My Random Life | Elbrecht's Corpuscle

Let the Good Times Roll

Posted on November 14, 2012 by Elbrecht

When Wade and Lindz tied the knot three years ago, The Black Eyed Peas “I gotta feeling” ended up being the theme song and inspiration for An Ode to Cincinnati. I wrote that story in honor of my friends in attendance and how my opinion of the Queen City, always adversarial in nature, had turned 180 degrees. The idea of living in Cincinnati had never appealed to me, despite so many close friends living there, but when I witnessed their joy as group that evening, living the lives they had imagined for themselves, I couldn’t help but have a change of heart.

Two weekends ago I found myself in Boston at another wedding and the theme from three years ago, “I gotta feeling”, was the second song of the evening. I was transported back to that night at Wade & Lindz’s wedding and remembered the joy of seeing so many friends in one place. When I returned from my momentary experiment with time travel, I realized I was among the second group of friends that had been incubated because of a lone friendship.

Gib, one of my freshman year roommates, had grown up in Cincinnati, only a stone’s throw from Oxford, Ohio where we learned the joys of life. Besides being a good buffer between our third roommate, Gib provided me the opportunity to meet his already existent group of friends from Cincy who had also found themselves in Oxford. Several of them had attended high school together or knew each other from the ‘burbs, but were quick to allow outsiders like me join their Band of Brothers. Fat, Wade, J-Dawg, Hoj, Cole, Zelch, and Hern were all there that evening three years ago, and I’d found myself among them because of Gib, a lynchpin of a man among men.

On this evening, I found myself in Boston because of the other lynchpin in my life, Juice. Over the course of my four years in college, I had progressively spread my wings and made random friendships, but Gib and Juice were the two branches that had provided me the most opportunities to meet new people. Juice was like Gib, another tall, lanky Ohio kid, but he hailed from Medina, in the upper eastern recess of Ohio.

And like Gib, he had a group of close friends, who while they didn’t join him in Oxford, were likely to visit at a moment’s notice. Juice was also accepting of me into his home on multiple occasions over the years, as Gib had been, where I quickly became a part of the Medina boys’ lives.

While that evening was a celebration of Beeker’s wedding, I was reunited with this second Band of Brothers from Medina: Riegans, Slaby, BillyJ, and Riiitz [Jinx, Daryl and my brother Will had also managed to finagle their way into this troupe by way of Juice]. Two groups of friends, tied together for me by two different lynchpins that I’d somehow been fortunate enough to cross paths with.

As “I gotta feeling” faded into “Gagnam style”, the parallels between these two groups slowly came to the forefront of my mind. While I may have been the lone common link between these two nights, I can’t help but see myself as an observer, rather than as an integral part of their stories. I’ve effortlessly floated amongst these two Bands, consisting of lawyers, physicians, engineers, accountants, chemists, and businessmen.

While each of us has managed to carve out our own lives, this night was in celebration of Beeker and Beekerette’s union, as Wade and Lindz’s night had been three years before. And each wedding brought together two distinct, yet somehow alike, groups of men.

Two Bands of Brothers, each celebrating one member’s nuptials, and like the days of our youth, letting the good times roll.

Fan Belt

Posted on October 30, 2012 by Elbrecht

Working at the gym in grad school always had its charms. Not that I particularly enjoyed seeing people running around sweating or rhythmically gyrating on the elliptical machines or dropping barbells on their necks (yep, saw it with my own eyes, on my first day, no less). But the opportunity to meet all sorts of random people I wouldn’t have come across while strolling through campus made it worthwhile. I also enjoyed the occasional “guy takes a racquet to the back of the head because his buddy didn’t use the wrist strap and now he’s bleeding profusely” moments that I was able to witness. Unfortunately, those were few and far between.

The monotony of sitting behind a desk, swiping ID cards and passing out crisply folded towels came with the territory of being a gym desk jockey. Never one to make things boring, I decided to spruce up my days by being extra annoyingly cheery to everyone who crossed my path, no matter their demeanor. This probably led to many people thinking “that guy is insane” or “he’s drunk”, and I wish I could say the latter wasn’t true a few times, but it was.

