A phenomenon that fascinates me is the idea of doing something to the point you can’t do it anymore. I’ve mentioned before that when I was growing up I always drank sugared tea, usually with a centimeter of undissolved sugar at the bottom of the glass. Then one day I couldn’t drink tea with sugar. I don’t remember getting sick drinking sugared tea and I don’t remember getting sick on something sweet. In fact, I have no problems eating sweets (unfortunately).

I suspect that what happened is that one day I just decided I’d had enough sugared tea. I’d overdone the sugar to the point that I just got tired of it. I think it’s this way because I’ve experienced the same attitude with a lot of things.

I can play a computer game for hours and hours on end every day for weeks–occasionally stopping to eat and answer calls to engage in necessary bodily functions–and then, all of a sudden, I never want to play that game again. Sometimes it’s because I’ve mastered the game, like say Civilization II and Civilization: Call to Power; but sometimes  I’m playing deliberately addicting internet games that are never the same. I play them until I can’t play them anymore.

I’ve experienced the same thing with authors. I used to be a big Stephen King fan–heck I even read Danse Macabre–and still consider the original release of The Stand to be one of my favorite books and a book that’s influenced my writing. The original opening was simple and brilliant: a bunch of friends hanging out at a gas station and an accident happens that changes the world. Years later, I got about a third of the way into It and suddenly couldn’t read Stephen King anymore. I never finished It and haven’t read any fiction he’s done since.

I also get tired of podcasts. I’ll listen to a dozens of podcasts by one person and then stop and never listen to it again. In that case, I think I get tired of the podcast’s format.

I suppose part of the phenomenon is that the author or podcast or game or sugar satisfy a specific need; distraction, distraction, distraction, sugar craving. Mastering the game becomes its own goal and it buries all other goals. You feel really smart at mastering something, even it’s not really something important. Stephen King novels are awesome until you see another bully, another group of geeks, a campy scene where a statue of Paul Bunyan turns into a giant clown. (That’s the exact moment I stopped reading Stephen King.) Internet games finally seem silly.

There’s also a moment where you realize how much time you’ve wasted. And you realize it’s time to move on. To the next distraction, of course.

One of the things I miss from my childhood is the time we spent back in Salina, Kansas. This is not because Salina is a great place: at best it’s okay, but it had, at one point, four great movie theaters, two okay ones and a several cells in a bunker in the mall.

My friend Darren and I, and several boys from the neighborhood used to raid the Mid-State Mall (because it was in walking distance of my grand-parents’ house). We also used to get dropped off at the Fox Theater or the Vogue downtown. On occasion we were dropped off at the twin bunkers in Sunset Plaza.

I remember seeing Smokey and the Bandit several times, and could pretty much quote it from memory, including the parts a young lad of 11 was not supposed to know. I knew it well enough to fill in the edited parts when it was shown on television. (It’s “I’m gonna barbeque your ass in molasses” not “I’m gonna barbeque (tinny echoey sounds)YOU(end tinny echoey sounds) in molasses.” You can’t fool me.) I also saw Star Wars as many times as I could. I also remember seeing The Bad News Bears a couple times and Escape to Witch Mountain. (I also remember having a crush on Kim Richards.)

After I moved back to Salina, Darren and I saw a lot more movies, especially because we could drive (well, he could; I could, eventually, sort of. Long story.) I remember having one odd ritual: I’d never pick up the popcorn and start eating until until after the movie itself had started. I always had this vague sense that if I started eating too soon, it would guarantee a bad movie.

At that point in our movie going history, when faced with choosing between a couple of movies we wanted to see, our main deciding factor was “which theater had the best popcorn?” This meant we saw Cobra at the Vogue and The Return of the Living Dead at the Fox–now Stiefel Theater because they had the best popcorn in town. I also think we saw Eyes of Fire at the vogue (which is a movie that haunted me for years because I couldn’t remember the title or anything about it other than I’d seen it and it was a horror movie set in 18th century America.)

Eventually, though, one company acquired all the theaters in town and began slowly choking off all but the bunkers in the Central Mall. The best movies got put there whilst the Fox got American Ninja 2–which I think was the last movie shown there. (In defense of the owners, they proved conclusively that people didn’t just go to the Fox for the popcorn and the ambience.)

The bunkers were comfortable and had great sound, but the popcorn was only okay.

Eventually I moved to Japan and was faced with 18 dollar ticket prices. I still remember buying my first ticket and, upon hearing the price, telling the ticket seller “No, I only want one ticket.” to which she replied “and I only want 1800 yen for it” (something like that). My friend Charles and I would take special trips when the first of the month fell on Saturday for Sunday because all theaters in Japan drop their prices to $10 on those days. We saw, in one day, L.A. Confidential (and then made the mistake of reading the book) and Lethal Weapon 4.

Every now and then I still feel compelled to go out and see a movie, usually by myself. Movies are like concerts; even if you go as a group, you experience them individually. Your friends are only useful as “What the hell was that?” sounding boards after the movie. I saw all the new Star Wars abominations and the all the Lord of the Rings movies.

And, after all these years, I still don’t pick up and eat the popcorn until after the movie starts. Although is didn’t save the new Star Wars abominations. I might as well have gone ahead and started eating.

I don’t know for sure when I developed a fear of heights. I remember walking around at Mesa Verde in Southwest Colorado when I was in school, and I remember climbing on walls and walking across the tops of tall walls, but I don’t remember having any problems.

I remember being uncomfortable on Royal Gorge Bridge–especially when 1) I looked down through the gaps in the wood planks and 2) I realized they were wood planks. Eventually I got out to the middle of the bridge and was able to look over the railing, I don’t remember having any problems at the Grand Canyon.

