Time in Mumbai, can be counted by the number of Vada-Pavs one eats during the stay.
Going down the ramp at the Airport, to the tarmac and mixed-feelings, the hot sun and humid windy air dance around me in a tepid welcome. The Air-India hangar is familiar, and I always see a younger me sitting on the half-built concrete approcah back in summer 2003, mesmerised by the continuous take-offs and landings of the big birds in such close proximity. My own front-row seat to the best show in the world. Not much has changed since.
Bangalore and a disposable income has spolit my thirst for fighting with the autowallahs. I haggle beforehand with one before jumping to go to Ville Parle. And to think that I'd scream bloody murder if they'd ever have shortchanged me on the meter reading back in the glory days. Airport tax, I justify it. Spend that extra rupees 20 on the ground. You've just spent a hundred times as much coming here. Yeah, I've become an old fuddy. Need to throttle up the Bombay cynicism to keep the city from eating me up.
No fear of that. Pushing through a crowded rush-hour second-class compartment on my way to Churchgate, my re-metamorphosis is complete. Complete, with the belligerent, if sheepishly accomodating and happy-go-lucky stare and opportunistic body language. Travelling the local is as all it take to get happily assimilated. The train gently rocks, as I unsubtely goose-step my way to taking up a 'position', where if my luck is good, I can 'convert' to a seat.
The code operates. My air-bag and backpack are an obvious nuiscence in the sardine tin, so I perform the magic act of lifting both bags up in the air, and anonymous arms cleanly deposit the bags on the overhead bins. A 'thanks' is nodded, and an air of general mutual smugness is perceptible. Voila! All we need now is the 'I heart Mumbai' tee-shirts and rumbling Koli drums in the background.
The ubiquitous announcer lady welcomes me to Churchgate, advising me of a possible return train to Borivilli at 1806 hrs from platform No. 1, that stops at all stations. Vada Pav no. 2 is consumed at the Churchgate subway. The taste of Bombay... tantalising.. satisfying.
I guess home is a place that never feels alien. Mumbai is that for me. Unquestioningly accepting all foibles, my eccentric arrival and departure. But then Bangalore is home too. Afterall, home is where the heart is. Two crushed vada-pavs travelled with me.. maybe these can show a lot more that any cell-phone videos can.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Monday, March 12, 2007
Slip Sliding
(ps: Below is a Copy/paste for Salon.com)
I'm scattered and have no ambition -- what's wrong with me?
I could be an actor or a writer or even a therapist, but nothing seems to be worth all the work and commitment.
By Cary Tennis
Mar. 12, 2007
Dear Reader,
Now, speaking of "should," on to today's puzzling problem, in which "should" plays a prominent role.
Dear Cary,
I am 24 years old and I am tired. Tired of my life and tired of my mind. I am an intelligent guy; I have a degree and should be making more of life. But, to be honest, I don't have a clue what I want. In fact, I almost feel like I don't want anything. Yes, I have the brain to be a successful businessman. I have the creativity to work in TV. I have the understanding of people to work as a therapist of some sort.
Yet, I find myself in debt and working dead-end jobs because nothing appeals enough. For a time I wanted to act, then I wanted to direct. But whatever I choose, I come to a point where I always end up thinking, "Well, there must be more to life than this. I don't wanna train all those years just for that!" So, come on, what the hell's wrong with me?
Actually, I love writing. But there's a problem. I can't find anything to write about. I haven't written in over a year. And nothing much is happening in my life. It sort of stalled a few years ago. My friends are all far away, and home doesn't feel like home anymore. I suppose it never has. I'm still looking for "home," somewhere where I belong. Also, for the last few years I've been dealing with depression (I think -- I never went to a doctor, but I get suicidal thoughts and black thoughts), which partly stemmed from long-term drug problems. I have been clean for a couple of years now.