During the summer of 2003 I was enrolled in graduate school in the comfortable college town of Oxford, OH. My courses were in the afternoon, which was perfect for either staying out until 2AM boozing, or in my case, working the opening shift to make some extra money. However, occasionally I managed to booze until 2AM and still open the gym at 5:30A because I was often scheduled to open on the weekends. I always felt a little better when I’d be out drinking until all hours of the night with other colleagues who were also supposed to be there at 5:30AM. But for some reason, I was always the only one to actually show up on time, if at all. For the most part, I was still able to function above “black out drunk” at 23 years old, even on 2-3 hours of sleep. Not that I look back on those mornings fondly, but I suppose they served a purpose. I’ll let you know when I figure out that purpose.

The open shifts during the week were a different story. I’d roll out of bed at 4:30AM, jump in the shower, pack my bag for school, and hop on the Huffy I’d borrowed from a friend to turn the 25 minute walk into a five minute ride to work. The streets were always eerily quiet, especially considering that only a few hours earlier college students, especially during the summer, had been stumbling down these same streets. The ride was almost always uneventful, save the time a Semi Tractor Trailer, making its early morning cut through Oxford, disregarded the big red stop light at the corner of Talawanda and Spring. Having your life flash before your eyes before the sun has even dared to get itself out of bed is a great way to reconnect with Jesus. But I managed to slip by the truck’s cab before he could clip my back wheel and send me hurtling down Talawanda Avenue. I’m sure they would have been able to open the gym without me that morning, even if word had spread that I was in critical care at McCullough-Hyde. Yes, even the towel guy is replaceable.

One Wednesday morning that summer was one for the ages though. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning a well-known faculty member of the Communications department, Professor Bedrosian, would waddle to the check-in counter, stroll through the turnstile, grab two towels, and begin his descent to the pool. On this morning, his routine was no different.

I had never personally witnessed him swimming, but stories abounded that his technique was more of a wading in the pool for an hour; nothing resembling a breast stroke or even a doggy-paddle had been seen. On shifts that I was not behind the desk and was free to roam the halls and make the always terrifying stroll through the men’s locker room to make sure no one was masturbating in the shower, I had seen Prof Bedrosian in his bathing suit. Based on the man’s physique, I could surmise that his “swimming” involved as little physical activity as possible. Or that he immediately followed it up by stopping by the UDP Dairy Shop and scarfing down about 20 doughnuts. His massive belly was supported by his trunks being pulled above his umbilicus and he always dripping wet as he made his way back to the locker room. No sign of towel in hand, I was left to believe that he’d been raised by wolves.

This particular morning, as every morning, Prof Bedrosian’s entrance to the gym was followed 10 minutes later by his wife, another esteemed faculty member of the Communications department. I always found her tardiness to be odd. It was as if she waited in the car until she knew he’d been inside long enough that even she wouldn’t run the risk of seeing him in his bathing suit. I would have believed she’d never seen him in his birthday suit, but I’d heard their daughter (biological in nature), was quite the bitch. “Do you know who I am? I’m the daughter of Professors Bedrosian. I don’t care if I don’t have an ID, I’m coming in!” was her most common refrain.

At 10:15AM Professor Bedrosian made his way up the stairs from the locker room and into the main lobby, freshly changed into his street clothes and refreshed from his “swim”. From 10 feet away, he launched his two towels, balled into a wet mess, towards the bin for dirty towels. I had witnessed this behavior several times before and knew that he’d become alarmingly proficient at giving his projectile the necessary arc to enter the clown’s mouth-sized hole in the counter that hid the towel bin. Sometimes it entered as a perfect swish, the sign of a true marksman. Today was one of those times. But rather than veer to the right, towards the exit, he continued his waddle towards the counter, as if he was expecting the towels to miss their intended target.

I sat on my stool behind the counter unsure as to why he continued in my direction. He approached slowly, peering at me through his massive lenses until he reached the counter. He stared directly at the name badge attached to my rumpled, red polo shirt and exclaimed, “Fan Belt!”

