Tim's Varied Musings

Creative Writing stories, #3: "Night Falls on Baxter"

2010-04-29T15:55:00.002-04:00

Night Falls on Baxter

Best friends Trevor and Louis stood outside Baxter Academic Center and took in the familiar view. It looked the same—ugly. Pale brown bricks of varying hues surrounded monolithic, vertically slender rectangular windows. The doorframes were graphite-grey, metallic affairs surrounding glass panels. The roof was horizontal, which made the building look from afar like a child’s fort made of enormous cardboard boxes. The building was a child of the 60s, architecturally out of place on the grounds of a boarding school—Westminster, by name—founded in the 19th century. But today, both boys wanted nothing more than to hear the strange air currents coursing through the building and to stroll through its long, boring halls again. Having played golf together that morning, they had decided on a nostalgic whim to drive up Williams Hill and take a last look through the building.

The Connecticut late-August sun shone on Trevor and Louis as they gazed up at Baxter. They had graduated that May and would be leaving for college—Trevor to Haverford, Louis to Amherst—in a couple days. Trevor hadn’t gotten into Amherst.

They stood on the driveway in front of Baxter, leaning on opposite sides of the metallic turd of a dumpster into which the construction crew had tossed furniture from the building that was not worth salvaging—battered bookcases from classrooms, rickety metal desk-chairs, and other general academic paraphernalia. In another corner of campus stood Baxter’s replacement, a $41 million behemoth called Armour Academic Center that would vault the school into the 21st century. It towered over every other building on the campus. Students snickered that it was visible from outer space. Baxter—the building that held particular significance for they and their fellow day students at this boarding school—was to become a parking lot. The building was scheduled for demolition in a week and both would be off to school long before then. This was their chance to give the Baxter its Last Rites.

“Shall we?” Trevor turned to Louis after a few minutes’ solemn regard of the edifice.

“Might as well,” Louis sighed.

Trevor closed his eyes as he gripped the handle on the door and pulled. Thousands of hands have touched this handle, he thought to himself. How many owners of those hands took that cool smoothness of the metal for granted? He knew he had on almost every occasion until this one. He stepped into the vestibule, holding the door for Louis. That strange whirring sound—screwy air currents—filled their ears as it had so many times before. The ghosts of Baxter groaned.

“Jesus Lou, they’ve taken everything,” Trevor murmured, agape at the denuded upper foyer. The earthy-red-brown brick walls were void of the rudimentary wooden benches that used to line them. Juniors and seniors had always hung out between classes in the square upper foyer, while freshmen and sophomores filled the lower foyer. The school veterans would peer over the railings down at the “children” and heckle them until a spoilsport teacher barked at them to knock it off. The open center of the lower foyer was a stage for the class clowns of the lower grades, who would sometimes tell jokes or act out funny scenes from popular movies in order to curry favor with their elders. Every sophomore dreamed of the day after graduation that year, when he or she would enjoy an exam week’s worth of acclimation to the upper foyer before enjoying it fully the next fall. This tradition would die with Baxter. It isn’t right, Trevor thought. It was like closing Radio City Music hall—inconceivable.

The near left corner of the upper foyer was the site of one of Trevor’s great personal achievements. When school lunch on Wednesday or Saturday—when school was in session until 11 AM—was unappetizing, he, Louis, and some of their fellow day students would order mountains of spicy chicken wings from a local pizza place. They would bicker about who would have to trudge down a steep hill to the edge of campus to meet the deliveryman, usually resorting to drawing lots. The “winner” would slink out and return shortly with a greasy cardboard box of pungent orange hunks of meat, bone, and cartilage. Trevor had eaten 35 wings in 25 minutes one Saturday in the January of his junior year. He had felt like Neil Armstrong. Now, his stomach growled.

The boys turned right and strode through more metal double-doors into the main upper floor hallway. Directly across from them was room number 35. The room was nearly empty, desolate. Posters of fractals, Fibonacci sequences, and Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon” album were conspicuously absent. In their places were rectangles of vaguely brighter, cleaner regions of wall-plaster.

Louis leaned against the back wall and removed his purple Amherst Golf cap. “Christ, it’s Mr. Ulrich’s room,” he said. Peter Ulrich had been their soft-spoken but intense math teacher they had had junior year for Honors Pre-Calculus. Ulrich was notorious for issuing weekly problem sets that even the Asian math wiz kids struggled with. Lou had been an Ulrich acolyte, having been one of the only students they knew who appreciated the man’s teaching style—he almost always responded to a question with a question of his own. Lou was eager to study mathematics and economics at Amherst, in hopes of becoming an actuary or an investment banker. Trevor, on the other hand, had never enjoyed or excelled at math. He looked forward to taking a slew of creative writing and literature courses at Haverford.

Turning right and moving down the hall a distance, they arrived at room 33, which Trevor held in particular regard. He alone entered while Lou sought out the bathroom to take a piss.

It had been known as “The Thinkery”—the domain of one Todd Eckerson, an institution at Westminster. Eckerson was the philosophy department, mostly renowned for Moral Philosophy, a fairly basic survey of general ethics. Not bad for most high schoolers. However, Trevor had been one of seven students in a class of Eckerson’s called Philosophy and Literature (Louis took AP Statistics that year instead). Eckerson called it a “great books” class, as it covered such intellectually weighty tomes as The Iliad, the Bible, Pascal’s Thoughts, and St. Augustine’s Confessions, not to mention Dante’s Divine Comedy, Shakespeare’s The Tempest and even a smattering of Nietzsche. Eckerson would challenge students with pointed questions about Job, Pascal’s Wager, and which Circle of Hell Paris Hilton belonged in.

The main inhabitant of the walls of the Thinkery was a large framed print of Raphael’s “The School of Athens.” In the central figures of Plato and Aristotle Trevor saw himself and Louis. He was Plato, pointing upward, trying to grasp the ungraspable, the abstract. Louis was Aristotle, pointing at the world around—Lou was concerned with what existed concretely: answers. Eckerson had long since taken the print to his new classroom in Armour. Now the Thinkery was indistinguishable from the other empty chambers of Baxter.

They made their way through other rooms. Room 38 was the main computer lab, where Trevor, Louis, and some of their fellow day students would gather during mutual free time and play computer games like Unreal Tournament, a multiplayer battle game where up to ten of their fellow day student boys would try blow each other away with futuristic guns. All games had been outlawed by Mr. Reeves, whose temper flared more abruptly than a bolt of lightning. One’s chances of getting “be-Reeved,” however, were far, far greater.

Mr. Marco’s office was across from the computer lab. He was the Director of Studies for the school but more importantly Trevor and Louis’ golf coach and mentor. When both of them had a free period, they would sometimes sit on the couch in Marco’s office and distract him from his work, bantering and psyching themselves up for upcoming golf matches and tournaments. Their freshman year, Marco called both Trevor and Louis into his office to inform them that he had selected Lou as the last player for their squad at the regional tournament that year. Trevor had sat silently on the couch for ten minutes after receiving the news. Now there was no couch or bookshelves or framed photos of golf courses. It was another empty chamber in condemned Baxter. But there was a touching bit of color on these walls. Other visitors to the dying building had taken to writing their names or drawing pictures in permanent marker in some rooms, which would be rubble before long anyway. Trevor and Louis grabbed markers from a nearby classroom and signed the white concrete above where Mr. Marco’s mahogany desk once stood. Trevor’s left hand shook as he made his mark.

The auditorium was barren. All the chairs had been pulled up and carted off to who-knew-where. The entire student body gathered there for a half hour each Monday and Thursday morning, where weekly faculty and student announcements would be made. The auditorium could never quite accommodate the entire student body. As a result, students who missed out on getting a proper seat packed into the aisles so snugly that the room looked like an MC Escher print. Trevor recalled the smoothness of the seat cushions and the shampoo of the girls who would sit in front of him. Lavender, coconut, lemongrass, vanilla. The empty odor of dust now filled Trevor’s nose. All that remained of this great hall was the sloping floor with its dingy grey carpet, rent and shredded in places where chairs had been wrenched up from the floor.

The school bookstore, just outside the auditorium, had empty shelves. Where bags of chips, candy bars and bottles of water, juice and soda once waited, only air remained. No crumbs; only dust. Every Westminster student was assigned some sort of task that served the general upkeep of the building; some students wiped down chalkboards after school, others picked up paper and other trash from the floors of the foyers. Trevor had worked in the bookstore, learning how to use the computerized cashier system. Ms. Brownfield, a mountain of a woman, would bark admonishments at him whenever he hit the wrong key or took too long to ring someone up. But at the end of every shift, she let him take a candy bar or a bottle of soda for his trouble. Now the space held the counter and a few wire stands that would in a few days be buried and twisted from the wrecking crew’s work.

The sun was a bit lower now. The blue part of the sky darkened and the yellow part had turned a faint orange. Trevor and Louis were running out of time. They returned upstairs to their final stop, the library.

Darling Library was now anything but darling. Dull beige carpet dominated the scene. It used to be largely covered or at least interrupted by study tables, computer kiosks, and bookshelves, but now there was nothing to distract their gaze from the utter drabness of the floor. The computers had been hauled away weeks earlier. Only the one that had almost never worked properly in Trevor and Louis’ time remained, its circular speaker ports punctured, wires protruding. Standing on either side of the defunct machine, Trevor and Louis studied the room. They turned to each other.

“Remember that time you really pissed me off at this computer?” Trevor asked.

“I don’t think so. Wait—vaguely,” Louis replied. He squinted slightly, trying hard to remember, to relive.

Trevor grimaced. “February, junior year. I had to email Ulrich asking a question about the problem set and you were too damned busy playing some game right here at this very machine. All the other computers were taken, and you had a hell of a score going and ‘couldn’t leave it.’ I had to run clear across the building and fire it off. I was late to class, got detention. I don’t think I spoke to you for three days after that.”

“Heh, yeah, I remember,” Louis chuckled. “You were livid. You got over it though.”

Sure, Trevor thought, but that was my one detention. In four years. Shit. It was easy for Louis to brush that little tiff aside in his memory, for Louis had never had a detention. One detention was not going to ruin his life or anything, but Trevor prided himself on never screwing up at school. Louis had never apologized for causing the detention either.

There was an upstairs part of the library called the Perry Room, where students sometimes studied above the rest of the space. But Trevor and Louis had only ever played card games like Hearts or Spades with other day students after school there. The big tables where they had played were gone, as was the whiteboard they used for keeping score in their games. But surprisingly, a window that opened to the roof was open.

“Lou, not once was that window open in all our years here.”

“I don’t think so, Trev. Heck, let’s see the roof for the first time.”

The window would only open so much, and there was a sizable step down onto the roof. Furthermore, Trevor, while no fatass by any means, was not svelte either. He groaned as Louis stuffed him through the opening and he tumbled to his side with a thud onto the hot, black rubbery plastic roof covering. Louis laughed as Trevor, grumbling, brushed himself off.

After Trevor helped Louis ease himself down onto the roof, the two friends looked around. “How about that Lou? Four years at this school, and here we are taking in this view for the first time. Damn; we can see the balcony of Memorial Hall from up here. If only we’d known about this on those spring afternoons when girls would tan up there.”

Louis grinned. “Shit, sure. Bikinis.”

Trevor and Louis walked over to the edge to get a clearer panorama. The deep green lawns stretched out before them, interrupted by yellow and brown stately Tudor-style buildings. Trevor sat down, his feet dangling over the edge. Louis sat to his left, silently taking in the view. Trevor spoke after a couple minutes.

“Never again will we be such good friends as we are right now, Lou.”

Lou sighed, acknowledging the heavy truth of his best friend’s statement. Fighting back a tear, he replied, “We’ll always have Baxter.”

Evening was coming fast. The boys had to be going home, where each had a good deal of packing to do. Louis rose first from the edge of the roof and extended his right hand to Trevor, who took it and pulled himself to his feet. Walking over to the window back to the Perry Room, Trevor spied a chipped, red-orange brick that had fallen out of the outer wall of the building. He tried to pick it up gently but much of it fell away, leaving only a solid lump the size of a baseball. It would be his souvenir of the building.

They squeezed back into the Perry Room through the window, descended the stairs, crossed the library, and reemerged into the upper foyer. Like pallbearers, they processed around the corner and out the double-doors. Louis walked ahead towards the car, not wanting to look back for fear of more tears. But Trevor stopped in his tracks a moment. Facing Baxter one last time, he planted a kiss on the metal doorframe before striding down the stairs after his friend.

Creative Writing stories, #2: A Blizzard

2010-04-13T15:36:00.002-04:00

A Blizzard

Thursday morning’s exam—Religion 101—“The Old Testament”—had been a piece of cake. Expounding on Genesis, the Book of Job, and the Song of Songs was easy for Jacob Feinberg, a good Jewish boy. After a few notebook pages on suffering and divine love, he found himself strolling out of Wilde Hall back to his dorm, where an empty suitcase awaited him. Once he opened the front door of Wilde he stopped dead in his tracks. He gazed out and noticed snow falling in cottonball-sized clumps on the lawn before him. There was a silence so deep it seemed as if G-d had pressed some grand “MUTE” button. Nothing moved except the snow. Oy vey, he thought to himself. Being from Coral Gables, Florida, he had never seen anything heavier than a snow flurry in person. Inhaling deeply, he donned his new red wool cap—the first one he had ever owned—and strode out into the snow.

He didn’t make it thirty feet before he was on his back, clenching his teeth and cursing the cold. The old, uneven brick walkway was quaint in dry months but under the half-inch film of snow that sat on it, it may as well have been sheer black ice. He clutched his right hip as he clambered to his feet. A pretty girl—a 6.5 if his ex-girlfriend Ginny was an 8—coming toward him had seen. Her body jerked forward as she struggled mightily not to double over from the sight of his folly. They passed each other silently but when she coughed behind him, he was sure it was to contain laughter.

Back at his room, the local TV news confirmed his fears: “Tallmadge County, Virginia is bracing for a potential record snow event as citizens are raiding local supermarkets for bread, milk, water, and firewood today,” chirped the news reader. Flights were being delayed and cancelled left and right from all area airports: Roanoke, Lynchburg, and Charlottesville. His flight was scheduled for departure at 5:55 PM out of Charlottesville. He packed his suitcase deliberately and solemnly, as if he were headed for a few years in prison rather than a couple weeks back home. His cell phone rang—Led Zeppelin’s “When the Levee Breaks” served as his ringtone—and he snatched it off the table. The outer screen read “HOME.” It was his mother.

“Jacob, they’ve cancelled your flight to Atlanta. Your father and I are looking into getting one for you Saturday night out of Charlottesville. Pack anyway, though. If you can get to the airport this evening, go ahead and get a room in a hotel nearby.” Her New-Yawk accent was comforting.

“You know that it’s already snowing here, don’t you Ma?” he replied. His two-wheel drive Honda wasn’t going to be any match for the highway.

“Well then get a ride with someone,” she said curtly. She was a caring but abrasive woman.

“Alright Ma; I’ll call you later. Love you.”

He was stuffing his toiletries case into the suitcase’s side compartment when two faint knocks came at his door. He whirled around and opened it. Before him, as he lived and breathed, stood Virginia “Ginny” O’Halloran. Her black wool cap and black winter coat contrasted with her milk-white skin and red hair. He started sweating.

“I heard your flight was cancelled,” she said. “Nikki Esposito was supposed to be heading back to Florida too and her airline cancelled.”

“That’s right,” Jacob replied. “What are you up to?”

“Well, that’s why I’m here. My mother and father are driving down from Charlottesville to get me and they wanted to know if you needed a ride since you’re supposed to fly out of Charlottesville. You can stay at our house tonight if you need to.”

It was an incredible stroke of luck that the O’Hallorans were willing to put Jacob up for a night—he wasn’t sure if it was good or bad. They were a solid Irish Catholic family and had liked Jacob well enough when he and Ginny were together, despite his being Jewish. He had sat with them at the Parents Weekend football game that October, chuckling at Mr. O’Halloran’s odd jokes. But when Jacob broke up with Ginny over Halloween weekend because he “didn’t see the relationship going anywhere”—code for “I want to be able to hook up with other girls if I want to”—they would have sided with their precious daughter. This invitation was either an olive branch or a chance for an inquisition.

Ginny continued, “They’ll be here in about an hour. Finish packing.” Four inches of snow were already on the ground.
The O’Hallorans arrived on time in their Chevy Suburban. Mrs. O’Halloran greeted Ginny with a hug and Jacob with an emotion-neutral hi-how-are-you-how-are-your-parents schtick. Mr. O’Halloran shook Jacob’s hand firmly—much more firmly than at their previous meeting, Jacob recalled. They set off for Charlottesville with the snow coming down in white sheets.

The landscape was a white apocalypse—every mile or two there were cars at all sorts of angles on the sides of the road with their flashers on. Others had glided clear off the highway and down onto the median snow-smothered grass. Mr. O’Halloran was singularly fixated on the road, silently guiding the vehicle forward at a quarter of the speed limit. Mrs. O’Halloran, who was by no means a quiet woman, said nothing from the other front seat. Perhaps she was remaining quiet so her husband could concentrate on the road. This, Jacob decided, was a pretty hopeful notion. Ginny was seated to Jacob’s right, behind Mrs. O’Halloran. She was engrossed in a Nicholas Sparks novel, which she read by the light of her cell phone. Billy Joel’s “Only the Good Die Young” came on the radio. Jacob saw Mr. O’Halloran’s eyes widen sharply in the mirror as he fumbled for the knob and switched the station to NPR as Billy Joel yowled, “Come out Virginia, don’t let me wait...”

After nearly three hours on the road, they arrived at the O’Halloran residence. Breaking her silence, Mrs. O’Halloran said a weary “Welcome,” as they opened the door and snow tumbled off their coats and onto the rug. Sitting in a chair in the living room, reading the family Bible, was Mary Jane O’Halloran, whom Jacob feared above the rest of the family combined. Though they were quite similar in stature, Mary Jane had not been blessed with her younger sister’s pretty face. She was plain, and it was clear that her plainness was a chip on her shoulder, for she held any boy Ginny dated in great disdain, especially a shyster like Jacob. And because sisters always tell each other everything, Jacob knew Mary Jane’s deepest ire was reserved for him, the Florida Yid who’d taken Ginny’s virginity. “Hello Jacob,” she said with a face that rivaled a gargoyle’s for stolidity.

