Follitics

Yes, dear readers, I've coined a new term. "Folly" meets "politics." I'm hoping that it'll be bigger than "truthiness" eventually.

A few days ago, faux-political pundit Stephen Colbert announced his intention to run for president. As a result, I am ashamed and furious. Allow me to elaborate.

Colbert's obnoxiously grandiose entrance (whether or not it's a fabrication is irrelevant; it's the principle of the thing that grinds my gears) makes a political system that millions of people take for granted even less serious. In the 2004 presidential election, less than 61% of eligible American voters cast ballots. Just think about that for a moment, but not too much more than that, because if you have even half a brain, thinking about it for more than a moment might well cause your head to explode, and we don't need any more of that. Anyway, such a low voter-turnout rate shows that people are too busy spending their time feeding their addiction to Facebook, playing HALO, getting drunk, and smoking marijuana (read: doing other things less important than voting) to help guide the direction their country heads in. You know, no biggie.

What role does Stephen Colbert (fellows Bill Maher and Jon Stewart are also culpable) play in this mad dash to the septic tank? Well, you see, he's a comedian (a crappy one at that) who makes his living lampooning any and every aspect of the political system; the protocol, the people, etc. But now, in the ultimate show of bad taste and disrespect, he's actually trying to enter that political system--whether or not he's at all serious does not matter--in a blatant attempt to subvert the system even more. To stand for the antics of this clown constitutes a complete disregard for the reasons why America as a whole is better off than the rest of the world. And that's no better than burning an American flag as an American citizen (an atrocity I believe should be repaid with immediate, permanent exile from the country, no questions asked).

The icing on the cake? My generation is taking this bag of nonsense and running amok with it. There is a Facebook group called "1,000,000 Strong For Stephen T Colbert," which now has 1,125,175 members. It's unspeakably, pathetically sad. It really is.

No lyrical selection tonight. Instead, I will define this new term.

fol•li•tics [fol-i-tics]
-noun (used with a singular or plural verb)
1. The deliberate mockery of the system of government, manifested by participation in said system, e.g. Stephen Colbert's stated intention to run for president.
2. The use of politics as a joke.

Sentence: Stephen Colbert is a prime example of how the American government system has turned into mere follitics.

The War On Texting

I can hold in my objections no longer. I am officially declaring war on text-messaging as the new American pastime.

Have we really become so obsessed with "instant communication" that we must resort to this inane, distracting exercise? I try my best not to do it, and even when I must resort to it, I feel dirty such that I am compelled to take a shower immediately afterwards. Whenever I see the cell phone company (Verizon?) commercial whose main subject is the girl who sends "a record 43 text messages in three minutes," I must work hard to suppress my own vomit.

Why does text messaging irk me so? Well, dear readers, its principal function seems to be an expansion on the gross misuse of iPods--the continued individual self-isolation in society and the death of tavern culture. Put simply, people now much prefer to lock themselves up in their own little bubbles, rather than interacting with others. The contribution to this unsettling phenomenon by text-messaging (I refuse to use "text" as a verb, because that's just preposterous) is that people walk around with their noses buried in their RAZRs, SLVRs, and iPhones (that the Internet has been brought into the palms of our hands is a rant for another evening, and probably would go much like this one anyway), lifting nary an eyelash to acknowledge their fellow Man.

Maybe I'm asking too much, but I get anxious when I see people looking down at their phones instead of eating [insert meal name here], watching a movie, pulling out money or University Cards to purchase something, etc. Maybe I wish to wage war against text-messaging because I'm a wannabe attention-hog (which is a problem, knowing full-well that my strangeness repels many people). Maybe I really am a 65 year old at heart (after, some of my college peers have made that observation independent of my high school peers). Maybe I'm bored and have nothing better to write about. Who knows. All I can say is the following:

1. Please join me in the War on Text-Messaging, and
2. A pox on you, Tommy "Two-Thumbs" Thompson. A pox on you and your ilk!

Tonight's lyrical selection: "I'm Looking Through You," by The Beatles

"I'm looking through you,
where did you go?
I thought I knew you,
what did I know?
You don't look different, but you have changed.
I'm looking through you, you're not the same.

Your lips are moving,
I cannot hear.
Your voice is soothing,
but the words aren't clear.
You don't sound differnt,
I've learned the game.
I'm looking through you,
you're not the same.

