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.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Aye Like!
Well it's been a very nice week-and-a-half in Scotland so far. I was in Edinburgh from last Sunday to last Thursday, and have been staying with my dad in Crail, a small town in Fife, in a house devoid of Internet connection (hell, there are only five television channels, so I've had to watch an unhealthy amount of "Big Brother: UK"...more on that in next post). We leave for a few days in London with mother, sister, and aunt's family on Thursday.
Scotland is quite an interesting place. Some assorted observations/anecdotes.
- My last night in Edinburgh, the four of us (mother, father, sister, yours truly) went to an Italian restaurant. My dessert was rather naughty, by my standards. It consisted of a couple scoops of vanilla ice cream topped with sliced oranges, chocolate sauce, and a healthy amount of Grand Marnier, an orange-flavored liqueur. And I thoroughly enjoyed said dessert. No, I did not get drunk. But there you go: Gavrich has had a bit of the silly stuff, and he enjoyed it.
- The general Scottish accent is fascinating. However, I could never see myself romantically involved with a Scottish girl because while the accent is fascinating, it is rather guttural (apologies, lasses)
- It would be indubitably baller to have a family tartan and kilt, but the colors of clan Gavrich have been conspicuously absent from wool and cashmere stores.
- I've been amused to hear the accents of people here who hail from other countries altogether. In other words, Chinese-accented Scottish English is a sight different from Chinese-accented American English.
- Links golf is fun. Try it.
- Seeing ample daylight at 10:45 PM is far-out.
- The Scots love American country music. Go figure.
- Haggis: (wholeheartedly and wholestomachedly) Gavrich-approved foodstuff.
- Alcohol is far more important here than food.
This morning's lyrical selection: "Let's Drink to our Next Meeting," written by Hew Ainslie (1792-1878). Without providing a glossary of old-timey Scottish word translations, I take it that you'll either look up foreign-looking words or divine their meaning from context (after all, living in the SAT age as we do, we're all well-versed in reading strategies, no?)
"Let's drink to our next meeting, lads,
Nor think on what's atwixt;
They're fools wha spoil the present hour
By thinking on the next.
(Chorus)
Then here's to Meg o' Morningside,
An Kate o' Kittlemark;
The taen she drank her hose and shoon,
The tither pawned her sark.
A load o' wealth, an' wardly pelf,
They say is sair to bear;
Sae he's a gowk would scrape an' howk
To make his burden mair
(Chorus)
Gif Care looks black the morn, lads,
As he's come doon the lum,
Let's ease our hearts by swearing, lads,
We never bade him come.
(Chorus)
Then here's to our next meeting, lads,
Ne'er think on what's atwixt;
They're fools who spoil the present hour
By thinking on the next.
(Chorus)"
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)"
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Sojourn
I returned home from school for the summer six days ago, and was not able to muse up the inclination to do a knee-jerk recap post. Mea culpa. I have a ~7 hour plane ride from Newark, NJ to Edinburgh, Scotland ahead of me, so maybe I'll be able to draft a little something-something.
I'll be on the old sod for the better part of three weeks, during which time I will have limited internet capabilities. So instead of not blogging while I've got a strong wireless signal, I guess I'll be not blogging without any signal whatever for a few days.
Sorry for the lethargy folks; I've really got to do something about all that.
Cheers.
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.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
A Caution To Everyone
At the behest of a friend, I will give a brief review of the latest Indiana Jones movie. There may be spoilers, but they would only preempt the ruination of the film for you anyway, if you decide to see it.