“Hi Mary Jane,” he replied. “Home for the holidays from Cambridge?” She was a senior at Harvard and damned proud of it.

“Yeah, working on my thesis on a couple of Shakespeare’s problem plays, All’s Well That Ends Well and Measure for Measure. I heard you’re staying with us tonight.” If looks could kill, Jacob thought. All he could do was nod.

Not ten minutes after they shook the snow from their shoes and set about warming up, the power went out. The wind had picked up from nothing to a breeze and then a gale—G-d’s own breath—likely sending some weary pine tree across a telephone pole to the ground. Everyone groaned in dismay at the darkness. Mr. O’Halloran dispatched his wife and daughters to find candles.

Jacob was now alone in the darkness with Mr. O’Halloran. The silence was a burden too great to bear for long. Jacob had the neurotic feeling that Mr. O’Halloran was staring straight at him, praying to Jesus for the destruction of the kike who had sullied his daughter’s good soul.

“Thank you kindly for letting me stay with you all tonight,” Jacob said.

“You’re a good kid, Jacob. We’re happy to help out a friend of Ginny’s at a time like this.”

“Thank you, Mr. O’Halloran.”

“I trust you will be nothing but a perfectly respectful guest in this house tonight.” His voice was just above a whisper, but Jacob caught every word.

“What do you—yes sir,” Jacob replied. Though the house was beginning to take on the chill from the snowstorm outside, Jacob was sweating, his skin clammy.

“Good, good. Girls, any luck with those candles?” Mr. O’Halloran called into the darkness in the direction of the kitchen.

Mrs. O’Halloran emerged holding a large, short cylinder candle that had just been lit. Her daughters followed behind her, each holding in one hand a red glass candlestick and steadying the white candle inside it with the other. They flanked her like maids assisting an ancient queen during a sacred ritual. Slowly they walked to different tables and placed the candles there, illuminating the room in the familiar, haunting amber color of firelight.

From the drawer inside the table in front of the couch where he sat, Mr. O’Halloran produced a deck of cards with a miniature picture of the Last Supper on the back. “Let’s play a while, since there’s little else to do,” he said.

“I’m going to go read in bed with a flashlight,” said Mary Jane, and she slunk off, though not before giving Jacob the stink-eye. Hateful shiksa.

“Always studying, that one,” whispered Mrs. O’Halloran after the beam from Mary Jane’s flashlight had disappeared around the corner. “I hope she finds some time to have fun up at Harvard.”

“I’m sure she does, Mom,” Ginny said airily. It was the first time she had spoken in a great while.

The four of them played Hearts. Ginny was partners with Jacob and Mr. and Mrs. O’Halloran comprised the opposing team. Mr. O’Halloran was a competitive man who wasn’t above the occasional passive-aggressive jibe. “Played that jack of spades a bit early there, eh Jacob?” he chuckled after a particularly decisive hand. But when Ginny and the Jew successfully shot the moon a half dozen hands later, Jacob beamed but did not dare look Mr. O’Halloran in the eye. Ginny squealed with delight and mussed Jacob’s hair across the table. It was the first acknowledgment she had given him all evening. Back when they were together, she would often tousle his hair when she was pleased with him. Now, he blushed a little bit. Luckily it was too dim for anyone to see.

Mr. and Mrs. O’Halloran decided to call it an evening at around 8:30 PM. Mrs. O’Halloran searched out another candle and showed Jacob to the guest room—clear on the other side of the house—where the bed was made and ready for him. Thanking Mrs. O’Halloran, Jacob followed her back to the kitchen for a glass of water. Ginny was nursing a small glass of grape juice and nibbling at a ginger snap at the table. Jacob sat down across from her. The candle burned to his right and shone upon her hair. It reminded him of the third date they had had, at a fancy restaurant in town at school. After seeing a movie, they returned to campus and made love, both for the first time, in his bed. He smiled at the memory as he sipped his water and he glanced at her. She seemed to be recalling the same experience, given the smile she too wore.

Tracing the rim of his half-empty glass with his index finger, Jacob wondered why on earth he had broken up with Ginny. She had never been disloyal or bitchy, shared his sense of humor, and was great in bed. He had become accustomed to her and had grown stupidly jealous at the relative sexual freedom of many of his buddies, who would share stories of getting drunk at parties and hooking up with this girl or that. He had made the dating-rookie mistake of taking his woman for granted and going off in search of new blood. He hadn’t even so much as kissed another girl since breaking up with Ginny. What a schmuck, he thought. In the orange glow of the candle between them, he decided to set about getting her back as soon as possible.

Mrs. O’Halloran cleared her throat and announced that she was going to bed. Ginny dutifully followed both upstairs and both bade Jacob good-night. Having placed his glass in the sink, Jacob took the candle from the table and made his way back to the guest room. He blew out the candle and settled into bed in the darkness as the wind tossed the snow-laden trees’ limbs back and forth outside.

A couple hours later, Jacob was awakened by a kiss on the cheek. She whispered into his left ear, “Jacob, I need you. I have to have you.”

His reply: “Here? Now? In your parents’ house? Are you crazy?”

“Do you want me or not?” she cooed. She nibbled at his ear. This was a stroke of remarkable, almost unreasonably good luck. It seemed she wanted him back as much as he wanted her. He would not waste this opportunity. Crazy shiksa, he thought to himself.

“Come here,” he replied, full of desire.

Her hands moved over him and she slid into the bed, already naked, in the pitch-blackness. Ginny certainly was crazy, but in a very, very good way; that side had been unleashed after they had had sex a few times. He felt the familiar smooth skin of her back under his fingers and could not resist her. When they were finished, she put her nightgown back on and slunk out the door. Exhilarated, Jacob returned to sleep. She was his again.

The electricity returned and the snow tapered off by morning, leaving twenty-two inches over Charlottesville. The O’Hallorans and Jacob shoveled quietly, extricating the Suburban from the drifts. The roads were still slow going, but a call to the airport confirmed that Jacob’s new flight, the 12:55 PM, would be departing on time. When 11 o’clock rolled around, it was time to leave for the airport. Mr. O’Halloran offered to drive Jacob himself. Mrs. O’Halloran, Ginny and Mary Jane saw him off. He hugged Mrs. O’Halloran and waved awkwardly to Mary Jane—that plain, hateful girl. As he embraced Ginny in turn, he whispered in her ear, “Last night was incredible. Thank you.” She furrowed her brow. He shrugged it off.

As he climbed into the front seat of the Suburban, he looked in the side view mirror and saw Mary Jane beaming and biting her lip, her eyes burning. She waved excitedly, her smile broadening. “Only the Good Die Young” was on the radio again. Billy Joel sang, “Ah but they never told you the price that you pay/For things that you might have done...”
Jacob went as white as the snow outside.

Creative Writing stories, #1: "The Ask-Out"

2010-04-11T22:18:00.002-04:00

Hey, I'm back! After a couple busy months, I actually have time to post something AND something to post as well. I took a Creative Writing course this Winter Term at school, which required us all to write three stories and ultimately revise and turn in two of them. In order to determine which two I liked best, I decided to write final versions of all of them. The first story I'm sharing with you all is the one that I decided not to hand in. That doesn't necessarily make it crap, though. Maybe it is, but read it and let me know. Without further ado...

The Ask-Out

He was starting to sweat. It was not the sweat of physical exertion but of pure anguish. It was an unexpected sweat. A sweat of indeterminate temperature such that he shivered without any apparent cause for shivering. Sneaky sweat.

Neither of them had class at this time of day. He knew that she would be studying at her usual table in the library. He peered at her through the rectangular slit window in the main door to the library, her long, dark amber hair in a simple ponytail. She wore a cream-colored sweater, navy skirt, and navy leggings—she was always immaculately, modestly dressed. He stood in deep thought about how he might best approach her. Should he go directly to her and ask her out point-blank? Should he put his books down at another table first? If so, should he walk by her and draw her attention on the way to said other table? The sheer number of methods of approach was maddening. He felt like a military general who had no idea how best to position his troops.

He was no General Patton, so he decided to just wing it. He had never winged anything before but then again, he had never asked a girl out, so god only knew what would work. He trusted his subconscious to lead him to the Promised Land—in this case, maybe dinner and a movie. Hell, he was surprised to have made as much progress as he had in the courtship game the last few months. He had wondered about this moment for nearly half a year. It was late January, and his dreams of going out with her had stewed in his head since September.

His feet were moving but he had no idea to where. He felt controlled by a consciousness that stemmed from outside his head. In a fog, he veered to the left of the path that would have taken him straight to her, darting between two chest high wooden bookshelves that housed the school’s Encyclopedia Brittanica. A few more seconds of automatic movement and he noticed his load was lighter—he had shuffled off his backpack over by the computers. He then found himself striding confidently toward her, smiling as warmly as he could. He reached her side at last and she glanced up from her work. Those beautiful deep brown eyes, he thought. They met his own and he snapped out of his quasi-autopilot. She cleared her throat and he glanced quickly out the window at the snow-covered school quad. The ice from last week’s freezing rain still clung to the naked tree limbs. The cavernous room was silent; only the faint rustle of paper in the librarian’s office could be heard.

~ ~ ~

Katelyn Price had beguiled Tim ever since freshman year, when they were in the same Ancient History class. He had sat directly behind her, enamored with the cascade of her not-quite-blond, not-quite-brown hair. They were “friends” on Facebook but nothing more. He had enjoyed perusing her pictures ever since they became “friends.” She was gorgeous; about five feet six inches, with eyes that seemed to change color from one day to the next, modulating between brown and hazel-green. Her frame was lean but she thankfully did not look like the girls who subsisted on breath mints and the occasional salad. And unlike the girls who did not feel pretty unless their skirts were too short to leave much to the imagination, Katelyn dressed smartly, and her modesty made her sexy.

It was junior year, and Tim was elated to find that he and Katelyn once again had a class together: English. Maybe this would provide a pretext for them to converse. Having spent all of freshman year too chicken to talk to her, he resolved to get to know her somehow this year.

For the first few months of class he could manage no more than a shaky “good morning” to her, but one day in early December saw a perfect opportunity for Tim to lay the groundwork for proper acquaintance. The English department always found a way to incorporate Shakespeare into the curriculum—standard practice for a prep school with a bit of a Briton complex. That day, the Bard’s Sonnet 18 (“Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s day?”). The teacher frequently called on students to read poems aloud prior to discussing them, and so Tim hoped that if he read the sonnet aloud and with gusto, Katelyn would appreciate his sensitivity and eloquence. What if he glanced at her at key points in the poem while he read it? Would she be moved by such a gesture? Would she be creeped out? He decided to keep the glance count to one, at the very end: “So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,/So long lives this and this gives life to thee.” This would be a Grand Romantic Hook for sure.

Sure enough, the teacher called for a reader for Sonnet 18. Sure enough, no one raised a hand at first. And sure enough, Tim was called on when his own shot up—not too eagerly, he hoped. He proceeded confidently through much of the poem but his heart began beating harder and faster as he neared the critical final lines. He stumbled over the fourth-to-last line: “Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade.” He stuttered at “wander’st” and his voice cracked. He took a deep breath and hurried on through the rest of the poem, forgetting to look at Katelyn at all. It was just as well; his attempt at a Grand Romantic Hook had fallen flat.

Tim decided that since he was no Cicero, he would employ the pen (or keyboard) instead of the tongue. He contrived to engage her on Facebook IM and with winged words win her affection!—or at least get to know her and let her get to know him, whether she liked it or not. While lying in bed studying at home one Friday evening in early January, he noticed the name Katelyn Price illuminated along with his other Facebook “friends” who were online at the time. His heart started pounding and he began sweating a sneaky sweat. Gutless, he stalled for time, checking his email four times in the space of ten minutes and getting up for a glass of water to wet his rapidly drying tongue. He was stalling, but his curiosity trumped his anxiety in the end. He swallowed hard, fingers trembling as he typed in the message box and pressed ‘SEND.’

TIM [8:37 pm] Hey there Katelyn

Hey there Katelyn? Was he trying to seem like a pervert? He might as well have said What’s shakin’ baby doll? She responded quickly:

KATELYN [8:37 pm] heyy Tim

She had not ignored him; he had cleared the first hurdle. Was there any meaning in the second Y? A typo? A casual, friendly informality? He was encouraged.

TIM [8:38 pm] how are you doing this evening?
KATELYN [8:38 pm] pretty good, how about you?

Thank goodness she didn’t totally adhere to the needlessly terse Internet parlance with abbreviations like “u” for “you.” He let her misuse of a comma slide.

TIM [8:38 pm] I’m well; can’t complain…how are you?
You already asked her how she’s doing, shithead. He felt his ship of courtship taking on water before it had even left port. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, waiting for the familiar pop that signaled a response. It came, and he braced for the worst.
KATELYN [8:40 pm] haha good good, what’s up?
He had not scared her off after all! Not yet, anyway. He forged on, hoping his game would improve in a hurry.
TIM [8:40 pm] not too much, I guess; I was wondering, however, if you might know what pages we need to read in Catcher in the Rye for English class on Monday

Being a diligent student, Tim knew the answer to this query, but he could think of no other immediate means of conversation extension.

KATELYN [8:41 pm] sure thing, one sec, let me check
TIM [8:41 pm] thanks, I’m much obliged

Much obliged? Who are you, some Southern politician? Three or four minutes passed and no reply came. He shifted back and forth under his covers, no longer comfortable in this position or that. But pop went his computer soon enough:

KATELYN [8:47 pm] hey sorry about that, I think its chapters 5 through 9
TIM [8:47 pm] excellent, thanks very much Katelyn
KATELYN [8:47 pm] youre welcome Tim

He was relieved that even though she neglected its apostrophe, she at least put the E on the end of “youre.” His anxiety began to wane as he reveled in having carried on an online conversation with her for nine full minutes. He was Harry Potter fighting against the Lord Voldemort of his timidness! He was Captain Picard making First Contact! He had made it further than he would have expected himself to.

Perhaps he was turning a corner, preparing to put himself out for romantic acceptance or rejection by that most fickle beast, Teenage Woman, for the first time in his life. Even though his manner around his fellow “guys” was energetic and sometimes downright obstreperous, he had always been shy about girls, never having been kissed and only a few times hugged, other than by his mother. Even when his male friends discussed what girls were “hot,” he kept mum. He had always fancied himself a sure-thing kind of guy, and while he did not pretend to know much about life’s principal intricacies, he knew enough to know that women were never a sure thing.

This reflection on the achievement of communicating briefly with Katelyn caused him to zone out. A full seven minutes had passed since she had sent her last message dangling, neglected. Did she think he had just abruptly ended the conversation without a proper good-bye? He was eager to keep chatting with her but his self-congratulation had caused him to lose focus on continuing to talk to her. He was mortified again, his wild heart jumping up and down in its chest cavity cage, enraged and fearful. His eyes went wide as he scrambled to think of anything to say but came up empty. He perked up when he heard the pop sound again.

KATELYN [8:54 pm] hey are you going to the hockey game tomorrow night?

It was an unexpected, pleasant surprise. She had messaged him twice in a row! And after a long pause, no less! Like the feet of Fred Astaire his fingers fluttered over the keys.

TIM [8:54 pm] definitely; I’ll see you there, I imagine
KATELYN [8:54 pm] you bet! we’re gonna kick some Taft ass!

He was caught off-guard by her cursing. He did not tend to use such invective, but he secretly enjoyed when girls did.

TIM [8:55 pm] heck yes we are! 2 o’clock tomorrow afternoon, right?
KATELYN [8:55 pm] thats right! See you there!
KATELYN [8:56 pm] hey Tim I’ve gotta run, I’ll see you tomorrow at the game
TIM [8:56 pm] alrighty; bye Katelyn!
KATELYN [8:56 pm] byee xoxo

Did she really just…xoxo? His heart soared at the possibility of what those four characters meant. Two hugs and two kisses! Perhaps she was into him. Perhaps he had just paved the road towards his first kiss and more! The perhapses flew through his mind like a hundred shooting stars. He was beaming now, awed by the possibilities established by this conversation. As he grew more tired, so his thoughts moderated. Let’s get her phone number first. Maybe go out to dinner and/or a movie.

He woke up early the next morning and showered. He showered almost exclusively at night, but today he wanted to look his freshest for her. He applied a modest amount of his favorite eau de toilette, which smelled deliciously of orange. He then decked himself out in black pants, a black turtleneck and his golden yellow Superfan t-shirt. Most everyone who attended big school sporting events wore black and gold—the school colors. He did not don such regalia often, but this was not an ordinary occasion. He looked himself over in the mirror—a rarity—before heading downstairs. He was ready to continue his dogged pursuit of Katelyn Price.

He arrived at the game just as students were beginning to pour in and both teams were taking their warm-up laps around the rink. He took his place just shy of center ice, in the front row, knowing that Katelyn often stood with her friends in the second row. They would be in the middle of the cheering throng of home-team faithful. There would be plenty of time to chat in between plays and periods, during which time he would engage her in conversation eventually leading to an exchange of cell phone numbers.

His fellow students and Superfans streamed in like iron filings to a magnet and soon the black and gold mass was enormous, murmuring, cheering for some of the team’s luminaries. The visiting team brought a busload of fans as well, dressed in crimson and navy blue. It was going to be a raucous game. Only bad blood could come out of the competing cheering sections.

Katelyn still hadn’t arrived by the time the opening puck dropped. Tim was sweating that sneaky sweat again. He cheered only with half his normal voice. His heart thumped in his chest with brutal monotony.

Each team collected a goal in the first period and everyone sat down when the horn sounded for the intermission. As Tim turned around to find his seat, there she was, beaming at the Zamboni. She was radiant, her hair hanging freely this time. She was looking mighty, mighty nice in her Superfan t-shirt, which clung to her curves perfectly. Had she dressed that way for him? Their eyes met. His heart beat differently.

