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Not only have I attempted to help a friend improve his quality of life (by way of advice on schools and skills and careers) but the TV version of Ira Glass' This American Life has left me wondering about my own.

The finale of Season 2, John Smith, borrows the concept from an old Washington Post piece looking at one complete life by piecing together the lives of seven different men, who don't know one another, but share the name John Smith, the most common name in America.

The baby John Smith was a few weeks old, and lived vicariously through his parents. Their dreams for him were big - maybe President or CEO - but they hoped for the usual things - a happy family, a life as a working man, an education.

The 8-year-old John Smith was a bit like any other kid - he went to school, he played in the yard. Like me, he looked for something to control. At school, he played the policeman whenever he could. At home, he often played by himself.

The 24-year-old John Smith was unlike me - unsure of himself, looking for direction, trying to balance a steady job with drug offenses. I'm lucky to not be in such a situation.

The 40-or-50-something John Smith welcomed his son home from Iraq, and set about repairing a strained relationship. 

A 50-something John Smith visited his father - the 79-year-old John Smith - at the nursing home every day after work. Even when the elder was in a bad mood, the loyal son was there, saying what he could to a man who was confined to a wheelchair, jaw stuck open, and said little in response. But, in the paraphrased words of the infant John Smith's father, he may have sat at the head of the table at Thanksgiving and simply silently admire d this family that he had created.

In order of age, I skipped one, because his story hit home. The 30-something John Smith worked in the Xbox division at Microsoft. He spent his time in meetings or answering emails, was tethered to a Blackberry, and traveled frequently. He had a wife and a beautiful baby girl, but his mother was on the way out the door. And the piece focused on what this did to John. To him, it felt as though everything had been thrown into the air, leaving him unable to focus on everything that he knew he had - the job, the wife, the baby, the house, the car. (The same things that the eldest John Smith had black-and-white photographs of, to illustrate this eponymous American life - one of aspiration, of acquisition, of work and of family.)

It could have been me, 10 or 20 years from now. That was the point - the whole show was essentially telling the stories that we all have to go through, from growing pains to the search for one's own identity to parenthood and grandparenthood. But the 30-something John's story hit home because I know that it's what I'll go through. Many years from now, I'll have the wife and baby. There's not an ounce of doubt in my mind. And I'll lose my mom - that I couldn't possibly doubt. And it's mortifying; it's the only thing that's made my brain grind to a halt more than the thought of my own death.

Remarkably, John's mom was very brave. "I know she's not scared, but I am," John said of his mother's downhill battle with cancer. I think my mom will have the same bravery, the same peace of mind. She's smart and self-aware that way. But like John, it will throw everything I know into relief with that one giant elephant in the room - she's going, or she's gone.

John picks up the phone to call his mom on the way home from work, but then, realizing he can't call her, he just gets stuck in an infinite loop. He can't put the phone back down as easily as he picked it up.

In 10 or 20 years, I'll have the wife, the child, the house, the car, and the job. Of these things, I have no doubt. 

Whether I'll be able to appreciate them, with the distractions of American aspiration and the fear of lost loved ones, is a different story.

A: It's a pretty obscure number. You've probably never heard of it.

(That joke comes courtesy of Chloe, who must've gone unmentioned on this little blog for a number of years until just now.)

Late July and early August is JET turnover season, and it's been fun to look at Facebook through that season. To put it simply, late July sees lots of "Goodbye!" posts (both from departing teachers-to-be and their friends in response) and for a couple weeks thereafter you see "Hello!" posts from people who just got back and want to share their new phone numbers.

Add then there's the photo albums. Whether it's the first days or the last days, it looks much the same: parties in Tokyo. Then people put together their "best of Japan" albums and it still looks the same: serene snowscapes, cherry blossoms, local temples, beaches, post-party food runs resulting in one guy passing out on the table. Their photos look like my photos, which look like any other JET alum's photos, but they're still our own for what those places and scenes meant.

