Well, I've been reading my friends' blogs and enjoying them, so I figured I should update mine. Forgive me if this post is pure drivel, as the title suggests I'm not really sure where I'll go with this little burst of verbiage.
It is late and almost completely dark in this room. I feel like I should try to be funny, but I'd rather pity myself. No audience wants to read self-pity, so I'll try to spare you, but I might not.
So, comment readers. Do you ever feel like you should disappear? Do you ever want to fade into quiet obscurity? Pack your personality away like a carnie folding his tent? Do you ever fear that no one will ever love you honestly? That whatever success and acceptance you've achieved is an elaborate illusion that defies falsification? That a group can accept you but that a single person never could--as if acceptance was the result of some kind of herd mentality or as if your contribution to the sociality of a group is so peripheral that you would never form part of a couple, but could only make sense within the context of a huge group?
If you answered yes to any of these questions, you're not alone! At least one other person has answered yes to at least one of these questions.
I think part of it is that I found a niche of sorts within the social structure of the Jerusalem Center and now that niche is gone. My role within my family is becoming increasingly murky as I age and my social status during this next semester is also quite unclear. I'm sure I'll find something, but maybe that something is aloofness.
I sometimes imagine being entirely withdrawn. I love to think that whatever I would think in my solitude would be of such immense importance that interaction with other humans would be a burden worth avoiding. I love to think that I would have the emotional strength to alienate a lot of people and still be happy.
I don't believe this to be true, but everyone else had relationships to write about and I've only got prospects! Aloofness is a sure shot, dating someone depends on a lot of things that are mysterious to me. D*g!
Friday, December 28, 2007
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Talents
This is the full text of an essay read by the author of this blog at the BYU JC variety show on Friday, November 23, 2007. The text has undergone a few minor editions since then. It is intended to be read out loud by the author. MP3 available soon probably.
Discovering one's talents is like looking for gold coins in a sewer—if you find some it's well worth the effort, but once you've got the gold, you don't really tend to emphasize how you found it. Our fall starts, our early failures and the effort and time it takes to develop real talents often go unmentioned. This essay is dedicated to the notion that sometimes the process of discovering talents can be interesting, even compelling. So, with the following true stories from my life, I'd like to explain a couple of talents that I won't be performing tonight.
Soccer
Like any soccer team comprised entirely of seven-year-olds, my soccer team followed the ball around the field like a school of fish. My style of play was the exact antithesis of this. At the start of each half, I would trot out to my spot and stand there for the entire half. I alone was a pillar of enlightened soccer playing: the only child on the whole team to take the coaches' admonition to stay in your position so literally, so precisely, so narrowly that even the near proximity of the ball could not entice me to leave my spot.
One time, the ball was coming straight to me and I decided to produce some tension by spreading my legs apart only to close them at the last minute. Thus, I thought to stop the ball both stylishly and effectively. Seized by a vague, but inexplicable desire to imitate an evil cartoon butler, I planned to say something like “where do you think you're going?” or “Not so fast!” or “I have you now!” or “you’ll never get away from me!” The ball rolled between my legs several seconds before I got around to closing them. I was no soccer prodigy.
Spelling
After winning a spelling bee in 2nd grade, my career in competitive spelling looked promising. That is until, in a fifth grade spelling bee, I misspelled the word “monkeys.” Incidentally, that same day, I also discovered that I did not have a knack for losing graciously. I started to walk away as if I were about to leave school grounds. With tears streaming down my face, I muttered an angry diatribe against everything that came to mind. My plan was to elicit the sympathies of my mother and my teacher who would catch up with me and console me before I got too far. I would then resist but let them take me back; maybe they'd even give me a treat or something. They didn't. My mother saw right through my shenanigans and waited back at the school. I turned around and threw my arms into the air, desperately hoping to persuade someone to pursue me. I neared the sidewalk, realizing that I'd soon have to actually leave school property or bring the whole episode to a humiliating close. The gate that I neared was not just between the playground and the sidewalk. It stood between mere petulance and insubordination, between the safety of the school grounds and the danger of the streets, between a silly stunt and an inexcusable violation of school rules. I turned around. With no more tears and no more muttering, I walked back ashamed. I haven't spelled competitively since.