She smiled down at him from her seat in the row behind him. Her eyes were an exotic green-hazel today. “Hey Tim! You made it!”

His own smile was ten miles wide. “I sure did; wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he replied. What a fucking cliché. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. God, she’s beautiful.

He was doing it again. He had nothing else to say. Tim, who would win the “Most Talkative” superlative in the school yearbook when he graduated, had nothing to say. Mortified, he turned around and waited for the game to pick back up. A few minutes later, a whistle from the referee stopped play momentarily and he decided to give it another shot. He stammered, “So Katelyn, did you enjoy the reading in Catcher in the Rye last night?”

“Oh I just SparkNoted it. I had to write a U.S. History paper last night. ”

He sputtered, “I see, I see. Well…” Katelyn smiled warmly but raised a skeptical eyebrow, knowing that Tim had trailed off. It was no use. He was failing miserably at male-female smalltalk, a basic skill of Courtship 101. The referee blew the whistle again and Katelyn fixed her eyes back on the game. Tim turned around, sweating again.

The home team was victorious by a score of 4-2. Everyone left the rink on an adrenaline high except the opposing fans and Tim, who still could not believe his silence in the presence of someone so lovely, so unreasonably sweet. If only he could conquer his irrational fear of talking to her past a few seconds’ awkward pleasantries, she could easily be his, at least for dinner and a movie.

As he walked back across campus to his car, he decided that he would ask her out within the next week, bashfulness-be-damned. He would hold his head up and pop the question—well not the question; a much more preliminary question: “Would you like to go out sometime?” That bluntness would circumnavigate the smalltalk problem and give her the power to accept his request. But would she even consider doing so in light of the fact that they had never spoken at length to each other? To hell with it; just ask her and see what happens. He directed his attention to the roads, which were slickening with the freezing rain that was beginning to fall. Grayness enveloped the region.

~ ~ ~

Their eyes locked once again. His heart raged. He blinked a long, deliberate blink. He was at least smiling. She was smiling too, although she looked like the distraction had kicked away the strands of a good train of thought. She blinked a normal blink. Damn, those eyes!

“Hey there Tim. What’s going on?” Her smile flattened a little.

“Not too much. Just going to do some homework before I head home.” His chest was tightening. His breathing was becoming shallower and more of an effort.

“Cool. Same here.” A pause. Harold Pinter would have loved it.

“Good.” Nothing more.

Seemingly instantly, he was back across the room, standing over his backpack. The main zipper was partly opened. It was an abyss inside. He was sweating. The librarian rustled a few more papers.

Political Insanity

2010-02-02T14:12:00.003-05:00

Most people know that I lean center-right when it comes to politics. I believe in limited federal government by default, rather than tax/spend/grow government. On social issues, I'm fairly moderate--I don't favor overturning Roe v Wade anytime soon, and I can live with same-sex marriage. Take me or leave me as such a person.

Anyway, for who-knows-whatever reason, I follow ultra-cnservative talk show host Laura Ingraham on Twitter (my Twitter name is timgolf2002, incidentally; follow me!). A few days ago, she linked to a post on a conservative blog that shows a picture of President Obama apparently bowing while shaking the hand of the mayor of Tampa, Florida. I don't know how appropriate such a gesture is for the POTUS, but I assure you that some people feel very, very strongly about it. The post was amended, no doubt due to some comments that called our Presiident a "retard," among other inappropriate words. Sure, I don't agree with a whole lot he has done in the last year and ten days or so, but I am not okay with the right-wing vitriol that seems to be cropping up in places. It isn't helpful.

End of frustrated-conservative rant.

Restaurant Ruminations

2010-01-09T21:44:00.002-05:00

I am midway between Pawleys Island and Lexington tonight, as I am dropping my mother off ar Raleigh-Durham Airport tomorrow morning before continuing towards the beginning of Winter Term ad dear old Washington & Lee. After checking into the first Holiday Inn I've ever seen with LG flat-screen TVs in the rooms, we set out for the nearby Streets at SouthPoint and Main Street mall. The place is a bustling monstrosity with two full levels of stores, including Nordstrom, Macy's, and JC Penney. After encountering an hour-long line at the Cheesecake Factory and a two-hour (!!!) wait at the Maggiano's, we came upon Champps Americana, a pretty standard American-ish place with many, many TVs for easy football viewing.

Gripe #1: The Name--Intentional misspelling of words in place names is common and stupid, especially this example. This one would make the likes of Webster and Auden writher around in their graves--a true bastardization of a perfectly good language.

Anyway, we were pleased when the hostess at Champps said that the wait for two people was a mere 20 minutes. We were seated 45 minutes later.

Gripe #2: The Wait--Few things irritate me more than being the victim of gross underestimation of restaurant wait times. I can understand a few extra minutes, but when the actual wait is more than twice the estimation, people are going to be cross.

The food was decent and ample, and I ended up not finishing everything. I asked the waitress if I could have the rest of my food wrapped up. She brought me a styrofoam to-go box and walked away.

Gripe #3: The box--This may fly at cheap places, but I was astounded that the servers at a restaurant that charges upwards of $15 for an entrée wouldn't do what seems to be a no-brainer. Ah well.

That's enough of a diatribe for one evening. Back to Jolly Lexington in the morning.

Cheers for now.

Two examples of "EPIC FAIL" in the same supermarket

2010-01-05T22:37:00.002-05:00

The morning after my mother and I arrived in Pawleys Island, South Carolina, I went to the local Food Lion to get some provisions. My affable checkout representative was a girl named Chasity. In her the two EPIC FAIL examples consist.

1. "Chasity" is not a legitimate name. It is a painfully common misspelling of an only slightly more legitimate name, "Chastity."
2. The Chas(t)ity in question is evidently anything but chaste. She exhibited a very obvious "baby bump" and wore nothing on any finger that would suggest that she is married. Dear me.

In other news, the hyped-up DJ Girl Talk is coming to Washington & Lee. Girl Talk isn't on the original list of "Stuff White People Like," but it sure as hell ought to be.

That's all for now, dear readers.

A day in the city

2009-12-30T22:32:00.003-05:00

There are few places where I would rather spend the penultimate day of the year--of the decade--than in New York. Hell, any day is a good one to spend in New York, as far as I'm concerned.

Every time I visit the city, be it for a day or three, I leave feeling as if I have done absolutely nothing, made no dent whatsoever in the unending list of things to do and see. Today was especially frustrating. Being that it was the 30th of December, Manhattan was as packed with people as ever. My parents, sister and I parked in a garage near Times Square in the hopes of finding a not-terribly-insane line at the cut-rate TKTS booth in order to score some tickets to a show. It was not to be, as we were greeted with an easily hour-long wait in the chilly late New York morning. We just decided to walk around for a while, find a noodle place for lunch, walk around some more, have dinner, and make our escape. I am somewhat ashamed to say we hit all the touristy stores along 5th Avenue--Saks, Tiffany, etc. The opulent displays of clothing and jewelry few people will ever be able to afford are a feast for the eyes, but remain the unsatisfying manifestation of one's more ambitious dreams of personal wealth. So, I try not to dwell on the having-not, rather looking forward to the having.

Which brings me to today's highlight: lunch. The Connecticut Family Gavrich dined at Menchanko-Tei, a Japanese noodle spot northeast of Rockefeller Center. If it's a small sea of vegetables, meat, and soba noodles you're after (and you should be after those things if you aren't already), you will be pleased by the ramen varieties at Menchanko-Tei. I enjoyed their Chanpon, a popular dish in Nagasaki with a tawny pork-based broth. Very savory, and a perfect antidote to the cold day. The surprise highlight of the meal, however, were the "tsukemono," or Japanese pickles. A crunch and a taste totally unlike and more complex than their American counterparts.

As you can see, I could go on and on about food, but I won't, at least not right now.

'Til next time.

"Up in the Air"--Some nice moments

2009-12-26T23:11:00.003-05:00

Tonight, I went to see this recent film with my parents. I love being one of the cool kids. In all seriousness, it was a nice time (difficult for it not to be when I'm not the one paying). But enough about my wild and crazy weekend engagements (spoilers follow; you have been warned)...

"Up in the Air" leaves the audience a little bit down in the dumps, certainly moreso than one would predict after seeing the trailer. Clooney plays his familiar sort of role--a rather charmingly misanthropic middle-aged wiseacre. But this is what America loves him for. He turns in the solid performance that we are accustomed to, so that is all well and good. Vera Farmiga ably plays Clooney's fellow perpetual traveler-cum-siren-cum-betrayer, and Anna Kendrick plays the spunky know-it-all who threatens Clooney's way of doing business and precipitates his awakening to his true loneliness. The acting is pretty good in the film. Without going all Roger Ebert on you, Let me just impart some assorted thoughts (musings, even, since that's what we here at TVM do) before sending you on your way.

My favorite aspect of the movie was the periodic inter-generational dialogue that seems to be going on. Kendrick's character arrives in the company fresh-faced and full of new-age ideas but without experience. In one scene, she bemoans her bad fortune for not having found "the one," as her boyfriend has just broken up with her...via text message. Despite her obvious high intelligence, she receives advice from her older associates, whose values still seem relevant. Definitely a nice moment.

I have more to say about generational interaction, but I'll save it for another time (I have to keep you coming back somehow, don't I?

Cheers.

I'm Baaaaaaack

2009-12-24T20:41:00.002-05:00

Merry Christmas, dear readers (if there are any of you out there).

I'm making a comeback, after nearly five months off god-knows-where in cyberspace. I'll ease my reentry into the blogosphere with just a little thought-nugget (though I reserve the right to blather on at length at any time, so come early and often henceforth!). Here it is:

I really, really don't want to consider the things Ke$ha did for P. Diddy to convince him to make her famous. Yikes.

Peace for now, ladies and gentlemen.

Pandora Picks: Tom Waits

2009-07-28T22:24:00.002-04:00

Sorry I haven't blogged in a while. I'm making it up to you now by sharing some songs by Tom Waits, who has become one of my very favorite musicians because of Pandora.

Many of you probably know that I have non-conventional musical tastes. Substantive and interesting lyrics are important to me. The lack thereof in recent music (that I have heard) is what causes the vast majority of music I enjoy to be older than I am. Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan are two examples of great songwriters whose lyric mastery overcomes, and is in fact enhanced by, the fact that they don't have conventionally "good" singing voices. They are unique in that characteristic. Tom Waits is yet another example of a truly sublime songwriter whose unusual voice (in this case, very deep and harsh--growling, at times) fits the persona of his songs so well that it makes them all the more real and all the more intriguing. He sings from the perspective of characters who hail from and/or are headed to some pretty low places. The songs they sing through Waits give color to a very shady part of society. They are sinister, good-natured, or simply drunk, but they are nearly always, in my opinion, worth listening to. Here are three Tom Waits Songs I think you might enjoy.

"Georgia Lee"

"Pasties and a G-String"

"Tom Traubert's Blues (Four Sheets to the Wind in Copenhagen)"

These are but three songs I enjoy. "Georgia Lee" and "Tom Traubert's Blues" are quite emotional songs, while "Pasties and a G-String," as the song title suggests, is pretty light-hearted and silly but nonetheless entertaining.

Cheers.

The Most Interesting Blog Post in the World

2009-07-08T12:08:00.002-04:00

...probably not. I just wanted to say that I have not seen a television commercial campaign that has amused me more than that of Dos Equis, for "The Most Interesting Man in the World." In short, I want to be that man. I know I don't drink beer, but the commercials in this campaign are so compelling that it doesn't even matter to me. See what I mean:

Stay interested, my friends.

A Note

2009-06-24T23:35:00.002-04:00

Dear Democratic Party--

We'll see your John Edwards and raise you John Ensign and Mark Sanford. Action to you.

Love (and Lust),

--The Republicans

Pretty shameful for everyone. No wonder people in other countries think Americans are a joke. Look who's representing us.

Pandora Picks: Madeleine Peyroux

2009-06-24T00:30:00.004-04:00

Many of you may be familiar with Pandora, also referred to as the "Music Genome Project." It is an internet radio website where listeners can customize their own radio stations by artist or song. The Pandora system then chooses music that is similar to that specified. It plays some songs of the specific artist around whom the station is based, but mostly goes into other artists. It's great for people who have grown somewhat weary of their own music collections. For the better part of the last four months, I have listened to one of my stations on Pandora. It's "Leonard Cohen Radio" to which I have added "Artist Seeds" for Bob Dylan, John Prine and Tom Waits.

Every so often I will post about an artist that has come up on one of my Pandora stations whose work might interest you as well. First up is Madeleine Peyroux, whose voice (to me, at least) is a dead ringer for that of Billie Holiday. She reminds me of a less pop-like version of well-liked singer Norah Jones. Two of my favorite songs of hers are:

"Don't Wait Too Long" (This one isn't bad but I prefer the original, not able to be embedded, but found here)

"Blue Alert"

Cheers.

--Tim

Matters of Respect

2009-06-19T15:41:00.002-04:00

I don't normally comment on news items in this blog, but I feel compelled to write briefly on the following news story.

During a hearing in Washington DC on Tuesday, Senator Barbara Boxer (D-CA) was questioning Brigadier General Michael Walsh on the state of the levees that surround New Orleans. General Walsh, being a man well-versed in Army protocol of respect, addressed Sen. Boxer as "ma'am." Even though "ma'am" for women, along with "sir" for men or "Senator" in general is acceptable, Sen. Boxer was not satisfied. Interrupting the General's response, she asked him to address her as "Senator," citing the fact that she'd "worked SO hard to get that title." Naturally, she neglected to do her part in the formality and address the man she was chiding as "General." Meanwhile, none of the other 99 U.S. Senators has ever been known to make such a request. It is a bit disappointing to see someone who represents so many people behave indignantly towards a member of the military, especially one of such high rank.

Cheers.

Supermarket Silliness

2009-06-18T10:58:00.001-04:00

A BLT salad with bacon??? Redundant AND delicious.

I'm Back!

2009-06-16T01:09:00.002-04:00

...albeit briefly tonight.

As you all probably know, I am a mildly interested conservative. I realized tonight that there's no better way to clear out a corner of a crowded Apple store in a mall than by finding the demo computer with the biggest screen and promptly engaging Safari b navigating to the Drudge Report or Rush Limbaugh websites. Perhaps someday i will surreptitiously reset the homepage of all the computers in the store to Ann Coulter's blog, just for a laugh.

That's all for tonight. I've realized that I have a better shot at posting with more regularity if I do so briefly.

Fraternal Return and Internal Return

2009-05-04T01:02:00.001-04:00

Nietzsche argued for the idea of "eternal return," a notion that seeks to reconcile the infinity of time with the finiteness of the universe. The mustachioed German philosopher held that time is not linear, but cyclical. Think of the movie "Groundhog Day," where Bill Murray relives the same day over and over again.

It is Alumni Weekend here at W&L, which means it is time to witness the yearly phenomenon I feel should rightfully be called "fraternal return," which consists in what I feel is appropriately called "internal return."

My fraternity, Lambda Chi Alpha, kicked off the weekend with a cocktail party in honor of returning alumni yesterday from 5-7 PM. While current brothers mingled a little bit with those who graduated in the last five years or so, those who graduated in the 80s and 70s (and a few from the 60s, even) hung around together.

While I would like to have seen more cross-generation reaching-out, it became apparent that that is not the primary goal of coming back to the fraternity house after five, 10, 20, 35, 45 years in the big scary outside world. Rather, those who come back and hang out around the house for much of the weekend do so in order to recover memories of their times here.

With them laughing loudly and drinking and eating heartily, one might have mistakenly regarded the reverie of some as strange and perhaps a bit immature, but I disagree. As men of 40 years or more told some of us stories about how someone fell out of the third floor bathroom window or about how there used to be a beer machine disguised as a soda machine on the second floor, they did so with wild eyes that nearly had us thinking these events took place last week, rather than before some of us were born. It is strange--nearly magical--how this house brings the age of the spirits of all who live here now and have lived here in the past together.

Thus, coming back to the fraternity house after years away is not just coming back to a place but to a bygone time. The internal part of this return comes in the form of the brief brightening of the spirits to college-age vitality. Noticing the generations this house has touched and helped to mold makes me appreciate it all the more. I hope to make the most of my time here, knowing that as soon as I exit its safety for the next stage in life, part of me will be wishing I was back, anxious to return.

Television Poisoning, Part II

2009-05-01T23:06:00.001-04:00

The second critical element of television poisoning, of course, is the abject putrescence of nearly all commercials, which often make me feel like a banana in the desert. Take for example:

- A recent Toyota commercial that boldly and inexplicably commits one of the deadly sins of grammar (at least in my eyes): pluralization with an apostrophe. Mind-bogglingly, NO ONE involved in the making of this commercial was able to prevent it from selling "Corolla's," "Venza's," and "Tundra's." I will never buy a Toyota.

- The incessant "Five Dollar Footlong" campaign that Subway has made a part of every single ad it has run, with increasing ridiculousness. I never thought I'd wish to see the Jared Fogel before/after comparison pictures again.

- Bob's Discount Furniture commercials are legendary for their mind-meltingly low-brow commercials. See for yourself...Bob-o-Pedic commercial.

These examples comprise but a drop in the vast toxic slurry that is television advertisement. It is just another step in the full-scale social acceptance of the lowest common denominator.

Television Poisoning, Part I (A First-Hand Account of the Disease)

2009-04-19T22:50:00.006-04:00

I'm lying in bed, soon to go to sleep. When I wake up tomorrow morning, I will begin my second Spring Term at W&L with Physics for the Non-Scientist at 12:20. With that and an English course on literature about the Islamic world from 1100-1600 comprising my academic load for the term, I should be busy, but not overly so. I'm also looking forward to playing a good bit of golf and otherwise enjoying the gorgeous time of year that has, at last, arrived in Virginia.

I'm looking forward, but I'm also looking back on my Spring Break. I had a nice, relaxing week at home. Aside from playing golf a few times and writing a couple articles for my father about golf courses, I was spectacularly unproductive.

