this entry.

I lately have a little more money than I'm used to having... and the effect on my life is uncanny. I've been living a pretty simple life for the last two years; I've never had a particular interest in the things that money can buy--admittedly because all my necessities (and most of my whims) have always been provided for free--and as recently as a few months ago, I honestly couldn't think of anything I would buy even if I had money.

But now that it's there, and it's "mine", I am suddenly aware of innumerable opportunities to rid myself of it. If you saw my last bank statement, you would think someone had stolen my debit card. I've never thought of myself as a materialistic or profligate spender, but I'm having to re-evaluate some things.

In other news, I just registered for my first semester of college, and I only signed up for classes that interested me. English, Great Books, Western Civ, and Beginning Chinese. Soon I will be able to communicate with over half the world's population in their native tongue--assuming I get my Spanish back up to snuff. I am so excited it hurts.

--Kevin

Tired. Tired tired tired.

I think everyone should meet my family. I understand intellectually that other families are probably just as quirky and idiosyncratic as mine, but it's kind of hard for me to imagine that being true. On our first night in Keystone, as we were all being introduced, someone from the bride's family wondered aloud why all of us seemed to have recycled Irish Catholic names, and I couldn't think of any answer except, "Pride, in defiance of all reason." I don't think any of us could tell you why we like being Dolans so much; but it's definitely a big deal.

Fortunately, Justine (my cousin's new bride) is just as weird about the Irish thing as he is, so the wedding was tinged with old pagan Celtic accoutrements. The reception tables were named for Celtic fire festivals--and there were like eight of them, which seemed like an awful lot to me. Apparently our people have always been pyromaniacs. My uncle Patrick, who is a priest in Denver, performed the ceremony with a mix of very mild Catholicism, pre-Christian Celtic wedding blessings, and stand-up comedy.

I was a little kid the last time I'd seen the groom, and in the intervening years all I'd heard about him was my uncles' hazy and embellished stories of his adventures in DEVGRU (the erstwhile Seal Team Six), breaking necks and "playing with toys we won't see for fifteen years". He'll ship out for his tenth tour of duty in Afghanistan later this year. So naturally I was expecting him to be at least eight feet tall and engulfed in flames when I met him. Turns out he's like 5' 9", and he doesn't look much more crazy or dangerous than anybody else in our family. In fact, he didn't look nearly as imposing as Justine's father and brothers (who came to the wedding in their Marine dress blues), but there must have been twenty medals hanging from his jacket. When we were all together, he told us he does "radio work", but it was more a joke than a cover.

After the wedding we all got together with our guitars in the hotel lobby and my dad and my uncles played Irish drinking songs--not that any of them drink anymore, but Irish music is drinking music by default, as far as I can tell.

There have been a lot of good stories this weekend, but I need a nap.

--Kevin