These are the correct lyrics to My Sweet Loving Man by Skeeter Davis.

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I have had an issue with iChat ever since I got my MacBook Air last year. I usually don't bother going on forums to ask for answers as I end up figuring it out for myself. But I was stumped. I ended up on the Apple forums. It wasn't much help.

Today, on my new 27-inch iMac, I encountered the same exact issue. I finally figured out the fix.

Previously, as seen in that forum thread, the advice was to run the Auto Accept Applescript upon receiving a message. Then I realized that the sound that was corresponding with the event was not the same. It turns out that my issue was that I was running the script on the wrong event. Instead, I should be running it on Text Invitations.

That solved all of my problems. At first glance, it seemed counter-intuitive: you are receiving a message, not an invitation. But technically, the initial message is an invitation. And thusly, you must accept the invitation first.

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As usual, I love this song and couldn't find the lyrics, so here they are. Here's to hoping that I'll some day find the woman to listen to this song with, huddled together on a couch some dark winter evening.

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In the wee morning hours, with nothing better to do, I started re-reading a number of my older posts. It's funny how I am pretty much a broken record.

It's not so much that I haven't had anything new to say. My observations on relationships and such are always growing and developing with new information. But reading deeper, I see that the concerns I had two years ago, some even three years ago, are still concerns I have today. I'm singing the same song. It shows me that no progress has been made. In fact, some feelings are even more compounded. This is quite telling: many of the issues I find problematic have yet to be resolved. What this means for myself is unclear. Is it a lack of growth that perpetuates what I daresay is my misery? Or is it just that I am an uncompromising, incorruptible man who refuses to bend to the ways of society?

Over these past few years, my stances on important things like dating, relationships, morality, and politics have been clarified and solidified. If anything, I have become even less flexible and more entrenched in my ways. Who I am has become well-defined. Where I once had murkiness, focus and clarity has taken its place.

Or so I think and would like to believe. I herald the strong-spirited as people of honor. I live by a code, one of my own making, and abide by it without fail. The strength I need to live by my conduct is not insignificant. Certainly, during times at which my spirit, strength, and resolve waver under the pressures and demands of a society I view as broken, that murkiness returns. In my loneliness, I imagine that I could change in so many ways should I wish to. I could be more accommodating of the ways and whimsy of modern society, from the drugs and alcohol and casual sex to the indifferent lack of respect and loyalty common to today's culture. The man I am today was willed into existence through my strength and discipline. I had a vision for the man I wanted to become: a man of integrity, respect, and humility; a reliable man of industry, an insightful man of creativity; a man of knowledge and understanding, one who owns each and every single one of his thoughts. And for the most part, that is who I have become, who I have molded and crafted myself into.

But now, having come to realize that my desires in the external world are unlikely to be met, I come to question the practicality of my idealism. Being the man I envisioned carries a heavy price. Carrying myself the way I do through this world exacts an immense toll on my psyche. My emotional and spiritual happiness are inevitably difficult to maintain.

It is of little comfort that there are others - as few they are - who feel the same way I do. Companionship is in rare supply. In my own life, it has been practically non-existent. While I have met sympathetic souls, sympathy is never quite the same as empathy. And then even empathy is not quite the same as true understanding. I feel tempted to write of the hollow echoes of loneliness, the tiresome feeling one gets from searching endlessly for something that cannot be found. But perhaps that is best kept in the private pages of a handwritten journal.

A priest is a man of God, a man who accepts God's love in the place of the love of a woman. He lives his life with no expectation of love or romance from anybody but the good Lord above. In times of spiritual need, he looks to God for comfort. In times of loneliness, he has something, someone, to turn to. I myself have nothing - nobody - to turn to. In dark times, I am left to my own devices, devices which have been worn down through constant use. God provides hope to those who need it. He shines a bright light onto His children's paths, lighting the way ahead. My path is shrouded in uncertainty and darkness, my future visible only as murky wisps of emptiness.

I am still young, as I've said three years ago. But in a short six years, I will have approached the hallmark of my thirtieth year of existence on this world, nearly all of it alone and lonely. The same way the first three chapters of my novel set the trajectory of the protagonist's journey, perhaps the beginning of my life defines the trajectory of the rest of it.

I have never been one to imbibe in alcohol or drugs. I find it beneath me. I always imagined myself as tough enough to avoid indulging in such cheap tricks of the mind. I have always prided myself on grounding myself in the reality of things despite my idealism and romanticism. But perhaps the dualism of such an existence is beginning to reveal itself as an unending task of far greater proportions than I could have first imagined. Perhaps, in the light of my realization that things will not be alright, I should start acquiring a taste for alcohol. After all, I have always thought that those drinks looked quite refreshing and appealing. Here's to flirting with the idea of becoming a drinker. Besides, isn't there some sort of cliche about writer's being alcoholics?

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It's damn nearly 6AM and I can't fall asleep. And it's when I can't fall asleep that I my mind starts wandering into dangerous territory. I started wondering about whether or not I'll ever find that special lady, whether or not I'll ever find the right woman to marry...all sorts of bad things.

