'Tis The Season, Ain't It?

Merry Christmas everyone.

I know I know, I am always protesting my adopted culturally Jewish identity, but I have great respect for the secular virtue of Christmas. Sure, the over-consumerism of it all can get a little overwhelming, but honestly, who doesn't enjoy presents? I know I do, and I made out pretty durn well this year, with the highlight being my ill-as-all-get-out iPhone--really the ultimate mass-produced tech gadget.

Anyway, while I am sure most of you, dear readers, are familiar with "Yes Virginia, There Is A Santa Claus," I want to share it here for those who've not encountered it before.

~ ~ ~
Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus

By Francis P. Church, first published in The New York Sun in 1897. [See The People’s Almanac, pp. 1358–9.]

"We take pleasure in answering thus prominently the communication below, expressing at the same time our great gratification that its faithful author is numbered among the friends of The Sun:

Dear Editor—

I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, “If you see it in The Sun, it’s so.” Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?

Virginia O’Hanlon

Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men’s or children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours, man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies. You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if you did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that’s no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived could tear apart. Only faith, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives and lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood."

Merry Christmas y'all.

Unproductivity

I realized shortly before I fell asleep last night that in the week that I have been home since finishing up my Fall term of my sophomore year in college, I have done appallingly little to enrich myself. After chatting with someone who reads a great deal more and a great deal faster than I, I decided to try to do something about how poorly-read I feel I am this vacation. After tumbling out of bed at quarter past 11 this morning (great start, eh?), I splashed my face, brushed my teeth, and--eyes still somewhat crusty--went downstairs into our living room and plucked the "Comedies" book from the three-volume collection of Shakespeare's plays. I was pretty excited not only at the prospect of filling a critical hole in my 'Shakespearience' (I apologize; I had to do it) with A Midsummer Night's Dream, but also at the prospect of reading out of a book printed in 1886 (I've always thought that the best way to read something old is from as old a version as is obtainable). As perhaps the best-loved Shakespearean comedy I have yet to read, it was a no-brainer first choice play. And so I sat down at the table, caressed the tome open, and began...

And naturally, as soon as I tried to do something studious and intellectual rather than something unstimulating and couch-potato-like, I was distrcted by the latter to the detriment of the former. I had just made it into Act II when my mother came home and informed me that my sickly Motorola RAZR had been disconnected because my father had gotten me an iPhone 3G (really the only significant item I desired for Christmas, and one I am extremely thankful to have) earlier in the morning. And so much of the rest of the afternoon was devoted to hand-entering my contacts from my old phone into my new one. And wouldn't you know it, as soon as I was fixing to return to Athens and Fairy-land, my mother informed me that a piece of software I had ordered (Age of Empires II Gold Edition, a very intriguing strategy game; just when you thought I could get no nerdier...) had arrived. And so I spent the remaining time before dinner installing and fiddling with it. So in almost nine hours, I have made it through 45 minutes of Shakespeare. Jolly good show, Tim. Jolly good show.

I believe I am ready to return to Mr. Shakespeare's play for a little while. I aim to opine in the near future about foxy Shakespearean ladies (ooh la-la!); so do stay tuned if you are so inclined.

