Tenebrous Tirades of the Torpid Mind

Always assume the arrival of an acme of alliteration...

2011-05-23T23:56:00.001-06:00

Happy 23rd kids! This one kind of snuck up on me to tell the truth, but in spite of the fact that my mind has been awash with Greek and Japanese words for a solid 4 weeks straight, I shall fulfill my vow! (I think that may be the first time I've used two consecutive exclamation marks since 3rd grade)

Jingo. No, it's not a Star Wars character, a tribe from New Guinea, or some newfangled file-sharing program. Jingo is an actual word, used to refer to hardcore war activists in politics (you can probably tell I've been reading a lot of military history books lately). I think one of the reasons I find myself drawn to jingo is that the word does absolutely nothing to give you a hint at its meaning. Thanks to Latin and Greek I can usually make a pretty good go of interpreting unfamiliar words on the fly, but jingo resulted in one of those frustrating trips to the bookshelf to rummage through the dictionary. Now I try to use it as often as possible simply for the strange looks I get when people think I just made a reference to a voodoo spell.

Σαυρωτήρ. Keeping to things military, sauroter (writing Greek words in English is surprisingly difficult——I blame the letter rho) is a fun little term used to describe the counterweight/butt-spike at the end of a Greek hoplite's spear. But why in the world would I choose something as mundane as butt-spike? Why don't we break it down. Sauros may look familiar to some of you because it's the Greek word for lizard (from dinosaur fame), but when you put it together with -oter, you get 'lizard killer.' Yes, that's right, lizard killer. Never in the history of pointy objects have I found a name quite so awesome. Consider yourself officially supplied with a piece of completely useless information.

Viridian. I don't know if we've quite broached my love of the color green and its associates, but I'm putting it out there now. Green is the greatest color ever, and if you try to argue with me I will fight you, win, and then rub your face in the greenest patch of grass I can find. But I digress. Viridian may seem to be just another one of those obnoxious words used to define variable shades of a basic color (e.g. cerulean, cinnabar, saffron, fuchsia, celadon) and to name towns in Pokémon. While viridian's main function is to denote the color green, it comes from the Latin verb vireo, which means to be green. No adjective required here folks, the entire concept of existing in a state of greenness is all denoted by one word. Awesome would be a good description.

Sobriquet. Let's face it——nickname is not that great of a term. Sobriquet (pronounced soo-brih-kay, I've heard some pretty creative pronunciations in my time) on the other hand, even if it comes from a random French term that means 'a tap under the chin,' is so much more stylish. Alias, pseudonym, incognito——none of them quite reach the level of smoothness contained in sobriquet. Have you been pegged with a mildly embarrassing nickname? Now you can garnish it with a dash of style by coupling it with sobriquet! "Yeah, my name is Charles, but I tend to go by the sobriquet Chuck. Old Carlos Norris got the idea from me..."

Because He IS my co-pilot...

2011-05-20T00:30:00.000-06:00

My original game plan was for the last post to act as a short introduction to this one. It appears, however, that my penchant for verbosity has won through yet again and as such, I offer you the unprecedented treat of two posts in one night! (Though I promise this one will be much more fun and won't sound like the introduction to a Dashboard Confessional song).

I've been attempting to sell my car lately, which has been quite an experience (thank you universe for the oh-so-timely earthquake that ruined millions of lives and the Japanese car market). It's times like these when I'm focused on a given activity that I notice a sort of hyper-attention for the subject matter. As a result, I have officially become one of those people who gets distracted on the road by someone's vehicle and knocks on the windows of parked cars to ask drivers how they like their choice of automobile. That sentence made me really aware of the strange element of English style that discourages word repetition.

So I notice cars a lot more. A lot more. In all of my perusing one thing has puzzled me to no end——why do so many people deface their cars with strange stickers and, worst of all, vanity license plates?

I know you may feel special, but trust me, vanity license plates are never a good idea. All vanity plates will do one (or sometimes both) of two things: either they reveal that you are a tasteless sod, or they contain some sort of inside joke that you and about 5 other people understand and which will undoubtedly elicit a fair amount of confused questioning. For good measure, check this out and consider yourself discouraged.

You may feel like a real team player with your Prius sporting its Apple logo and "Coexist" bumper sticker. That's fine. I really don't think that it helps out your credibility when you drive like a douchebag and flip people off in traffic though. Maybe get a bumper banner that says something to the effect of "Let's save the earth and be religiously tolerant, but all bets are of when that light turns green!"

I understand that you must be passionate about your second amendment rights, but is it really necessary to have two NRA stickers in your window? I would think the deer carcass in the pickup bed and gun rack in the rear window would've gotten the message across, but you are the expert I suppose.

Am I to suppose the two big turtles/bear paws/stick figures followed by five little turtles/bear paws/stick figures in your rear window are used to indicate the number of people in your family? Oh, and you've even taken the liberty of printing their names underneath in some fun, cutesy font. That's nice. Why don't you just print your address, phone number, and a list of your greatest fears in the opposite corner to give the road-ragers and serial killers a complete package? And while you've got that middle finger up, might I recommend a "Coexist" bumper sticker? They really make a statement I hear...

As a manner of explanation...

2011-05-19T23:47:00.000-06:00

So I realize that I have failed miserably in my promise to be more constant in my blogging during these weeks of blessed reprieve from scheduled, graded schooling. For that, I apologize. However much I've been avoiding it for untold weeks though, it's time for us to level kids.

My relationship with blogging has been a strange one. When this first started nearly two years ago on a night much like tonight, the chief reason for my writing was for expressive purposes. At any given moment I have at least two or three good rants stewing in my head, and this blog was a great medium in which I could give these rants substance and allow them to be viewed and enjoyed by others. As time went on, school and life got in the way, and it was difficult at times to find topics of suitable levity that I could use here. I suppose we've broken that one a few times, but for the most part seriousness and gravity have not been drawing points in this neighborhood.

Then came the great surge of Fall 2010——I know, it was a good time for all of us. Topics fell from the proverbial tree like plump, over-ripened fruit and I like to think that fun was had by all. It wasn't until I sat down about a month ago and really tried to write something again that I realized it's all different now. As it turns out, though I didn't recognize it at the time, I was writing for someone.

That someone has since moved on to greener pastures, and for some reason it seems that the creative spark has gone with them. Thankfully, I have good friends who aren't afraid to act as lighter fluid, so here's to recapturing the magic...

Of Demons, Jews, and Man-eating Cyclopes...

2011-05-01T23:56:00.001-06:00

The finish line is in sight! I hope everyone has enjoyed this week's posts. I've enjoyed writing them and sharing just a few of my favorite things——perhaps one day we can chat about smells, art deco, The Oxford Classical Dictionary, and cute girls with freckles. But not tonight. To finish this week of enjoyment off properly there's only one thing we can discuss. Books.

I could gush for numberless pages about how much I love books, how sad it is that books are dying (yes, I hate the Kindle and its ilk and I really don't care about how convenient it is), and how much more enriched and colorful is the life of a person that reads. Perhaps some of you might want to hear that, but not tonight. In keeping with the buffet-style samplings of the past few posts, tonight I present to you some of my personal favorites from the past year or so.

Faust. Goethe's Faust is one of the finest works of Western literature. Period. Argue with me all you like, but I will win. The second half isn't quite as much of a winner, especially if you're not up to par with your Greek & Roman mythology, but the first half alone more than makes up for the price of admission. Obviously I've never read this in German, but the beauty of the sentiments expressed in Faust's journey and what Goethe ultimately has to say about humanity and Christianity are priceless.

Odyssey. You know we couldn't make it through a favorite book list without encountering at least one of Homer's epics. I just finished a class in which we read a few books of the Odyssey in Greek and I've read it enough times in English that I can assuredly say it rocks. Say what you will about long-windedness, the story of Odysseus' journey home is masterfully constructed and beautifully told in vivid, gripping language that has been imitated but never matched (that's right Vergilians——I went there). While it is a simple adventure story, there's so much depth to be found in Odysseus' behavior and flaws (because he's kind of a douche bag) that it doesn't take much examination for one to realize what a beautiful——and truly epic——commentary it presents on the human experience.

Ex Libris. I was given this as a birthday gift recently by my adroitly perceptive friend Jourdan and have loved every page. Though the author, Anne Fadiman, is a tad pretentious with all of her not-so-subtle references to British literature and use of obscure words (you can probably see why we get along), she still writes a batch of mean essays that any lover of books and writing will inhale with glee. She even dedicates a chapter to sentimentality and fountain pens. Essentially it's a much better version of my blog written by a woman. And it's even green.

The Sabbath: Its Meaning For Modern Man. Abraham Joshua Heschel is one of my favorite people of all time and a definite contender on the list of dead people I would want to spend a few hours chatting with. His book on the Sabbath is probably one of the most beautiful things I've ever read, religious or secular, and completely changed the way I look at God, Sunday, and my relationship with the universe in general. It takes quite a book to do even one of those, but all three in 93 pages?! We're entering miracle territory.

"He who wants to enter the holiness of the day must first lay down the profanity of clattering commerce, of being yoked to toil. He must go away from the screech of dissonant days, from the nervousness and fury of acquisitiveness and the betrayal in embezzling his own life. He must say farewell to manual work and learn to understand that the world has already been created and will survive without the help of man. Six days a week we wrestle with the world, wringing profit from the earth; on the Sabbath we especially care for the seed of eternity planted in the soul. The world has our hands, but our soul belongs to Someone Else. Six days a week we seek to dominate the world, on the seventh day we try to dominate the self."

The Great Gatsby. No list of favorite books is complete without Gatsby. I love this book for so many reasons, such to the point that I habitually read it about every six months in order to renew and magnify my appreciation. Lately I've hypothesized that it may actually just be my form of self-therapy. In any case, this book not only bathes the reader in the imagery of the 1920s, one of the greatest periods in history (never mind what it caused), but it also provides fantastic commentary on life as led by a number of different people. In reading it, I've come to grips with my own social anxieties, gained a greater understanding of my relationship with my father (something every child needs to do at some point——Sigmund Freud be damned), and was initially impelled to start this blog. Go team...

Sticking it to the man—without even leaving the couch...

2011-04-30T23:59:00.002-06:00

Almost missed it again! You've probably noticed by now from the posts about TV, cartoons, and books that my life is pretty filled with media. I've always enjoyed learning (hence the books and my fascination with the Discovery channel as a kid), but if there's one thing that gives learning a run for its money, it would have to be taking in creativity. Yes, I realize how ridiculously art-snobbish that sounds, but that's really how I feel. Beneath all the organization and structure that encloses and compartmentalizes my life beats the heart of a poet. Okay, maybe not a poet. But I like to draw——does that count?

But I digress. Netflix has been a source of great enjoyment for me over the past year, and to those of you who remain unconverted or have yet to fully utilize its awesome powers, consider this your call to action. Over the years I've never been much of a renter. Blockbuster and Hollywood Video always repelled me because they far too often smelled like barf (literally) and wouldn't have what I was looking for. When I finally decided to get serious about movies, the prospect of having to rely on the dreaded rental store was a huge obstacle looming over me. Then I discovered Netflix instant.

For their ridiculously low price of ten bucks a month, I can average about three movies by mail per week (provided my homework schedule is accommodatingly lax) and, if I'm really feeling saucy, at least one instant movie on the other days of the week not occupied by its mail-order brethren. Even when compared to the cheapo two buck rentals from Blockbuster et al, that translates to as little as $14.00 a week and thus about $60.00 a month. This alone was enough to get me on board, but imagine my further joy when I discovered that Netflix had TV shows, documentaries, and all sorts of other fun biznass to try and sucker me into upgrading my plan to greater amounts of cash per month. Nice try boys.

But seriously, Netflix is a valuable resource for seeing otherwise rare movies, be they foreign, old, independent, or just weird and in short circulation. All I can say is good luck finding the complete works of Kurosawa at Blockbuster. I think when it really comes down to it I just love the notion of being able to get my money's worth of out something. Take the gym for example. Gyms make the most money when people underutilize their memberships. Because most gyms make you sign a contract for a year or more, you still pay even when you don't go. Not going means you're not using the equipment, and not using the equipment means that it will last longer and therefore not need to be replaced, thus making the gym more money in the long run. So it is with Netflix.

While ten bucks a month certainly isn't going to do much for them (except perhaps when multiplied by several thousand), Netflix relies on people's desire for more to really bring in the cash. Due to the speed and convenience with which we can accomplish and receive things in our time, people have a lot of difficulty with waiting. Why limit yourself to three movies by mail per week when you can get three movies at one time! Please my friends, don't be this stupid. Join me and take full advantage of Netflix's gateway mentality by signing up for a bare-bones plan that will still allow you to happily plumb the depths of its extensive movie library for the cost of a decent lunch. If anything, it provides valuable access to all those R-rated movies you never saw but heard good things about. Take my queue for example:

Full Metal Jacket
Fargo
Ong-Bak
Sanjuro
Jackie Brown
Kagemusha
The Godfather Part II
Burn After Reading
Downfall
The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou
Scarface
Platoon
The Hangover
Glory

By the count of many denizens of Utah Valley, I am now officially going to Hell. I thought we had already established this, but whatever. We'll save that joyous argument for another day. In the meantime, I've got some serious advantage taking to do...

The dullest pen is more expensive than any pencil...

2011-04-29T20:32:00.001-06:00

While intimated at briefly in the past, the subject of today's entry on the list of favorites is something for which I have received a significant amount of ridicule. I use fountain pens. Yes, they're more delicate than ball-points and ink-jet pens; yes, they do require ink refills about once a week. So why in the world would I use such things save to get that much closer to being Indiana Jones or to foster a superiority complex? Worry not, for I shall tell you.

First off, let me state that I am not attempting to win any converts here. Fountain pens are definitely not for everyone. Perhaps in the next few paragraphs you'll understand that it takes a certain bent toward OCD to really push one into this kind of territory.

I am a big fan of functionality. As a result of this, I had been using the same cheap, black, ink-jet pens since 8th grade. I liked them because they had a fine point, a simple and elegant design, and laid down a consistent stream of ink. In spite of this, I hated these pens, along with every other ball-point I've ever used because they were never consistent for long——no matter how much pressure you applied. Being a retrophile, I had always thought fountain pens looked cool, and it didn't take more than a few cursory viewings of various web pages to determine that they were in fact made for me. Stupid sounding, perhaps, but ever since I tried my first disposable Pilot fountain pen, I haven't gone back.

Though its maintenance is somewhat more complicated than disposable Bic pens and their kin, fountain pens are actually much simpler instruments. Essentially you have an ink reservoir that, when held at the appropriate angle (downward), will allow ink to flow into the tip of the pen, where it flows through a very small channel into the point which actually touches the paper. In other words no moving parts and, my personal favorite, no pressure required. I kid you not when I say that writing with a fountain pen is like using a tendril of air.

The reasons I felt like the fountain pen was for me was because of its customizability, its permanence (I felt quite guilty throwing out 1-2 pens a week), and its improved capacity for actually writing. There are hundreds upon hundreds of different ink colors in existence, a few of which I have claimed as particular expressions of my personality. Furthermore, if you play your cards right and don't treat a fountain pen like it's a cheap Bic, it could be with you for decades——a sentiment I rather cherish in a society in which computers are built to last 3 years (optimistically), clothes 2-4, and most furniture and personal electronics 10 years. Sure, my Waterman Phileas may have cost me $25.00 (which you'll see was an absolute steal), but in the long run it comes out to be a much cheaper option (in theory——more on that in a moment). While I am by no means a bleeding-heart environmentalist, I still like good ol' planet Earth and it makes me feel a bit better to know that I'm not contributing nearly as many black plastic cylinders to my lifetime carbon footprint.

Should you make the switch to a fountain pen? Probably not. If you don't obsess over the fineness of pen points in an effort to optimize your style of handwriting, you'll be fine with whatever disposables you use now. If you dig the environment too, there are more practical ways to save it than dropping 100 bucks on a fancy pen and a few bottles of ink——they're called pencils. Besides that, most fountain pen users get a little too carried away and end up buying so many pens that they stand no chance of ever making up for the cost had they stuck to cheap ball-points (once again, I seem to pick up on midlife crises with unnerving reliability). But if you do pay a little too much attention to handwriting and enjoy the notion of writing with a finely-crafted, precision instrument that could be an heirloom, by all means my friend, take the plunge...

Humor & education in one fell swoop...

2011-04-28T23:54:00.002-06:00

Aha! Almost thought I wouldn't make it with today's post did you? Oh ye of little faith——fear not! Though the feeling in my arms has been reduced to a light tingle (thanks are due to the indomitable strength of a certain Jared Holloway), I am fully prepared to offer up another day in my week-long continuum of favorite joy-inducing things. Versus favorite non-joy-inducing things. I suspect that would be fairly unpopular.

Today, we're going to talk about TV. Yes, kids, the dreaded tube. Most college students I know don't watch TV, either because they don't own one, aren't interested, or know how to use the internet. There are still many who are unabashedly committed to any number of given shows. I myself would be lost without DVR, and thanks be also to the blessed genius who decided to release seasons of shows in DVD form for prices that aren't ridiculous. In spite of the flak that TV often gets, I contend that, if used properly, it in fact does not rot one's brain, kill creativity, or create useless, idle people. Because everyone needs a break——even if it's just for 25 minutes.

