Inspired Lunacy

Writing Sample: Have Another Taste

2011-09-22T23:12:00.002-04:00

Here is another short excerpt from the project I am working on. Still unwilling to discuss it.

There were two people in Melanie’s room besides Melanie herself. Henry was not pleased to see either of them. One was a man with dark skin wearing round wire-rimmed glasses and sporting an immaculate mustache. This was Dr. Sheldon Fletcher, and he was everything you could want in a doctor: calm, professional, compassionate yet detached. When he spoke it was like honey was being poured directly into your eardrums. Henry hated him because he never had good news to share. Since Melanie was physically stable, Dr. Fletcher came around only rarely. He was only a few years older than Henry, but he had the unassuming arrogance that only a doctor working at one of the most prestigious hospitals in the world could have. He treated everyone as if they were beneath him – and they quite literally were, since he nearly topped six and a half feet.

The other person was a girl who could almost have passed for Melanie’s twin. She had darker hair, a rich brown color, done up in a ponytail so that the pink streaks running through it were clearly visible. She was thin and wiry, normally bristling with barely restrained energy but today considerably more subdued. She was wearing a denim jacket over a striped black and white v-neck shirt with a loose black skirt and white stockings. Leather boots came up nearly to her knees. Her gray eyes were sharp and predatory like a hawk’s. This was Gina, Melanie’s younger sister, a girl of twenty-four years of age. As soon as Henry entered the room, she ceased her conversation with Dr. Fletcher and walked over to wrap her arms around Henry in a surprisingly powerful hug. Henry did not return the hug, but he did note that her hair was redolent with the aroma of some strange fruit, perhaps passion fruit or mango.

When Gina stepped back, Henry could see tears shining brightly at the corners of her eyes. Her glasses were small and rectangular, with a mottled pattern on the arms. She wore them in order to look older, but the effort was in vain because she would always look young and sprightly no matter her age. Henry was ill-prepared to see her looking so devastated.

“Henry, I –” Her voice cracked as she tried to get the words out. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but –” She turned away and was wracked by uncontrollable sobbing.

Dr. Fletcher took this opportunity to step forward and extend his hand. Henry shook it slowly, now just feeling confused.

“Henry, we’ve had this conversation before,” Dr. Fletcher began. “There’s nothing new for me to tell you at this juncture.”

“Um…so why are you here?” Henry asked.

“Let me just remind you where we stand. At this moment, Melanie has been in what is referred to as a ‘persistent vegetative state’ for over a year now.”

“One year, two months, and thirteen days,” Henry interjected. “I know how long it’s been. Like you said, you’re not telling me anything new.”

The doctor continued as if Henry had not even spoken. “The head trauma that Melanie incurred in her car accident caused severe damage to her reticular activating system –”

“Which maintains the level of arousal and controls sleep-wake transitions. I know, I’ve read every book, article, and website on comas and brain damage I could get my hands on.”

“Yes, if only medical practice were as simple as reading some books.” When Dr. Fletcher was annoyed, his mustache twitched slightly, but other than that his face was a mask of composure. “You may also know then that after four months in a coma caused by brain damage, the chance for a partial recovery is less than 15%, and the chance for a full recovery is even lower.”

“Yeah,” Henry replied, “you told me that at the four month mark.”

“After a year, the diagnosis is classified as a ‘permanent vegetative state.’ At this point, I as the attending physician, upon the agreement of all the other doctors in the neurosurgery ward, have concluded that by any informed medical expectations it is impossible that Melanie will ever recover.”

Though he knew exactly what this meant, had in fact been expecting this day for some time now, Henry still had to stammer, “What…what are you saying?”

At this point, Gina had recovered to the point where she could cut in. “Henry,” she said, her voice shaky and eyes wide in panic, “my parents are going to pull the plug!”

“That is pending a formal judicial request to end life support,” Dr. Fletcher added, “but I’m afraid events have already been set into motion. I spoke with Mr. and Mrs. Merkowitz on this matter last night.”

Henry felt like he was going to throw up. His first inclination was to collapse on the spot into a useless puddle, assume the fetal position, and bawl like an infant. However, it seemed more productive to grow enraged. He could seize that little ball of fury and use it to hold back the tide of sorrow that threatened to wash over him and leave him utterly inert.

“There is no fucking way I’m going to let that happen!” Henry shouted. “I have some say in this, don’t I? I’m her fiancée!”

“Yes, her fiancée,” Dr. Fletcher agreed. “Not her husband. Because you were never officially married, you have no power of attorney. If you were married, then you could turn this into a clusterfuck of Terry Schiavo proportions, but as the situation stands you have no legal rights here.”

It took all the force of will Henry had to refrain from slamming his fist into Dr. Fletcher’s smug face. Still, his intentions must have been clear on his face, because Dr. Fletcher took an involuntary step backwards in spite of the fact that it was almost inconceivable that Henry could ever take him in a fight. Gina took him by the arm and led the fuming Henry out into the hallway. However, the anger had already begun to subside. That sort of rage required a great deal of energy to maintain, and Henry did not have much to spare. The roaring inferno was reduced to a flickering flame, then smoldering coals.

Gina was still clutching his arm in a vice-grip. The pain and fear on her face was difficult to behold but even more difficult to look away from. “Clearly you’re not ok with this either,” he said.

It was a stupid thing to say. “Of course I’m not ok with this!” she responded. “What part of this situation could possibly be misconstrued as ok? You think my parents are ok with the idea of ending their own daughter’s life?”

“I can’t believe they’re just giving up hope like that. As long as she’s still alive there’s still a chance she might recover.”

“And how long do we wait around for that to happen, Henry?” Gina asked. “Maybe you’ve forgotten this, but you’re only covering less than a third of the cost of keeping her alive. My parents can’t afford to keep her on life support indefinitely.”

“I can figure something out!” Henry pleaded. He nearly cringed at how desperate and whiny his voice sounded. “They’ve got to give me a chance. I can’t believe your parents would decide this without even consulting me!”

“That’s why I’m here – so I could get you to come to our house so you that we can all sit down and talk about this together! I’ve been trying to contact you, but you won’t return any of my calls or texts.”

Henry remembered the missed text he had received last night. He never even bothered to look at his phone. Then he remembered that he had been in the habit of ignoring his phone anyway whenever Gina tried to contact him. She used to call or text him several times a week, but she had stopped doing so for the last several months. The calls and texts had resumed full force in the last week.

“I thought about just showing up at your house, but…” Gina hesitated. “I thought that would be…inappropriate.”

That summoned thoughts that Henry would rather not think about, so he put them aside and said, “I don’t care what you or your parents say. I’m going to fight this. I’m not going to let you take her from me.”

Gina’s face grew flushed. “Take her from you? As if she means nothing to the rest of us? She’s my big sister, Henry. I’ve known her all my life – a lot longer than you, I should add. I know that when the life support is terminated and I watch her take her last breath, that image is going to stay with me the rest of my life. The guilt, the helplessness – I’ll carry those feelings until the day I die. But Melanie deserves to move on and go to a better place. But for you to want to prolong her suffering just because you’re incapable of moving on? That’s just…selfish. Totally and completely selfish.”

Henry turned and, because it seemed like the right thing to do, slammed his fist into the wall. This drew the attention of several nurses and orderlies, but they all quickly resumed what they were doing. Dr. Fletcher popped his head out of the room with a concerned look on his face, but seeing that this was a conversation he wanted no part of, he turned and walked down the hallway in the opposite direction.

His hand hurt. He had skinned several of his knuckles. “She’s all I’ve got,” he said. “She’s the only thing in this world that makes me happy.”

Gina shook her head. “That’s not true. You’ve got a lot of people who care about you. I’m one of them.” She took a deep breath. “Look, I felt the same way as you at first. She was like my best friend. You should have heard me scream at my parents. Even the neighbors were worried. Then I went in her old room and sat there and cried for a long time. Every time I thought I was out of tears, a few more would come. But finally I realized that I already lost Melanie. She’s not in that room. A motionless vegetable isn’t going to make you happy.”

“No, that’s true.” Henry involuntarily reached up to touch his own cheeks. They were dry, as were his eyes. He had never really known how to cry. Melanie used to comment that she had never seen him cry, and Henry would joke that his tear ducts were just too manly to release any liquid. “But I’m not ready to say goodbye to her. I don’t even know how to say goodbye to her.”

“It’s not going to happen right away,” Gina said, resting her hand gently on his arm – the same arm that she had clamped onto before. “This process is going to take some time, which honestly just makes it even harder. I don’t know how to say goodbye to her either, but we can figure out together.”

“Maybe.” The thoughts he was trying to repress were threatening to creep in.

“Please, Henry, stay with me. I really don’t want to be alone right now.”

Then, either because she could not control her emotions or because she had been planning this all along, Gina leaned forward and kissed him. It was a desperate kiss, a kiss born of many conflicting emotions, the kind of kiss that normally only happens in movies, and it first it completely overwhelmed Henry. He felt himself being drawn him and wanted nothing more than to let that happen, but then the levees in his mind broke and all the thoughts came rushing in, bringing with them guilt and anger. He pushed her away and glared at her. The look on her face suggested that she had not in fact planned this, but that did not make him any less furious.

“And you call me selfish,” was all he said, and then turned and walked away.

Gina called after him, “Henry, wait! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to do that!” However, she did not follow him. She stood rooted to the floor as the tears burst forth. Henry forced himself not to look back. Perhaps Dr. Fletcher would comfort her; surely, he would be more than happy to.

Strangers in Love

2011-08-17T01:04:00.003-04:00

We are but strangers in love,

Ignoring all the signs from above.

We'll curse the stars on this night.

We'll curse the gods and let them take our sight.

And when the clocks run backwards and the sun sets in the east,

And counting down the numbers of the beast,

I'll grab your hand in mine and I will never let you go.

And let the wicked winds of fate then blow.

I am the king of faceless men

And you shall be my queen of make pretend.

I swear I've seen your face before,

Somewhere sometime long before this war.

And when they try to name the things we swore could not be named,

And frame the things we swore could not be framed,

And when the time of man is just a distant memory,

We'll soar before we plunge into the sea.

I am the king of faceless men

And you shall be my queen of make pretend.

Writing Sample: Perhaps the Start of Something New?

2011-08-13T01:16:00.002-04:00

Here is a page of writing. Maybe this is the start of a new project? Maybe.

Henry Adler leaned over the side of the Hanover Street Bridge and gazed into the black waters of the Patapsco River as he mentally prepared himself to end his pathetic existence. He wondered how many others had stood in this exact spot and done the exact same thing. How many had deliberated? How many had second-guessed themselves? There had to be at least one who had hesitated at the last second, hoping that a guardian angel would place a firm, reassuring hand on his shoulder and say, “Wait, it’s not too late, there’s something to live for,” only to realize that he was completely and utterly alone, before letting out one last desperate sob and plunging to his utterly unremarkable death. How many had simply fallen in by accident?

Henry was reasonably confident that he was the only one who had looked up facts about the bridge on the internet before committing suicide. He now knew that the Hanover Street Bridge was 2,290 feet long and that it was designed by John E. Greiner and constructed in 1916. He knew that the bridge was considered a “Beaux Arts-style reinforced cantilever bridge,” whatever that meant, and that it was known for its beautiful arches and a drawbridge in the center surrounded on four corners by classic-style towers. He also knew that on May 30, 1993, Baltimore Mayor Kurt Schmoke had officially renamed the bridge the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Bridge. Kurt Schmoke was Baltimore’s first elected black mayor. How did a man with such a stupid name live such an accomplished life? Henry rather liked his own name, it sounded respectable and distinguished, yet he had accomplished nothing of note and now here he was standing on the side of a bridge at one a.m. with a cinder block chained around his ankle. Kurt Schmoke was probably sound asleep at home, resting for an eagerly anticipated day with his grandchildren tomorrow. Maybe he would take them to the aquarium.

Cynicism aside, Henry really liked the Hanover Street Bridge (although he adamantly refused to refer to it by the name Kurt Schmoke had given it). It was a lovely piece of architecture, really. Henry enjoyed admiring architecture even though he knew not the first thing about it. He was a sucker for colonnades and balustrades, flying buttresses and Gothic gargoyles. That was one of the things he liked about living in Baltimore – there were little architectural gems all over the place if you knew to look for them. Take the Hanover Street Bridge, for example. Hundreds of people drove across it every day and probably never gave it a second glance. Melanie was one of those rare people who stopped to notice beauty when she saw it. She had liked this bridge so much that she painted a picture of it at sunset. The autumn sky had been purple and orange, and the reflections of the streetlights on the water looked like shimmering golden stalactites suspended just beneath the surface of the river. Henry hung the painting on the wall of his office at work, right beside a poster depicting the cover of the Yes album Relayer.

The thought of Melanie jolted Henry back to the present and the business at hand – namely, killing himself.

From My Journal: August 2, 2011

2011-08-02T00:59:00.003-04:00

I played a flash game today called "Learn to Fly 2." I launched a penguin into space, sent it hurtling through the atmosphere, and crashed it through an iceberg, a mountain, and into the hut of an obnoxious dodo ("Nature's Troll," apparently) living alone on the island of Mauritius. It was an addicting game, and clearly designed for me. It combined my love of penguins, earning money, and multi-tiered upgrade systems. Time you enjoyed wasting was not really wasted, right? Right...?
Trying to find the CJIS fingerprinting place was kind of a nightmare. Reisterstown Plaza is really ghetto, and as much as I dislike that term it is the most apt description. I came across a fairly well-dressed black woman who appeared to be in her 30's or 40's passed out on the sidewalk before a staircase. I paused, wondering if I should make sure she was alright, when I noticed an empty bag from Popeye's lying next to her. Then I figured she just had the "itis" and kept walking. I am excited about Public Allies because, whether I like it or not, it is already forcing me to step outside my comfort zone. I know I speak from a position of white middle class privilege, but...screw it. At least I'll be helping real people.
Inspiration is hard to come by these days, but I had an image in my head last night that I quickly latched onto. All ideas start as images. In this one, a solitary figure with a sword stands atop a huge train hurtling through an empty sea of grass. He lives on this train and is sworn to defend it. This world is not our own and is lost to history. A Dark Tower vibe, perhaps?
Lena came over last night. The way she brings out the goofy side of me, the side that is unconcerned with reality, is perhaps her greatest gift. I think love is when another person's very presence is enough to make you happy. Love is when being with that person feels more natural than being alone.

2011-07-21T20:52:00.003-04:00

I cursed a stranger's name in a stranger's tongue. I felt the foreign words slide past my lips, and thought the sensation akin to tasting a new spice. What strange etymology led to the formation of such alien sounds? Better question, when did I become so xenophobic?
I had to remember that this cagey cretin did not represent his entire people, and fortunate they were for this fact. If he did, I would have little recourse but to declare the whole lot of them conniving, tight-lipped assassins of virtue and common decency. He smelled of old shoes and taxi cabs. His outfit consisted of corduroy pants and a cotton short-sleeved button-down shirt on which bright jagged stripes plotted a confusing course from collar to hem. His footwear looked as if it had been lifted from a bowling alley. He was an ethnic Cosmo Kramer, but he was deadly serious.
"You insult me in my mother tongue," he said quietly, "and so I will have the audacity to do the same. You, sir, are a balding, soft, slack-jawed American yokel. You would not know culture if it came up behind you and shoved a railroad spike up your pudgy Yankee ass."

I Still Believe

2011-07-07T00:58:00.003-04:00

I still believe in the stuff of legends.
I still believe in two hearts as one.
I still believe in the existence of some higher power in this universe.

I still believe in myself.
I still believe in others.
I still believe there is hope left in this place.

I still believe in poetry.
I still believe in a loud guitar.
I still believe there's a child in me.

I still believe in looking up at the stars.
I still believe in casting my doubts into the sea.
I still believe answers lie in campfires.

Paul Simon said that these are the days of miracle and wonder.
I still believe him.
I still have reason to believe that we all will be received in Graceland.

It is not enough to believe. I must transform belief into action.

The Return of Poetry!

2010-08-23T20:05:00.002-04:00

Today I found a relic. It's called Watermark: the creative arts magazine of Linganore High School. I have four submissions (the first four submissions in the magazine, as it were): three poems and an essay entitled "A Redress of Grievances in Regards to Ocular Aides OR 'My Rant About Glasses'." Wow, what a mouthful - I can't believe I thought that was a good idea.

Anyway, I'd like to share two of the poems with you, because surprisingly enough I think they actually hold up fairly well. Without further ado, I present Poems from the Past.