It was awful. Plain, profound crap. I'm convinced that the special effects/screenwriting budget is undefined, because you can't divide by zero. Harrison Ford & Co. did fairly well for the characters and lines they were given. Shia TheBeef is even spared my ire because I recognize that his character never had a chance because the writers of the movie ruined it before he was even cast as Mutt Williams. He wasn't given the opportunity to ruin it himself, as he did so ably in the supremely disappointing film remake of Louis Sachar's intersting children's novel Holes. While I sensed an attempt to spoof the anti-Communist media of the late 1950s, it was half-assed and embarassing. The entire film reeked of 3rd grade gag-humor (TheBeef gets whacked in the gonads by plants a few times during one particular pursuit scene). Seeing as there's nothing more than a couple curse words (all unnecessary to the plot), the PG-13 rating of the movie served to strengthen the insult to the intelligence of nearly any possible moviegoer. To conclude, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull falls squarely into the category of "must-miss," if at all possible.
As an addendum, I was so disappointed by the IJ movie that I decided to have a little film shock-therapy and watch The Last King of Scotland in the university theater. It is a very good movie (Forest Whitaker deserves the high marks he received for his portrayal of Idi Amin) and salvaged my night from a movies standpoint.
Cheers.
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.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Poised
A brief reflection.
I lie on my bed, staring at a hat that hangs precariously on the end of its hook. It is as far out on its plastic limb as gravity will allow it to sit. It sways gently, unmoved, caressed by the air from a fan in my room. The slightest touch--poltergeist's breath--would surely send it to the floor. Yet it remains poised on the end of is hook.
I will not touch it. I will let it decide whether or not it will drop, lose its battle with gravity.
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.
Monday, May 19, 2008
An FYI
I hate clichés as much as the next guy (actually, probably more than the next guy), but I would nonetheless like to share this bit of carpe diem-like anecdote.
Here's the long and short of it: there are a bunch of dead stars--white dwarfs (or dwarves; both are acceptable)--relatively near us in space (within a few dozen light-years). When the high gravity in these objects pulls enough material into them to cross a certain threshold (known as the Chandrasekhar Limit), they collapse, and the result is a nova or supernova, which blows away anything within a few light years of them and disrupts things a few dozen light years away. These events can't be accurately predicted or stopped. So, if one of these were to happen, it'd be curtains for us. Yes, we wouldn't be around anyway if it weren't for those events, but still...
There's a mother-to-child phrase that seems to apply: "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out of it!"
Now, have a nice day.
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.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
The Times We Live In?
A friend notified me of the following Youtube video: a news story about a seven year old boy who had stolen his grandmother's SUV.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GLeVlBca5lg&feature=related
Don't get me wrong; the video is hilarious because the thought of seeing two little kids joyriding in a huge SUV is just absurd. However, my fuddy-duddy nature forces me to see this as a distressing sign of the decline of morality in society.
The newest version of the hit video game "Grand Theft Auto" was released recently, and a couple friends of mine have begun playing it. I was watching some people play it earlier today, carjacking people, shooting police officers and doing other brutal things around Liberty City (which is a dead ringer for New York City). The game rewards robbing and killing people because you can pick up the money you have on your character's person and add it to your own cache.
Am I interested in banning this game or curbing freedom of speech and expression? Absolutely not. All I am saying is that the people who create games like this need to recognize that they have a burden of social responsibility. Because frankly, some parents are not savvy enough to keep their children from being negatively influenced by things like this. Strict ratings on video games are necessary.
After I watched my fraternity brothers playing the game earlier, they were kind enough to drive me back to my dorm. As we drove, we joked about slamming into cars that were parked on the street near us. Now, we all have good grips on reality and would never be led to mistake the light, essentially nonexistent consequences in a video game for the enormous consequences in real life. But not all people have the same kind of grip on reality. Crime sprees that seem to mimic situations in these games are evidence of what can happen to people who cannot make that separation so easily. The line gets blurred. I suppose my point here is that it's up to those with the creativity to be responsible. This burden of responsibility should not be regarded as a hindrance, but sadly the egotists who seem to possess that creativity are reluctant to accept the responsibility. I guess it's the times we live in...
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...
Saturday, April 26, 2008
(At Least) 29,220 Days Left...