I also have had difficulty with my sexuality. I am gay and I feel OK about it, yet I never make much attempt to find a guy. In fact, I don't really make much attempt to do anything. Part of me just wants to travel and roam the lands. In fact, more than anything, I'd like to be a writer who earned just enough to get by, just enough to skip town when I chose.
Anyway, What I really wanna know is, why am I so lacking in energy? I have an intense need to do something, a great frustration, but no firepower.
Out of Gas
Dear Out of Gas,
So you think you should be making more of life. Says who?
What authority stands over you and says, "You should be making more of life!"? Whose voice is that? Is it conscience? Is it a legitimate order?
It's true that you may have trouble with your metabolism or the lingering effects of drug abuse, and, as pointed out numerous times, depression is a real but difficult and baffling disease that you may want to look into.
But your question raises something else that has been on my mind lately.
To me you simply sound like the philosophical rebel -- what we term these days a slacker.
And where have all the slackers gone? What happened to their ironic inoculation against the pestilence of certainty, their limp, cunning subversion of jackbooted hoo-ha? Do you not realize that you are a member of the cultural opposition? Who among us does not wrinkle his nose at the air of tawdry fraudulence that surrounds the "riches" the world has to offer? Do you really want these things or do you only think you are supposed to want them?
The philosophical rebel is Bartleby. Whatever we want him to do, he prefers not to -- and with good cause! He rightly disdains the carrying out of duties and chores; he says "I would prefer not" to the undistinguished business of distinguishing himself in an undistinguished field among undistinguished peers; he sees the masses aping the classes, gaping at the Oscars and donning tuxedos to be like the swells and it sickens him ... not because he yearns to change the world but because he wishes fervently to escape its hideous embrace. He hears the speeches of preachers of "Think and Grow Rich" and the jingle-jangle hype of "American Idol," unironic and blind to its own cheap worship, and he is sickened.
Immune to the contagion of striving that infects his peers, to his elders he appears simply ungrateful. He does not want what his fathers created nor what his peers are working for. So yes, the philosophical rebel is an elitist of sorts. He does not want what others want. This angers the strivers. They see him idling on a corner and think: We worked so you could have this! We won the war so you could have this! And look what you do with it! You sneer at it!
But he means them no harm. He only means to be true to himself, to follow his own voice. "You're tearing me apart!" he screams. (A little context for this otherwise baffling cri de coeur can be found here and also in this Salon story on James Dean.) Thus the sons defy the fathers and desert the factory for an urban bohemia, not so much to denounce their fathers' triumphant smokestack striving and to curse their blackening of God's blue skies but merely to be true to themselves. Who among us, in his heart, does not agree with him?
But it makes one wonder: What has happened to the broad cultural idea of the misfit as hero? How is it that you could be a prime example of this important social feature and yet not realize it?
I find this rigid new world baffling; where I come from, the misfit is king. This idea -- that Allen Ginsberg is more important than Alan Greenspan -- is so engulfing, you can't untangle where it came from. It's like religion or a gender, this notion of the outsider hero. (It's as if upon birth the question would be not, Is it a boy or a girl? but, Is it a hipster or a straight?)
So has the fringe been bribed with sandwiches and beer? Or is it just a question of style? I do not know. I just know it's different now. You used to be able to identify a rebel on sight. Now it is harder. As my buddy Andrew O has pointed out, of course, rebellion has been commodified.
So if one can purchase one's rebellion in the correct size at any ... um Paul Frank store (not that I don't love Paul Frank designs more than life itself), it's equally possible that one might be in fact a true rebel without realizing it. Perhaps that makes you the true misfit -- one who does not even recognize it and would disavow it if asked. When asked to consider the useful social role he plays, the philosophical rebel prefers not to.
Or has something happened to the currency of the idea itself of the rebel of conscience, the revolutionary of the soul, the transcendence seeker? Has the fringe been brought to the center and tamed? Is the center finally holding, after a fashion -- held together by thin gold strands of omnipresent representation?