Ta-ta for now.

~~~

P.S. I have recently become a Twitter-er, just for the heck of it really. But I have found a way to put my 'Tweets' up alongside my blog (for those of you who read it in its Blogspot form, as opposed to its Facebook Notes form). If you wish to follow me (usually a bad idea, but in Twitter-ing, I trust it's minimally detrimental), I am timgolf2002 on Twitter, as on AIM and Gmail.

"You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means. "

I should be studying for my Aristotle final, so naturally I'm blogging instead. Funny how I'm most productive on this thing when I really oughtn't to be...

First of all, brownie points to he or she who can name the movie, character, and actor from which the title of this here post originates (without cheating, of course). But that's not the point (I may be a light poster of late, but I'm not so starved for ideas that I'd merely have a "quote of the day"-type thing going on in place of my actual Musings (though they be few and far between; apologies for that).

Anyhoo, what I'm really itchin' to say is that I find myself thinking that splendid quote oftentimes when I hear people speak. I am moved to give two examples of English language items--one written, one spoken--that make me think my title.

1. "Siked"
Ladies and gentlemen, the above is not a word. A phierce aphinity phor phonetic phonation is phriggin' goophy (sic, duh). Those of you who are guilty of its erroneous usage are looking for a homophone of that word: "psyched," meaning "excited" or "eager." Just an eff-why-eye.

2. "I could care less."
Some people get jolted by the scratching of nails on a chalkboard or babies crying. For me, it's the misuse of this phrase,which--if you pause for one fast second and think on it--is valueless. I daresay what you mean to say is that you could not care less about whatever you don't seem to care about. I hear this one at least every day. I hate being a jerk and pointing it out to people (and I heartily apologize to she to whom I did just that last night), so there y'all go.

Cheers.

(Post-) Thanksgiving Meditations

1. I assume most of you know about the man who was trampled to death at a Wal-Mart in Long Island around 5AM this past Friday. What sad irony that the holiday on which we're supposed to recognize what we have was ruined for this poor man because of dozens of people who were viciously eager to get more stuff...

2. I like juicy breasts. Of turkey (and chicken and duck too).

3. Shane MacGowan was and is a wild man. A genius, but a wild man. Listen to The Pogues, for heaven's sakes (my favorite song of theirs is "If I Should Fall From Grace With God"..worth a Youtubing)!

4. It's no wonder the American automotive execs flew in private jets to Washington to ask for help from the federal government last week. Having spent 10 1/2 hours trying to make a 7 1/2 hour trip today, there is no need for (m)any more cars on the road.

Short one tonight; more soon, I hope. Do stay tuned.

Cheers.

Simply, My Day

Today was a pretty interesting one.

I woke up at 7:45 today and made the 10-minute trudge through the cold rain to campus. On my second stride outside the King Kong of all raindrops fell right into my left shoe (a caution: don't wear loafers in the rain), soaking my sock. So despite the fact that I was bundled up, I was chilled to the bone from my extremities. The discomfort reached the point where I was surely not going to be able to do my Politics exam in shod feet. So I took the test in bare feet. Despite a slight distraction from the foot freedom, I was able to proceed competently. After an hour and a half, my sock was still as wet as it was when it first met that blasted raindrop-from-hell, as was my left shoe. I charged across the Colonnade, my feet dampening with each miserable second, to Tucker Hall, where my Shakespeare class takes place on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Again, I went barefoot because the absorption capabilities of my loafers are matched only by that of a SuperShammy (http://www.simplygoodstuff.com/super_shammies.htm). Heck, it's still damp 15 hours later.

I returned to the fraternity house, ate lunch (pretty good pulled pork sandwich and some really crisp, tangy mayo-free cole slaw--a wonderful complement), and headed upstairs fully intent on beginning my ~6 page Philosophy paper, due in class tomorrow (more on that shortly). Naturally, I found myself helplessly drawn to all manner of procrastinatory activities--TV watching, video games, eating, Facebook, etc.--so profoundly so that I found myself in the fraternity house dining room at 7:15 PM having made scant little progress on my paper. So what did I do? That's right, dear readers. I went to play poker.

I had been looking forward to the IM poker tournament (I seize nearly every chance I get to play) all week, and no pesky little paper was going to come between me and the tournament; no sir! So I brought my Philosophy wares with me to campus, intent on finishing my paper in the library after I bowed out of the tournament. Murphy's Law took over, and I played some of the best poker I've played this year, finishing 4th out of a field of 15.

Now let me back up a moment. I declined to say above that I was dog-tired at 7:15 PM. I remedied that fatigue by doing a very uncharacteristic thing--I purchased a high-potency energy drink in the Co-Op. Now, I usually abhor such devious liquids, but there was no way I was going to make it to the finish line with my paper if I didn't get a pick-me-up. So I walked out with a 22-ounce gas canister-cum-bottle of Grape flavored Nos, a bottle of water (to try to dilute the energy potion, I figured) and a little box of Junior Mints (in case I found the Nos so revolting that I'd need to get the taste of it out of my mouth in short order). But the Nos was palatable. Check that--the Nos was de-freakin'-lectable. And like any halfwit energy-drink rookie, I made the mistake of drinking about half of the bottle between approximately 8:05 and 8:25. In that short period, I went from a barely-there zombie to a hyper-Herman with an interior stream-of-consciousness monologue going on that would tongue-tie James Joyce. And at nearly 2 AM, I still am feeling jittery and full of energy (as if the sheer volume of this blog post did not tip you off).

At any rate, after about 20 minutes of aimless lurching around trying to find a good entrance into the library and then an open study room in the library, I was able to isolate myself and do my paper. I ended up starting over from scratch (an extreme rarity for me) because my previous effort was so scatterbrained and unfocused that it was unsalvageable. I ended up mentioning David Bowie (ch-ch-ch-ch-changes) and mathematics (graphs with holes) in the space of 1667 words allegedly devoted to an outline and defense of Aristotle's views on time in his Physics, which I thought was pretty neat (I am appallingly nerdy, after all). I handed the paper in at 12:45 AM, a full 10 1/2 hours before the deadline of 11:15 AM. Ohh yeah.

It was as beautiful a nighttime scene as I've ever walked through as I strode from the library to Newcomb Hall and then back to the fraternity house. A rich blanket of fog covers the town of Lexington right now, softening the rim of every light, obscuring borders. It's pretty cool, to say the least (according to one nerd's opinion).

Anyway, here I am at 2:05 AM, still nowhere near sleepy enough to go to sleep. I'm going to catch up on my Shakespeare reading ("Othello") and hopefully shuffle off this sugary coil enough so that I may rest myself.

Nos is a heluva drink.

Good night.

--Timothy R. Gavrich, Madman

Moving Forward

I try not to let my personal politics get into this blog because for as often as people (at least the crazy kids I hang out with) debate such matters, one's own beliefs are just that: one's own. But, I would be remiss to neglect to reflect publicly about this evening's events.

I fancy myself a moderate Conservative. In this election I found John McCain to be the most viable candidate because I believe in his experience and judgment in matters of foreign policy. Furthermore, I just have never bought into the anti-"Four More Years!" mantra. If someone like Mitt Romney--a Bushier Republican than McCain--had run against Obama, then I might have been more leery. But while I respect Obama's cultivation of an image that really transcends politics, I disagree with the general foreign policy and economic sentiments of the Democratic Party. But that's just background to the real guts of my post this evening.

Watching Barack Obama's confident acceptance speech sent a slight chill through me, though probably not the same sort of chill as surely gripped millions of my fellow Americans at the same moment. It got the ol' wood burning in this wacky brain of mine, and what's come of that is a little advice (from my humble perspective) for both Republicans and Democrats. And I don't mean politicians alone; I'm talking about Joe the Plumber, Lionel the CEO, Sally the Shopgirl, and Bob the Builder too.

Fellow Conservatives: I would stress that while we did not believe Barack Obama was the man for the job, we need to at the very least show quiet affirmation of his victory. If people are to take the line "Country first" as a serious motto for the Conservative American, we need to stick by it and accept Barack Obama as our president. Knowing the line about a house divided, it is obvious that unity is the best policy. And we can be united in differing ideology; we just need to accept that not a whole lot is going to go our way for a while. But, we must also hope and trust that the victorious party will be gracious in victory and therefore mindful of the merits of the loyal opposition.

Democrats: You won fair and square, obviously, but you too must live up to your end of the bargain. If you are really committed to bringing about significant "change" in American politics, you will have to start by tossing out the tempting notion that just because your party now has a great deal of clout in the government, it means that the Republicans can be disregarded. If you really are serious about this "change" business, you'll have to extend a friendly hand across the aisle. Your new leader, Mr. Obama, would do well to make an overture to such a relationship by including a Conservative mind or two in his administration. I'm not talking about the converse of Joe Lieberman (a respectable fellow for sure, but he's not really a Democrat anymore); I'm talking about a real, live Conservative presence. It doesn't have to be equal, but Mr. Obama, if you are really going to sell "change" to us in the long term, you'd better back it up with substance, rather than rhetoric and the rock star ethos.

Obama is correct in saying that there's a hard road ahead. It'll eventually prove unnavigable if his newly-invigorated party is not wise. But if "change" is coming and it has been a lack of wisdom that has marked the last few years after all, then the only possible alternative to a lack of wisdom must be wisdom, mustn't it?

Let's hope so, for everyone's sake.

Good night.

*My name is Timothy Russell Gavrich, and not only do I approve this blog post, I will always be proud to be an American.

Assorted Thoughts

Crap, I'm not very good at this whole updating-my-blog-often thing. My apologies, dear (and dwindling in number) readers!

Having registered to vote (so I thought) back in May, I sent for my absentee ballot a few days ago. Well, I was returned a notice today in the mail saying that the great state of Connecticut did not have me registered. Wonderful. Oh well, my increasing knowledge of global politics and my abject weariness of this campaign lead me to feel a little less disappointed than I would have been...in the state where O Boy, Ma (it's the new guy!)! carries his biggest poll lead outside of his home state of Illinoying, my vote will have as much impact on where the Nutmeg (with emphasis on nut!) state's electoral pittance will be sprinkled as would a fly splattered on the Death Star. So much for new politics!

~

Even though I had to do it in disgust today, I find a certain satisfaction in mailing letters. There's a certain romance to pulling something out of your mailbox and opening it up and reading it old-style, rather than clicking for it, as is customary now. I only wish my handwriting were better; I might actually write some letters if it were.

~

Why do people (read: my fellow young Americans) dis Canada so much? I attended high school with a great many Canucks and have found them to be, on the whole, friendly and of good humor. Sure, they may be a bit socialistic and fond of marijuana, but what Americans aren't, these days (not me!)?

Enough for one afternoon.

Cheers.

Bummer

Two of my close friends and fraternity brothers headed their respective sides in a debate between the Washington & Lee College Democrats and College Republicans last night, held in the beautiful Lee Chapel. Granted, a lot of midterm exams are going on this week, but for there to be only about 60 people in the room for a lively, well-fought debate a few weeks before an extremely important presidential election struck me as pretty discouraging.