Modern Family. Great googly-moogly do I love this show! Believe me when I tell you that it was quite difficult to pick just one clip to show here. In any case, Modern Family is fantastic. Its secret to success is that it plays off of the awkward situations and such that everyone who has ever been part of family has experienced, and it does so with some really hilarious characters that are instantly relatable and equatable with relatives you probably have. Go watch it. Now. ("And on a side note——private parts are private")

Confession time: probably about half of my status updates on the facebook are direct quotes from Sheldon Cooper. The Big Bang Theory is an incredibly fun show for anyone, but most especially for my bad nerdy self. It's essentially the antics of a group of PhD-holding nerds facing their various social quirks, and the result is comic genius. I think a lot of the reason I love this show is because I can see myself winding up in much the same situation as these fellas in about six years or so. Whatever the case, if you read books and have a basic understanding of science, the jokes featured in this show will be an extra special treat.

Clips are a bit tougher to sort through on this one, but just take my word for it kids——Pawn Stars is gold. Say what you will about the staged humor and the fact that it's totally unrepresentative of the pawning business at large. I just don't care. Pawn Stars is awesome because there's such a huge variety of stuff that you get to see and find out a little bit of historical information about. Obviously, given my educational background, this is a big draw for me. But I've even seen avid haters of history really drawn in by the diversity and fascinating array of items featured on this show. If you were ever that kid who secretly watched and enjoyed Antiques Roadshow after the cartoons were over on Saturday mornings, this is your time...

Fat-bottomed . . . boys?

2011-04-27T18:47:00.001-06:00

I hope everyone is enjoying our journey through the land of Tyler's likes. Today's entry on the list is sure to entertain and inspire: handstand pushups!

As seems to be the trend with the last few features, this one requires some background information as well. You see kids, I used to be fat. Not as in "I gained a little weight on my mission and had to lose 20 pounds after I got home." I mean fat. In fact I actually managed to lose weight on my mission, but not without a concerted degree of effort (and a generous helping of divine assistance I suspect) to combat the effects of deliciously corrupting Southern cooking. I was what one could only call girthy. Observe:

No, I am not allergic to bee stings, that really is me in 2002, just minus about 3" and plus 60~ pounds. Thanks to Dragonball Z (yes, really) and a healthy dosage of self-loathing, I managed to get it together and shape up, but it was during my mission that I discovered the true joys of vigorous physical exercise——a few of my former companions have various pieces of exercise equipment to thank for their lives. Ever since, exercise has been a key component for me in leading a balanced and happy life, plus it's been kind of fun to see how different I can make myself look from the visage of corpulence that was my high school sophomore portrait.

Handstand pushups are the greatest exercise ever. You work your core, your back, your arms, chest, neck, shoulders——everything from the waist up (and a few below). But the best part of all? There are few things more satisfying than hoisting yourself up from the ground and holding a handstand, except perhaps lowering down and hoisting up again repeatedly! Gaze with wonder as veins that you didn't even know you had start popping up and laugh with invigorated amusement at the healthy, deep red color your skin has taken on after 15 reps.

If you've already left the keyboard and tried giving the handstand pushup a shot, chances are good that you failed. Do not despair. Handstands alone are hard enough, but maintaining that kind of balance while exerting the power necessary to do the pushup is quite difficult. As such, walls are your friends. Use them for balance assistance and don't be afraid to lightly rest your heels against a wall when the going gets tough. Though it takes time and practice, if you can make the handstand pushup yours, you'll notice a significant increase in strength, balance, and general feelings of awesomeness. If that doesn't do it for you, allow me to utilize Legally Blonde for the only legitimate point to be culled from the movie: "Exercise produces endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people don't shoot their husbands [wives, roommates, friends, family, pets, etc.]"...

By the power of Grayskull...

2011-04-26T19:00:00.000-06:00

The concentration of goodness continues my friends! Before I continue with today's favorite things, let me just say a few words of warning. The things in these posts represent a significant portion of who I am and, as is my assumption with everything I post here, I make all of these revelations with the hope that y'all won't be all judgmental and whatnot. That being said, today's topic: cartoons.

I love cartoons. Obviously I enjoyed them as a child, but as I grew that enjoyment developed into a true appreciation and affection that has only deepened the more I've watched and thought about it. There's always been something very magical about the animated medium that I haven't been able to escape——no matter how nerdy I may feel in doing so.

To help you understand my appreciation to a degree, I'll present a few clips from a broad range of different films and television shows. Anime will be involved, but once again, don't judge. In my experience, those who enjoy anime are divided into two categories: 1) people who watch a given show simply because it's a cartoon from Japan, regardless of subject matter, director (yes, cartoons have directors), etc.; and 2) people who judge their animated fare by universal criteria, regardless of nationality, such as subject matter, art style, director, etc. and find anime that meets with their approval. If you hadn't guessed, I am #2. Spirited Away is a work of art; Pokémon, One Piece, and their friends are no different than various other animated-tie-in trash found in America.

Samurai Jack. It's already been established that I have a thing for samurai, but Samurai Jack really does represent one of the best pieces of American animation since the glory days of Looney Toons. It has a simple, but distinct style (notice the lack of outlines) and its action sequences and camera work are top notch. Plus, Mako, the voice actor for Aku, has perhaps one of the most entertaining voices ever.

While I did enjoy The Triplets of Belleville, The Illusionist struck more of a chord with me. Either way Sylvain Chomet is the man, and his style really takes advantage of the medium with beautifully rendered backgrounds and quirky, exaggerated character designs that ooze with personality and charm.

Yup, more samurai——told you. Samurai Champloo is as hilarious and ridiculous as it is slick, stylish, and just plain enjoyable. Based around the premise of combining hip-hop culture with Tokugawa Era Japan, it has its occasionally quirky moments, but ultimately delivers with the stylistic flair and compelling storytelling for which its creator, Shinichiro Watanabe, is known. Big budget + total creative freedom = undistilled awesomeness.

Its story isn't much to write home about and you may be severely offended if you have Scandinavian ancestry (the vikings all look the same and walk around killing things while muttering "Goooold"), but the animation in The Secret of Kells is first-rate, innovative beauty. The trailer doesn't even come close to doing it justice. For those of you who also spent portions of your childhood huddled around N64s playing Zelda, this film manages to capture that magical feel of mystical, dungeon-crawling goodness——something that I don't expect the uninitiated to understand.

More with that kooky anime. Cowboy Bebop, an earlier project by Shinichiro Watanabe that really put his name on the map in the animation world, is easily one of my all time favorite cinematic productions——animated or otherwise. Not only does it blend jazz, western, and Hong Kong cinema elements in a surprisingly neat package (and in space no less), but it does so without losing Watanabe's characteristic quirky sense of humor and some of the best animation to ever hit the small screen. This scene in particular is one of the most revolutionary pieces of animation ever produced with its incredible overhead, three-dimensional shots.

So there you have it kids——some of the best animation from around the world in the last ten years. I hope you're all feeling adventurous enough to give at least one of these a shot. When in doubt always remember, if all else fails, Miyazaki never does...

Things I have in common with a middle-aged black lady...

2011-04-25T21:49:00.000-06:00

Prepare yourselves——a week of unparalleled continuity awaits! As promised a few weeks back, now that Winter Semester is over, I'm ready to deliver on my week's worth of Oprah-inspired posts. Be afraid.

While I pretty much despise Oprah (as I do most rich entertainers), she does have a few good ideas. About the only one is her "Favorite Things" days she randomly has in which she distributes massive amounts of free stuff to her audience members. As such, the next week will be witness to a few of my favorite things that have brought me appreciable amounts of joy in the last few months, although sadly none of you will be receiving any free loot (that's actually one of the things I despise most about Oprah). Today's theme: shaving.

I have mentioned my shaving habits a bit before, but beyond revealing that I essentially shave with a knife, I haven't gone into much detail before. To give you some good background that will help increase your appreciation of this evening's post, it's confession time.

I am a hairy beast.

I've been shaving daily since I was in 7th grade (which was cool for about a year, then I realized that I'd have to be doing this every day for the rest of my life and it suddenly became the horrific chore that it remained for the next ten years). I've had sideburns and a formidable crop of chest hair since 9th. The crop has since grown into a tree, which I have named Yggdrasil for metaphorical purposes. Oh, and let us not forget that at some point in my evolutionary line it was considered necessary for me to be able to grow my own scarf.

With all this hair (which is dark, coarse, and unnervingly stubborn), comes lots of shaving. Have you ever gone to the testing center at 3:00 PM and been accused of not shaving that day? I have. Thus for a long time I had to be very strategic about my shaving, since most razors are trash and had a difficult time cutting my beard and maintaining a semi-respectable edge. I hated shaving because it meant dragging a nasty, germ-encrusted series of semi-sharp blades repeatedly across my face until I was either lucky enough to catch most of my hair at the right angle or razor burn induced an early retreat. Then the straight razor came into my life.

For the first time, I was able to cut everything off (sometimes even an appreciable amount of skin) with one stroke! Although at times I was a bit worried that I had cut too close to my jugular, a few weeks and the straight razor had definitively changed my life for the better. Not only that, but my skin got remarkably healthier because I wasn't scraping a bacteria rake across my face every day. It soon became apparent that my facial hair was a bit too manly for the straight razor however, because it started to dull rather quickly, and sharpening those suckers is neither easy, quick, nor cheap. Enter the safety razor.

Gentlemen——and ladies married to or dating gentlemen——buy yourself a safety razor. Even though you'll probably turn your face into ground beef the first time you use it by cutting too close, you'll immediately notice a significant difference in smoothness and quality. For all the background info as to why this is, go visit Dave. Otherwise, trust one who knows. Not only do you get to shave with style, but you use real shaving soap that doesn't come in a can and aftershave, all of which will make you feel, look, and smell like a real man. This may sound really stupid——I certainly thought it did when I first read such sentiments on the websites of men who chose wet shaving as the expression of their mid-life crises. But now, shaving feels good.

Have you ever looked forward to shaving? Doubtful. Nowadays, I thoroughly enjoy the shaving experience. I would even go so far as to call it a daily euphoria, a portion of which returns to me every time I run my hands along my ultra-smooth face and neck. So do yourselves a favor fellas, and go buy safety razors. Now...

A wad of words well-worth wielding...

2011-04-23T22:22:00.000-06:00

At long last, Winter Semester is over! Perhaps one day when you're older I'll tell you why it was the most difficult semester ever encountered, but not now. We have far more enjoyable things to discuss.

For example, I am now in possession of a far greater amount of free time than in the past 3-1/2 months, which means bloggage should experience a rather appreciable increase. So, if you haven't seen fit to abandon me for greener pastures, you now have permission to be excited. In keeping with a tradition that has been sadly neglected for the current extent of 2011, I now deliver the monthly portion of delectables from the vast and sumptuous table that is the English language.

Swank. I'll be honest, until I had it suggested to me, I had never actually seen the word swank. Swanky, sure. But swanky in verb form——no sir. Fortunately I am able to swank, which I sadly performed the opposite of in the last few sentences. In any case, it's one thing to brag, boast, or pontificate, it's another entirely to swank. Which is essentially doing any of the preceding things, but with style. Feel free to pair it with the adjective 'rakish' at your discretion.

Thwart. While the classicist in me is quite visibly in full form during these little monthly jaunts into the land of things lingual, I still have quite a soft spot for Germanic words. Like the word 'word,' to name one of many. Thwart is a lot of fun because it lends itself well to being used actively. When someone's plans are prevented from being brought to fruition, the verb I most often hear used to describe such an event is 'frustrate.' However, frustrate has taken on a much more personal connotation in our day, and it just doesn't make sense for plans themselves to be distressed or upset. Ergo thwart. Plus, it takes on a whole new level of enjoyment when said in an overly-dramatized, baritone British accent.

Ardor. Ardor has always been something of a personal favorite since I remember it being one of the choices for the manner in which my blue-haired avatar would wield his sword in Ogre Battle 64. I picked ardor and got sat with a unit of sorcerers which, for those of you who know of my approach to video game combat, is grossly out of character (maybe they were fire mages or something?). Whatever. Ardor is awesome because in Latin, it means 'to burn,' which lends the person, place, or thing it's describing a far greater intensity than passion, its boring counterpart.

Pilfer. Maybe it has to do with our fascination with lawbreakers and heist stories, but for some reason there are a number of fantastic words to describe the act of stealing. Loot, pillage, plunder, rob, snatch, filch, pinch, abscond(!) with, and pilfer. While it's not winning any beauty contests, pilfer is just a fun word to use to sanitize and enliven the act of thievery. My personal favorite iteration is its noun form——pilferage. Say it. Now try saying it with the same spirited British accent used for thwart. "Such pilferage will not be tolerated!" Splendid...

Mastering the art of victory...

2011-04-13T19:55:00.001-06:00

Sometimes I get bummed out that Christianity had to go and kill Rome——a provocative statement for some of you, I know, but trust me on this one. And Gibbon. In fact, just trust Gibbon.

I mention this because now that classes are finished and I have just completed the single most epic research and paper-writing weekend of my life (yes, even more intense than you, Cambridge), I kind of feel like I deserve a triumph. As in marching gloriously through the streets clad in a purple toga while being followed by a procession carrying the objects of my conquest, which in this instance would be reams of paper, American history textbooks, and a bust of Homer. And to think——finals haven't even started yet!

You know the feeling of deep relief, fulfillment, and satisfaction you get when you finish a task that's been long and difficult? I say, why not celebrate that feeling more often? The Romans were certainly on to something with that triumph business, so let's give it a shot.

Some of you are probably concerned because finals aren't over yet (others are no doubt smiling with relief and pitying disregard because finals don't figure in to your world view), but celebrate anyway——I promise it will make the week to come much easier and more pleasant. The only downside to feeling as I do is the factor of motivation. Studying for finals and such can be difficult after a few days of such euphoria. For this, I have an answer.

If you hadn't already figured it out, I am a nerd. Perhaps even a Nerd. All I know is that when I have difficulty getting pumped up for something, I don't turn to Eminem, sports movies, or quotes about eternal perspective from general authorities. No. I turn to this:

You may laugh (feel free to disregard the last 30 seconds of the video——I've never even played the game), but next time you have one minute left to go on that run or a few paragraphs left on that essay and your eyes are feeling heavy, give it a little Kamehameha. It's magic...

Plataea is coming...

2011-04-02T00:15:00.000-06:00

  Yes, you may feel free to rub your eyes in amazement——this is a real post. I realize that it's been two months kids, and a number of you have voiced your displeasure at the discernible lack of bloggage as of late. I thank you for your concern. From reading even one of my posts, you probably know that I am not one to water things down or to sidestep voicing my true opinions (at least in the realm of writing——I at least try not to be a total jerk in social interactions). As such, the last two months have easily been some of the worst in recent and not-so-recent memory.

  Without going into a list of depressing and unnecessary details, let me simply say that recent events have been such that they have caused me to pause and question nearly every aspect of my life (even showering, though that only lasted until the next time I went running). Comparative mythologist Joseph Campbell, famous for his seminal work The Hero With a Thousand Faces, constructed a framework for the archetypal "hero's journey" found in myths, legends, and most properly-written books and movies of modernity. Nestled within the middle of the journey is something that Campbell called the katabasis, which is Greek for "going/journeying down." As fate would have it, usually this equates to a given hero going to Hell.

  The reason for such a journey is so that the hero can receive some sort of supernatural ability, wisdom, or training which he can in turn use to change his inevitably ill-starred lot in life. I mention this because I pretty well feel like I've been to Hell and back. While I certainly haven't happened upon any magic that can fix all of my issues in a flash, I have picked up a few useful tidbits along the way. If there's anything I've learned in 24 years, it's that everyone has problems——no matter how happy they may seem on the outside.

  As a result, I'm going to be taking the blog in a slightly different direction in the next few months. Unfortunately, I can't promise any sort of return to regularity until April 21. School is a harsh mistress, as you may already be aware. In the meantime however, fear not. Even though no writing has occurred in the last 2 months, thinking has not ceased and my cup runneth over with ideas for new posts. I have a veritable slew of words for your enjoyment (these may be unloaded on a weekly basis to reward your patience), an entire week's worth of daily posts inspired by Oprah (yes, be afraid), and plenty of great new tunes and such to recommend.

  To keep you occupied in the meantime, might I make a few suggestions? My friend Jeff is a wise fellow and, as one might expect, his blog is filled with wise things. He also devoted an entire post to Jimmy Eat World's song "23", which is in all likelihood my favorite song in the history of ever (and should be yours too). We've discussed Mr. David Vernon briefly before, but never in regards to what he does. Bottom line? The man's got style oozing from his fingertips and his "Essentials" series and frequent updates on monk-strap shoes are both excellent and inspiring. The first time I read some of the poems on Katja's blog, I got tingles——and I typically despise poetry (unless of course it was written 2,000 years ago in a dead language). Go and feast on the sublime fruits of artful verbiage. If you hadn't guessed already, all of these folks' links can also be found in the handy "Recommended Reading" sidebar. These are just a few of my current favorites, but I assure you that everyone is there for a reason. Take a leap of faith and watch the trust grow, and I'll see you in three weeks...

I say susurrus shall suffice...

2011-01-30T22:01:00.001-07:00

Goodness kids——it has been awhile! The last few weeks have been fraught with trepidation, tribulation, and a host of other -tions, not the least of which included my computer transitioning from narcolepsy to a full-on coma. But not to worry, because I have returned with a monthly assemblage of enjoyable words (albeit seven days late).

