As I write this at approximately 8:15 on a Thursday morning, I can say with a grim certainty that I do not know exactly where I am. I know approximately: I am at a Holiday In Express somewhere near (or possibly within) Pocomoke City, MD, on the so-called DelMarVa Peninsula. I have a lovely view of the hotel parking lot and a KFC (no, I have not partaken, but I am guilty of a dalliance with a Popeye’s Chicken in Princess Anne last night). But, I don’t know anything more specific than that about my location on this crazy planet.
I know what some of you may be saying to yourselves at this point, dear readers, but it is not what you think. Indeed, your straitlaced buddy remains intact. This uncertainty is in no way due to my fist wild night of partying and drunkenness. I don’t know if I ever wish to have such a night given the anecdotes I have heard thus far in my college career. But that is a subject for another post.
I used to think I knew exactly where I was as all times, at least in America, but I was proven wrong (an experience I do not ever enjoy—perhaps one of my greatest flaws) earlier this year by some of my dorm neighbors. The short version is best presented in bullet-point form.
- Every physical point in my home state of Connecticut lies within the limits of a county.
- Every physical point within a county in Connecticut also lies within a town.
- Every physical point in the United States lies within the limits of a county.
- Every physical point in the United States does not lie within a town.
- Ergo, there are some (many, in fact) areas in the US that are not within the limits of a town.
To quote Eric Burdon, “this really blew my mind, the fact that me, an overfed [short]-haired leaping gnome should be” wrong. On that night, instead of doing my Calculus homework, I learned that people can actually live “in the county”—not within the limits of any town. It’s a depressing notion to me—not having a concrete town to call one’s own was obviously a big enough concern to Connecticut’s founding fathers, a fact that has not gone overlooked by yours truly—but to many, it’s the way things are. That the following sort of conversation can take place is a bit depressing:
- American A: Hello friend; you seem like an agreeable chap. How’s about let’s be chums, eh?
- American B: Agreed! Say, where are you from?
- A: (energetically) I live in the town of Avon, Connecticut.
- B: (depressed) Well gee, that’s nice…
- A: (puzzled) I say, friend, what seems to be the trouble?
- B: (stifling tears) I…I live in an…(sniffles) unincorporated area! (cue dramatic music, B breaks down in sorrow)
- A: Oh me, what a shame! (fades to black)
This brief dramatization hopefully gives some idea of my own perspective on towns, etc. I personally hope I’ll always live in an incorporated area. Subject to the lawlessness of the open frontier (not really), I just don’t know if I could survive.
No lyrical selection today.
—12/27/07
NOTE TO READERS: Please let me know what you think of these posts through comments (you can submit anonymously if you wish). If I'm boring you to tears, please let me know.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Ten Things I Learned In My First Semester of College: Number 9—Snow Sensations
As I write this, I am sitting in the car on the way to Christmas Dinner some 65 miles from home. The scene is, frankly, an ugly brown-flecked white, as the snow that fell about 10 days ago still remains, topped by an icy crust—the remnants of some precipitation from the middle of last week. Being a golfer through-and through, I despise snow, despite my New England upbringing. Previously, I’d always felt as though if I never saw snow again, I wouldn’t mind.
A few days before I left my lovely university in the South for Christmas Break, it snowed for about three or four hours one cold December morning. Only an inch or so accumulated, and as the temperature rose through the afternoon, much of it was gone soon enough. This wasn’t terribly interesting in itself—I know that the area where my school is located receives some snow each year (though happily very much less than I see in Connecticut). As I nearly fell flat on my face on the way to class, I cursed under my breath, but I then perked up at the thought that this could well be the first time that some of my dorm neighbors had ever seen snow fall.
Sure enough, I was correct. Two of my best college friends to-date—a Texan and a Floridian—had never witnessed a snow event first-hand. This fascinated me. Now, I’m not saying that I’m so ignorantly egocentric as to have been surprised that there are Americans who have never experienced what is a part of yearly life in the American Northeast (I should hope not, at least), but the revelation was a bit jarring anyway.