Theme to the Fall of Man

Factory fires, funeral pyres,

Putrid stench of burning tires.

Smoke stacks, flapjacks,

Acid-leaking battery packs.

NRA, KKK, NBA, CIA.

ICBMs, WMDs, TGIF.

Computer chips, pink slips,

Fools go out and skinny dip.

Lines of code, a la mode,

Information overload.

It's falling out. It's falling out.

We're learning to live in doubt.

Human race, turn your face,

Hide away in your happy place.

Sing your song, nothing's wrong -

We can all just get along.

Digital music and books on CD;

Pray to the god of technology.

Everything is fine, The O.C.'s on at nine.

Who cares if the world is in a swift decline?

Don't go out alone, hold on to your cell phone;

You sold your soul for the coolest ring tone.

All that was green turns to brown.

Idols of man come crashing down.

Bottled water, lambs to the slaughter,

Got to get the money come hell or high water.

Jet lag, corporate slag,

Pledge allegiance to the flag.

Drowning in a sea of McDonald's and Wal-Marts,

The world's a stage, and we're all just bit parts.

Nuclear winter, summer of love,

Astronauts rockin' in the stars above.

Global warming, media storming,

Politicians all performing.

Wherefore hath the flaming balls of doom

Descended on your living room?

Apocalypse now, don't ask how,

Step on up and take your bow.

Nuclear war, hammer of Thor,

There will not be an encore.

Exit stage left.

War Child

Mind like a Rubik's Cube,

Heart like a vault,

Poised before the brink of the final assault.

Know they enemy as thy friend

And let him meet a merciful end.

Men fall like stalks of wheat

And vultures swoop to collect the meat.

The warrior's blade is his only companion.

Old vendettas run deep like a canyon.

Battleground

Playground

Can you hear the bell sound?

For whom does it toll?

For men who've lost their souls.

Some are going home

And some are left in holes.

Under a bloody sun,

Bloody deeds are done.

The warrior waits anxiously

Like the bullet in his gun.

This lonely mother's child

Once was meek and mild;

Now his clothes are torn

And his eyes are wild.

Now his tears run like rivers

And he's filled with shrapnel slivers,

And though the day is hot

He's cold and he shivers.

The warrior's been brave

But he's too wounded to save.

Now the call of duty

Calls him to his grave.

Bit Gen Gamer Fest

2010-08-15T01:50:00.006-04:00

Today, August 14, was devoted equally to both nerding out and rocking out (cock-in I should note) at the Bit Gen Gamer Fest at Sonar in Baltimore. This festival (though I don't believe "festival" truly encapsulates everything that transpired there) was devoted to gaming culture and showcased 11 of the biggest names in video game music - and those are big names indeed. They are also extremely nerdy names. These names were, in order (or as best as I can remember it):

Armadillo Tank
Rare Candy
Ultraball
Year 200X
The X Hunters
The OneUps
This Place Is Haunted
The Megas
Entertainment System
The Protomen
Powerglove

The event was MC'ed by none other than Brentalfloss (no, I have no clue who he is either). DJ Cutman was also spinning in the merchandise room. In the main room, there were a number of arcade cabinets set on free play. It was truly a unique experience playing Excitebike and Marble Madness at a rock concert. There was also a wall of consoles set up with comfy couches, but I would venture a guess that those were occupied by the same people the entire night, so I never even got near those. They also had Super Smash Bros. set up on a projection screen in the merchandise room.

I won't go into detail about every single act - in fact, I didn't even see every single act. I will discuss the ones that were the most notable.

Armadillo Tank, the first act, certainly had me intrigued by their name. See, when I hear the phrase "Armadillo Tank," there's only one thing that comes to mind:

Why yes, that is the cover of the 1971 Emerson, Lake & Palmer album Tarkus. I thought, "Surely, this is a coincidence. There's no way I'm listening to a video game music band named after an obscure progressive rock album." Unfortunately, my enthusiasm for the band's music was decidedly less than my enthusiasm for their nomenclature. Well, I should rephrase that: the music was actually decent, but it was completely ruined by their vocalist, who had absolutely no business being on that or any stage. What was she doing there, other than ruining what could have been a good thing? They should have just handed her a cowbell or a tambourine - anything to get the microphone out of her chubby hands.

The story regarding Armadillo Tank does not end there, however. Later, after their set, I was walking through the merchandise room and stopped by their table. The reason I stopped there was because the Armadillo Tank table was being wo-manned by the bass player, who was hot. I wanted to strike up conversation, but I didn't want to come right out and ask her what was on mind.

So instead I just asked, "So...Armadillo Tank? How'd you come up with that name?"

She starts to reply, "Well, I don't know if you've ever heard of the band Emerson, Lake & Palmer - "

"YES!" I exclaimed, probably more jubilantly than I should have. But I really was that excited - after all, what were the odds of meeting a hot female bass player who not only likes ELP, but likes them enough to name a band after one of their lesser-known albums? I was so thrilled I told her about my idea to get a tattoo of the Tarkus, uncaring of how stupid that sounded.

Now I was in a bit of an awkward position though. After all, at this point I was pretty much obligated to buy something. Unfortunately, there was absolutely no way I was going to purchase their CD. Instead, I used my last $5 to purchase the Armadillo Tank t-shirt. Now, I can walk around the world with this shirt on, and when people come up and ask me "Armadillo Tank? What's that?" I can answer, "Oh, it's a band that I don't really like."

Allow me to back up for a moment and enlighten those who may be confused about what I mean when I talk about video game music (henceforth referred to as VGM) bands. It's actually not as self-evident as the label would suggest; like "indie rock," VGM encompasses a wide variety of musical styles, from 8-bit electronica to ska to metal. Another important distinction is that not all VGM bands simply covers of songs from video games. A number of bands, e.g. The Protomen (more on them later), write original songs whose lyrics are inspired by video games. For the Harry Potter fans, this would be comparable to wrock bands.

I'll run down the other bands that actually left an impression on me. Rare Candy I had seen previously when I saw them open for The Protomen at the Metro Gallery in Baltimore back in the spring. Their lineup consists of a drummer, a bass player (who shreds in another VGM band Entertainment System), and two keyboard players, which for some reasons strikes me as awesome. When I saw Rare Candy the first time, I liked them enough that I actually bought one of their CDs. They do straight up covers of 8-bit video game songs, but they rock so hard that I can actually excuse their drummer for playing in a Pikachu costume.

We left to get some food just as Ultraball began "performing." They were a band only in the loosest sense possible, as their act appeared to consist solely of two dudes in Pokemon costumes screaming the in the faces of the audience. They didn't even bother getting on the stage. We also missed Year 200X and returned just after The X Hunters had started playing. They played frantic guitar-driven covers of Mega Man songs and appear to be fairly new to the scene. I was strongly considering buying their CD.

The OneUps did not leave much of an impression on me. They boldly proclaimed at the beginning of their set that they are the only band who play "video game music you can have sex to." I was skeptical, and while they certainly weren't bad, they didn't really live up to this lofty ambition.

The next band, on the other hand, definitely left an impression on me. They were called This Place Is Haunted and they performed perhaps the most random set list I have ever heard. They opened with a medley of 80's TV theme songs, which included: Duck Tales, Inspector Gadget, Full House, and Ren and Stimpy. They also played a couple Disney songs ("Under the Sea" and "Prince Ali"). And, of course, a generous helping of video game songs, including selections from the classic games Castlevania and Chrono Trigger (one of the greatest RPGs of all time, I might add).

The Megas, like The X Hunters, play songs based solely on the Mega Man games. Unlike The X Hunters, they play rock songs with Mega Man-inspired lyrics. This sounds a lot like The Protomen, but unlike that band, The Megas weren't that good. They suffered from the same problem that Armadillo Tank had (though not to as great a degree), i.e. solid music muddled by shoddy vocals. I really don't understand why so many bands insist on relying on a sub-par singer when they would really be much better off as a purely instrumental band (*cough* Dream Theater *cough*).

Finally, I get to the last two bands (we didn't stay for Powerglove, so I can't speak to them) and to where shit got out of hand. As soon as The Megas left the stage, my friends and I made our way towards the front so that we would be in a prime position to see The Protomen. The band preceding them was called Entertainment System, and they were certainly the heaviest of all the acts that performed. The guys could certainly shred, I'll give them that. Unfortunately, at this point the drunkest of those in attendance completely abandoned propriety and began moshing. Now, those of you who may scoff at the idea of a mosh pit at a VGM concert probably don't realize that a lot of nerds are also metal-heads and metal-heads love to mosh. There was some moshing at the Rare Candy/Protomen show, but it was nothing compared to what happened at Bit Gen.

Now, after Entertainment System left the stage, I think The Protomen realized that this might be a problem during their set and so, while they were setting up (which took nearly an hour), their personal MC/cheerleader K.I.L.R.O.Y. attempted to rid the crowd of their excess energy and also get them excited for the band by leading an impromptu dance-off and then a train around the club led by the winner of said dance-off. Unfortunately, the moshing actually got worse, so much so that it almost ruined the show. The moshers were even moshing during songs that were completely inappropriate for moshing. I'm not even sure they were paying attention to the music at this point.

Directly in front of me was a short, stout dude wearing a backwards cap and a button-up shirt. The first time that a mosher inadvertantly slammed into him, this meaty dude grabbed the mosher by the collar and shouted in his face, "If you fucking touch me again I'll fucking kill you!" This seemed such an exaggerated reaction to me that I actually thought this guy was joking, that he would suddenly grin and go, "Nah, I'm just messing with you." This did not happen. As the moshing got more and more out of control, this guy got angrier and angrier. Any time moshing caused him to so much as have to shift his weight, he would turn back and glare at the moshers with a look of such frightening intensity that I really thought he was going to just dive into the middle of the mosh pit and start swinging. The second time this guy had to grab a mosher and yell in his face, I genuinely believed that the concert was about to devolve into a brawl with this dude at the center. But ultimately, Angry Dude had more common sense and left the crowd before things got violent.

As for The Protomen...well, they were still awesome, of course. But I'm glad that wasn't my first time seeing them, since the constant moshing made it very difficult to pay attention. As this post has already gotten quite lengthy, I won't go into a full description of the band. Instead I'll just direct you to their official website and their Wikipedia page.

Anyways, Bit Gen Gamer Fest was a lively and spirited time had by all. I will definitely be attending next year as well as the Magfest coming up in January. I hope that, for those of you for whom this is a completely unfamiliar concept, you will check out some of these bands and perhaps become a convert to the VGM scene. I mean, video games are great and music is great, so what could be greater than combining the two?

Childlike Faith in Childhood's End

2010-08-05T21:22:00.004-04:00

Sometimes I actually feel like I've gotten dumber over time.

Maybe "dumber" is not the proper term. But it certainly seems that, in spite of all my education and experience, there are certain things that I could do when I was a kid that I just can't do now. Where did those capabilities go? Can I get them back? Will I ever buck my over-reliance on rhetorical questions?

I used to read - like, as a hobby. As in, more than when I was just on the toilet, like it is now. Not only that, but sometimes I would read two books at the same time. Not simultaneously, mind you. I would go back and forth between each book, reading a chapter from the first one day and a chapter from the second the next. And somehow I did that without using bookmarks. Seriously, I didn't need bookmarks. I would just remember where I left off and go right to that page. There is no way I could do that now. Being a college student doesn't leave a whole lot of time for recreational reading. Well, in my case, it does - but when you have to read dozens of pages a night for class, it doesn't leave a whole lot of desire.

Another thing I seemed to have lost is my endlessly active imagination. Actually, that sounds really depressing when I read it. Perhaps that is a bit of an overstatement, but it doesn't change the fact that I was a lot more imaginative as a child - as we all were, I suppose. I used to sit in the laundry room playing with Legos while my mom did the laundry, and while she busied herself with that chore I would entertain her with ridiculous stories that I would make up off the top of my head.

The details of these improvised tales are largely lost to me. I believe one was about something I referred to as "gopher fillings," and no I haven't the slightest idea what those are; one involved "a carrot that turned into a brick," though I believe there were many more permutations involved; and one was about a floating head that could only say "Hola!" and terrorized an entire town of people in spite of their best efforts to destroy it. This last story was inspired by my older brother who was taking Spanish. At the time, the extent of his vocabulary was "Hola! Como estas? Bien, gracias. Y tu?" which he would utter as one sentence...over and over again. In addition to entertaining my mother as an adorable little raconteur, I would also do characters. For example, I once pretended to be a newspaper reporter with severe amnesia interviewing her about doing the laundry, but every few minutes would forget key details like what I was interviewing her about and my own name.

Honestly, the more I think about it, the more I realize that I had more ambition as a kid than I do now as an adult. My very first personal computer was a hand-me-down from my grandfather running Windows 3.1. It didn't even have a mouse. This was my first experience with a word processor and it blew my mind. One of the things I distinctly remember writing was my own spy novel "inspired" by James Bond - which is to say it was completely ripping off James Bond. I was playing the shit out of some Goldeneye at that time. But it was still an original plot with an "original" character and it was at least 50 pages by the time I was done with it. I'd be thrilled today if I could stick with a story for 50 pages before deciding that I hate it.

When my younger brother and I played games, we didn't just play "Cops and Robbers" or "Tag." I forced Adam to be a character in a story which existed only in my head, to combat imaginary foes who actually had a motive and an objective which we were trying to thwart. This still consisted primarily of us running around with sticks, but looking back it makes me realize that I totally should have done drama in high school.

So what the hell happened? Where did all that amazing (if childish) inspiration go? When I was a kid, I came up with ideas faster than I could even write them down. Now, in the rare instances when I am presented with a nugget of an idea, I seize it like a starving man reaching for a piece of meat and inevitably end up smothering it. Now, the creative process is cruel to me, but back then being creative didn't require a "process," it was just something I did naturally.

My theory is that self-awareness is a double-edged sword. Self-awareness in the sense that I am referring to is something that children do not possess. It is the ability to step outside yourself, in a sense, and examine yourself from the eyes of another. It is the ability to assess your own strengths and weaknesses and understand just what it is that makes you tick. It's an extremely important trait to have as an adult; I firmly believe that it is self-awareness and not education or IQ that separates intelligent people from idiots. But with self-awareness comes self-doubt, and self-doubt is ultimately what cripples the imagination and turns innocent little kids into cynical hipster douchebags. Kids don't stop to wonder whether their ideas are hackneyed or derivative, or what the critics will say, or even whether or not the idea makes any sense at all. When a kid has an idea, he simply takes it and runs with it.

So I ask you, the readers: what are some things you used to be able to do as a kid that you can't do now? Are there things you remember doing as a kid that you wish you had the guts to do now?

ALSO: 1 million blog points to anyone who can tell me the artist whose song I have taken the title of this post from.

Outlaw Jam, Frederick Fairgrounds

2010-08-01T22:37:00.002-04:00

I saw some strange things today.

These include, in no particular order: a man wearing a t-shirt that read "Tits Clits Or Bong Hits;" a middle-aged biker chick with a patch on her leather vest that read "My inner child is a mean little fucker;" Karl Marx in a muscle shirt and cargo shorts; a mentally handicapped guy wearing hipster glasses and size-0 gauges in his ears; a group of 40-year-old women trying to act like teenagers; a shirtless middle-aged man with a gargantuan potbelly and a bushy mustache smoking a cigar whilst exposing his ass-crack to the world; a man with a prosthetic leg and Confederate flags tattooed all over his shoulder.

These people were gathered all in one place today at the Frederick Fairgrounds. The 2010 Outlaw Jam (the first and, hopefully, last of its kind) drew a staggering assemblage of rednecks, bikers, and redneck bikers. Today I saw more horrendous tattoos than I have ever seen in my life. I saw hairstyles which stretch the very definition of that word to new lengths. I saw basically the worst that America has to offer. I cannot think of another situation in which a family of Jews could possibly fit in worse.

The event was an all-day affair, but my family and I did not arrive until 4 pm when the main acts began. We came to see Candlebox, Blue Oyster Cult, and Bad Company, with Bad Company being the headlining act and the one that most people were there to see. Candlebox did not leave much of an impression on me, as I know exactly one of their songs. Blue Oyster Cult was very impressive, especially since they played at the Fourth of July celebration at Baker Park two years ago and I recall that performance as being lackluster. Today, the guitar solos were supercharged and technically dizzying, especially on "Godzilla." They were accompanied by "monster bass player" Rudy Sarzo, who has played with such acts as Quiet Riot, Ozzy, Whitesnake, and Dio.