Seize. I must have a thing for words involving thievery or grabbing, because snatch, seize, clutch, and nearly any other verb besides take are definitely in the upper echelon of favorite words. Seize is great because it's just so much fun to say, especially in the imperative form. For example, "Seize him!" just works so much better than "Grab, capture, take, snatch, apprehend, grasp, or nab him!" Nab——really? (On a fun side note, the popular Latin phrase carpe diem means "seize the day," right? True, but carpe also means 'to pluck or harvest,' which implies a less-forceful, more measured form of grabbing than seize. To truly obtain the full force of the word seize, a better word choice is the verb rapio, which means 'to forcefully take, capture, or seize.' Unfortunately the imperative form of rapio is rape (yes, this is the word that has evolved into the English word rape). I don't know how well rape the day would go over...)

Susurrus. It's rare that you find such a well-measured amount of alliteration in a sentence, let alone in a single word. As such, susurrus has been one of my all time favorites. Sadly, it's tough to use without sounding either pretentious or just plain stupid (if not both), which is probably why few if any of you are likely to have ever encountered it or know what it means. This is what dictionary apps are for, right? In any case, susurrus is just a beautiful and fun way of describing a windy whisper or rustling sound, one of those rare gems that reminds you of just how much using the right word can enhance what you're trying to say.

Mischief. In my teenage years, I was quite the prankster. There was something so enthralling about how easily you can throw off the monotonous procession of everyday life with something as simple as an egg, a duck, or a convincingly-dressed hobo. But prank just sounds so rank, even debased. I wished to find something with more, taste. That something was mischief. I don't know about you, but I can't even say mischief without either looking or sounding like I'm plotting something. In the cases of the egg, duck, hobo, and most other mischievous acts my compatriots and I performed, mischief——sounding as it does like a good description of the doings of a twelve year-old——served as a softener of sorts for the fact that we were still technically breaking the law. Needless to say, calling something mischief instead of a misdemeanor doesn't go over too well with the Fuzz...

First on the list of never-agains...

2011-01-16T18:55:00.000-07:00

Wow, school is officially back with a vengeance! I do, however, have excellent intentions for the remainder of this break in which I will work far ahead and thus free up lots of time for me to write more frequently. Okay, it's really so that I can devote more time to figuring out what the devil Homer and Vergil are saying, and we all know that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. If that is so, then my intentions are used for the foundation stones of the gate at the end of the road to Hell. But every road needs paving, right?

Anyhow, the latest nonsense running through my head was sparked by an interesting flaw I've observed in myself and many others. Since I've experienced so much in my nearly twenty four years of life, I have a rapidly growing list of things that I promise to never do again. While there's a postable story for each of these, I choose not to focus on eating lasagna, going on blind dates, taking math classes, or trying to fix printers. Instead, we're going to talk about Risk.

I hate Risk with a burning, unholy passion. No other game, even the dreaded Monopoly, has the power to stir such a degree of caustic loathing in the souls of men. There are three constants in every game of Risk I have ever played, starting with my inaugural game at age nine. 1) The game was never actually finished——everyone just agreed that someone was probably going to win and gave up after a number of what were invariably some of the most frustrating hours of their lives. 2) At least one person cried, yelled, or became dangerously silent while avoiding eye-contact and communicating only in furtive, murderous, sidelong glances. 3) At the conclusion of the game, I have always wanted the last 4+ hours of my life back.

To you poor, deluded souls who like Risk and can't possibly believe that anyone could hate it so, I offer the following grievances. You are probably the same people who always say, "you've just got to have a good strategy, man." Sadly, Risk is probably the least strategic game in the history of strategic games. Sure, you may have thirty troops camped out on the only access to your continent. Your opponent may only be attacking with ten troops. Two minutes and about 15-18 rolls later, he has eight troops and you have zero——what happened?! Well if this were a case of actual strategy, you could attribute it to the attacker's good use of terrain, clever troop movements, and shrewd tactics. Unfortunately, the closest our friend ever got to shrewd tactical maneuvers was to blow on the dice before throwing them. He calls them Hot Wheels.

And that's what really makes me want to tear my hair out. Risk pulls you in with the promise of engaging battles for world supremacy, but it's all completely founded on luck. But life is all just based on chance, right? While there are factors in life that I can't control, there are a lot of things that really are completely up to me. I am currently wearing clothes because I chose to put them on, not because I successfully rolled a four or higher that allows me to wear a long-sleeved shirt. While this is a really basic example and there are plenty of you mathematicians out there ready to tell me all about probability and game theory, you get the idea.

If you want to witness ridiculous bouts of good and bad luck, see grown men scream and bicker like seven year olds, and have a totally unrealistic experience pretending to be a military commander——by all means play Risk. If you make it through the game without wanting to disembowel one of your opponents or to never use dice again for anything (perhaps a good object lesson for the futility of gambling?), then you're a better person than I. In the meantime, I'll be playing Go, in which if I lose, it's simply because I suck...

Because Ninja Turtles make everything better...

2011-01-09T21:11:00.000-07:00

We all know them. Perhaps some of you are among their number (in which case I imagine this will probably be the time we part ways, as I am about to insult you grievously). "Oh my gosh, I am so excited——my birthday is in 35 days!" That's right, birthday-announcement people.

To be fair, in spite of my usually neurotic memory I am rather terrible at remembering peoples' birthdays. To this day, I still get the numbers of my sister and father's birthdays mixed up. As such, I appreciate a little reminder now and then——though preferably not from the birthday boy/girl themselves, because that's just tacky. And because I usually end up hearing about it every 3-4 days for the two months preceding the magical date in question.

Call me a party pooper, but as I get older birthdays just become progressively less fun/exciting. Maybe its the quickening pace of time with age, or perhaps its the looming specter of my impending mortality that draws ever closer with each birthday——either way, birthdays just tend to lose their luster as you get older (until you get past about 90, then birthdays become "hey-way-to-go-another-year-without-dying-like-pretty-much-everyone-else-your-age" celebrations). Birthday-annoucement people are those souls who try to cling to the magic of childhood by maintaining, in the face of bitter resentment from their day-to-day responsibilities, coworkers, and friends, that their birthday is still a big deal.

You remember the good old days, right? You wake up to get ready for school, mom makes you special breakfast, grandma calls and sings "Happy Birthday To You" before you leave. Even when you do go to school, you get to bring treats to class, everyone is nice to you, and the day flows wistfully by as you regale all your friends with tantalizing previews about how awesome your party is going to be. After the sugar-high wears off from eating heaps of ice cream and birthday cake (complete with thick, waxy frosting that raises your cholesterol on eye-contact), you fall into a blissful, gluttonous slumber surrounded by all the presents you got.

Sooner or later though, you just have to accept the fact that most people really don't care that you were born on September 19——they don't get off of work or school, so it certainly ain't no holiday on their calendar. Plus, it'd be a tad creepy for a group of 20 and ups to hit the ball pen at Chuck E Cheese's, so work birthday party is out. While I certainly have no problem with you celebrating this momentous occasion with family and friends, chances are good that I don't fit into either of these categories, which means I am a part of the aforementioned group that doesn't care. Sorry, it's nothing personal, but if I celebrated the birthday of every person I knew I would probably end up celebrating nearly every day of the year, which would be no celebration at all.

If you have a habit of forecasting your birthday in the presence of those likely to be disinterested in it, there is always room for repentance. Remember, those who care to know, probably know already. If they don't——well hey, that's what the Facebook is for, right? (What? I thought it was for finding out what Hogwart's House I belong to (for real) or how long I would survive if I kicked a bear in the testicles!) Which brings me to my next point: never, and I mean never, start a status-update birthday countdown. Chances are good that if you have inclinations like this on a regular basis, I've already blocked you. But there are others to think about here. Do it for them...

Confessions of a closet Type A personality...

2011-01-03T19:08:00.000-07:00

So long Winter Break——it's been real, it's been fun. Perhaps even real fun. (Oh that's right, I went there). The last two days however? Not fun. Not fun at all.

I always struggle with the last few days of any break period, be it winter, summer, Thanksgiving, or otherwise. Even though I fiercely deny it, I am a task-oriented person (I will have you know that I erased that line about seven times before I actually let it be). I operate from a project perspective, and have done so for as long as I can remember. When I was a kid, the imaginary scene in the movie that never ended that I was playing out with my Ninja Turtles and Transformers was a project; I set things up, made a plan of how it was going to go through, and then did it——and fierce was my wrath if these three phases were interrupted by such scornful tasks as chores or dinner.

As time progressed homework, art projects, various tinkerings, books, and even video games were treated in the same semi-neurotic "not to be disturbed until complete" fashion. I have no doubts that this manner of thinking is largely responsible for my anti-social personality, but no matter how hard I try I just can't shake it. Probably because it's really quite nice when it comes to getting things done——unless of course you include things like eating or cultivating meaningful interpersonal relationships, then it's not so nice.

Which brings us to the present day. The last few days of any break are agonizing for me because I feel like I can't do anything. All my projects for the break are usually finished and I can't start another one because, heaven forbid, it will be interrupted by school starting again and I'll never end up finishing it. This of course raises some interesting questions on the nature of starting and finishing things, not the least of which is if finishing something is really all that important in the first place? To my mind, backed up by 21 years of rememberable programming, yes, finishing is important (as is liberal use of the comma). Are any of the rest of you like this, or am I the only sad soul who craves structure and can't wait for school to commence?

In the meantime, I'll make myself feel better by finishing this post...

(I apologize sincerely for the extremely self-centric focus of the past few weeks' posts, my votive to involve my family as little as possible and the relatively boring nature of my home provides me with sparse material outside the realm of my own thoughts. I liken them to the benighted musings of a man who essentially lives in a fish bowl (though that surely sounds far more intriguing than it actually is). Rejoice, however, because with the return of school comes my return to the world of the living and a host of daily experiences rich for analysis and digital regurgitation.)

Narcoleptic technology, social impropriety, and Sweeney Todd—Happy New Year indeed...

2010-12-30T22:21:00.001-07:00

Whooo——the joys of winter break continue! You know life is good when it doesn't include compulsory shaving, you've had prime rib for lunch three days in a week (leftovers are just the gift that keeps on giving), and, in spite of your best efforts and intentions to do otherwise, getting up before 8:30 is just not in the cards. One of the only observed negative side-effects of such a lifestyle is an admittedly diminished number of bloggable topics——though I'm sure you're all fascinated by the scholarship/grant applications I've been filling out. As such, we return to the bite-sized thoughts of yesteryear. Enjoy. (And feel free to laugh at the ill-fated attempts at establishing continuity)

I've recently come to the conclusion that I have a rather unique and utterly terrible reaction to bad news/serious business: laughter. Say that I find out my friend's dog just died, that an acquaintance just got a divorce, or that I have some sort of debilitating illness——every time my first instinct is to laugh. Now don't get me wrong, this isn't a Nelson-from-the-Simpsons-style "HA-ha!" sort of laugh, it's just a normal "hey, that's funny" laugh. Except that what we're dealing with definitely isn't funny, and I don't feel that it is even if I look and sound amused. Sorry?

You should appreciate the degree to which I restrain my retrophilia when I write here. Seriously, I think I may have a problem. It all started with the good intention of going for quality instead of modernized convenience, but it's gotten out of hand. I write with this, shave with this, listen to these, and carry all my crap around in one of these (though I assure you I didn't pay half that much——I know people). These are only the most linkable examples. In the long run, I think that it's all just my not-so-subconscious desire to be Indiana Jones expressing itself.

Half the reason I haven't blogged much over the break is because my computer has occasional bouts of narcolepsy. Though it's behaved itself fairly well over the semester, it had a pretty bad fit starting on Christmas Eve and continued for a number of days in which it just goes to sleep after a few seconds, even when the laptop lid is open. Numerous confrontations with some of Apple's "geniuses" have yielded no fruit, and I am now determined that my battery has irritable bowel syndrome. As such, if anyone has a spare, properly functioning, pre-2008 13-inch Macbook battery they would like to donate so that my computer can last me another year and a half, I am open for contributions.

With the close of 2010 nearly upon us, I have to take a paragraph to thank you all for reading. While I really do enjoy expressing my thoughts and such, the only real motivation I have to keep up with this blogging business is the knowledge that there actually are people out there who read and enjoy it. Your mounting participation, frequent face-to-face discussion/disapproval (for about three of you at least), and laughter have kept my eyes and mind open for new ways in which I might thrill and infuriate you. While I still reckon that there are about ten people who visit the site with any degree of regularity, even the most modest estimates have this December's number of page loads at six times greater than last (seriously, 60 is way better than 10). Levity aside though, this is all because of you, dear reader. Thank you...

A troupe of truly terrific terminology...

2010-12-23T23:20:00.002-07:00

Happy 23rd everyone! For this month's amalgam of words, I was a bit tempted to go with a Christmas theme. But after the notorious anti-Christmas music post and last night's glimpse into the depths of Ty's Christmas past and present, I think that I'm about Christmassed out——and before it's even officially started at that. In any case, unless I have some real epiphanies in the next 48 hours, consider this my gift to you.

Incessancy. While we're usually more acquainted with incessancy's adjectival/adverbial form, incessancy is a really fun way to talk about someone's ability to do things without stopping. Though the ancient Latins were once again probably not thinking of this when they created the word (as if that sort of thing actually happens), incessancy has a lovely string of intervocalic alliteration that just makes it so much fun to say. Count those 'sss' sounds: in-c-e-ss-an-c-y. Better yet, try overemphasizing the S's (how should I punctuate that one?). It makes you sound like a snake——you little parselmouth you.

Frugal. There are a lot of ways to say that someone is cheap: tight, thrifty, stingy, parsimonious, miserly; but the only one that really makes being cheap actually sound good is frugal (for some reason thrifty always sounded too close to swift and it just didn't work for me). I highly recommend its use when describing someone you know who, though capable of transforming a lump of coal into a diamond via the extreme pressure of their rectal cavity (in other words, tight), you nevertheless want to cast in a favorable light. Then maybe the next time you hear them complain about money you can recommend a career in the diamond business.

Glue. This month's representative of the onomatopoeia club, glue is a truly awesome word. Just say it with me: glooooooo. First of all, g and l are interesting letters to put together and, when followed by an endlessly extendable long u, produce an effect which sounds like a gooey adhesive agent binding them all to one another. Plus, it brings back all sorts of great memories from elementary school and beyond——glue in stick form!

Lore. I don't know about you, but when I say, hear, see, or even think of the word lore, all sorts of images come to mind. The common thread amongst them all is that of dusty, old tomes filled with the forgotten knowledge of the ancients tucked away in some dimly-lit room crafted of stone that has lain undisturbed for centuries. So much better than just saying "old stuff." Fellow historians take note: lore is a much cooler word than history (sorry Greek language, but Old English wins on this one) and, better yet, cool people who use cool words like lore refer to historians as lore-masters. Okay, so the only person who I've ever seen use that term was J.R.R. Tolkien——but his awesomeness and 10th degree black belt in linguistics gives him the coolness of at least a hundred men. As such, after I get my PhD, you may thereafter refer to me as Loremaster...

If I drank eggnog I would blame it for this...

2010-12-22T22:49:00.000-07:00

Let's get a few things straight. First, I have to apologize——this post probably isn't going to contain the usual amount of shameless levity to which most of you have grown accustomed. If you just can't handle that, feel free to stop reading now. Second, I'm sorry to revisit Christmas again, but this is the first time that I've really been in active blogging mode during a winter break and, seeing as how the content of this blog is based primarily on observations and interactions in my daily wanderings, winter break is inevitably a time in which I am left primarily with my thoughts for company. And my family I suppose, though I've sworn a solemn oath, twice broken, to leave them out of this as much as possible. Consider this thrice.

Christmas has always been a strange time of year for me. As a child, I was predictably overtaken by sentiments of excitement and what can only be called greed. Christmas meant presents——and some awkward moments where we had to put on bath robes and talk about Jesus and whatnot. It was alright though, because after the robes came the presents.

As I grew older, it slowly became apparent to me that Christmas is a rather contradictory holiday. Sure it seems good enough on the surface: Christ was God's gift to man to save them from their sins, the magi gave Christ gifts as well, so we give each other gifts to remind us of what went down two thousand plus years ago. That works, so long as you don't remember/know that we're talking about the same Guy that told people to sell all their possessions and hang with Him, routinely condemned rich people, and generally spent a lot of time teaching about detachment from material things.

Christmas is also a time associated with good food, festive music, and happy family gatherings. You already know my feelings on Christmas tunes, and while my family has been blessed with the ability to make some pretty awesome food, most of the gatherings I can remember have been anything but happy. From chats with a number of friends and acquaintances over the years, I gather that a lot them tend to feel the same way, though some are sadly lacking even in the food department as well.

Perhaps this is why Christmas is a time of such heightened emotions, both positive and negative. We have years worth of tradition telling us that families should be happy, especially during Christmas when we all get together, talk about Jesus, and then spaz-out about how much money we should spend on gifts in order to adequately convey the degree of our affection toward one another. As you can probably tell, I don't like this. At all.

