among the lucky

I've never been one for motivation. One of my greatest fears in life is working for someone who has one of those ridiculous motivational posters on the wall -- the kind with "teamwork" or "integrity" or "strength" written below some "inspirational" picture and then a very cliche, Hallmark-esque description of the concept written alongside. I simply couldn't respect a person who would non-ironically hang such a thing their wall and expect me to still respect them. Even a person who hung such a thing ironically on their wall would have a rather large respect gap to make up for it. Those posters are just trite and obnoxious, and it boggles my mind that anyone might miss that aspect.

That said, I'll now admit that I've taken to collecting fortunes from various fortune cookies and Chinese restaurants in my wallet. I'm not collecting the bland, non-specific ones such as "You will soon recieve a large gift" or "An old friend will soon be important" or some such nonsense. I'm not collecting them for the numbers on back in an orchestrated strike on lotto or anything. No, I'm collecting those ones which obviously pertain to me. Let's take a moment to review the collection so far, beginning with the most recent entries and going back to the first:

-- Nothing can keep you from reaching your goals.
-- You out distance all competitors.
-- You are admired for your accomplishments.

And perhaps you, my dear reader, think these fortunes are of the bland, non-specific variety. You may be correct. But then I would then turn your attention to the genesis, the foundation, the fortune which was obviously destined to find me, and me alone:

-- Among the lucky, you are the chosen one.

Obviously fortune cookies understand who I am, and they are sending a carefully orchestrated message to help me in my path in life. So let me take a moment to thank you, fortune cookies of the world, for all the inspiration and motivation you've provided me (not to mention the sweet, after-meal snack as well). If all you've told me is true, then perrhaps one day I'll have my own office where I can frame and display you, in an organized effort for others to share in your wisdom.

high class adult entertainment

Here are a few things I would associate with the phrase "high class adult entertainment": going to a musem and simply wandering for a few hours, eating at an expensive restaurant where the price is reflected in the flavor of the food as opposed to the size of the portion, attending an international film festival, going on a hike in an incredibly beautiful location, or spending an evening in with your loved ones and enjoying every minute.

So imagine my confusion as to the sign above Club 71 alongside Highway 5 -- a suggestive silhouette of the female form along with the slogan "high class adult entertainment." This, my friends, was a stip club strategically located along the highway to attract the ample trucking crowd. This does not necessarily strike me as very high class.

What the sign really strikes me as is being guilty of protesting too much, as if we wouldn't wonder about such signs as a "BBQ Chicken Shack: 100% Ecoli Free" or "Haul It Movers Company: We Won't Steal" or "Local Catholic Church: We Love Children the Right Way." Suffice to say I have my doubts about this Club 71 and exactly what class of entertainment it really provides.

my name is Tieg

Everything contained in this post is in fact carefully rehearsed and readily available stock answers and anecdotes to all questions concerning my name. I pretty much can't meet anybody new without having to employ at least one of these in our conversation, so I've decided that, in a time saving effort, I'm simply going to list them here and, in the future, refer any and all inquiries re: my name to this post. Enjoy:

1. No, it's not short for anything.

2. No, I don't know why my parents chose it. They're weird. My brother's name is Adam.

3. It's actually an intentional misspelling. It's supposed to be "t-e-a-g-u-e" like "league." My parents figured they'd save me the vowels.

4. No, it's not "ethnic." I have no idea what my "heritage" is. I've been told that it's Celtic, but really I could just be making that up. I can't emphasize this enough, but it really appears that my parents just pulled it out of their ass.

5. No, it's Tieg with a "g" at the end. I'm not some idiot who runs around referring to myself by a single consonant.

6. I was told it means "man of poetry" which is ironic. Of course I am an English major who enjoys writing, so it's fitting in that sense, but I also really dislike poetry rather specifically. And I didn't know about this meaning of my name until I was 18 years old, meaning that instead of spending my teenage years wearing black, scribbling in journals, listening to the Cure, and getting all kinds of tail from naive women who wanted to fix my tortured soul, I listened to heavy metal, became a hockey junky, read a lot of science fiction, and developed a debilitating video game habit. But hey, thanks Dad, for finally letting me know. I'll have to figure out a way to work it into my online gaming profile.