I'm back on the blog train. Spring Term 'round these parts has made a loafer of me, and I've started slacking off a bit on the Musings front (which may be of relief to some; who knows). Anyway, I was hitting my daily rota of interesting websites when I spotted a ridiculous headline on Digg about some Belgian woman who is offering to "harvest the virginity" of any guy who supports "net neutrality." One of the comments pointed to this woman's blog: http://tania.movielol.org/. The silliness of the subject turned to serious morbidity when I noticed that the point of her blog is to chronicle the 90 days before she plans to kill herself.
The subject of suicide and life's intrinsic value (and this woman's distressing failure to acknowledge it) is discussed ad nauseam, so I don't feel the need to go into detail on it.
I hope the entire blog is a hoax or a publicity stunt (LATER EDIT: I know it isn't serious; I did more investigating, but whatever). If so, then it's a sick one, but at least this woman won't be pointlessly killing herself. But if it's true, I'm really appalled at the fact that none of her readers has stepped in and tried to alert her family of this (since her first and last names are known).
This afternoon's lyrical selection (it's possible that I've put it up before): "When I'm Gone," by Phil Ochs (who committed suicide himself 32 years ago this month)--
"There's no place in this world where I'll belong when I'm gone
And I won't know the right from the wrong when I'm gone
And you won't find me singin' on this song when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here
And I won't feel the flowing of the time when I'm gone
All the pleasures of love will not be mine when I'm gone
My pen won't pour a lyric line when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here
And I won't breathe the bracing air when I'm gone
And I can't even worry 'bout my cares when I'm gone
Won't be asked to do my share when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here
And I won't be running from the rain when I'm gone
And I can't even suffer from the pain when I'm gone
Can't say who's to praise and who's to blame when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here
Won't see the golden of the sun when I'm gone
And the evenings and the mornings will be one when I'm gone
Can't be singing louder than the guns when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here
All my days won't be dances of delight when I'm gone
And the sands will be shifting from my sight when I'm gone
Can't add my name into the fight while I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here
And I won't be laughing at the lies when I'm gone
And I can't question how or when or why when I'm gone
Can't live proud enough to die when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here
There's no place in this world where I'll belong when I'm gone
And I won't know the right from the wrong when I'm gone
And you won't find me singin' on this song when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here."
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."
Saturday, April 12, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, April 04, 2008
(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.
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.
Monday, March 31, 2008
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..."
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..."
Friday, March 21, 2008
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...
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...
Sunday, March 16, 2008
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..."
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..."
Monday, February 18, 2008
“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!"
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!"
Sunday, February 17, 2008
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.
Puhhh. Lease.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
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)
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, January 05, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
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…”
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…”
Friday, December 28, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Ten Things I Learned In My First Semester of College: Number 9—Snow Sensations
As I write this, I am sitting in the car on the way to Christmas Dinner some 65 miles from home. The scene is, frankly, an ugly brown-flecked white, as the snow that fell about 10 days ago still remains, topped by an icy crust—the remnants of some precipitation from the middle of last week. Being a golfer through-and through, I despise snow, despite my New England upbringing. Previously, I’d always felt as though if I never saw snow again, I wouldn’t mind.
A few days before I left my lovely university in the South for Christmas Break, it snowed for about three or four hours one cold December morning. Only an inch or so accumulated, and as the temperature rose through the afternoon, much of it was gone soon enough. This wasn’t terribly interesting in itself—I know that the area where my school is located receives some snow each year (though happily very much less than I see in Connecticut). As I nearly fell flat on my face on the way to class, I cursed under my breath, but I then perked up at the thought that this could well be the first time that some of my dorm neighbors had ever seen snow fall.
Sure enough, I was correct. Two of my best college friends to-date—a Texan and a Floridian—had never witnessed a snow event first-hand. This fascinated me. Now, I’m not saying that I’m so ignorantly egocentric as to have been surprised that there are Americans who have never experienced what is a part of yearly life in the American Northeast (I should hope not, at least), but the revelation was a bit jarring anyway.