I've already written on my self-inflicted conundrum of not approaching women I don't know. That is to say that I refuse to make any romantic advances (or even develop any romantic intentions) on a woman whom I know nothing about. Such actions predicated on superficial attraction are, in my book, not the right way to go about finding a woman of relationship potential. My attraction begins with a woman's values.

What exactly am I looking for though? Time's passage has since given me clarity on such things. The woman I'm looking for is fiercely loyal and has very good moral strength. She really ought to be a romantic who believes in the lofty notions of true and undying love, and preferably an idealist who believes in striving to reach those ideals, no matter how difficult it may be to run counter to popular society.

Previously, these things were more fluid in my desires. I once believed that I wouldn't mind a woman who had less strength and boldness, but I see now that I have very low tolerance for those who would bend in their code of conduct, for those who lack a sense of loyalty. These two characteristics are a deal breaker: I cannot be with a woman for the rest of my life unless she has, for the most part, an incorruptible sense of self.

These ideals are of course ones that I embody myself. I seek a woman who is like myself. Loyalty is important. She must be loyal not only to me, but to her loved ones as well. Loyalty is a sign of moral character, and speaks to a sense of reverence for ties to those who are close to you. A woman who has the strength to be her true self is a woman who is honest and unwavering in her allegiances; she is someone whose actions are congruent with her ideal self.

I once dated a girl who was still trying to figure things out for herself. She let others define who she was and what she wanted. I thought I could be with someone like this, but it's tiring to have to see her changing her mind on things from one day to the next. She questioned her own values - which were not unlike my own - and considered the advice of those whose values were not in line with hers. I found this to be quite foolish, and entirely unattractive.

I'm a man who knows myself. I know what I like, and I know what I want. Of course, I know now with a great deal of certainty what I want in a woman. The only issue here is that what I want is not so easy to find. Rare is the romantic idealist who believes in chastity, discretion, respect, courtesy, loyalty, and honesty. So rare is such a woman that I had resigned myself to accepting singlehood as a permanent state. While it is popular opinion that concessions should be made to allow for more flexibility in one's dating prospects, these core values are not something I can compromise on. I don't care so much whether or not a lady is well-read, whether she enjoys Broadway theatre, whether she has a good figure, or whether she cooks; by and large, these factors are immaterial to me. Because a relationship that lasts is based partly on mutual respect and admiration, I must look for qualities that I respect and admire. And as a man with incorruptible morals and ideals, the bar is set quite high.

I suppose that this new mandate makes it relatively easy for me in terms of dating. While I had previously considered relaxing my standards - and thusly creating a fluid and relatively indecisive calculation - I can now look first and foremost at two things: good strength of character and morals, and a solid sense of loyalty. Should my date exhibit that she lacks in either of those, such a mindset will aid in a swift and precise decision on whether or not I should expend any further efforts pursuing her.

Now, all I have to do is go out there and actually find a woman who's like me. No small task, considering my inflexible and slightly anachronistic values. Oh well, such is life.

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I absolutely love the convenience of the Kindle. I read Sex at Dawn on my Kindle. In fact, I was able to pre-purchase it so that I'd be able to read it the first day it was released. I also read Outliers, Click, and countless other books on it. With the addition of native PDF reading, I also loaded up a bunch of those as well.

As a "serial reading" device - I made that up - eBook readers are wonderful. If you're the type to read a book from cover to cover, without stopping in between, without going back to this page or that page, then eBook readers are wonderfully convenient devices. The problem though is when you want to refer back to them.

I have a visual memory. When I read, and something sort of jumps out at me, and I want to recall it later, I have this vague memory of where in the book it was. I sort of remember about how far into the book it was and where on the page it was (i.e. middle of the right page, second paragraph). With eBook readers, recalling a spot in the book in this visual fashion is pretty tough. For one, there's no sense of progress: the visual percentage meter doesn't really help unless you're always checking it. Then there's the fact that pages are potentially laid out differently: the start and end of a page depends on the "location". After all this time that I've owned a Kindle, I still don't really know what that location number means (I should just go look it up).

Anyway, I was entranced at the idea of reading eBooks for free at Barnes & Noble with a Nook. Prices have dropped to very reasonable levels, and the devices have gotten better since the first Kindle 2 I purchased (and still use). But then I realized that my main issue with eBook reading devices is the slow page refresh time. For browsing and virtual flipping of pages, you definitely need to have near instant refreshing. I imagine that one day, we'll have a perfect E-Ink screen that refreshes instantaneously. Flipping through a book is as easy as dragging your finger across a touch screen scroll bar at the bottom.

Now, one might point out the fact that I can simply use the built-in search function. The only thing wrong with that is that I may not necessarily remember the exact word or words I'm looking for. Searching requires specificity, where my visual memory relies on context. I can browse printed books quickly and easily, something I can't do on any eBook reader that exists today.