I wonder how many people will watch the real debate tonight on TV...

Juicy Campus: The Ultimate Subversion of Accountability

In case you've not heard about it (this is for those of you, dear readers, who do not attend Washington and Lee University with me), my college is a recent addition to a growing forum-type website called Juicy Campus (www.juicycampus.com). Juicy Campus touts itself as "the place to spill the juice about all the crazy stuff going on at your campus." Website users are enticed by the fact that Juicy Campus (heretofore called JC, at least in this post) allows them to post whatever they want, about whomever they want, totally anonymously.

It doesn't take much to come up with the main consequences of JC. I could post a hateful, slanderous diatribe about someone--anyone I feel negatively about--and that person would never know the snake from whose fangs that venom sprung. Therefore, posting some hurtful nonsense--true or not; it makes no difference whatever--about someone is the ultimate declaration of cowardice, the ultimate sucker-punch. In this blog, I made my identity very clear from the beginning, because I expect to be held accountable for everything I say here. If I posted anything anonymously, it would signify that I had not the spine to back up what I had said. In my view, any power that posted ideas would have would be neutralized that the person who had them could not shoulder the burden of accountability for them.

Now, what is the best course of action vis-à-vis JC? I will admit that I have found some of the sentiments posted on it humorous, but such proclamations are so absurd as to be innocuous. I will also admit that I would be curious to see what others would post about me (forgive the apparent narcissism, but I think it is human nature to be so inquisitive). However, that perverse curiosity is far outstripped by the sentiment that JC is a menace. One's private affairs should not be aired by cowards. If someone wants to spread rumors about me, they had damn well better stand by their words.

If you are thinking about casting a pebble into the eye of one of your peers with the invisible slingshot of JC, you are but a lowly vulture. And remember: a vulture never looks into the blinking eye of its prey...

Good night.

~ ~ ~

I am Timothy Russell Gavrich, Washington and Lee Univerity Class of 2011, and I approve this blog post. I stand accountable for each word I have typed above.

Guitar Zero

I'm just going to come right out and say it: the Guitar Hero video game series is ridiculous. To me, it is a prime example of the decline of society as we know it.

Put simply, there is really only one reason to play Guitar Hero instead of buying an inexpensive guitar, learning chords, and developing proper guitar-playing technique. That reason is a disinclination to work for the satisfaction of actually creating music. I play the alto saxophone, and the satisfaction and sense of accomplishment I gain from progressing in that skill is wonderful.

What is to be gained from playing every song on the "Expert" level of Guitar Hero? Whatever it is, it is at best a hollow, cheap knock-off of the actual satisfaction of playing those songs in front of a crowd of ecstatic fans. Just a brief high attained through lazy means. It's rather the same reason why some people use drugs recreationally. Instead of achieving true happiness or intellectual or spiritual enlightenment, they settle for the cheap, easy imitation--a knock-off that provides a fleeting glimpse without the need to do what it takes to achieve the real thing the right way.

I see and hear of people who can move their fingers over the plastic guitar/game controller with an impressive agility, and I can't help but shake my head at the waste of potential talent. What the hell good does such raw ability do in that application? Why the hell didn't the kid learn to play the guitar, practice it for hours on end, and become a REAL guitar legend?

Why waste such a huge amount of ability and time? Because learning the guitar might have required a little bit more work. Never mind the absurdly huge upside to investing that little extra effort; it's enough just to pretend to make music, rather than make music itself.

The next time you think about playing Guitar Hero, consider the fact that the most famous guitar player of our generation is John Mayer. Then listen to some Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, and Eric Clapton. The reason why we have been stuck in a tremendous musical (in terms of guitar-driven music, at the very least) doldrums for the better part of a decade ought to become clear to you.

Good night.

~ ~ ~

PS: Do feel free to comment on any of my blog posts, be it anonymously or otherwise.

Behaving (Gentle)Manly--Whoa! Post #100

I have now arrived lethargically in the triple digits for numbers of posts. Hoorah.

Did I miss a memo somewhere? When did it become socially acceptable to--in a place where we supposedly are groomed to become gentlemen--speak vulgarly in the presence of a lady? I feel as though I have heard an awful lot of crass words said with ladies present, and I for one find it detrimental to one's image as a "gentleman."

That, and being totally disrespectful and noisy to a young lady working a Taco Bell drive-through window late at night, while the driver of the vehicle (who is doing people a favor) tries in vain to promote a sense of order.

A rather lackluster hundredth post, but it's 1:30 AM. Could be worse.

Good night y'all.

This May Only Make Sense To A Few People...

I like to think that I am reasonably good-humored. I have a pretty thick skin, most times--I can take nearly any amount of ribbing, jokes, people poking fun at me, etc. My own humor is often self-deprecating, so I don't mind when others join in.

However, as I am very sensitive to my own concepts of honor, this means that when the troubles extend to my own personal property, I tend not to have such a thick skin. "Typical schoolboy pranks" don't much amuse me, for whatever reason. Call me stodgy; oh well. It should have been made clear when I was not at all amused earlier today when I returned to find that my mattress had been flipped over on my bed. The escalation and second incident was what caused me to react violently (embarrassingly, as I reflect). Perhaps I overreacted a bit, but I'm going to sleep on it.

Good night.

(If this doesn't make too much sense to you, don't worry about it. I haven't snapped. I'm just a bit annoyed is all.)

College Life Q & A #1

Q: What contains 870 mg of sodium, 380 Calories (170 Calories from fat) and makes you feel like a third-grader again?






Give up?







A: A "Turkey & American" Cracker Stackers Lunchables.

I swear, the older we get, the younger we get.

I Don't Often Talk About Politics, But...

...I feel I should say a quick few words about this matter of Governor Palin's daughter's pregnancy.

If anyone uses this as an indictment on Gov. Palin's worthiness as a potential Vice President, they are nuts. Period. End of story. Obama agrees. As politico.com's Ben Smith's blog brought to my atention:

"Politico's Carrie Budoff Brown reports: At a press avail in Monroe, Mich., Barack Obama on Palin: "Back off these kinds of stories."

"I have said before and I will repeat again: People's families are off limits," Obama said. "And people's children are especially off-limits. This shouldn't be part of our politics. It has no relevance to Gov. Palin's performance as a governor or her potential performance as a vice president. So I would strongly urge people to back off these kinds of stories. You know my mother had me when she was 18 and how a family deals with issues and teenage children, that shouldn’t be a topic of our politics."

For one of the first times, I am impressed by something Senator Obama has said. I'm a McCain man through and through, but I am relieved that there won't be any dirty politics made from this news story.

Of course, I can't say the same for some of Obama's wayward supporters. I'm sure many of them will knee-jerk the hell out of this story, and that will be very sad, and also more reason (though I really don't need any) for me to vote Republican on November 4th. But my political views are the stuff of another blog post, maybe.

Cheers.

Heading Back

I am heading back to W&L in the morning. I'm sorry I haven't blogged much; if you're still reading, thank you. I should be able to blog more as the school year gets under way. But now, I suppose I ought to take this opportunity to reflect a bit on things as Year Two nears.

I have been thinking a bit on if and how I've changed, relative to this evening a year ago.

I now have the first quarter of a Washington & Lee education to stand on, which is a nice feeling. I am certainly feeling less apprehensive about going back, because I know what awaits me. I'm excited for the classes I'm going to be taking this Fall Term (one on Shakespeare and one on Aristotle especially). I'm excited to be getting back to competitive college golf--I'm on a mission to become more even-keeled and more consistent as a golfer. I'm going to be living with roughly a dozen and a half of my brothers in the Lambda Chi Alpha house, which is going to be a blast. Believe you me, dear readers: I did not think I'd be in a fraternity at this time last year. Narrow-minded, I thought I was above the "Greek scene." How foolish of me to generalize fraternities as havens of alcohol slurping and little else! I have found much, much more in my band of brothers, and I am excited to be living with them.

I surprised myself today as I was packing. I was looking through a closet downstairs for something (I don't remember what...it wasn't there, anyway) when I spied a box of my old toy cars and some old toy racing track that I'd not laid hands on in at least three or four years. Seized by an enormous urge to play, my eyes went wide. I pulled the bag of tracks out, threw together a little loop-de-loop and had a bit of fun watching the wind-up Darda car whiz around for a few minutes. The experience was extremely invigorating, but a little eerie as well. It reminded me that I am the same as I was a year ago in a very fundamental way: I still cling to the past in order to artificially delay the future for even a few minutes. My yearning for my comfort zone reared its head subconsciously. Instinct took over in the form of a little adrenaline rush at the sight of the cars and the tracks. Ten years old again, I crawled around on the floor, assembling my little track, eager to watch the car zip up and down and around. But after three years idle, the little wind-up motor wasn't as energetic and the wheels weren't as friction-free as they were all those years ago. I left the tracks strewn about the floor and came upstairs to continue getting ready to reluctantly distance myself a little more from that rambunctious little kid who didn't quite appreciate the awesome simplicity of his youth.

UGH!

My mom's best friend and best friend's daughter came up from an hour away to have lunch with us yesterday.

As we were walking down the street in West Hartford, CT yesterday, we passed by a woman in her mid to late 20s, holding the hand of her four or five year old (presumably) daughter. On the mother's t shirt was the slogan "I got the SKILLS to pay the BILLS." Un-freaking-believable. Don't even try to pass that off as an innocent pun. Puh-lease.

That's all I've got for now.

Sweet Irony

As y'all well know, I am a bit of an opponent of alcohol's reign and reins over my generation. I was just now making use of the very amusing stumbleupon.com, when I encountered a list of practical uses for vodka--the clear favorite hard alcohol at parties. See below (from http://www.divinecaroline.com/article/38/45476?CMP=DC_0024_TAG):

#7. Spray vodka on vomit stains, scrub with a brush, then blot dry.

I really find it funny that the very substance which causes so many vomit stains is useful in removing them.

Good night.

On Macho

I was having difficulty sleeping the other night, so I decided to do something that I don't do nearly enough--read. A novel (dear me; no pun intended) idea! I decided to find a good short story after whose reading I might be able to go to sleep. I recalled that I had a book of some short stories of Ernest Hemingway's at hand, so I thumbed through it and selected the book's final story, "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber." Without spoiling it, I will say that it is characteristic of Hemingway's oeuvre in that one of its central themes is the struggle to be properly "manly." The story is set on a safari holiday with its main characters being Francis Macomber, his wife, and their safari hunting guide, Wilson. Macomber finds himself in conflict with his inability to land the big game that his concept of masculinity seems to dictate as easy. The story leaves the audience wondering about the meaning and value of "manliness."