I’ve been called many things in my life, had my name misspelled since birth, but never had I been mistaken for “Fan Belt.” In a state of utter disbelief, I quickly grasped my shirt with my left hand and my name badge with my right and expected to see “Fan Belt”, an obvious typo that had been overlooked for months by me and every other person who knew my name. Professor Bedrosian’s certainty with which he spoke caused me a moment’s pause when I recognized the correct spelling.

“Ean Bett,” I quickly replied to his now obvious mistake.

“Yes! Is that a family name?” he countered as he turned his body towards the exit.

“Bett is my last name. So yes, that is my family name. Or were you talking about Ean?”

Professor Bedrosian, now moving towards the exit turnstile, slowed his step. And in a brief pause, he let out the most electric words I’ve had the privilege of hearing. “Eonnnn Brett! Eeeeven Better!”

As he continued his waddle through the turnstile and turned the corner out of my sight, I stood up, in utter disbelief. I managed to look down at my name badge again, but “Ean Bett”, a name I’d carried for 23 years, was still there. A wave of disappointment swept over me, as if somehow Professor Bedrosian had looked straight through the name badge and deep into my soul. And once there, he revealed my true name to be Eonnnn Brett. But it was not to be. I wasn’t even Fan Belt, much less Eonnnn Brett.

When my co-worker Kim returned from her break, I quickly told her the case of mistaken identity. She responded with raucous laughter and near tears, she doubled over to the floor. She too knew Professor Bedrosian and could easily imagine the exchange. When I returned home later in the afternoon, the story was still percolating in my brain, so I shared it with my roommates Juice and Jinx. A fellow employee at the gym, Juice nearly spit out his Miller Lite all over the flat screen TV when I belted out “Eonnnn Brett! Eeeeven Better!” Jinx, on the other hand, was laughing so hard that he actually sprayed Miller Lite all over the TV.

Days passed and I couldn’t help be drawn back to that bizarre moment in time; the instant when Professor Bedrosian had made me believe, if only for a second, that I’d been misnamed, and possibly miscast in the story of my life. What could have been, if I’d been born “Fan Belt”. Or “Eonnn Brett?” Eeeeven better!

So when I was working the same shift a week later and saw Professor Bedrosian turn the corner to approach the entrance to the gym, I was filled with an indescribable joy. I could hear the words “Eeeeven Better!” reverberating through the high arching ceilings of the entrance. He made his way past the turnstile, grabbed his two towels, gave a pleasant smile, and proceeded downstairs without saying a word

For the next hour I went about my usual greetings and salutations as the rest of the gym regulars, including the other Professor Bedrosian, made their way in and out. But when Professor Bedrosian reappeared at the top of the stairs and headed towards the counter, time had a small hiccup.

I watched as his right arm, holding his two wet towels balled into one, begin its slow ascent through the air. He released the projectile as his arm came parallel to the ground and the towels seemed to float towards the counter. I could see his continued approach from one eye as the other focused on his projectile and its perfect passage through the hole in the counter.

He stopped, stared right at my name badge, and exclaimed, “Fan Belt!”

I grasped my name badge as he positioned his movements away from the counter. I responded almost instantaneously, “Ean Bett?” I felt a wave of awe come over me.

“Yes! Is that a family name?”, was his curious reply.

Several thoughts flooded my mind simultaneously. “Am I drunk?” “Is this man clinically insane?” “Am I having déjà déjà vu?”

If I’d been filled at the time with all of the medical knowledge I now possess, I would have thought I’d just had a seizure, possibly a stroke, and would be crashing to the floor in an instant. Hopefully my face wouldn’t be smashed as it struck the stool on which I was currently seated.

But I didn’t have a seizure. Or a stroke. I responded, “Bett is my last name. So yes, that is my family name. Or were you talking about Ean?”

I waited for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only a millisecond. And then, he released in his boisterous tone, “Eonnnn Brett! Eeeeven Better!”

He continued his waddle through the exit and turned the corner.

I stayed seated on the stool for a moment, deep in thought. My eyes darted back and forth, looking to see if anyone else had witnessed the impossible. I wondered if Professor Bedrosian was quick-witted enough to have intentionally pulled off what I had just experienced.