So, for now, since I've already got a Kindle 2, I think I'll hold out on buying any new eBook readers until they're designed to be easily browsable. It's not so bad reading the latest pop psychology or pop anthropology book from start to finish on my slow-to-refresh Kindle screen.

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I haven't been doing much personal writing lately...mostly it's been essays and updates about my novel. In a tribute to the old days of online journaling, this is going to be one of those self-indulgent personal pieces that also serves as a writing exercise; I've fallen into a rut and need to stretch my imagination.

My first novel was a great success. It started out as just a small success, a little known cult classic. Then word spread and it garnered the attention of those literary critics I don't give two hoots about. They heralded it as an insightful glimpse of the face of loneliness. There was talk of how it touched on the growing phenomenon of urban isolation. Some folks likened it to a classic country song about alienation and 'urban wickedness'. It was never one of those New York Times bestsellers, but it put me on the map. I was 26 when it was published, and 27 when I was interviewed. The reporter said that she loved Mark - the protagonist of my novel - and how tragic his loneliness was. I asked her if she caught the priestly angle, and she said that that was actually something that deeply resonated with her - her father was a pastor who always seemed so aloof. She also remarked that Mark's separate from the rest of the world, he's on a whole different plane of existence. A clever gal, that one.

That article got me noticed enough so that I could get an advance on my next book, which was about a darker side of loneliness, the festering violence of a man with hate and intolerance in his heart. That's only one side of him though. He's a protector, a guardian. But he's got nobody to protect, nobody to save. Yeah, yeah, it's sort of yet another spin-off of a different side of myself, but hey, it's still good work, and the publisher gave me and advance, so I must be doing something right.

That was my second book. In between that one and the one I'm working on now, I finally met a woman who ended up being my fiance. I remember the day after she confessed that she was in love with me, I wondered if maybe that psychic I saw all that time ago was right, that I wasn't destined for dating lots of people and that I would only need to meet that one single perfect woman whom I would marry. If she was right about that, that means she was right about me living 'til I'm 80 or 90, too. Back then, I didn't think there was any reason I should have to live that long, but now that's all changed.

So yeah, about that woman. I love her. It was funny, we met through the Internet. She was all the way on the West coast, and I've always been a New Yorker, so I figured that we'd never meet and that she was probably too different for me. It was totally platonic at first. That's why I felt alright showing her my website; otherwise, if I was romantically interested, I probably wouldnt've ever showed her. I'd be afraid of what she thought about my writing, whether she'd misinterpret it and all that. Plus, she's a good three inches taller than me. While I'm not threatened by women who are taller than me, I just always envisioned myself with a smaller woman. I guess it's that protector in me (yeah, that one, the one I drew inspiration from to write my second book).

But yeah, she didn't let the fact that I was shorter than she was stop her. She secretly read my writings and I guess she saw in me something she just couldn't shake. With time, I saw in her a fiercely loyal woman who I knew would be a devoted mother to my children. There was this one evening when I was at her place and we were baking a cake for her aunt - we were still relatively new to each other as boyfriend and girlfriend - and we ended up talking about our childhoods and dreams. She started talking so honestly about how she wanted to raise her family, what she envisioned. I always wanted to talk about that sort of thing, but I didn't want to scare her away with such talk.

Anyway, that night, when she was sifting the flour and talking about what sort of mother she'd be, her back turned to me, I just stood there, staring at the back of her head. It was that moment, when my heart told me that we were both looking for exactly the same thing, that I fell even more deeply in love with her. She noticed I was quiet and turned around. Our eyes met, and something inside both of us just clicked. Without saying a word, she walked to me, floury hands and all. She took my hands in hers and stood real close to me. We just stared into each other. It felt like an eternity. I didn't need to say a word: she knew what I was thinking. She knew that we both wanted the same things, the same future. She knew that my heart was completely hers, that we could spend forever with each other. It was just one of those leaps of faith.

I proposed to her two weeks later. Quick, I know. But you know when, you know, you know? For me, I don't fall in love often, so I know when it's real. Anyway, I had planned on putting the ring on her finger by levitating it over her finger and, after having it hover for a few seconds, let it descend - I was an amateur magician. I wanted to do this one starlit night in a park. But then the damnedest thing happened. One day, she found it in my jacket pocket, and after waiting for a week, she couldn't keep quiet about it anymore. We were in Crate and Barrel, shopping for some baking stuff (I once attempted a cursory psychoanalysis of her: I thought her penchant for baking was a domestic yearning for parts of her childhood she felt she missed out on; she yelled at me for about a week after I pulled that stunt), and when there was a quiet moment, she grabbed the ring box through my jacket. "I can't wait any more, you idiot. Are you going to ask me to marry you or not?" She's always been strong like that, it's one of the reasons I even dated her. I pulled her in close and kissed her. "What do you think?" I asked. She gave me a sly look, said, "I'm not sure yet, show me again." We kissed rather passionately, which I'm embarrassed to admit. Hey, we were in Crate and Barrel for crying out loud.