Bargaining
Sometimes we discover our deficiencies later in life. For example, bargaining is a skill I discovered I don't have just this semester. The now-well-known purchase of my ud in Egypt illustrates. The ud is an Eastern instrument that is the ancestor of the lute. After watching a merchant’s underwhelming demonstration of ud capabilities, I waited for the merchant to retrieve another ud from his stock. I needed to leave and I really didn’t want to buy a ud, but I was deathly afraid of doing anything that would bring my honor into question. So, upon the merchant’s return I hoped to end the negotiations like a man by politely asserting that I did not want to buy an ud. I wavered. I decided to end the negotiations using the slightly-less-manly method of saying that I didn’t have enough cash to make a good offer. He said he accepted Visa. Under duress, I settled for the even less manly technique of making a semi-reasonable offer that I thought he’d never accept. We left, thinking we were done, but as we walked away, he shouted to us that he accepted my offer. To my chagrin, I was now honor-bound to purchase the product—the imminent departure of our bus notwithstanding.
I soon discovered that “accepting Visa” in Egypt means that the merchant is willing to run with you to an ATM 3 blocks away. I dropped my things and ran on my recently-injured ankle with only the merchant whom I had never before met to accompany me. I retrieved the cash and ran back holding the money in plain view in my right hand. I was much slower than the merchant. My Visa card broke in half.
Now the proud owner of an ud, I looked at it closely for the first time. It was missing three strings and there was black gunk on the back of it. The decorative inlays were already falling out. I wondered if I could use such an ugly instrument. Using the ud never actually came up though. You see, just two days later at the Taba border crossing, my aspirations of learning the ud met an unceremonious end.
Things were going badly after the ud fell from the x-ray machine on the Egyptian side, which knocked loose more of the decorative inlays and cracked the back of it. My ud fared still worse at the Israeli bag-inspection station. I looked and the tuning pegs seemed to be less symmetrical than I had remembered. I looked again at the ud and realized that one of the tuning pegs had broken off. I attended to my other bags as they were inspected by Israeli border officers. I looked again at the ud and noticed that the entire pegbox of the ud was mounted at a suspiciously shallow angle—almost as if it were about to break. I looked for a fourth time at the ud. You take a look: maybe you'll notice the same thing I did. [hold up hopelessly dilapidated ud here]
If I ever become an accomplished ud player, it will not be with this ud. If I ever become an accomplished negotiator, this incident will not be on my resume.
But a failure to demonstrate natural ability early in life is hardly definitive. I recall an occasion when the State of Florida made elementary school kids submit a writing sample to be scored by some testing agency. My essay was about Christmas. It started with an inspiring and well-crafted paragraph on the importance of receiving gifts. The materialism of this first paragraph made me feel a little guilty, so I dutifully discussed the birth of Jesus in my second paragraph. Having assuaged my guilt and exhausted all of my ideas on the subject of the nativity, I unwittingly completed the chiastic pattern by further elaborating on the importance of receiving lots of gifts in my third paragraph. It was personal. It was sincere. It was both secular and spiritual. I thought it was good.
The reader who scored my essay, however, did not agree. Mine was one of the lowest scores in the class. I was deficient. I was a shame to school administrators and state governors. I was evidence that American schools were failing to educate their children. I was practically illiterate! I thought perhaps my fervent explanation of the religious aspects of Christmas had provoked some kind of religious discrimination from the grader. It hadn't. A cursory reading of the paper, however, readily reveals that what I thought was witty and articulate was a mash of mostly incoherent ramblings organized into three ugly, overlapping paragraphs, none of which served to support the vague assertions I made in my conclusion. Many sentence fragments.
The story does not end there. If you came today to watch me play soccer or spell or purchase a quality good at a reasonable price, I'm sorry to disappoint. But if you wanted to hear the reading of an original essay by a kid who only recently felt sufficiently confident to write for pleasure and share his work, well, you just saw it.
Discovering one's talents is like looking for gold coins in a sewer—if you find some it's well worth the effort, but once you've got the gold, you don't really tend to emphasize how you found it. Our fall starts, our early failures and the effort and time it takes to develop real talents often go unmentioned. This essay is dedicated to the notion that sometimes the process of discovering talents can be interesting, even compelling. So, with the following true stories from my life, I'd like to explain a couple of talents that I won't be performing tonight.