Well, anyway, you are a rebel, that's what you are, that's what I say. You are the solitary man without a country, without a home, wondering what's wrong with you -- because your protest is yet an inchoate thing, innate and unfocused. Your plight is thickened because your context is so thin -- today you're a rebel without a context! Is there still a Greenwich Village to flee to? Is there still a San Francisco where one can rent a cheap room above a bookstore without becoming a real estate agent or a software change agent or an FBI agent?
Of course there is a place for "should." If you've got a job and you're on company time then of course you should be working. And if you're working but not with all your heart, perhaps you could be working better. I'm not for negligence or shoddiness in the important things. If on a dull afternoon I'm producing dull sentence after dull sentence it is not unreasonable to ask if there isn't something I am missing in the air, if a little cappuccino might not brighten up the prose, if I could look a little deeper to see what I'm hiding from myself; when the mind grows dull, a little "should" can focus the mind; it can remind one of the ongoing majesty of muted sunlight warm on the skin; it can remind one to listen more closely to the droning inner voice that at times says things quite amazing if obscure.
But you can certainly go overboard with should. What should be you doing if you are not on the job and have nowhere to be? Should you pick your toenails or eat some lasagna? Should you read an edifying book or stroll through the park? What should you do? What indeed? The conditions of life in the industrialized West are such that broad material disparities exist in the rewards dispensed to workers. Some of the rewards are just and some are random without apparent reason (see "Oprah's Ugly Secret"). You live within this matrix and may wish for it to mean something, and indeed rules can be deduced about how social class and business and government power sometimes coalesce to produce those peculiar beings we know as "American Fascists," but at times, to the individual man caught in the tornado, the only thing it seems to be is random and insane.
That is why the philosophical rebel is so dear to us -- because he alone has the courage to say, "I have no clue what this shit is."
Of what value to society is such a stance? What does he add to the GNP of nations or to the riches of our souls? Most important, he is anathema to hoo-ha -- he does not swallow the Kool-Aid or follow the company line; he does not jump when the Man says jump -- he scarcely moves; he hardly hears the Man; he can hardly even see him; he has to squint. It's his constitution to be cautious and to ask the relevant question Why? Which in our current situation we could use more of -- if we in the West had been more skeptical, if there were among us more bantams in pine woods, we might not be so deep in shit as we are. The philosophical rebel fears not portly Azcan nor his hoos.
Could it be that the voice of what you want is God's voice? Could it be that what you want is what God wants? Could it be that you are eating and sleeping and fucking for God? And if that is God's voice then what is this other voice that would hobble the hipster and tie him down, would frighten him into a frightful day job he half believes in and half detests?
That must be the voice of the devil! Ha ha ha. Fear the devil.
Give yourself a break, my man. If you are depressed and have a drug problem or have a metabolic imbalance, then that's some serious stuff and you need medical care. But if you simply lack ambition, I take my hat off to you. The world is way too full already of overly ambitious fucks elbowing us out of the way on the streetcar.
I take my hat off to you. Give yourself a break. Take another day off.
I'm scattered and have no ambition -- what's wrong with me?
I could be an actor or a writer or even a therapist, but nothing seems to be worth all the work and commitment.
By Cary Tennis
Mar. 12, 2007
Dear Reader,
Now, speaking of "should," on to today's puzzling problem, in which "should" plays a prominent role.
Dear Cary,
I am 24 years old and I am tired. Tired of my life and tired of my mind. I am an intelligent guy; I have a degree and should be making more of life. But, to be honest, I don't have a clue what I want. In fact, I almost feel like I don't want anything. Yes, I have the brain to be a successful businessman. I have the creativity to work in TV. I have the understanding of people to work as a therapist of some sort.
Yet, I find myself in debt and working dead-end jobs because nothing appeals enough. For a time I wanted to act, then I wanted to direct. But whatever I choose, I come to a point where I always end up thinking, "Well, there must be more to life than this. I don't wanna train all those years just for that!" So, come on, what the hell's wrong with me?