Being the pensive dude that I am, I've got further thoughts on this idea. I found Francis Macomber to be a victim of harsh societal expectations. Perhaps there is a connection between my sympathy for Macomber and the fact that I'm never going to win any wrestling matches or wow any women with six-pack machoness. But even so, I think it is a huge factor in what seems to be deteriorating male behavior. High school is the ultimate stage for male chest-puffing, and having spent four years observing such animalistic attempts at courtship, I feel somewhat qualified to put in my two cents, hopefully in parody of old-timey animal documentaries.

"We turn the camera to the adolescent male, intent on garnering the attention of the adolescent female. It is that brief respite between class periods. They sit in the upper foyer of their academic building. We turn our eyes to our female lead, apple of our young man's eye. See her toss her shiny hair, making his eyes grow wide with desire to go out with her, perhaps to "hook up" with her at a party sometime! In order to command her attention, he makes fun of another boy, sitting nearby. He continues to joke brashly and slightly vulgarly with his comrades, hoping that his use of profanity--against school rules--is seen as bold and alluring. She laughs nervously, but being the arrogant pretender to the Alpha-male rank that he is, he interprets this as success. He smiles mischievously, thinking he's "in."

Et cetera, et cetera. Call me crazy, but it's just funny to watch my fellow young men do silly things because of some perceived masculine directive.

I know it's been a while since I've blogged. If this is a bit incoherent, I apologize. I am glad I've roused myself to return to the blogosphere. Hopefully this is the first step on the road to Musings normalcy.

Observation

A Red Lobster commercial, followed by a Dulcolax stool softener commercial. Coincidence?

I'm sorry for not blogging much. Summers are a bit of the doldrums for TVM. I'll try to find something blogworthy.

A No-Go At Flo's

My life has taken a horridly un-blogworthy turn of late, so I have resorted to complaining about a restaurant. I am very sorry, dear readers. You deserve better, and I will try to deliver soon. This will need to do for now.

I have been in the lovely, low-key, Lowcountry town of Pawleys Island (a Gavrich family vacation spot for the last eight years or so) for a few days now, playing golf, experiencing potent thunderstorms, and eating a lot (the standard Gavrich summer, really). Two nights ago, my parents and I decided to have dinner at a Cajun-inspired eatery in nearby Murrells Inlet (renowned for its seafood) called Flo's Place. They tout their blackening seasoning as "famous," which excited me, since I am a fan of the taste of blackened things, especially blackened shrimp. Just dump on the blackening spices, put 'em in the pan and toss 'em together. Simple as that. "BAM!", Emeril might say to such a proposition. To my curiosity, there was no specific "blackened shrimp" entrée on the menu at Flo's. However, there was a "blackened fish" entrée, however. No matter, I thought to myself, they'll have no problem doing some blackened shrimp. After all, this is a popular restaurant, so they obviously please their customers.

Well, dear readers, it turned out that blackened shrimp was too much to ask for the folks at Flo's. I suppose that a restaurant whose entrées are in the $15-30 range should not be expected to have much room for flexibility anymore. For shame.

I was forced to order a combination platter of grilled shrimp, scallops, and oysters over rice. It was stupendously disappointing, sad to say. The shrimp were small, the scallops tasted less-than-fresh, and the oysters looked like the testicles of a steroids-abuser. I know that shellfish isn't in season now, but it could have and should have been much, much better. Oh well; won't be going back there anytime soon.

PS: The nametag of the cashier who scanned my parents' groceries tonight read, "Lexus."

Good night, blogosphere.

Boeing Culture

Two days ago, I finally returned from a vacation in the UK of nearly three weeks. Our flight was a 7 1/2 hour affair on a Boeing 777 Continental Airlines jet. It's a huge plane, with three sets of three seats on the left, right, and center of the aircraft (in coach--"Economy" class). My parents and I were in the middle cluster of seats, midway back in the cabin. Long before we boarded the plane, I noticed an always-amusing sight--a Hasidic Jewish man of only 30 years or so in full dress--long black coat, white undershirt, hat and tightly curled strands of hair (called "peyot") on either side of his head (look up "Hasidism" on Wikipedia or do a Google image search if my description wasn't too good). He was sitting in front of my father, in the left seat. To his right (directly in front of me) was a dark-skinned young man with a shortish, ragged beard which indicated that he was a Muslim. To this man's right was a woman, also a Muslim (though these two were not acquainted with one another). What transpired between these three gave me a spark of hope for civility in a world that seems to be fleeing civility at an alarming pace.

From about ten minutes after the plane took off, the Hasid and the two Muslims engaged in what sounded like a cordial but at times quite animated discussion of their respective faiths and how they factored into world politics. Unfortunately, I can't be any more specific about the conversation as I didn't hear it very well and didn't want to eavesdrop. Simply noticing this discussion got me thinking about a tangential term that I learned in my sophomore year (high school) European History class--the term "tavern culture."

From what I understand, tavern culture developed fairly early on in Europe. Taverns served as an alternative meeting place to churches; a place where people of a wide range of socioeconomic classes would eat, drink, and socialize. What resulted was a rise in lively debate of all matters of life--religion, politics, culture, etc.

As we hurtle deeper and deeper into the iPod age, people tend to close themselves of from others when in public. Walking down the streets of London, the amount of people wearing iPods was as awe-inspiring for negative reasons as for positive. On the good hand, the product market-share Apple has created in the last five or six years is simply astounding. They've allowed music to flow from creator to consumer as never before. But now that everyone seems to have an iPod or some such (myself included), there emerges the tendency to descend into music and ignore all others around. It makes us as societies look like hoards of individuals, rather than an interdependent whole. Thank goodness the Hasid and the Muslims didn't wall themselves off with iPods. As nice as music is and can be, they wouldn't have been so enriched as they were when they left the plane had they put themselves in the iPod cocoon.

No lyrical selection this evening.

New Look

I've decided to do a new template for my blog. One main reason for this can be divined from reading the next post down.

Cheerio.

Turnover

Even though it has now been over a year since I graduated high school--Westminster School in Simsbury, CT--I have continued to read emails on the Westminster email network, both personal emails (updates from Facebook, banking, and other assorted alerts) and school emails (general Westy news, sports information, etc.). A few days ago I was notified that on June 30, my email account would be deleted from the system. While most of my graduation class has totally cut the cord, I have lingered on in the hallways of the electronic Westminster for 13 months. Next week, I will be evicted from it indefinitely, and will have to rely on my Washington & Lee University (my current site of academic misadventure) email address in terms of academic-based emails. Most people wouldn't so much as sniff at this fact, but being the sappy overthinker that I am, I would like to reflect and take you, dear readers along for the (brief, I promise) ride.

As a sappy overthinker, I am grasping at a meaning in this seemingly routine event. My deeply beloved high school alma mater is kicking me out into the real world (which is only ever-so-slightly more real) of college life. The only way for me to keep up with Westminster happenings for the next couple years will be through my sister. I have spent so very much time spent browsing emails on that server in the past five years (far less this year, but still a little bit). All those emails as a single oeuvre have contributed to my mental and social shaping. They (and what they represent) have had an immeasurable impact on my present and future character. At the risk of sounding a braggart I consider myself a generally decent, intelligent, socially-viable (that last bit will probably raise the most disagreement from some of you, dear readers) chap. I owe a large amount of that to jolly old Westminster. It's a shame that I cannot thank emails, and I did my share of thanking 13 months ago, so I'll have to fade into the Westminster West as I rise in the Washington & Lee East.

With a year behind me at dear Washington & Lee (stay tuned for a more focused reflection on this past year), I have had time to transition into a college student. But to this day I find myself reminiscing often on my four years at Westminster. As many say about things that are behind them, I regret the times I took the place for granted because some days all I want to do is project back to my time there, if only for a moment. Don't get me wrong; I loved my year at Washington & Lee and look forward to three more just like it (and better, hopefully). But it's just not the same. Even though W&L is small (~1800 students, about 450 in each grade), I'll never know who everyone in my grade, much less my school. I found such comfort in recognizing every face I saw on a daily basis. That will never happen again, no mater how many people I meet at W&L.

I realize what this nostalgic flood, and its concomitant melancholy means. I need to finally turn the page, to acknowledge the fun I had at Westminster, but to set it aside as the irrevocable past. Before I return to Lexington at the beginning of September, I need to turn my attention more fully to the fun ahead of me. The stripping of my Westminster email account ultimately represents a final warning for me to move on. Otherwise, it will become harder and harder the further and further I get from May 27, 2007 to turn my attention fully towards the present and future. If I do not heed this final call, I run the risk of becoming a person who is constrained to look back an mope on missed opportunities, an uncontrollable "what if?" machine. It's time to bid a fond fare-well to Simsbury and to look Lexington, Virginia in the eye, smile, and become properly acquainted.

No lyrics this evening (it's 18:30 here in London), just one of my favorite poems, symbolic of my struggle. It is "On Turning Ten," by Billy Collins.

"The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.

You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.

This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed."

Social Concerns

At the abode in which I have spent the last seven nights, the television is equipped with only five stations. One of these, the apparently trendy “4,” (think UK’s answer to MTV/Spike/VH1/etc.) carries as its current showcase programme (sic) “Big Brother”—the UK version. Now, as I am an ardent opponent of reality television, you can be sure, dear readers, that I have much to say on the programme (again, sic). But I will confine my complaint to one region of 21st century social interaction.

I turned on Big Brother the other night to find the “housemates,” as the overly official-sounding narrator describes them, having a house meeting of sorts. They seemed to be airing some petty grievances fairly calmly amongst themselves. No one was screaming obscenities (“fuck” is fair game on the telly over here) or wrestling. Needless to say, I was intrigued by the apparent break from sensationalism and obvious excitement. Unfortunately, this bit of good feeling on my part was short lived, as soon after the meeting concluded amicably, the camera flashed to one of the housemates, a young lady, who was being interviewed in the “Diary Room” by Big Brother herself (yes, HERself…gender bender?). She was apparently not satisfied with the sweeping apologies that had been made by others in the house. She was especially peeved about another girl, who she claimed was “always talking behind other people’s backs.”