And now we're married. We've got a nice little house in a nice little suburban neighborhood. I've got my psychotherapy practice in the well-monied part of town. It's a part-time gig though. That's alright because that gives me time to write. We'll probably have the two kids we planned on having once I get more steady clients. We both worry about what that'll do to my writing though. Getting more clients I mean. Well, I guess the kids too, when you think about it... But yeah, she's a sort of creative type too, so she knows how it goes, the creative process and all. Oh, did I mention? She took the photos for both of my book jackets. I didn't let her put a portrait photo of me on the back of it though. I'm not too hot about getting famous. Besides, it's better to let people wonder.

Oh, right, my latest work in progress. Well, this one is on family and siblings. I'm looking to examine themes like loyalty, taking the people in our lives for granted, and how precious our family is. That and death.

My wife's putting on some dinner, so I've got to go give her a hand. We'll finish this interview tomorrow, alright?

"Talk about yourself as you want to see yourself. And some day, that will be yourself."

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A writer's circle can be quite critical to his or her success. Personally, I feel that writers, as well as all artists, need a nurturing environment in which to hone their craft and to develop their artistic voice. A large part of that involves surrounding yourself with the right people.

(Oh, by the way, the voice in my head is reading (writing?) this with a sense of whimsy, almost a devil-may-care attitude. I suggest you read along with me in like fashion, just for optimal kicks. Of course, feel free to interpret my words in any way you please.)

In my own personal life, it's a little difficult in terms of being accepted as a writer. My parents are not exactly encouraging on this matter. A writer doesn't exactly make much (if any) money, that is until he turns into a New York Times best seller. A writer is seen as unproductive and sometimes even lazy. As most people see it, who wouldn't want to sit at home in front of a computer, dreaming up stories all day?

Not many of my friends seem interested in my writing. Nobody's asked me what my novel is about. The strange thing is that strangers ask me about my novel more than the people who I supposedly am close with.

Family members aren't exactly interested either, even though they're supposed to be the ones you can rely on for support. I gave my aunt my completed screenplay to read (it was the first one I had ever written) and she never brought it up again. I am still afraid of asking her about it, or even to ask for it back. Luckily that wasn't my only copy.

By and large, it was my old English professor (whom I shall call VB) who was incredibly supportive. She believes in me so much, far more than anybody I have ever met. Old teachers, family, friends, nobody ever took enough interest in me or my talents to commend me or to encourage me to pursue my talent. VB instilled in me a sense of confidence and possibility. For that, I will never forget her. Of course, I do still intend to keep touch with her. She is, after all, one of the few people who ever believed in me.

I think that one should seek out those whose worlds say yes. And when one finds such people, one should hold on to them fiercely. It's hard to find someone supportive and encouraging who at the same time understands precisely the hardships you face in your given endeavor.

Writers, being creative folk, each have their own individual processes. Mine has clarified with time. For me, I wake up and grind some fresh Brazilian coffee and put it on to boil. Then I make some toast. By the time the water has boiled and I've added it to the coffee grounds in my Bodum press pot, my toast is ready to be buttered and slathered with Smuckers red raspberry preserves (you know, the one with the red and white picnic table checkers). Not jam or jelly. Preserves. I watch a quick television show while I eat my breakfast, finishing only half a huge mug of my coffee (into which I've put precisely six spoons of sugar, three per cup). Sometimes I read a magazine article, but I never read the news (when I'm in my writing mode, I live in a cave).

And then, when I'm done eating, I start writing. I might take a peek at what I've been up to since the last time I wrote (sometimes I take a break because I just can't get those juices flowing), but most of the time I can remember and I just start banging away at that keyboard. I stew in the minds of my characters, mull over conversation choices, think of stylistic ways to word sentences in order to keep from becoming boring, and lots more. In short, I just write.

The problem is that most people just see you sitting around doing nothing. The art of writing isn't respected, at least not by most of the folks I'm around. I'm a little beyond the age of the average undergrad, but I'm still taking my classes. People see me as biding my time when I'm really trying to work. Just because I don't yet have a piece of faux parchment with gothic lettering that somehow entitles me to get a "real job" (because somehow people who didn't spend lots of money on an education are somehow not qualified to get a "real job") doesn't mean I'm not working on something. Don't you see I'm trying to create something here? That's a task far more complex and difficult than most any tasks you'd perform as a "real job".

Sometimes, when people ask me what I'm up to (mostly nosey and judgmental family members), I don't bother telling them I'm writing. I get so excited about my idea for a short story, about the themes that would resonate with modern urban society, about the importance of touching each other and physical proximity, about the latest bit of writing I've done, so I tell them all about it. And then I just get those staring nods that say, "Uh-huh, I hear you buddy, you keep doing that. I don't have a clue what you're talking about, but just keep on doing what you're doing." Nowadays, I just tell them I'm still taking classes. This tactic still yields chastising lectures about how I need to hurry up and graduate (still better than those blank stares, I say). What's the rush, I ask them. The point of an education is not to get a diploma but to become learned, I posit. They can't really figure out why I'm wrong because I'm not, so they just quietly agree, secretly disagreeing. Then they wait a couple of months to a half a year before they bring it up again, just for kicks.