I wasn’t able to go up to the roof of the World Trade Center during a trip to the 1981 Boy Scout Jamboree. I seem to remember being worried about losing my hat in the wind–I’ve mentioned before that I’m good at making excuses. I was also initially reluctant to back up against one of the windows when we were told to line up in our patrols. (Why is it always “tall people at the back?” Put the short people at the back for once.)

The first time I remember not being able to do something because of heights involved very basic rock climbing at Ben Delatour Scout Ranch North-Central Colorado. For reasons I don’t remember, I joined a hike to a nearby rock structure. The climb up was pretty easy and the heights didn’t bother me. However, at one point I remember we had to use a rope to climb over a small rock outcropping. I started up, but my foot was slipping and the rope felt kind of loose. I vaguely remember the guide saying to just climb and that my foot would stick if I just trusted my weight to it. I tried a couple times then just walked away, much to the surprise of pretty much everyone around me.

The first time I remember panicking was at the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London during a university trip. I’d been pre-freaked by having to walk around the whispering gallery, which sits at a nice 99 feet or so above the splatter zone. The nonchalance of other people–who were leaning over the railing or leaning against it–whilst my brain was going “that was last renovated in the 17th century”–triggered the early stages of panic. When we got to the top, I practically had to be dragged out on the top of the dome. In fact, I only went out because the only survivable way down could only be accessed from the balcony.

Strangely enough, this is only an issue with buildings. I have no problems flying. I don’t mind looking down the earth from that high. Some of that may have to do with a notion I’ve heard sky-divers describe: they’re more afraid climbing scaffolding and ladders than jumping out of planes. The brain can’t comprehend 10,000 feet or 30,000 feet, but it does comprehend 30 feet or 300 feet.

My brain also comprehends the notions of things breaking and structures failing. My imagination kicks in and I can see the 340 year old railing collapsing. I can see the 290 foot high sky bridge in the NS Building in Tokyo falling during an earthquake. Once such things are comprehended, panic sets in.

I’ve been working on the fear by visiting tall buildings when I can. I had some trouble in the glass elevator of the Umeda Sky Building in Osaka–the hanging escalators were also freaky–but I enjoyed the visit. I’ve found that it’s other people that set off my panic. If I could go to the Whispering Gallery by myself, I wouldn’t start panicking. I also watch videos of insane Russians climbing things. When I can’t look, I practice breathing and try to calm myself down.

As a test, I recommend the pictures on this page. If you think you’re not afraid of heights, watching these, fools, er, folks, might change your mind.

Because I finally ended up buying a smartphone, I suddenly find myself thinking about my history in telephones.

I vaguely remember that, for a short time after we moved to Hayden, Colorado, we had a party line. I still remember answering the phone once and being told, more or less, that I had/was the wrong number. I also remember that not lasting long–which may mean I’m completely full of crap and basing all this on false memories.

Those were the rotary phone days. To this day I still like the idea of those as the slow dialing process gave you time to seriously consider if the call you were about to make was a good idea or not. That would have saved me a lot of trouble at university, where we had touch tone phones with memories and speed dial. Those left you with enough time to think “You know, I probably ought to wait–” before “Hello?” and then the crap fell where it fell.

After we moved back to Kansas my experience with phones was as my sister’s answering machine and listening to her have conversations with friends where no one seemed to speak other than in grunts and monosyllables. On my sister’s side it sounded like “Howydoin?” “M’too.” “Ya.” “Ya.” “No.” “Really?” “Ya.” Call-waiting would allow her to have that same conversation with multiple friends at the same time.

In my fraternity, we were assigned various chores around the house and the most hated was “Phone and Door” which required the victim, er, loyal trustworthy clean and reverent (so to speak) brother to sit for three hours from 6-9 and answer the phone and door and fetch the intended recipient or take messages and/or try to figure out which girlfriend was calling before saying that the intended recipient was actually present. (I did this part with such deliberate obviousness, and caused more than one argument, that I soon got myself out of phone and door duty. Or maybe I just sucked at it because I didn’t actually care if anyone got messages.)

My first experience with an actual answering machine came after I won a drawing at university. I quickly realized that the problem with them was that 1–it was difficult to deny that you HADN’T received a call (No, mom, my roommate must have erased it…) and 2–if you called back long-distance, it was your money being spent and not the other person’s which meant the calls were a lot longer.

The answering machine eventually died, which was probably for the best.

In Japan I faced my first experience with paying for local calls. This meant that if I used my full 15 hours of “free” dial-up internet time, I was actually paying 90 dollars or so for the phone costs. This, by the way, is part of what caused Japan to jump ahead in cellphone use and technology.

Still plagued by the notion that only jerks had cellphones, I held off buying one until I moved to Tokyo and having a cellphone made my job easier. (For the record: this does not mean that I am not a jerk; it just means I didn’t buy a cellphone until I needed one.) My first cellphone was a Nokia DP-154EX, which I got mostly because it had a large ear hole. It sucked and I understand why Nokia didn’t do well in Japan.

However, after I started working at the school, I was till teaching a few part-time classes but the cellphone wasn’t as important, just useful. Even though it sucked, I kept it until I found that squeezing the sides caused the power to go out. I then switched to Toshiba cellphones, culminating in the 810T that was due to be replaced. I bought that one because it had, for the time, a good built-in camera.

After a careful research, and She Who Must Be Obeyed declaring she wanted to keep her phone, which meant we had to stay with our current provider, I decided to go with the Fujitsu Arrows A 301F, mostly because it has a good camera and reviews said it had  good battery life.

I’m also waiting to see how long it is before I actually need to use it as a phone and not just as an electronic map, email checking device and a portable message writer.