Bad Company did not disappoint. Paul Rodgers, the singer, has not lost anything with age and the music sounded even better than it does on the albums. Bad Company is not a band that I necessarily get excited about, but they are still a truly classic rock and roll band and they put on a truly classic rock and roll performance. Bad Company is a band that both of my parents grew up with and so this was a pretty big deal for them. I, for one, appreciate the lyrical depth of Bad Company's music; with songs like "Can't Get Enough of Your Love," "Ready For Love," and "Feel Like Makin' Love," this is a band that is not afraid to tackle the more dense, challenging themes.

Being immersed in the beer-soaked heart of Fredneck only served to remind me that, although I have lived in Frederick County since I was in kindergarten, I have never and will never consider it my community, and its people will never be my people. I'm not ashamed to live where I do, but I'm certainly not proud of it either. It's not something I generally think about. The fact that I live in Frederick County only enters my mind in those rare instances when I have to deal with large numbers of Frednecks and in the more common instances when I have to listen to people from Montgomery County talk about how great they are simply because they live in MoCo.

This I can never understand. MoCo people are the only people I have ever known to a) see their county as a source of pride and b) feel a sense of camaraderie with people who have nothing in common other than happening to also live in Montgomery County. The only bearing that my county has on me is that it determined what schools I went to, and since Mt. Airy sits on four counties, it's just as likely that I could have ended up in living in Carroll, Howard, or even the prestigious Montgomery County. My girlfriend makes fun of me for shopping at Wal-Mart, but I find it more bizarre that there are apparently no Wal-Marts in all of Montgomery County, at least according to her. Why is this? Does Montgomery County consider itself "too good" for Wal-Mart? Does it even matter?

Clearly, there is a class issue at the heart of this matter, as Montgomery County is the second-wealthiest county in the entire nation. But I've gotten sidetracked here. My point here is that I hate being surrounded by rednecks, but what I hate even more is people assuming that I myself am a redneck simply because of where I live, especially since that could not be any farther from the truth.

But I'd like to hear some feedback on this issue. Post a comment telling me whether your county is actually important to you and if you have had any experiences similar to mine in dealing with people from Montgomery County.

A Brief History of the Samurai Swords in My Bedroom, and Why They Could Not Be Any Less Cool

2010-07-29T23:50:00.007-04:00

Have you ever been laying on your bed and tried to gaze upon your room, your most intimate sanctuary, with fresh eyes? Have you ever looked at the objects in your room and tried to figure out what kind of story each one tells? In this way, you might gain inspiration from the mundane. That's what life is all about, really - finding inspiration in the mundane.

Standing upon the dresser in my room is a set of knockoff replica samurai swords. They are placed, tastefully, in front of a small poster I received with the video game Fable and behind a rather random assortment of unsorted possessions, which at this moment includes: two glasses cases, a mug full of coins, an Xbox 360 controller, and a copy of the book Quicksilver by Neal Stephenson. These objects are sitting upon a cardboard box, the top of which reads "Fantasy Axe" and is adorned with a picture of said axe. This axe is the one item out of all others that I am most embarrassed about purchasing.

The samurai swords are arranged longest to shortest on a wooden stand. The katana is on top, then the wakizashi, and the shortest blade, the tanto, on bottom. The sheaths are dark blue with brass caps on the end of the sheath and on the pommel of the sword itself. The hilts are wrapped with blue and gold cords. The hilt, the pommel, and the guard are decorated with intricate etchings. Each sheath has a rope secured with leather fasteners which I presume are included so that the sword may be worn on the belt. The inclusion of these ropes seems absurd, since it is inconceivable to me that any of these swords will ever be worn on anyone's belt. As this lackluster description demonstrates, I am decidedly ignorant about the anatomy of a samurai sword.

These swords were purchased in Disney World. To be more specific, they were purchased in a souvenir shop in the Japan section of Epcot's World Showcase. I bought them when I was only a freshman in high school. This was during a trip I took with the Linganore High School Marching Band which to this day still holds up as possibly the most fun I have ever had as a minor. It was my first experience getting to explore a new place with friends without constant adult supervision. Being afforded the opportunity to decide what we wanted to do, where we wanted to eat, and with whom was truly magical.

It was on the second day of the trip that I walked into the store in Japan-land with my friend Paul and gazed upon the majesty arrayed before us. We gazed upon the various swords that were on display under glass and thought the same thing: for a mere $100, we too could be samurai! It almost seemed too incredible to be true. As a 14 year old, this was the most exciting discovery I had ever made. Most kids would have just looked at the swords, remarked that they were pretty cool, and moved on. But at that instant Paul and I had already determined that we had to have those swords.

There were a few obstacles on our path to becoming samurai. The first was that, as minors, we could not purchase the swords without an adult being present. In addition, we also had to get permission from our parents. Finally, we had to get permission from Mr. Lloyd, the band director. That conversation with Mr. Lloyd was probably what cemented his dislike for me, a sentiment that persisted all the way through senior year. He grudgingly acquiesced to our childish demand, but stipulated that under no circumstance were we allowed to bring the swords back with us on the band bus. This was not about to stop us; we had no qualms with shelling out a bit more cash in order to have the swords shipped home. I recall that Paul, in order to afford this, stopped paying for food for the rest of the trip and subsisted entirely off of homemade cinnamon buns that his mother had given him before we all left for Florida. I simply accepted that I would be unable to buy any other souvenirs.

A few days later, we arranged for one of the adult chaperons to accompany us to Epcot, even though it was not on the list of approved parks for that day (in order to prevent the kids from spending all their time at the Magic Kingdom or Hollywood Studios and completely neglecting Animal Kingdom, Lloyd decreed that we would only be able to visit certain parks on certain days). When we arrived at Epcot, the streak of perfect weather we had been enjoying was immediately broken as the sky burst open and unleashed a tremendous torrent that soaked us within seconds. Paul and I, having no protection from the rain of any sort, did the logical thing and sprinted all the way through Epcot and around the World Showcase to Japan, which is on the exact opposite end of the park. There, sodden and shivering, we waited in the air-conditioned confines of the store for our no-doubt disgruntled chaperon to catch up.

The employees of the store eyed the two of us with some indecipherable mixture of bemusement and distaste. Though surprised that we were actually going through with this ill-conceived scheme, they were still happy enough to take our money. First, though, we had to call our parents long-distance using the phone in the store and have them talk to the cashier. I'm sure our parents were exasperated at this, but they knew us well enough that this whole thing was probably not a surprise to them. Finally, the transaction was completed, the shipping forms were filled out, and all that was left was to wait to get home.

I will skip ahead now to the fated day when the swords finally arrived. They arrived in a nondescript cardboard box. In my jubilation, I tore through the packaging like the velociraptor tore through that hunter guy in Jurassic Park. I took the katana in hand and slowly - reverently, even - pulled the blade from the sheath. I held the sword in both hands in front of me and assumed my best samurai pose in front of a mirror. Then I held my breath and waited for the kick-ass samurai powers to magically manifest in my brain.

Sadly, I was not struck by divine inspiration that day. I eventually came to accept that becoming a samurai would require a real samurai sword and, more importantly, years of brutal mental and physical training. Still, I was not completely disheartened, as I firmly believed that the samurai swords were really cool to look at and would make an excellent showpiece in my future bachelor pad.

So committed did I become to this new idea of having swords for display purposes that, rather than cut my losses, I delved deeper into the realm of the absurd. I began a new tradition of buying a new sword every year at the Renaissance Faire. In doing so, I ensured that the odds of me getting a girlfriend were about as high as me becoming a real samurai. What's more, the swords I bought became increasingly more preposterous, culminating in me purchasing a claymore nearly as tall as me (which of course I could barely lift). But finally, I crossed my own line. I jumped the shark, so to speak. I bought a "Fantasy Axe."

Behold my shame.

At this point, I already had so many swords that I didn't have enough room to display them, meaning they were not even fulfilling the single justifiable purpose they had. Up until this point, I continued to delude myself into believing that all these swords would someday look bad-ass on display in a nice glass cabinet illuminated with soft white light and lined with red felt. But once I came home with that Fantasy Axe and took it out of the box, I realized that I had gone too far. This was ridiculous even for me. This had to end. I took all of my swords and placed them in storage in a special container marked "Swords;" I could not bring myself to get rid of them. Two items, however, I did not place in storage. One was the Fantasy Axe. It sits on top of my dresser as a constant reminder of what an embarrassingly huge nerd I am. The other is, of course, the set of blue and gold samurai swords, mainly because they hold a special place as the catalyst for my whole "sword phase," but also because, even to this day, they still look pretty awesome.

The unspoken truth about nerds is that, while we are pretty smart people, we spend our money on some pretty dumb shit. Swords, Warhammer 40K, Magic: The Gathering - many are the days when I wish I could get back all the money I spent on those hobbies. But I can't bring myself to get rid of any of those neglected artifacts of my high school days. There's always the chance that someday - in spite of my terrible eyesight and flabby body - I just might get to realize my dream of being a samurai.

A Few Thoughts on Twilight, or More Accurately, One Thought: Shut Up About It

2010-07-28T21:33:00.009-04:00

The following request is going to require some explanation: could we all please just stop making fun of Twilight? Now, lest you believe that I make this request out of respect for the series or its fans, let me quickly back-peddle a bit and state unequivocally that I acknowledge this series for the unholy abomination that it truly is (as this personal tragedy demonstrates).That being said, I have never actually read any of the books nor seen any of the movies (nor do I have any intention of doing either). This, of course, prevents me from offering any direct literary analysis of my own. Frankly, my ambivalence towards Twilight is such that I am not even interested in critiquing the series.

Recently, I made a Facebook status update expressing that "I could not possibly care less about the World Cup." A few wise guys commented that such a statement was contradictory since if I really was that apathetic about the World Cup I wouldn't bother to make a post about it in the first place. I concede that they have a point. Since I can already see people leveling similar criticism towards the nature of this post, let me reiterate that my purpose in writing this post is not to complain about Twilight itself; I am instead writing about the meme that bashing the series has become.

To describe the general reaction of people on the Internet to Twilight as a "backlash" would be tantamount to calling the Holocaust a "misunderstanding." Such is the enmity towards this series that entire websites exist devoted solely to the purpose of bashing it. It has reached the point where I find anti-Twilight sentiment just as aggravating as pro-Twilight sentiment - actually, more so, since while I have never actually had to endure the torturous ordeal that I imagine a conversation with a rabid Twilight fan to be, I am constantly exposed to Twilight haters all over the Internet and in real life. I get it, Internet - real vampires don't sparkle. I know this. Everyone know this. I am certain that even fans of Twilight know this. I'd even be willing to bet (though not much) that Stephanie Meyer knows this.

We need to stop the Internet from transforming into nothing more than glorified soap box from which to denounce a single book series. The main reason I implore people to cease the constant complaining about Twilight (besides how annoying it is) is that making fun of Twilight fans - like making fun of the handicapped - is both painfully easy and ultimately not very fulfilling. To paraphrase a quote by Reverend Al Sharpton, at this point Twilight fans should get our prayers more than our responses.

Look, I'm not saying that anyone needs to stop hating Twilight. I'm just saying that maybe we can tone down the rage just a bit. I don't care how many message board threads you start or how many incoherent Youtube comments you leave, Twilight and its adherents are not going to simply go away. Also, the only thing that all of this hate-spewing accomplishes is putting Twilight fans on the defensive, spurring them to protest even more vocally about how great Twilight is and how "you don't even know." I know, from personal experience, that nothing is more grating and intrusive than a nerd who feels that his favorite series has been slighted. If we just ignore Twilight fans and let them live in their little fantasy world, we'll all be happier for it.

We're just going to have to accept that Twilight is (and it physically pains me to say this) now as entrenched in popular culture as Star Wars and Lord of the Rings are. The only real permanent solution I can see is for someone to invent time travel, go back in time, and takes one for the team by giving Stephanie Meyer the thorough dicking that she probably needed. Because, clearly, anyone who writes a series like Twilight is not getting any.

Mission Statement to Myself

2010-07-28T01:01:00.000-04:00

My favorite quote has always been “Be the change you wish to see in the world.” The world existed long before I came around, and it will exist long after. But it need not be the same world. Indeed, it cannot be, for by my very presence I change the world. But that is not enough for me, I’m afraid. I cannot merely be satisfied with myself, for I have the willpower and the imagination to effect great things. Sometimes I doubt this and I am frustrated. It is easy to lose sight of ourselves amidst our surroundings, to “see the forest from the tree” to use the expression. When you doubt yourself, you doubt everything.

There’s a part of me that needs to create, and it is frustrated that I just don’t seem to have many ideas lately. I think everyone is driven by something and that is what drives me. Success means adding something to this world that is uniquely yours. That is why I need to write or make music or just record myself talking. If I am not creating something then I feel like I am just wasting my time. Eventually there may come a day when getting married and having kids will seem like a sufficient culmination of all that I have lived and experienced, but right now I am young – and selfish. And so, success to me at this moment means having a body of work, to have something that bears my name and means something to someone else.

I probably think about writing ten times as much as I actually write, and yet I dare to call myself a writer. What arrogance it requires for someone to take something that virtually anyone can do and declare to the world that they deserve to get paid for doing it. You might as well call yourself a “professional breather” or a “professional walker.” Then again, writing – like thinking – is an activity that everyone can engage in and yet so few actually do on any kind of regular basis. So right here in this paragraph I have distilled what it takes to be a writer: the ability to think and a great deal of arrogance. These I possess, if nothing else.

I suppose I left out talent, but as I can neither quantify it nor qualify it, I cannot describe it. Suffice to say, it is not for me to affirm whether I have it or not. I am not fishing for compliments here, nor attempting to seem humble, but merely explaining that anything I can create will always fall short of whatever intangible ideal is swimming around in the murky sea of half-formed thoughts from which I draw forth ideas kicking and screaming. This is a complicated way of saying that I am my worst critic, a fact that my closest friends know with a certainty that can only come from listening to me ramble on over games of Peggle or Marble Madness.

And speaking of rambling let me dredge this river for a point. With the Internet as my witness, I am issuing a challenge to myself. I challenge myself to write something – anything – every single day from this point forward, for such time as it takes for me to no longer be slightly ashamed about calling myself a writer. It need not be something of great significance, and I am not requiring myself to post everything on this blog (though I will try and do so as often as possible), but it must be more substantial than a Facebook update, an email, or a text message. Writers write, and so this is my Mission Statement: put aside doubt, stop over-thinking, and simply be a writer.

Lost in the Supermarket

2010-04-12T23:30:00.000-04:00

I am a little embarrassed to admit it, but I’m intimidated by the prospect of going to a grocery store. A grocery store is a terrifying place. It is a staple of a civilized society. It is a shining monument to consumerism and personal choice, and yet there is something inherently primal about it. Grocery stores bring out a selfish, animalistic nature in old women and housewives and reduce dudes like myself to nerve-wracked messes, clinging to the handles of our shopping carts like passengers of the Titanic must have clung to shards of debris bobbing in the frigid waters of the Atlantic.
No matter where you are in the store and no matter how empty the place may have seemed when you first arrived, there is always someone right behind you impatiently trying to get by. You’re always in someone’s way. Everyone is roaming the store, dutifully self-absorbed, ignorant to the plights of their fellow shoppers. This is compounded by the fact that everyone is pushing a shopping cart.
If man were meant to command four-ton hunks of metal and flammable materials at excessive speed, he would have been born with keys in his hand. It is my firm belief that everyone, no matter what he or she says, is a bad driver. Similarly, if we were meant to push around unwieldy steel cages on rickety little wheels, we would have been born with shopping lists in our hands. The shopping cart has all the grace and maneuverability of a Panzer tank. When the cart is being steered by a rheumatic septuagenarian who can barely see over the handle, what hope is there for the rest of us?
Even for those of sound mind and body, navigating the cramped confines of a supermarket aisle where a beleaguered mother is arguing with her toddler over what type of cereal to get and a stock boy has parked his palette presents no shortage of challenges. I can think of no gauntlet more harrowing to run.
I wasn’t meant for the grocery store. I am deliberate. I am a browser. And I never make a grocery list. My laid-back nature is incompatible with the frenetic pace at which my fellow shoppers go about their weekly excursion to the local Giant. They know what they want and they know where to find it. I do not. I am as the country bumpkin plunged into the dazzling insanity of the great metropolis. I have no ready guide and no map to the stars.
How many brands of breakfast cereal does a society really need? To what conclusion would Aristotle reach were he faced with the choice between a dozen different varieties of Special K? Would our founders see a rainbow of Pop-Tarts boxes as the American dream made manifest? Is there such a thing as too many options? Have American shoppers been desensitized to the notion of want or scarcity? Perhaps if I weren’t devoting so much of my conscious thought to questions like these I wouldn’t be such an infuriatingly slow shopper.
I glance around at the other shoppers, practically shoving each other aside in order to peruse different flavors of yogurt, and wonder if the hunter-gatherer instinct has become as vestigial as wisdom teeth or the appendix. Lord knows I’d be screwed if grocery stores were to suddenly vanish overnight. Food is an industry, tied just as much to profits as it is to providing a basic necessity of human survival. Our ancestors were not concerned with bio-degradable packaging, organic ingredients, or low-carb alternatives. They killed what they were fast or smart enough to catch, and they picked up plants off the ground and hoped they weren’t poisonous. Nature doesn’t offer two-for-one specials or coupons. It is not a basic assumption that we should have supermarkets. We create new necessities for ourselves as we invent ways to satisfy the old ones. We didn’t have supermarkets 100 years ago, but we panic if we didn’t have them tomorrow. Can that really be good for us as a society?
On the other hand, my local Giant has portable hand-held scanners now, and those are pretty cool.