Soccer
Like any soccer team comprised entirely of seven-year-olds, my soccer team followed the ball around the field like a school of fish. My style of play was the exact antithesis of this. At the start of each half, I would trot out to my spot and stand there for the entire half. I alone was a pillar of enlightened soccer playing: the only child on the whole team to take the coaches' admonition to stay in your position so literally, so precisely, so narrowly that even the near proximity of the ball could not entice me to leave my spot.
One time, the ball was coming straight to me and I decided to produce some tension by spreading my legs apart only to close them at the last minute. Thus, I thought to stop the ball both stylishly and effectively. Seized by a vague, but inexplicable desire to imitate an evil cartoon butler, I planned to say something like “where do you think you're going?” or “Not so fast!” or “I have you now!” or “you’ll never get away from me!” The ball rolled between my legs several seconds before I got around to closing them. I was no soccer prodigy.
Spelling
After winning a spelling bee in 2nd grade, my career in competitive spelling looked promising. That is until, in a fifth grade spelling bee, I misspelled the word “monkeys.” Incidentally, that same day, I also discovered that I did not have a knack for losing graciously. I started to walk away as if I were about to leave school grounds. With tears streaming down my face, I muttered an angry diatribe against everything that came to mind. My plan was to elicit the sympathies of my mother and my teacher who would catch up with me and console me before I got too far. I would then resist but let them take me back; maybe they'd even give me a treat or something. They didn't. My mother saw right through my shenanigans and waited back at the school. I turned around and threw my arms into the air, desperately hoping to persuade someone to pursue me. I neared the sidewalk, realizing that I'd soon have to actually leave school property or bring the whole episode to a humiliating close. The gate that I neared was not just between the playground and the sidewalk. It stood between mere petulance and insubordination, between the safety of the school grounds and the danger of the streets, between a silly stunt and an inexcusable violation of school rules. I turned around. With no more tears and no more muttering, I walked back ashamed. I haven't spelled competitively since.
Bargaining
Sometimes we discover our deficiencies later in life. For example, bargaining is a skill I discovered I don't have just this semester. The now-well-known purchase of my ud in Egypt illustrates. The ud is an Eastern instrument that is the ancestor of the lute. After watching a merchant’s underwhelming demonstration of ud capabilities, I waited for the merchant to retrieve another ud from his stock. I needed to leave and I really didn’t want to buy a ud, but I was deathly afraid of doing anything that would bring my honor into question. So, upon the merchant’s return I hoped to end the negotiations like a man by politely asserting that I did not want to buy an ud. I wavered. I decided to end the negotiations using the slightly-less-manly method of saying that I didn’t have enough cash to make a good offer. He said he accepted Visa. Under duress, I settled for the even less manly technique of making a semi-reasonable offer that I thought he’d never accept. We left, thinking we were done, but as we walked away, he shouted to us that he accepted my offer. To my chagrin, I was now honor-bound to purchase the product—the imminent departure of our bus notwithstanding.
I soon discovered that “accepting Visa” in Egypt means that the merchant is willing to run with you to an ATM 3 blocks away. I dropped my things and ran on my recently-injured ankle with only the merchant whom I had never before met to accompany me. I retrieved the cash and ran back holding the money in plain view in my right hand. I was much slower than the merchant. My Visa card broke in half.
Now the proud owner of an ud, I looked at it closely for the first time. It was missing three strings and there was black gunk on the back of it. The decorative inlays were already falling out. I wondered if I could use such an ugly instrument. Using the ud never actually came up though. You see, just two days later at the Taba border crossing, my aspirations of learning the ud met an unceremonious end.
Things were going badly after the ud fell from the x-ray machine on the Egyptian side, which knocked loose more of the decorative inlays and cracked the back of it. My ud fared still worse at the Israeli bag-inspection station. I looked and the tuning pegs seemed to be less symmetrical than I had remembered. I looked again at the ud and realized that one of the tuning pegs had broken off. I attended to my other bags as they were inspected by Israeli border officers. I looked again at the ud and noticed that the entire pegbox of the ud was mounted at a suspiciously shallow angle—almost as if it were about to break. I looked for a fourth time at the ud. You take a look: maybe you'll notice the same thing I did. [hold up hopelessly dilapidated ud here]
If I ever become an accomplished ud player, it will not be with this ud. If I ever become an accomplished negotiator, this incident will not be on my resume.