Actually, I love writing. But there's a problem. I can't find anything to write about. I haven't written in over a year. And nothing much is happening in my life. It sort of stalled a few years ago. My friends are all far away, and home doesn't feel like home anymore. I suppose it never has. I'm still looking for "home," somewhere where I belong. Also, for the last few years I've been dealing with depression (I think -- I never went to a doctor, but I get suicidal thoughts and black thoughts), which partly stemmed from long-term drug problems. I have been clean for a couple of years now.
I also have had difficulty with my sexuality. I am gay and I feel OK about it, yet I never make much attempt to find a guy. In fact, I don't really make much attempt to do anything. Part of me just wants to travel and roam the lands. In fact, more than anything, I'd like to be a writer who earned just enough to get by, just enough to skip town when I chose.
Anyway, What I really wanna know is, why am I so lacking in energy? I have an intense need to do something, a great frustration, but no firepower.
Out of Gas
Dear Out of Gas,
So you think you should be making more of life. Says who?
What authority stands over you and says, "You should be making more of life!"? Whose voice is that? Is it conscience? Is it a legitimate order?
It's true that you may have trouble with your metabolism or the lingering effects of drug abuse, and, as pointed out numerous times, depression is a real but difficult and baffling disease that you may want to look into.
But your question raises something else that has been on my mind lately.
To me you simply sound like the philosophical rebel -- what we term these days a slacker.
And where have all the slackers gone? What happened to their ironic inoculation against the pestilence of certainty, their limp, cunning subversion of jackbooted hoo-ha? Do you not realize that you are a member of the cultural opposition? Who among us does not wrinkle his nose at the air of tawdry fraudulence that surrounds the "riches" the world has to offer? Do you really want these things or do you only think you are supposed to want them?
The philosophical rebel is Bartleby. Whatever we want him to do, he prefers not to -- and with good cause! He rightly disdains the carrying out of duties and chores; he says "I would prefer not" to the undistinguished business of distinguishing himself in an undistinguished field among undistinguished peers; he sees the masses aping the classes, gaping at the Oscars and donning tuxedos to be like the swells and it sickens him ... not because he yearns to change the world but because he wishes fervently to escape its hideous embrace. He hears the speeches of preachers of "Think and Grow Rich" and the jingle-jangle hype of "American Idol," unironic and blind to its own cheap worship, and he is sickened.
Immune to the contagion of striving that infects his peers, to his elders he appears simply ungrateful. He does not want what his fathers created nor what his peers are working for. So yes, the philosophical rebel is an elitist of sorts. He does not want what others want. This angers the strivers. They see him idling on a corner and think: We worked so you could have this! We won the war so you could have this! And look what you do with it! You sneer at it!
But he means them no harm. He only means to be true to himself, to follow his own voice. "You're tearing me apart!" he screams. (A little context for this otherwise baffling cri de coeur can be found here and also in this Salon story on James Dean.) Thus the sons defy the fathers and desert the factory for an urban bohemia, not so much to denounce their fathers' triumphant smokestack striving and to curse their blackening of God's blue skies but merely to be true to themselves. Who among us, in his heart, does not agree with him?
But it makes one wonder: What has happened to the broad cultural idea of the misfit as hero? How is it that you could be a prime example of this important social feature and yet not realize it?
I find this rigid new world baffling; where I come from, the misfit is king. This idea -- that Allen Ginsberg is more important than Alan Greenspan -- is so engulfing, you can't untangle where it came from. It's like religion or a gender, this notion of the outsider hero. (It's as if upon birth the question would be not, Is it a boy or a girl? but, Is it a hipster or a straight?)
So has the fringe been bribed with sandwiches and beer? Or is it just a question of style? I do not know. I just know it's different now. You used to be able to identify a rebel on sight. Now it is harder. As my buddy Andrew O has pointed out, of course, rebellion has been commodified.