Getting There

2010-03-29T01:02:00.002-04:00

We'll start with the most essay I've written and move backwards. This one is about the road trip I took over Spring Break. Enjoy.

Tim has just finished rolling a cigarette when I realize the error of my ways. There is a pair of headlights behind me that wasn’t there a moment ago. Only headlights, though; for a moment I reassure myself that it’s only a false alarm. I am wrong, of course. Flashing blue lights come to life at that instant, pulsating with silent menace – silent because the music is blasting. I know the wail of the siren is chasing me down I-95. I resign myself to my fate and pull over – on the left side, like an idiot.
Tim has stashed the contraband well before the state trooper is at my window. I roll it down to see an older gentleman with paunchy cheeks and a bemused expression. He shines his flashlight into Tim’s car and asks for my license and registration. I do as he tells me. The time is a bit before two am.
“Son,” he says after he hands me back the license and registration, “you may want to consider pulling over on the right side next time. This is…sort of dangerous.”
He returns to his vehicle. I slump in my seat. In the six years I’ve been driving, this is my first time ever getting pulled over. I’m a fine driver. It’s just that this isn’t my car, it’s late at night, and we’ve already been driving for nearly nine hours. I can only hope that Southern hospitality is all it’s supposed to be.
He returns to inform me that he clocked me at 91 mph in a 70 mph zone. The penalty for such a speeding violation is normally $180 and four points on your license.
“I did as much as I could for you,” the officer tells me. “I brought it down to 79 mph. That’s $100 and no points.”
“Th-thank you, officer,” I manage to stammer.
He looks at me for a long moment. “Headed to Florida, are you? What university do you kids go to?”
I don’t bother to ask him how he knows this. “UMBC, sir.”
“Right.” He switches off the flashlight. “Well, slow down, son. Florida will still be there when you get there.”
* * *
Only a day ago I was sick in bed with a fever. I spent the day laid out on the couch at home. I hadn’t been home in three months, and my one day at home was spent in a medicated stupor watching TV. Much of this time was also spent listening to my dad lecture at me about the merits of going to law school. I finally agreed at some point that I should go to law school. Then I watched Kung Fu Panda followed by Monsters vs. Aliens. Kung Fu Panda was actually decent. Monsters vs. Aliens was terrible.
The fever broke soon after that, around eleven pm. Tim called me then to tell me that he was willing to wait till the next day to leave. I had called him and Gary, whose house we would be staying at in Tampa, at around noon to tell them that there was no way I would be able to go on the trip in my current condition. The original plan had been to leave Saturday night after Tim got off work, a plan that had been shot to hell by my falling ill. Weak though I still was, I told Tim that I would probably be feeling well enough after another night’s rest that we could still go. We’d only be losing about half a day in that case. My relief at not having to disappoint my friends was tempered by the fact that, all in all, this trip was still a dumb idea.
My dad was less than pleased with the idea. I was making a big mistake, he told me. I was a fool. But I was also 21. He could no more force me to stay home as he could force me to go to law school. Of course I was still going. I knew, however, that whatever happened, I could not ask him for help.
* * *
On the road, we measure time not in hours but in albums. This is our chance to listen to the really good stuff. Tim and I are constrained not by time, distractions, or unbelievers who do not share our eclectic taste in music. We can listen to the epic songs. We can listen to Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells, which clocks in at 40 minutes. Supertramp’s Crime of the Century is followed by Lateralus by Tool, which in turn is followed by Return to Cookie Mountain by TV on the Radio. Who knows how many miles we covered in that time?
My body is filled with a cocktail of DayQuil, sugary snacks, and 5 Hour Energy drinks. My bladder has shrunk to the size of a cocktail peanut, but I’ve become supremely capable of holding it in. I’ve finished off about four servings of orange juice and, combined with the DayQuil, I’ve probably taken in 600% percent of the Daily Recommended Value of Vitamin C.
Tim does most of the driving. I don’t know how he does it. He apparently did not go to bed until 6 am the previous night after an evening of belligerent drunkenness. His actions are not mine to judge. Tim is my closest friend at UMBC. I tend to gravitate towards people bent on self-destruction. Don’t ask me why. Maybe I just want a taste of danger myself. This trip would certainly attest to that. Tim’s mechanic warned him that his car would probably not survive the journey. We decided to take it anyway. The smartest people often make the dumbest decisions. That’s hubris at work.
* * *
Cruising through the land of white and orange barrels, I see huge, blocky shapes rise up to my left: construction equipment. In the distance, the lights are reduced to single pinpoints – stars on this lowly plane. The night is weird and the way is long and our minds are always in danger of slipping away. A billboard to the right advertises vasectomies. “No needles, no scalpels.”
Another set of flashing blue lights in my rear-view mirror startles me from my place of strange thoughts and eternal questions. The time is around four am and we are driving through Georgia through a construction zone that never seems to end. I am filled not with fear this time but with confusion. I know with complete certainty that I was not speeding; it would be moronic to speed through a construction zone, even one that goes on for miles. I’ve been keeping a diligent eye on the speedometer; my only explanation is that this must be an ambulance.
Of course it isn’t. Karma has taken me to task for getting off so easily the first time around. Six years without a speeding ticket, and now I’m getting two in the span of a few hours. There’s no way I was going 76 mph. I never saw the needle go above 70. Officer Kenny Williams is an evil old bastard. Of course he knows I’m not going to come back to Georgia to contest this $180 ticket that I didn’t earn. The night is weird and the way is long and highway robbery is alive and well in the South.
* * *
Tim points out to me that the lyrics to the song “Lateralus” follow the Fibonacci sequence: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 5, 3.
“Really?” I ask.
“Yeah. Just pay attention to the verse the next time it comes around.”
I listen:
Black
Then
White are
All I see
In my infancy.
Red and yellow then came to be,
Reaching out to me,
Lets me see.
“No shit,” I marvel.
“Yeah.”
We head bang.
* * *
Eventually, we leave Georgia behind. And just as we enter Florida, faint traces of color begin to seep in at the horizon. Light is returning to the world. Red and yellow come to be, letting us see. The sun is rising just as we enter the Sunshine State. I can’t remember the last time I saw a sunrise.
We have just entered Florida, but we are still three hours away from Tampa. The GPS, our constant glowing companion, never tires, but as we watch our estimated time of arrival rise with every delay and mishap, we do. Weariness resides in our minds more than in our bodies. I have discovered that 5 Hour Energy has a certain threshold of effectiveness; after one or two, it ceases to offer any benefit.
I fear for Tim’s sanity. Once we got pulled over the second time, I completely lost my will to drive. Before that, even with the first speeding ticket, I had been in high spirits. The first 5 Hour Energy that I quaffed had really done the trick. I was so wired that I started calling random friends. Incidentally, that was when we got pulled over the first time.
Since that second run-in with the law, at around four am, Tim has been powering through. The drive was easy-going when there was no one else on the road, but now our tensions are mounting. Traffic is picking up and the Florida sun is baking the inside of the car, causing Tim’s temper to flare.
“People in Florida can’t drive,” he grumbles constantly.
I’ve never really understood the tendency to rank drivers by state. People in Maryland say that New Yorkers can’t drive. I’m sure that New Yorkers say people in Maryland can’t drive. As far as I’m concerned, people everywhere can’t drive. There are no good drivers as long as there are bad ones. Driving a car isn’t something humans are just naturally predisposed to. As soon as you forget how easy it is to end your existence in a twisted mess of crumpled steel, you become one of the bad drivers. I’ve never had any accident, but that doesn’t make me a good driver – it just makes me a lucky driver.
That being said, people in Florida can’t drive. In the entire time we spent driving through Florida, I never once saw a driver use their turn signal before changing lanes. Traffic had been abysmal between DC and Virginia, at one point coming to a complete stop, but we had still been full of vim and vigor then. Now, 16 hours later, Florida may be our breaking point.
Tim is hunched over the wheel. His grip is rigid, like he wants nothing more than to snap the steering wheel off and beat the driver in front of us to death with it. His cap is turned backwards and his hair is a mess. His eyes are wide but his mouth is clamped tightly shut.
I am searching for the loudest, most bone-crunching metal I can find in a futile attempt to keep us alert. My eyelids feel heavier than the boulder Sisyphus was forced to roll up a hill for eternity. The three hours left in our trip feel that long. Time has become a factor again.
A black Cadillac Escalade cuts us off as it weaves from the right lane to the far left lane. Neither of us can summon enough energy to muster an appropriate display of rage. We can only stare at the Escalade as it continues to weave through traffic ahead of us, knowing that there is no justice in this world.
Flashing blue lights behind us: an undercover cop. It cannot be possible. The universe does not want us to succeed. It is as simple as that.
The cop speeds past us to apprehend the driver of the Escalade. We slow down to watch it get pulled over, something we would never normally do. A look of unspeakable triumph passes between Tim and me. Maybe there is a little bit of justice in this world.
* * *
We are 15 miles out from Gary’s house and sweet, blessed rest. We are crossing the Howard Frankland Bridge and our exit is coming up. We will finally be off the cursed highway. No prospect has ever sounded as inviting to me.
The engine of Tim’s Toyota Avalon erupts in a fit of violent sputtering. The oil pressure drops to zero. Tim reacts quickly, putting on his emergency flashers and pulling over on the side of the bridge right before the exit sign. The car has died.
We knew this was a possibility all along. Tim’s mechanic had advised against him taking the car. I had told him that if I were in his position, I wouldn’t take the car, but that I would stand by his decision either way. And so we had taken the car, knowing that it was a dumb idea.
We are stalled out on the side of a bridge and I have to pee. We look at all the cars passing us by and laugh.

I Write Sometimes

2010-03-29T00:53:00.001-04:00

It's been a while. Short post right now, just want to inform you that I'm going to start posting some of my creative nonfictions (read "personal essays") on here that I've written in the two Creative Nonfiction classes I've taken. I think you'll get a kick out of them, and it's a lot easier for me than actually telling you about my life...at least at the moment. Cause Lord knows there's plenty to say on that subject. More later.

Where Have I Been?!

2009-11-15T15:10:00.002-05:00

This blog has been collecting dust for months, and today I find myself filled with a sudden urge to update it. There is much to relate, so much so in fact that I will have to do so without my usual literary flair.

Here, in the midst of this fall semester of my junior year, I am happier than I have ever been. Some of that is due to the fact that I finally ditched computer science as I should have done so long ago. I am enjoying my classes and am doing great. I am also living in an apartment with three good friends, and it's a blast. But the true reason for my happiness is that I have the coolest girlfriend ever. Lena has brought out all the best things about me, and I love her for that. I could get all sappy and romantic here, if you want. We both joke around when we're together that if other people could hear us talking they'd throw up from how cute it is. She's brought out a side of me I didn't know existed.

So I'm still not entirely sure what I actually want to do with a Media and Communication Studies/American Studies degree, but I do know that this was the right choice for me. Basically, all I have to do this semester is write papers, and I have yet to get a grade lower than A on any assignment. This is what I am cut out for. Dr. Bhalla, my American Studies professor for Multicultural America, recommended that I look into doing the Honors Seminar in American Studies next year. If I it means getting to work with her, I will definitely put some consideration towards that.

So in terms of exploring creative outlets, I am branching out quite a bit. As far as writing goes, I have discovered that I have a knack for creative nonfiction; I am taking a class this semester called Creative Essays, and it has helped me restore a bit of confidence in my writing. You see, my biggest insecurity about my writing has been the fact I seem to have run out of inspiration to write fiction, but I'm starting to think now that maybe fiction writing isn't my avenue. It is still an area I would like to improve, because I still think that while my writing style is very strong, my ability to actually come up with ideas is somewhat less so.

I'm thinking that being a comedy writer might be something I can strive to achieve. I think I might enjoy being a television writer a lot, because it would give me the chance to do what I love: sit around with a bunch of other funny people and just come up with ideas. I'm just not sure how to go about breaking into this business.

The big thing I've been doing this semester is Very Thin Ice, a two-hour comedy radio show/podcast that I do with my friend and fraternity brother, Evan. The show has strained my relationship with Evan a bit, mainly due to creative differences and the fact that ultimately it is really his project more than mine, but overall it has been an excellent experience for me. We've had a lot of fun doing it, and I wish Evan the best of luck in continuing the show with a new host (or whatever project he happens to do in its stead).

As for me, I really am hooked on the whole podcast thing, and I've started listening to a number of podcasts suggested to me by Evan (SModcast, You Look Nice Today, The Sound of Young America, and Jordan, Jesse, Go!). I will be starting my own podcast (though I probably won't be doing it in affiliation with WMBC Radio like Very Thin Ice since I prefer the ease and comfort of recording the show in private on my own computer) with Colin. The two names I'm considering for the podcast are "Constant Distractions" or, more likely, "Boldly Going Nowhere," which is also the name of Colin's new webcomic. In fact, by going with the latter, we can use the webcomic as fuel for the podcast and vice versa.

My other goal for the short term is to try and get another band going. Stephen and the Hawkings didn't really work out due to the conflicts inherent in trying to work with the schedules of people who go to three different schools (and another who works like 40-60 hours a week). But my guitar playing continues to improve, and at this point, the only way I can really get better is by playing with other people. I am also seeking an opportunity to develop my fledgling songwriting abilities. The biggest obstacle is obviously finding musicians, particularly a drummer, as the odds of finding someone with a drumset on a college campus are basically zero. Also, speaking of guitar playing, I finally got around to purchasing an acoustic guitar. It's a Martin DX1 which I got for $560 (about $200 more than my electric guitar). It's got a solid top and a deep, rich sound which I really love. The striations on the underside of the fretboard are gorgeous. I'm very happy with it. My next purchase down the road will probably be some sort of effects pedal setup for my electric guitar.

There's probably a lot more I could say, like the fact that I am now working 16 hours a week at two jobs, or all the goings-on with fraternity, but I'm tired of writing for now. This was me checking in, letting you know that all is well. Once the semester is over, I'll go ahead and finish dusting the cobwebs off.

Public Transportation Teaches Me a Valuable Lesson: I am an Idiot

2009-07-16T18:42:00.002-04:00

So, one of the activities I've been pursuing this summer in a futile attempt to at least feel productive (since I don't have a job) is the search for some sort of internship for the fall. I've applied to at least ten places so far (most of them marketing internships) and interviewed at one company before today. I interviewed for a Marketing Internship at eInstruction, makers of such products as the CPS Response Pad (colloquially referred to as the "clicker" in the classes in which I've used it), in Columbia, and I left quite excited about my prospects. The position is a paid one, $11/hour, and I would be working directly with the VP of Marketing for Higher Education, getting to do interesting things like doing research on the competition, devising advertising strategies, and traveling to trade shows.

Despite the fact that I interviewed with three people there - the head of Human Resources, the VP of Marketing for Higher Education, and the VP of Marketing for the entire company - and all seemed impressed with me, the odds of getting that job now seem slim. When I called back a week later, I was told that "We haven't ruled you out, but we're still looking." This of course implies that they have, in fact, ruled me out.

So my search continues. Today I interviewed with a company out of Baltimore called Quickstar Productions. According to their website, they promote independent artists and distribute their music either through digital services like iTunes or by featuring individual songs on compilations with generic names like "Downtown Metal" and "Rock 4 Life." The position was described only as "Paid Music Business Intern" and the duties included working with clients to manage them, market them, and negotiate contracts, as well as general office tasks and, "if applicable: graphic design and/or music mastering." This all sounded pretty cool to me (and secretly I hoped that I might get free access to their recording studio).