Or, was it possible that my mind had been so blown by his words, as to have not only created the déjà vu moment, but to have generated the memories of me telling the story to other people over the previous week. Is that even possible? Had I attained a level of sub-consciousness that allowed me to attain such great heights?

I’m not sure what happened that day. I’m uncertain if Professor Bedrosian has any idea that we had the identical exchange one week apart. The conclusion I’ve reached is that Fan Belt, the happy, go-lucky towel guy, was mistaken for Eonnn Brett two times in his life. And that is a case of mistaken identity, if you listen closely, that can still be heard echoing through those same vaulted ceilings at 10:15AM every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

Man & Machine

Posted on January 31, 2009 by Elbrecht

—–

The most difficult course I took as a college undergrad at Miami University was entitled “Robots and Humans.” It was a “senior capstone”; the purpose of “capstone” courses was to bring together several divergent subject matters in the realm of the major course of study of a student.

As a psychology major, the general idea of a capstone was to filter some idea through a psychological lens. “Robots and Humans” focused on the idea of technology, in the form of robots, and how psychology could understand the role of robots in human society and the potentiality of robots becoming human, or at the very least, human-like.

—–

The difficulty of this course was in the wide scope of subject matter that was included: mathematics, philosophy, electronics, neural networks, sociology, economics, etc. But the basic premise of the course was to examine the questions of “what does it mean to be human?” and “can we blur the line between humans and robots so that they are indistinguishable?”

At the time, it was some pretty heady stuff and it required me to do the required readings at least twice in every case in order to fully grasp the subject matter. Obviously, the question “what does it mean to be human?” is limitless, but as a class we were legitimately trying to derive an answer to that question through conversation, readings, and experimentation.

I don’t believe we ever really “answered” the question, but I have recently found myself analyzing recent losses in my life through this same lens.

—–

Over the course of the last weekend, I suffered two losses that were significant to my life. One was human [a cherished friend]. The other was a robot [my computer of nearly 4 years]. In some ways, the loss of both in the course of two days was quite poetic, as I had “known” both for almost the same amount of time.

These simultaneous losses allowed me to revisit the two major questions presented in “Robots and Humans” over the past week and to finally derive an answer to them.

The demise of my friend Broadway, as he was known to his friends in Cambridge, was a difficult, protracted, and confusing ordeal. The demise of my computer, a Dell Inspiron 2200, was a much shorter, but just as difficult and confusing ordeal.

—–

Broadway was a 71-year-old gentleman whom I knew through the program that brought me to Cambridge. He was beloved by all who knew him because of his self-less attitude, charm, and love of music. I met Broadway my first day in Cambridge and made it a point of visiting him routinely even after I moved to the other side of town.

We usually spoke about sports, particularly the local teams, but he also told me about his days as a younger man and the varied experiences he had lived. As I’ve written about before, I don’t have any grandparents, so to have this wizened perspective was quite fulfilling.

—–

Over the last 4.5 years, I had several enlightening experiences with Broadway, including a favorite where he and I caught the bus to the Asics factory store to find the best deals on high-quality athletic shoes [one of his specialties was finding the highest quality goods at the most affordable prices].

Inspiron 2200 arrived at my door nearly 8 months after I arrived in Cambridge, a replacement for my college laptop that had become too slow to run the latest programs and was too cumbersome to realistically take anywhere.

As a sleeker and faster model, it immediately improved my quality of on-line cabailities, software use, and mobility. It easily held all of the documents that had existed on my previous hard drive (I named one folder on it “old computer”), allowed me to effectively use the latest software necessary for work and play, and made me feel like I had purchased a new car in the level of care I gave it.

—–

These two entities filled my life with innumerable joy and greatly improved my quality of life. One was a cherished friend who helped me understand my place in the world and motivated me to pursue my calling of becoming a physician. The other was a cherished assistant with whom I entrusted my most private secrets and most public of desires.

Both succumbed to a mysterious illness.

Broadway had been a model of health for the 70+ crowd. A wiry former-athlete, he used to tell me how he was a master on the hardwood back in the day, used to do hundreds of crunches a day, and did his very best to avoid processed sugars. His body was confirmation of those boasts.

