As Far As The Eye Can See

Picture of Outer Space from Planet Earth


Last night my wife and I, impressionable folks that we are, went looking for the Milky Way. We had recently enjoyed an article in The New Yorker⎯or as I call it, my weekly stock of opinions—about the dark skies in certain areas of the country where it is still possible to see the Milky Way. Apparently, when Galileo* was alive the skies were much darker than they are today. This seems obvious when you think about the amount of light thrown upwards by hotels and auto dealerships, but I grew up in a rural area so it came as a surprise to me that the Milky Way should be visible to the naked eye at all. As children, my brother and I spent countless nights sleeping out in the yard. We would pitch a tent fifty meters from the house and stay up late talking. We would also spend a fair amount of time laying on our backs looking at the sky. We would see shooting stars, and once we saw what we have agreed was a UFO, but we never saw the clusters of stars and nebula that comprise our galaxy.

In a jealous rage, my wife and I decided to head east into the Sandias to find a spot where we could pull over and watch the secret celestial performance already underway. We wouldn't even research our destination. There was no need, we thought. Our end point would reveal itself to us. Like explorers seeing a new land for the first time, it would be obvious when we had arrived. We would drive bravely and blindly onward until something like Saturn appeared. And so as we set off, unrestrained by maps and time tables, our desires the only things guiding us, I felt a rush of excitement that accompanies the knowledge that you cannot be stopped.

A short distance into the drive, my euphoria waning slightly, I began to see the vague outlines of disappointment taking shape. What if we didn't see any stars tonight? What if we are going the wrong direction? Was my wife getting bored? Because neither of us would hazard a guess as to our travel time for fear of seeming conservative, and thereby undermining the whole event, it was impossible for us to know how the other was feeling.

As our car wore on, the landscape enveloping the highway disappeared into blackness and our conversation evaporated into silence. It is said that in the absence of some of our senses, the others will take up the slack.** I have always known this to be true as I can almost feel what another is thinking when they stop speaking and retreat into their thoughts. In this case, it was the restlessness that comes with not knowing where you're going. Not that I could blame her. I don't know what she had in mind, but I was expecting some pretty spectacular results
within the twenty or thirty-minute range. Any longer than that and a person starts to feel a little foolish and unprepared.

The further we drove, the more we realized that many things were working against us this night, not the least of which was the general cloudiness. It was clear in spots, but it is difficult to gauge the optimal conditions when you don't really know what you're looking for. The moon was no help either. Nearly full and frighteningly pale, the glow from its surface cast outwards a glare into the blackness so that it was uncomfortable to look at. We also learned that just because you are on a country road does not mean that you will find a perfect, unlit field along a deserted strip of forgotten highway. We kept pulling off, trying to scout an area where we could get out and sit, but the roads we would choose would turn out to be peoples’ driveways. At one point, we thought we had found a good spot—a little gravel cul-de-sac between two distant houses—only to find that when we exited the car there were several dogs barking at us.

After an hour or more we decided to pack it in, unfulfilled in our quest and humbled by our realization that what we were after was something special and would not be so easy to obtain. I was very naive to imagine that I should see it so effortlessly. I felt greedy and undeserving. I felt the shame that I always wish upon tourists who spend their vacations peering through their video cameras, trapping it all so that they have proof of the places they've gone as though the world is nothing more than a souvenir shop.

A truly dark sky, like those our ancestors saw before electricity and widespread pollution, is not something that one can just go find. It is akin to an endangered species. Once ubiquitous, they have been driven very far from our habitats, for, like so many things, it has not survived alongside us.


* Perhaps the only astronomer people can name.

** For example, one's nose will sharpen to compensate for a lack of touch, which comes in handy if you have been tied up but you want to know what's for dinner.

On Lists

An actual list I don't remember making


Somewhere along the way I picked up the habit of making lists. Typically these are checklists and "To Do" lists for organizing my thoughts into a very pleasing vertical column. I believe in lists and their effectiveness. I am absolutely more prone to accomplishment once I have made a nice list.

It's a bit like a superstition. It makes me feel better because it has worked for me in the past. Unless you are suffering from memory impairment, making a list does very little towards achieving your efforts, and in fact the act of writing a list forestalls them because by the time you find a pen you've forgotten what you were trying to remember.

An argument could be made for visualization. I suppose if you have taken the effort to create a sort of map of your goals, you will now be able to prioritize and perhaps even exclude the items once you have viewed them in the context of the other items. Once you have written it down you can plainly see that you should not 'Buy Halo 3' because you should 'Try to spend more time with sick relative.'