Which brings me to today’s topic: the annoyance with “talking behind other people’s backs.” First of all, I’m not even sure I’m clear on the definition of “talking behind other people’s backs.” My best guess is that it’s a 21st century term among the angst-laden to cover unwanted gossip and rumor-mongering. And apparently, it’s a big freakin’ deal to a great many people. I am quite sure that my eccentricity of personality does not resonate with everybody, and therefore certain people have been moved at times to impugn my character to others, out of earshot of me. I suppose, then, that people have talked behind my back (perhaps it’s the case that I am kidding myself, that I am really not so special as to warrant discussions about me amongst others, but I try at least to delude myself of the falseness of that notion in order to keep from becoming a hermit) in the past. For some reason, I have come to accept this as part of human nature, and don’t let myself become upset by it. At the same, I am quite sure that I myself have dished unneeded dirt on somebody behind that person’s back, contributed to the circulation of false and potentially damaging information about him or her. I hope I have not done so to the extent where that girl would have railed against me as someone who is “always talking behind other people’s backs.” But that is up to my peers to decide.

The most telling aspect of this girl’s rant to Big Brother was that by accusing the other girl of “always talking behind other people’s backs,” she was herself talking behind someone’s back, right? Wouldn’t it have been consistent with her complaint to take Girl B aside and try to determine Girl B’s motives for “always talking behind other people’s backs”? Ah well, I suppose that would be asking too much of someone who wanted to be on “Big Brother.”

In conclusion, I think it would be wise for those of us who take “always talking behind other people’s backs” so seriously to examine why we are so disturbed by it. Since we are all guilty of it at times, perhaps it bothers us because we loathe that behavior of ours. Personally, I feel that anyone who hasn’t the decency to clarify with me rumors that they have heard second- or third- or fourth-hand isn’t worth my worry anyway. The detractors will always think what they will, and no amount of eloquence or reason on my part will dissuade them from their comfortable error of opinion. Therefore, I don’t worry about such people. I would feel horribly restricted if I cared so much about the opinions of unreasonable folks that I could no longer “be myself” (I hate that phrase, but you know what I mean). So, I don’t care. That’s not to say that I am eternally stubborn—I strive (often in vain) to fix flaws—but I will forever refuse to be molded by what I fear people might say behind my back.

No lyrical selection today. If you’ve gotten this far in the post, you have my thanks; you’ve read enough of my drivel for one day, I think.

Aye Like!

Well it's been a very nice week-and-a-half in Scotland so far. I was in Edinburgh from last Sunday to last Thursday, and have been staying with my dad in Crail, a small town in Fife, in a house devoid of Internet connection (hell, there are only five television channels, so I've had to watch an unhealthy amount of "Big Brother: UK"...more on that in next post). We leave for a few days in London with mother, sister, and aunt's family on Thursday.

Scotland is quite an interesting place. Some assorted observations/anecdotes.
- My last night in Edinburgh, the four of us (mother, father, sister, yours truly) went to an Italian restaurant. My dessert was rather naughty, by my standards. It consisted of a couple scoops of vanilla ice cream topped with sliced oranges, chocolate sauce, and a healthy amount of Grand Marnier, an orange-flavored liqueur. And I thoroughly enjoyed said dessert. No, I did not get drunk. But there you go: Gavrich has had a bit of the silly stuff, and he enjoyed it.
- The general Scottish accent is fascinating. However, I could never see myself romantically involved with a Scottish girl because while the accent is fascinating, it is rather guttural (apologies, lasses)
- It would be indubitably baller to have a family tartan and kilt, but the colors of clan Gavrich have been conspicuously absent from wool and cashmere stores.
- I've been amused to hear the accents of people here who hail from other countries altogether. In other words, Chinese-accented Scottish English is a sight different from Chinese-accented American English.
- Links golf is fun. Try it.
- Seeing ample daylight at 10:45 PM is far-out.
- The Scots love American country music. Go figure.
- Haggis: (wholeheartedly and wholestomachedly) Gavrich-approved foodstuff.
- Alcohol is far more important here than food.

This morning's lyrical selection: "Let's Drink to our Next Meeting," written by Hew Ainslie (1792-1878). Without providing a glossary of old-timey Scottish word translations, I take it that you'll either look up foreign-looking words or divine their meaning from context (after all, living in the SAT age as we do, we're all well-versed in reading strategies, no?)

"Let's drink to our next meeting, lads,
Nor think on what's atwixt;
They're fools wha spoil the present hour
By thinking on the next.
(Chorus)
Then here's to Meg o' Morningside,
An Kate o' Kittlemark;
The taen she drank her hose and shoon,
The tither pawned her sark.

A load o' wealth, an' wardly pelf,
They say is sair to bear;
Sae he's a gowk would scrape an' howk
To make his burden mair
(Chorus)
Gif Care looks black the morn, lads,
As he's come doon the lum,
Let's ease our hearts by swearing, lads,
We never bade him come.
(Chorus)
Then here's to our next meeting, lads,
Ne'er think on what's atwixt;
They're fools who spoil the present hour
By thinking on the next.
(Chorus)"

Sojourn

I returned home from school for the summer six days ago, and was not able to muse up the inclination to do a knee-jerk recap post. Mea culpa. I have a ~7 hour plane ride from Newark, NJ to Edinburgh, Scotland ahead of me, so maybe I'll be able to draft a little something-something.

I'll be on the old sod for the better part of three weeks, during which time I will have limited internet capabilities. So instead of not blogging while I've got a strong wireless signal, I guess I'll be not blogging without any signal whatever for a few days.

Sorry for the lethargy folks; I've really got to do something about all that.

Cheers.

A Caution To Everyone

At the behest of a friend, I will give a brief review of the latest Indiana Jones movie. There may be spoilers, but they would only preempt the ruination of the film for you anyway, if you decide to see it.

It was awful. Plain, profound crap. I'm convinced that the special effects/screenwriting budget is undefined, because you can't divide by zero. Harrison Ford & Co. did fairly well for the characters and lines they were given. Shia TheBeef is even spared my ire because I recognize that his character never had a chance because the writers of the movie ruined it before he was even cast as Mutt Williams. He wasn't given the opportunity to ruin it himself, as he did so ably in the supremely disappointing film remake of Louis Sachar's intersting children's novel Holes. While I sensed an attempt to spoof the anti-Communist media of the late 1950s, it was half-assed and embarassing. The entire film reeked of 3rd grade gag-humor (TheBeef gets whacked in the gonads by plants a few times during one particular pursuit scene). Seeing as there's nothing more than a couple curse words (all unnecessary to the plot), the PG-13 rating of the movie served to strengthen the insult to the intelligence of nearly any possible moviegoer. To conclude, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull falls squarely into the category of "must-miss," if at all possible.

As an addendum, I was so disappointed by the IJ movie that I decided to have a little film shock-therapy and watch The Last King of Scotland in the university theater. It is a very good movie (Forest Whitaker deserves the high marks he received for his portrayal of Idi Amin) and salvaged my night from a movies standpoint.

Cheers.

Poised

A brief reflection.

I lie on my bed, staring at a hat that hangs precariously on the end of its hook. It is as far out on its plastic limb as gravity will allow it to sit. It sways gently, unmoved, caressed by the air from a fan in my room. The slightest touch--poltergeist's breath--would surely send it to the floor. Yet it remains poised on the end of is hook.

I will not touch it. I will let it decide whether or not it will drop, lose its battle with gravity.

An FYI

I hate clichés as much as the next guy (actually, probably more than the next guy), but I would nonetheless like to share this bit of carpe diem-like anecdote.

Here's the long and short of it: there are a bunch of dead stars--white dwarfs (or dwarves; both are acceptable)--relatively near us in space (within a few dozen light-years). When the high gravity in these objects pulls enough material into them to cross a certain threshold (known as the Chandrasekhar Limit), they collapse, and the result is a nova or supernova, which blows away anything within a few light years of them and disrupts things a few dozen light years away. These events can't be accurately predicted or stopped. So, if one of these were to happen, it'd be curtains for us. Yes, we wouldn't be around anyway if it weren't for those events, but still...

There's a mother-to-child phrase that seems to apply: "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out of it!"

Now, have a nice day.

The Times We Live In?

A friend notified me of the following Youtube video: a news story about a seven year old boy who had stolen his grandmother's SUV.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GLeVlBca5lg&feature=related

Don't get me wrong; the video is hilarious because the thought of seeing two little kids joyriding in a huge SUV is just absurd. However, my fuddy-duddy nature forces me to see this as a distressing sign of the decline of morality in society.

The newest version of the hit video game "Grand Theft Auto" was released recently, and a couple friends of mine have begun playing it. I was watching some people play it earlier today, carjacking people, shooting police officers and doing other brutal things around Liberty City (which is a dead ringer for New York City). The game rewards robbing and killing people because you can pick up the money you have on your character's person and add it to your own cache.

Am I interested in banning this game or curbing freedom of speech and expression? Absolutely not. All I am saying is that the people who create games like this need to recognize that they have a burden of social responsibility. Because frankly, some parents are not savvy enough to keep their children from being negatively influenced by things like this. Strict ratings on video games are necessary.

After I watched my fraternity brothers playing the game earlier, they were kind enough to drive me back to my dorm. As we drove, we joked about slamming into cars that were parked on the street near us. Now, we all have good grips on reality and would never be led to mistake the light, essentially nonexistent consequences in a video game for the enormous consequences in real life. But not all people have the same kind of grip on reality. Crime sprees that seem to mimic situations in these games are evidence of what can happen to people who cannot make that separation so easily. The line gets blurred. I suppose my point here is that it's up to those with the creativity to be responsible. This burden of responsibility should not be regarded as a hindrance, but sadly the egotists who seem to possess that creativity are reluctant to accept the responsibility. I guess it's the times we live in...

(At Least) 29,220 Days Left...

I'm back on the blog train. Spring Term 'round these parts has made a loafer of me, and I've started slacking off a bit on the Musings front (which may be of relief to some; who knows). Anyway, I was hitting my daily rota of interesting websites when I spotted a ridiculous headline on Digg about some Belgian woman who is offering to "harvest the virginity" of any guy who supports "net neutrality." One of the comments pointed to this woman's blog: http://tania.movielol.org/. The silliness of the subject turned to serious morbidity when I noticed that the point of her blog is to chronicle the 90 days before she plans to kill herself.

The subject of suicide and life's intrinsic value (and this woman's distressing failure to acknowledge it) is discussed ad nauseam, so I don't feel the need to go into detail on it.

I hope the entire blog is a hoax or a publicity stunt (LATER EDIT: I know it isn't serious; I did more investigating, but whatever). If so, then it's a sick one, but at least this woman won't be pointlessly killing herself. But if it's true, I'm really appalled at the fact that none of her readers has stepped in and tried to alert her family of this (since her first and last names are known).

This afternoon's lyrical selection (it's possible that I've put it up before): "When I'm Gone," by Phil Ochs (who committed suicide himself 32 years ago this month)--

"There's no place in this world where I'll belong when I'm gone
And I won't know the right from the wrong when I'm gone
And you won't find me singin' on this song when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here

And I won't feel the flowing of the time when I'm gone
All the pleasures of love will not be mine when I'm gone
My pen won't pour a lyric line when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here

And I won't breathe the bracing air when I'm gone
And I can't even worry 'bout my cares when I'm gone