This little experience and reflection re-illuminated for me one of the most important non-academic aspects of college—the coming-together of people from all over the place. It excites me to know people who call places such as Florida and Texas (not to mention Fiji and Nepal) home, as they are places with which I would like to become somewhat acquainted someday. I would also like to think that people think my living in Connecticut somewhat interesting (and despite what people may tell you, dear readers, Connecticut is usually a lovely place), if for no other reason than the fact that I get to see snow fall every year. At the end of all this, I have a slightly renewed appreciation for snow. Though its prolonged presence will forever irritate me, I now see it as an intriguing bit of manna from the winter sky. At least for 12 hours or so.
No lyrical selection this evening.
A few days before I left my lovely university in the South for Christmas Break, it snowed for about three or four hours one cold December morning. Only an inch or so accumulated, and as the temperature rose through the afternoon, much of it was gone soon enough. This wasn’t terribly interesting in itself—I know that the area where my school is located receives some snow each year (though happily very much less than I see in Connecticut). As I nearly fell flat on my face on the way to class, I cursed under my breath, but I then perked up at the thought that this could well be the first time that some of my dorm neighbors had ever seen snow fall.
Sure enough, I was correct. Two of my best college friends to-date—a Texan and a Floridian—had never witnessed a snow event first-hand. This fascinated me. Now, I’m not saying that I’m so ignorantly egocentric as to have been surprised that there are Americans who have never experienced what is a part of yearly life in the American Northeast (I should hope not, at least), but the revelation was a bit jarring anyway.
This little experience and reflection re-illuminated for me one of the most important non-academic aspects of college—the coming-together of people from all over the place. It excites me to know people who call places such as Florida and Texas (not to mention Fiji and Nepal) home, as they are places with which I would like to become somewhat acquainted someday. I would also like to think that people think my living in Connecticut somewhat interesting (and despite what people may tell you, dear readers, Connecticut is usually a lovely place), if for no other reason than the fact that I get to see snow fall every year. At the end of all this, I have a slightly renewed appreciation for snow. Though its prolonged presence will forever irritate me, I now see it as an intriguing bit of manna from the winter sky. At least for 12 hours or so.
No lyrical selection this evening.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Ten Things I Learned In My First Semester of College, Number Ten: A Phallic Phenomenon
(As always, I apologize for posting so sparsely. Thanks for sticking with me.)
Like most college freshmen, a “whiteboard” hangs on the outside of my dorm room door. Perhaps I should have known that my tendency to invite constant fun-poking and jibe-slinging would follow me to college. I fell asleep my first night at school and woke up the next morning to discover that someone had obnoxiously drawn a penis on said whiteboard. Now I had gone to high school with a few people who enjoyed drawing such things on any available flat surface, so I wasn’t immune to the phenomenon. However, after all, this is college. You know, a time of maturity, of taking responsibility, right? Apparently not! Nary a day has gone by when I haven’t discovered such perverse artwork on my whiteboard.
It is also worth noting that this activity is not confined to the sui generis “three-second version” (though this is certainly the most popular manifestation). Oh no, dear readers, sometimes I emerge one morning to find a drawing so explicitly, appallingly detailed (courtesy, usually, of one Strong Islander in particular) that I must make audible my bemusement at human weirdness (usually a chuckle, sniff, or guffaw). I refuse to go into further detail because it would serve no good—suffice it to say that such scenes as are drawn on my whiteboard would hurt the eyes of any decent person.
BOTTOM LINE: It would appear that some young adult males are so very intrigued by their own, shall we say, unique equipment that they wish to express their love for said equipment by drawing it hither and thither. Is it because they feel inadequate and therefore must compensate by bringing such a heretofore-taboo subject into daily life so incessantly? Are they so desperate for the intimate companionship of another that their fixation with drawing penises should be seen as a cry for help and counseling? I am not altogether sure of the answer.