So if one can purchase one's rebellion in the correct size at any ... um Paul Frank store (not that I don't love Paul Frank designs more than life itself), it's equally possible that one might be in fact a true rebel without realizing it. Perhaps that makes you the true misfit -- one who does not even recognize it and would disavow it if asked. When asked to consider the useful social role he plays, the philosophical rebel prefers not to.
Or has something happened to the currency of the idea itself of the rebel of conscience, the revolutionary of the soul, the transcendence seeker? Has the fringe been brought to the center and tamed? Is the center finally holding, after a fashion -- held together by thin gold strands of omnipresent representation?
Well, anyway, you are a rebel, that's what you are, that's what I say. You are the solitary man without a country, without a home, wondering what's wrong with you -- because your protest is yet an inchoate thing, innate and unfocused. Your plight is thickened because your context is so thin -- today you're a rebel without a context! Is there still a Greenwich Village to flee to? Is there still a San Francisco where one can rent a cheap room above a bookstore without becoming a real estate agent or a software change agent or an FBI agent?
Of course there is a place for "should." If you've got a job and you're on company time then of course you should be working. And if you're working but not with all your heart, perhaps you could be working better. I'm not for negligence or shoddiness in the important things. If on a dull afternoon I'm producing dull sentence after dull sentence it is not unreasonable to ask if there isn't something I am missing in the air, if a little cappuccino might not brighten up the prose, if I could look a little deeper to see what I'm hiding from myself; when the mind grows dull, a little "should" can focus the mind; it can remind one of the ongoing majesty of muted sunlight warm on the skin; it can remind one to listen more closely to the droning inner voice that at times says things quite amazing if obscure.
But you can certainly go overboard with should. What should be you doing if you are not on the job and have nowhere to be? Should you pick your toenails or eat some lasagna? Should you read an edifying book or stroll through the park? What should you do? What indeed? The conditions of life in the industrialized West are such that broad material disparities exist in the rewards dispensed to workers. Some of the rewards are just and some are random without apparent reason (see "Oprah's Ugly Secret"). You live within this matrix and may wish for it to mean something, and indeed rules can be deduced about how social class and business and government power sometimes coalesce to produce those peculiar beings we know as "American Fascists," but at times, to the individual man caught in the tornado, the only thing it seems to be is random and insane.
That is why the philosophical rebel is so dear to us -- because he alone has the courage to say, "I have no clue what this shit is."
Of what value to society is such a stance? What does he add to the GNP of nations or to the riches of our souls? Most important, he is anathema to hoo-ha -- he does not swallow the Kool-Aid or follow the company line; he does not jump when the Man says jump -- he scarcely moves; he hardly hears the Man; he can hardly even see him; he has to squint. It's his constitution to be cautious and to ask the relevant question Why? Which in our current situation we could use more of -- if we in the West had been more skeptical, if there were among us more bantams in pine woods, we might not be so deep in shit as we are. The philosophical rebel fears not portly Azcan nor his hoos.
Could it be that the voice of what you want is God's voice? Could it be that what you want is what God wants? Could it be that you are eating and sleeping and fucking for God? And if that is God's voice then what is this other voice that would hobble the hipster and tie him down, would frighten him into a frightful day job he half believes in and half detests?
That must be the voice of the devil! Ha ha ha. Fear the devil.
Give yourself a break, my man. If you are depressed and have a drug problem or have a metabolic imbalance, then that's some serious stuff and you need medical care. But if you simply lack ambition, I take my hat off to you. The world is way too full already of overly ambitious fucks elbowing us out of the way on the streetcar.
I take my hat off to you. Give yourself a break. Take another day off.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Aur Sadke Thi Sab Mere Baap Ki
Dilli (Sung by Rabbi Shergill, OST Delhii Heights) Mp3 link in the title above...
Jaagegi Raat Bhar
Aur Bhaagegi Saath Par
Par Daalegi...Belagaam Khayaalon Ko!