But a failure to demonstrate natural ability early in life is hardly definitive. I recall an occasion when the State of Florida made elementary school kids submit a writing sample to be scored by some testing agency. My essay was about Christmas. It started with an inspiring and well-crafted paragraph on the importance of receiving gifts. The materialism of this first paragraph made me feel a little guilty, so I dutifully discussed the birth of Jesus in my second paragraph. Having assuaged my guilt and exhausted all of my ideas on the subject of the nativity, I unwittingly completed the chiastic pattern by further elaborating on the importance of receiving lots of gifts in my third paragraph. It was personal. It was sincere. It was both secular and spiritual. I thought it was good.
The reader who scored my essay, however, did not agree. Mine was one of the lowest scores in the class. I was deficient. I was a shame to school administrators and state governors. I was evidence that American schools were failing to educate their children. I was practically illiterate! I thought perhaps my fervent explanation of the religious aspects of Christmas had provoked some kind of religious discrimination from the grader. It hadn't. A cursory reading of the paper, however, readily reveals that what I thought was witty and articulate was a mash of mostly incoherent ramblings organized into three ugly, overlapping paragraphs, none of which served to support the vague assertions I made in my conclusion. Many sentence fragments.
The story does not end there. If you came today to watch me play soccer or spell or purchase a quality good at a reasonable price, I'm sorry to disappoint. But if you wanted to hear the reading of an original essay by a kid who only recently felt sufficiently confident to write for pleasure and share his work, well, you just saw it.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
A Term Coining
I just read an article in Time about the music industry. The part about how stolen music often foments the legitimate purchase of music really rang true to me. I believe now that music sharing regardless of its legality can play an important role in marketing music. I believe that current marketing methods will soon be obsolete.
I've come up with a great term for the phenomenon whereby something isn't marketed by traditional means, but relies on its own illegal distribution to generate buzz: black marketing.
I've come up with a great term for the phenomenon whereby something isn't marketed by traditional means, but relies on its own illegal distribution to generate buzz: black marketing.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
James weighs in on the issues of the day
I have no idea why the attorney firing is interesting to anyone. I did think, however, that I should weigh in based on my own examination of the original documents.
This is what I concluded: former Chief of Staff D. Kyle Sampson misspelled the word "indefinitely" (he wrote "indefinately") on the fourth line of the second paragraph of his 9 January 2006 email.
Don't believe me? See for yourself.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
A Child's Eye View of Extreme Environmentalism in the 90s
When I was a child in Florida, there was a tall, eucalyptus tree in our backyard. The trunk split into two limbs at a relatively low height, making it attractive for climbing. At the nook about 5 feet off the ground there was a small nail that protruded about half an inch.
During that period of my life someone told me about a group of environmentalist extremists that had implanted spikes into trees so that if a logger were to attempt to cut them down, his chainsaw blade would ricochet and kill him. It didn't take long for me to synthesize these two facts: we had been the victims of enviro-terrorists! I was mortified. It took only seconds to form a gruesome mental image of someone trying to cut the tree right down the middle of that nook and being killed by his own chainsaw.
It seemed so wrong, so cruel that some group of tree-huggers would be willing to inflict harm so indiscriminately in their attempt to preserve this single specimen of a non-native, not-timber-producing tree that wasn't a habitat to any sort of animal in our already-developed suburban neighborhood.
Years passed. Every time I would climb that tree, I would be extra careful not to get my clothes caught on that nail and think that perhaps this, too, figured into the plans of those wicked environmentalists. The nefarious motives of the people who put it there turned that little nail into a symbol of the perverse valuation of vegetation over human life.
Even after my mother disabused me of that idea by explaining that the previous residents of our house probably used the nail for a clothes line, the image of environmentalist wackos continued to be deeply embedded in my mind.
. . .
There was something in me that liked the notion of contradicting the liberal environmentalist orthodoxy no matter what it said. It gave me a sense of power to think that I alone among children was free of the paradigms with which adult institutions tried to imbue children. Mine was a world where Captain Planet was dismissed as leftist propaganda. I was most skeptical of what was taught in school or on public service announcements on TV. After a few years, I thought my propaganda-sense was getting pretty good.