Perhaps an appropriate lyrical selection for this subject is the anthem of all those who are sexually lonely and frustrated: Jackson Browne’s ode to his own member, “Rosie.”
“She was standing at the load-in when the trucks rolled up,
She was sniffing all around like a half-grown female pup,
She wasn't hard to talk to; looked like she had nowhere to go,
So I gave her my pass so she could get in and see the show.
Well I sat her down right next to me and I got her a beer,
While I mixed that sound on stage so the band could hear,
The more I watched her watch them play, the less I could think of to say,
And when they walked off stage, the drummer swept that girl away.
But Rosie you're all right - you wear my ring,
When you hold me tight - Rosie that's my thing,
When you turn out the light - I've got to hand it to me…
Looks like it's me and you again tonight, Rosie.
Well I guess I might have known from the start: she'd come for a star,
Might have told my imagination not to run too far,
Of all the times that I've been burned, by now you'd think I'd have learned
That it's who you look like, and not who you are.
But Rosie you're all right - you wear my ring,
When you hold me tight - Rosie that's my thing,
When you turn out the light - I've got to hand it to me…
Looks like it's me and you again tonight, Rosie.”
Like most college freshmen, a “whiteboard” hangs on the outside of my dorm room door. Perhaps I should have known that my tendency to invite constant fun-poking and jibe-slinging would follow me to college. I fell asleep my first night at school and woke up the next morning to discover that someone had obnoxiously drawn a penis on said whiteboard. Now I had gone to high school with a few people who enjoyed drawing such things on any available flat surface, so I wasn’t immune to the phenomenon. However, after all, this is college. You know, a time of maturity, of taking responsibility, right? Apparently not! Nary a day has gone by when I haven’t discovered such perverse artwork on my whiteboard.
It is also worth noting that this activity is not confined to the sui generis “three-second version” (though this is certainly the most popular manifestation). Oh no, dear readers, sometimes I emerge one morning to find a drawing so explicitly, appallingly detailed (courtesy, usually, of one Strong Islander in particular) that I must make audible my bemusement at human weirdness (usually a chuckle, sniff, or guffaw). I refuse to go into further detail because it would serve no good—suffice it to say that such scenes as are drawn on my whiteboard would hurt the eyes of any decent person.
BOTTOM LINE: It would appear that some young adult males are so very intrigued by their own, shall we say, unique equipment that they wish to express their love for said equipment by drawing it hither and thither. Is it because they feel inadequate and therefore must compensate by bringing such a heretofore-taboo subject into daily life so incessantly? Are they so desperate for the intimate companionship of another that their fixation with drawing penises should be seen as a cry for help and counseling? I am not altogether sure of the answer.
Perhaps an appropriate lyrical selection for this subject is the anthem of all those who are sexually lonely and frustrated: Jackson Browne’s ode to his own member, “Rosie.”
“She was standing at the load-in when the trucks rolled up,
She was sniffing all around like a half-grown female pup,
She wasn't hard to talk to; looked like she had nowhere to go,
So I gave her my pass so she could get in and see the show.
Well I sat her down right next to me and I got her a beer,
While I mixed that sound on stage so the band could hear,
The more I watched her watch them play, the less I could think of to say,
And when they walked off stage, the drummer swept that girl away.
But Rosie you're all right - you wear my ring,
When you hold me tight - Rosie that's my thing,
When you turn out the light - I've got to hand it to me…
Looks like it's me and you again tonight, Rosie.
Well I guess I might have known from the start: she'd come for a star,
Might have told my imagination not to run too far,
Of all the times that I've been burned, by now you'd think I'd have learned
That it's who you look like, and not who you are.
But Rosie you're all right - you wear my ring,
When you hold me tight - Rosie that's my thing,
When you turn out the light - I've got to hand it to me…
Looks like it's me and you again tonight, Rosie.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)