The company is located downtown. At the suggestion of my dad and my older brother, I decided to take the Baltimore Metro. This was a terrible, terrible idea. Now, in all fairness, a significant portion of the blame for my unpleasant experience is due to my own stupidity. My first mistake was wearing a suit. Not only was I the only white person on the entire train, but I was the only one in a suit as well, making me doubly conspicuous. I ended up wandering the streets of Baltimore for twenty minutes (still the only one in a suit, mind you) in sweltering heat trying to find the place. But I'm jumping ahead. When I got to the Old Court Metro Station I was greeted by the burning stares of individuals dressed so poorly they put the term "casual attire" to shame.

I hurried past them into the terminal, where I discovered that the ticket machines only accepted cash. Seeing what must have looked like confusion on my face, the attendant working in the booth helpfully explained that "cash mean dollar bills." When I responded that I was well aware of the distinction between "cash" and "plastic" he got belligerent and shouted that "cash means bills, credit cards ain't cash!" It literally took a full five minutes of back and forth before he understood that I was not actually illiterate but simply did not possess any paper money. Finally, he suggested I "get my ass to an ATM" and walked back to his booth shaking his head.

Of course there was no ATM in the terminal. That would make the Baltimore Metro system at least somewhat decent, which would clearly go against their business model. I angrily left, drove to a 7-11 and hit the ATM there. Back at the ticket machine, I wasn't thinking and used the $20 bill I had acquired to purchase the $3.20 round-trip ticket.

With $16 in coins jangling in my pocket, I finally boarded the train. This led to yet another incident of my looking like an ass through a combination of my own stupidity and the Metro's inherent shittiness. Apparently, the announcement system on that train was faulty (or the driver was a moron). Both the electronic sign and the disembodied voice announced that we had arrived at Lexington Market. I hurried out of the train, up the stairs, and on to the street - at Penn-North. I got back on the train, rode it two more stops and got off at the "real" Lexington Market.

Of course, I got lost almost immediately as Google Maps had grievously miscalculated the actual location of the Lexington Market station. I ended up asking a cop for directions and finally found myself standing outside a tiny run-down building. A sign on the door (which was in dire need of repair) instructed that I should walk around and knock on the window. I entered through a little wrought-iron gate (wrought was misspelled on the sign by the way) and was greeted by the two owners of the company who where lounging outside in shorts and t-shirts. I cursed my suit again, as not only was I way overdressed but at this point sweating quite profusely. They led me inside to a small basement consisting of two rooms. One contained two computers, five bored looking twentysomethings, and a shitload of couches. The other contained two more computers and a couch.

The first thing they told me after I shed my unnecessary articles and downed several cups of water was that the position was an unpaid one. I think I did a pretty good job there of hiding my emotions. The listing for the job on UMBCworks had used the term "paid" no less than three times: in the header ("Paid Music Business Internship"), in the description ("This is a paid internship..."), and next to the word salary ("8.50/hour"). So there's very little possibility that someone goofed and accidentally slipped the word "paid" in there.

I had the grace to at least finish the rest of the interview. I'm sure I made a great impression, too. Honestly, they were pretty cool guys; they were fairly young, and quite passionate about music. I even talked and joked around with them after the "formal" part of the interview was over, even though I had already made up my mind that I was never coming back there. They even asked me when I would like to start. I simply said, "probably in the fall" and left it at that.

Despite my resolve to not fall for something like that again, I'm not giving up my search for a worthwhile internship, because the alternative is working in the Office of Undergraduate Admissions on campus for $7.25/hour. I'm ready for a real job. But I at least learned an important lesson here. Driving in the city, no matter how much of a hassle, could not possibly be anywhere near as bad as dealing with the many stumbling blocks that the Baltimore Metro system continually throws at you.

An Ordeal (of the Computer-Related Variety)

2009-06-23T19:59:00.005-04:00

Windows Vista is not an operating system. Windows Vista is more like the idea of an operating system as implemented by someone who has never actually used a computer before. The problem with Windows Vista is not that it is inherently broken. The problem is that it works just well enough to lull you into a false sense of security, and then chooses inopportune moments to fuck up as if to shout at you, "Hey, asshole! Using your computer isn't supposed to be fun! It's supposed to be frustrating! That's how you build character!"

This is old news of course. Making fun of the shittiness of Windows Vista hasn't been topical for a while. And I guess I've built a lot of character, because I'd simply gotten used to using my computer as it was, having long since forgotten what my machine was like when I first bought it.

Then, on Saturday, I bought a Zune.

Earlier last week, my faithful companion, the Creative Zen Sleek, met its demise after two years of loyal music-playing service. It was an essentially obsolete device as soon as I bought it; Creative released a version with a color screen only a month later. I saw many mp3 players come out with a bevy of features that mine was sorely lacking. But I was alright with that; mine did one thing, and it did it well. Then last week it froze, something I was quite accustomed to, but when I reset it with a safety pin as I always did the hard drive was completely wiped clean (except for "The Grand Wazoo" by Frank Zappa, which inexplicably survived). In addition, it was no longer recognized by any computer I plugged it into. I accepted the fact that after two years of dropping it, resetting it multiple times, and replacing the battery that it was no more.

This was an unexpected setback. I did not have $250 to drop on a brand new mp3 player. Thankfully, Colin came through for me and sold me his 120 gb Zune for only $75. Don't scoff, the Zune (at least the current generation) is a pretty solid device. In fact, CNET actually chose the 120gb Zune over the 120gb iPod Classic in its Prizefight review.

So anyway, I was excited about my new(ish) mp3 player. Unfortunately, it seems that asking a Microsoft product to work with another Microsoft product is too much to ask. At least, it is when one of those products is Vista. I guess even Microsoft has given up on their own operating system. Over the course of four hours, not only were four intelligent guys unable to get the Zune to work with Vista, but we nearly crippled my computer by sending it into an endless loop of installing updates and restarting. Over the course of this journey into the depths of computer hell, I became intimately reacquainted with just how terrible Vista can be.

Finally, Ben came to the conclusion that there was only one permanent solution: ditch Vista and install Windows 7. I was skeptical at first, but it was the best decision we could have made. After installing Windows 7 (which you can obtain here) and reformatting my hard drive, my computer is like new. and Windows 7 is vastly superior. Like, by leaps and bounds. They got rid of all the flashy junk which just slowed Vista down and added nothing to the experience. And it syncs up perfectly with my Zune.

It's funny, when you've been using a product for long enough, you refuse to accept that another product could be better. You blind yourself to your product's faults or, at least, its limitations. I'll give you a more specific example. A little while ago, I attempted to convince a friend that he should switch from Pandora to Slacker Radio. I grew frustrated when I was unable to convince him.

"What's wrong with Pandora?" he asked. "It works for me."

"I didn't say it doesn't work," I replied, exasperated. "But Slacker is better."

"Maybe. But Pandora is what I use."

Similarly, Vista was just what I used. I saw no reason to switch to something else because I had no real problem with Vista. But after installing Windows 7, there's no way I could go back to using Vista. Just like I could never go back to using Pandora after discovering Slacker Radio.

In short...well, Vista sucks.

Bonnaroo 2009 - Part 1: Thursday

2009-06-17T23:05:00.005-04:00

Wow.

That's my main reaction after coming home from the 4-day long drug/music binge that is Bonnaroo.

The largest American music festival in the festival circuit, Bonnaroo, is located in Manchester, Tennessee, a whopping 13 hour drive from Baltimore. Yet, I drove the whole way there. Bad idea. I did not drive the whole way back, for sure. Here for you now is a fairly accurate account of my times.

So, we left at about midnight on Thursday (That's Wednesday into Thursday) and we left with a cooler absolutely filled with beer and water, which was really unnecessary as we ended giving at least 50% of the beer away. I personally did not drink very much there. This drive was so very long, and very spooky. The whole way until about 10am was very foggy. About two hours into the drive brought on the spookiest thing I have seen in some time. As a born Catholic, religious symbols highlighted in fields typically don't faze me, but in Virginia, we drove past something that was terrifying. Absolutely horrifying, in fact. The fog was thick around three humongous, skeletal crosses that were in the middle of an otherwise empty clearing. A bright beam of light illuminated the middle cross, reminding me of the scene in The Lord of the Rings when the green light shoots up in the air, signalling the return of the Witchking. Totally scary. So afterwards, we get to a Huddle House around 7:30 for breakfast, which rocked, since we could smoke cigarettes inside, which I did, for novelty's sake.

We got to Manchester, TN at about 12:15 Central Time. For some reason we had to drive down I-81 through Georgia for a few miles. Georgia police are terrifying, they were jacking people left and right. The 10 miles before Manchester are kinda nuts as well, with the police picking off all sorts of people, it's enough to drive a man crazy. Getting through the line into Roo took THREE HOURS. That was the worst, we were all exhausted from the drive down and still had to keep waiting. Once we got in, the Bonnaroo security guys ask if you have glass bottles, or drugs, or anything bad, and we did not. Except for some glowsticks. They found the glowsticks, said "Oooh, glowsticks" and threw them back into the car. We had made it.

We got to our campsite, about a seven-minute walk from Centeroo, which is where the stages and tents are located. We set up camp and didn't really do too much, other than trying to find "Shake Down Street" which is where the drugs are sold and all that nonsense. The first guy I saw was a huge black guy, walking down the street saying "Shrooms and Opium. Shrooms and opium." That was how you found drugs. It was really an interesting phenomena, especially because no one cared. I sparked my first spliff of Bonnaroo and waited around the campsite for night to fall, which it did, with the company of a monsoon, and the first night of Bonnaroo was cold and wet, which worried us, but luckily was never repeated.

So ended Thursday of Bonnaroo. Stay tuned for the Friday through Monday report.

Yet More of My Poetry

2009-06-11T00:03:00.002-04:00

You know you love it, yo.

CAN'T LOOK AHEAD, CAN'T LOOK BACK

When I was young I fought for the wrong side.
Now all I've left is my wounded pride.
But I'm trying hard to put aside
The indiscretions of my youth.

But the demons of my past,
Their wings outstretched,
Their grasp spreading like a plague,
They know me well.

They know that I'm afraid to look ahead
When every face that comes my way
Might be the face I dread.

Can't look ahead, can't look back.

And so my gaze is fixed upon the ground.
And though my ears attune to the slightest of sounds,
The cackle of madmen swinging their shackles
As thunder crashes and lightning crackles
Makes it impossible for me to hear
More than my heart beating faster in fear.

Can't look ahead, can't look back.

The path is cracked and broken.
Where I tread
My footsteps fill so quickly
It's as if I was never there.

Can't look ahead, can't look back.

When I was a child they told me
"Son you can be just what you want to be."
Then they sent me packing
And shipped me off to sea.

Can't look ahead, can't look back.

When I was young, I fought for the wrong side.
If dad found out, he'd surely tan my hide.
I don't want to know what he whispered while he cried.
I don't want to know what he said before he died.

Another hole in my shoe, another knot in my back.
Another broken promise, just throw it on the stack.
Another shanty town and another hermit's shack.
Can't look ahead, can't look back.

WILL WE EVER SING THAT SONG AGAIN?

We made beautiful music together
But we forgot to hit record.
Now the song is incomplete.
We try to piece it back together
As fragments fall about our feet.

Searching for a melody,
Reaching for a refrain,
We're hopeless without harmony.
Will we ever sing that song again?

Weren't you the one who said
There's a symphony in your head?
I want to hear it too.

Searching for a melody,
Reaching for a refrain,
We're hopeless without harmony.
Will we ever sing that song again?

Sounds familiar, no that's not it.
Close I guess, but it sounds like shit.
I bet you're lying, you don't know
Any more than I do how it goes.

Once I knew it note for note
And my fingers freely formed each chord.
The greatest song we ever wrote
Will never be restored.

Searching for a melody,
Reaching for a refrain,
We're hopeless without harmony.
Will we ever sing that song again?

What was that I heard you humming?
What's that rhythm I hear you strumming?
Could it be - no, something's wrong.
Same progression, different song.

We made beautiful music together
But we forgot to write it down.
All across the floor tattered pages are strewn
As I try to recreate it.
But even my own voice sounds out of tune.

LOVE DON'T BELIEVE IN ME

Once I said, "I believe in love."
But love it don't believe in me.

I recall
Growing old
As something I would never have to do.
But now with all my years behind me,
The only thing that's left beside me
The only constant in my life is you.
But when I hear your voice each morning
Calling like an early warning
Another day, spent in misery.

Once I said, "I believe in love."
But love it don't believe in me.

I look back
And can't determine
How I ever ended up this way.
How did we end up together
When every day brings stormy weather?
The ship is sinking faster every day.
And though I try to bail it out,
Every time I hear you shout
I might just throw myself into the sea.

Once I said, "I believe in love."
But love it don't believe in me.

Turn on the television.
Shut your mouth, go back to knittin
I don't give a damn about your quilt.
Though I may seem the aggressor
Don't label me the oppressor.
I don't feel a single ounce of guilt.

You're an evil harpy
And your tongue strikes like a snake.
Don' tell me to grin and bear it
When my sanity's at stake.
Every time you waste your breath
I pray for sweet release of death
To hurry up and come and set me free.

Once I said, "I believe in love."
But love it don't believe in me.

I am old
And you're a bitch,
Not that doe-eyed girl that I once met
What seems like ages long ago.
Must have been blinded by the afterglow.
Now I'm left with nothing but regret.
And though you tell me I'm senile
You're very sight fills me with bile.
Don't tell me I'm simply crotchety.

Once I said, "I believe in love."
But love it don't believe in me.

We vowed by only death we'd part.
Why can't I still the beating of my heart?
I know there's some who'd disagree.

Though once I said, "I believe in love."
I'm now quite certain
Love it don't believe in me.

A Spectacular Concert

2009-06-09T00:21:00.003-04:00

Tonight I had the pleasure of seeing what will now go down as my second favorite concert ever (nothing has yet to top seeing Rush at Nissan Pavilion). Not only were The Decemberists even better live than I had expected, but I discovered a new artist to immediately add to my ever-expanding collection, Andrew Bird.

The concert at Merriweather Post Pavilion in Columbia opened with a guy I was unfamiliar with, Robyn Hitchcock. Honestly...although he's apparently been around since the 70s, I wasn't too thrilled with him. He basically sounded like if John Lennon decided to start a punk band whose lyrics bordered on the surreal. All I remember about his music at this point was angular guitar noises. His vocals were not fantastic. At one point, Colin Meloy came out to provide some tambourine and back up vocals. The two of them were not in harmony at all. However, I consider this opening performance a minor speedbump at best. What came next more than made up for the eccentricities of an old, quirky British man.

I had never heard Andrew Bird before tonight. He was amazing. If I had to describe him, I would say imagine Thom Yorke if he was a top-notch whistler and a classically-trained violin player. His music reminded me at times of The Verve, but overall his style is very distinctive and unique. He combines jazz and classical music with those kind of free-flowing, cascading sonic backdrops typical of post-rock bands like Mogwai or Explosions in the Sky. It's definitely the type of music I would love to just kick back and relax to, the kind of music that passes over you and carries you with it.

But, of course, the main attraction was what made this concert such an amazing experience. This was my first time seeing The Decemberists live and I wasn't sure if their extremely literate, folksy, and downright idiosyncratic brand of indie rock would translate as well on stage. Well, it did...more than I could have predicted. They kicked prodigious amounts of ass. What I didn't know before was that frontman Colin Meloy, in addition to being the singer and songwriter, really pulls his weight as a guitar player as well. They played The Hazards of Love in its entirety, without any break between songs as it was meant to be played. If you read my review of the album, you know I am a huge fan of it. Every member of the band was working overtime to fully realize the music and the narrative behind it. I have to say, after seeing it performed live, somehow the story behind The Hazards of Love actually makes some semblance of sense. Maybe it's because I was actually paying closer attention to it.

The vocal performances of Colin Meloy, Becky Stark, and especially Shara Worden were awesome. Shara Worden as The Queen was the highlight of the concert for me. Every time she came to the front, her performance was full of such power and intensity that I was literally on the edge of my seat. She would flail her arms, wave her hands in the air, and jump around the stage as her body writhed and squirmed like a serpent. I don't know if I'd say she really conveyed the image of an evil queen, but all the same she was fun to watch. Becky Stark did a great job too, but her chirpier, higher-pitched voice (still quite lovely) combined with the fact that she was swaying back in forth in a wedding dress while decked out with an excessive amount of make-up made her considerably less endearing to me than Shara Worden. Seriously, I think I might have a crush on Worden.