—–

When he began feeling a little ill seven months ago, I don’t think anyone who knew him felt that it was anything more than a cold. But he began sleeping more than usual. And his doctors’ visits concluded with more questions than answers.

Eventually, he had to leave his home to get more focused care in a rehabilitation hospital. The last time I saw him, he was a shell of the man I first met nearly 5 years ago. He was no longer the spry individual who would carry multiple gallons of milk several blocks to get some extra exercise or simply go out for a stroll to all corners of Cambridge. At this point, I was deeply concerned for his long-term welfare.

When he passed away last weekend, there still had been no determination as to what had begun the tortuous path to his demise.

—–

Death Becomes Us

—–

Inspiron 2200 had been more than serviceable over the past 4 years. We had spent countless hours together and performed innumerable tasks for both work and leisure. Of course there had been minor hiccups here and there, but it could always handle the updated software, the multitude of simultaneous tasks I asked it to perform, and the occasional ride in an un-padded backpack before I got it its own neoprene sleeve.

Then, about three weeks ago, after updating my music service provider, it began to show alarming signs of a downturn. The Internet began to run slow. Then it wouldn’t boot up in its normal fashion. A few days later I got the dreaded “Safe Mode” warning. I could see the writing on the wall when I tried to run virus software or perform a “system restore.”

—–

Inspiron 2200 was circling the drain; something had infected it terminally. I immediately transferred all of my pertinent documents and files onto a thumb drive and prepared for the worst.

When I awoke last Friday morning and tried to boot it up nothing happened. I powered it down and rebooted; again, nothing happened. Inspiron 2200 had flat-lined at 7AM that morning. I went to work knowing that Inspiron 2200 had performed its last task.

—–

It might seem misguided to compare the final moments of Broadway and Inspiron 2200, but as I mentioned earlier, their simultaneous demises have allowed me to once again consider the questions first posed in my “Robots and Humans” class seven years ago.

The difference between man and machine lies in the same difference that separates humans from almost every other animal on the planet: emotions. No matter the increased technology, the faster the processors, the more complicated programs, the more human-like exteriors, robots will not be able to express emotions.

—–

Some individuals who are on the cutting edge of robotic technology would probably disagree with that statement, but what they often neglect to consider is that humans themselves do not have a firm grasp on emotions. How could we instill emotions in a fabricated machine when we don’t even understand them?

In “Robots and Humans”, our professor made the argument that emotions could be boiled down to a simple software program, allowing for certain “emotional” responses dependent on the underlying circumstances. But the determination we made as a class was that emotions are so widely varied across individual experience and situation that no program could be written to encompass such possibilities.

—–

I believe those on the cutting edge of robotics would disagree with our assessment. However, the underlying issue at hand is that humans themselves do not truly understand what causes some to differ in their emotional responses to similar situations. Experiences are too widely varied, histories too complex, and beliefs too individualized to accurately make an algorithm that would depict emotional responses.

I didn’t think I would cry when the rabbi read the sermon for Broadway; I teared up when he made mention of his nickname and I remembered first meeting him as he carried a box of things into my new home.

When Inspiron 2200 couldn’t be booted up on a Friday morning, I didn’t think twice about it, except that I’d have to check my e-mail at work.

I thought it would be uncomfortable to toss a shovel of dirt on top of the casket at Broadway’s burial site. Instead, I simply thrust the shovel into the mound of dirt and reflexively deposited it on top of the casket.

When I comfortably placed Inspiron 2200 in its leather carrying case and shipped it off on Saturday to be used for spare parts, I thought it was a fitting end.

—–

—-

The essential difference between man and machine is embodied in the comparison between Broadway and Inspiron 2200. There were no emotions involved in the demise of Inspiron 2200. I had certainly spent countless more hours with it than Broadway over the last 4 years, but it had not provided me with anything that my next computer will not.

Broadway provided me with a relationship that words can not fully express.

—–

The day a robot provides a human with the same relationship as another human we should all be worried. It will not be due to our ability to create a technology thatidentical and indistinguishable from humanity. Rather, it will be due to the fact that humans have devolved emotionally to the point of being indistinguishable from a computer program.