My amigos' photos, even if they're not my own, take me back through all the time between "Goodbye" and "Hello." I understand the feelings, the highs and lows, the tastes. It's almost like being ex-military - there's a huge body of common experience, unique to your 'people,' to draw upon when establishing new relationships, both personal and professional

This season last year was my own turn for the "Hello!" posts, and now that it's been a full year and I'm re-established in American culture, this is the first time I can step back and look at the whole experience, from start to finish, holistically.

It was a pretty great chapter in life.

I got a 60-second lesson on the sand from a fellow IR/PSer, and then off we went into the waters of Tourmaline Beach - it's a surfers-only beach, and pedestrians aren't allowed to play or swim in the water for fear of being decapitated by a surfboard.

Or so I'm told.

Anyway, I caught the very first wave that came my way, and even managed to stand up for a couple seconds before the wave petered out and I crashed.

It was beginner's luck combined with hitting a big return on the very first crank of a slot machine. I spent the next 45 minutes mostly failing to catch another, but I don't care. It was a blast. I might even be in the market for a used surfboard.

I guess this California thing is a decent fit after all.

"It's going to space! Give it a second!" exclaimed comedian Louis C.K. in observing that we are completely spoiled by modern technology, when something ridiculously awesome shows the slightest hiccup or slowdown.

I'm the spoiledest of the spoiled, but I've tried to take Louie's advice and not let my blood pressure rise when my iPhone is a little sluggish or Safari 4 damn near crashes when trying to deal with Facebook throwing zillions of people's personality quiz results in my face. It's left me feeling a little more like grateful that I can connect into the hive mind while I'm out and about. And in theory, that lets me be out and about more, instead of connected to the computer, to do more interesting things and make further contributions to that hive mind. In practice, however, my mobile contributions are pretty slim. "I'm playing Peggle while waiting for my car to get fixed!" and a mildly funny, dimly-lit picture from a bar mark my mobile content sharing for the month of July.

At the very least, new techie things will help me be smarter on campus come next month. By the end of my college career, I was plum retarded. I forgot stuff that was written in my paper planner twice and on my hand at the same time. I accidentally stood up friends, forgot homework assignments and generally tested the patience of everyone who surrounded me.

Thankfully, I discovered an amazing toy and set it up to go through the interwebs to keep me on my game this time around.

It's called ReQall. Basically, it's a "getting things done" tool - a to-do list with some organizational flair - but this one's awesome because it plays nicely with anything you can imagine: email, texting, Google Chat, iCal, Google Calendar, smartphones, and so on. Oh, and your own voice. That one's covered too.

So, let me give you a few examples of things I've said into ReQall and had it take care of perfectly:

"Pack and ship electronics on July 14th." It made a to-do item, due on the 14th, which I'll check off when I'm done.

"Dentist appointment Tuesday at 2." It made an event item, due on this coming Tuesday (the 14th) at 2:00, and it will either email me or text me with a reminder one hour before.

It's hit-and-miss with proper names. So far it's got about 50% accuracy: it nailed friends named Netta and Red, but misspelled Professor Bohn as "Professor Bone" and got "U-Verse" right one out of two times, the other mistaking it for "users." All in all, an extremely impressive act.

Here's some more examples of cool things it can do:

“Remind Roger to buy bread after work today.” If Roger is listed as a contact inside your ReQall account, it will email or text Roger telling him to buy bread after work today. If he's your friend on ReQall, it will add "bread" to Roger's "shopping list" section and send him the email or text.

"Call Roger at home." You use GPS to tell it where "home" is, and once you're there, it will send you a reminder to call Roger.

For me, all this stuff is already amazing and revolutionary. But here's the kicker: it will push to your phone.

ReQall will automatically push your stuff to Google Calendar. It's incredibly easy to turn on, one click really. From there, Google Sync will take your calendar and push that to your phone.

So, long story short, I just say the words "Meet with Professor Joe at 2PM next Friday," and come next Friday at 1 my phone gets a text with the reminder that I'm meeting Professor Joe. And anywhere in between, I can see it on the iPhone calendar, because it got pushed to the phone.

I'm willing to have patience with technology that will do that. After all, I'm asking technology to have a lot of patience with my forgetful self.