Christmas for me is rather a time of difficult questions: why, in this season of giving and remembrance of self-sacrifice and perfect love, do we seem to be so much more selfish? Why do we waste our money on ostentatious and ridiculous gifts for our neighbors and acquaintances when we really place little to no value in such relationships and the money used to buy said gifts could be used to feed and clothe poor people? If we're supposed to be imitating Jesus, God, and the magi, why did I just get an Xbox? And finally, if this is supposed to be a happy time filled with family togetherness and fond memories, why do I always dread Christmas because everyone is crankier and at some point on Christmas day at least one person yells and one person cries?

I've struggled with things like this for years, and for a long time the best solution seemed to be to renounce Christmas as a corrupted, rotten husk of the sacred event it once was (whether for celebrating Winter Solstice or worshipping Christ). To Hell with this ridiculous assemblage of contradictions and mistaken traditions that seem perfectly calculated to make people feel lonely, flawed, and angry about inequality and injustice——that's surely the only place where such things belong. This year however, has been a bit different.

As I've battled with these familiar issues once more, I've decided that in spite of all the contradiction, stress, and strained family relationships——or rather because of them——Christmas is the perfect time for Christ. For me, Christmas has always been a time that reminds me of just how crappy the world is. People are greedy, capitalism and debt have seen to it that our country and its people are hemorrhaging money, and most folks really are lonely, socially awkward, emotionally damaged individuals. If anything Christmas just accentuates all of these things even more and makes everyone greedier, poorer, and lonelier.

That of course, is where Jesus comes in. Through His sacrifice, Christ ensured that eventually, either in this world or the next, all of these wrongs will be made right. Though I may be more materialistic than I'd like to be, prone to cynicism and loneliness, and dejected about how hard it is for my family to get along with each other, He offers relief and healing from these burdens and forgiveness for my weaknesses.

Even if you don't believe that Jesus has any degree of salvific power, His teachings are a great guide on how to be a decent human-being. Christmas reminds me of the immense need that we have for brotherly love, selfless charity, and just plain sympathy——whether there's salvation included or not. As such, I let Christmas stand as a reminder that while we've come a long way from the witch-burning, sexist, slave-owners who settled this fair land of ours, we still have a long way to go before we can say we're really treating everyone decently.

Perfect people don't exist. By association, perfect families don't exist. Christmas has always been an apt reminder of these facts. Because of this however, I realize just how badly we need someone like Christ. So this year when your sister is yelling at you for something you did six years ago or mom collapses in a dejected heap on the kitchen floor after some element of dinner has been destroyed, don't despair. Just smile and be thankful for such reminders of human imperfection and this truly sacred time we have to recommit ourselves to principles that will make our burdens light and our hearts full. And so . . . Merry Christmas everyone.

Assault by carnivorous, dewlapless elk...

2010-12-21T00:04:00.000-07:00

Students of the world, rejoice! Finals are over, winter break has begun, and all of us are no doubt counting down the days until we're done with school and get to have winter break all the time. This is of course ignoring the fact that we'll all have to go get real jobs, deal with buying things for our ungrateful children (they always are, it seems), and will only actually have two to three days off at the most. A small price to pay for no more homework.

Or tests. Oh the tests. 2018 can't come soon enough.

Thanks to my brief stint in the British education system, I've seen myself grow increasingly more disenfranchised with the American grading scale. This finals season was the breaking point. For those few blessed souls who have been out of the loop long enough, its current iteration is as follows:

A - 93-100
A- - 90-92
B+ - 87-89
B - 83-86
B- - 80-82
C+ - 77-79
C - 73-76
C- - 70-72
D+ - 67-69
D - 63-66
D- - 60-62
E - 59 and below

That's right, we don't do Fs anymore for some strange reason. Do you notice anything strange about this scale though? I know I do: it really only uses 41 of the supposedly available numbers with any degree of frequency. What are the remaining 59 numbers even for anyhow?

Supposedly, they're used to tell to what degree you failed——basically a professor's way of saying to you "this was so terrible, I could only bring myself to give you 27% of the points available to me." Points. How cute. What strikes me as strange here, however, is that we stopped giving out Fs ten years ago, so those bottom 59 are completely without purpose. What does E even stand for anyway?! Maybe for "everyone has their strengths, this just clearly isn't yours"?

The British system is the reverse in that you enter into A territory at around 65-70, which means that the remaining 30 percent of the scale is used to gauge the degree of your awesomeness. And here we thought the Brits were a wry, critical people burdened by years of contempt for "the Colonies." Needless to say, I like this system better because it not only makes you feel good about yourself (on rare occasions), but is also much more efficient in its use of those 100 numbers.

Next, since when did the A become the standard for everything? Last time I checked, As were supposed to be something special, something to indicate true overachievement or success. Unfortunately, that incorrigible American spirit of ours refuses to accept anything but the best and, as such, parents expect their children to get nothing but As and companies who look at transcripts will only accept people who get As. I'm sorry folks, but sooner or later we just have to wake up and accept that not everyone really is an A student.

I am a huge proponent of everyone being good at something or other, but I believe in turn that for everything you're good at, there has to be something else that you're not good at. For example, I am terrible at math. After years of my parents——and by association myself——blaming a vengeful elementary school principal (but seriously, thanks a lot Marjean) or my own lack of effort, I've finally come to accept the fact that maybe I'm really just not the whole intellectual package. Because I am terrible at math, I can write (thankfully). If I couldn't write, I'm confident that a just and loving God would have made me good at sports (which I'm not), or attractive enough that I could just be really, really, ridiculously good-looking for a living (which is also certainly not in the cards).

If we spent less time giving our kids confidence issues by telling them they're not trying hard enough and more time steering them toward things they excel at, I think everyone involved would be a lot happier with themselves and their progeny. Though I realize that I'm basically telling people that we need to completely remake a major portion of our societal outlook on education and success in general, I stick to my guns and promise happiness will be the result——it's certainly worked for me. Now if we can just get corporate America and graduate school to think the same way...

Annie grab your gun—and don't get bit...

2010-12-16T00:45:00.001-07:00

We've all heard it before, "what would you do if you were stuck in a zombie apocalypse?" First of all, I would do everything in my power to keep my fellow survivors from using the word apocalypse——it doesn't have anything to do with destruction, it just means to uncover that which was hidden! But I digress, as is my custom.

Personally, I love zombie movies, though admittedly those that are more on the comedy side of things. Evil Dead 2, Zombieland, Shaun of the Dead——all fantastic movies about zombies that tap into the more commonplace, awkward situations that a zombie attack would cause. Going to the bathroom, keeping stocked on chips and soda (and Twinkies of course), dealing with the prospect of never having a steak again? Awkward. And not exactly the first thing that comes to mind when you think about surviving amidst a veritable sea reanimated corpses.

But why do we have such a fascination with zombies? Resident Evil games are somewhere around their 10th iteration (at least), their movies keep being made, and there seems to be a never-ending supply of new zombie games and movies coming around. (A special shout out must be given to the new AMC series The Walking Dead, it is awesome and demands to be watched).

More so than the recent fit with vampires, I think that zombies are so captivating because they are the ultimate line-walkers of the monster world. Vampires are (usually) smart, immortal, super strong, and deviously handsome. Zombies are mindless and instinctive, already dead, falling apart, and absolutely grotesque. The only commonalities between zombies and vampires are that they were both once human and both gain sustenance from consuming human life force——though zombies are admittedly more, shall we say, literal in their consumption. I think the aspect of zombies' enduring power to terrify and enthrall is this very consumption.

Pretty much no matter who you are, chances are good that cannibalism makes you feel icky or uncomfortable. If not, type in cannibalism as a Google image search and prepare to be horrified (seriously, worst idea ever——damnable curiosity). Zombies are essentially cannibals, feasting on the flesh of the living with reckless abandon, be they human or otherwise. For those of us with pulses, this tends to cross the line. Bloodsucking is a bit more tame and, depending on how much of a retarded teenage girl you are, kind of sexy. Chances are also good that if the vampire is your boyfriend you might not even die from it. But there's really no recovering from an encounter with a zombie who has the munchies.

Not only are we freaked out by the people eating though, zombies are even freakier to us because they don't even think about their desire to eat people——after all, they're mindless. Thus zombies are deprived of two things that we value most and which we believe hold society together: decency and rational thought. But nevertheless, zombies are still technically people. Therein lies the scary part, because then we suffer a much more intense emotional conflict about hating/killing zombies due to our lifelong conditioning to love our fellow men. But then we remember that these are people who smell funky and are trying to eat your friends——might I recommend the shotgun?

Because of this, I think zombies are here to stay; no other monster has such an uncomfortable combination of qualities. As such, I recommend target practice and a healthy dosage of Left 4 Dead 2 to prepare y'allselves for some zombie slaying. Just remember, even though zombies are people too, they're people without reason or a discerning palate——take away the two, and all you're left with is a slobbering mass of instinct-driven undead fury that wants to eat your face. Bon appetit...

A little bah! for your humbug anyone?...

2010-12-14T00:07:00.001-07:00

Hoo boy, finals is officially upon us my friends! One would probably think that the last week has been an eventful one for me, filled with papers, presentations, short nights and long days. Most other semesters, you would be right——but this one is different. Most of my classes these days are matters of commitment; either you've kept up on your work over the course of the semester and know what you're talking about or you haven't, and no amount of studying is going to make a difference (oh the joys of language classes).

Whatever the case, in the midst of all these shenanigans I've come into contact with one of the most despised aspects of my existence:

Christmas music.

I'm sure many of you are gasping in horror and disbelief right now; Ty is just supposed to write vapid, shallow treatises critiquing social customs that make me laugh, he's not supposed to attack the things I love. That, my friend, is where you're wrong, because Christmas music isn't about love——it's about money and killing creativity.

My mom loves Christmas music, which means that in my childhood years I was brought up on Mannheim Steamroller and Amy Grant Christmas cds. If there's anything I learned from these experiences and subsequent Christmas tunes heard on the radio, it's that at some point in the 1920s, a clandestine group of malevolent individuals (known as the Pentaveren to some) gathered together in some shady back room where such deeds occur and created all of the Christmas songs we are plagued by today.

"Here Comes Santa Claus," "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," "Frosty the Snow Man," all of these and more were perfectly crafted to ensnare the minds and vocal cords of children and adults alike. As a result, new Christmas music is rare and difficult to produce, and even if it does make it through the crucible, it's still Christmas music, so it's probably terrible anyway.

Now I know that you're probably just saying I'm a grump who must be related to Scrooge, but hear me out. Have you not recognized that people just remake the same blasted songs over and over again, year after year, for decades on end? The real killer however, is that they still can't seem to make them any better. I have never heard a rendition of any of the above-mentioned songs or their relatives that has left me thinking "huh, that made me not hate that song anymore."

My hypothesis for the cause behind this situation is that we allow our standards to be lowered. It's Christmas, we need Christmas music——so long as we get it, who cares if it sucks? We've been hearing this stuff since we were kids anyhow, so it has nostalgia. Sorry folks, but just because you've been hearing something forever and everyone knows it doesn't mean that it's a good thing. Couple that with the joys of capitalism, and you have record execs forcing their cash-cows to turn out endless amounts of truly repugnant Christmas music because they know that we're still going to buy it. Now that I think about it, the same goes for most religious-themed music as well; if it's about Jesus, we're willing to lower our expectations and accept terrible lyrics, mediocre singing and musicianship, and low production values.

To be fair, one of my favorite songs in the history of ever is "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day." I don't hate these things because I hate Christmas or anything like that——I hate them because they deserve to be hated. I think it's about time that we be treated to a canon of Christmas tunes that we can enjoy not only because it gets us into the festive spirit, but also because it's actually pleasing to the ear. Join me, won't you...

(In a completely unrelated side-note, the handy stat-counter attached to this page told me today that someone came to the site who was directed by the Google search "Naked handstand male." Heck yes. Thanks are due to one David Vernon. Spiffy.)

Death to the Future Less-Vivid...

2010-12-08T19:49:00.001-07:00

Did you miss me kids? I know, I know, nearly a full week without so much as a "hey there" is tough to handle——what with all of the consistency that's been going on around here lately. I have a feeling you'll get over it. Trust me.

In any event, I'm back, and more than ready to throw down the hammer of scrutiny on some aspect of our otherwise banal and dreary lives. Today's target: requests. A strange topic perhaps, but I imagine that if you've ever spoken American English or even simply been around speakers of American English for more than 15 minutes, chances are good you'll be on board soon enough.

In every aspect of life——school, work, at home, with friends, everywhere——I frequently hear people make requests of others in a very awkward way.

"Do you think you can take out the garbage?"

"Hey man, do you think you could give me a ride?"

"Can you tell me where _______ is?"

No, as a matter of fact, I can't.

For years on end, this aspect of our lingual patterns has driven me insane. Of course I could give you a ride, but is this really a question of the possibility that this event will take place? Of course not. If you're going to make a request, think before you speak, put on your big-boy underwear, and say "hey man, will you give me a ride?" Unfortunately for you, the answer is still no.

The first and last examples are what really get me irked though. Are you questioning my ability to take out the garbage or direct you to something, or are you so preoccupied with superficial politeness (or indoctrinated) that you're incapable of making a simple, straightforward request? I bet you probably tell people to avoid passive voice too. For shame...

Fragile decency...

2010-12-02T18:25:00.000-07:00

So I like to go to the gym. I'm a firm believer in the concept that a strong, healthy body leads to a strong, healthy mind. As such, even though it takes precious time out of my schedule, it's a worthwhile sacrifice. It also serves as a good outlet for frustration, such to the point that I credit gym-going to the continued survival of a number of missionary companions, teaching assistants, and college professors.

The gym is also a very interesting place to see. Each establishment has its regulars, frequently changing staff, and own unique culture that you're forced to partake of with every workout. While I could probably write for at least a month on all the strange people and events found at my particular gym, I'll spare you and highlight only one observation.

In every gym, there are locker rooms. Locker rooms, especially public ones, have always held an interesting place in every American's heart. For me, walking into the locker room is always an awkward experience because of the unusually high risk of encountering at least one naked stranger. Now don't get me wrong——I have no problem with nakedness. I walk around naked in my own home with a frequency that is truly disturbing to my dear, awkward father. But that's my house, this is the gym. It's different.

Last night, I realized what it is that really makes the locker room such an uncomfortable place for me. Immediately adjacent to the locker room entrance are the crunch machines, which are more often than not occupied by young, attractive females trying to cultivate those six-packs. As I emerged from the locker room, I couldn't help but wonder, are they really aware that the only thing separating them from a sweaty old naked guy is about fifteen feet and four inches of wall? Better yet, a four inch wall with no door, but just another, somewhat staggered wall three feet away. For visual assistance, I provide the following:

This just makes me realize how precious, naive, and fleeting our sense of decency really is. I would be willing to bet that 99% of the people who do crunches never even realize that they're standing so close to a group of naked strangers. This of course opens up a whole world of possibilities, like public bathrooms, dressing rooms, doctor's offices, apartments. All of them put you far closer to naked strangers than you're probably comfortable with.

But perhaps I'm just being a bit more neurotic than usual. As long as you don't have to see it, it's all good, right? I guess. Just pray that the next time you go into a locker room you don't encounter the one thing worse than a naked stranger: a naked acquaintance. "Oh hey, there Chuck from work/church/down the street... good workout..."

This is why I'm not an English major...

2010-11-29T19:43:00.000-07:00

This is kind of a different semester for me. For the past year and a half, nearly all the classes I have taken were either History, English, or a Classics derivative. The one thing these subjects all have in common: reading. Lots of reading. I believe this was briefly broached upon in the past.

In any event, this semester is a horse of a different color in that I barely read at all for my classes (sarcastic thanks are due to Dr. Hall's cells for growing outside their set parameters——get better John!). This has given me a bit of time to reflect on my relationship with books and how I have changed the ways in which I go about reading them. My conclusion: reading a book is like dating a woman (or a man if you're a woman and don't bat for the home team).

Not all books are compatible with everyone; you have to be selective with the information you take in and how involved you get with a given text. For example, fantasy, science fiction, and standard fiction are fun and engaging, but lack the substance and true commitment to real, applicable knowledge that others have to offer. Don't avoid them, but keep things friendly and don't get too familiar, otherwise you'll wake up one day after a life spent reading nothing but Tor series and John Grisham novels and realize what a superficial and shallow reading relationship you've formed.

While every book has good and bad qualities, there are some that, after having been read in their entirety, you look back and realize that there were really only one or two chapters that were enjoyable or informative. Though these can be tough to gauge, you can usually tell within the first 50 pages whether or not the whole thing will be for you. If this is the case, get to know them, skim through the incompatible parts, and pay attention to what works. Then you can finish as friends and everyone leaves happy and intellectually enriched. Unlike women and fortunately for you, books also have indexes and tables of contents——use them well.

Textbooks are like the business-networking relationships of the reading world: no one really wants to read them and you would probably never even give them a second glance otherwise, but you need something from them (information) and their publishers want something from you (money). Even though the formula is correct, mutualism this is not. Treat a textbook reading like any good networking encounter: feign interest to the point that you get what you need, then get out fast.

Then of course, there are those books that can, and will, change your life. Every page fulfills and excites in an ever-increasing cycle of undiluted enjoyment. Although I probably don't even need to tell you this due to your inevitable mesmerization, soak up every detail——memorize her birthday, likes and dislikes, parents' and siblings' names, favorite aspect of the lunar cycle, etc. Don't be afraid to dive in and come out covered in book, to borrow John Steinbeck's figure of speech from East of Eden (a book that certainly fell into this category for me). It may take a number of failed attempts or promising letdowns, but great books will come your way——it just takes time and a certain willingness to experiment.