So, naturally on the day Nickelodeon played a public service announcement endorsing water conservation via turning off the faucet when one brushes his teeth, I sensed that this ad might be some sort of environmentalist propaganda designed to prey upon weak-minded children. Now, I had always turned off the water while brushing my teeth because it had never occurred to me to leave the water on. Concluding that I should do the opposite of whatever it recommended, I resolved leave the water running the next time I brushed my teeth. I knew that I was only one child, but I hoped that in some small degree I could offset the conservation of my peers. Little did I know that one such peer lived in my very house.
. . .
As I brushed, my younger brother came in and turned off the water. I was peeved that my brother would side with the infomercial, but I turned the water back on soon enough. After he turned it off again, a confrontation was inevitable. Hoping to stand up for my new-found ideas, I opted for the ad hominem attack. I searched for the most pejorative, the most despicable and offensive thing I could say.
"Erik, you're an environmentalist!" I ejaculated.
He was stunned. My verbal dagger had found its tender target. In a flash his lower lip protruded; his eyes filled with tears. There emerged the hysterical cry of a deeply upset child. His cry was so loud that it obliterated any hope that there might have been of resolving the issue without our parents' assistance. He ran out of the bathroom to look for mother.
I had asserted my independence from the vapid group-think shoved down the throats of millions of children.
The next few seconds were eerily peaceful. In the distance, the sounds of his crying and looking for mother propagated clumsily through the walls of house and into the bathroom where it was just me, my running faucet and the ominous, almost palpable realization that a parental rebuke was now inevitable.
The door opened; the accusations had been made: I had called him an environmentalist.
What had I become? Had I been a victim of my own mindless contrarianism? Had my unyielding pride caused irreparable damage to my younger brother's environmentally conscious heart? By giving him the same label I gave to the people I thought had tried to kill us by putting that nail in our tree, had I inadvertently driven a far more pernicious wedge between my brother and I?
. . .
I don't remember exactly what happened after that. I am certain that it involved a forced apology.
Epilogue:
The author now lives in Provo, UT and writes occasional blog entries. His relationship with his brother has mended since that time and his views are more sophisticated.
During that period of my life someone told me about a group of environmentalist extremists that had implanted spikes into trees so that if a logger were to attempt to cut them down, his chainsaw blade would ricochet and kill him. It didn't take long for me to synthesize these two facts: we had been the victims of enviro-terrorists! I was mortified. It took only seconds to form a gruesome mental image of someone trying to cut the tree right down the middle of that nook and being killed by his own chainsaw.
It seemed so wrong, so cruel that some group of tree-huggers would be willing to inflict harm so indiscriminately in their attempt to preserve this single specimen of a non-native, not-timber-producing tree that wasn't a habitat to any sort of animal in our already-developed suburban neighborhood.
Years passed. Every time I would climb that tree, I would be extra careful not to get my clothes caught on that nail and think that perhaps this, too, figured into the plans of those wicked environmentalists. The nefarious motives of the people who put it there turned that little nail into a symbol of the perverse valuation of vegetation over human life.
Even after my mother disabused me of that idea by explaining that the previous residents of our house probably used the nail for a clothes line, the image of environmentalist wackos continued to be deeply embedded in my mind.
. . .
There was something in me that liked the notion of contradicting the liberal environmentalist orthodoxy no matter what it said. It gave me a sense of power to think that I alone among children was free of the paradigms with which adult institutions tried to imbue children. Mine was a world where Captain Planet was dismissed as leftist propaganda. I was most skeptical of what was taught in school or on public service announcements on TV. After a few years, I thought my propaganda-sense was getting pretty good.
So, naturally on the day Nickelodeon played a public service announcement endorsing water conservation via turning off the faucet when one brushes his teeth, I sensed that this ad might be some sort of environmentalist propaganda designed to prey upon weak-minded children. Now, I had always turned off the water while brushing my teeth because it had never occurred to me to leave the water on. Concluding that I should do the opposite of whatever it recommended, I resolved leave the water running the next time I brushed my teeth. I knew that I was only one child, but I hoped that in some small degree I could offset the conservation of my peers. Little did I know that one such peer lived in my very house.
. . .
As I brushed, my younger brother came in and turned off the water. I was peeved that my brother would side with the infomercial, but I turned the water back on soon enough. After he turned it off again, a confrontation was inevitable. Hoping to stand up for my new-found ideas, I opted for the ad hominem attack. I searched for the most pejorative, the most despicable and offensive thing I could say.