Won't be asked to do my share when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here

And I won't be running from the rain when I'm gone
And I can't even suffer from the pain when I'm gone
Can't say who's to praise and who's to blame when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here

Won't see the golden of the sun when I'm gone
And the evenings and the mornings will be one when I'm gone
Can't be singing louder than the guns when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here

All my days won't be dances of delight when I'm gone
And the sands will be shifting from my sight when I'm gone
Can't add my name into the fight while I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here

And I won't be laughing at the lies when I'm gone
And I can't question how or when or why when I'm gone
Can't live proud enough to die when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here

There's no place in this world where I'll belong when I'm gone
And I won't know the right from the wrong when I'm gone
And you won't find me singin' on this song when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here."

Integrity

Exam week is finally over here at W&L, and today I encountered an interesting pair of parallel situations on which I'd like to comment briefly. It's a subject that is discussed ad nauseam, but I've not yet deigned to opine on it.

I took my third of three final exams this afternoon. Because of a bit of fine motor skill trouble, I am able to type tests and exams up on my computer. So, I took advantage of that accommodation today.

For those readers who don't attend college with me, W&L is governed not by an Honor Code, but the Honor System. Students are expected to be honest and honorable at every turn. Tests and exams, therefore, are unproctored.

I selected a classroom with a large, rectangular table to be where I would take this exam. A couple others followed suit a few minutes later. I opened a new Word document on my computer, set things up, and did my exam. No notes, no textbook, just my brain. Of course, all it would have taken were a couple double-clicks and I could have pulled up a Word document from a folder on my desktop containing a lot of information that would have aided me on my exam. Since no one could see my computer screen, no one would have been any the wiser if I had decided to cheat in that manner. But I know better, as do my fellow students. It's a good feeling to know that I am deemed fit to be accountable for my own decisions by my school.

Later on, I was watching coverage of the second round of the 2008 Masters, one of the most prestigious, pressure-filled tournaments in all of competitive golf. On the 15th hole of the tournament, 2007 U.S. Amateur runner-up and University of Alabama senior Michael Thompson readied to hit a birdie putt. He took his stance, but then he backed away, for no apparent reason. He had set the head of his putter down behind the ball and just before he began his stroke, the ball moved. It moved about an eighth of an inch forward: so little that the only person who could detect its movement was Thompson (neither his playing partners nor the hundreds in the gallery looking on noticed this, and it was only detectable via a highly zoomed-in camera replay). He backed away from his ball and informed his playing partners that he was penalizing himself one stroke and moving the ball back to its previous position.

In golf, if a ball moves after a player has set the club down behind it, the player is deemed to have caused the movement and is penalized a stroke. Thompson could have ignored the movement and the penalty and no one would have been any the wiser, most likely. But he did the honorable thing instead. That's why I love the game of golf.

Good night.

(Dis)Loyalties?

Last time I posted, I led off the entry by alluding to that on which I will now opine.

I'm just going to come right out and say it: people who wear apparel of schools (colleges, mostly) that they do not attend tick me off. The only exceptions are the following.

1. If a parent attended said institution.
2. If a sibling attended or attends said institution.
3 (and even this is a bit of a stretch). If a significant other attends or attended said institution.
4. If you are an ardent fan of one or more of said institution's sports teams. And in that case, the garment must specify the sport.

If you don't qualify any of the above conditions, please don't wear other colleges' garments.

I'll start in high school. As many of you know, I went to a boarding school of whose aura and tradition I am fiercely proud--Westminster School in Simsbury, CT. There was a girl who transferred to Westminster from a decidedly inferior institution, Taft School (I am only half serious about this; we are rivals). She was a nice girl, but it always peeved me to see her wearing Taft clothing around campus. It just didn't seem right. Likewise, there was a girl who aimed to transfer from Westminster to another decidedly inferior institution, Hotchkiss (again, I say this tongue-in-cheek; Hotchkiss grads are people too, I guess). Well before she was even accepted to Hotchkiss, she began sporting the garb around campus. The sight of this really infuriated me. Just a slap in the face. Call me a homer, but I think that just ain't right, dear readers.

Another thing that peeved me a bit was people wearing college apparel before even receiving a letter of acceptance. Talk about putting the UHAUL before the family car, not to mention the arrogant temptation of karma. For this reason, I never wore the apparel of a college to which I had merely applied. I signified my intention to come here to Washington & Lee by donning the hat in the kitchen one late-April morning before school. I had never graced my head with it before then.

We progress to college. I don't claim to know the background on many people well enough to know if they fall into categories 1-4 above stipulated. All I can say is that I've seen sweatshirts (I will never seriously call them "hoodies") shouting "Harvard!" "Vanderbilt!," and goodness knows what else. I'd like to think that these people fall into categories 1-3, but I'm not sure. If not, then fie on them, I say!

Bottom line: apparel of college you don't attend, BAD! Pride in your alma mater, GOOD!

Happy dressing.

(NOTE: If you do this, I don't hate you; I'm not that intolerant. It just seems silly is all.)

No lyrical selection this evening.

Nice

I was going to blog tonight about how it annoys me to see people wearing apparel of colleges they do not attend, but after spending 20 minutes being physically restrained against my will, I have had pause to think about something less trivial than sweatshirts and block lettering.

I wrote and delivered a "Chapel Talk"--a chance for Westminster students to speak about issues of morality, reflect on personal anecdotes, etc.--last Spring. I feel the urge to re-publish that speech here (mostly because I don't believe I've yet posted it).

~ ~ ~

One day, during this year’s winter term, I was sitting on one of the benches in the upper foyer after lunch. A group of my peers had taken to poking small holes in the caps of water bottles and spraying water at innocent passersby. I’m sure you can guess the primary target on each person.

Now don’t get me wrong—I’m not so naïve as to fail to understand why these people would want to spray water at one another. If everyone is signed on for such a prank, I’m all for it. I enjoy a clever joke as much as anyone. But what upset me in this case was that some of my fellow 6th Formers armed with perforated bottles of Poland Spring water thought that it would be especially funny to squirt the water at some unsuspecting 3rd and 4th Formers as they walked to the library. After the barrage, these students would rush through the library doors with looks of profound mortification and distress.

These innocent victims are part of a vicious cycle that is becoming more and more pronounced in our culture. It causes a 6th Former to argue: “I was made fun of by seniors when I was a 3rd Former, so why shouldn’t I treat 3rd Formers the way seniors treated me? I turned out all right.”

This morning, I wish to offer you a different perspective on teasing, mocking, and general disrespect—the perspective of someone who has been through quite a bit of it himself.

***

Up through elementary and middle school, my differences made me quite an easy target for those who strive for self-validation by putting down others. I was teased viciously for the silliest of reasons. For instance, I was as talkative a boy back then as I am now, and I tended to participate in class far more often than most of my peers. I quickly earned the dubious moniker of “teacher’s pet,” and all the unkind comments that accompany it, that I cannot repeat here.

I would wear a pair of khaki pants and a tucked-in polo shirt to school in middle school, while my male peers preferred to wear the baggiest clothes possible. I still marvel at how one is able to keep one’s pants from falling down when one wears them around the thigh, rather than the waist. But because I did not find that style of dress comfortable, words like “geek,” “dork,” and others I’d rather not mention would accompany me wherever I roamed.

One day in 6th grade, I used the word “assuage” when talking about a story we had read in class. I know it is not exactly part of a normal 10-year-old’s vocabulary, but I still did not expect to be mocked for the remainder of the school year. I was hurt tremendously by remarks that attacked both my usage of a “grown-up” word and my slight speech impediment that is exposed when I pronounce words with “ch,” “sh,” and “j” sounds in them.

I believe that we must rid our minds immediately of the notion that it is acceptable to insult others because they look, act, or speak in an unusual way. We have seen the destructive effects of teasing and lockstep disrespect in our schools in recent years. What do you think the people who made fun of Eric Harris, Dylan Klebold, or more recently, Seung-Hui Cho, would say about the consequences of senseless bullying? I am fairly sure of what the parents of the killers and the other slain Columbine High School students and Virginia Tech community members would say. But many people would still brush off these events and say, “Nahh, that would never happen at my school.”

Don’t get me wrong—I believe that fortunately, there are very few people who are capable of such horrible violence. But nevertheless, these extreme examples show us why no good can come of our intolerance of people who look, act, or speak differently than we do.

***

The intolerance I speak of is harmful in subtle and indirect ways as well. So many young people are unable to express themselves because they fear a backlash from the “popular” crowd. These “diamonds in the rough” become introverted, shy, and anti-social, so most of us lose the excellent opportunity to learn about them and from them. Everyone has something to offer to others, but because of intolerance, many worthy voices go unheard. How much more enlightened would we be as individuals and as a society if we learned to listen to others’ thoughts with a non-judgmental ear, and if we learned to look at others with a non-judgmental eye?

I believe that this intolerance is borne partly of ignorance, and that simply by trying to listen objectively, we can begin to break our habits of narrow-mindedness. A couple of weeks ago, when Ingrid Fliter performed for us, I was somewhat disquieted to hear giggling at her description of the relationship between pianist and piano. Because she personified her Steinway Model D Grand Piano in an unusual way, her ideas were likely seen as preposterous simply because those who laughed might not have related to her strong passion for performing music.

***

The great 19th century philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche once said: “The worst readers are those who proceed like plundering soldiers: they pick up a few things they can use, soil and confuse the rest, and blaspheme the whole.” I believe that this quote can be applied to the idea of our periodic lack of tolerance for those who are different. When we alienate others based on superficialities, we act like Nietzsche’s misguided soldiers—we only see what we want to see in some people. Consequently, we do severe injustices to each other.

Some of the friendliest, funniest, and smartest people I know are people who do not run with the “cool” crowd. They are diamonds in the rough who need only a fair chance to be heard, to be engaged in conversation, to be accepted as equals. People with untold experiences to share and ideas to offer. Because as George Harrison is about to tell us: “Some things take so long…But how do I explain…When not too many people…Can see we're all the same…And because of all their tears…Their eyes can't hope to see…The beauty that surrounds them…Isn’t it a pity?”

I would like to end by saying that I believe—I know—that we as people have the ability to affect positive changes in our attitudes towards others. As a wise fortune cookie paper once told me: “Begin; the rest is easy."