Then you've got your friends who don't really understand your writing process. For me, I've got to live in a cave. I can't get distracted, and I don't really want to go out and talk to anyone. I just need to hunker down and get those chapters written while I've got those juices flowing. Ya dig? No, ya don't dig. Oh well. They think I'm ignoring them or something, but it's just "the process". Why can't you understand that? I'm glad at least one of my friends understands that. Then again, maybe it's just that she feels it's all for the better since she's going through some things of her own.

Finally, you've got the jealous folks, the ones who are afraid you'll make it big. I guess it's a compliment really, because they see that you've got what it takes to become a success. They'll just try to shit on you or rain on your parade. You'll finish a chapter and maybe they'll act interested, but all they're really looking for is a way to take you down a peg. Creative work is never perfect, and it takes a lot more skill and effort to create something than it is to tear it down. It takes months and years to build a skyscraper, but only a few seconds to blow it up.

A writer's life is complicated and difficult. Whether it's bills, friends, family, or the landlord, there's always something that's trying to screw with you and your state of flow. Lots of people think lowly of us creative types. Few understand us. That's why my dedication page will be devoted to VB, the only person who believed in me and saw my potential as a writer. She's part of the reason I keep working on my novel day in and day out. It's her I want to make proud, to prove to her that she was right about me. It's not my mother or my father, not a friend or a lover. Part of it is my hubris, a way to thumb my nose at those who lacked the vision and foresight to see my success.

If any of this sounds arrogant, it's because of two reasons. For one, I need it. If I don't believe in myself, nobody else will. And secondly, perception is reality. If I think I'll be a great literary success, then that's what'll happen. If that's what I envision, then there can only be one outcome. Pushing myself to reach for greatness is the way to avoid mediocrity. But I should be careful not to become a perfectionist either, lest I end up never having published anything.

Here's to all you writers out there (and painters, musicians, and countless other creative types) who have to schlep through all the bullshit to see their vision become reality. I hear you buddy, just keep on keeping on.

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True understanding requires true education and true knowledge. There are those who would assume their competence in the form of academia, with superficial knowledge of theories and concepts. Others attempt to command a higher status by demanding their credentials be observed and respected. These are the types who lack true knowledge and understanding.

Many people are impressed by those who can quote from books of poetry or chapters in a textbook. They view this as intelligence and extend this impression to assume that they are educated. A convenient example comes from a favorite film of mine, Good Will Hunting.

It is interesting that Will Hunting, anti-hero in said film, makes a point of having original thoughts in order to demolish and humiliate an intellectual opponent. He does so despite the fact that he himself shows no evidence of having any original thoughts of his own. To paraphrase his begrudged therapist, "If I asked you about art, you'd probably give me the skinny on every art book ever written...but I'll bet you can't tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel." In other words, Mr. Hunting is lacking in authenticity and experience. His knowledge, while superficially intimidating, is nothing more than an exhibition of his remarkable memory and academic capabilities.

This is a far cry from what I would consider to be true knowledge. Mr. Hunting lacks the emotional and spiritual aspects of life experience that completes ones education. He has book smarts, there is no doubt about that. But his knowledge is not grounded in the real world. Rather, it is a mere reflection of the books he has read. Perhaps he too does no more than the Michael Bolton clone in that he merely reads voluminously.

But before I turn this into a character study of Will Hunting, this is an example of what I mean by having real knowledge. It is akin to the soldier who reads, theorizes, and conceptualizes about war but whom has never stepped foot onto a battlefield. He can preach the virtues of Sun Tzu's Art of War, he can vouch for the effectiveness of von Clausewitz's tactical genius, but without ever being in the line of fire himself, he will never gain that intangible quality of authenticity and authority.

Theories and concepts are the stuff of those who assume authority without having the experience to justify such a station. In my experience, this is largely manifest in those who use their diploma as a tool for intellectual bullying. Fancy rhetoric, the slick ability to recall large amounts of information from textbooks and case studies, and technical language serve to obscure the fact that they have nothing in the way of experience, where it really counts.

There is a certain sense of camaraderie amongst those who have shared a particular experience, whether it was together or not. Soldiers who have seen combat, women who have been victims of sexual assault, children who have been abused, people who have suffered addiction, people who have dealt with or are dealing with a mental disorder; these people have seen the reality of such difficulties. These are the people who have seen the truth of such matters, first hand. Their experiences are invaluable, far more educational than any textbook or class.  Those who are experienced see through those who can only lay claim to academic theorizing.

A deep understanding of something can be defined as having a grounded perspective gained through experience and exposure. A police cadet may learn the concept behind community policing, a salesman may learn the premises of gaining compliance, a therapist-in-training may learn the theories of depression; but none of them can claim to have a deep and true understanding of their respective fields without having first performed in their position's capacity.