I managed to watch the 18 released episodes of the latest season of the show "24." At about 43 minutes per episode, I have invested very nearly 13 hours in the show in the past 8 days instead of reading the Bill Bryson book on Australia that I recently acquired. In terms of television, it (along with "The Soup," occasionally) is one of my only guilty pleasures. Therefore, I write this somewhat bashfully, but there you go.

In the past week-plus, I have been so heavily inundated by espionage, double- and triple-crosses, and implausibly deep-running conspiracy plot lines in the show that I fear that the line between real life and Jack Bauer's America--an America full of villains with hilariously cliché flaws and good-guys who are just organized enough to mostly stave off catastrophe but too incompetent to quell threats altogether--begins to get fuzzy after prolonged exposure to "24."

Now, this doesn't mean I'm going to be taking things into my own hands and plodding off to try and save the world with my tactical brilliance and totally rad self-defense moves. However, I feel more vigilant--you never know when some normally-amiable soul has gone and gotten himself or herself infected by the disease of silly mischief. Furthermore, I find myself half-wishing I could have the earnest, foreboding music of "24" follow me around, subtly changing as the situation dictates, danger alternatively confronting and shrinking away from me. And if ever something happens, for those orange digital numbers to pop up and hold the world in suspense for between 180 and 300 seconds until my wanderings resume would be quite amusing. If someone could arrange this at a reasonable price, do contact me.

Cheers.

P.S. In Part II I aim to complain about how some commercials are ruining our youth. Stay tuned, dear readers, stay tuned.

The Wood Man Entertaineth

2009-04-13T00:30:00.003-04:00

Most people who know me well know that I am an avid lover of Woody Allen films. He is responsible for "Annie Hall"--my favorite movie of all time--as well as some other cinematic gems such as "Radio Days," "Mighty Aphrodite," and "Manhattan."

Tonight I watched another intriguing film in the Allen canon, "Crimes and Misdemeanors." Despite a tangible preoccupation with such serious issues as death, general morality, and justice, the film is a comedy with a great many witty one-liners and absurd-yet-oddly-realistic events. And with such a capable cast--including Martin Landau, Alan Alda, Mia Farrow, Anjelica Huston, Jerry Orbach, Sam Waterston, and Allen himself--two parallel stories mesh very nicely instead of annoying and confusing the viewer, until everything kind of resolves in the end in the gracefully matter-of-fact, life-carries-on sort of denouement that endears Allen's movies to audiences. The film, while funny and silly at times, raises some intriguing questions about death and justice and faith without being preachy or pushy. I would recommend it to anyone willing to see a cerebral, amusing film that lacks the pretense and noise from which so many current efforts suffer.

Cheers.

(I know this is kind of a random post; I'll try to return to my more introspective kinds of commentaries forthwith.)

I'm Baaaaack!

2009-04-12T00:09:00.002-04:00

The last month has been pretty hectic for me. I'm sorry I haven't blogged lately; three writing-heavy classes (Northern European Medieval Art, History of the English Language, and Native American Literature) have sapped much of my creative strength of late, so TVM has been sadly neglected for some weeks. Well no more, I say! I will find the time to blog regularly again this coming week (my Spring Break) and over the coming months, should you find it in your hearts and net-surfing schedules to make room for my random thoughts once again.

Cheers.

--Tim

"What A Stupid I Am"

2009-02-19T20:08:00.003-05:00

The title of this here little post comprises the phrase uttered by professional golfer Roberto DiVicenzo upon realizing the fact that he signed his scorecard for an incorrect score, costing him the 1968 Masters Tournament. It describes my feelings earlier today perfectly.

Excited that today's high temperature would be a balmy (by February-in-Connecticut standards) 45 degrees today, I planned to drive down to the quaint (save for the huge Pfizer plant compound) town of Groton, CT to play golf at Shennecossett Municipal Golf Course, a lovely old golf course that stays open year-round, weather permitting. I had played a few days ago without a problem, so I assumed that today would be similarly suitable for golf. Knowing that Shennecossett posts alerts about the golf course online but absolutely sure that the golf course would be open, last night's rain be damned, I paid the website a formality of a visit, and seeing the note "The golf course will be open, weather permitting," took my cue to get in the car and drive the 80 minutes to Groton, salivating at the idea of another chilly but enjoyable day of golf.

(yours truly, on the 17th green)
(view beyond the 16th green out towards Long Island Sound)

I should have known as soon as I made a left onto Plant St. towards the golf course, as I saw no one playing. I rationalized this suspicion immediately, thinking that people weren't as likely to take Thursday afternoon off as they were to take Monday afternoon off. Undeterred by a deterrent that would have surely deterred the sane, I unloaded my golf bag, put on my shoes, and strode about 500 feet from the parking lot to the pro shop. Almost cheerily, the guy working therein informed me, "Too much rain last night...course's closed...call back tomorrow morning to see if we're open."

Spirits broken, I walked back to the car. Whereas I had been singing joyously along with Cat Stevens, Leonard Cohen, and Bob Dylan (bless you, creators of Pandora.com!) on the way down, the songs that played the rest of the afternoon in the car washed over me with the iciness of the body of water abreast of which I had sought to play.

After a similar lack of success at Fenwick Golf Course (a cute little nine hole course located in a village where Katherine Hepburn used to summer), my disappointment turned to fury. Cursing myself, the golf course officials, and Mother Nature, I turned for home. Determined not to completely waste the day, I stopped by GolfQuest, a semi-high-tech outdoor driving range in Southington, CT, and hit balls for an hour or so. Its effect was only marginally better than that of a Band-Aid on a stab wound, but it was better than nothing.

If there is any silver lining to the day, I discovered two great songs through Pandora. The first, "Desolation Row," is my new favorite Bob Dylan song, and the second, "Brompton Oratory," is an interesting little ditty by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.

"Desolation Row"
"Brompton Oratory"

Cheers.

Being Out Of Touch: My Anti-Drug

2009-02-16T22:25:00.002-05:00

I am sitting with my parents, watching television. After the extreme disappointment of the UConn basketball game, we moved on to TNT and "The Closer." It was an amusing episode, but not the point of this post.

The new show to follow "The Closer" on Monday nights is a crappy modern-day "Mad Men"-type show called "Trust Me." It stars Eric McCormack, formerly Will on "Will and Grace," and Tom Cavanagh, who I know as the annoying brother of J.D. on "Scrubs." In this evening's episode, McCormack's character solicited advice from his daughter, whom he sees as a normal teenager, about how best to appeal to young folks in an ad campaign. Unfortunately, he fails to understand that she is decidedly abnormal in her enjoyment of downloadable books and Leonard Cohen (a girl after my own heart). He ultimately makes a fool of himself in a meeting because of this oversight, and realizes how out-of-touch he is, much to his dismay.

Even though the show is pretty bad, I was amused by the attempted confrontation of coolness. Now, I certainly do not need to be told that I am out-of-touch. I know it, and I embrace it. But I was made to think about the way in which I am out-of-touch. I have always been pretty comfortable in my own skin, but I wondered if part of my strangeness is manufactured from within. Could I be more "normal" if I wanted to? Do I accentuate my weirdness because that is what makes me stand out most? Could I learn to appreciate rap music?

I am inclined to think that the notion that I actually could be less out-there if I tried would be giving myself too much credit, refusing to acknowledge how out-of-touch I truly am, which is, suffice it to say, quite out-of-touch. And I think I'm okay with that.

(Apologies for a bit of blogging-for-the-sake-of-blogging, but I have to feel productive somehow.)

Cheers.

For Lack Of A More Original Post Idea...

2009-02-06T01:34:00.004-05:00

...25 random facts about me. I'm not tagging people, though (partially because I'm not cool enough to have been tagged in such a message. But I'm not bitter). The first chunk of facts will be pretty standard, but I'll try to get a little more random as the list wears on.

1. Since the age of six, I have been infected with the incurable condition of addiction to the game of golf. I love all facets of it--from the history of the game to golf course architecture to playing competitively--and believe I always will. I would love to be in the golf business somehow, someday.

2. If my desire from #1 goes unrealized, I'd be happy to go into the food business--specifically, I'd love to be a noted food critic someday. Anyone who knows me knows that I am as interested in food as a preacher is in the Bible.

3. Speaking of religion, I have at no point in my life been a religious person. My mother's family are Greek Orthodox while my father's side is Jewish. I suppose I lean somewhat towards the Jewish side, if anything, but I'm more guided by the notion of human truth, rather than universal truth, so religion is not a big part of my identity.

4. My favorite Jew is also my favorite filmmaker, Woody Allen. "Annie Hall" is the best movie I know of. Allen's honorable-mentions include "Radio Days," "Manhattan," "Sleeper," "Love & Death," and "Everyone Says I Love You."

5. Woody Allen also penned one of my favorite short stories, "The Kugelmass Episode," but I'd have to say my favorite short stories are "The Secret Life Of Walter Mitty" and "The Catbird Seat," both written by James Thurber. I'm a fan of humorism.

6. Speaking of comedies, I'm a big fan of Shakespeare, especially of his--duh!--comedies. I love "The Comedy Of Errors" and "Much Ado About Nothing" most.

7. As for music, my tastes are more in older material than new. Specifically, I am a fan of folk, rock, jazz, and classical. I've been listening to two albums by the Irish group The Pogues lately. They're great.

8. My favorite word is "donnybrook."

9. One of my greatest personal accomplishments: eating 35 buffalo wings in 25 minutes one afternoon in high school.

10. I have déjà vu ll the time, and it freaks me out. I have brief episodes when I recall strange music and images and smells that I am sure are from past dreams. I get nauseous and disoriented whenever this happens, and it's really a strange feeling.

11. I don't drink alcohol, really. I have before, but I don't do it with any kind of regularity. I feel confident in saying that a fairly hefty number of people would be very amused to see me drunk, but they may not get their chance. I will say that my aversion to drinking has nothing to do with 21 being the legal age (that is to say, I could well start drinking occasionally, recreationally, before then; I just don't know). I will do it when the spirit moves me.

12. Speaking of my 21st birthday, it will fall on October 10, 2010. That means that that date will read 10/10/10. Pretty excellent, no?

13. I am a huge trivia nerd. My father taught me the state capitals when I was absurdly young (3 or 4), and I've known them ever since. I watch Jeopardy whenever I can, and I've taken the online test a few times. I would love to be on the College Championship.

14. Regrettably, I'm a really gullible person, and it must be obvious to people when they meet me. People I've never met in my life will mess with me all the time. Are the words "I'm gullible!" written on my forehead and I just can't see them?

15. I wasn't always a goody-two-shoes. I was sent to the principal's office in 1st grade for participating in a pretend swordfight--the weapons were plastic forks.

16. I have a fine motor-skills deficiency. I use a computer for tests and in-class writing assignments because whereas most people have no problem cranking out a bunch of written pages by hand, my hand and wrist seize up after a couple sentences. It's super-annoying.

17. I've played alto (and a little bit of tenor) saxophone since the summer after 4th grade. I plateaued in terms of my ability right after 8th grade, but I still enjoy playing.

18. My favorite work of all literature is J.D. Salinger's Catcher in the Rye. I try to read it at least once per year. I've never encountered a character that resonates with me more strongly than does Holden Caulfield.

19. I have not done the following things in at least three years: put on sunscreen, eaten a bowl of cereal, ridden a bicycle.

20. I don't really know what I want to do for a living. I know I'm going to major in English at W&L, but what happens beyond that is less clear. Part of me would love to go back and teach English at Westminster for a couple years, but I don't really know. It's kind of disconcerting when I think about it. Probably ought to get on that whole figuring-out-what-to-do thing pretty soon.

21. I have never been in a physical fight in my life. Never hauled off and slugged someone (though there have been many times when I would have loved to). Even though I'm about the weakest dude you'll ever meet, I'm afraid that if I ever do get in such an altercation, some accident will happen and I'll hurt someone far more than I ever intended to.

22. I've always been very averse to change. If I am comfortable in one situation, it is very difficult for me to try something different. It took me a long time to adjust to living away from home. As soon as I started to get comfortable in my Freshmen dorm room, last year was over and I had to pack it all up. I've become comfortable in my fraternity house a little more quickly, thankfully.

23. I wish I had the mind to be a master singer/songwriter, someone on the order of Bob Dylan or Leonard Cohen (my two favorite such artists). But I think all of the greatest songs have been written; I can count the number of original songs from the last three years that I genuinely enjoy on one hand.

24. I don't really know why I maintain this blog. I think that's why I don't post more regularly. I would like to say that I blog because I feel like I have interesting things to say, but that is certainly not my call to make. If you reach the end of this post and don't feel as though the time you took to read it was completely wasted, then I suppose I haven't done this in vain.

25. This was one of the more challenging posts I've undertaken. I have found it quite difficult to provide 25 facts about myself without repeating things (and I probably have here a little bit...god knows it's been a verbose list). Oh well. I gave it a whirl.

Cheers.

And Now, A Brief Public Service Announcement

2009-01-25T00:41:00.004-05:00

The sinister nature of fast food advertising never ceases to amaze me.

Most will agree that the McDonald's Dollar Menu (and its ilk) is one of Man's greatest innovations. Most would not consider it a stretch at all to declare the Double Cheeseburger one of the yummiest possible uses of a dollar.

Most Dollar Menu veterans will note the recent introduction of a new Dollar Menu item: the McDouble. Just a renaming of the Double Cheeseburger. Or is it?

I learned the dastardly truth last night, when I was hit head-on by a snack attack. I had quite the DC hankering. When I glanced at the Dollar Menu at the nearest site of the Golden Arches, I noticed that a Double Cheeseburger was now an infuriating $1.19! Confused and a little troubled, I inquired as to the difference between the McDouble and the Double Cheeseburger. My braces-toothed order-taker informed me in a splendidly lazy drawl that "the Double Cheeseburger has two pieces of cheese and the McDouble has one piece."

This move by McD's is really pretty stingy, in my opinion. As one of the few stocks that has felt relatively little to no heat from the recent economic downturn, the decision to quibble by 19 cents over a single piece of ultra-processed cheese-type matter is quite silly. But that's the way it goes, I guess.

Anyway, I just thought I would warn those of you who have not yet been duped by The Man (none other than that bastard Ronald McDonald, in this case) that he is fixing to fleece you out of 19 cents per DC if you're not careful.

You'd better run, Ronnie. We're on to your little game.

Corporate pigs.

Pictures of Odd Things in Public Places, Part 2: Mall

2009-01-23T23:51:00.008-05:00

...at long last. I've been a killer combination of busy and lazy since I returned to school, so forgive the blog pause. Anyhoo...

One afternoon when my family was in South Carolina, we went to the imposing Coastal Grand Mall. Still a giddy new iPhone owner, I snapped some pictures of amusing things in the mall, just as I did at Piggly Wiggly. Again, captions will succeed the pictures.

I'd put five-to-one odds against Gianni Bini and Antonio Melani even existing as real people. One of the funniest things I see in malls is department store in-house brands with faux-elegant Italian names that are clearly meant to remind would-be consumers of bona fide fashion names like Giorgio Armani and Donatella Versace.

I'd say it's pretty ironic that a brand called Hobo International is trying to sell fine leather handbags.

My instinct is to stay away from women dressed like the one in the above ad. It's a strong instinct.

Shameless self-humiliation, to show you that I put it all on the line for my loyal blog readers.

Though I am a contented owner of quite a few articles of Polo clothing, the people in their ads never cease to evoke feelings of bewilderment. Not only do the mannequin-like poses and facial expressions (and, no doubt, masks of makeup and airbrushing) disquiet me, their outfits are almost always ridiculous. I can't say I see many young men wearing bow ties under zip-up sweaters, but perhaps I don't run with the right crowd.

In conclusion, where's Don Draper when you need him?

Cheers.

Pictures of Odd Things in Public Places, Part 1: Supermarket

2009-01-02T10:52:00.007-05:00

One of the most useful features of my new iPhone is the ease with which I can transfer pictures I've taken with it to my laptop. That has allowed me to go a bit hog-wild in taking pictures of things I find odd or amusing where'er I go. A few nights, I did so in the local Piggly Wiggly, a supermarket prevalent in parts of the South (we've been staying in Pawleys Island, SC for the better part of the last week). Captions will be under their pictures.

Gotta love seeing a package of cookies using the last name of a very famous philosopher. I think the company missed an opportunity to extend the association with Leibniz. The obvious motto for the cookies should be "Leibniz: the best of all possible cookies." Oh well; advertising just ain't what it used to be.

This pretty much sums up why I would never want to be a huge pop-culture celebrity. My obsession with Angelina Jolie is very intense and very private, and I'd like to keep it that way, thank you very much! (Note: I am not obsessed with Ms. Jolie)

I can only imagine some of the lines in this one:
Captain Bluebeard caressed her so gently and tenderly that the callouses on his hands melted away to nothing but ecstasy against her rost cheek.
"Yarrrr, dear Elizabeth, I could never make ye walk the plank."
Et Cetera, et cetera.

I wrote of the monosyllabic-detergent phenomenon some months ago, but I thought I'd capture it in its natural habitat, as it were.

Supermarkets can be really interesting studies of advertising, I've always thought. There are head-scratchers and laughs around every corner. Part 2 will be a similar format, but from the Coastal Grand Mall in Myrtle Beach, SC, at which my family spent a couple hours yesterday afternoon.

'Til then.

Anew

2009-01-01T00:04:00.003-05:00

How my 2008 ended: watching the movie Traffic and then watching "Deal Or No Deal."

How my 2009 began: watching Robbie Knievel jump over a fake volcano at the Mirage in Las Vegas on FOX .

Nowhere to go but up, eh?

Happy New Year, y'all.

'Tis The Season, Ain't It?

2008-12-25T11:11:00.002-05:00

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

2008-12-18T19:25:00.003-05:00

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. "

2008-12-08T21:18:00.002-05:00

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

2008-11-30T23:48:00.003-05:00

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

2008-11-14T01:31:00.003-05:00

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

2008-11-05T01:05:00.002-05:00

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

2008-10-30T17:18:00.002-04:00

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

2008-10-15T17:00:00.002-04:00

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

2008-10-09T22:34:00.002-04:00

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

2008-09-24T00:44:00.002-04:00

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

2008-09-14T01:17:00.002-04:00

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...