7. I've met two other Teague's. One was a guy and one was a girl. The girl was hot as hell, and the guy was just someone who opened a rental account at Tower in San Francisco when I worked there. I definitely entertained fantasies of how cool it would be to date a really hot chick named Teague, and how it would have to be a rather epic relationship based on the name thing alone. She was just a (hot) waitress I met once at a restaurant in Santa Cruz, but I still feel pretty cheated that the chance for a "Tieg and Teague" relationship passed me by. She might have been the One, for all I know. I mean, she had a great name. We could have named our first child Tieg (or Teague), regardless of its sex, and then s/he could say that s/he was named after her/his mother AND her/his father. How cool would that be? Maybe I'll search for her on the internet when I'm done with this.

8. In Santa Cruz I actually went to high school with a girl named Teagan. In my second semester there we ended up having a class together and it was one of the weirdest experiences of my life. When handing back papers, the teacher would say "Teagan" and I'd think it was for me. It was this extremely profoud moment where I finally had my first glimpse into the lives of the John's and Sara's and David's of the world. For the first time ever I was around someone with a similar name and it definitely shook me up a little bit.

9. One time I searched my name on the internet, to see if anyone else had the exact same spelling. What I found was a picture of two little boys, one Tieg the other something like Bronwen, weilding large swords in a field. There was subtitle something along the lines that "Tieg's favorite armament is the Broad Sword" or something like that. Basically, there was another one, and that one was a Ren Fair dork in training, and his parents were weird hippies who chose a fucked up name because they thought it would be cool, and he was going to fuck my name up for me by dorking it up all over the place, and I was going to have to be extra super duper cool in order to counter-balance this Tieg's ultimate lameness, and it might actually be the best idea to simply track him down and smother him in his sleep, before he got too handy with those broadswords, because in the end there can only be one.

Although now I'm myspace friends with another Tieg, letter for letter, same name. He's younger than me as well, so once again I'm the first. When I found his profile we exchanged some e-mails back and forth venting about the struggles of living with a weird name. It was pretty liberating, really, knowing that someone else out there knows my pain. He's in a band and he seems pretty cool -- perhaps cooler than me, who knows -- so I'm pretty glad to know there will be two of us bringing glory to the name. I'm not going to have to smother this one.

10. When answering the phone at jobs I can always tell if it's a customer or not on the other end, because only people who know me actually call me Tieg. Typically people are glad to chum it up with Steve or Pete, and one time I even got a Craig, but there's never once been someone who actually picked up my name correctly when I say it over the phone. Doesn't really matter, it's not like I'm actually telling them my name because I want to be the customer's friend. It's just something that my employers generally make me do.

11. Because it's a weird name, there's a rather high rate of retention in the people I tell it to. What that means is that people often know my name and I've already forgotten theirs. It's not fair, really, because mine is highly memorable and theirs is Jenny or Lisa or Leah or something, how can I be expected to remember that? Or perhaps I'm just rude and really crappy at remembering people's name. We'll never know.

So there. If any readers have further questions about my name, feel free to ask and I'll be sure to answer. Everything you ever wanted to know will be answered in this space, and then hopefully never answered again.

young adults

I'm never comfortable around young adults. I'm not sure what it is. Even when I was one, the 12-17 set always made me nervous to be around. And it's not like I'm opposed to them as a concept or anything -- like I think we should discover some way to scientifically skip those ages in the future generations or something -- but I can't honestly say they really give me any peace of mind when they're around me.

So today I decided to head up to the high school before the sun set so I could shoot around a little bit and watch the sky turn pink. Little did I realize that today was the day for basketball tryouts, and even at 5:00 the high school would be swarming with identity-confused youngsters. But I'm an adult now and I should be able to hide my nervousness around them, right? So I head out to shoot around, regardless of the little monsters literally surrounding me on all sides. But still, every time I airball or clang it off the side of the rim I have to remind myself, "Nobody is looking. Nobody saw that. Nobody cares. You can legally drink beer. They cannot. You are fully grown. They are not. You have an in-depth knowledge of English linguistics. They dont' even know what linguistics means. You have touched a girl's bare breast. They have ... no wait ... kids these days, they're into all kinds of freaky things. They probably have done that. Fuck." etc.

And eventually one of them approaches me. He appears to be 13 or 14, obviously not fully grown. He has on blue shorts with a matching blue Jordan shirt, something he's probably very fond of as it aptly displays his status as a "cool" person, something he is undoubtedly eager to broadcast. He would like to shoot around with me, and I'm forced to relent. To begin the process of healing, I'm going to have to accept one of them in my life eventually.