After the conclusion of The Hazards of Love, the band left and then returned minutes later to play what was basically a second concert consisting of some of their more well-known hits. Colin Meloy interrupted "A Cautionary Song" to narrate one of the strangest adaptations of Hamlet I have ever seen, portrayed by the other members of the band acting out in the middle of the audience on a riser. We did get to see Chris Funk and John Moen have a sloppy makeout, so bonus, I guess. A few songs later, in a completely unexpected and amazingly ballsy move, Shara Worden and Becky Stark came back out decked in snazzy white outfits to perform "Crazy On You" by Heart. Before that, Colin Meloy performed what he described as "the worst song he'd ever written" entitled "Dracula's Daughter" only to seque into one of their biggest singles, "O Valencia!" Finally, he got the crowd singing aloud in a most heartfelt way to the closing song, "Sons and Daughters."

I don't regret one penny of the money I spent to see this concert. It was emotional, triumphant, and downright fun. This cemented The Decemberists as one of my favorite bands. And now, I have to go out and acquire Andrew Bird's albums as soon as possible.

Movie Review: The Hangover

2009-06-08T00:48:00.004-04:00

The Hangover was funny. That's basically it, pure and simple. I saw the movie tonight, and I laughed basically from beginning to end - even during the ending credits. I probably haven't laughed that hard at a movie since Beerfest. As you can clearly tell, my taste in movies is extremely high-brow.

When four dudes head to Vegas to celebrate their friend's impending nuptuals with an epic bachelor party, a sequence of increasingly improbable events leaves them waking up hungover and completely oblivious to the events that transpired the night before. The character of Stu, played by Ed Helms (Andy Bernard from The Office) is awakened by a rather indifferent chicken to a hotel room that has been, in a word, trashed. There's a tiger in the bathroom and a baby in a closet, and none of the guys - Stu, Alan (Zach Galifianakis), or Phil (Bradley Cooper) - have any idea how they got there. Worse yet, the bachelor himself, Doug (Justin Bartha), is missing without a trace. The trio sets out to piece together the scattered fragments of their wild, alcohol and roofie-induced evening and figure out just what the hell happened.

The movie is offensive, crude, irreverent, and hilarious. The plot is extremely similar to that of Dude, Where's My Car? but...come on - who gives a shit about Dude, Where's My Car? That movie was a piece of shit. This movie, on the other hand, was inspired comedy. Even the ending credits were awesome. The photographs that more or less fill in the details are as funny as anything that actually happened during the course of the film. I did wish they had explained where the chicken had come from - while you don't see any chicken in the pictures, you do see some cock. See what I did there?

I think the character of Alan, a socially-inept man-child, stole the show. This was actually my first experience with comedian Zach Galifianakis and I have to say - he was delightful. Everything he did and everything he said was guaranteed to make me burst out laughing. Clearly I have been missing out here.

The movie went for laughs at every opportunity no matter how cheap or juvenile they were. There were plenty of unanswered questions even with the photo slideshow at the end. For example, just how did they manage to steal that cop car? How did they find out where Mike Tyson lived and how did they get into his house? These questions alone guarantee to me that the DVD is unquestionably going to be a worthwhile purchase. I can't wait to add it to my collection, but before that I'll definitely be seeing it in theatres at least once more.

For once, I have to say that Roger Ebert summed it up best: "Now this is what I'm talkin' about. The Hangover is a funny movie, flat out, all the way through. Its setup is funny. Every situation is funny. Most of the dialogue is funny almost line by line."

Invisible Face-Melting Rock Frenzy

2009-05-30T13:36:00.003-04:00

Last night I witnessed the majesty of the spectacle that is the US Air Guitar Championship. My compatriots and I braved rush hour traffic and torrential downpours in our arduous trek from Frederick to Baltimore and finally to the 930 Club in DC. The heavens erupted with a terrible fury but we were not to be deterred.

If you are unfamiliar with the US Air Guitar Championship, or are simply skeptical that something so outrageous could actually exist, I direct you to their website: The US Air Guitar Championships

It is rock that you cannot see. But it's also so much more. It's a whole lifestyle. Honestly, it would not work at all if people didn't get into it as much as they did. It is the commitment and enthusiasm of the crowd, the promoters, the judges, and of course, the contestants that transforms air guitar from a bunch of clowns running around a stage flailing their arms into a legitimate performance. Everyone is so campy and so self-aware of how goofy the entire concept is that you can't help but love it. It's the spirit of the American people.

The proceedings are administered by long-time veteran of air guitar, Bjorn Toroque, or as I have dubbed him, MC Frodo. I don't feel the need to explain that nickname. Anyway, he is brazen, obnoxious, generally drunk the whole time, and highly entertaining. Actually, that basically describes the judges as well. One was a staff writer from the New York Times, so out of place yet somehow fitting. The second, a woman who is also a Captain, was kind of a slut - or at least that was her schtick. The third was Hot Lixx Hulahan, last year's World Air Guitar Champion. Yeah, I forgot to mention that - the winner of the US Finals gets to compete at the World Championship in Finland. Finns are really into air guitar, apparently.

Performers are judged on three things: Technical Proficiency, Stage Presence, and the elusive third factor known as "Airness." So, basically, you are graded on an Olympic figure scating scale (4.0 - 6.0) based on how closely what you're doing resembles guitar playing, how well you own the stage and the crowd, and how cool/rediculous you look doing it.

In the first round, all performers get 1 minute to perform a routine to a song of their choosing. My good friend Colin was among these performers, and I thought he actually did a really solid job performing to The Who's "Won't Get Fooled Again." The first round is where the most rediculous performances are seen. One guy was carried on stage in a giant cardboard amp which he thusly burst out of. One guy rode out on a tricycle. The costumes were flamboyant and outrageous. The performers are alternately lauded and rediculed. The comments were witty, scathing, and sometimes downright obscene. MC Frodo and the judges were in top form.

In the second round, the top 5 performers (based on score) perform a routine to a mandatory song that none of them have heard beforehand. The mandatory song this time was an oddly-done edit of "Carry on My Wayward Son." The performers who made it to the second round were: Johnny Dangerously, Shreddy Boop (the only female performer), Mitt Umlaut, Tommy Fretless, and crowd favorites Sanjar the Destroyer (STD) and veteran The Shred (easily the oldest performer in his 40s). STD and The Shred put on such a dazzling display of airness that they were tied for first and an air-off was called for. This time, the two of them performed to an edit of Boston's "Foreplay/Long Time" and kicked even more ass than before. It amazes me that even in their third performance of the night both contestants were still able to keep things fresh and exciting for the crowd.

The unbelievable happened. The judges could not agree who was the winner. They implored the crowd to decide, but it was impossible to determine who the crowd was cheering for louder. Between the chanting of "STD! STD!" and what seemed to be The Shred's entire immediate and extended family in the audience, the judges could not decide. They convened privately. The tension was thick and palpable. Sweat was flowing as freely as the beer. The judges announced their decision. In an unprecedented move in air guitar history, both STD and The Shred were announced the winners, and both will return to DC for the US Finals. Then the crowd bum rushed the stage and nearly broke the damn thing as "Freebird" blasted away.

I'm considering competing in DC next year. You have to be at least 21 to compete since it's sort of an unspoken rule that everyone who competes is fairly plastered. Hell, the US Air Guitar Championship is almost always sponsored by some sort of alcohol producer. By his own admission, MC Frodo is usually drunk throughout the entire evening.

I advise anyone who can manage to go to the US Finals being held back at the 930 club in DC. It will be the epic of the epic. Good luck and God speed to Colin, Sean, and Rocky who are performing at the regional championship in Philly tonight.

"US Air Guitar Championships: 25 Cities. 1 Winner. 0 Guitars."

Playing Music For Money

2009-05-27T13:12:00.003-04:00

I've been a member of a Jimmy Buffett cover band (Mark and da Sharks) for about a year now, and it has definitely shaped how I view music. We play half Buffett, 30% classic rock, 20% country. It's not the most musically satisfying endeavour of my career, but usually we only play with Yo Yo Ma once. Being a fairly decent steelpan player (at least in my mind), I have a pretty secure spot in the band, as my trade is not widespread yet. Such is not the case for bassists and guitarists. I've seen 3 of these types get thrown out in a year. Three. Three grown men, thrown out of a band that averages 500 bucks a night. Why?

Money.

Fuck money.

We picked up an old Jimmy Buffett song this year, called "Playing Music for Money" and it sort of outlines how I look at music. Maybe I'm just young and naive to the whole industry, but like he states, if he's out to turn the people on, who's turning on him? Good point, Jimmy. I play what I like to play. I write music that I like. Early on Saturday, when we played at the Wild Duck Cafe in Essex, MD, some guy yelled out: "Could you guys play some real music?" My response was simple. I kept playing real music. I kept playing the set lst with the rest of the guys, and we played it well. I mean, Buffett's not quite what I'd call the most smashing musical genius ever, but it's fun and people can get into it. I like to play it, it's easy and when I'm soloing, I can really shape things to fit a more chaotic and bluesy style that Buffett, Chesney, Denver, and the Beatles don't usually have. One guy doesn't like it? Too bad, 5 guys do (That would be us on stage) and I can guarantee that the crowd who is cheering likes it, too.

Back to my point. Money. It ruins music. Our past two long-term bass players, Tim Roberts and Jaime Sanchez, were great men. Absolutely the coolest dudes. They were both somewhere around 50 and met me when I had just turned 19 and accepted me for what I was... another musician. They were both supportive of my playing and I loved being in a band with them. The bond I felt with Tim still hasn't been matched since he left back in July of 2008. Jaime just left the band today. Thrown out by the lead man, Mark... because of money.

The two guitarists who I've been with, Mark Magee and Frank Winterling are also cool dudes. Mark's a great band marketer, and Frank has an amazing friendly quality to him. He, Tim and Jaime have all felt like uncles to me. I can have some beers and talk to them about our lives, and the fact that 26 years stand between myself and them doesn't matter. That's cool. But when money comes to the table, things get nasty. People start bickering and arguing over who should get what cut of the money for this and that and blah blah blah. I don't care about the damn money, I still work, so 120 dollars isn't going to make or break me.

It amazes me how much grown men argue. I'm 20 years old, and I have some friends who get whiney over silly stuff, but these guys go at it and they're 45-55 years old. The leader of the band, Mark, likes things his way, which is not always well-received. I myself disagree with his decisions sometimes, but mostly regarding which songs to do. I don't say much about it though. It's his band, he just pays me to play. It's my band, too, I guess, deep down, but it's his project. That's a good way to say it. His project, our band.

My main concern is what music we play. I want to play well. If I get payed, sweet. I have fun though, whether we're playing as a favor, for 200, or for our 1000 dolar gig we had. It doesn't change the fact that we are a BAND not a BUSINESS. We play MUSIC, not make MONEY. That's the whole fricken problem with things in music. People get caught up in cash and it just sucks. At the gig at WDC on Saturday, things were getting turbulent and tensions were mounting, so I was a little down about the attitudes getting thrown around. This is the part where I go ahead and take my place as "just a kid" and don't get involved. After much bickering, Frank walks over to me and shakes his head. I ask what's the issue, and he responds, "Money. We're a real band, now... Bickering and arguing with each other."

That's the problem. In my youthful naivety, I thought a band was a group of friends who played music, when in reality it's a group of associates who like to play cutthroat to get the most cash possible. Drastic as that accusation sounds, that's how it feels.

When the smoke clears and the Sharks continue our Summer '09 tour around MD, I hope that we all realize somewhere that money isn't everything.

Album Review: The Hazards of Love by The Decemberists

2009-05-22T00:36:00.006-04:00

I'd like to try my hand at music reviewing, so I think I'll start with an album I acquired recently: the newest release from one of my favorite not-quite-so-indie-anymore bands The Decemberists. The Hazards of Love may be their most ambitious album yet. Similar to their last album, The Crane Wife, The Decemberists have a story to tell on this one - albeit one far more convoluted. To quote the Rolling Stones review, it's "a tale of a maiden knocked up by a shape–shifting beast who may be her future husband. There's also a psychotic queen and three revenge–seeking ghost kids." The Hazards of Love is actually the name of an EP from 1966 by English folk-singer Anniee Briggs. Frontman Colin Meloy wanted to use the title as the name of a song, which developed into a 17-song suite about shapeshifters, cunning rakes, and treacherous fairies. All the songs flow together, starting with the gradual buildup of "Prelude" which seques directly into "The Hazards of Love 1", which sets up the rest of the album with a lush, somewhat melodramatic ballad typical of The Decemberists.

The intensity continues to build as this song moves into "A Bower Scene", which features a motif that reminds me of the guitar riff in the song "Transatlanticism" by Death Cab for Cutie, which gets swallowed up by an oppressive wall of distortion several times in the song.

The next track, "Won't Want for Love (Margaret in the Taiga)" opens with a nice bluesy riff before introducing the first of several guest vocalists who contribute to this album. Becky Stark of Lavender Diamond provides the voice of Margaret with her lilting, ethereal vocals. She performs a duet with Meloy on "Isn't It a Lovely Night?"

To me, the stand-out song on this album is "The Wanting Comes In Waves/Repaid". After a few minutes of Colin Meloy accompanied on mandolin, the gloves come off and a simplistic yet badass guitar riff introduces the Queen. The Queen is voiced by Shara Worden of My Brightest Diamond. Worden might be my new favorite female singer. She has a commanding, powerful voice which she utilises as the spiteful Queen to full effect. I checked out some of her songs with her band and they are quite good. Check out her cover of the song "Feeling Good" as well.

This album is overall more bombastic and dynamic than their previous efforts. The Decemberists seem to have adopted a greater desire to rock the fuck out. More guitars, more distortion, more everything. "The Queen's Rebuke/The Crossing" is practically coated in sludge, the screeching, frantic wah-wah solo is blistering and fierce, and Shara Worden is downright intimidating. There's even an organ solo.

After this, the album begins to draw towards its conclusion, but not before a reprise of the theme from "The Wanting Comes in Waves" and a choir of ghostly children, something that might be out of place elsewhere but not on a Decemberists album. After the riffage that gets unleashed in the middle of the album, the end descends back to earth with a more pensive, melancholy closer featuring some nice pedal steel guitar. In general, the flow of the album is similar to that of "The Tain", just vastly expanded.

In summary, The Hazards of Love is not likely to bring any new fans into the fold. Those who already wrote The Decemberists off as pretentious or just plain nerdy are not about to be proved wrong here. However, if you're already a fan, you'll find this album highly rewarding. It's everything you already expect from the band - highly literate lyrics, colorful instrumentation, and a general affection for all things theatrical - plus more metal sensibilities and some great guest vocalists. Don't worry about following the plot, I didn't even try.

More Poetry, part 2

2009-05-17T17:09:00.002-04:00

And here's the rest of them:

The Last Words I Shall Ever Write
Flickering faintly,
The cursor seems insistent, impatient;
Urging me to finish what I started
Some weeks ago when I was drunk.
But I fear I cannot indulge it,
For whatever it was that seized me
Now spurns me.
It was ephemeral, I fear, passing and never to return.
I don't know what else to add after
"These are the last words I shall ever write."

The Watcher
Suspended in time
By an infinitely thin thread of fate
In deepest darkness
Where unearthly denizens wait
Exists one man
Shrouded in somber haze
The knowledge of the universe
Reflected in his gaze.

The lights of a billion stars
Are but dust motes in his eyes.
Where this lonely stranger looks
A planet shrivels and dies.
His voice is naught but discord,
And his touch is atrophy;
His thoughts are swirling chaos
And his words catastrophe.

In the dark beyond the world
One man there holds sway.
He looks boldly into the abyss
And the abyss...looks away.

The House of Temptation
All across this lively nation
People are flocking to the House of Temptation,
Where the beer runs in rivers and the music is loud.
There are dancers on the ceiling and the band is on a cloud.
We promise you can always get your fix from dusk to dawn.
No matter the hour, the party's always on.

Welcome to the House of Temptation!
Welcome to the place where anything can happen, and it always does.
Step on in, hang up your coat, because
Whatever your price,
We've got the vice,
And everything is on the House.

Tell me, tell me, what's your poison?
I promise that we've got it here.
We've no debutantes in ballroom dresses
Faces icy and so austere.
We've got people dressed like pirates,
Silver robot suits,
Wild things in shimmering silk
With neon purple roots.
Glass reveals the mermaids swimming underneath the floor.
Go ahead and take your fill there's always room for more.

The drum machine's thumping, it is shaking the roof.
And even the water tastes at least eighty proof.
And the laser light show is pulsing in your eyes,
And you've only started dancing before you realize
You've lost your shirt, and your pants will soon follow.
The floor's disappeared and your head feels hollow.
Golden statues are crying diamond tears
And you're laughing, swinging from the chandelier.