2008-09-04T23:31:00.002-04:00

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

2008-09-03T00:42:00.003-04:00

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...

2008-09-01T22:43:00.002-04:00

...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

2008-08-29T00:02:00.002-04:00

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!

2008-08-16T20:55:00.002-04:00

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

2008-08-08T03:50:00.002-04:00

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

2008-07-31T16:28:00.002-04:00

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

2008-07-25T22:56:00.002-04:00

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

2008-07-11T23:01:00.002-04:00

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

2008-06-28T17:18:00.002-04:00

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

2008-06-24T13:46:00.000-04:00

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

2008-06-24T13:02:00.000-04:00

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

2008-06-19T07:25:00.000-04:00

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!

2008-06-17T05:17:00.000-04:00

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

2008-06-07T12:23:00.000-04:00

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

2008-05-25T19:14:00.000-04:00

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

2008-05-24T02:11:00.000-04:00

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

2008-05-19T15:32:00.000-04:00

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?

2008-05-07T22:07:00.000-04:00

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...

2008-04-26T15:13:00.000-04:00

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

2008-04-12T00:01:00.000-04:00

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?

2008-04-04T21:04:00.000-04:00

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

2008-03-31T22:04:00.000-04:00

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

2008-03-21T00:26:00.000-04:00

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

2008-03-16T00:37:00.000-04:00

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

2008-02-18T23:56:00.000-05:00

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...

2008-02-17T23:39:00.000-05:00

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

2008-02-16T00:09:00.001-05:00

...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

2008-01-12T14:02:00.000-05:00

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

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

2008-01-08T21:42:00.001-05:00

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

2008-01-05T01:38:00.000-05:00

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

2008-01-02T02:19:00.000-05:00

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…”

Ten Things I Learned In My First Semester Of College: Number 8—“In The County”

2007-12-28T09:59:00.000-05:00

As I write this at approximately 8:15 on a Thursday morning, I can say with a grim certainty that I do not know exactly where I am. I know approximately: I am at a Holiday In Express somewhere near (or possibly within) Pocomoke City, MD, on the so-called DelMarVa Peninsula. I have a lovely view of the hotel parking lot and a KFC (no, I have not partaken, but I am guilty of a dalliance with a Popeye’s Chicken in Princess Anne last night). But, I don’t know anything more specific than that about my location on this crazy planet.

I know what some of you may be saying to yourselves at this point, dear readers, but it is not what you think. Indeed, your straitlaced buddy remains intact. This uncertainty is in no way due to my fist wild night of partying and drunkenness. I don’t know if I ever wish to have such a night given the anecdotes I have heard thus far in my college career. But that is a subject for another post.

I used to think I knew exactly where I was as all times, at least in America, but I was proven wrong (an experience I do not ever enjoy—perhaps one of my greatest flaws) earlier this year by some of my dorm neighbors. The short version is best presented in bullet-point form.

- Every physical point in my home state of Connecticut lies within the limits of a county.
- Every physical point within a county in Connecticut also lies within a town.
- Every physical point in the United States lies within the limits of a county.
- Every physical point in the United States does not lie within a town.
- Ergo, there are some (many, in fact) areas in the US that are not within the limits of a town.

To quote Eric Burdon, “this really blew my mind, the fact that me, an overfed [short]-haired leaping gnome should be” wrong. On that night, instead of doing my Calculus homework, I learned that people can actually live “in the county”—not within the limits of any town. It’s a depressing notion to me—not having a concrete town to call one’s own was obviously a big enough concern to Connecticut’s founding fathers, a fact that has not gone overlooked by yours truly—but to many, it’s the way things are. That the following sort of conversation can take place is a bit depressing:

- American A: Hello friend; you seem like an agreeable chap. How’s about let’s be chums, eh?
- American B: Agreed! Say, where are you from?
- A: (energetically) I live in the town of Avon, Connecticut.
- B: (depressed) Well gee, that’s nice…
- A: (puzzled) I say, friend, what seems to be the trouble?
- B: (stifling tears) I…I live in an…(sniffles) unincorporated area! (cue dramatic music, B breaks down in sorrow)
- A: Oh me, what a shame! (fades to black)

This brief dramatization hopefully gives some idea of my own perspective on towns, etc. I personally hope I’ll always live in an incorporated area. Subject to the lawlessness of the open frontier (not really), I just don’t know if I could survive.

No lyrical selection today.

—12/27/07

NOTE TO READERS: Please let me know what you think of these posts through comments (you can submit anonymously if you wish). If I'm boring you to tears, please let me know.

Ten Things I Learned In My First Semester of College: Number 9—Snow Sensations

2007-12-26T00:10:00.000-05:00

As I write this, I am sitting in the car on the way to Christmas Dinner some 65 miles from home. The scene is, frankly, an ugly brown-flecked white, as the snow that fell about 10 days ago still remains, topped by an icy crust—the remnants of some precipitation from the middle of last week. Being a golfer through-and through, I despise snow, despite my New England upbringing. Previously, I’d always felt as though if I never saw snow again, I wouldn’t mind.

A few days before I left my lovely university in the South for Christmas Break, it snowed for about three or four hours one cold December morning. Only an inch or so accumulated, and as the temperature rose through the afternoon, much of it was gone soon enough. This wasn’t terribly interesting in itself—I know that the area where my school is located receives some snow each year (though happily very much less than I see in Connecticut). As I nearly fell flat on my face on the way to class, I cursed under my breath, but I then perked up at the thought that this could well be the first time that some of my dorm neighbors had ever seen snow fall.

Sure enough, I was correct. Two of my best college friends to-date—a Texan and a Floridian—had never witnessed a snow event first-hand. This fascinated me. Now, I’m not saying that I’m so ignorantly egocentric as to have been surprised that there are Americans who have never experienced what is a part of yearly life in the American Northeast (I should hope not, at least), but the revelation was a bit jarring anyway.

This little experience and reflection re-illuminated for me one of the most important non-academic aspects of college—the coming-together of people from all over the place. It excites me to know people who call places such as Florida and Texas (not to mention Fiji and Nepal) home, as they are places with which I would like to become somewhat acquainted someday. I would also like to think that people think my living in Connecticut somewhat interesting (and despite what people may tell you, dear readers, Connecticut is usually a lovely place), if for no other reason than the fact that I get to see snow fall every year. At the end of all this, I have a slightly renewed appreciation for snow. Though its prolonged presence will forever irritate me, I now see it as an intriguing bit of manna from the winter sky. At least for 12 hours or so.

No lyrical selection this evening.

Ten Things I Learned In My First Semester of College, Number Ten: A Phallic Phenomenon

2007-12-24T00:28:00.000-05:00

(As always, I apologize for posting so sparsely. Thanks for sticking with me.)

Like most college freshmen, a “whiteboard” hangs on the outside of my dorm room door. Perhaps I should have known that my tendency to invite constant fun-poking and jibe-slinging would follow me to college. I fell asleep my first night at school and woke up the next morning to discover that someone had obnoxiously drawn a penis on said whiteboard. Now I had gone to high school with a few people who enjoyed drawing such things on any available flat surface, so I wasn’t immune to the phenomenon. However, after all, this is college. You know, a time of maturity, of taking responsibility, right? Apparently not! Nary a day has gone by when I haven’t discovered such perverse artwork on my whiteboard.

It is also worth noting that this activity is not confined to the sui generis “three-second version” (though this is certainly the most popular manifestation). Oh no, dear readers, sometimes I emerge one morning to find a drawing so explicitly, appallingly detailed (courtesy, usually, of one Strong Islander in particular) that I must make audible my bemusement at human weirdness (usually a chuckle, sniff, or guffaw). I refuse to go into further detail because it would serve no good—suffice it to say that such scenes as are drawn on my whiteboard would hurt the eyes of any decent person.

BOTTOM LINE: It would appear that some young adult males are so very intrigued by their own, shall we say, unique equipment that they wish to express their love for said equipment by drawing it hither and thither. Is it because they feel inadequate and therefore must compensate by bringing such a heretofore-taboo subject into daily life so incessantly? Are they so desperate for the intimate companionship of another that their fixation with drawing penises should be seen as a cry for help and counseling? I am not altogether sure of the answer.

Perhaps an appropriate lyrical selection for this subject is the anthem of all those who are sexually lonely and frustrated: Jackson Browne’s ode to his own member, “Rosie.”

“She was standing at the load-in when the trucks rolled up,
She was sniffing all around like a half-grown female pup,
She wasn't hard to talk to; looked like she had nowhere to go,
So I gave her my pass so she could get in and see the show.

Well I sat her down right next to me and I got her a beer,
While I mixed that sound on stage so the band could hear,
The more I watched her watch them play, the less I could think of to say,
And when they walked off stage, the drummer swept that girl away.

But Rosie you're all right - you wear my ring,
When you hold me tight - Rosie that's my thing,
When you turn out the light - I've got to hand it to me…
Looks like it's me and you again tonight, Rosie.

Well I guess I might have known from the start: she'd come for a star,
Might have told my imagination not to run too far,
Of all the times that I've been burned, by now you'd think I'd have learned
That it's who you look like, and not who you are.

But Rosie you're all right - you wear my ring,
When you hold me tight - Rosie that's my thing,
When you turn out the light - I've got to hand it to me…
Looks like it's me and you again tonight, Rosie.”

A Grand Old Time With The Grand Old Party

2007-11-28T22:55:00.000-05:00

In the relatively sporadic life of this blog, I haven't really had the motivation to craft a bread-and-butter, straight-ahead political post. So, without further ado...

I watched this evening's Republican Presidential Debate (YouTube-themed) from St. Petersburg, Florida, and I feel compelled to give my thoughts.

- Tonight's biggest loser, in my opinion, was Mitt Romney. His night began poorly when he picked a childish fight with Rudy Giuliani, and ended up sounding like a guest on Jerry Springer (I'll comment on Rudy momentarily). Later on, when asked whether or not he took "every single word of" The Bible literally, instead of answering the obvious "No, but...," he stammered and stuttered an evasive response. When confronted by John McCain about whether or not "waterboarding" consitutes torture, he yet again dodged and responded very obtusely to a question he could have very easily handled.

- Tonight's winners, in my opinion, were Mike Huckabee, John McCain, and Rudy Giuliani, respectively.
- During the speaking time he was given (which was more than in previous GOP debates, it seemed), he showed the audience that he is as eloquent as any of his competitors. One of the people I was watching the debate with remarked on how smooth Huckabee is, which is a very good appraisal of his rhetoric. He rarely stumbled, showed energy, wit, and humor, and made his stances clear. I came out of the debate with much more knowledge of and respect for what Huckabee is about.
- John McCain continued his straight-talk way tonight, which gives him a lot of persnal credibility with me. Even though I don't support everything he supports 100%, I am impressed at how well he acquits himself against his fellow Republicans. And of course, his record and experience is simply unparalleled, which is a big bonus. I also reject the idea that he is too old, so his grandfatherly appearance suits me fine.
- I felt that his instigating the sily quarrel over whether or not Romney employed illegal immigrants (a topic I aim to tackle in a near-future post) with Romney aside, Giuliani came up with many fine answers tonight. I am sure that people are wont to criticize him for constantly referring to his experience as mayor of New York City, but the more facts he gives in support of his credibility as a candidate, the better I feel about him as a prospective Commander-in-Chief. In short, he remains my front-runner because if he can turn New York City 180 degrees, he certainly has the ability to affect the kind of changes in America that will be necessary going forward, be they in foreign policy, economic policy, or social policy.

- Ron Paul's ideas on foreign policy scare me quite a bit. Don't let him convince you that he isn't an isolationist, because that's exactly what he is. His reasoning that our problems with radical Islamic terrorism will go away as soon as we vacate the region is simply ludicrous. John McCain is correct--along with most of the other candidates--in saying that if we cut-and-run from the Middle East, it will symbolize a concession to arguably the most dangerous group of people in the world (and of course I am referring to radical Islamic terrorists, because as Giuliani correctly observed, Islam is a vibrant, peaceful religion that has been corrupted by a few sick individuals). That is a concession that must not be made. When John McCain was in Iraq over Thanksgiving and he brought up the ideas of the American war opposition, the response by the soldiers with whom he spent time was "Let us win." Those soldiers are absolutely right. They deserve the opportunity to finish the job properly, and that sure as heck-fire will not happen with any of the Democratic candidates or Ron Paul.

Okay, I've said enough on this matter for one evening. No lyrical selection.

Blood: The Latest Hookup Medium?

2007-11-21T22:08:00.000-05:00

It's really weird to come home from one's first couple months at college (more on that in a future post, I imagine) and find how little there is to watch on television. Nevertheless, I, like many of my fellow lazy college students (I suspect), have taken every opportunity to watch TV. The highlight--or lowlight; I'm not too sure how to label such an odd experience--was the latest episode of "Taboo," on the National Geographic Channel. The subject tonight: mating. The first segment dealt with modern vampires. Yes, you've read correctly.

The focus of the opening segment was an American couple, Heather and Vincent. Normal adult mating behavior is simply too boring for these two, so they choose to include an unusual element of foreplay.

NatGeo cameras roll as Heather lies on a bed, wearing a black bra over her torso. She smiles widely to reveal sharpened canine teeth on either side of the top of her mouth (this gal doesn't half-ass the vampire business!). Vincent (same dental situation, FYI) sits in a chair next to the bed and gazes lovingly into Heather's eyes. He produces a small scalpel from his pocket. He draws it lightly across her skin just below her navel a few times, forming a ragged red X. Using his fingers (his fingernails are also sharpened so as to resemble claws) and the scalpel to draw the severed skin apart slightly, he collects small spots of blood on the blade and his index finger. Hastily, he draws his fingers and his blade to his lips, and laps up Heather's blood, relishing it lustily and eerily.

It is worth noting at this point that before beginning this ritual, Vincent sterilizes Heather's stomach with rubbing alcohol. You know, to prevent anything from enering his mouth and body that isn't supposed to get in...

I'm in favor of "vive la difference" and all that, but...eww. Yech. Ick. Right?

No lyrical selection tonight, due to lack of vampire-themed music (are you surprised). If you're dying for it, just take the song "Hair" from the eponymous musical and substitute in the word "blood."

An Alarming Revelation

2007-11-13T23:53:00.001-05:00

I got the idea to post on this a few days when the idea first hit me, but naturally my laziness overcame my studious side.

A few weeks ago in my French class, we staged a relatively informal debate on the environment as a change-of-pace sort of way to get the class talking. My professor videotaped us for the purpose of showing the DVD to the class in order to point out phrases or idioms that we may have misused, etc. A good idea; no problem.

He showed us the video last week. My partner--who speaks much better French than I--and I were first up. As soon as TV Tim opened his big mouth, real-world Tim thought something closely along the lines of the following:

"Gadzooks! I never knew how annoying my voice sounded! I really ought to apologize to those who have had to deal with my constant jabbering on a daily basis. Aww, but then that would mean I would be doing even more talking on top of my normal load, thereby annoying them further. AAARRGHH, what's a weirdo to do!?!?!?"

This is not a new revelation per se, but it just seems that currently, my voice sounds more annoying and strange to others than it ever has.

It's a fascinating and strange phenomenon, when I experience it. I'm so used to hearing myself talk from a first-person perspective. But--for me, anyway--hearing myself talk from a third-person perspective is always quite jarring. This last time, I said to myself briefly, "Cripes! If I were someone else, well heck, I'd even be annoyed by my voice. That's a pretty grim idea, n'est-ce pas?

Thankfully, I got over this fleeting crisis in short order. Naturally, I know as well or better than anyone that it would be a fool's errand to try to suppress this unfortunate quirk of mine by cutting back on talking. So it appears as though I will blunder on, but with an added few thoughts on the matter:

Little experiences like the one I just described tend to put us in our place somewhat. It exposes something we tend to take for granted. It brings me back to perhaps the single most important lesson of my schooling: the first day of 8th grade, when my English teacher made clear for the class the meaning of the word "egocentrism"--the inability to think outside one's own perspective. At the time, I accepted it as a nifty word, useful in certain situations but otherwise fairly inconsequential. But in the years since then, it has become more and more clear to me that one of the most important battles we can wage is the battle over our own egocentrism. Realizing that my voice sounds rather different from my perspective, opposed to that of others, is just a small example of a fascinating struggle that must be undertaken.

C'est l'égoïsme; c'est la vie.

Tonight's lyrical selection: "The Battle of Evermore"

"Queen of Light took her bow, And then she turned to go,
The Prince of Peace embraced the gloom, And walked the night alone.

Oh, dance in the dark of night, Sing to the morning light.
The dark Lord rides in force tonight, And time will tell us all.

Oh, throw down your plow and hoe, Rest not to lock your homes.

Side by side we wait the might of the darkest of them all.

I hear the horses' thunder down in the valley below,
I'm waiting for the angels of Avalon, waiting for the eastern glow.

The apples of the valley hold, The seeds of happiness,
The ground is rich from tender care, Repay, do not forget, no, no.
Dance in the dark of night, sing to the morning light.

The apples turn to brown and black, The tyrant's face is red.

Oh war is the common cry, Pick up your swords and fly.
The sky is filled with good and bad that mortals never know.

Oh, well, the night is long, the beads of time pass slow,
Tired eyes on the sunrise, waiting for the eastern glow.

The pain of war cannot exceed the woe of aftermath,
The drums will shake the castle wall, the ringwraiths ride in black, Ride on.

Sing as you raise your bow, shoot straighter than before.
No comfort has the fire at night that lights the face so cold.

Oh dance in the dark of night, Sing to the morning light.
The magic runes are writ in gold to bring the balance back. Bring it back.

At last the sun is shining, The clouds of blue roll by,
With flames from the dragon of darkness, the sunlight blinds his eyes.

Ooh, Bring it back, Bring it back..."