But experience is only part of the equation. To become well-versed in anything, one must have a comprehensive knowledge of the practical. One must be able to understand how theories and concepts actually apply to the real world.

Anybody who points to credentials as proof of authority cannot be trusted. If one were truly authoritative, then ranks, titles, diplomas, number of classes taken, lectures attended, and certificates earned would not be used as symbols of authority or competence. Authority and competence is self-evident and, when true and earned honestly, silently speaks volumes to the integrity of the speaker. A soldier who leads by title is one who will lose his men, either due to mistrust, incompetence, or lack of respect. Those who rely on credentials and the like in order establish superiority in fact have no substance. Credentials are but mere words where actions count.

Modern academic institutions do not educate. Rather, they inform its students. Knowledge can be attained easily. Encyclopedias contain massive amounts of knowledge. But they do not contain education. Education takes place in the minds of the students. There is a big difference between knowledge and education. Unfortunately, the general public seem to easily confuse the two, mistaking being knowledgeable with being competent or educated.

The truly educated are those who question and think. Critical thinking, something sorely missing from the majority of American society, is the mark of an educated man. Intelligence as well as verbal and written acuity are also further signs of a man who is in command of a mind that is fine and refined. Diplomas, degrees, and titles may serve to fool those who do not know any better, but the educated mind sees through such a ruse.

It is a sad day for American society when a mishmash of obscure (or even not so obscure) ideas that are barely profound passes for intelligence. It is disappointing to see that anybody would assume that an academic degree would be worth more than experience, that such things would confer any degree of authority so powerful that it would crush the ideas and consideration of those without such a convenient title.

This is a work in progress.

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This new book Sex at Dawn (that's an affiliate link, so I'll be grateful if you purchase the book) promises to explain the prehistoric origins of human sexuality.

I haven't finished the book yet, but the first thing that I noticed was the tone of the book. Whether by design or by over-zealousness, its try-hard tabloid-like proselytizing of the casual nature of sexual relations serves to either delight or annoy its readers. Of course it isn't hard to guess which side of the audience I'm on.

It's no secret that I am fiercely conservative when it comes to matters of love, sex, and family. So one might point out that I'm simply being biased against such material. This is far from the truth. I have always been a proponent of seeking out the truth. But I have also found that it is not necessary for me to live in accordance to any particular truth. I live in a way that I see fit, regardless of what general consensus and evidence may dictate. There's the truth, and then there's what I believe in. As a result, my appreciation for the truth isn't affected by my philosophy.

In any case, take this excerpt for example:

Yes, a few candles here, some crotchless panties there, toss a handful of rose petals on the bed and it’ll be just like the very first time! What’s that you say? He’s still checking out other women? She’s still got an air of detached disappointment? He’s finished before you’ve begun?

Well, then, let the experts figure out what ails you, your partner, your relationship. Perhaps his penis needs enlarging or her vagina needs a retrofit. Maybe he has “commitment issues,” a “fragmentary superego,” or the dreaded “Peter Pan complex.” Are you depressed? You say you love your spouse of a dozen years but don’t feel sexually attracted the way you used to? One or both of you are tempted by another? Maybe you two should try doing it on the kitchen floor. Or force yourself to do it every night for a year. Maybe he’s going through a midlife crisis. Take these pills. Get a new hairstyle. Something must be wrong with you.

Does this seem like something that belongs in a serious book with serious allegations and assertions? Frankly, it's rather unbecoming. It detracts from the content that it is presenting. If Dr. Ryan and Dr. Jetha wished to be taken seriously, they really ought to have made the decision to drop such facetious and satirical passages. So far, the book tries so hard to convince you that everything that you know about sex and evolutionary reason for human sexuality is wrong. They make promises to answer questions about why men suffer from premature ejaculation and a host of other questions that sound like they come out of an e-mail spam script. It's very difficult to take this book seriously when it treats it audience like a bunch of hicks sitting around watching Jerry Springer with their thumbs up their behinds.

Look out for my review of the book when I finish reading it.

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I recently found out that my Bye Bye Birdie/Mad Men comparison video on YouTube was taken down by Lionsgate. What really got me angry is the fact that there are tons of other video clips showing the same Bye, Bye Birdie introduction, only they were even more useless. At least my video was a comparison between the Mad Men Patio Diet television advertisement and the actual introduction to the film itself.

Anyway, here's my way of sticking it to the man. Screw this oppressive regime of random or selective copyright enforcement. If there's one thing I have a deep hatred for, it's unfairness and fickleness.

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Within the last month, I went on yet another first meeting. Yes, you know the type: the ones where you meet up with someone you met on a dating site. It was a fairly successful interaction. By my design, it wasn't one of those boring average Internet meetups where you ask about each others work, education, and recreation. I went in for the good stuff, the ones with emotional content that most people are afraid of touching.