Puchhegi Yeh Sawaal
Aur Maangegi Yeh Hisaab
Na Sunegi...Tere In Jawaabon Ko
Yahaan Hai Ek Nadi
Aur Wahaan Ek Laal Qila
Par Kahaan Hai
Iss Shehar Ka Falsafa
Yahaan Aansu Aur Geet
Aur Jawaani Thi Maine Tere Naam Ki
Kiya Paar Aadhi Raat
Aur Sadke Thi Sab Mere Baap Ki
Aur Main Tha, Tu Thi, Aur Thi Dilli Bass...
Kahin Koyi Ud Rahaa Hai
Kahin Koyi Gir Rahaa Hai
Kahin Koyi Hai Khada... Kagaar Pe
Kahin Koyi Khele Juaa
Aur Kahin Koyi Bane Ghulaam
Aur Kahin Koyi Hain Pada Intzaar Mein
Jab Gaya Kal Main Qutub Minaar
Aur Suna Tha Maine Ailaan
Ki Bani Hai Yahaan Ek Nayi Party
Aawaara Hai Naam
Bhatkana Jiska Vidhaan hai
Fursat Hai Kaam
Kuchh Dhundala Sa Jiska Nishaan Hai
Wahaan Main Tha, Tu Thi, Aur Thi Dilli Bass...
Dekhe Yahaan Kayi...Mausam Badlate Huye
Dekhe Jasbe Kayi..Yahaan Paththar Banate Huye
Kayi Waqt Se Pehle
Sab Aaj Tu Kehle !
Yeah yeah yeah yeah (x2)
Yahaan Aansu Aur Geet
Aur Jawaani Thi Maine Tere Naam Ki
Kiya Paar Aadhi Raat
Aur Sadke Thi Sab Mere Baap Ki
Aur Main Tha, Tu Thi, Aur Thi Dilli Bass...
Aawaara Hai Naam
Bhatkana Apana Vidhaan Hai
Fursat Hai Kaam
Kuchh Dhundala Sa Apana Nishaan Hai
Aur Main Hoon, Tu Hain, Aur Hai Dilli Bass!!!
In search of mediocrity
The below is an article I had read sometime back in '02 and, for some (maybe glaringly obvious)reason, struck a chord.
I, however, heard a slightly different message: "What in the world are you doing here?" Don't get me wrong: I don't begrudge my new classmates in the slightest, but as I am absolutely struggling to finish up my degree, here are folks who already can save lives, fight for justice and make things of beauty, and now on top of that they're going to pick up another degree? The degree I'll be lucky enough to complete?!?
The faculty have kindly allowed me to proceed with my academic work, assuming I am naively unaware of the big snafu. Many students soon grow out of this phase, quickly recognizing their wonderful gifts and their potential, and they realize deep down that they too are excellent and that they really do belong here. I didn't.
Marc Chun is a doctoral student in education. He encourages you to watch "NewsRadio," Tuesday nights at 8:30 p.m. on your local NBC affiliate.
Column: In search of mediocrity
By Marc Chun
A COUPLE OF weeks ago at the School of Education convocation, the dean welco
med the new students gathered in Cubberley Auditorium. As is traditional and befitting of such an occasion, he recounted the impressive accomplishments of the school and the faculty, national research centers, appointments in the Department of Education and interesting new course offerings. He then announced that among the new students, the school welcomed doctors, lawyers and artists who have now chosen to pursue degrees in education. Of course, the message was to motivate, congratulate and inspire: excellent people have come to an excellent school to do excellent things.
med the new students gathered in Cubberley Auditorium. As is traditional and befitting of such an occasion, he recounted the impressive accomplishments of the school and the faculty, national research centers, appointments in the Department of Education and interesting new course offerings. He then announced that among the new students, the school welcomed doctors, lawyers and artists who have now chosen to pursue degrees in education. Of course, the message was to motivate, congratulate and inspire: excellent people have come to an excellent school to do excellent things. I, however, heard a slightly different message: "What in the world are you doing here?" Don't get me wrong: I don't begrudge my new classmates in the slightest, but as I am absolutely struggling to finish up my degree, here are folks who already can save lives, fight for justice and make things of beauty, and now on top of that they're going to pick up another degree? The degree I'll be lucky enough to complete?!?