Follitics

2007-10-27T23:49:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The War On Texting

2007-10-16T00:23:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Note Of Thanks And Some Thoughts On All This

2007-10-11T00:56:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

What A Stupid I Am

2007-10-09T21:33:00.001-04:00

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

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

Welcome to college, Tim, ya dumbass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Weekend

2007-09-21T20:57:00.000-04:00

Even though I have never been a skilled poet, I nevertheless have given it a shot this evening. I just kind of dashed it off in 20 minutes or so. Kindly tell me what you think.

~~~

"Shower, Friday, 7:30 PM"

All is quiet in the dormitory.
Everyone else is out celebrating the
arrival of the weekend “properly.”
Sweaty, sticky, I step into the shower stall.

All is silent. Most everyone else is out
giving their brains the evening off.

I turn the dial. Cold drops startle me,
but soon the water warms up. The shampoo
tingles as I rub it vigorously into my scalp.
To cleanse one’s body is soothing;
I will never understand the urge to
pollute so willingly something so valuable.

In seven hours, I am likely to be awakened rudely
by wild yelling in the dormitory hall
by people whose brains have the evening off,
whose brains have been replaced
by pitiful, fleeting impostors.
I do not begrudge them their revelry;
I am simply different, perhaps dull.

I dry myself off; I dress for an evening
of reading, writing, thinking.
My brain’s employer is relentless.

~~~

Tonight's lyrical selection: "Song For The Asking," by Simon & Garfunkel.

"Here is my song for the asking,
Ask me and I will play,
So sweetly I make you smile.

Here is my tune for the taking,
Take it, don't turn away,
I've been waiting all my life.

Thinking it over I've been sad,
Thinking it over I'd be more than glad to change my ways,
For the asking,
Ask me and I will play,
All the love that I hold inside."

Getting Old

2007-09-17T14:39:00.000-04:00

So in about 3 1/2 weeks, I will turn 18 years old. I will be an adult, by all legal standards. In the not-too-distant past, I've not thought much on this fact. I have been wont to dismiss it a just another year of age when in fact, it's quite significant. This change of mind was complete when in the course of dinner conversation the other night, I informed my (golf) teammates that I am not yet 18. This was met with a few looks of disbelief which prompted my current thinking.

What does this change of age mean for me?

- The most important fact that accompanies my turning 18 is the ability vote, which I consider to be one of the most important rights an American has. And seeing how it is important, millions of Americans naturally take it for granted. I have my own views on this issue, but that is a future post unto itself.

When I turn 18, I will be old enough to...

- Be drafted--I don't believe I need to worry about that.
- Purchase tobacco products--Smoking is a nasty un-necessity to me, so that's irrelevant.
- I also don't see myself visiting any houses of adult entertainment, on account of their derogatory and objectifying nature, so that's right out.
- I don't see myself getting married very soo, so the procurement of a marriage license isn't of importance.

The change that 18 brings is mostly psychological. By American societal convention, I will be old enough to fend for myself in 3 1/2 weeks' time. That notion scares the piss out of me. I know that I don't have the wherewithal to be an independent person at this time. Heck, the fact that I am now in college both deeply concerns and strongly excites me. I marvel at those who are my age and are so independent; I know that I'd be hard pressed to survive out in the Big Bad world if misfortune thrust me out into it. It's times like this that I realize how truly fortunate I am. And I also realize how foolish I have been to succumb to laziness and a selfish sense of entitlement at times. Perhaps turning eighteen will turn the "adult" switch in me and cause me to be more savvy. But for now, I'm just an intelligent, strange kid sitting in his dorm room on a beautiful September afternoon.

(As if there were any doubt as to the lyrical selection for today) "Eighteen," by Alice Cooper

“Lines form on my face and hands,
Lines form from the ups and downs,
I'm in the middle without any plans,
I'm a boy and I'm a man.

I'm eighteen,
And I don't know what I want.
Eighteen,
I just don't know what I want.
Eighteen,
I gotta get away.
I gotta get out of this place.
I'll go runnin in outer space.
Oh yeah.

I got a,
Baby's brain and an old man's heart,
Took eighteen years to get this far.
Don't always know what I'm talkin' about,
Feels like I'm livin’ in the middle of doubt,
Cause I'm,

Eighteen,
I get confused every day.
Eighteen,
I just don't know what to say.
Eighteen,
I gotta get away.

Lines form on my face and my hands,
Lines form on the left and right,
I'm in the middle,
the middle of life,
I'm a boy and I'm a man,
I'm eighteen and I LIKE IT.
Yes I like it..
Oh I like it,
Love it,
Like it,
Love it,
Eighteen!
Eighteen!
Eighteen!
Eighteen and I LIKE IT…”

Notes From An 85 Degree Dorm Room At 11 PM On A Friday Night

2007-09-07T23:03:00.000-04:00

Good evening. I know it's been a while since I last wrote something, but that's the way it goes. Now that I'm in Academic Mode, I hope to have more to write about. Time will tell.

Well as you should glean from the title, I'm not out partying, as is likely over three-quarters of my fellow students at this idyllic little place in the Virginia mountains. I've decided quite finally that partying is not really my thing, and that even though it is the #1 way to meet people 'round these parts, I'd rather meet people who aren't, as Sir Thomas Malory might say, "enchafed by the heat of wine [or in the 21st century case, Natural Light."

This is not to say that I look down upon people who choose to socialize in this manner. Heck, whereas I used to staunchly oppose any ideas of lowering the drinking age to 18, I know understand that it is a valid idea. Anyway, I recognize that many people enjoy consuming alcohol in order to "loosen-up" a bit. I just don't partake because I am obsessed with keeping in as much control of my faculties as I can.

I realize that the above ideas put me in the minority here in Academic Utopia. This is nothing new to me. In the past, I thrived on being unusual. But as of yet, I have yet to hit my stride. I really (I mean *really* really) want to serve this school in the way I served my former school, but I am unsure of whether I can gain the kind of recognition that would allow me to do so in the manner that I wish to do so.

Anyhoo, I suppose that this is kind of a melancholy little post. It gets kinda lonely 'round here at times, but I'll muddle through. I always have.

Tonight's lyrical selection: "People are Strange," by The Doors

"People are strange when you’re a stranger,
Faces look ugly when you’re alone,
Women seem wicked when you’re unwanted,
Streets are uneven when you’re down,
When you’re strange,
Faces come out of the rain,
When you’re strange,
No one remembers your name,
When you’re strange,
When you’re strange,
When you’re strange…

People are strange when you’re a stranger,
Faces look ugly when you’re alone,
Women seem wicked when you’re unwanted,
Streets are uneven when you’re down,
When you’re strange,
Faces come out of the rain,
When you’re strange,
No one remembers your name,
When you’re strange,
When you’re strange,
When you’re strange…

When you’re strange,
Faces come out of the rain,
When you’re strange,
No one remembers your name,
When you’re strange,
When you’re strange,
When you’re strange…"

For Lack Of Original Material To Publish

2007-08-24T00:38:00.000-04:00

Everyone's been doing survey things, so...

(hopefully this'll show up properly)

*Odd Facts about ME*
DO YOU SNORE?:	No one's ever accused me of it.
LOVER OR A FIGHTER?:	Hey man, I'm just a lover, man.
WHAT'S YOUR WORST FEAR?:	Big, sweeping change.
AS A KID, WERE YOU A LEGO BUILDER?:	No, but i dabbled in Duplos.
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF "REALITY TV"?:	I hate it.
DO YOU CHEW ON YOUR STRAWS?:	Vigorously.
WERE YOU A CUTE BABY?:	Very, even if i do say so myself.
HOW IS THE SINGLE LIFE FOR YOU?:	Okay, I suppose.
WHAT COLOR IS YOUR KEYBOARD?:	Silver, or grey (depending on your world outlook).
DO YOU SING IN THE SHOWER?:	I sing most everywhere.
HAVE YOU EVER BUNGEE JUMPED?:	No, and I don't intend to do so.
ANY SECRET TALENTS?:	If I had them and revealed them, they would no longer be deemed "secret."
WHAT'S YOUR IDEAL VACATION SPOT?:	Pawleys Island, South Carolina or Sonomo or Napa Counties, California.
HAVE YOU EATEN SUSHI?:	Yes, and I love it.
HAVE YOU SEEN THE MOVIE "DONNIE DARKO"?:	No.
DO YOU GIVE A DARN ABOUT THE OZONE?:	Fourteen and a half darns, in fact.
HOW MANY LICKS DOES IT TAKE TO GET TO THE CENTER OF A TOOTSIE POP?:	I haven't the foggiest of ideas.
CAN YOU SING THE ALPHABET BACKWARDS?:	I've never made an attempt
HAVE YOU EVER BEEN ON AN AIRPLANE?:	Yes.
ARE SPEEDO'S HOT?:	No.
WHAT'S YOUR STAND ON HUNTING?:	It's biologically sound, in moderation.
IS MARRIAGE IN YOUR FUTURE?:	And little Gavriches, hopefully. But a while in the future, of course.
DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?:	Yes, but only because it's absurdly messy.
WHAT ARE YOU ALLERGIC TO?:	Nothing.
WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU SAID, "I LOVE YOU":	Earlier this evening.
IS TUPAC STILL ALIVE?:	No.
DO YOU CRY AT WEDDINGS?:	I doubt I would, but I do cry from time to time (I'm a sensitive male for the 21st century).
HOW DO YOU LIKE YOUR EGGS?:	As an omelette, I think.
ARE BLONDES DUMB?:	Not at all.
WHERE DOES THE OTHER SOCK END UP?:	Hopefully on my foot.
WHAT TIME IS IT?:	11:39 PM
DO YOU HAVE A NICKNAME?:	A teacher once mispronounced my last name, so some people now call me Garbage.
IS MCDONALD'S DISGUSTING?:	Only if you eat there more than once every two months or so.
WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU WERE IN A CAR?:	This past afternoon.
DO YOU PREFER BATHS OR SHOWERS?:	Showers.
IS SANTA CLAUSE REAL?:	One never knows.
ARE YOU AFRAID OF THE DARK?:	A teensy bit.
WHAT ARE YOU ADDICTED TO?:	Golf, talking, food.
CRUNCHY OR CREAMY PEANUT BUTTER?:	Crunchy.
HAVE YOU EVER RIDDEN IN AN AMBULANCE?:	No.
HOW MANY TIMES HAVE YOU BRUSHED YOUR TEETH TODAY?:	Twice.
IS DRUG FREE THE WAY TO BE?:	Yes.
ARE YOU WEARING SOCKS?:	Not at the moment.
HAVE YOU EVER HITCH HIKED?:	No; that's how people get killed.
WHAT COLOR ARE YOUR EYES?:	Brown.
WHEN'S THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?:	Just a couple minutes ago.
DO YOU LIKE YOUR LIFE?:	Very, very, very much.
WHOSE LIFE IS BETTER?:	No one that I know of.
ARE YOU PSYCHIC?:	No.
HAVE YOU READ "CATCHER IN THE RYE"?:	My all-time favorite novel. Period.
DO YOU PLAY ANY INSTRUMENTS?:	Alto saxophone and tenor saxophone.
CAN YOU SKATEBOARD?:	No.
DO YOU LIKE CAMPING?:	No.
DO U SNORT WHEN U LAUGH?:	No, but I have shed tears from laughing so hard.
DO YOU BELIEVE IN MAGIC?:	I believe in mystical occurrences, visions, and experiences.
IS A DOG A MAN'S BEST FRIEND?:	I don't see Man's relationship with animals in that way. But, I dearly love my dog.
YOU BELIEVE IN DIVORCE?:	Yes, but only in extreme circumstances.
CAN YOU DO THE MOONWALK?:	No.
DOES YOUR MOM KNOW YOU HAVE A MYSPACE?:	Yes, but I am trustworthy.
WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE?:	Ice cream.
DO YOU WEAR NAILPOLISH?:	No.
DO YOU LIKE SOMEONE RIGHT NOW?:	Yes.
WHAT'S THE MOST ANNOYING TV COMMERCIAL?:	HeadOn Headache Relief.
DO YOU SHOP AT AMERICAN EAGLE?:	No.
FAVORITE BAND AT THE MOMENT?:	The Doors.
Take this survey \| Find more surveys Bzoink - The Original Survey Site

Long Time, No Talky-Talky

2007-07-30T01:06:00.000-04:00

It's been a while since I last graced the Information Superhighway with my semi-organized blathering, so I'll endeavor to make this brief.

To put it bluntly, I had the nerd-highlight of my life today. If it is not already apparent to you, I am a nerd, and a proud one at that. One of my nerdiest daily activities is a few games of Scrabble through the Internet Scrabble Club (isc.ro ...join me, won't you? My ID is tgavrich07). Anyhoo, during the course of a game today, I played the word "fellated," with the "f" on a red Triple Word Score space, and garnered 88 points. I ended up winning the game. As I punched in this brilliantly irreverent play, I chuckled aloud, and did a "Yesssssss" that would have brought an envious smile to even the stoic face of Napoleon Dynamite.

Well that's all for now. Call me a nerd if you want--I'll cop to it. But you can still talk to me. I'll try not to breathe on you...honest!

Tonight's lyrical selection is especially apt, I feel.

"White and Nerdy," by 'Weird' Al Yankovic

"They see me mowin'
My front lawn
I know they're all thinking
I'm so White N' nerdy

Think I'm just too white n' nerdy
Think I'm just too white n' nerdy
Can't you see I'm white n' nerdy
Look at me I'm white n' nerdy!
I wanna roll with-
The gangsters
But so far they all think
I'm too white n' nerdy
Think I'm just too white n' nerdy
Think I'm just too white n' nerdy
I'm just too white n' nerdy
Really, really white n' nerdy

First in my class here at M.I.T.
Got skills, I'm a Champion of DND
MC Escher that's my favorite MC
Keep your 40
I'll just have an Earl Grey tea
My rims never spin to the contrary
You'll find they're quite stationary
All of my action figures are cherry
Steven Hawkings in my library
My MySpace page is all totally pimped out
I got people begging for my top 8 spaces
Yo I know Pi to a thousand places
Ain't got no grills but I still wear braces
I order all of my sandwiches with mayonnaise
I'm a whiz at minesweeper I can play for days
Once you see my sweet moves you're gonna stay amazed,
my fingers movin' so fast I'll set the place ablaze
There's no killer app I haven't run
At Pascal, well, I'm number 1
Do vector calculus just for fun
I ain't got a gat but I gotta soldering gun
Happy days is my favourite theme song
I can sure kick your butt in a game of ping pong
I'll ace any trivia quiz you bring on
I'm fluent in Java Script as well as Klingon

They see me roll on, my Segway!
I know in my heart they think I'm
white n' nerdy!
Think I'm just too white n' nerdy
Think I'm just too white n' nerdy
Can't you see I'm white n' nerdy
Look at me I'm white n' nerdy
I'd like to roll with-
The gangsters
Although it's apparent I'm too
White n' nerdy
Think I'm just too white n' nerdy
I'm just too white n' nerdy
How'd I get so white n' nerdy?

I've been browsing, inspectin'
X-men comics you know I collect 'em
The pens in my pocket
I must protect 'em
my ergonomic keyboard never leaves me bored
Shopping online for deals on some writable media
I edit Wikipedia
I memorized Holy Grail really well
I can recite it right now and have you ROTFLOL
I got a business doing websites
When my friends need some code who do they call?
I do HTML for them all
Even made a homepage for my dog!
Yo! Got myself a fanny pack
they were having a sale down at the GAP
Spend my nights with a roll of bubble wrap
POP POP! Hope no one sees me gettin' freaky!

I'm nerdy in the extreme and whiter than sour creme
I was in AV club and Glee club and even the chess team!
Only question I ever thought was hard
Was do I like Kirk or do I like Picard?
I spend every weekend
at the renaissance fair
I got my name on my under wear!

They see me strollin'
They laughin'
And rollin' their eyes 'cause
I'm so white n' nerdy
Just because I'm white n' nerdy
Just because I'm white n' nerdy
All because I'm white n' nerdy
Holy cow I'm white n' nerdy
I wanna bowl with-
the gangsters
but oh well it's obvious I'm
white n' nerdy
Think I'm just too white n' nerdy
Think I'm just too white n' nerdy
I'm just too white n' nerdy
Look at me I'm white n' nerdy!"

A Goode (sic), Humourous (sic) Programme (sic)

2007-06-19T22:32:00.000-04:00

Well I'm sitting in a easy chair in my basement. It's 10:30 PM, and I'm watching what I have always thought was one of the most underrated shows of all time. That show, of course, is "The Wonder Years," which I have recently discovered, on channel 10 (ion TV is the name of the channel) from 10-11PM on weeknights (jeez, that sentence is choppier than the North Sea during a bad winter; sorry about that).

Anyhoo, although I quite enjoy watching "The Wonder Years," it does make me kinda sad. I find myself envious of the characters in the show, even when they're having a tough time of things. And the narration by an older, wiser Kevin Arnold (the show's protagonist) is spot-on, capturing nearly perfectly the feelings of a typical teenage boy towards life's little things. And therein lies the brilliance of "The Wonder Years." Even though it is so highly idealistic, it works very well. Even though it may be slightly dated, it is nearly as much Americana as hot dogs and apple pie.

Anyway, this wasn't a terribly insightful post (more like a plug for a nostalgic TV favorite), but it's more than nothing (though I suppose some might disagree).

Tonight's lyrical suggestion is quite obvious if you know "The Wonder Years." It is "With A Little Help From My Friends," by The Beatles.

"What would you think if I sang out of tune,
Would you stand up and walk out on me?
Lend me your ears and I'll sing you a song,
And I'll try not to sing out of key.
Oh I get by with a little help from my friends,
Mmm I get high with a little help from my friends,
Mmm I'm gonna to try with a little help from my friends.

What do I do when my love is away?
(Does it worry you to be alone?)
How do I feel by the end of the day?
(Are you sad because you're on your own?)
No, I get by with a little help from my friends,
Mmm I get high with a little help from my friends,
Mmm I'm gonna to try with a little help from my friends

Do you need anybody?
I need somebody to love.
Could it be anybody?
I want somebody to love.