This little experience and reflection re-illuminated for me one of the most important non-academic aspects of college—the coming-together of people from all over the place. It excites me to know people who call places such as Florida and Texas (not to mention Fiji and Nepal) home, as they are places with which I would like to become somewhat acquainted someday. I would also like to think that people think my living in Connecticut somewhat interesting (and despite what people may tell you, dear readers, Connecticut is usually a lovely place), if for no other reason than the fact that I get to see snow fall every year. At the end of all this, I have a slightly renewed appreciation for snow. Though its prolonged presence will forever irritate me, I now see it as an intriguing bit of manna from the winter sky. At least for 12 hours or so.
No lyrical selection this evening.
A few days before I left my lovely university in the South for Christmas Break, it snowed for about three or four hours one cold December morning. Only an inch or so accumulated, and as the temperature rose through the afternoon, much of it was gone soon enough. This wasn’t terribly interesting in itself—I know that the area where my school is located receives some snow each year (though happily very much less than I see in Connecticut). As I nearly fell flat on my face on the way to class, I cursed under my breath, but I then perked up at the thought that this could well be the first time that some of my dorm neighbors had ever seen snow fall.
Sure enough, I was correct. Two of my best college friends to-date—a Texan and a Floridian—had never witnessed a snow event first-hand. This fascinated me. Now, I’m not saying that I’m so ignorantly egocentric as to have been surprised that there are Americans who have never experienced what is a part of yearly life in the American Northeast (I should hope not, at least), but the revelation was a bit jarring anyway.
This little experience and reflection re-illuminated for me one of the most important non-academic aspects of college—the coming-together of people from all over the place. It excites me to know people who call places such as Florida and Texas (not to mention Fiji and Nepal) home, as they are places with which I would like to become somewhat acquainted someday. I would also like to think that people think my living in Connecticut somewhat interesting (and despite what people may tell you, dear readers, Connecticut is usually a lovely place), if for no other reason than the fact that I get to see snow fall every year. At the end of all this, I have a slightly renewed appreciation for snow. Though its prolonged presence will forever irritate me, I now see it as an intriguing bit of manna from the winter sky. At least for 12 hours or so.
No lyrical selection this evening.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Ten Things I Learned In My First Semester of College, Number Ten: A Phallic Phenomenon
(As always, I apologize for posting so sparsely. Thanks for sticking with me.)
Like most college freshmen, a “whiteboard” hangs on the outside of my dorm room door. Perhaps I should have known that my tendency to invite constant fun-poking and jibe-slinging would follow me to college. I fell asleep my first night at school and woke up the next morning to discover that someone had obnoxiously drawn a penis on said whiteboard. Now I had gone to high school with a few people who enjoyed drawing such things on any available flat surface, so I wasn’t immune to the phenomenon. However, after all, this is college. You know, a time of maturity, of taking responsibility, right? Apparently not! Nary a day has gone by when I haven’t discovered such perverse artwork on my whiteboard.
It is also worth noting that this activity is not confined to the sui generis “three-second version” (though this is certainly the most popular manifestation). Oh no, dear readers, sometimes I emerge one morning to find a drawing so explicitly, appallingly detailed (courtesy, usually, of one Strong Islander in particular) that I must make audible my bemusement at human weirdness (usually a chuckle, sniff, or guffaw). I refuse to go into further detail because it would serve no good—suffice it to say that such scenes as are drawn on my whiteboard would hurt the eyes of any decent person.
BOTTOM LINE: It would appear that some young adult males are so very intrigued by their own, shall we say, unique equipment that they wish to express their love for said equipment by drawing it hither and thither. Is it because they feel inadequate and therefore must compensate by bringing such a heretofore-taboo subject into daily life so incessantly? Are they so desperate for the intimate companionship of another that their fixation with drawing penises should be seen as a cry for help and counseling? I am not altogether sure of the answer.