I try to play it cool and not let on that his kind is my enemy. Unfortunately there are two girls who come in tow. This might pose a problem. The male-female young adult dynamic is always more troublesome than the simple unisex one. What if the girls start teasing the boy and make him feel bad? What if I'm exposed to pathetically awkward young adult flirting? What if he gets nervous and starts missing all his shots and gets all embarrassed in front of the girls? What if the girls talk to me? This new dynamic has the potential for trouble written all over it.

Thankfully I was bailed out by the girl's conversation with each other. They begin talking about how much they get grounded. Actually, one girl talks about being "grounded" and the other one says "put on restriction" which is extra funny, because you can see the different parenting philosophies at work and how these young lives are still largely defined by the adults who govern them. Now I can relax, because I have a concrete reason why I'm cooler than these girls. I can stay out as late as I want, I can talk on the phone as long as I want, I can date who I want, I can go wherever I want in my own free time, wear the clothes I want, and no one can tell me shit.

So see? There's no reason to be afraid of young adults at all. They get put on fucking restriction.

the birder's world

Today I decided to eat my lunch in Harry Griffith Hall. I don't typically frequent this building on campus. I've only had two real memorable experiences there, and I can't say they've been memorable for good reasons. One was the second worst class I've ever taken in my entire life, and the other was a volunteer survey about violence in video games where they had me play Grand Theft Auto: Vice City for a while before they asked me a bunch of silly questions. But it remains that there is ample table space and good places to sit and eat, so I decided to drop by. Luckily for me, my Harry Griffith luck was about to change.

At the table I settled into was a copy of Birder's World from December 2004, a magazine dedicated to bird watchers and their bizarre hobby. The cover promises thrilling articles on such topics as "Arizona's least-known trogon hotspot" and "African Birds - Amazing Flamingos", as well as the "Special: Sparrow ID Foldout." Needless to say I was intrigued.

So I settled in and began reading, here are some sample passages:

From the Editor:

Just how many birds can you see in winter? This issue should convince you that there are plenty [...] the birding can be spectacular: Bohemian Waxwings flying in from Cape Breton by the hundreds, Long-tailed Ducks floating off shore by the thousands, Iceland Gulls loafing just about anywwhere, and inevitably, one of these winters, a white-morph Gyrfalcon.

From the readers:

In The Glass Menagerie, Tennessee Williams wrote that time is the longest distance between two places. Pete Dunne's "Closing the Loop" brought back memories of birding the loop at Bentsen-Rio Grande and, with the help of the Gambles, seeing my first Blue Bunting. In the '80s I was a young birder by myself in south Texas, and Red and Louise not only guided me around the area for two days, but had me over for breakfast in their trailer. I will never forget their kindness.

From the contributors:

Sometimes the great moments come and pass and only later does memory confer upon them the shine of greatness. Other times, an encounter is so great and so singular that only a fool (or a nonbirder) could fail to recognize it. This was one of those encounters.

So yes, I took the magazine with me. This is one of the finest prizes I've struck in some time, and I fully intend to read this magazine cover-to-cover. Ads for expensive binoculars, birdhouses, and various foods to attract the creatures fill the pages, constant use of the noun "bird" as a verb -- as illustrated above -- litters every piece of prose, and lonely obsession simply reeks from every page. This is my kind of magazine.

local politics (aka hippies having sex is gross)

Here's a quote from the local paper re: the issue of recruiters on high school campuses, which is shaping to be a key issue in the upcoming local school board election:

'When I was in high school, a trade school told us that their school was located in an area that had a population of seven girls to every guy, ' [candidate Steve Lorenzo] wrote. 'This is a method of persuarsion that is not appropriate.'

Well speak for yourself, Steve. This would appear to be exactly the type of information that a prospective applicant of any school would truly need. If I was aware of this community when I was in high school, I might have attended this trade school, and I might have actually learned a trade, and I might actually be doing something with my life instead of just going through the motions to complete a non-paying liberal arts degree, and I might actually have met some hot chicks along the way, and that actually might not have been as bad as he seems to make it, and I don't actually see what his problem is except for the fact that he made the mistake of passing on this trade school as well. Don't believe the hype, hippies are just playa-haters dressed in the clothing of peace and love. Just because you fucked up, and the crowning achievement of your life might be becoming a school board member in politically outrageous Arcata, doesn't mean you have to take that out on the next generation of prospective students just looking to get laid.