The prince of parties greets his guests here each and every night.
We're a little slice of heaven and the price is always right.
Costumes and camaraderie, it's such a lovely sight.
We're a place where fantasies spread their wings in flight.
We're purveyors of every sinful sensation.
Have a good time, you need no invitation.
Just get your ticket at the door and you'll get your elation
At the wildest place around, at the House of Temptation.

More Poetry

2009-05-17T17:07:00.002-04:00

Here's a bunch more poems I wrote, I actually posted them on my Facebook page a while ago but I thought I'd share them here as well.

The Taste of Winters Past

Always on your lips, the taste of winters past
And a girl who threw a snowball, tossed her hair, and laughed.
Where a cruel wind's fingers were stabbing at your skin
And the cracks were slowly spreading where the ice was getting thin
It was cold and white, but you were warm and flushed.
The time grew short, the day seemed rushed.
She left with a smile, without leaving her name,
And you were content to do the same.

And now that taste you can't define,
But you let it linger like expensive wine.
But what's a name worth anyway?
You'll always remember how you felt that day.
And all things considered, it stands to reason
That winter is your favorite season.

A Conversation With an Elderly Gentleman

Listening to him speak
Is like dredging a river
Filled with silt and debris
For a single nugget of gold.
I pick it up, polish it off,
To reveal a single point
Or some meaning
That would have otherwise escaped me.
As he talks,
The river meanders
On a lazy course
Off into the distance.
The river knows not where it flows,
Only that it has a long way to go.
If you're careful, you can wade across to safety.

Not a Hero

Well I hope that I
Don't get sent away to die
In some distant land
Whose name I can't
Pronounce.

I won't be part of the crusade.
Don't need no homecoming parade.
I won't lead the charge.
I won't leap into the fray.
I'm a coward,
I'm a bastard,
But I'll live another day.

I'll drink to those young men who've died.
I won't swallow lies, but I'll swallow pride.
I'll be home and safe and sound,
Not buried six feet underground.

I'd rather hide my eyes in shame
From patriots who curse my name
Then bear the scars of another's fight
And dream of slaughter every night.

Don't pin that medal to my chest.
Don't drape my coffin with that flag.
Don't salute me, don't pollute me,
Don't carve my name on a metal tag.

If I won't die for my own country,
How can you expect me to die for someone else's?

Read My Shit!

2009-05-17T17:02:00.002-04:00

For the second weekend in a row, AEPi completely failed at life. Formal went about as well as can be expected considering I completely fucked up and caused us to almost not have one at all. The family bbq today was just embarrassing, though. There was a grand total of five people in attendance...we immediately said screw it and just went home with about $60 worth of unused bbq supplies.

I don't really care that much though. We're so close to being done that nothing really seems to matter other than finishing the semester with decent grades. I basically gave up on actually doing my last assembly project and simply typed what I thought would be enough code to at least get my a 70. Most likely I'll get something even lower. I think I'll be fine though as long as I get at least an 80 on the final.

The only thing I really wanted to talk about in this post was my new "job" writing for the Baltimore Examiner. So far I've made $0.69 as you get paid by the number of page views. I am the UMBC Examiner, a topic that I'm not entirely sure I still want to write about. I applied to be an Examiner two months ago and noticed that under "Education & Schools" there were Examiners for UMD, Johns Hopkins, and Loyala but not one for UMBC even though the school is only 15 minutes from downtown Baltimore. I saw you could "Suggest a Topic" and so I submitted a convincing argument for why there should be a UMBC Examiner and that Examiner should be me.

Finally, after I'd forgotten about it, the people at the Examiner sent me an email two weeks ago saying they wanted me to write for them about UMBC. I went ahead and accepted the offer and have written two articles so far. I'll probably write another one today. I'm not sure exactly what my role as an Examiner is going to be. I mean, I don't exactly love the school so I'm not going to write a bunch of articles trying to convince people that UMBC is the best college ever. I do still feel that UMBC is an interesting enough environment to warrant being Examined. I plan on writing articles giving advice to current students on how to make the best of being a student here.

My first article was a list of 10 important lessons I've learned at UMBC. My second was about the trials and tribulations of planning a big event. My third will probably be about Library Media. After that, I'm open to suggestions. It figures that I would start writing about school just as the semester is ending, which means I'm just going to get shitcanned anyway since I'm not going to have anything to write about over the summer.

At any rate, I urge you all to visit my Examiner page and read my articles. Also, please leave comments and refresh the page about a 1000 times. And click my links as well. Anything to get more nickels and dimes.

Link to my page:

UMBC Examiner

The Mercurial Champion

2009-05-17T17:01:00.002-04:00

I looked back and read my last post, and already it just seems whiny and depressing. So I thought I'd compensate for that lame entry by sharing a poem I just wrote. I think it's pretty good.

"The Mercurial Champion"

There's a place in my pocket where the money's gone thin
But sometimes even a born loser's gotta win.
And I've only one chance to scratch the sky
So let the slings and arrows of my enemies fly.

Can't forgive ya, sweet Virginia,
Never would have thought that you had it in ya.
You spoke your mind and you stole my heart
But you flew of the handle when I fell apart.

Heaven sent on a speeding train
Sitting here stuck trying to write the refrain.
Got nothing but a pen and a pad of scratch
And the flickering flame on the end of a match.

Do you think when I make it anyone will care
About the wind and the rain and the dust in my hair?
I made more selling rocks on the South Street docks.
These fools only listen when it's the money that talks.

Sage-like advice, it comes at a price
Sins of the city, how they love to entice.
Pages and pages of words for the ages
Written by men who make minimum wages.

I used to be one of those unfortunate souls
Entrapped by pretty eyes staring back from black holes.
I let the women in my life just run me aground.
They talk and they talk but they don't make a sound.

Now I'm a writer and a new-age fighter
In one hand a pen and in the other a lighter.
Inscribed on the walls left unscathed by the fire:
A mission statement for my fledgling empire.

Lived like a bandit and died like a king
Mourned by the masses, in the streets they will sing.
Composed my own anthem and waged my own war
Collected the debts and I settled the score.

There's a place in my pocket where the money's gone thin
But sometimes even a born loser's gotta win.
And I've only one chance to scratch the sky
So let the slings and arrows of my enemies fly.

Guitar Talk

2009-05-17T17:00:00.004-04:00

Here are three ideas for band names I came up with:

1. The Quick and the Dead
2. In Vesuvius' Shadow
3. Myth

I have every intention of forming a band. I'm at the point now where I really want to play with people. I've been playing guitar for about a year and a half now and can at least play well enough to be a competent rhythm guitarist. I also have a lot of lyrics I've written saved on my computer as well as the first 30 to 40 measures or so of various songs I've written using Guitar Pro of all things. It's not exactly a great tool for songwriting, but it's quite useful for a guitar player and it does provide the minimum of features necessary to write music with a variety of instrumentation.

In addition to more talent, I also need more equipment if I ever want to be at the point where I could perform with a band. The only guitar I own is my Ephipone Les Paul Studio, which I purchased for $100 less than the sticker price because it was chipped in a few places.

Mine's the one on the bottom.

And the amp.

I play through a Roland Cube 20x amp, which is fantastic as a practice amp but obviously limited in its use outside my bedroom. That's the extent of my equipment. Currently I'm debating whether I should purchase a nice acoustic guitar or buy some pedals and such for my electric; most likely I'd get an acoustic. I tested out the Epiphone Masterbilt AJ-500RE at Bill's Music in Catonsville and it was easily my favorite of the the acoustics that I tried. It's also $700, so it'll be a while until I can afford it. Still I'd much rather save up more money to get a guitar I really like than to settle for a cheaper one.

It's not that fancy looking, but it sounds fantastic.

I wish I had started playing guitar when I was much younger and taken actual lessons, rather than started teaching myself at the age of 19. I've gotten much more enjoyment out of playing guitar for a year and a half than I did from playing trumpet for six years. I guess I always sort of dismissed the idea of playing guitar because so many people do, but I suppose there is a reason it's so popular. I've found that it's starting to replace video games as my destressor activity. Honestly, even if I'm just sitting at my desk waiting for my computer to boot up, I'll pick up my guitar and start playing.

If anyone has any suggestions for acoustic guitars I should look at, or what my next step should be to augment my electric guitar playing, please share them. At first I felt like a bit of a poser for waiting so long to start playing, but any time's a good time to start, and I've really gotten into it. Not only is it fun and relaxing, but it's helped rekindle my excitement for music after being in high school band for four years pretty much crushed it. And that right there is a powerful thing.

Top Fives

2009-05-17T17:00:00.003-04:00

Thought I'd share my top 5 favorites in various categories. Here we go:

Top 5 Bands:
1. Yes - they made "Close to the Edge"
2. Genesis - Peter Gabriel-era only
3. King Crimson - listen to "Epitaph" or "Starless" and you'll see why
4. Emerson, Lake & Palmer - listen to "Tarkus"
5. Rush - they just kick a lot of ass

Top 5 Guitar Players:
1. Steve Vai - He made "For the Love of God"
2. Joe Satriani - He looks badass when he plays and he taught Steve Vai how to play
3. Al Di Meola - probably one of if not the most technically proficient guitar players ever
4. Buckethead - he may be really weird, but god damn can he play
5. Steve Hackett - for his solo on "Firth of Fifth"

Top 5 Bass Players
1. Stanley Clarke - I saw him perform with Return to Forever and he was fucking awesome
2. Victor Wooten - just check out his videos on Youtube
3. Les Claypool - also slaps bass like a mofo
4. Jaco Pastorius - really great jazz player
5. Geddy Lee - I know people tend to pay attention to his screechy voice more, but he really is a great bass player

Top 5 Singers
1. Greg Lake - I would make love to his voice if I could
2. Peter Hamill - of Van der Graaf Generator, his wildly theatrical singing style is captivating
3. Peter Gabriel - one of those singers that is widely emulated
4. Roine Stolt - of The Flower Kings, sings with two different styles that are equally great
5. Mikael Akerfeldt - of Opeth, you wouldn't know it from the death growling, but his "clean" vocals are just beautiful

Top 5 Drummers:
1. Neal Peart - of Rush, just look at the size of his stage setup
2. Bill Bruford - played with Yes, King Crimson, and many others
3. Billy Cobham - his drumming with Mahavishnu Orchestra sounds like a machine gun
4. Carl Palmer - of Emerson Lake and Palmer
5. John Bonham - of Led Zeppelin, listen to the solo on "Moby Dick"

Okay, that's enough music related ones.

Top 5 Movies:
1. Pulp Fiction - Samuel L. Motherfuckin' Jackson, need I say more?
2. Dark City - crazy sci-fi movie strikingly similar in theme to the Matrix...but it came out a year earlier
3. Fight Club - first rule of Fight Club...
4. Clerks - "37? In a row?"
5. Beerfest - yeah , it's not exactly high brow entertainment, but it is hilarious

Top 5 TV Shows:
1. Lost - I've already said enough about this one
2. It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia - so stupid, it's genius
3. 30 Rock - Tracy Morgan mainly, but everyone on this show is fantastic
4. Venture Bros. - I want to be Brock Samson
5. Entourage - scratch that, I want to be these guys

Top 5 Books:
1. The Dark Tower (series) - these books almost make want to get a guns and roses tattoo
2. A Song of Ice and Fire (series) - probably the most well-written fantasy books I've read, it's high fantasy for people who don't really care about magic and monsters
3. American Gods - a fantastic blend of folklore, mythology, and Neil Gaiman's genius, I really want to see this turned into a movie
4. The Stand - Stephen King is on here twice because he's that good - the Stand may be long, but this post-apocalyptic tale is definitely worth it
5. The Diamond Age - Neal Stephenson is currently my favorite author because of his ability to make technical things interesting and his witty, amusing writing style

Top 5 Webcomics:
1. Achewood - I've never seen anyone write dialogue quite the way Chris Onstad - he's either brilliant or just crazy
2. Dr. McNinja - it's about a doctor who's also a ninja
3. XKCD - the quintessential nerd comic
4. Questionable Content - the closest I'll ever get to watching a soap opera, plus Jeph Jacques has helped me discover quite a few great bands
5. Penny Arcade - often imitated, but never surpassed, the ultimate video game webcomic

Top 5 Video Games:
1. Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion - it's almost like a single player MMORPG, I've never put so much time into a game as I have into this one
2. Final Fantasy III (VI in Japan) - is and will always be superior to Final Fantasy VII; Sephiroth can go suck a preposterously long dick
3. Chrono Trigger - unique for its cast of characters, time traveling theme, and rediculous number of endings
4. Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas - tons of replay value, I was disappointed when GTA IV took out all the wacky shit like the jetpack, jet, RC cars, etc.
5. God of War - easily the most fun action game I've ever played, it put quick time button pressing on the map

Alright, that's enough for now. Maybe I'll do a follow-up post some time with some more of my favorite things. I encourage people to respond with their own Top 5's.

Obligatory Post about Music

2009-05-17T16:59:00.002-04:00

It turns out the library is open on Easter. As you might expect, the place is even more empty than it normally is on a Sunday afternoon. Empty except for me, that is. And so, as promised in my last post, I shall explain why I have excellent taste in music.

Somewhere between the beginning and the end of high school I became very passionate about music. My collection expanded and so did my preferences. I formed a great many opinions on the subject and have become something of a snob when it comes to analyzing the musical interests of others. In particular, I am fascinated by the trends of so-called "popular music." I use that term somewhat disdainfully not because I inherently resent pop music, but because in today's society there really isn't a genre that has a dominant stranglehold on the industry - the same holds true for other aspects of popular culture like tv, movies, and books. I will proceed on that note.

Actually, before I make any more detailed analysis, let me start by saying that there is one group of people that annoy me more than those with bad taste in music, and that is people with no taste in music whatsoever. These might be people who say they don't really listen to music, but that's kind of a rare thing to find. What I am referring to here are the people who say they like "everything." If what I am about to say here offends anyone, well...I don't really care. There are a lot of people who say this, and it really bugs me. For one thing, you don't really listen to "everything" - you listen to what is popular or trendy. Do you listen to acid jazz? Do you listen to experimental alternative polka? Do you listen to the folk dances of the indigenous Maori tribes? No? Then you don't listen to everything. And neither do I. It would be virtually impossible to digest every single form of music there is in the world. But more importantly, when you form an opinion on something, you evolve from just being a consumer to being a participant. You have an influence simply by saying "this is good and this is bad and here's why." When you complacently listen to music without forming any sort of reaction to it, you contribute absolutely nothing. Criticism is what drives art and keeps it from stagnating.

So, with that out of the way, on to my personal opinions about music.

In general, I would identify three major categories into which music can be placed: Good music, Bad music, and Acceptable music. You should note that none of these categories imply a specific genre. Every genre of music has its share of good and bad. Some just have a lot more bad than good. For example, Country music. I'm sure there are good country songs, I just haven't heard any. To be honest, country music down right offends me. I'd be hard-pressed to think of another genre of music so seemingly devoid of innovation, variety, or creativity. Country singers just scream "corporate lackey" to me - their very image is a brand. It's marketed directly to people who just want to be told what to listen to without having to think about it. It embraces the lowest common denominator by churning out song after song about the same themes, with the same sound, sung by the same voice. Every other genre attemps to change and evolve, but country music goes absolutely nowhere.

Since I'm already ranting here, I might as well explain what constitutes Bad music. Obviously, I think country music is Bad. Bad music does nothing to innovate. Bad music makes no attempt to challenge the listener. Bad music makes no effort to write lyrics that are decent or even interesting. Bad music promotes the image of the artists more than the actual music itself. It saddens me image has become so tied up with pop music. I don't care if an artist is ugly as sin and can barely dress himself, if he makes great music than he deserves fame and money far more than someone who distracts his audiences from how terrible his music is by decking himself out in gold chains and pouring Cristal on a half-naked woman.