Perhaps an appropriate lyrical selection for this subject is the anthem of all those who are sexually lonely and frustrated: Jackson Browne’s ode to his own member, “Rosie.”
“She was standing at the load-in when the trucks rolled up,
She was sniffing all around like a half-grown female pup,
She wasn't hard to talk to; looked like she had nowhere to go,
So I gave her my pass so she could get in and see the show.
Well I sat her down right next to me and I got her a beer,
While I mixed that sound on stage so the band could hear,
The more I watched her watch them play, the less I could think of to say,
And when they walked off stage, the drummer swept that girl away.
But Rosie you're all right - you wear my ring,
When you hold me tight - Rosie that's my thing,
When you turn out the light - I've got to hand it to me…
Looks like it's me and you again tonight, Rosie.
Well I guess I might have known from the start: she'd come for a star,
Might have told my imagination not to run too far,
Of all the times that I've been burned, by now you'd think I'd have learned
That it's who you look like, and not who you are.
But Rosie you're all right - you wear my ring,
When you hold me tight - Rosie that's my thing,
When you turn out the light - I've got to hand it to me…
Looks like it's me and you again tonight, Rosie.”
Like most college freshmen, a “whiteboard” hangs on the outside of my dorm room door. Perhaps I should have known that my tendency to invite constant fun-poking and jibe-slinging would follow me to college. I fell asleep my first night at school and woke up the next morning to discover that someone had obnoxiously drawn a penis on said whiteboard. Now I had gone to high school with a few people who enjoyed drawing such things on any available flat surface, so I wasn’t immune to the phenomenon. However, after all, this is college. You know, a time of maturity, of taking responsibility, right? Apparently not! Nary a day has gone by when I haven’t discovered such perverse artwork on my whiteboard.
It is also worth noting that this activity is not confined to the sui generis “three-second version” (though this is certainly the most popular manifestation). Oh no, dear readers, sometimes I emerge one morning to find a drawing so explicitly, appallingly detailed (courtesy, usually, of one Strong Islander in particular) that I must make audible my bemusement at human weirdness (usually a chuckle, sniff, or guffaw). I refuse to go into further detail because it would serve no good—suffice it to say that such scenes as are drawn on my whiteboard would hurt the eyes of any decent person.
BOTTOM LINE: It would appear that some young adult males are so very intrigued by their own, shall we say, unique equipment that they wish to express their love for said equipment by drawing it hither and thither. Is it because they feel inadequate and therefore must compensate by bringing such a heretofore-taboo subject into daily life so incessantly? Are they so desperate for the intimate companionship of another that their fixation with drawing penises should be seen as a cry for help and counseling? I am not altogether sure of the answer.
Perhaps an appropriate lyrical selection for this subject is the anthem of all those who are sexually lonely and frustrated: Jackson Browne’s ode to his own member, “Rosie.”
“She was standing at the load-in when the trucks rolled up,
She was sniffing all around like a half-grown female pup,
She wasn't hard to talk to; looked like she had nowhere to go,
So I gave her my pass so she could get in and see the show.
Well I sat her down right next to me and I got her a beer,
While I mixed that sound on stage so the band could hear,
The more I watched her watch them play, the less I could think of to say,
And when they walked off stage, the drummer swept that girl away.
But Rosie you're all right - you wear my ring,
When you hold me tight - Rosie that's my thing,
When you turn out the light - I've got to hand it to me…
Looks like it's me and you again tonight, Rosie.
Well I guess I might have known from the start: she'd come for a star,
Might have told my imagination not to run too far,
Of all the times that I've been burned, by now you'd think I'd have learned
That it's who you look like, and not who you are.
But Rosie you're all right - you wear my ring,
When you hold me tight - Rosie that's my thing,
When you turn out the light - I've got to hand it to me…
Looks like it's me and you again tonight, Rosie.”
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
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."
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."
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