And that's about where the analogy breaks down kids. Fortunately for us, the reading world is not monogamous, so you can have as many life-changing favorites as you like without ever having to settle-down and pick just one! Books can be sold, exchanged, or refunded (unlike crappy dates), and you can get away with reading the same books over and over again, as there's always enough text to warrant new discoveries and interpretations. My best advice: read with a friend (either the same book or different ones, your choice)——it may sound really cheesy, but the joy of literature is only magnified when shared with another...

An embassage of execrable expressions...

2010-11-23T20:19:00.000-07:00

Well kids, it's the 23rd. Most of you probably don't know what I'm talking about, but we have a tradition around here. I love words, apparently you love words, and thus we begin our monthly foray into the toolbox of expression. This month, however, I've decided to offer up a few of the English language's more, shall we say, unpleasant team members.

Pure. Don't let its meaning fool you folks——there is nothing wholesome or uncontaminated about the word pure. As with most other words ending in -ure, pure is just one of those words that simply cannot sound good, no matter who says it. You really only have two potentially correct options pronunciation-wise: pyoor (which makes you look like you're trying to spit the foul tasting word out of your mouth) or pyur (which is how my dad says it, and looks like you just swallowed something and are sorely regretting it).

Sheepish. Perhaps one of the dumbest adjectives in the history of adjectives, sheepish sets you up for misunderstanding at worst or pity at best. If you're not careful with those 'E's, the whole thing can turn out as shpsh, which may lead people to wrongfully believe you are a toothless redneck from the heart of the Smoky Mountains. If not, you'll just be a shepherd. You don't want that——trust me. Pastoral imagery is so not in right now.

Moist. There's no getting around it, moist is just straight up nasty. Even saying it in my head makes me feel dirty and uncomfortable (and no, I'm not even taking it there). The scariest part of all? It can get worse. Moisture. Yes, that wretched -ure suffix has wrought another cacophonic monstrosity, this time taking the already marked nastiness of moist and multiplying its disgustingness tenfold by making it moistyur. Men have been killed for far less.

Cream. Creeeeeeeeeeeeeeem. It's not a banshee, tsunami warning siren, or wailing baby——it's just the most offensive combination of hard consonants and perverted diphthongs ever. Because it's not just the -eam that makes cream so bad. Beam, team, stream, ream (almost), seam; they're not the prettiest words around, but they don't quite rise to the level of grossness found in cream. It's as if your tongue kicked your teeth, who started to talk back with an offensive r-word but then decided against it and launched into an earsplitting chain of long 'e's that is not only capable of being carried on indefinitely, but chooses to complete the insult by resolving with an m. 'M's make me feel like I'm swallowing, which is not something I want after that revolting chain——it's too accepting.

Oh but wait, it gets worse. Pure moisturizing cream. Excuse me while I vomit...

Perhaps pictures may be inappropriate...

2010-11-21T22:23:00.001-07:00

Dave is probably going to be exceedingly wroth with me over this, but really, what else is new? My father and I are very different people. After dinner this evening, he's still trying to cope with the possibility that his only son may be a communist (minus the anti-religious ideas, of course). But this isn't about Dave and the difficulties the 1960s Red Scare worldview lends to interpreting the modern socio-political landscape. This is about butts.

Not cigarettes, the blunted ends of weapons, or powerful blows delivered with the head. Rather the derriere, posterior, and, in some circles, booty. You see, Dave has a hemorrhoid. There I said it. Embarrassing? (pun intended) You bet. Necessary? Far more so.

As a member of the hyper-reserved, overly-prudish generation of the late 50s and early 60s, my father has extreme difficulties discussing or even contemplating the various functions of the human body. I'm sure plenty of you know such people as well. The reason I rant about this tonight however, is because Dave's two conditions have officially collided——an event which has only proven to exacerbate the injurious effects (both physical and psychological) of the two issues. Seriously, before we got him to go to the doctor, coaxing him into describing his symptoms in even the vaguest and most general of terms was like pulling teeth.

Clearly, this is a problem. People poop. I poop, you poop, we all poop. You poop to live really, and pooping even provides a strange source of relaxation and contentment——after all, a happy colon makes for a happy man. But a lot of people aren't comfortable with this fact. Poop is something awkward and more avoidable than the smell it produces. If we don't talk about it or acknowledge it, then it doesn't really occur and we can all go on living our happy lives in which people just disappear into bathrooms for a few minutes to do that which must not be named. Sex is treated in similar fashion.

Because of this thinking, Dave is in far worse shape than he would be otherwise. Not only is he in physical pain (they may sound funny, but hemorrhoids are no laughing matter friends), but he also has to deal with the obvious discomfort that talking and even thinking about such things brings to him. Now we have to talk about things like fiber and toilet paper softnesses. While I find all of this hilarious and refreshing, I can see that it's taking its toll on the old man. So now for the exhortation.

Let us not be afraid to talk about our poop and the various organs and structures that aid in the process. Really, the vast majority of the human body's internals are devoted solely to refining food into fecal matter, so I don't see why we get into such conniptions over it. So the next time you have a bowel movement (or a celebration as I like to call it——take that Randy Bott), I want you to go, find a family member or significant other, look them straight in the eyes and say "my name is _________, and I just pooped." You'll thank me later, because the dialogue that is sure to ensue will surprise you. Then go buy this book, because it's informative, hilarious, and makes about the greatest coffee-table piece in the history of ever.

Before you know it, you'll be having dinner-time discussions about consistency. Maybe yours will be a house with a "Poop of the Week" board. And maybe, just maybe, you can get your kids to eat their veggies——they need fiber to compete after all...

Drastic measures must be taken...

2010-11-18T23:01:00.005-07:00

It must be apologized for in advance, dear reader, but tonight you will be privy to a serious axe-grinding session. Our subject was brought to my recollection earlier today in a lovely paper written for one of my detestable GE classes. It should have been expected, I know, but there was a small glimmer of hope remaining as that paper was finished and turned in. But it turned out to be wrong. Or so it was thought...

If you haven't guessed already, we're talking about passive voice folks. While the parade of passives in the preceding paragraph are anything but good examples of when passive voice is legitimate, I still stick to my guns on this one——passive voice is meant to be used! Just like that. How much less-motivational does that sentence sound in active: "we mean to use passive voice!"? Not nearly as awesome, right?

Maybe it's those blasted dead languages again, but I think that the passive voice is just under-appreciated. Sometimes, it really is okay for your subject to be acted upon——I promise. The scary part about it all is that this is a fairly recent development; anti-passive voice writings only started showing up around the early twentieth century. And yet, we treat the anti-passive voice rule as if it were one of the ten commandments of the English language, right there behind "Thou shalt not split thine infinitives" and "Thou shalt not let thy participles dangle." Oh wait, hardly anyone remembers/knows how one even accomplishes such things. Nor do they care.

So why do we stick with the anti-passive so stubbornly? I'll tell you——sexism. That's right Grace Stephenson, the pro-active movement is all just an attempt to make writing seem more muscular, active, and ultimately masculine, versus the subtlety, mystery, and general indirectness of the passive that have typically been categorized as feminine characteristics. That, and a few generations' worth of English teachers drilling it into our heads to never use passive voice (a great policy considering that I was never even taught what passive voice was in the first place).

But I digress. If passive voice weren't meant to be used, it wouldn't exist——plain and simple. I think it's mainly just because we've been estranged from the passive voice for so long that it's become unfamiliar and scary to us. Well it's time to grow up and start talking to strangers kids. Let your periphrases fly and agents act with calculatedly passive precision. If anyone gives you sass about it, just tell them that Jesus is on your side. Jesus loved Him some passive voice...

To make the spontaneous sounds and movements of the face and body that are the instinctive expressions of lively amusement...

2010-11-16T19:14:00.000-07:00

While dining in a certain eating establishment last night, I was kept company (much to my involuntary dismay) by a group of rather giddy 40-somethings out celebrating the birthday of one of their company. They were talking, laughing, and doing some strange things with a jar full of golfballs——which I assume is perfectly normal behavior for such a gathering. Then I heard a shrill, piercing, almost engineered sound that, upon turning around in wonderment, I discovered was issuing from the mouth of the so-called "birthday girl." What came out of that gaping, cavernous maw would be classified as laughter by some, but I don't know if I myself would go there. Unless of course this woman were the villain in a Muppets movie——then it fits.

As such happenings are wont to do, this event got me to thinking about laughs, which I have concluded are even more diverse and enjoyable to categorize than gait. While there are a lot of laughs that are really annoying (red-headed kid who sits next to the wall in Stats and laughs at everything, I'm looking at you), we would just wind up exhausted and frustrated in attempting to sort through them all. There have been a number of laughs I've encountered throughout my life that have brought flavor and furthered the enjoyment of the art of humor——today I will share but a small few.

Sorry, but I just had to get that out of my system. I really enjoy wheezy, raspy smoker's laughs. They have a certain element of rolling, uncontrollability that suggests some sort of a chain reaction. In my dad's case, the chain reaction theory proves quite true, and I relish every opportunity I have to see him convulsing on the floor, gasping for air in between chuckles that remind me of that dog from Wacky Races.

Jason Hammon has one of the most enjoyable laughs I have encountered. The reasons for this are threefold: 1) he only does it when he genuinely thinks something is funny, 2) it has a mildly explosive quality, which I thoroughly enjoy, and 3) it is, in my humble opinion, the sound of pure, unrestrained mirth. Now he's probably going to be all self-conscious about it——sorry dude.

This comes as a bit of a contradiction, but silent laughs are incredibly fun. You know what I'm getting at: the person's mouth is open like they're laughing, their face is contorted, they're body is moving like it should when laughter is occurring, and yet no sound is being produced. Sometimes this starts from the get-go, at others people just laugh so hard that they can't produce sound anymore. Either will do. Usually in the latter case the laugher looks as if they're in considerable pain, but don't worry——they're just struggling to breathe in between fits of paroxysmal humor-tremors. Enjoyment is permitted...

Live, from atop a 12 foot soap box...

2010-11-14T20:33:00.002-07:00

Church. I really try hard not to rant about things that happen in church because I know there are some folks who read this blog that are either not terribly friendly toward my particular religious affiliation (I thank you for not casting me off by association) or just don't want to hear about it. I get that——it's cool. Anyhow, I invoke the happenings of priesthood meeting today only to serve as a springboard for my point. You may begin bearing with me now.

So we're talking about people in our lives who have exemplified the virtues extolled in 1 Timothy 4:12, and one fellow (I almost called him a kid, but that's demeaning) started talking about his dad. He said that his dad was always busy and that he never saw him being idle——always at work, doing something for a church calling, or involved in some sort of labor. I thought this was interesting enough on its own, but that interest was multiplied substantially when a number of people in the quorum (perhaps one of the most misapplied Latin words ever) agreed rather emphatically. I can't help but wonder, why is this considered such an admirable thing?

Some of you probably already know where this is going. This is the soul and essence of America, right? The heart of capitalism, the fire of industry, the very vim and vigor that won all those wars and ensured that there is a Wal-Mart and a McDonald's to service every household in every "civilized" nation in the world. To a degree, yes. But to the rest of those degrees, it's also the same attitude that has degraded the substance of the American family——perhaps even that of the modern world for that matter——and created the over-worked, over-stressed, time-obsessed, sleep-deprived, consumerist mess of a population we have today. And how did they do it? Simple.

By taking the idealized virtue of hard work so cherished by Americans and immigrants and placing it on its golden throne, they managed to drag the workforce along with them on the path to greater and greater production, which for them meant more money, and for everyone else more stuff to buy. A win-win, right? But why do we so malign the act of not working? Also simple. Because they did.

Now don't go hitting me up with some of this "who's they?" business——it works a lot better and doesn't sound quite so conspiracy-theorist as always saying the Man. But I digress. Why are so many people afraid of not working?

This is also not a denouncement of work. Work is good. It makes the world go round, puts food on the table, and money in my pocket (and yet the rent is still too damn high). But there must be balance in all things. I long to hear someone talk about how they have a healthy, open relationship with their father because he spent good time with them during their formative years not working. Let's hear about the father who balanced the demands in his life to make time for the most important things——namely not work——like his spouse, children, friends (married people are saying "what are those?"), family, and dare I say personal happiness (because when you're happy, it has a tendency to make other people happy too).

There's a beautiful world out there filled with beautiful things. It costs money to live in it and to see those things, but let us not forget that the purpose of money is to support us in our lifetime pursuits. After all, it would be a pretty sick cycle to be earning money simply so you could work to keep earning it. Most of all though people, I think we need to get back in touch with the art of relaxation. Find what brings you enduring happiness, find some people to share it with, then let a smile out——because in a few simple steps you have gained the full measure of life. Enjoy...

Memoriae veteris...

2010-11-11T22:13:00.000-07:00

Ah, Veterans' Day. The "holiday" I never realized existed until Mr. Cotrell wore his old uniform to school in 7th grade (I demean the word holiday with quotation marks because its traditional usage denotes vacation, something which, sadly, only occurs for employees of banks and credit unions on Veterans' Day). 7th grade math——ewww.

Veterans' Day got me to thinking, which we all know is dangerous and more rare than I'm comfortable to admit. I hearkened back to my childhood, which, if anything, was punctuated by my wildly vivid imagination and strange assemblage of self-created "facts." For example, the term "olden days" characterized any time before the birth of my parents (which I didn't really have a good chronological handle on anyways), and consisted of mental images of surprisingly futuristic scenery with people being tortured. I guess this was my way of interpreting the lack of technology and information? Maybe widespread disease? Who knows, they'll probably just blame it on the Cocoa Puffs.

Back to Veterans' Day though. What started this unfortunate memorial tryst was my remembrance of a strange supposition I had about my father——namely that he fought in World War II (which ended ten years before his birth) and did so in a cartoonized New York City (where he has never been) while wearing a Davey Crockett-style coonskin hat (which he has never owned or worn, despite my best efforts). Where I got this idea, I don't know, but now that I think back on it I realize how much I miss the wonder and imagination that came with childhood. Granted, I can still conjure up scenes akin to the one mentioned, but I do so at the risk of not being taken seriously. Such things are for children after all——I'm supposed to be an adult.

What does that even mean? What constitutes adultness and how is one supposed to obtain it? I'm twenty three, which by my former standards is old. And yet, I still feel irresponsible, wistfully imaginative, and overall juvenile. I think I feel an identity crisis coming on...

Excuse me while I force my tastes upon you...

2010-11-10T19:25:00.000-07:00

Wow, almost a week huh? Sincerest apologies for the dearth friends, but I finally found myself unable to avoid the soul-corrupting grasp of midterms (which really makes no sense, because this was round three for a few classes——how many terms are we dealing with here?!). In any case, we're back, and more than eager to introduce a lovely new feature. I call it the "Artist of the Week(s)" section.

As you no doubt know by now, I love music——you may also remember that I don't throw the word love around lightly, but love it I do. As such, I've felt the urge to share my favorite musicians with you eight loyal readers on numerous occasions, and yet I have hesitated because I don't want to be one of those people. Solution.

Every week (or so, hence the (s) after week), I intend to update the page conveniently titled "Artist of the Week(s)" with a recommendable musical group, writer, or other type of artiste. This way, I can fulfill my latent desires to share awesome tunes, books, and visual experiences with people while not demeaning my regular posts with them. Except for this one I suppose.

I've been on a bit of a soul kick lately. As in Soul. Really this is actually the third round for me as far as soul kicks go, but this time I have the drive and the funds to make things happen. Which brings us to The Heavy.

Soul, funk, classic rock, and alternative goodness with vocals that could only have been granted by the hand of the Godfather of Soul himself. I had the distinct honor of attending The Heavy's live show last night, and I would go so far as to classify it as awesome. The only thing that kept it from ascending to epicness was the fact that there were only about sixty people there. That's where you come in. Go. Watch. Buy. And break yourself off a piece of that soulful-goodness...

Superficiality anyone...?

2010-11-04T21:27:00.000-06:00

I've noticed a few signs around the ol' campus lately advertising a so-called "Networking Event," in which students are provided with both pointers on how to "network" and an assemblage of doctors, lawyers, and other such folks to practice said pointers on. Excuse me while I vomit. It may not have been terribly well-advertised in the past, but I detest business. And capitalism. Such to the point that I really dig Karl Marx and I get a little uncomfortable when I receive emails talking about economics professors showcasing socialism through their grading policies.

But this isn't about Karl, socialism, or economics. This is about networking. Actually, I really don't like that term——networking is what you do in order to get computers and printers to talk to each other or to distribute magical particles of internet through the air. As such, networking is definitely not introducing yourself to someone more powerful/influential than you, feigning interest in your conversation with them, and then using your newly acquired "friendship" with them to advance your own position in the future.

To me, such a practice just reeks of parasitism. The concept of going out and forming superficial friendships and associations with people for the sole purpose of advancement in your chosen field is rather repulsive——even though my fellow academicians do it all the time as well. This is also clearly an outgrowth of the gradual cheapening of friendship and human interaction and association that has occurred over the past few decades. Or perhaps one of the causes?

