Aging
So I'm going out of town (as mentioned yesterday) this weekend to attend the surprise 30th B-day Bash celebrating the continued successful aging of my friend BT. Hmm...since I have a couple of BT's as friends, let me clarify. This is BLT (like the sandwich) and not BMT (like the guy I work with who looks nothing like me).
BLT and I met at college, and more specifically we met for the first time during the first pledge meeting for the Washington Beta chapter of Phi Delta Theta International Fraternity. He didn't like me at first (so he eventually confessed) and I don't think I liked him. Obviously, the foundations for a friendship that will span the ages.
BLT is an interesting fellow. From Yakima, Washington (The Palm Springs of Washington...I wish I could make up stuff that funny...can't find a picture of the sign, but a Google search reveals the pathetic truth). BLT grew up enjoying apples and being too smart for anyone's good. He is an avid fly-fisherman and hunter.
I'm not all that interesting. I like apples, but have never shot Bambi or fished for flies. I did fish at one time in my life, but haven't done it in a long time. My first memory of fishing is being out on a boat with my father and grandfather in Minnesota. This is kinda funny, considering at the time neither my father nor I could swim, and my grandpa isn't the sort of fellow you'd ever really want to entrust your life to. Anyhow, we were on a lake, in the sun, fishing for a tasty animal called the sunfish. My grandfather and father sat there all day, watching in horror as fish leapt at my line whenever I even looked at the water. It was a good-news/bad-news scenario, as they didn't catch anything that day, but I gathered enough vittles to feed most of the town of Pierz, MN for the next 14 months.
The reason I don't fish much anymore, therefore, is one of diminishing returns. Each time I go fishing, I'm less likely to enjoy success. As BF Skinner explained, I am the victim of the principle of extinction.
BLT and I went on for a year or so not being friends while hanging out in the same fraternity house, until our mutual affinity for power and control forced us to forge an uneasy alliance. We took part in a palace coup when our fraternity managed to get elected to nearly every office in the student government (BLT was Vice President of Committees, I was Secretary -- and I looked darn good in that skirt...). Eventually, we learned that we were a good team, and we seized control of the fraternity (BLT the Prez, me one heartbeat away from ultimate authority). We both majored in psychology (hence my easiness with the occasional Skinner reference) and eventualy both graduated (although I'd call my matriculation something more like "sneaking out before the psych department could lynch me to prevent showing the world that a dumb person could actually fake it so well").
BLT and I only took part in one joint venture in the psychological realm. In our senior year, while working our way through clinical psychology class, BLT and I decided to engage in our "practicum" experience by working with a local autistic child. To be honest, I'm givng BLT far too little credit here. When I say "we decided to..." I mean to say "BLT found a project and I begged into it so I wouldn't flunk out." Anyway, we worked with a delightful young boy named Brendan, who was profoundly affected by his autism. He was almost entirely withdrawn and our semester was spent in trying to use behavioral principles to encourage and reinforce interaction. I think we almost entirely failed.
Brendan had a freaky mom. I was not so keenly aware of drug issues then as I am now, but I'd be willing to bet, on reflection, that along with her obvious overuse of alcohol and tobacco (never done in our presence, but you could just tell by her raspy voice and the barely-veiled party-girl vibe), she was probably a user of more odious substances as well. And I think she had a thing for BLT, me, and probably more of a thing for both of us.
One day, it was my turn to go over alone. Mind you, we went over at the same time, on the same days, every week. There were no surprises. I was running about 10 minutes late, and when I got to Brendan's there was no answer the first time I knocked. I knocked again; no answer. I tried the handle, and the door came open. Brendan was in the living room, watching TV. I called out to his mother, but nothing. I made sure to clearly yell that I was there, so she wouldn't be frightened if she turned a corner to see a man in her living room. She must have heard me, because she came out of her bathroom, stark naked, and feined surprise at seeing me. So surprised she was that she grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her hair. I didn't stay long. And so it goes.
Other than psychology and politics, the main activity which bound BLT to any other male (sheer sexual curiosity drove all of his associations with the fairer sex) was beer pong. Beer pong is a modified game of ping pong. The players put a cup of beer on the beer pong table, and the goal is to hit a ping pong ball into an opposing player's cup. If you hit the cup and the ball is not returned, the opposing player takes one drink. If the opposing player can hit it back after it hits their cup, the ball is still alive, and once a team loses the point they drink for every hit that occurred while the point was played. If you "hoop" the other team (put the ball into the cup), the other team must drink it all.
Fun game. Responsible for my college-time struggle with potential alcoholism.
BLT, for whatever strengths or weaknesses he may otherwise possess, is a magnificent beast when it comes to pong. He is the successful fusion of high-tolerance and athletic grace. And so we were all drawn to his play; the need to challenge him drove us all to destruction.
That's my tribute to BLT. He is one of the smartest people I know (and he will make sure you are aware that he knows it, too) and I'm glad to call him my friend.