~~~

Tonight's lyrical selection: "Isn't it a Pity," by George Harrison:

"Isn't it a pity
Now, isn't it a shame
How we break each other's hearts
And cause each other pain
How we take each other's love
Without thinking anymore
Forgetting to give back
Isn't it a pity

Some things take so long
But how do I explain
When not too many people
Can see we're all the same
And because of all their tears
Their eyes can't hope to see
The beauty that surrounds them
Isn't it a pity

Isn't it a pity
Isn't is a shame
How we break each other's hearts
And cause each other pain
How we take each other's love
Without thinking anymore
Forgetting to give back
Isn't it a pity

Forgetting to give back
Isn't it a pity
Forgetting to give back
Now, isn't it a pity

(6 times, fade the 6th:)
What a pity
What a pity, pity, pity
What a pity
What a pity, pity, pity..."

Thanks Guys

1. For putting up equine pornography in my room tonight. Not my cup of tea, but I'm sure you were just trying to clothe the empty walls. Better luck next time (which, knowing you guys, will be soon enough).

2. For locking me out of my room when I had a lot of work to finish for classes. I guess I need to learn to work more efficiently and get it done before Torment Tim Time begins. Silly me.

3. For continuing to badger, pester, annoy, fluster, and anger me, no matter how politely or ardently I ask you to stop. Whatever doesn't kill me makes me stronger, right?

Just don't be offended if I don't feel all that inclined to sit with you all at lunch tomorrow.

I feel like a brother alright: a needlessly, constantly tormented little brother...

Relief

I'm back. Sorry I've been silent for the better part of the last month; the notion of "free time" had been stricken from my life for most of the last two months. But that's all behind me now; what lies ahead is the reward for those two months of rigor and toil.

I can't disclose much at all in the way of details, but I can safely announce now my being a fully initiated member of a fraternity. It's a great organization, full of a diverse group of people all with at least one thing in common: they are all good, genuine people. People with whom I am honored to be associated.

Ok, enough mushiness. My main point tonight is that I have reentered the blogosphere. Stay tuned for more nonsense and wackiness.

Tonight's lyrical selection: "Magic Carpet Ride" by Steppenwolf

"I like to dream,
yes, yes, right between my sound machine
On a cloud of sound I drift in the night
Any place it goes is right
Goes far, flies near, to the stars away from here

Well, you don't know what we can find
Why don't you come with me little girl
On a magic carpet ride
You don't know what we can see
Why don't you tell your dreams to me
Fantasy will set you free
Close your eyes girl
Look inside girl
Let the sound take you away

Last night I held Aladdin's lamp
And so I wished that I could stay
Before the thing could answer me
Well, someone came and took the lamp away
I looked around, a lousy candle's all I found

Well, you don't know what we can find
Why don't you come with me little girl
On a magic carpet ride
Well, you don't know what we can see
Why don't you tell your dreams to me
Fantasy will set you free
Close your eyes girl
Look inside girl
Let the sound take you away..."

“Cyclone,” by Baby Bash (Featuring T-Pain): A Bumpin’ and Grindin’ Good Time

What follows is a satirical review of a current Top 40 hit.

Coming in at #34 on the February 23 Top 40 chart, “Cyclone” is an effective tribute to some unnamed woman with some legendarily sensual dance moves. “Cyclone” combines an extremely dance-compatible beat and compelling lyrics to paint a very sexy picture.

“Cyclone” is driven by beat that sets a pulse and maintains it throughout. Granted, it is repetitive, but effectively so. Crisp percussion hits, a nice bass line and striking (not whiny) higher set of undertones. An adequate ebb-and-flow of volume also seems to render the song not only fun to dance to, but also amusing to listen to on its own.

The lyrics of “Cyclone” are what sets it apart. The major image in the lyrics (aside from the voluptuous, writhing bodies strewn throughout the music video) is the cyclone. It is an unusual image, but it works very well. Aside from the magnitude of rotation embodied by cyclones, the image works on a much more subtle level as well. The fact that cyclones are not native to the United States (their North American counterparts, hurricanes, rotate in the opposite direction), shows the audience that the object of the song transcends modern expectations of female hip-hop gyration. It is a brilliant bit of creativity that contributes to the song’s popularity.

Other lines in the song are integral to its success. The primary refrain of the song involves an unusual stress on the syllables “night” (as in “all night long”) and “light” (as in “spotlights on”). The mid-phrase emphases are not awkward—rather, they cause the lines to stick in the audience’s heads and establish he melody of the song.

As important as the words are, the non-word vocalizations also play an important part in the effectiveness of the piece. Late in the song, the speaker sings, “She must be looking like “eer reer reer reer…” These onomatopoeias are put in place of actual words show that the speaker is so mesmerized by the “mighty cyclone” that he can’t find words to express his desire.

What review would be complete without a brief discussion of the oddball euphemisms and comparisons that mark so many hip-hop favorites? One such figure of speech that enters into the lyrics is the image of the dancer “[getting] lower than a muffla.” An employment of the word “fuego” (Spanish, of course, for “fire”) speaks to the heat that the dancer inspires in the speaker. Perhaps the best use of this hip-hop lingo is in the lines, “The way she move her body/She might see the Maserati” which is not only a statement of the speaker’s “bling-bling,” but also an obvious euphemism for his penis, which he hopes to unleash on the object of the song.

“Cyclone,” by Big Bash (featuring T-Pain) turns a fine beat and catchy, sensual lyrics into a popular nationwide hit. It has the makings of a work that will remain a hit in elite urban clubs, not to mention Old House, for some time to come.

I suppose the only proper lyrics to accompany this post are those of its subject: "Cyclone," by Baby Bash, feat. T-Pain

"O-oh (O-oh)
O-oh (O-oh)
O-oh (O-oh)

Swanananani (nanani, nanani, nanani)

Ay-ay! A mighty cyclone!

[Chorus: Mikael]
She moves her body like a cyclone
And she makes me wanna do it all night long
Whoo!
Going hard when they turn the spotlights on
Because she moves her body like a cyclone
Ay!
Just like a cyclone
Whoo!

She moves her body like a cyclone
And she makes me wanna do it all night long
Whoo!
Going hard when they turn the spotlights on
Because she moves her body like a cyclone
Ay!
A mighty cyclone!


[Baby Bash:]
Now look at that peppa'
On the back of that bumpa'
She aint even playin
When she's shakin that ruppa'
And oh, you aint know?
She gets lower than a muffla'
Even with her girlfriends
Show stopping with a hustla'

The way she move her body
She might see the Maserati
She wanna put it on me
Tryna show me her tsunami
She make it hard to copy
Always tight, never sloppy
And got an entourage
And her own paparazzi

Now there she go again
Ridin through the stormy weatha'
You betta button up
If you wanna go get her
Cause it is what it is

Errybody wanna love her
But when she pop it boy
You better run for cover
Ay-ay!

[Chorus]

[Baby Bash:]
(See it's a wrap) when she break them boys off a typhoon
(It's a wrap) gotta get that phatty like a boss tycoon
(It's a wrap) now hold it steady cause she make a monsoon
(It's a wrap) now you can Google, download the iTunes

See what I'm sayin
She aint playin
Yeah, she got them heads turnin
You gon' hear it clack, clack
When them heels get to burnin
Stiletto so fuego
She got her own label
And got us all doin the tornado
Ay-ay!

[Chorus]

[T-Pain:]
Ay! Ay!
Shawty got looks (and)
Shawty got class
Shawty got hips (and)
Shawty got ass
When she hit the stage
She drop it down low, like
Eer reer reer reer reer reer reer reer reer

Ay!
This is cra-ZZYYYY!
It's ama-ZINGGGG!
It must be the way of the la-DYYYY!
(Like) Eer reer reer reer reer reer reer reer reer
Oh-oh!

[Chorus]

[Outro: T-Pain]
Eer reer reer reer reer reer reer reer reer
Eer reer reer reer reer reer reer reer reer
Eer reer reer reer reer reer reer reer reer
Reer
Oh-oh!"