By the end of our first meet, we parted ways after a hug in the subway station. As I stood in the 5th Avenue train station, waiting for the R train, I felt rather empty. An introvert and observer by nature, it took a lot out of me to do most of the talking for over five hours. I tried to figure out the reason for my emptiness and thought that perhaps it was because I was simply emotionally drained.

The train arrived and I took a seat against my better judgment. I was, after all, wearing my beautiful suit and didn't want it to become wrinkled. Sitting down was a clear sign that I was tired. I was also a little hungry. Previously, my companion subtly suggested getting something to eat. I was indeed hungry, but I had decided to end the interaction. My throat was getting a little worse for the wear due to my being unaccustomed to speaking for such great lengths. In my daily life, I barely utter a word to anybody at all. Going on for five hours was a real workout for my vocal cords: I felt my voice giving out as though I were on the cusp of falling ill from the flu. So without any food in me since the large cup of coffee I had in the morning, risking the wrinkles in my suit seemed like an acceptable risk.

On the way home, I wondered if I would ever meet someone I could make a real genuine connection with. By most social standards, the interaction was good: I built very good rapport and avoided boring and generic conversation, thusly differentiating myself from the vast majority of the dating pool. Although I probably came off as just a touch arrogant, I was confident that I also came off as someone who was emotionally engaging and socially interesting. This was of course due to my diligent and not-so-effortless charming efforts on my part, but I wondered why I even bothered. I was so focused on creating a connection and to have a successful interaction that I forgot the most important thing: to gauge whether or not I was even all that interested in this girl.

And so I mulled over this question as I sped through the subway tunnels, squished between the hard seat partition and a woman whose legs were supple and warm due to her steady workouts judging from her spandex gym outfit. Not wanting to be accused of being a pervert, I squished my own legs together and leaned leftwards towards the door. I thought about the first meet that I had just concluded. Between my date and I , we certainly had our quirks, ones that seemed rather serendipitous. I found her penchant for neatness and organization to be a fair counterpoint to my overall messiness. A humorous thought flashed through my mind: one advantage of dating this girl would be that, in the event that I cook (something I enjoy greatly), I would not have to worry about doing the dishes.

By the time I got home, I still hadn't really determined whether or not I wanted to pursue this girl. On one hand, my mere lack of motivation to pursue her was enough to tell me that I should leave things be. On the other hand, I wondered if I was falling prey to unrealistic expectations of that magic spark.

I had better things to do, so I pushed such matters to the back of my mind. It was only several weeks later that I decided to send a non-committal open invitation to see her again. But what was my motivation?

Truth be told, it was mostly perfunctory. I decided that I did not dislike her, and that she was worth taking out on a "real" date, if only to see if she flipped any of my romantic switches. This got me to realize something.

Dating once used to be an exciting prospect to me. The possibility of meeting someone who might be a potential life partner was one that motivated me greatly. All of these actions were also driven by a simple thought: you can't expect any gains if you don't put in the work. And work I did. I would actively engage my prospective date, read into her profile to find something interesting to talk about, and otherwise write a very personalized message: actions recommended by a variety of dating experts. While I understand that finding romance can be hard work, it was largely fruitless.

What was once exciting has since become a chore. Checking my account on OKCupid is perfunctory. In my spare time, I use the iPhone app and blindly rate every profile four stars to see if anyone bites; all it takes is for me to constantly tap the same spot on the screen. I surf profiles presented to me and rapidly acquire a hooking point to give me a reason to message the girl. I spend less than two minutes writing a couple of sentences and fire it off, forgetting about it and freeing myself from having any expectations of its outcome. Underlying this cursory routine was not a sense of desire but a sense of duty. It felt like dull work.

That looking for love has been reduced to a chore is very disappointing. I used to feel compelled to find a romantic partner. Now, I find myself even more withdrawn. I feel almost no need to socialize or to find romance. I am aware that my desires and longings are likely cyclical, but it has been quite a while since I have truly felt a desire to have a romantic partner. Since the beginning of the year, such thoughts have waned to almost nothing. Right now, I don't feel the compulsion whatsoever.
At the same time, I fear that I am following the classic path of the modern dater: becoming anesthetized from failure after failure, growing numb to the prospect of romance.

Ultimately, I don't believe my lack of interest is borne from any bitterness or negativity (or depression for that matter). Rather, I believe my withdrawal from society is a development of my true and final acceptance that the my life is unlikely to contain any people of quality. I believe that I have finally (truly) made peace with the fact that I will in all likelihood end up alone. Although I had considered this in the past, I think I had a hard time accepting it, even if it was subconsciously. And perhaps it is with this acceptance that I can finally feel truly satisfied with my life. If I treat romance as a luxury, as something I can easily live without, then I can be free of its lonely nights and painful pangs of pining. Though the likelihood of love falling into my lap when I least expect it is incredibly slim, I would rather that a woman come into my life through happenstance than for me to search for the one unlikely kindred soul for the rest of my life, sloughing through hundreds of dates.