Of course, everyone who has to network in order to advance will argue that they try to form real bonds with people, but we all know it's just to salve their bruised and tormented consciences. And unfortunately, that's the way the game is played in corporate America. To advance and provide, you have to look out for number one, which is much tougher than it sounds when you consider that there are literally millions of other number ones out there. And let us not forget about the billion or so yi either——word is that they work for cheap...

Ahoy! me ebullients...

2010-11-02T19:51:00.001-06:00

Short but sweet. Since we (the royal we, of course) are overly concerned with words around here, I couldn't restrain myself from sharing this gleaming nugget of joyful knowledge. I love thesauri (which should technically be thesauroi——never use a Latin ending on a Greek word, it's not very classy) and have frequently referred to them as a veritable writer's toolbox, which has in turn led to myself being referred to as a toolbox. I take it all in stride though, because we all know what a good thesaurus can do to diversify the manner in which one expresses their notions.

But you know what makes them awesomer? The English word thesaurus ultimately comes from the Greek word θησαυρός, which means treasure box. So much better than tool box, I know. I suppose this would also make me and any other user of a thesaurus a word pirate. Yarrr...

McNopoly...

2010-11-01T19:29:00.001-06:00

It's that time again. McDonald's Monopoly time! For many of you, I know that my classiness rating just diminished rather markedly——but hear me out. We're talking about fond childhood memories here.

It is my feeling that, thanks in large part to the culture of self-reliance propagated by a certain Utah-based religion that will remain nameless and the damnable phantom that is the American Dream, tangible opportunities to win prizes and cash are some of the greatest dividing/unifying forces in the universe. I can distinctly remember in my childhood years that our family was never closer than during McDonald's Monopoly season (what this says about the strength of our intra-familial bonds I'll leave to your assumedly merciful assumptions). We would snag ourselves Egg McMuffins for breakfast a few times a week, go on fry runs, and occasionally brave the dinner menu in pursuit of those elusive stickers——whose statistical backers promised one out of every four would win us a new TV, car, boat, or presumably well-dispersed sum of money.

Perhaps my favorite part about the McDonald's Monopoly seasons of my youth was the fact that they started wars. I remember not talking to any of the Longs for months because they backed out of a deal to trade us Kentucky Ave. for St. James and Tennessee. I know. So not cool of them. I remember my family having full on planning sessions that could only be called strategy meetings in which we used conveniently provided predictions to determine which properties we were targeting and who in the neighborhood we could trade them with. Sun Tzu and Zhuge Liang would surely have been proud.

While it all sounds absurd, I have to say that I truly do miss the McDonald's Monopoly of yore. Not only did I get to consume more hash brown sticks in one month than in an otherwise typical year, but I got to do so with my family united in a common cause (however fleeting and ill-conceived that cause may have been). It only took about a year for me to realize that we would never win anything beyond a free 32 oz. drink or large fry, but I still treasure those times as some of the few in which I shared a common interest with my folks and sibling. Even the stupidest of activities can be incredibly fun when you have other people who are as excited about it as you are. So, who's up for joining me as a partner in the imaginary fast-food real-estate business? I can promise you good times and plenty of fries...

Battling the Zeitgeist...

2010-10-28T18:49:00.000-06:00

"You know that only old ladies wear purple, right?" said my mother when she saw my outfit today. But what can I say? I love purple. I have a variety of purple shirts, purple ties, purple cufflinks, and even purple socks. I know that purple is only slightly behind pink in being considered an effeminate color, but since when have I cared about such things?

Did you know that until recently, purple was all the rage in the fashion world? Because of the strange manner in which it was derived, Tyrian Purple dye was fiendishly expensive and was thus only obtainable by wealthy individuals——rarity + expense = popularity. In ancient Persia, those not of royal or at least noble status could be executed for wearing purple. Today, it's a "pride" color for homosexuals (their quotations, not mine) and the commonly seen luster of old ladies' hair. Darius is probably rolling in his sarcophagus.

Back to my mom. You see, I wasn't terribly concerned about being identified with senior citizens when I got dressed this morning. I was, however, a little nervous about another feature of my getup. Purple shirt + green sweater. Anyone who had a childhood can tell you what that equals: Barney. Yes, the dreaded/beloved purple and green dinosaur of our kinder-years haunts us still, effectively ruining the otherwise perfectly respectable combination of green and purple.

I realize now that this could serve as a formidable launching point for a discussion of late 80s and early 90s children's television programming——but I'll spare you. Remember how after about half-way through kindergarten children would be ridiculed for anything that had even the remotest similarity to Barney and his homies? I do. And I suppose the scarring is still intact, because I shivered as I pulled on my green sweater and looked in the mirror.

Just a few minutes ago, my dear sister (Jami, for those of you who are unfamiliar) said to me "you do realize that you look like Barney, right?" That's more of what I was anticipating. Clearly our childhood entertainment choices have more of an effect on us than we would like to believe, which is why a 27 year-old is critiquing a 23 year-old's outfit based on the chromatic preferences of an anthropomorphic dinosaur whom she hasn't even seen in nearly 20 years——but more on that later. Right now, if you'll excuse me, I have some deeply-rooted childhood insecurities to work through...

To Hell in a proverbial handbasket...

2010-10-26T20:38:00.011-06:00

I've always had somewhat of an irreverent sense of humor. Those close to me can usually recall at least a few instances in which I have made them feel terribly uncomfortable (the only exception being Blake Sutherland, who is immune to all feelings of awkwardness——seriously, it's freaky). When I was a kid, I was the champion of the diarrhea song in all its different verses and ever since I have thoroughly enjoyed talking about the various functions of the human digestive system. And reading about them.

This post is not about poo though——it's about Jesus.

This is the part where the internet lets out a collective gasp. Not to worry bishop, because I am totally down with the Son. Perhaps that's my problem. You see, I've always believed in a very down-to-earth, approachable deity who understands my often strange linguistic patterns and trademarks and knows where my heart is at the end of it all. Prayer isn't so much a supplication as it is a conversation, which occasionally results in use of the words dude or man (no, I am not praying to the Dude, though I am one of his priests). I'm sure He understands. I'm also pretty sure He thinks it's funny to at least some degree.

Maybe that's why I think He finds this as awesome and hilarious as I do. Half of you probably won't make it this far in the post and will have already departed in offended disgust——that's okay, I know not everyone is down with kitschy representations of the Savior of mankind. Blame it on all my time spent in the South, where I saw more bumper stickers and t-shirts featuring the Son of Man than Utah valley has Christus statues. Whatever the case, I hope this fulfills my mission and brings a smile to at least a few faces.

What Christ did is not funny, but very serious and cool. I'm glad for that and give it proper reverence. Based on observation though, I can also say with a fair amount of certainty that He has a pretty awesome sense of humor. Want proof? I formally challenge anyone familiar with the manner in which humans reproduce to seriously tell me that the Divine triumvirate is humorless. Besides, They allow junk like this to be produced:

I'll avoid going into a massive rant about how much I hate most of the art put out by Mormon artists, but this one just cries out to be highlighted. Cheesy——check. Over-handed symbolism——double-check. False doctrine——maybe just a little. I take issue with the fact that people are using the image of Christ to endorse arch-conservatism or even worse, to make more money by painting Him to look like Aragorn:

If you've made it this far, I congratulate you and thank you for the prayers which you are no doubt offering for my soul. I assure you it is in good shape. Perhaps you even see my side of the argument and might develop a slightly more personal——not casual——relationship with Christ. And maybe you'll smile when you see me wearing my favorite shirt...

A van of vivacious verbiage...

2010-10-23T12:35:00.006-06:00

The dread spectre of continuity looms! Response to the last listing of great words was overwhelmingly positive and, since this is all about you baby, I have hereby decided that henceforth I will——as far as my powers permit——offer up a group of enjoyable verbal expressions on the 23rd of each month. We both know, however, that the alliterative titles will only last for so long...

Verve. As previously established, I adore v-words. Latin (and by progression French) has been especially kind to us in the v department. Verve is one of those that just lends itself well to enthusiasm——each v both forces and encourages you to raise your pitch and put a little bit of spirit into it. As such, I propose that it be mandated for verve to always be followed by an exclamation point. It also helps if you say verve! in a British accent.

Angst. A less-conspicuous culprit of onomatopoeia, which is another lingual device I have a passion for——thank you Greek. You can't help but feel yourself returning to your teenage years (a time when angst could veritably be classified as an actual hormone) every time you say it. It also helps serve its meaning by not being a pretty word, perhaps we'll blame the lack of vowels. Or maybe because it's a German word (zing!). Whatever the case, we need to move away from angst before I can no longer suppress the urge to dust off my old Emo records and start wallowing in inexplicable discontent.

Unguent. As a rule, I don't try not to toss around the word 'love' very frequently——it helps to prevent confusion and preserves the quality I believe a word of such meaning should possess. But I love the word unguent. First of all, it's incredibly archaic and weird, so my Indie-id smiles broadly when I ply it to my purposes. And then of course there's more onomatopoeia (mayhap I detect a trend?). First, the definition: "a soft, greasy, or viscous[!] substance used as an ointment for lubrication." Since it comes from Latin, unguent would be pronounced oon-goo-ehn-toom, which is the participial form of their word that means "to anoint." See the goo? Whether or not they meant to, the ancient Latins made an awesome word that has it all: street-cred, onomatopoeia, it's fun to say, and it's an impeccable replacement for ointment——easily one of the English language's nastiest-sounding words.

Διαρρἠω. Sorry to dip into Greek, but we'll make a deal: occasional Greek so long as I promise to never include Japanese. Good? Good. Anyhow διαρρἠω (pronounced dee-ah-ray-oh) is another word that, while not exactly fun considering its meaning and the experiences associated with it, is still entertaining. If you hadn't already guessed, διαρρἠω is the Greek progenitor of the English word diarrhea——a word which in itself has the fearfully respectable ability to conjure up some of everyone's worst memories. There are a few reasons I choose this word: 1) I have no tact or decency. 2) I enjoy discussing bowel functions (closely associated with #1). And 3) the Greek meaning of diarrhea just fits really well. According to Liddell & Scott (practically gods in the world of philology), διαρρἠω means to flow through, leak, or waste away, while its close constituents mean to burst, be rent in twain, flow in various directions, or to be destroyed utterly. Clearly, a euphemism this is not...

22 hyphens were harmed in the writing of this post...

2010-10-20T22:51:00.009-06:00

Confession time. Thanks to my father, David Sterling Creer (who just turned 54 this very day——go Coach!), I have a few mildly obsessive-compulsive quirks. Aside from an overarching preference for odd numbers and constant adjustment of rugs, chairs, books, and other items that get strewn about during the day-to-day, I am also a chronic observer. Lots of folks I know love to people watch, but this is something far different. More sinister, perhaps? (Although I'm not left-handed).

I thoroughly enjoy observing gait. As in a person's manner of walking. I don't know exactly why or when it first started, but I can remember for a fairly long time I haven't been able to help but make mental notes about how people ambulate. College has only taken my peculiarity to an extreme, because I am surrounded by a wide and endless variety of walking styles. You have toe-walkers, toe-poppers, outside-ins, stompers, shufflers, thigh-walkers, leaners, stiffs, penguins, a plethora of struts and the extremely rare inside-outs, ditch-diggers,and knee-lockers——clearly there's nothing Aristotelian about me.

Now I realize what I've just done to you. Either you're agreeing with me that I am an obsessive-compulsive, over-categorizing nutbar (filled with fluffy nougat, of course), or you're just the slightest bit curious about what all these different specimens look like. From here on out you won't be able to displace them from your subconscious, and just when you least expect it you'll see someone ambling down the street and you'll think "Aha! so that's a thigh-walker!" And that, my friend, is when you'll become addicted——before you know it you'll have made up your own subspecies.

At this point those of you who are acquainted with my physical personage are probably thinking "come Ty, you walk pretty strangely yourself, buddy." I am aware of this. Too aware. I blame my fixation with gaitology for my own strange swagger (which is not really a swagger at all——I'm just addicted to thesauri), and because of it I feel physically discomfited when my arms are not swinging in exact unison with my legs. That and I can't move my torso, which pushes me decidedly in the direction of stiff territory...

Hardboiled...

2010-10-17T22:29:00.004-06:00

Ever since I broke down and got a Netflix account at the end of August (easily one of the best decisions of 2010), I've been on a bit of a Hong Kong Cinema kick. Many of you——assuming of course that the word many can be applied to a group of 8——probably only know me as a Classics man with an eye for dead languages (tongues need not apply) and a passionate distaste for phallic symbolism. Yet, this is but one part that makes up the greater less-than-interesting whole of Tyler. Before I began my sordid love-affair with Indo-European languages and even before I learned to speak Hillbilly or to properly ply Ebonics, I was an Asianist.

I still distinctly remember when my uncle made the mistake of teaching me a few kanji in second grade; the result was approximately three years worth of drawings and school assignments littered with Japanese that amounted to every possible combination of 人 jin (person), 本 hon (book), and 平 taira (my Japanified name). If I have to mark anything as mine, to this day my first instinct is to use 平 instead of boring old 'Tyler.'

But what does this have to do with movies? As it turns out not too much——perhaps it's just the best explanation I can offer for my strange fixation with Asian culture. In any case, through my recent Chinese cinematic adventures I have reached the conclusion that Hong Kong Cinema is easily some of the most bizarre on earth. I can only imagine what a group of archeologists 1,000 years in the future would think if the only representation of Chinese culture they found was a box full of HKC DVDs. I hypothesize that they would ascertain the following.

The Chinese: 1) have a much higher threshold for violence than Americans, which says a lot. 2) are much more resistant to bullets than people of other nationalities, displaying in numerous instances the ability to perform complex martial arts maneuvers even after being mowed down by submachine gun fire. 3) do not have to reload. Ever. 4) demonstrate the ability to fly so long as they lived before the Ming dynasty. 5) have children with nerves of steel——babies don't cry even when spattered with blood.

As you might be able to tell, I was more than a little disturbed by some of these offerings. As a child who has been brought up with violent video games and movies, I can't help but wonder what kind of effects such things had on me and continue to have on the children of today (seriously, CSI and its twenty variations can show severed heads and surprisingly graphic stabbings on major network television). But if I ever grow too despairing of our situation, all I have to do is look westward and remember that there are other societies more inundated with violence than ours. And of course, they have this...

A break in Character...

2010-10-14T21:07:00.007-06:00

Have I ever mentioned how much I enjoy arbitrarily capitalizing nouns? Well, I do. There's just something stylistically liberating about it.

I have a big weekend ahead of me, featuring two predominate events for which I am supremely excited: the showdown between the ANES and Classics departments, and research. Better yet, Research. The first of the two promises to be nothing short of undistilled epicness. Two groups of hardcore nerds——most of whom know at least two dead languages——will be pulling themselves away from their trusty grammar books for a little athletic competition. That's right, athletics. There will be no Translation California Speed or Declinathon, but rather a good old fashioned footrace and tug of war! Needless to say, humor will be mingled with epicness in liberal amounts, as my people and I are not exactly renowned for our physical prowess.

Event number two is perhaps the most traceable cause of said lack of prowess, but let's face it, research——especially this research——is one of the reasons I get out of bed in the morning. Ever since I was a wee lad I've been enamored with reading, and I suppose in my own primitive, non-methodological way I've been doing research since I was six. Seventeen years later, I'm in need of an ORCA grant to pay for me to write my unsurpassingly epic Honors Thesis, which brings us to this weekend. I get to read all sorts of books about samurai, Homer, and Spartans. Three of the greatest things ever, all in one weekend, being blended into a paper that I could end up getting paid to write. Bliss.

This is how I know that I am a nerd. I've accepted this. I've even come to embrace it, because it also reminds me that even though I don't understand all the uses of the Gerundive or how exactly it differs from a normal future passive participle, I still love what I do and belong where I am. That and I can include pictures like this...

Electric Purple Haze...

2010-10-12T20:49:00.004-06:00

Concerts are interesting beasts. There are a slew (did you know slew is actually a verb too?! and not just the past tense of slay either) of good concerts that have and will continue happening as of late, which has gotten me to thinking about the unique emotions made manifest by concert-going.

Of course, you have the classic worry: what if this is one of those bands that is absolutely terrible live? What if the singer's voice gets all nasty and cracked after only two songs? What if the band is comprised of Sid Vicious-like characters who can't play their instruments to save their lives? These are all legitimate trepidations. My best advice——Youtube. Also, chances are good if you listen to music that doesn't suck (such an objective statement, I know), you won't be disappointed by your bands' musicianship or vocal endurance. Unless you're Chris Conley.

Then of course there's the awkward question of what exactly one is supposed to do at a concert. Usually people listen to music while driving, engaging in manual labor, doing homework, etc.; the proud few who routinely take time to sit down with a fancy pair of headphones and a new album are an elusive lot. As such some people have a hard time with shows that aren't conducive to simply dancing around sweating like an attention-deficit chimpanzee locked in a sauna. What if I'm going to an Album Leaf or Dntel show——do I just stand there and stare at the guy behind the wire-filled box or rhodes piano and smile occasionally to let him know he makes good noises? Sam Beam has a nice voice and all, but is it really that entertaining to sit there for two hours listening to the bearded bard strum? (As a matter of fact, yes it is).