Anyway, BLT, Happy 30th. I hope you get hooped ALOT.
No links today. Sorry.
Catch ya later.
BLT and I met at college, and more specifically we met for the first time during the first pledge meeting for the Washington Beta chapter of Phi Delta Theta International Fraternity. He didn't like me at first (so he eventually confessed) and I don't think I liked him. Obviously, the foundations for a friendship that will span the ages.
BLT is an interesting fellow. From Yakima, Washington (The Palm Springs of Washington...I wish I could make up stuff that funny...can't find a picture of the sign, but a Google search reveals the pathetic truth). BLT grew up enjoying apples and being too smart for anyone's good. He is an avid fly-fisherman and hunter.
I'm not all that interesting. I like apples, but have never shot Bambi or fished for flies. I did fish at one time in my life, but haven't done it in a long time. My first memory of fishing is being out on a boat with my father and grandfather in Minnesota. This is kinda funny, considering at the time neither my father nor I could swim, and my grandpa isn't the sort of fellow you'd ever really want to entrust your life to. Anyhow, we were on a lake, in the sun, fishing for a tasty animal called the sunfish. My grandfather and father sat there all day, watching in horror as fish leapt at my line whenever I even looked at the water. It was a good-news/bad-news scenario, as they didn't catch anything that day, but I gathered enough vittles to feed most of the town of Pierz, MN for the next 14 months.
The reason I don't fish much anymore, therefore, is one of diminishing returns. Each time I go fishing, I'm less likely to enjoy success. As BF Skinner explained, I am the victim of the principle of extinction.
BLT and I went on for a year or so not being friends while hanging out in the same fraternity house, until our mutual affinity for power and control forced us to forge an uneasy alliance. We took part in a palace coup when our fraternity managed to get elected to nearly every office in the student government (BLT was Vice President of Committees, I was Secretary -- and I looked darn good in that skirt...). Eventually, we learned that we were a good team, and we seized control of the fraternity (BLT the Prez, me one heartbeat away from ultimate authority). We both majored in psychology (hence my easiness with the occasional Skinner reference) and eventualy both graduated (although I'd call my matriculation something more like "sneaking out before the psych department could lynch me to prevent showing the world that a dumb person could actually fake it so well").
BLT and I only took part in one joint venture in the psychological realm. In our senior year, while working our way through clinical psychology class, BLT and I decided to engage in our "practicum" experience by working with a local autistic child. To be honest, I'm givng BLT far too little credit here. When I say "we decided to..." I mean to say "BLT found a project and I begged into it so I wouldn't flunk out." Anyway, we worked with a delightful young boy named Brendan, who was profoundly affected by his autism. He was almost entirely withdrawn and our semester was spent in trying to use behavioral principles to encourage and reinforce interaction. I think we almost entirely failed.
Brendan had a freaky mom. I was not so keenly aware of drug issues then as I am now, but I'd be willing to bet, on reflection, that along with her obvious overuse of alcohol and tobacco (never done in our presence, but you could just tell by her raspy voice and the barely-veiled party-girl vibe), she was probably a user of more odious substances as well. And I think she had a thing for BLT, me, and probably more of a thing for both of us.
One day, it was my turn to go over alone. Mind you, we went over at the same time, on the same days, every week. There were no surprises. I was running about 10 minutes late, and when I got to Brendan's there was no answer the first time I knocked. I knocked again; no answer. I tried the handle, and the door came open. Brendan was in the living room, watching TV. I called out to his mother, but nothing. I made sure to clearly yell that I was there, so she wouldn't be frightened if she turned a corner to see a man in her living room. She must have heard me, because she came out of her bathroom, stark naked, and feined surprise at seeing me. So surprised she was that she grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her hair. I didn't stay long. And so it goes.
Other than psychology and politics, the main activity which bound BLT to any other male (sheer sexual curiosity drove all of his associations with the fairer sex) was beer pong. Beer pong is a modified game of ping pong. The players put a cup of beer on the beer pong table, and the goal is to hit a ping pong ball into an opposing player's cup. If you hit the cup and the ball is not returned, the opposing player takes one drink. If the opposing player can hit it back after it hits their cup, the ball is still alive, and once a team loses the point they drink for every hit that occurred while the point was played. If you "hoop" the other team (put the ball into the cup), the other team must drink it all.
Fun game. Responsible for my college-time struggle with potential alcoholism.
BLT, for whatever strengths or weaknesses he may otherwise possess, is a magnificent beast when it comes to pong. He is the successful fusion of high-tolerance and athletic grace. And so we were all drawn to his play; the need to challenge him drove us all to destruction.
That's my tribute to BLT. He is one of the smartest people I know (and he will make sure you are aware that he knows it, too) and I'm glad to call him my friend.
Anyway, BLT, Happy 30th. I hope you get hooped ALOT.
No links today. Sorry.
Catch ya later.
posted by Rusty at 11:49 PM
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