(Would you believe in a love at first sight?)
Yes I'm certain that it happens all the time.
(What do you see when you turn out the light?)
I can't tell you, but I know it's mine.
Oh I get by with a little help from my friends,
Mmm I get high with a little help from my friends,
Oh I'm gonna try with a little help from my friends

Do you need anybody?
I just need someone to love.
Could it be anybody?
I want somebody to love.
Oh I get by with a little help from my friends,
Mmm gonna try with a little help from my friends
Oh I get high with a little help from my friends
Yes I get by with a little help from my friends,
With a little help from my friends..."

A Collection of Thoughts

2007-06-11T17:56:00.000-04:00

My apologies for a somewhat prolonged lull in the action. To those of you still reading, bless you.

So, quite a lot has happened since last I wrote. Well perhaps that is a bit of an overstatement, but there are a couple things worth mentioning.
~ ~ ~
First of all, after graduating high school, I attended my first and second major booze-fueled social gatherings. And while I did not really drink at either (my personal feelings about alcohol are fodder for another post, but suffice it to say I'm not a fan), I must admit that I had a good time. Though I was a little unsettled to see so many of my friends and acquaintances stumbling and slurring their words and carrying on quite a lot, it was good fun to see people getting along so well. I was also pleased that no one placed too much pressure on me to drink. My personal distaste for consuming alcohol was respected, and I salute everyone for being kind in that way. I also had a wonderful time going to and fro with my van-mates (you know who you are), so all in all, it was a good weekend.

I will close this segment by saying that after these parties, I had somewhat mixed feelings about taking such a strict stance at these parties. However, I do not lament the time I had, and am sure I will figure out the right measure of personal strictness in college.

This evening's lyrical selection is somewhat random, but I like the song, so whatever.

"If You See Her, Say Hello," by Bob Dylan

"If you see her, say hello, she might be in Tangier
She left here last early spring, is livin' there, I hear
Say for me that I'm all right though things get kind of slow
She might think that I've forgotten her, don't tell her it isn't so.

We had a falling-out, like lovers often will
And to think of how she left that night, it still brings me a chill
And though our separation, it pierced me to the heart
She still lives inside of me, we've never been apart.

If you get close to her, kiss her once for me
I always have respected her for busting out and gettin' free
Oh, whatever makes her happy, I won't stand in the way
Though the bitter taste still lingers on from the night I tried to make her stay.

I see a lot of people as I make the rounds
And I hear her name here and there as I go from town to town
And I've never gotten used to it, I've just learned to turn it off
Either I'm too sensitive or else I'm gettin' soft.

Sundown, yellow moon, I replay the past
I know every scene by heart, they all went by so fast
If she's passin' back this way, I'm not that hard to find
Tell her she can look me up if she's got the time."

The End Of An Era

2007-05-27T23:17:00.000-04:00

Well, ladies and gentlemen, that's all she wrote. My high school years are over. And I must remark that the last four years were well spent (not to mention the thousands of tuition dollars doled out by Ma and Pa). Now, I feel obligated to engage in some brief recapitulation of my high school years.

WHAT I ENJOY(ED)/FELT GOOD ABOUT:
- The People: I count myself extraordinarily fortunate to have coexisted with so many wonderfully bright, friendly people. People from various backgrounds, who created an environment of ideas from various perspectives. I know that had I attended public high school, I would not have been exposed to such vibrant characters and minds.
- The Learning: With such sharp, excellent faculty as there are at my now-alma mater (God, it makes me feel old to say that), who needs certification in education? Male and female, younger and older alike, there have been a great many adults who partially donate their own minds in the hopes of growing those of their students. Perhaps I will someday try my hand at teaching (though I'm sure some of you might not want to subject your children to my oddness), and this feeling is because of those who have taught me not only how to read critically, but to THINK critically. I now understand how to analyze myself as I would a great work of literature, and I am eternally grateful for all the wisdom to which our teachers have exposed all of us.
- The Community: I am touched by the keen ability in the school to understand people's differences and embrace them. My school has set an admirable example in this way; because of the wide range of interests that one may pursue, one is seldom at a loss for something interesting to do. Hardly anyone is unable to follow his/her own path (assuming that path is within reason, of course) because of the breadth of interests served by the school. I for one have always considered myself as existing outside the "mainstream," but I have never felt out-of-place, and for that I am indeed grateful.

WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN BETTER:
- The Society: While I believe the school knows how to celebrate one's differences, I have felt on occasion that some students band together and do not mirror the views of the school. I have at times seen and heard undeserved ridicule, and I am saddened that we are not more tolerant. But with the right leadership, people can be shown a more supportive attitude, and fewer people will feel resentment of "normal" and "cool" students. We all deserve a fair shake, and sometimes I have felt that certain people have been slighted.

As you can see, my general complaints about my high school experience are relatively minor when compared with my compliments of the period. I will air a few grievances against myself, however.
- I didn't exactly capitalize on the opportunity to "begin anew" and establish a more standard reputation than I had had in middle school. Don't get me wrong--I have never wanted to be a conformist, and I know I'm not cut out for garden-variety "coolness," but I think I could have done a decidedly better job of integrating myself into school society.
- I underachieved academically. I had a chance to wow the masses, and I just never found the motivation to do things like reading ahead in textbooks, going in for a lot of extra help, and studying seriously for important examinations. I certainly hope that I will learn these valuable skills shortly after the beginning of the next stage of my education.
- And speaking of underachievement, in terms of matters of the heart, I remain utterly, profoundly deficient. No more need be said of that.

Anyhoo, when all positives and negatives are taken into account, I give my high school experience a solid B. Not bad, but there is room for improvement. College begins the last week in August, and I will set about working on improving upon the solid B at that time. But fear not, I shall continue to blog, so stay tuned.

Tonight's lyrical selection: "Don't Stop," by Fleetwood Mac

"If you wake up and dont want to smile,
If it takes just a little while,
Open your eyes and look at the day,
You'll see things in a different way.

Dont stop, thinking about tomorrow,
Dont stop, it'll soon be here,
It'll be, better than before,
Yesterdays gone, yesterdays gone.

Why not think about times to come,
And not about the things that you've done,
If your life was bad to you,
Just think what tomorrow will do.

Dont stop, thinking about tomorrow,
Dont stop, it'll soon be here,
It'll be, better than before,
Yesterdays gone, yesterdays gone.

All I want is to see you smile,
Even if it takes just a little while,
I know you don't believe that its true,
I never meant any harm to you.

Dont stop, thinking about tomorrow,
Dont stop, it'll soon be here,
It'll be, better than before,
Yesterday's gone, yesterday's gone.

Don't you look back,
Don't you look back..."

Guilty Pleasures, etc.

2007-05-19T02:15:00.000-04:00

For some, it's chocolate. Others, expensive clothing. Still others, BDSM. Everyone has 'em. Mine is a little thing called "The Soup."

Yes, readers, I love the show "The Soup" on E!. I know, it seems to run against my policy of finding the comings and goings of celebrities revolting and utterly petty, but I cannot help myself. The show--despite the fact that it discusses things that I abhor with every fiber of my being (and if you know me, that's a lot of fibers!)--is brilliantly zany and enthralling. Despite being a decidedly B- to C-list comedian, Joel McHale delivers silly and offbeat jokes with a kind of panache that makes them not only palatable, but enjoyable. Segments such as "Oprah's Va-jay-jay," "Let's Take Some E," and the "Kickass Clip of the Week" contain just the right mix of satire and bizarro celebrity behavior to divert one's attention from serious, worthwhile matters, if only for a brief, savory half hour.

~~~

In other news, I am about to shed my status as a "high school student," though that title in reference to me really deserves an asterisk (I have hardly behaved like a normal high school student, as you will soon see). In a brief eight days, I will cry like a little baby at Commencement, knowing that my days of sleeping on my cushy featherbed at home are numbered not in the hundreds, but in the dozens.

~~~

In still other news, I will be attending my first proper party the day after Commencement. I am both extremely excited and apprehensive about the experience. I am excited because I am eager to learn what such gatherings are like (I don't get out much, if you have not already caught on). I am quite apprehensive, however, because being the Class Dad, I have always stayed on the path of lawfulness and righteousness. I don't intend to become inebriated (I prefer to spend my evenings lucid), but I have a sneaking suspicion that some people are curious as to what an inebriated Gavrich would be like. I don't know if I want to know that myself. Ah well. It shall be interesting, regardless.

Tonights lyrical selection: "Streams of Whiskey," by The Pogues

"Last night as I slept
I dreamt I met with Behan
I shook him by the hand and we passed the time of day
When questioned on his views
On the crux of life's philosophies
He had but these few clear and simple words to say

I am going, I am going
Any which way the wind may be blowing
I am going, I am going
Where streams of whiskey are flowing

I have cursed, bled and sworn
Jumped bail and landed up in jail
Life has often tried to stretch me
But the rope always was slack
And now that Ive a pile
Ill go down to the chelsea
Ill walk in on my feet
But Ill leave there on my back

Because I am going, I am going
Any which way the wind may be blowing
I am going, I am going
Where streams of whiskey are flowing

Oh the words that he spoke
Seemed the wisest of philosophies
There's nothing ever gained
By a wet thing called a tear
When the world is too dark
And I need the light inside of me
Ill walk into a bar
And drink fifteen pints of beer

I am going, I am going
Any which way the wind may be blowing
I am going, I am going
Where streams of whiskey are flowing

I am going, I am going
Any which way the wind may be blowing
I am going, I am going
Where streams of whiskey are flowing
Where streams of whiskey are flowing
Where streams of whiskey are flowing."

Score One For Justice!

2007-05-15T23:07:00.000-04:00

Well my life is pretty boring at the moment, but Paris Hilton's isn't!

From fox.com:

"Psychiatrist: Paris Hilton 'Distraught' and 'Traumatized' Over Jail Sentence"

LOS ANGELES — Paris Hilton is "emotionally distraught and traumatized" over her 45-day jail sentence and isn't capable of testifying in a civil lawsuit against her, the socialite-reality TV star's psychiatrist said.

Dr. Charles Sophy has been seeing Hilton, 26, for the past eight months and has talked with her several times since her May 4 hearing for violating the terms of her probation in an alcohol-related reckless driving case, according to court papers.

Sophy said Hilton needs time to recover from the shock of receiving jail time before testifying in a civil case brought against her by actress and diamond heiress Zeta Graff.

Messages left with Hilton's spokesman and lawyer weren't immediately returned early Tuesday.

In court papers filed Monday, Sophy said Hilton is "distraught and traumatized as a consequence of the findings at the May 4 hearing ... and her fear of incarceration."

"At this point in time," he continued, "Ms. Hilton cannot effectively respond to examination as a witness or provide any significant input into her defense."

Graff filed a $10 million lawsuit against Hilton in 2005, claiming the reality TV star spread "vicious lies" about her. Hilton has denied that she was behind a report alleging Graff once tried to grab a necklace worth $4 million from her throat.

Superior Court Judge Linda K. Lefkowitz postponed the trial to August. It had been scheduled to begin this month.