Why, tell me why, did you not treat me right?
Love has a nasty habit of disappearing overnight.

You're thinking of me,
the same old way.
You were above me,
but not today.
The only difference is you're down there.
I'm looking through you,
any other way.

Why, tell me why did you not treat me right?
Love has a nasty habit of disappearing overnight.

I'm looking through you,
where did you go?
I thought I knew you,
what did I know?
You don't look different,
but you have changed.
I'm looking through you,
you're not the same!"

A Note Of Thanks And Some Thoughts On All This

Because I can't hope to respond individually to a few dozen Facebook Wall postings (as much as I'd like to), I would like to thank warmly and sincerely everyone who wished me a happy birthday. It's nice to feel remembered, To those whom I have known for some years, I miss you all dearly, and to know that you're still thinking of me (even if it's only because Facebook has reminded you) warms my heart. To those whom I have know only briefly, I thank you graciously for your well-wishes, and I look forward to what lies ahead in your company.

It was a fairly inauspicious day. Nothing too grandiose. Just a couple classes, shooting the breeze with friends, dinner with friends, more shooting the breeze with friends. I am mostly alone in my section of the dorm (we don't have class again until Monday, so a lot of people who haven't gone home for the weekend are out on adventures and at social gatherings). My well-meaning neighbors were not able to convince me to break my vow not to explore the high-octane (and high-ethanol) social scene here until after fall golf is over. Sitting here, I am bathed in a feeling of dignity. Even though "18" is simply 17 + 1 on one level, the revelation that I am now 18 years old, recognized by the State as an adult, I am tempted to allow a certain new feeling of dignity to come over me. The next minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades will determine whether or not I have earned that dignity. It's going to be an adventure.

It's bittersweet, for sure. I don't know if I'll go so far as to say that this marks the end of my childhood, but I have to think that if not, the time to shrug off the title of "old boy" and the time to put on the title of "young man" fast approaches. It's going to be an adventure.

No lyrical selection this evening. The obvious choice is The Beatles' "Birthday," which would render its inclusion in this post rather cliché.

What A Stupid I Am

Ever since about the second week of college, I have been feeling pretty good about not being too overloaded with work. In fact, I derived a certain amount of amusement from hearing people speaking nervously of the stress caused by the amount of schoolwork they had to do. I was actually a little nervous, thinking that my relatively light workload meant that I might be taking classes that weren't taxing enough. Well thankfully and un-thankfully, I don't have to worry about any of that tonight. I realized that part of the reason why I felt as though I didn't have much work the past few weeks is that without even realizing, I had been neglecting to do a decent portion of it.

Apparently, college professors like to assign work, but sometimes don't collect it, at least not on the day it's due. Because of my hilariously pathetic failure to realize this and motivate myself to do the work anyway, I am now faced with a scary amount of backlogged French homework, AND I have to watch a movie and write a page-long critique of it, to be handed in tomorrow. I'll be 18 years old in a little more than two hours, and I still have yet to get with the program. Ah well. It's going to be a sleepy birthday.

Welcome to college, Tim, ya dumbass.

Tonight's lyrical selection: "Murder Incorporated," by Bruce Springsteen

"Bobby's got a gun that he keeps beneath his pillow (oh yeah)
Out on the street your chances are zero (oh yeah)
Take a look around you (come on down)
It ain't too complicated
You're messin' with Murder Incorporated

Now you check over your shoulder everywhere that you go (oh yeah)
Walkin' down the street, there's eyes in every shadow (oh yeah)
You better take a look around you (come on down)
That equipment you got's so outdated
You can't compete with Murder Incorporated
Everywhere you look now there's Murder Incorporated

So you keep a little secret down deep inside your dresser drawer
From dealing with the heat you're feelin' down on the killin' floor
No matter where you step you feel you're never out of danger
So the comfort that you keep 's a gold-plated snub-nose thirty-two
I heard that you

You got a job downtown, man it leaves your head cold (oh yea)
And everywhere you look life ain't got no soul (oh yeah)
That apartment you live in feels like it's just a place to hide
When your walkin' down the streets you won't meet no one eye to eye
Now the cops reported you as just another homicide
I can tell that you was just frustrated
from livin' with Murder Incorporated

Murder Incorporated
Everywhere you look now
Murder Incorporated
Down on your knees
Murder Incorporated
Everywhere that you turn it's Murder Incorporated."