I know I'm not alone in pondering the Admissions Committee scenario. Years ago, somehow my application file was accidentally placed in the wrong pile. No sooner than the "fat letter" was sent inviting me to pursue graduate studies at Stanford did someone notice the error. The school was too embarrassed by their mistake to revoke my admission, so everyone has been engaged in an elaborate cover up worthy of an Oliver Stone feature.
The faculty have kindly allowed me to proceed with my academic work, assuming I am naively unaware of the big snafu. Many students soon grow out of this phase, quickly recognizing their wonderful gifts and their potential, and they realize deep down that they too are excellent and that they really do belong here. I didn't.
It doesn't help that other students in my school are unbelievable teachers, have won prestigious fellowships and have had publishers court them to publish their dissertations (one, in fact, before she had written word one of her tome). Add to that the school's faculty, some of whom finished their own graduate work in three years or less, wrote award-winning theses and crafted cutting-edge research while finishing up their doctoral degrees.
I'm not worthy.
All right, enough self-flagellation. I know I'm no slacker, and I'm no slouch: I can do competent research; I'm a decent teacher, and I come up with relatively interesting ideas. But let's be realistic. If graduate students were TV shows, I'm not the award-winning "ER." I'm not the intellectual "Masterpiece Theater," and I'm not the break-the-mold "X-Files." I'm also not the tragically overlooked "My So-Called Life" or the well-respected "Cosby Show." On the other hand, I'm also not the bizarre "Manimal," or the inane "Nick Freno: Licensed Teacher." I think I'm more like "NewsRadio:" neither ground-breaking nor highly-rated, but basically decent, good-natured and earnest, and just sort of hovering below the radar screen. There's nothing wrong with that, right?
Wrong. I sort of learned that as a Stanford student I should be doing great things. And I wasn't. I went through the requisite excuses and justifications phases: I could've done better work if I didn't have so much to do for my research assistantship. I could've been a better TA if I weren't so stressed about my own classes. I could've come up with a more interesting dissertation if I only read a few more books. I could've had something published if I didn't watch so much TV. (Hey, someone has to watch "Nick Freno.")
Yes, in the beginning there were high expectations. And they begat disappointment, which begat feelings of inadequacy, which begat excuses, which begat fear. You get the picture. But no more! In contrast to the way Kevin Kline's character is publicly outed by Matt Dillon's character in the current film "In and Out," I shall out myself. I am a mediocre student. You see, upon much thought and reflection, I have come to a somewhat acceptable conclusion (note, not an epiphany, not a stupid idea): there's no shame in being mediocre.
There are just so few spots at the top of that bell curve, and it's just so darn nice and roomy way back in the middle. This is not to say that people shouldn't try their hardest; we just shouldn't be ashamed of our most mediocre work.
Mediocre students of Stanford, unite! Let us celebrate our mediocrity! Say it loud, say it proud: we are mediocre! Let the others win the awards and do the tremendous work, and let us feel no remorse and no ill-will.
We shall toast our mediocre accomplishments with Shasta soda; we shall feast at the Olive Garden, and we shall dance to Hootie and the Blowfish. Let us challenge the culture of excellence that oppresses us.
Let us go In Search of Mediocrity. Let us seek the Seven Habits of Highly Mediocre People. Let us watch "Bill and Ted's Most Mediocre Adventure." We're mediocre people coming to an excellent school to do mediocre work. Wrong file in the wrong pile or not - we're here, we're mediocre, get used to it.
Marc Chun is a doctoral student in education. He encourages you to watch "NewsRadio," Tuesday nights at 8:30 p.m. on your local NBC affiliate.
Marc Chun's Opinions appeard in the Stanford Daily from October 1997 to January 1998
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