Nice To Know People Stick To Their Principles...

Woman on Food Network show: “I’m a vegetarian except for the cheeseburger at Bobcat Bite (cue high-pitched giggle).” That's like an admitted murderer saying, "I swear I'm a pacifist, except in the case of [insert victim's name here]!"

Puhhh. Lease.

This Is Just To Say

...a couple things.

1. I will be returning to the blogosphere in earnest this week. The last five weeks have seen me cast into the turbulent seas of pledgeship, without much in the way of free time to craft new observations and witticisms. I have this week off from school, so I will endeavor to throw up a few more posts before heading back to the grind (three more weeks of long days and little sleeps). If you've stuck with me, thank you very much. You won't regret it, I hope.

2. I am abandoning the "Ten Things I Learned In My First Semester Of College" series. I will eventually cover my remaining topics in future posts (mostly by articulating my positions on Facebook friendship and alcohol), but it's time for a return to normalcy.

Cheers for now.

Ten Things I Learned In My First Semester Of College: Number 4—Frat Chances: How My Thinking On Fraternities Changed

(Currently under revision...will be back up soon)

Ten Things I Learned In My First Semester Of College: Number 5—Procrastination Sweeping The Nation

How fitting a title for a post where I must admit that my lethargy this break will keep me from finishing this series before I begin my second semester! Oh well; we will forge on anyway.

It’s funny—a relief, in a way—how my college turned out to be different from what I expected. Knowing that I was entering an environment with a higher average level of intellect than what I was used to, I assumed that most people would have the go-get-‘em attitude, and that I would be in a minority, engaged in a vicious struggle against my laziness and my tendency to put things off. Somewhat happily, a high number of really, really sharp students is not mutually exclusive with a high number of students who have made high art of procrastination as I have in my academic career. There are many similarly lethargic souls around me, so it has turned out that group-procrastination is a favorite activity ‘round these parts. Dear readers, I give you a few examples.

Longboarding: My neighbor, a unique fellow of the Long Island (or “Strong” Island, as some would have us mainland-American folk believe) persuasion, brought a longboard (a longer version of the skateboard, built for speed, rather than kick-flipping and whirly-gigging capabilities) to school, but soon discovered that it is against state law to ride it anywhere except inside a skate-park (where only the whirly-giggers are useful). So he resorted to riding it to and fro down our hall. We joined in, and the fellows all had a good laugh when I took a turn, nearly falling over, legs wobbling, arms flailing. Unfortunately, it also turned out to be verboten to ride in the halls, so our fun was ended on that front.

Hall Monkey-In-The-Middle: One night a few weeks before we departed for Christmas break, someone brandished a small rubber SuperBall. What followed was an intense, rousing game of monkey-in-the-middle down the length of the hall. Now you may be thinking, dear readers, that the small size of the ball would make it nearly impossible for the monkey to catch it. But, this was also true of the receiver, and the bounce-back wreaked havoc on all parties involved. We stretched the ball to its physical limits, and the game ended prematurely with a scuffle for the ball resulting in its destruction.

Poker: We went through a brief phase where we all signed up for Pokerstars.net and went to the same table. Audible shouts of profanity echoed through the hall—most of them from a character who hails from Atlanta—at the end of most every hand. Never mind that we were squandering valuable potential study-time; there was fake money to win and lose!

As refreshing as it is to know that I am not the only serial procrastinator around here, it is a shame to see the toll it takes on some. My heart drops a bit whenever I hear talk of Adderall—a drug given to ADD/ADHD sufferers—being used by stressed-out students needing to pull and all-nighter in order to finish a book. I saw a friend of mine in the dining hall once, and he looked terribly exhausted: red bags under widely open eyes, slightly frazzled hair, faster tempo of voice than usual. Evidently, he needed to read an entire book and write an essay on it, all in the space of one night. He got it done, bless him, but at what cost? Taking a drug that was not meant for him--a boy of sound, sharp mind—was quite a risk. It’s not a good practice to engage in—taking such a drug can form a habit with potentially damaging result. No grade is worth such possible damage to one’s body, but unfortunately, with the absurd over-diagnosis of ADD/ADHD in this country, drugs like Ritalin and Adderall are becoming easier and easier to procure. We’re headed for bad consequences if people are not careful and practical, forgoing a night of partying in order to work on an assignment that needs more attention than that of a night.

If you’re feeling overwhelmed by work at the time you read this, please stop, close your browser, and get right on that assignment. I’ll be here on the Internet while you do what’s important.

Happy studying.

No lyrical selection this evening.

Ten Things I Learned In My First Semester Of College: Number 6—Pranks For The Memories and Other Tales

One of the main parts of “The Freshman Experience,” it appears, is experiencing and becoming familiar with various ways in which fellow young adult males occupy themselves in times of boredom. A small college tends to bring together people from all parts of the country and world. Naturally, there is bound to be an exchange of ideas, especially ideas on silly feats of mind and body. Allow me to briefly discuss some useful experiences I’ve had with this phenomenon.

Gold Bond: A few days before we departed for Christmas break, this powder figured prominently into the events of one evening. One member of the Hall complained of “Batwing,” a phenomenon I’d never heard of. I am always reluctant to introduce vulgar concepts into this blog because there’s enough of that going around, but in the interest of clarity, I must explain—for those who are unfamiliar as I was—that “Batwing” is when a boy’s scrotum sticks to his leg due to heat, etc. Apparently, Gold Bond is a splendid cure for this condition. Anyway, someone near me borrowed some Gold Bond from another in order to alleviate himself of some groin-based discomfort. Being the easy target and brunt of all shenanigans, mine seemed like the logical door on which to expel some of this powder. Sadly, a bug, drunk Californian—full, also, of hookah vapors—stumbled onto the scene. He snatched up the Gold Bond container, and unleashed about a third of the bottle with a mighty squeeze. Care to guess where it all ended up? Yes, you’re correct, dear readers. It went all over my room. I spent portions of the next few days cleaning up whatever tiny snowdrift piles of the stuff I could find. Unfortunately, I know that I wasn’t able to get it all; spots of Gold Bond still dot the unreachable crevices of my room. It will very likely be the first smell I encounter when I re-enter my dorm room in two nights’ time.

Big Red: Apparently it’s a rite of passage to endure a few minutes’ pain by removing the wrapper from a piece of Big Red Cinnamon gum, licking said wrapper, and sticking it to one’s forehead. According to the tribe of males known as the Freshmen, one must endure a few minutes of pain from the Big Red wrapper in order to gain the respect and admiration of one’s peers. Like walking on hot coals, embarking on a vision quest, or circumcision, it’s something one must do, evidently. I guess I too will have to endure it sometime in the coming weeks.

No lyrical selection this evening.

Ten Things I Learned In My First Semester Of College: Number 7—Drugs, Man

Anyone who knows me knows that I am unfalteringly conservative when it comes to foreign substances. A caffeine in a Dr. Pepper is about as “crazy” a substance as I ever intend to enter my body in any meaningful quantity. This means that I am in the minority in my convictions, but I’m okay with it. Unlike many people who don’t drink/smoke/whatever, I try not to look down on those who do. I see every action as the product of a calculated risk. Some can justify so-called “risky behaviors,” but I’m just not that bold.

As a college freshman living in a dorm, I have seen, heard, and smelled some interesting things. One such experience was on the evening of the 2008 Mock Convention Gala. I didn’t attend said gala, so I was shooting the breeze with a few fellows in the Lounge, when a few tuxedo-clad gents stumbled in, giggling and whooping madly. They soon announced that they were “tripping the f*ck out on ‘shrooms,” and wondered if we’d like to join them in the library (apparently looking at rows of things makes the trip all the more intense…who knew?). We politely declined.

Another drug that unfortunately seems to have a significant place at my college is cocaine. Every so often I hear murmurs about people using it, which is very sad to me. I know a few people whose lives (not to mention their families’ lives) have been ruined by it. And why? For a few momentary escapes from reality. Ridiculous, any way you slice it.

(I know that what I just said probably won’t make a damned bit of difference, but hopefully those of you who agree with me will come up with ways to say this more profoundly and convincingly than I can.)

And then we come to the ubiquitous illegal drug: marijuana. Mary Jane. Weed. Pot. No thanks.

It’s like the 1960s all over again, for goodness’ sakes (so I’m told…no, contrary to popular belief, I am not a 60 year old in an 18 year old body)! It’s…interesting, to say the least…to see people breaking a law with such abandon. It never fails to remind me of how I’m wired a bit differently from many others, for better or worse.
Tonight’s lyrical selection: “Cocaine,” by Jackson Browne.

“You take Sally and I'll take Sue
There ain't no difference between the two
Cocaine, running all 'round my brain

Headin' down Scott, turnin' up Main
Looking for that girl that sells cocaine
Cocaine, runnin' all 'round my brain

Late last night about a quarter past four
Ladanyi come knockin' down my hotel room door
Where's the cocaine--
It's runnin' all 'round my brain

I was talking to my doctor down at the hospital
He said, "Son, it says here you're twenty-seven,
But that's impossible
Cocaine-- you look like you could be forty-five"

Now I'm losing touch with reality and I'm almost out of blow
It's such a fine line-- I hate to see it go
Cocaine, runnin' all 'round my brain…”