In such instances, I suppose the best approach is to know thyself (γνῶθι σεαυτὀν for those of you wanting to stick it to the Wachowski brothers). Shows are great and all, but they aren't for everyone. Personal space will be violated, some may be wracked with boredom and disappointed by the general lack of movement, and in all cases there is a strong propensity you will leave at least moderately high. Whether this is due to the music or the dank probably depends on the company...

Thank goodness for tupperware...

2010-10-10T13:52:00.005-06:00

So this is a rehash of something I wrote about two years ago when Proposition 8 was the hot-button topic of the day. Since that time I had thought that my views had changed a bit, but after reading it again I realized that even fresh off the mish, I was actually capable of objective thought (*gasp*). Thanks are due to a certain fellow named Boyd for riling everyone up and helping me to remember that love is always relevant, regardless of the issue.

After perusing the tangled mass of unbridled speculatory ridiculousness contained within the larger schema of the interweb, I've come to the conclusion that all of the bickering between the proponents and antagonists of the gay marriage issue (and of anti-homosexuality in general) can be summed up by a single word. I believe that this word was introduced by a cunning schemer——sometimes likened to a serpent, at others to a strange goat-man with a pitchfork——to utterly incite and inflame the argument with incendiary verbiage. The word in question is 'bigot.'

We all know that our more liberal friends tend to favor this one, no doubt viewing it as a treasured polished shaft in their burgeoning quiver of "anti-hate" insults. The use of this word against conservatively minded individuals tends to invoke talk of hellfire, brimstone, and the damnation thereof accompanied by biblical quotations and other such fare. In such instances I can picture the ridiculousness like some parasitic creature become fat off of an ample host, quivering and undulating with delight as it feeds its own rampant growth upon the never ending exchange of derogatory catch-words.

So why 'bigot?' Well you see kids, I'm a big fan of words and their definitions because often the actual definitions tend to belie their typical use or generally assumed meaning. So what does bigot mean? My personal favorite definition comes from the Webster's New World dictionary which describes a bigot as "one who holds blindly and intolerantly to a particular creed, opinion, etc." Now obviously this is being used fairly accurately against the pronouncers of hellfire, but doesn't this technically extend to the other side of the field as well?

Oddly enough, some of the most intolerant people that I've ever met are actually liberal. They think that because they have a PhD, read books by dead German philosophers, or do lots of research about "issues" on the internet that they're enlightened and everyone else are a sad lot of benighted intellectual peasants who shouldn't be allowed to vote. Everyone else is blind, because they see all. Thank you, oh Philosopher Kings. How is this not being intolerant of others' beliefs? Part of learning how to argue like an adult is showing tolerance to those you disagree with——after all, without tolerance I think a few more of the Founding Fathers than just Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton would have killed each other and the United States would instead have been the "States of Contemptuous Disagreement." People have their right to believe what they want, and I think closely related to that right is also the obligation to not act like a douchebag.

Now don't get me wrong, this isn't a denouncement of liberalism and an endorsement of conservatism. I personally feel that there is no constitutional basis for denying homosexuals their right to marriage, etc. If you feel differently, that's cool——just be mature about it. Gay people are not inherently evil. They've made some choices that some folks don't approve of and view as wrong. I can certainly vouch for the fact that there are some gay people who would fall under the category of evil, but it's not because they're gay. There are plenty of Baptist preachers, soccer moms, and Mormon bishops who fit into the same grouping as well.

But what is evil? What is wrong? What is good for that matter? Thanks to the intellectually liberal environment that is America, there are about as many different answers to these questions as there are people. You get politics (a word synonymous with conflict) when different interpretations and perspectives collide. And apparently you also get bigots...

Respectful disrespect of the Respectable...

2010-10-05T22:03:00.003-06:00

So doctors. Not the over-learned individuals who crush dreams and destroy souls (the ones whose ranks I hope to one day be a part of), but the kind that, while still over-learned, use that abundance of elitist knowledge to heal the physical maladies of humankind. At least that's what they're supposed to do. I think that a lot of us, what with our world of organ transplants and cure-all medications, tend to lose sight of the fact that doctors are in reality sometimes only slightly more qualified than the rest of us in deciphering the mysteries of the human body.

My mom (whom I realize I have not yet mentioned in this blog——hi mom) goes in to visit the doctor the other day. She waits for twenty minutes, is dealt with by the receptionist in a manner which falls just shy of verbal abuse, and then proceeds to wait an additional twenty minutes in a room, on an examination table (which is always of an awkward height), by herself. The doctor comes in, looks at her charts, asks her some questions, and then sends her on her way. The result: Lisa is now one hour and a few hundred dollars poorer, and yet no closer to figuring out the cause of her affliction.

Doc had no clue what was going on and resorted to merely saying "let's see how things go over the next two months and then you can come back." This can essentially be translated as "well, in spite of my ten plus years of ridiculously expensive specialized medical training, I have no idea what's wrong with you; come back in two months and we'll see if that does anything." Well played Doctor. Maybe if we adjust her humors...

The sad truth about good tunes...

2010-09-30T17:30:00.004-06:00

I am on a crusade. No, a Crusade (proper nouns are always cooler and more important). As insinuated a few times in the past, I am a lover of music. There's something about well-arranged sounds that just does something inside me and that something feels good. Or something. But I digress. The cause of this Crusade is to change the general attitude——or application——of the term "pop" to music.

Chances are if you care about music, which I strongly encourage you to, you just shuddered when I said pop. You see, Americans (or white people, depending on what school of hipness you adhere to) have a strange distaste for the popular and widespread; we enjoy the thought that our tastes are unique and that we're on to something great that few others are aware of. As such, we recoil in horror when we hear our music referred to as pop music. Yet I can't help but ask, is this really such a bad thing?

Now perhaps the true impetus of this rant is just the clandestine order responsible for naming genres and musical movements——there's pop-rock, pop-punk, hip-pop, country-pop, indie-pop (which really doesn't make any sense), and a host of other fusion genres that have absorbed the dreaded pop moniker. After surveying a number of bands whose designated genres include pop, I've found the general distinguishing factor between so-called pop fusions and their purer brethren is a marked factor of enjoyment. From my findings I have produced the following formula:

(music + quality) enjoyability = something-pop.

Of course this is a completely subjective survey, but chances are good that unless you're a Jazz snob (not that there's anything wrong with that), or subsist on a sonic diet consisting of nothing but Classical and World music, then you'll probably have to deal with this issue sooner or later. Is it right to label something with a name as derisive as pop simply because more people can enjoy it than those who are into 15 minutes of random ambient noise or nose-flute solos? As you can probably guess, I say no.

Musicologists and writers for music magazines, stop fusing pop with other genres——actually, how about you just stop creating fusion genres in general? Because let's face it, afro-synth-post-rock-alternicore-rap sounds more like something one would order at the Pita Pit than a useful guidepost on the path of musical progression...

I promise to never finish with a pun again...

2010-09-27T22:46:00.006-06:00

So I'm taking Stats 121. After nearly two years of nothing but specialized/upper-level courses, I realize not only how truly spoiled I have been, but also how isolated from the general university population. Stats is a big class——the i-Clicker quiz thingy usually clocks in at about 750-800——which means that I have plenty of opportunity to observe more biznass.

One aspect that has surprised me is the number of people that eat breakfast during class. Now breakfast itself can be fairly unremarkable: a bagel here, a banana there——you get the idea. But some folks take things to incredible lengths. Entire grocery bags full of fruit, yogurt, granola bars, cereal (yes, with milk), and as of today McDonald's pancakes. Excessive? Perhaps. But those are some good pancakes.

Perhaps my favorite part is the creative manner in which many people eat these offerings, because it seems that forgetting to bring a spoon or other necessary utensil (pens make good knife substitutes in a pinch, by the way) is a common misfortune of my Stats 121 breakfast club. Today, however, I met the champion improvisor. A girl in the row in front of me realized that she had forgotten a spoon only after she had opened the Seal of Irresistibility™ on her Yoplait yogurt. Normally this is where you just swallow your pride and try to drink the thing, only to wind up either nearly choking or with fruit-flavored, bacteria-cultured bovine lactate splayed about your shirt. Not this one though.

Instead, she used said Seal in a shovel-like fashion and proceeded to scoop noticeably meager dollops of yogurt from cup to mouth. Twenty minutes later she finally gave up on the Seal shovel and resorted to her fingers, which by this point were already probably sticky with concentrated strawberry juice and high-fructose corn syrup anyways(if you hadn't noticed by now I kind of don't like Yoplait). Despite her poor choice in yogurt type, I nevertheless respect stats yogurt girl and the lesson she taught me today——don't let something as small as not having a spoon get between you and what you love. Because clearly she dug that yogurt...

A cavalcade of consonantal delights...

2010-09-23T18:27:00.004-06:00

If you hadn't picked up on it already, I love words. Especially English words. I count it as one of the paramount blessings and joys of my life that I speak the language natively and can thus enjoy the full benefits of its rich, tripartite vocabulary. It's not just the variety that I enjoy however, there are certain words——and these need not necessarily be strictly English words——that hold a special place on my tongue due to the enjoyment their utterance brings me. Here are a few tasty samplings.

Thick. Onomatopoetic words seem to be especially fun. Thick is great because it feels like a thick object; the tongue strains to push that -th past the teeth and the effort is resolved with the satisfying pop of the -ck. I'm pretty sure the frequent use of thick was the only enjoyment derived from reading Bernard Williams' Ethics and the Limits of Philosophy.

Rakish. You can call him dashing, jaunty, debonair even, but no other word quite describes the attitude-toting sharp dressed man like rakish. Just say it. Rakish. I don't know about you, but the stubble on my face stands at attention and my feet are calling out for leather boots in which to strut my bad, rakish self about town. Use with caution.

Gloom. Gloom has it all——the thick (there it is!) gl with that lovely long u sound that naturally lowers your pitch and the m that just sends it right down into the dark, unprobed reaches of the abyss it's often used to describe. Though I have no real affinity for overpowering darkness, the feeling of being enwrapped in a near tangible cloud of murk whenever you say it is just plain fun. If you ever find yourself getting gloomed-out, you can always go for its more positive but equally encircling counterpart, smooth.

Brandish. I have to admit, this one barely beat out wield as verb of choice for holding/using an object. It's one thing to pull out a sword, hammer, pen, remote, or phone——it's another matter entirely to brandish it. For example: "Hank picked up the fork lying on the table, holding it out in Juan's direction" instead becomes "Hank seized the fork lying on the otherwise bare table, brandishing it menacingly at Juan while screaming "What's for dinner?!"" So much better? I know...

These hands were made for washing...

2010-09-18T10:25:00.005-06:00

With my recent return to school, I've begun to notice just how out of control our culture's recent——and rapidly propagating——obsession with hand washing is becoming. I've previously expressed my feelings about BYU and its relationship with germs. However, I can't help but wonder if we haven't gotten a little carried away with our mania for manual cleanliness.

First of all, we have hand sanitizer everywhere. Every bathroom, hallway, and most classrooms either have an official dispenser or at least a giant bottle of alcohol-goo just begging to be rubbed all over your digits. In fact, many people——myself included——have small bottles of the stuff stashed away in their backpacks or bags. I can't help but wonder, why? Has the number of germs in the air somehow increased in the last five years?

I know many folks who wonder how we ever survived before the invention of Purell. Well, it turns out we did pretty well. When I was a kid, our teachers were happy if we even got our hands wet after a visit to the ol' commode; gold stars were distributed if there was soap involved. Though you're probably cringing right now, I still don't remember anyone ever getting dysentery. Did we get sick more often? Probably——but is that really so bad?

In any place but industrial-capitalist America, getting sick is like a biologically induced vacation. Sure you have to take occasional trips to the bathroom to become reacquainted with your chicken noodle soup or you produce enough mucous to personally consume two boxes of tissues, but you still get to hang out and watch movies all day without showering or attending to any of your normal duties. At least that's how it was until the Man went and took all the fun out of being sick.

Because of our obsession with 60-hour work weeks and "fulfilling the American Dream" (at least that's what our bosses, also known as Manlings, call it), we now get to use all those tissues and make our bathroom trips at work, which is a torture no human should be forced to endure. As a result, a great fear of disease has gone throughout the land, and the perceived savior of our immune systems has revealed itself in the form of a little squirt (re-administered 10-20 times daily) of 120-proof alcohol.

Am I proposing then that we dismantle all of our conveniently distributed hand sanitizer dispensers and take a cue from our ancestors by not washing our hands (after all, they survived long enough to lay the genetic groundwork for us)? No, not really. I just want the Man——especially the Men who hold sway over academia——to let us have sick days again. Do I believe that touching a door handle immediately after that guy at the gym who just got done scratching his presumably sweaty crotch will infect or kill me? No. But in this instance hand washing makes for an excellent alleviator of the psychological trauma such an event is sure to induce...

Concerning Evolution...

2010-09-15T21:32:00.005-06:00

Sapio, sapere, sapivi: to have good taste; have good sense, be wise. Proof that someone really had their thinking cap on when they named our species Homo Sapiens. You see, we applaud our friend Homo Erectus for being able to stand up straight and Homo Habilis for really utilizing those opposable thumbs, but it turns out what really distinguishes "wise man" from his forebears isn't wisdom after all—it's the possession of good taste.

You've all been there with me folks, walking through Wal-Mart, wondering if it really is possible for you to be from the same species as the lady wandering around with one shoe and a look that bespeaks her knack for innovative new combinations of conventional drugs and household chemicals. Well now you have Latin to tell you that there may in fact be an actual difference between you and that guy who plans to mount his singing bass (the fish mind you) above his plastic veneered electronic fireplace. Taste.

Of course now we'll get into a big, long debate about what exactly defines good taste. Humor me and don't go there. In fact, go read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and then we'll chat about the concept of quality. Then I'll distract you with a long list of my favorite one word sentences in Latin because of my ultimate distaste for arguments about subjective concepts. Don't get me wrong, I actually love them. But, much like love in the real world, I always end up feeling dejected and betrayed by the subjective concept. They're tricky little vixens...

Εὓρηκα εὐδαιμόνιαν...

2010-09-12T14:40:00.004-06:00

I can't tell you how frequently I forget to change my keyboard layout back to English after writing in Greek—sometimes I write entire sentences of polytonic gibberish before realizing it. Λικε τηισ ονε φορ εχαμπλε. In any case, I find it necessary to let my academic fancies bleed over into blogland because I have recently come to the conclusion that Aristotle is full of crap.

For those of you unfamiliar with the writings of the Philosopher (you know you're hardcore when people simply use a capitalized noun to refer to you), he wrote an enjoyable little exposition on what it means to live a good life in his Nicomachean Ethics. Basically the long and short of Al's schpiel is that in order to achieve what the Greeks called εὐδαιμόνια (pronounced eh-yu-die-MO-nee-ah and meaning happiness, good fortune, etc.), one has to cultivate a series of virtues that will allow them to live a well-balanced (σοφρωσύνη) life. For the most part I agreed with this view and most of the traits he considered desirable; that is, until I went to the Salt Lake City Greek Festival.

It was there, in a giant tent filled with people and punctuated by loud, moderately obnoxious music playing in the background that I tasted (literally and metaphorically) the good life. Greek food is some of the greatest on the planet, especially pastitsio, which is another occupant on my list of foods worth living for. In between mouthfuls of pastitsio and gyro drenched in tzatziki, philosophy officially died—and it was the most pleasant death I have ever been present for.

Even though it's great to try and better yourself with fancy ideals and virtues, at the end of the day everyone is still flawed and life is still filled with plenty of unhappiness and downright bad luck. If anything philosophy is just a tool for making people unhappy. What I took away from that plate full of goat-cheese-laden wisdom is that happiness comes from the little things: good food and good people to eat it with. So Aristotle, you can keep your ethics and conspicuously Greek notions of balance and propriety—but please do pass the loukoumades...

On mustering the will to work...

2010-09-08T22:20:00.003-06:00

I've always been a strong admirer of aesthetics (not ascetics mind you, though I suppose I admire them too). As such I have a bit of a personal feng shui vendetta with my house. Though I try my best to stay at school and do homework in the library, in the end I never can resist the siren-like call of my room. As I descend the extra wide staircase and make my way down the long, shadow-flanked hallway, I'm greeted by the wallflower scent of the month—a reminder that while I may be the only person who uses the Creer family's basement, there are people other than I who still care how it smells.

I take a right turn at the end of the hallway and enter my room, dropping my bag next to my desk in similitude of the manner in which my body will fall into my chair just moments later. That chair is undoubtedly the greatest use I have ever made of seventy five U.S. dollars. In my chair I feel unburdened of my cares and worries: work has ended for the day, homework still awaits but can be safely procrastinated for the duration of my daily reverie, and by this time The Album Leaf or some obscure pianist is playing on my surreptitiously confiscated (I prefer liberated) speakers. The subdued olive-drab walls casually encircle me while I confirm that Hermes the chimpanzee is still at the booze. And then the most enchanting thing happens.

At around four or five o'clock (or three during the winter months), the sun enters my west-facing window for a few precious hours. From my vantage point in my sometimes-too-comfortable chair, this produces a rather magical effect. The beams of sunlight issuing through my window, filtered by the regular intervals of the slats on the blind, fall on dark hardwood furniture and a small, pot-dwelling gathering of lucky bamboo shoots (which, in keeping with our usual misunderstanding of all things Asian, is not even bamboo at all, nor is it from Asia). But as I watch these dusty, intangible luminaries, they begin to dance in and out of existence, choreographed by the plants flanking the battlement of my window-well. The effect is something like a movie projector, which, when coupled with the sublime sounds and peaceful order of the environment, produces the most relaxing and consistently enjoyable part of my day. Throw in some slippers, a cup of tea, and a bowl of grapes and we've got ourselves a serious party.