"Erik, you're an environmentalist!" I ejaculated.
He was stunned. My verbal dagger had found its tender target. In a flash his lower lip protruded; his eyes filled with tears. There emerged the hysterical cry of a deeply upset child. His cry was so loud that it obliterated any hope that there might have been of resolving the issue without our parents' assistance. He ran out of the bathroom to look for mother.
I had asserted my independence from the vapid group-think shoved down the throats of millions of children.
The next few seconds were eerily peaceful. In the distance, the sounds of his crying and looking for mother propagated clumsily through the walls of house and into the bathroom where it was just me, my running faucet and the ominous, almost palpable realization that a parental rebuke was now inevitable.
The door opened; the accusations had been made: I had called him an environmentalist.
What had I become? Had I been a victim of my own mindless contrarianism? Had my unyielding pride caused irreparable damage to my younger brother's environmentally conscious heart? By giving him the same label I gave to the people I thought had tried to kill us by putting that nail in our tree, had I inadvertently driven a far more pernicious wedge between my brother and I?
. . .
I don't remember exactly what happened after that. I am certain that it involved a forced apology.
Epilogue:
The author now lives in Provo, UT and writes occasional blog entries. His relationship with his brother has mended since that time and his views are more sophisticated.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Rejected?
As a student of physics, I find myself relying on grants to fund my work. Understandably, receiving a rejection letter for a grant can make for a disappointing day.
Do you want to know what can really compensate for a rejection letter? Winning two lotteries! I did win, the emails came that same week. Why would I even need to get funding for my research when I can get money for nothing? I didn't even know I was eligible for the UK National Lottery, but that didn't stop me from winning. Ditto for the Netherlands-based STAATS LOTERIJ. Right there with my rejection letter were two acceptance letters. I don't need to spend hours writing about my work for a pittance, I can win much larger sums of money just by someone getting a hold of my email address. I am pretty sure that I am not obligated to use the prize money on just research, either.
So to everyone who's ever rejected a grant request, take a lesson from the UK National Lottery and the STAATS LOTERIJ. Their grammar and spelling may be inexplicably atrocious, but they sure know how to make a guy's day.
Do you want to know what can really compensate for a rejection letter? Winning two lotteries! I did win, the emails came that same week. Why would I even need to get funding for my research when I can get money for nothing? I didn't even know I was eligible for the UK National Lottery, but that didn't stop me from winning. Ditto for the Netherlands-based STAATS LOTERIJ. Right there with my rejection letter were two acceptance letters. I don't need to spend hours writing about my work for a pittance, I can win much larger sums of money just by someone getting a hold of my email address. I am pretty sure that I am not obligated to use the prize money on just research, either.
So to everyone who's ever rejected a grant request, take a lesson from the UK National Lottery and the STAATS LOTERIJ. Their grammar and spelling may be inexplicably atrocious, but they sure know how to make a guy's day.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Port Wine Stain or a Sad Day for America
The other night as I socialized with some of my peers, I raised the question as to whether I or Mikhail Gorbachev was better looking. Their response was appalling.
It would have been understandable (though ego-shattering) if they had responded that there was no contest and that Gorbachev was clearly better-looking. Failing to note that Mr. Gorbachev and I share the same rare skin condition was also something that could be expected. Even though my choice of persons to whom to compare myself probably seemed a little bit non-sequitur to a person unfamiliar with port wine stains, I concede that port wine stains are uncommon and do not pose any serious threat to one's health and thus can't be expected to occupy much of a place within one's cognizance of problems in the world. Even if they couldn't really remember what Mr. Gorbachev looked like, I suppose it would have been alright.
But it wasn't this. You see, they didn't even know who Mr. Gorbachev was.
It would have been understandable (though ego-shattering) if they had responded that there was no contest and that Gorbachev was clearly better-looking. Failing to note that Mr. Gorbachev and I share the same rare skin condition was also something that could be expected. Even though my choice of persons to whom to compare myself probably seemed a little bit non-sequitur to a person unfamiliar with port wine stains, I concede that port wine stains are uncommon and do not pose any serious threat to one's health and thus can't be expected to occupy much of a place within one's cognizance of problems in the world. Even if they couldn't really remember what Mr. Gorbachev looked like, I suppose it would have been alright.
But it wasn't this. You see, they didn't even know who Mr. Gorbachev was.
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