Bad music is also any music that attemps to capitalize on a particular trend or time period. Music that imitates what is popular at the moment does not age well. As a rule of thumb, if a song goes from being popular to practically unlistenable in the span of only a few years, it's probably not that good a song. By this logic, I would say that most of the music of the 80s is Bad. The bands of the 80s were all about image, they all copied each other, and they have not aged well at all. Also, I tend to look down on artists who emulate icons to the point where it's impossible to identify them by anything unique. For a very specific example, look at the influence of Peter Gabriel. Peter Gabriel has such a distinctive voice and persona that he has been widely imitated in the progressive rock world. The bands Arena, IQ, and Marillion all have lead singers who attempt to sing exactly like him. Marillion is the biggest offender - their singer, the inexplicably named Fish, is so similar it's scary. Here are two videos for comparison:

Genesis - The Musical Box

Marillion - Garden Party

You'll notice that not only does Fish sound like Gabriel, but he also performs like him - notice the stage makeup, the theatricality, and even the little hand motions he makes when he sings. This fact is even more noticeable considering that Fish talks with an incredibly thick Scottish accent. To be fair, "Garden Party" is a pretty good song in its own right, but "The Musical Box" is easily the better of the two. I guess it's a bit ironic that I showed videos of songs that I like in the section about Bad music, but whatever. Alright, so here's an example of what I consider to be a bad song.

Kid Rock - All Summer Long

Here's another:

Steve Miller Band - Take the Money and Run

(That one might earn me some hate. I don't care; I fucking hate Steve Miller Band. Especially "The Joker." His lyrics and his singing are just so obnoxious.)

In the middle, we have Acceptable music. Acceptable music is nice to listen to, but there's nothing terribly exciting about it. A lot of popular music falls into this category as well. There's nothing wrong with Acceptable music. It's basically music that anyone can enjoy. For example, the Beatles would be the epitome of this. I don't know anyone who outright hates The Beatles, but I also can't think of anyone I know who says The Beatles are their favorite band. Beatles songs are pleasing to listen to, but I don't get enthusiastic about them. It's more like, "Nice, The Beatles" rather than "FUCK YES! The Beatles!!!" There really isn't a whole lot I can say about this category. It's pretty good, but not extraordinary. I don't need to share any examples for this one.

So at this point, I've pretty much clarified what makes Good music by detailing what it's not, but I'll go ahead and spell it out. Normally, the thing that differentiates Good music from Bad music is talent. Talented musicians generally make better music than ones without talent. This isn't always the case however: Yngwie Malmsteen is an incredibly skilled guitar player, but his music sucks. It's overblown and self-indulgent, a problem that sometimes afflicts musicians who just might be too talented for their own good.

Good music, truly good music, is music that challenges the listener. What do I mean by "challenges?" A really challenging and interesting song may take several listens before you notice everything that it has to offer. It may be music that you don't initially like at first but then grow to appreciate how amazing it is. Genesis was like that for me. Basically, progressive rock represents Good music to me. I'll save the explanation of what progressive rock is for another post, but basically Yes, Genesis, Emerson Lake & Palmer, King Crimson...those are the core bands. Rush to some extent as well. Those are probably my favorite bands right there. The things that separate these bands from less awesome ones are: talent, complexity of the music, and lyrics. While I definitely thing music is far more important than lyrics, truly great lyrics bring an already good song to the next level, while terrible lyrics are distracting even in a song that would otherwise be good. King Crimson's early songs have some of the most beautiful and poetic lyrics I can think of. Here is a perfect example of the power of lyricist Pete Sinfield's writing (and one of my favorite songs ever):

King Crimson - Epitaph

I talk a lot about progressive rock, but I want to dispel the illusion that I only listen to obscure bands from the 70s. I also love indie rock, funk, jazz fusion, and just hard rock in general. Metal is decent every once in a while and sometimes I want to hear the song "Superstar" by Lupe Fiasco or some Notorious B.I.G. Indie rock is my second favorite genre. Here are two of my favorite songs by indie (well arguably less so now) artists:

The Arcade Fire - Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)

The Decemberists - Here I Dreamt I Was an Architect

Unfortunately, I can't post my absolute favorite song ever, "Close to the Edge" by Yes because it's 20 minutes long. At least, I'm not going to be able to find it on Youtube easily. This song represents all that I hold dear about music: crazy talented musicians, interesting lyrics, extended compositions that explore all sorts of musical ideas, and a general refusal to compromise to the standards of radio and popular music in general. This song also has sentimental and nostalgiac value to me as I can remember being a little kid and hearing my dad play it in his office right next to my room. I would lay on my bed and think "What is this strange and beautiful sound?" It wasn't until years later that I could truly appreciate Yes and many of the other bands my dad introduced me to. So I'll close by posting another really great Yes song and urge all of you to try and obtain a copy of "Close to the Edge" somewhere. And finally, start listening to Good music and criticizing Bad music.

Yes - South Side of the Sky

A 'Lost' Cause

2009-05-17T16:58:00.002-04:00

Before I move to the topic which has inspired me to form such a terrible pun, I'd like to take a brief moment to give an update on the status of my Decisions-related situation. Put simply, Decisions have been made. I am now a double major in Media and Communication Studies and American Studies. I will be remaining at UMBC for another year in the hopes that this radical shift in my academic goals will also instigate improvement in the other areas of my life. Also, the monster success we achieved with our party last night is particularly inspiring. In general, I would describe my current state as "cautiously optimistic."

Anyway, on to a topic I consider far more important: the serial television drama Lost. In the course of the past two years, I have become a dedicated Lost fan. Well, maybe not "dedicated," but at least "committed." Which, incidentally, is what I should probably be for professing my loyalty to a show that even die-hards would agree is "bat-shit insane." Lost is an incredibly polarizing show. It is discussed with an equal mixture of intense devotion and intense disdain. I happen to be firmly in the camp of the supporters, and thus I am going to subject you all to my own personal take on the Lost universe.

Even the most cursory summary of the plot will quickly necessitate a lengthy explanation of the motivations and relationships of a frankly rediculous number of characters. As anyone who has read Robert Jordan's The Wheel of Time can testify to, filling your story with a fucking phone book's worth of characters is a massive pain in the ass for your average reader. It is some small consolation that at least the creators of Lost are willing to some extent to kill characters off. I've always been a proponent of killing off crucial characters; it makes for some wacky plot twists (and by extension, entertaining television) and really fucks with the viewers' heads. George R. R. Martin, writer of the Song of Ice and Fire series (which is purportedly being adapted for TV by HBO), is an expert at this game of bait and switch. Although it makes it kind of difficult to get attached to any of the characters, the fact that Martin is fully willing to kill off anyone regardless of how indispensable to the plot they may seem is one of the things that makes A Song of Ice and Fire my favorite fantasy book series hands-down.

Right, so...Lost. Lost is primarily focused on a group of passengers aboard Oceanic Flight 815 who crash on a mysterious island. This island is henceforth referred to as The Island because it is really a character in its own right. The Island is a powerful and mysterious entity, the product of supernatural forces that defy explanation or control. These forces exhibit unusual effects on the people who encounter it, including but not limited to accelerated miraculous healing, visions of dead people, and an overinflated sense of purpose or destiny. This power has drawn people both intentionally and unintentionally throughout history to The Island. Among these include a secretive and not entirely benign research organization called the Dharma Initiative, a powerful and wealthy Brit by the name of Charles Widmore, and a vaguely cult-like group living on the Island referred to as The Natives, the Others, or the Hostiles depending on who is referring to them. The survivors find themselves entangled with these and other factions as well as the Island itself.

To further complicate matters, the survivors all have their own colorful backgrounds filled with scandal and intrigue which tie them to each other, the Island, and many of the other factions. Nothing in the Lost universe can be taken for granted or accepted at face value. Every episode raises more questions than it answers. It is probably this fact that makes Lost such an easy show to either love or hate. There's no denying it - Lost is confusing. If you miss one episode you're effectively screwed. Watching Lost for any extended period of time cultivates a compulsive need to watch more Lost. Medical professionals are currently researching the prolonged effects of and potential treatment of 'The Lost Effect.'

As a sufferrer of the Lost Effect, it may be difficult for me to fully articulate what it is that makes the show so compelling. Never have I seen another television show that offers its viewers so much to sink their teeth into. There are innumerable mysteries to speculate and theorize over. No matter how much is ever revealed, you always know the writers have only scratched the tip of the iceberg. It makes one wonder if the writers even have answers to the questions they create. Are they making this shit up as they go along or are they really following an over-arching plot with a definitive beginning, middle, and most importantly, end? At this point either option seems entirely possible. I mean, they actually made the current season about time travel. Time travel is probably one of the quickest ways to send a plot into the crapper, but I have to say that this season is one of the most entertaining I've seen since the beginning. It makes my head hurt something fierce to even contemplate for a moment how any of this is supposed to get resolved, but I have faith in the Lost writers. Personally, the only way I can really see to tie off all the loose ends is to drop a nuke on the Island or in some other way completely wreck its shit. Also, they would need to kill off every single character and call the Ghostbusters to get rid of their lingering spirits. I have absolutely zero expectancy, for example, that John Locke will actually stay dead. Everyone knows you have to stake the heart, cut off the head and stuff the mouth with garlic, then put the head and body in separate boxes and throw both boxes into a fast moving river. Wait, maybe that's vampires I'm thinking of...ah well, it never hurts to be safe.
As you can tell, I don't exactly take the Lost mythos very seriously. It's rediculously overblown and hopelessly overcomplicated. There are plenty of laughable aspects of the show, namely the terrible actors who fill out the ranks of The Others and the Dharma Initiative, the cheezy effects, and the seemingly unlimited supply of nameless extras among the survivors despite the fact that there was only a finite number of passengers on the plane to begin with and a good third of those died in the very first episode. Yet week after week I keep watching, hoping to get answers to those questions that plague me: what's with the four-toed statue? Why was there a polar bear? And why the fuck did they have to bring time travel into it? Also, do they ever plan on bringing on more former hobbits as cast members?

If you've never seen Lost, I urge you to at least check it out. It's one of the few reasons I still watch TV. Support A Lost Cause. And bow down to the genius of Damon Lindelof and J. J. Abrams while you're at it.

On Writing, Career Choices, and the Future of the IT Industry

2009-05-17T16:56:00.002-04:00

here was a time, I think, when I had a vision of my life that was clear and immutable...the elegance of its simplicity speaks to a certain way of thinking that we lose as we get older. The mind of my childhood self saw only one path for the future. I think I always wanted to be a writer.

To fill pages with my ideas, and for others to be filled by these ideas, and make them their own, seemed to me the most rewarding a career there could be. I've written poems, short stories, screenplays, essays, and countless fragments of novels that now clutter the hard drive of my computer. But it seems the better my writing style becomes, the more difficult it is for me to actually come up with ideas. The only thing I've written lately (besides this blog of course) has been poetry...I can no longer summon the commitment to create anything more substantial. But now that I'm writing on this blog, to which I owe Colin a great deal for convincing me to contribute to, I can sense that old feeling creeping up in me again. It is that feeling that would compel me to spend great amounts of time staring at a screen, letting something that formerly existed only as freeform thought take shape with structure and purpose.

Now I find myself in a far different place. I never would have predicted that I would choose to major in computer science. At what point did I ever really express an interest in this stuff? I don't know, yet here I am. The conflict I seem to be embroiled in - that is, to resolve other people's image of me as the analytical, rational, mathematical type with my internal image of myself as an artist and a creative thinker - from whence does it stem? Do I seek other people's approval too much? I don't think so...honestly I think it just comes down to the fact I like money too much to ever make writing a full-time occupation. I wish I was joking, but honestly the whole starving artist thing is incongruent with my plan for myself. I want a career, not just a hobby.

The question that I have to ask myself then is this: can I really hope to be successful in such a demanding industry when I know it's not 100% what I want to do? Unfortunately, because of my desire to actually have some semblance of a social life, I can't compete with the super-nerds. You know the ones I mean. These are the guys who live and breathe this stuff, the wannabe hackers, the ones who know computers inside and out. They know the subject matter better than I probably ever will, and that's simple truth. I apologize to anyone who may take offense at these statements, but I have to be honest and say that a great deal of the people in my computer science classes match the stereotype spot-on.

So why am I seemingly wasting my time with a major that I'm not sure is for me? The answer is that I believe that the industry is changing, or at least going to change. Computers are becoming advanced enough, or will at least reach the point eventually, that a new type of professional will become necessary. The days of row after row of cubicles filled with mindless code monkeys will vanish, if it hasn't already. The industry will need people with creative minds, who can relate to other people and are not intimidated by human contact, because the focus will no longer be on how to make computers do what we want but rather on what exactly we should be doing with them. I feel that although technology continually improves, innovation has plateaued somewhat. The Internet has created a whole generation of moronic, meme-driven pop culture addicts whose communication skills (especially written) are swiftly going down the toilet.

I wish to stand out from this generation. I wish to change the way we use computers, that the next generation won't be even more cynical and detached than my own. I'd like to at this point recommend that everyone listen to the song "Fear of a Blank Planet" by Porcupine Tree as it pretty much follows my point exactly. We need to cultivate the Internet into a place that favors intelligent people...someone once described television as a "vast wasteland" but I think this description is far more applicable to the Intarwebs. Also, can we please get rid of LOLCats once and for all?

I think I sound really pretentious and condescending right now, but I also think this was something that I needed to tell myself. Ever since I dropped my CMSC 341 class I've been plagued with frustration and self-doubt as to whether I'm in the right major. I literally had the revelation above as I was typing it, and now that I read it I am filled with a renewed confidence. I have criticized myself before for lacking ambition and motivation, and for thinking too small. So I'm going to adjust my career aims somewhat; after all, it's better to aim too high, right? I'm no longer going to focus solely on becoming a game designer (an idea that I've been having second thoughts about recently). Instead, my overall goal now is to someday revitalize the IT industry for the betterment of all society. That sounds a lot more respectable than saying I just want to make video games, doesn't it?

Is it likely that I'll ever rise to such a monumental challenge? Probably not. But at least now I feel like I have a reason to stick with computer science other than the meager promise of a boring but high-paying job sitting in a cubicle that I'll never escape from.

I'll probably keep writing as well.

What's Wrong with TV?

2009-05-17T16:49:00.002-04:00

You may be thinking based on the title that I'm going to rant about how TV today is a barren wasteland devoid of anything remotely worth watching. Well, that's true, but guess what - you're wrong...asshole.

No, my rant is going to be almost the complete opposite of that. You see, there's a trend I've noticed among certain people, many with whom I hang out with or otherwise associate with, people who would likely profess to being "intellectual" - a category I would normally include myself in but for the sake of observation will separate myself from for the purpose of this post. I've noticed that such people, in the event that someone begins to discuss a particular television show they happen to have enjoyed recently, will immediately proclaim quite loudly and condescendingly that they "don't watch TV." It is then implied that they are "above" watching TV because it is a pastime reserved solely for the stupid, unwashed masses, not refined individuals like themselves who have much better things to do, like watch clips of people hurting themselves on the Internet.

These may be the same people who insist on making sure everyone knows that they refuse to watch the Superbowl come time of the big game, or even worse, watch it "ironically" and constantly mock it while lamenting the time they are (willingly) wasting. Either way, the mentality is the same. Now, I don't inherently have a problem with the fact that some people just don't watch TV. But, at the same time, I have a personal theory: I think that it is these people who refuse to watch TV because there is nothing on but garbage who at least partially contribute to this assumption being true.

As anyone who does watch enough TV has observed, all the good shows - the ones that actually are witty, original, and have decent writing - invariably get canceled. We're still feeling the fallout from angry fans (such as myself) of Arrested Development. Now the amazing Pushing Daisies is suffering the same fate. There are countless other examples of brilliant shows getting shitcanned. There was a show, I can't even remember how many years ago, called The Knights of Prosperity about a janitor who, along with a team of other weirdos working out of a Jewish supply warehouse, concocts a harebrained scheme to rob Mick Jagger. I thought it was fantastic, and I don't recall if it even made it one season. I'm sure anyone reading this can think of their own personal examples.

The reason that these shows get canceled, even when they are actually award-winning shows like Arrested Development and Pushing Daisies is simply low ratings. There just aren't enough people watching. And here's where my theory comes into play. The reason the ratings are low is that the majority of people watching just don't understand these shows. There are no obnoxious laugh tracks to tell them that what they are watching is indeed humorous. These shows are better appreciated by more intelligent people, or people with a more unusual or unorthodox sense of humor. The people I was complaining about before tend to fall into both of these categories. Unfortunately, they'll never watch these shows because they simply assume that there is nothing good on TV to watch. If they were to instead discard their preconceived notions and actually give television a chance, the shows I love might actually stand a chance. And they would discover that even some shows that are popular are quite good, such as 30 Rock, The Office, and It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia.

So even though there are a myriad of other factors affecting whether a show lives or dies, I'm going to personally heap all the blame for my favorite shows getting the axe on the people who refuse to watch TV and in fact, take pride in that fact. Thus, I'm going to close with a suggestion that basically goes against everything we've been told in school: put down the damn book for once and turn on the television.