Now that the desire has essentially subsided, perhaps I should just quit dating altogether. A friend joked that I might becoming asexual. I of course had considered this possibility long before. And perhaps I have finally realized myself as an asexual being destined for solitude. Or perhaps I have finally regained my balance.

Whatever it is, I now feel at peace with myself, feeling no discomfort in my unattached state. I think this state of equilibrium will become disturbed in the future, but for the time being, I will at least enjoy my rest.

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Ever since I became more fiscally responsible, I canceled my Amazon Prime subscription. My brother commented that it's a good thing that I did considering that it makes me buy less. That's when I realized that Amazon Prime makes it far too easy to purchase things impulsively. It enables consumers to engage in (nearly) instant gratification. A very clever corporate scheme if you ask me. It makes sense and is consistent with their emphasis on making it so easy to shop on their website. From 1-Click and monthly product subscriptions to the new PayPhrase and the nearly instant content delivery on the Kindle, Amazon is savvy in reducing the path of resistance for consumers to make their purchases.

Coming from Amazon Prime, I was accustomed to getting my purchases at most two days after I put in the order. Now that I no longer have such privileges, I am stuck with Free Super Saver Shipping. And boy does it make me feel like a second-rate, third-class citizen. I placed the order on the 17th. It arrived on the 27th via USPS. To make things worse, they did the whole stealthy peach slip thing where they don't actually attempt to deliver your package, forcing you to make your way to the post office the next day. I know the games they play, and it is incredibly frustrating that they lie and claim that the package is out on a truck when it's actually just sitting in the post office.

Anyway, I am extremely excited to finally have my books in hand. This summer, I fully intend to study Nietzsche's On the Genealogy of Morals. I learned a bit about it from some lecture at Oxford I downloaded from iTunes U. Hearing the idea of the "sovereign individual" was like an intellectual ejaculation. I was that excited. Now, I have never read any of Nietzsche's works or studied them in depth, so I have no clue whether or not Nietzsche is satirical of the idea of the sovereign individual (perhaps it is unrealistic to expect to achieve such sovereignty?). But it is certainly something I have been striving to accomplish for the longest time. Now I have something to study, a paradigm to apply to my life so that I can identify my stances with greater clarity and precision.

As for where von Clausewitz fits in, he is heralded as one of the greatest strategists ever, and my intellectual interests drive me to gain a better understanding of strategy. But mostly, I am going to be doing an independent study of Nietzsche. I have no doubt that such an endeavor, pursued without the guidance of a teacher, will be a difficult one. Even so, I am thoroughly motivated to do so. In fact, I have given myself an assignment: to write a thesis by the end of the summer, as well as writing my own polemic by the end of the year. Much of writings are polemical, so much of the groundwork is done already. I only have to refine them and put them together in a cohesive form.

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I was watching Close Encounters of the Third Kind and was reminded of a childhood memory. My family and I were sitting together on the couch, watching some movie from Blockbuster on our 27-inch Sony television set. It featured some sort of desert scene, probably something on Mars. My father joked about something related to how I had a Mars bar. That's how I started craving a Mars bar and realized that the Mars bar had been overtaken by the Snickers Almond.

To me, the Snickers Almond just isn't the same as a Mars bar. I wasn't sure if it was just my faulty memory, so I decided to look it up. Wikipedia, as wonderful as it is, validated my memories: indeed they are different bars. I can't remember precisely what it was that was more appealing about the Mars bar, but it certainly got me going on a short Wikitrip.

In 1926, the Milky Way candy bar was sold for a nickel. When I was seventeen (it was a very good year), candy bars at the corner grocery store were 50 cents. It was great: you'd grab up two candy bars and slap a dollar bill onto the counter and you'd be on your way: you’re in and out, no waiting for change. I remember going on a Fast Break binge, but the Snickers bar was certainly my staple. Eventually, I saw the Snickers Almond and gave that a shot and was disappointed. I stuck with my regular regimen of two Snickers bars: one in the morning as a breakfast, and one in the afternoon if I didn't have lunch. Such was the diet of a young teenage victim of multiphasic sleep disorder.

Anyway, thanks to the Westegg Inflation Calculator, I found out that those years of nutritional nightmare were the best years to have engaged in my habit. Here are the figures by 2009 values.

• In 1926, a candy bar cost 60 cents.
• In 2002, a candy bar cost 59 cents.
• In 2003, a candy bar cost 58 cents.
• In 2010, a candy bar cost 64 cents.

Apparently, I was a savvy consumer: I purchased the most candy in the years that it was the cheapest to do so. Yesterday, I was at Target and purchased several Milky Way Midnight Dark candy bars. I much prefer the way it's less sweet than most other candy bars.

When I looked at the receipt, I saw that they were 64 cents, which is a fair bit cheaper than the 75 cents that most groceries charge nowadays. So really, if we're talking about buying candy bars from the corner grocery, the price of these chocolaty confections have gone way up. I don't know what the economic implications of this are, but it sure is interesting.

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