Integrity

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good night.

(Dis)Loyalties?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy dressing.

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

No lyrical selection this evening.

Nice

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

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

~ ~ ~

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks Guys

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

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

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

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

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

Relief

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Swanananani (nanani, nanani, nanani)

Ay-ay! A mighty cyclone!

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

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


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

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

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

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

[Chorus]

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

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

[Chorus]

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

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

[Chorus]

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

Nice To Know People Stick To Their Principles...

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

Puhhh. Lease.

This Is Just To Say

...a couple things.

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

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

Cheers for now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy studying.

No lyrical selection this evening.

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

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

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

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

No lyrical selection this evening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The War On Texting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Note Of Thanks And Some Thoughts On All This

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

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

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

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

What A Stupid I Am

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

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

Welcome to college, Tim, ya dumbass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Weekend

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

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

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…"