**(Note the verb try. It's subtle, but the keenest of you will notice that this item betrays an important loophole. It calls only for effort on my part, and not actual exertion. My lists are full of fun little trapdoors like this one. In this way, making a list helps me to alleviate guilt without having to do too much. Try it!)

Beyond buying the correct groceries, my love of lists is one of self-preservation. I am generous enough to think of myself as creative. I allow myself this egregious mischaracterization because I spend a lot of time thinking about projects I would like to undertake -- novels, screenplays, articles in The New Yorker, etc. If I am truly inspired my idea will incite a list, and it seems I become inspired rather easily.

When I am dead and gone and historians are mining my files in preparation for my Biography/Volume of Complete Works they will quickly realize that an entire section will have to be dedicated to lists. In fact, most of what I write goes no further than a short burst of nouns and incomplete sentences like,

"Leon. Dead-end job. Drinks. Accidentally invents a perpetual motion thingie."

While I admit I have done very little with myself artistically, I must concede that I have at least the impulse to be prolific. My lists are proof of that.

There is also a permanence to lists that I find enchanting. These fleeting thoughts which were recorded in a flurry will reappear later to my complete surprise. Sometimes I will remember fondly what triggered a certain impulse and I will laugh or feel very moved. More often though I will not remember composing the list at all, and it is these lists that I cherish the most.

It is as though a like-minded stranger was using my computer or sitting at my desk. He's watching me flounder and he is trying to help me. He knows I can't focus on things. He is trying to lay the groundwork so that I may move beyond him. He knows it is too late for him. He is trying to provide the future with what he has learned. It seemed important. He has given me a gift.

It is unfortunate that in so many cases the list is the only true goal I have set for myself. The act of listing seems to fulfill whatever creative impulse I was feeling at that time, and so I see no need to take the project any further.

Perhaps I enjoy the ambiguity of the unfinished work, the gaps allowing my mind to wander time and again. Though if I am being honest, I know that I just haven't a clue what I want to say, that I am a dreamer.

Still, my lists are records of my dreams, proof of my hope to create something new, and I feel very lucky to have these dreams because it means that I am free.

Op-Ed: Game Show Host Sucks In My Opinion

The Greatest Jeopardy Player Ever with Ken Jennings


It would be an exaggeration to say that I hate Alex Trebek, but I don't think I could ever look him in the face and tell him it was nice to meet him.
On the best of days I find him annoying and pompous. Other times he is downright mean.

For example, today I watched helplessly from my living room as he made cruel overtures to crush what little confidence a captive contestant had left. An act of disdain made all the more despicable because we are currently being treated to The Teen Jeopardy Tournament.

I am not defending the poor contestant. I will concede that she was outmatched by both of her hungry opponents and was taking quite a beating throughout the game. (If it's any consolation to her, she was by far the best looking of the trio, a fact that will serve her better than being most likely to do something). To make matters worse, she cemented her also-run by naming London and Paris as the "two most popular countries for U.S. tourists*," in Final Jeopardy, a mistake that Alex made certain to point out when a simple 'incorrect' would have sufficed. It seems that her elimination from the tournament was not punishment enough; we should also humiliate her for how badly she was eliminated, taunt her for not putting up a better fight.

I get the feeling that he believes the losing contestants are unworthy, while he regards the victors with the respect they are due as geniuses like himself. You could all but hear him rooting for the sole male contestant today as the lad ran away with it in Round One. All the while Alex is reminding the other two of just how badly they are being walloped. He practically gloats when a contestant shines, as if he has something to do with it, or at least if he did it would elicit a similar result.

Maybe I am taking this too hard, but I believe Mr. Trebek's attitude toward this girl is indicative of a deep-seeded belief toward all the contestants that under-perform: that they are beneath him. You can hear it in the way he subtly corrects their pronunciation when parroting their answers back to them, and god forbid a question should pass by uncontested. Is that a note of condescension I detect?

Why is he so smug anyway? He's a game-show host. I don't appreciate his pithy comments or perfect pronunciation. He sounds like a racist when he insists on adopting a little accent to pronounce foreign tongue twisters like 'India.' Does he believe that the audience will admire his deference if he sounds like he's impersonating Apu?


Dear Alex,

I know what's on those blue cards. You're nothing without your judges. Do you remember what it was like to be a child? To be afraid and feel uncomfortable on TV? Are you sure that you would be any better?
And even if you were... well, what should we prize more, humility or fact retention?



*(The correct answer is Canada and Mexico)

7 Ways I’ve Told Someone I Loved Them

Mix tapes.

Stared at them and thought it.

Read them my first ever poem that was about them.

In French.

Fucked others, but made love with them.

Too late.

Perfunctorily.