Assorted Thoughts

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

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

~

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

~

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

Enough for one afternoon.

Cheers.

Bummer

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

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

Juicy Campus: The Ultimate Subversion of Accountability

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

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

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

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

Good night.

~ ~ ~

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

Guitar Zero

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good night.

~ ~ ~

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good night y'all.

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

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

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

Good night.

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

College Life Q & A #1

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






Give up?







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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers.

Heading Back

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

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

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

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

UGH!

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

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

That's all I've got for now.

Sweet Irony

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

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

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

Good night.

On Macho

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

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

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

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

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

Observation

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

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

A No-Go At Flo's

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

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

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

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

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

Good night, blogosphere.

Boeing Culture

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

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

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

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

No lyrical selection this evening.

New Look

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

Cheerio.

Turnover

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Social Concerns

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aye Like!

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

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

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

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

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

Sojourn

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

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

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

Cheers.

A Caution To Everyone

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

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

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

Cheers.

Poised

A brief reflection.

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

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

An FYI

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

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

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

Now, have a nice day.

The Times We Live In?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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