Hilton and her pal Nicole Richie star on "The Simple Life," which throws them into everyday situations. After famously feuding and filming their parts separately last season, the celebutantes have reunited as camp counselors for the show's upcoming installment on the Comcast Corp.-operated E! network.

~~~~~~~~
From Gavrich's Brain:

I for one am ecstatic to see that for once, the rich and famous can't buy their way out of trouble. Boy, would I love to see the look on Paris' face when she meets her new roommates. Now that would be a reality show worth watching! It would be just the next edition of The Simple Life. Ah yes, I can see it now: "The Simple Life: In the Jailhouse Now"

Speaking of which, tonight's lyrical selection

"In The Jailhouse Now," written by Jimmie Rodgers (as performed by The Soggy Bottom Boys in "O Brother, Where Art Thou?"

"I had a friend named Ramblin' Bob,
Who used to steal, gamble and rob,
He thought he was the smartest guy in town.
But I found out last Monday,
That Bob got locked up Sunday,
They've got him in the jailhouse way down town.

He's in the jailhouse now, he's in the jailhouse now,
I told him once or twice, quit playin' cards and shootin' dice,
He's in the jailhouse now.

He played a game called poker pinochle with Dan Yoker,
But shooting dice was his greatest game,
Now he's downtown in jail nobody to go his bail.
The judge done said that he refused a fine,

He's in the jailhouse now, he's in the jailhouse now,
I told him once or twice, quit playin' cards and shootin' dice
He's in the jailhouse now.

I went out last Tuesday, met a gal named Susie,
Told her I was the swellest guy around.
We started to spend my money,
Then she started to call me honey,
We took in every cabaret in town.

We're in the jailhouse now,
We're in the jailhouse now,
I told the judge right to his face,
We didn't like to see this place,
We're in the jailhouse now."

Oh, The Irony!

2007-05-08T02:59:00.000-04:00

I meant to opine about this incident when it was fresh in my mind, but due to my debilitating inability to be proactive in most anything, here it is, five days after the fact.

I am a pretty competitive person, which can be a problem when you're as generally athletically deficient as I am. Luckily, though, I am able to play golf with a decent amount of proficiency. So, ergo, I am a very competitive golfer.

Last Wednesday, my team had a match against three other teams. It was the most important match of the season to-date. Happily, I was able to piece together a very good round of even-par 70, which was good enough for a tie for the low individual score for the match. The other co-medalist shall remain nameless, but let's just say he was named after a Caesar. Anyway, upon finding out that my team had beaten his team (quite an upset), I was extremely happy, as anyone who could understand the gravity of such a victory would be. But evidently, I was a little too happy for this unnamed player, who very sternly said, "Have some f***ing class, Gavrich."

Now surely you see the irony of this. Why use the expletive in an effort to be more classy than another? It is a question I have mulled over at length, and am still at a loss to answer.

But wait, there's more irony!

I was later informed by a teammate that I have earned a nickname among the team to which the would-be Arbiter of Class belongs. My nickname: "Timothy Faggot." Thanks, guys. You're so classy; I wanna be just like you when I grow up...NOT!

Tonight's lyrical selection: "Poor Boy Down," by Mike + The Mechanics:
"He's a poor boy in his pocket
he's a poor boy in his shoes.
he's done his time
he's stood in line
that boy has paid his dues.

He ain't looking for a handout
he's just looking for a start
he don't hate anyone
he don't carry a gun
you can tell that kid is smart.
So you can't
REFRAIN: Keep that poor boy down,
You can't keep that poor boy down,

you can be unkind
you can rob him blind
but you can't keep that poor boy down.
(REFRAIN)
you can lie and cheat
you can chain his feet
but you can't keep that poor boy down.

And all down throught the ages
the kid's been treated rough
just take a look
in any history book
you can see that times were tough.

Now we move up to the nineties
up to the 21st
one day he'll stand
a full grown man
and be the same as all of us.
So you can't

(REFRAIN)

you can lock him up
you can break his cup
but you can't keep that poor boy down.

(REFRAIN)

You can fight and steal
you can drag your heels
but you can't keep that poor boy dow

(REFRAIN)

You can kick his ass
if the kid's got class
you can't keep that poor boy down.

(REFRAIN)

Let's stop the truck
go back and pick him up
you can't keep that poor boy down.

Let him go!"

Something Momentous

2007-04-26T03:15:00.000-04:00

Well readers, it appears as though barring any monumental academic collapse or significant legal misadventure, I am headed to the mountains of Virginia and Washington & Lee University next year. I look eagerly forward to four more years spent in an idyllic setting among fellow intellectuals, learning, playing, relaxing, and "becoming my best self," as Big Freddy Nietzsche would say. That said, I am still apprehensive about a few things.

- LEAVING THE NEST: I tend to grow homesick after being apart from my family for a period of time. I suppose everyone does, but mixed in with the blissful hours I will spend among new friends and colleagues, there will be periods of loneliness mixed in. Such is college, and such is life.
- KEEPING UP: I have always had outside motivation for doing my work diligently and to the best of my abilities. I won't have many eyes looking over my shoulder, making sure I'm on task and on time. I would like to think that I will be able to grasp the reins of responsibility and use them effectively, but I am somewhat uncertain. It will be an interesting experience.
- LIVING IN HARMONY: I am fairly confident that for better or worse, the people with whom I will be living next year have never encountered someone quite like me. I will go to them (and they to me) with a clean slate. What sort of reputation will my initial actions create? Will I be able to control myself so that I don't irk people. These are questions with a range of answers--which will turn out to be correct?
- WOOING AND COOING: Will I finally have a breakthrough when it comes to girls/women, or will my shyness hinder me as profoundly as it has throughout my high school years? Will I meet someone who is compatible with me? Will I be seen as compatible? Desirable? Time will tell, I suppose.

Before tonight's lyrical selection, I would like to thank you "Phoebe," for your kind comment on my last post. If you see fit at any time to reveal yourself, I would be pleased to know who you are. But at the same time, I fully understand your desire to conceal your identity. Regardless, I extend my sincerest gratitude to you.

Tonight's selection: "Visions of Johanna," by Bob Dylan
"Ain't it just like the night to play tricks when you're tryin' to be so quiet?
We sit here stranded, though we're all doin' our best to deny it
And Louise holds a handful of rain, temptin' you to defy it
Lights flicker from the opposite loft
In this room the heat pipes just cough
The country music station plays soft
But there's nothing, really nothing to turn off
Just Louise and her lover so entwined
And these visions of Johanna that conquer my mind.

In the empty lot where the ladies play blindman's bluff with the key chain
And the all-night girls they whisper of escapades out on the "D" train
We can hear the night watchman click his flashlight
Ask himself if it's him or them that's really insane
Louise, she's all right, she's just near
She's delicate and seems like the mirror
But she just makes it all too concise and too clear
That Johanna's not here
The ghost of 'lectricity howls in the bones of her face
Where these visions of Johanna have now taken my place.

Now, little boy lost, he takes himself so seriously
He brags of his misery, he likes to live dangerously
And when bringing her name up
He speaks of a farewell kiss to me
He's sure got a lotta gall to be so useless and all
Muttering small talk at the wall while I'm in the hall
How can I explain?
Oh, it's so hard to get on
And these visions of Johanna, they kept me up past the dawn.

Inside the museums, Infinity goes up on trial
Voices echo this is what salvation must be like after a while
But Mona Lisa musta had the highway blues
You can tell by the way she smiles
See the primitive wallflower freeze
When the jelly-faced women all sneeze
Hear the one with the mustache say, "Jeeze
I can't find my knees"
Oh, jewels and binoculars hang from the head of the mule
But these visions of Johanna, they make it all seem so cruel.

The peddler now speaks to the countess who's pretending to care for him
Sayin', "Name me someone that's not a parasite and I'll go out and say a prayer for him"
But like Louise always says
"Ya can't look at much, can ya man?"
As she, herself, prepares for him
And Madonna, she still has not showed
We see this empty cage now corrode
Where her cape of the stage once had flowed
The fiddler, he now steps to the road
He writes ev'rything's been returned which was owed
On the back of the fish truck that loads
While my conscience explodes
The harmonicas play the skeleton keys and the rain
And these visions of Johanna are now all that remain."

In a Rut

2007-04-22T03:15:00.000-04:00

Some melancholy musings:

Do not be alarmed by the negative tone of the following. On the average, I'm positively giddy with life, but everyone has their ups and downs, and I'm feeling a bit of a down tonight.

Dear Readers, Friends, and Casual Acquaintances--

- I'm just beginning to realize just how much of a nuisance I really am. When talking to people, I always have positive intentions, but I always come off sounding preachy and just plain annoying. If I am trying to give advice (which probably is bad advice anyway), I tend to unwittingly adopt a scolding tone. I try to help it, but cannot.

- I apologize for my incessant talking; I always try to have a point, but oddly enough, I rarely do.

- I am probably the biggest wuss I know. I take almost no meaningful risks in my life. Therefore, I get left in the dust, so to speak. And when you're neither cool nor charismatic, it's hard to catch up.

- It's kind of pathetic to be such an easy target. Eccentric, annoying, (seemingly) dull: I seem to hit the trifecta in the eyes of many people.

- I was called "The Walking Encyclopedia" in the 2nd grade, and ever since, I feel as though people treat me as such--an inanimate object that people go to when they need an answer, whose purpose is served after the answer is given. What am I? A book or a person?

- Do you ever feel like you're destined to ultimately fall short of your objectives, be they personal, social, or intellectual? If not, I salute you.

Sorry for the rant. I don't mean this to be a lashing-out against everybody with whom I am acquainted. Please understand that I only feel this way very occasionally, and about a very few people. In general, I love humankind endlessly. But I find myself frustrated from time to time.

Tonight's lyrical selection is spot-on for my general mood: (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction, by The Rolling Stones:

"I can't get no satisfaction, I can't get no satisfaction
'Cause I try and I try and I try and I try
I can't get no, I can't get no

When I'm drivin' in my car, and the man come on the radio
He's tellin' me more and more about some useless information
Supposed to fire my imagination

I can't get no. Oh, no, no, no. Hey, hey, hey
That's what I say
I can't get no satisfaction, I can't get no satisfaction
'Cause I try and I try and I try and I try
I can't get no, I can't get no

When I'm watchin' my TV and a man comes on and tell me
How white my shirts can be
But, he can't be a man 'cause he doesn't smoke
The same cigarettes as me

I can't get no. Oh, no, no, no. Hey, hey, hey
That's what I say
I can't get no satisfaction, I can't get no satisfaction
'Cause I try and I try and I try and I try
I can't get no, I can't get no

When I'm ridin' round the world, and I'm doin' this and I'm signin' that
And I'm tryin' to make some girl, who tells me
Baby, better come back maybe next week
'Cause you see I'm on a losing streak
I can't get no. Oh, no, no, no. Hey, hey, hey
That's what I say. I can't get no, I can't get no
I can't get no satisfaction, no satisfaction
No satisfaction, no satisfaction"

Sunday Evening Musings

2007-04-15T22:30:00.000-04:00

I have a little Dashboard Widget (Apple-talk for a small computer window in the Tiger operating system) that gives me the "Fact of the Day." I was particularly amused by today's offering:

"An old folk custom for selecting a husband from several suitors involved taking onions and writing each suitor's name individually on each. Then all the onions were put in a cool dark storeroom. The first onion to grow sprouts would determine which man the undecided maiden should marry."

Wouldn't that make things a lot easier? Combine this with the prohibition of divorce and I believe we'd solve overpopulations in underdeveloped countries in the course of a generation!

But seriously, allow me to opine on the mystery of the Heart (capital "H," rather than the physicall lower-case "h" heart). I believe that one reason for all the heartbreak out there is that people tend to use the word "love" far too liberally. In essence it has lost its meaning. People falsely say "I love you" to each other all the time. I occasionally hear "I love you Tim" as a response to one of my quirkily charming antics, but often feel bad in being hesitant to return the exclamation in kind, because I feel it is a betrayal of the serious meaning of the word.

I hope the above does not make me seem like an emotionless blob of hair, skin (the occasional zit), blood, and water (among other substances), because nothing could be further from the truth. I fancy myself--to steal a phrase from my Philosophy teacher--a "sensitive male for the 21st century." I feel infatuations toward girls (though my cautiousness in interactions with the 'Fairer Sex' calls this into question from the perspective of some insensitive peers, but that's a subject for another post), but I do not throw around the word "love" when it is not warranted.

Tonight's selection: "Mr. Blue Sky," by Electric Light Orchestra

"Sun is shinin' in the sky
There ain't a cloud in sight
It's stopped rainin' ev'rybody's in a play
And don't you know
It's a beautiful new day hey,hey

Runnin' down the avenue
See how the sun shines brightly in the city
On the streets where once was pity
Mister blue sky is living here today hey, hey

Mister blue sky please tell us why
You had to hide away for so long
Where did we go wrong?

Hey you with the pretty face
Welcome to the human race
A celebration, mister blue sky's up there waitin'
And today is the day we've waited for

Hey there mister blue
We're so pleased to be with you
Look around see what you do
Ev'rybody smiles at you

Mister blue sky, mister blue sky
Mister blue sky

Mister blue, you did it right
But soon comes mister night creepin' over
Now his hand is on your shoulder
Never mind I'll remember you this
I'll remember you this way

Mister blue sky please tell us why
You had to hide away for so long
Where did we go wrong?

Hey there mister blue
We're so pleased to be with you
Look around see what you do
Ev'rybody smiles at you..."

Yet Another Example of Man's Idiocy

2007-04-06T00:47:00.000-04:00

So I'm at the supermarket with my mother the other day (it probably seems pathetic that I visit the supermarket with my mother at the age of 17, but I am what I am, and if that's a dork, then a dork I am) and the manned chackout lines are crowded. Not wanting to wait and eager to explore a suburban novelty, we head for the "automatic checkout station," a scan-it-yourself-bag-it-yourself area that is yet another way for businesses to stroke their greedy egos by eliminating jobs and salaries and replacing competent people with cold machinery.

After 15 minutes of struggling to scan items "just-so," and a request for assistance from a store worker (it is most ironic that we needed a person in order to help us use the machine properly), I was nearly ready to plant my foot in the screen, despite the slightly seductive (though nonetheless robotic) female voice within the apparatus. A little fair warning to those who know me: I may well have a psychotic break if I hear the phrase, "Two dollars and sixty-nine cents" chanted out of rhythm within the next week. Having to hear it a dozen times in excruciatingly fast succession is a punishment seemingly fit only for the most dastardly criminals.

Anyway, the moral of this story, dear readers, is that automated grocery checkout methods are to be avoided like the plague. That is, unless you don't mind frightening your fellow shoppers by screaming at the computer, "You stupid woman! I didn't remove any item from the bagging area! I will kill your children the next time you talk back to me!" I don't recommend it, but hey, we're all different, right?

Tomight's lyrics: "Lazy Flies," by Beck (yes, even the Teenage Old Fart himself listens to a little modern music now and again):
"Lazy flies all hovering above
The magistrate, he puts on his gloves
And he looks to the clouds
All pink and disheveled
There must be some blueprints,
Some creed of the devil
Inscribed in our minds.

A hideous game
Vanishes in thin air
The vanity of slaves
Who wants to be there?
To sweep the debris
To harness dead-horses
To ride in the sun
A life of confessions
Written in the dust.

Out in the mangroves
The mynah birds cry
In the shadows of sulfur
The trawlers drift by
They're chewing dried meat
in a House of disrepute
The dust of opiates
And syphilis patients
On brochure vacations

Fear has a glare that
Traps you like searchlights
The puritans stare
Their souls are fluorescent
The skin of a robot
Vibrates with pleasure
Matrons and gigolos
Carouse in the parlor
Their hand-grenade eyes
Impotent and blind.

A hideous stain
Vanishes in thin air
The vanity of slaves
Who wants to be there
To sweep the debris?
To harness dead-horses
To ride in the sun
A life of confessions
Written in the dust."

The Torments Never Cease

2007-03-28T02:15:00.000-04:00

So I missed school yesterday to visit a college in Pennsylvania. My mother and I went to visit (and eat dinner with) her cousin's family on the way to the hotel near the college. The visit wasn't awesome, so we decided to leave early. On the way home, we stopped for an ice cream at a nearby Carvel (a combination Cinnabon-Carvel, in fact). While enjoying my Brown Bonnet, a bit of ice cream entered the wrong pipe, and I broke out into a fit of vigorous coughing.

Apologies for the lengthy setup. Anyway, as I am coughing like an old smoker beset with emphysema, a little boy of three years of age (also getting an ice cream cone with his mother) begins to mock me by staring me down and fake-coughing in an effort to annoy me. Though there was a certain level of cuteness to this small child's behavior, he was nonetheless poking fun at me. It's like the people with whom I interact daily hire people to follow me around and torment me. Yes, I acknowledge that I'm horribly annoying, but please people, call off the toddlers!

Sorry. That wasn't a very good story. I'll make it up to you with an ironic lyrical selection.

"Baby I'm A Star," by Prince (presented with The Artist's alternate spellings of common words)

"Hey, look me over
Tell me do u like what u see?
Hey, I ain't got no money
But honey I'm rich on personality
Hey, check it all out
Baby I know what it's all about
Before the night is through
U will see my point of view
Even if I have 2 scream and shout

Baby I'm a (star)
Might not know it now
Baby but I r, I'm a (star)
I don't want to stop, 'til I reach the top
Sing it (We are all a star!)

Hey, take a listen
Tell me do u like what u hear?
If it don't turn u on
Just say the word and I'm gone
But honey I know, ain't nothing
Wrong with your ears
Hey, check it all out
Better look now or it just might be 2 late (just might be 2 late)
My lucks gonna change tonight
There's gotta be a better life
Take a picture sweetie
I ain't got time 2 waste

Oh baby I'm a (star)
Might not know it now
Baby but I r, I'm a (star)
I don't want to stop, 'til I reach the top
Sing it! (We are all a star!)

Everybody say, nothing come 2 easy
But when u got it baby, nothing come 2 hard
You'll see what I'm all about (see what I'm all about)
If I gotta scream and shout (if I gotta scream and shout)
Baby baby (baby) baby (baby) baby (baby)
yeah
yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah (star)..."

Gavrich Gets Lucky!

2007-03-18T01:06:00.000-04:00

Yes, gang, the title says it all. On this day, the Feast of St. Patrick, I had a wee bit of the old Irish luck.

I briefly achieved the apex, the holy-of-holies in golf this afternoon, a hole in one. It wasn't the mightiest stroke (a paltry swipe of roughly 125 yards, more like), but it was true as true can be. I watched the ball take a little bounce, and then mosey on into the hole from the left side. My reaction was one of stunned amazement, rather than one of unbridled joy. Luckily for the inhabitants of the nearby houses, I did not scream, shout, yell, or even holler at my achievement. But don't get me wrong, it was a pretty cool feeling nonetheless. The best part was that I didn't even have to buy drinks for anybody (as is the typical protocol). Add to that a nice dinner at a nice restaurant, and I must say that I had a pretty decent day. I'd better not risk spoiling the ol' mojo (yes, even squares such as myself can capture this elusive intangible at times) by doing anything but moseying off to bed.

Good night; I apologize for not having too much in the way of sage advice, but sometimes one feels like sharing one's fortune. Fear not, dear readers, I have a little something-something in the works for the near future. Do stay tuned.

Thank you, nothing lyrical this evening (go find some Uileann Pipes or something, perhaps).

How Wiggly is Your Piggly?

2007-03-06T21:14:00.000-05:00

Piggly Wiggly is much like any other supermarket chain, but for the fact that it has a funny name and emblem (a jolly pig with a hungry-yet-ecstatic expreession on its face). Anyway, it's a Southern institution, and I was there earlier this evening. Based on my observations there, dear readers, I have a little quiz for y'all.

What do the following words have in common?

ALL, BOLD, CHEER, DREFT, FAB, GAIN, TIDE, TREND, WISK, YES

Give up?

These words are all brand names. Terse, monosyllabic brand names--for laundry detergents. This phenomenon is fascinating to me because it only seems to occur in laundry detergents. Why do companies feel it's so important to pull in new buyers with these names? Are we so scatterbrained that the only way to catch our attention is with these brief, often-non-sensical names? I have no concrete theories as of now, but if you have thoughts on this strange occurrence, kindly leave a comment.

"I Get A Kick Out Of You," written by Cole Porter

"My story is much too sad to be told,
But practically evrything leaves me totally cold.
The only exception I know is the case
Where Im out on a quiet spree
Fighting vainly the old ennui
And I suddenly turn and see
Your fabulous face.

I get no kick from champagne.
Mere alcohol doesnt thrill me at all,
So tell me why should it be true
That I get a kick out of you?

Some get a kick from cocaine.
Im sure that if I took even one sniff
That would bore me terrificly too,
Yet I get a kick out of you.

I get a kick evrytime I see
Youre standing there before me.
I get a kick though its clear to me
You obviously dont adore me.

I get no kick in a plane.
Flying too high with some gal in the sky
Is my idea of nothing to do,
Yet I get a kick out of you."

Oh the Irony! or Only in the South!

2007-03-05T23:26:00.000-05:00

I am elated as I write this, sitting in the kitchen of my family's condo in South Carolina. My mother, sister, and I made the !14 hour journey all today, having left Connecticut at 8 AM.

About five miles outside of the town of Dunn, North Carolina, along I-95 South, is perhaps the greatest pair of billboards in all of billboard-dom. They are not witty, and not terribly noteworthy by themselves, but their synergy is incredible. They are on opposite sides of the freeway, and are read in quick succession.

BILLBOARD ON THE LEFT: A blue background, with white lettering, and the text, "Jesus is Lord, have you accepted Him into your life?"

BILLBOARD ON THE RIGHT: A black background, with magenta lettering, all in caps, and the text, "Café Risqué! 24 Hour Topless Bar! XXX Videos and Toys! Food n' Fun!"

I believe I need not elaborate any further.

Tonight's lyrical selection: "Closing Time," by Leonard Cohen

"Ah we're drinking and we're dancing and the band is really happening
and the Johnny Walker wisdom running high.
And my very sweet companion she's the Angel of Compassion
she's rubbing half the world against her thigh.
And every drinker every dancer lifts a happy face to thank her
the fiddler fiddles something so sublime.
All the women tear their blouses off and the men they dance on the polka-dots
and it's partner found, it's partner lost and it's hell to pay when the fiddler stops:
it's CLOSING TIME
Yeah the women tear their blouses off
and the men they dance on the polka-dots
and it's partner found, it's partner lost
and it's hell to pay when the fiddler stops:
it's CLOSING TIME

Ah we're lonely, we're romantic and the cider's laced with acid
and the Holy Spirit's crying, "Where's the beef?"
And the moon is swimming naked and the summer night is fragrant
with a mighty expectation of relief.
So we struggle and we stagger down the snakes and up the ladder
to the tower where the blessed hours chime.
and I swear it happened just like this:
a sigh, a cry, a hungry kiss
the Gates of Love they budged an inch
I can't say much has happened since
but CLOSING TIME

I swear it happened just like this:
a sigh, a cry, a hungry kiss
the Gates of Love they budged an inch
I can't say much has happened since
CLOSING TIME

I loved you for your beauty but that doesn't make a fool of me:
you were in it for your beauty too.
And I loved you for your body there's a voice that sounds like God to me
declaring, declaring, declaring that your body's really you.
And I loved you when our love was blessed and I love you now there's nothing left
but sorrow and a sense of overtime.
And I missed you since the place got wrecked
and I just don't care what happens next
looks like freedom but it feels like death
it's something in between, I guess
it's CLOSING TIME

Yeah I missed you since the place got wrecked
By the winds of change and the weeds of sex.
Looks like freedom but it feels like death
it's something in between, I guess
it's CLOSING TIME

Yeah we're drinking and we're dancing but there's nothing really happening
and the place is dead as Heaven on a Saturday night.
And my very close companion gets me fumbling gets me laughing
she's a hundred but she's wearing something tight.
And I lift my glass to the Awful Truth which you can't reveal to the Ears of Youth
except to say it isn't worth a dime.
And the whole damn place goes crazy twice
and it's once for the devil and once for Christ
but the Boss don't like these dizzy heights
we're busted in the blinding lights,
busted in the blinding lights
of CLOSING TIME

The whole damn place goes crazy twice
and it's once for the devil and once for Christ
but the Boss don't like these dizzy heights
we're busted in the blinding lights,
busted in the blinding lights
of CLOSING TIME

Oh the women tear their blouses off
and the men they dance on the polka-dots
It's CLOSING TIME
And it's partner found, it's partner lost
and it's hell to pay when the fiddler stops
It's CLOSING TIME
I swear it happened just like this:
a sigh, a cry, a hungry kiss
It's CLOSING TIME
The Gates of Love they budged an inch
I can't say much has happened since
But CLOSING TIME
I loved you when our love was blessed
I love you now there's nothing left
But CLOSING TIME