Before I know it, a half hour has passed and it's back to work. My desk chair is hard and rigid (an excellent supplement for when sleep is nigh and willpower fails), and the barrier presented by my bookshelf is an effective guard from the allurements of the world outside. Jesus is still staring at me, Buddha sits atop a stack of books by Joseph Fielding Smith (who is undoubtedly rolling in his grave due to this arrangement), and the smell of my grandfather's old leather Bible reminds me of the heights I wish to reach. This is my Fortress of Scholartude—because I'm relaxed and awesome enough to make Superman references like that...

Not to be confused with Prytaneum...

2010-08-29T21:43:00.005-06:00

For some odd reason I have a fixation with asking people about their favorite things. Whether it's their favorite color, animal, Greek philosopher, dictator, or aspect of the lunar cycle, I think that you can learn a lot about a person from the answers they give. Favorite font is a good one too. Mine is Courier, a fact you've probably already picked up on. Or maybe Didot; I use it for e-mails. It's a toss up really.

In any case, one of my favorite things is the onset of a new school year. There's something about the promise of new classes, people, and routines that can't help but get the spring of excitement flowing inside me. It may also be that this all coincides with a panoply of other favorites: peach season (which, along with duck, is a food whose existence alone is a reason to live), new books, the smell of new books, the onset of autumn (a.k.a. best season ever), Satsuma plums, Gonzales, and of course the crackling sound the spine of a new book makes when it opens for the first time. So I have a thing for books and fruit—deal with it.

In any event, I just figured I would remind all six of you loyal readers (England was good for our numbers) that it's good to be alive. You no doubt realize, however, that this is just a play at magnanimity with the true intent of clearing the mist of insouciance that's been lingering around me for the last week. Clearly I don't do well with breaks, which is probably why I always get so excited for school to start. I guess it's just the nerd in me...

Ballyhoo...

2010-08-09T13:34:00.009-06:00

I assume we know each other well enough by now that we've abandoned any pretensions of regularity in our relationship—although it does hurt me more than you know. In my defense, I have been kind of busy the last three months cramming a year's worth of Latin into my beleaguered brain. Oh yeah, and I go to school at Cambridge. Awesome would certainly be an understatement in this instance. In any case, I don't really have any concentrated rambling, so we'll resort to an assortment of mini-musings for your reading pleasure. Consume them at your leisure.

Britain is a strange place, and I liken its relationship to the US as that of the jealous older sibling. Britain looks wistfully across the pond, sees his little brother with his air conditioning, 120v standard power outlets, and water faucets that put out hot and cold water at the same time and sighs with envy. However, he refuses to be outdone and insists the entire time that he needs no air conditioning (there are windows, right?), likes to make sure he has plenty of extra juice for his appliances, and prefers to wash his hands like king James did. Too bad we know the real truth (king James didn't wash his hands at all). Don't get me started on doors and bathroom stalls...

Natalie Godderidge's computer is making noises. I liken them to the belabored breathing of a dying whale. What that says about the computer, I don't know—but it can't be good.

Museum-going is actually quite a workout, both mental and physical. I got a hint of this a year ago when I spent the better part of three days reading every descriptive placard next to the exhibits in the Field Museum and the Art Institute of Chicago. Though research is still pending (and in all likelihood will never happen due to the universal principle that other people view my ludicrous ideas as trite and unimportant—really, how dare they!), I think it can be conclusively proven that working through a museum is the rough equivalent of a half-marathon in terms of combined mental and physical exertion. Even if not, saying so sure made my aching back and feet feel better.

Though it shocks me to discover this, I realize that one of my greatest culinary delights has passed through a year of (admittedly sporadic) blogging without receiving its due mention. I love duck. Now we're not talking something to the extent of "oh, I do enjoy a good duck roast" or "duck is part of my weekly rotation of favorite meals," no. Were it an option I would unhesitatingly eat duck every day for the remainder of my life. Were this to be the only distinguishing factor of said life and all of my hopes and dreams came to naught, I would nevertheless consider it a rich and fulfilling life due to the constancy of duck consumption. Seriously people, it's like crack in waterfowl form...

Totally my idea...

2010-05-30T21:18:00.004-06:00

So. Windows 7 commercials are fun. I love how Microsoft (no, I'm not nerdy enough to use the pejorative "M$") has created such an overarching framework for these things. So systematic. And even in French. So multi-cultural.

I think my favorite aspect of it all is how they take "normal" looking people and then show them fantasizing about their "idealized" selves who are dashing and suave. It's so demographically apt—because we all know that attractive people use Macs, which is why they were inspired to create innovative new features. Sadly I use Windows 7, but I also have a Mac, which leaves me in an interesting middle ground that makes me neither innovative nor attractive.

Nevertheless it is a territory which I am glad to occupy. Although I love my Mac and use an iPod, I have serious misgivings about both and can't help but tip my hat to the raw computing ability of a well-built PC and the technical superiority of the Zune—which I might add is not composed of polished aluminum that scratches on eye-contact. But I digress. I am proud to proclaim that Windows 7 was not my idea. So too, I refuse to use the stickers included with all Apple products, one because I don't drive a Prius, and two since I will not be a token member of the Apple fraternity.

The other night the program I was using suffered a fatal crash because Windows 7 decided it was going to restart my computer to install some "important" updates. Frustration. If Windows 7 was my idea, I don't know if I would be very keen to advertise it...

Browning's Folly...

2010-05-17T15:34:00.004-06:00

So regularity isn't one of my strong points, I get that—and I'm sorry. In any case, I think the best way to supply readers with a more frequent dose of what they want is to simply give out small portions of what goes through my head in a given week. Think of it as a tirade buffet that samples ideas rather than a full-blown ranting steakhouse dedicated to more developed fare. Thus without further ado, I give you Week I:

Church bathrooms have a unique scent that I have yet to find (or sniff) anywhere else, it could be holiness or perhaps just fungus with a religious bent—I can't tell.

Have you ever doubted the existence of a loving God? If so, look, and be assuaged. God's in His heaven, The Get Up Kids have returned, all's right with the world.

Ikea is one of the most magical places on earth, capable of helping a young boy realize how truly exciting the world of furniture and living arrangement can be—unless of course that young boy is a poor college student, in which case Ikea simply becomes a labyrinthine gallery of the unobtainable.

Returning to things olfactory, I've recently concluded that the E.T. and Pirates of the Caribbean rides at Universal Studios and Disney Land have distinctly pleasant smells. I don't know if this is intentional and both crews are working to recreate the smell of a dew-ridden north-western forest or a brine encrusted cave, but if so they have done a splendid job (on the smells at least, the rides... meh). Now to figure out how I can get my hallway to smell like that...

I'm taking Latin right now, which is fun. Homo doctus in se semper divitias habet——bam! Go look it up, for those are words to live by. On the downside of things, I am now a full partaker of the age-old adage:

Latin is a dead language,

Dead as Dead can be,

Latin killed the Romans,

And now It's killing me...

Aimlessness anyone...

2010-04-20T00:31:00.009-06:00

Though some of you who read this (I'm estimating 3 out of the 6 or so readers I have now accrued) have already heard me say it, I really don't care. Finals are over. I'm leaving for Cambridge in 68 days (but who's counting?). Oh, and I'm in Hawai'i right now. . . envy me.

Anyhow—on to my point. Though I've spent a long time investigating and trying to figure it out, I've finally decided that my favorite word is facetious. This came about for two reasons. The first is that the vast majority of the things I say are done in a facetious manner, so it fits. Second, and undoubtedly far more interesting, it is the only word in the English language I can find that uses all five vowels in alphabetical order. Yes I know, totally awesome (provided you're a total nerd like me). I have to ask though—has anyone found another word which does the same? After numerous random perusals of google and the dictionary I have yet to happen upon one, but I have to check. Whatever the case, it's time to go surfing...

Allegory never promised to be short...

2010-03-28T22:42:00.004-06:00

Hi, my name is Paul—and I am the proud new owner of a 15-passenger van. It’s been a long, hard struggle to fight through all the red tape, but I finally went ahead and bought it. Never mind the fact that I kind of don’t have the money; things have been tight, but this was a purchase—no, a change—that needed to be made.

My family has been growing steadily for a number of years, but for a long time the standard suburban minivan was more than suited for our purposes. However, my wife, NoDee Lefour’Eu (she insists on keeping her maiden name, apparently it used to be an indicator of nobility—she always refers to it as a “grand-old-patronymic”), was rather insistent on having a large family, and 12 kids later my wallet and minivan were straining to keep up with the difficulties that kind of progeny induces. But in this glorious modern society of ours we have a little thing called credit and its equally helpful older brother the home-equity loan; after utilizing a few inches of that magic plastic and quadrupling the value of my home (that is how it works, right?) I was more than ably equipped to handle all of our financial problems.

The first problem started around the same time that child number 11 was born. You see, my dad had been in poor health for a while, and we had been helping him out by giving him rides in our minivan since he could no longer drive. This continued for some time until he could no longer walk, at which point the rest of the family agreed it was time to buy him a Jazzy power chair. $10,000 later (and I’m still paying off the maintenance fees) I could see my dream van being flushed down the toilet, convenient bench-seating, industrial-grade sliding rear door, and all.

Next came a little blunder on my wife’s part, though I will admit that I was involved—it was only because she lied to me. Ever since we moved into this neighborhood 15 years ago, we have been known as many as 5 blocks away for having the best tomatoes around. Then a few years ago the Ali family moved in down the street. Now I always thought Sam was a nice guy, but it didn’t take long before we noticed that he and his wife were growing tomatoes of their own, and no doubt for the sole purpose of competing with our award-winners.

We had an agreement with the Darcy’s, Chang’s, Smirnov’s, and DuBois’ for a number of years that we could all grow our own tomatoes in a non-competitive environment—but Ali had gone to far. As a countermeasure, we sent Sam and his wife (I wish I knew her name, but I don’t think she gets out much) a bottle of our famous marinara sauce—Ken Ishida still raves about the stuff—and it didn’t take long for those tomatoes to disappear from the Ali garden. Then recently NoDee had a bit of a spat with Sam over something or other, after which she tried to persuade me to get the homeowners’ committee involved.

I tried to blow it all off, but then she went and told me that the Ali’s were growing tomatoes in their garage again—a prospect which I could not ignore (their kids’ friends had knocked over our mailbox, after all). One night some of my sons and I broke into the garage, only to discover that the Ali’s were not growing tomatoes, but their son was growing some pea plants for a science project. To make matters worse, Sam walked in while we were running out of the garage. Soon the whole neighborhood was in an uproar and we had been served with a lawsuit for breaking and entering and property damage that resulted in some hefty fines. NoDee still insists that they were growing tomatoes in there.

But despite these setbacks, I was determined to get that van. In an effort to raise money and prepare our children to be tax-paying members of society, we started charging them a certain percentage of their allowances to ride in the van. Now the older children who have more established chore-routines with better pay were a bit hesitant at first, but they soon found they were able to cover the cost without much trouble. The younger kids have struggled to pay, but they often just ride their bikes—though they have occasionally hitched free-rides. The obvious issue with this system is that simply not everyone can ride at the same time and not everyone can afford the ride, but that only served to get many of the children to agree with me that we needed a 15 passenger van, since the younger children would now be able to ride at a substantially lower cost. And then the elder siblings had to bring up the burrito issue.

The 5 youngest are addicted to Mexican food. They are free to eat what they want after all and frozen burritos are cheap—but the older siblings have a problem with the gas these burritos tend to induce. They tried explaining to them that burritos, and all other food for that matter, are intended to be passed out of the body in a natural and unoffensive process, but releasing that gas prematurely was simply not natural or courteous to the other kids in the car—especially since the offenders were usually free-riders as well. I can’t very well take a stand on this because I understand that kids will be kids, but NoDee and the older children insisted that we not buy this van until we had an agreement from the younger kids that there would no longer be any flatulence in the car. It took a few allowance forwards (thank you credit), but I managed to convince the younger kids to accept. Then one of them farted in the car on the way home from the dealership.

Is my purchase justified—certainly. I’m not worried that I paid for my house with money that I didn’t have at rates that still give me chest pains, nor do I lose very much sleep over the fact that my debt is multiplying at more than two times the rate of my income. It was John Maynard Keynes who said that the more you put in the more you get out, right? The fact of the matter is that I have successfully instituted a lasting and valuable change within my family that they will always remember and be grateful to me for—or they’ll curse me for bankrupting us and forcing them to live on food stamps. But at least we’ll have that van…

-Paul Itak Al’Egendst

And I thought I was bad...

2010-03-02T21:42:00.004-07:00

"As Waugh demonstrates, multilayered, metafictional narrative constitutes one aspect of both the modernist and postmodernist movements; unlike other forms associated with these movements, such as surfiction and the nouveau roman, metafiction embodies a connection to the realist tradition and simultaneously turns the premises of that tradition into part of the content for the fictionalizing enterprise itself."

You, Mr. (that's right, not Dr.) R. Barton Palmer, can go crawl in a hole and die—and drag that hyperacademic trash you call writing in there with you...

A charitable offer...

2010-02-22T13:16:00.003-07:00

Dear anonymous student,

It seems that you really enjoy singing—that's great. But that you enjoy singing to such a degree that you simply can't contain your pent-up bardic instincts when walking between classes—not so great. On behalf of my fellow students in transit, I beseech you: please shut up.

Perhaps you enjoy choral singing as well, and being surrounded by like-minded lovers of loud and melodic locution for so long has caused sufficient inner-ear damage so as to render the reasoning portion of your brain inept (we won't go into what this may have done to your balance or nausea resistance). Then again, maybe you're just a sad, lonely little boy who sees fit to express his inner-anguish through the majesty of song. Whatever the case, I speak for all when I say that singing while walking to class is socially unacceptable and will win you no friends, but instead a healthy following of un-admirers.

If you find that you can't resist these urges, I have a scalpel, and will gladly perform the laryngectomy myself...

Broadcasting's finest...

2010-02-17T23:30:00.003-07:00

"There's a phrase that some of us like to use called 'tapping into the eye of the tiger;' and that's just what he needs to do right now!" You go NBC Olympic announcer...

High hopes...

2010-02-05T17:06:00.004-07:00

For some reason I am attracted to professions that require a large amount of training and specialization. For a number of years I aspired to be an orthopedic surgeon or some sort of medical dude that got paid exorbitant amounts of money to cut people open—an act which under different circumstances is typically considered a felony. But with Obamacare and the currently occurring castration of the medical profession by insurance (thanks a bunch Hugh Chamberlen), I opted to become a history professor instead. So I suppose one could say I'm still going to be a doctor, except instead of healing people I crush their dreams and make them feel stupid. Go team.

But suppose the professoring doesn't work out? What if I suddenly wake up one day and decide that having unlimited access to free books for the extent of my natural life just isn't worth taking tests until I'm 32? In that event my contingency plan is to become a sushi chef—a profession where one is expected to wear an awesome headband, have cool hair, and toss around a veritable arsenal of knives that can reach up to 6 feet in length.

It's not just the cool getup and the armory that are attractive though, it's the specialization of it all. There's something empowering about having a master's degree in preparing a type of sushi that can kill you in 24 hours and is only served at 17 locations in the US. That and it's probably the closest I'll ever get to being a samurai. Whatever the case, the unagi is on me...

Jaywalking with style...

2010-01-13T23:01:00.003-07:00

Due to the awkward positioning of my place employment between two roughly equidistant crosswalks, I find it necessary to jaywalk. Frequently. As in 3-4 times a day frequently. As I've observed others in this activity and had a few experiences myself, I thought it both prudent and charitable to offer some pointers.

1. Don't hang out in the turning lane. Honestly, there are few sights more sad than that of a jaywalker standing dejectedly in the turning lane waiting for oncoming traffic to clear. This is also a clear indicator that this individual is terrible at repetitive platform-based video games (i.e. Mario, Mega Man, I dunno, pick your favorite)—learn some timing.

2. Don't run. For the love of Moses' downy white beard do NOT run. Though this also applies to general crosswalk etiquette, I can nevertheless think of no better way for an individual to compromise their basic human dignity than to run across the street like a frantic school-boy when jaywalking. Notice that it's jaywalking—not running. Additionally, when I'm driving and I see someone sprinting across the street, I can't help but speed up in an attempt to try and hit them. Who knows? Maybe I'm just sadistic, but I can imagine there are others out there who behave in like manner. So please, don't run.

3. Show no fear. The best technique for commanding the respect of drivers (and to get them to slow down if they've begun speeding madly toward you) is to keep your cool. No looking into oncoming traffic, just walk straight ahead at an accelerated leisurely pace. There's something about a confident jaywalker that has the capacity to stop entire traffic-flows, so I would challenge you to aspire to what can only be termed a feat. Staying cool also plays a role in the proper execution of number four.

4. Challenge authority. I can't enumerate the number of times I've seen would-be jaywalkers scared off by the appearance of a police car. Though some of the more zealous souls employed by the Provo Police Department have been known to "nail" jaywalkers—all while obstructing as many as three lanes of traffic—their numbers have dwindled due to fear of the masses. BYU police especially are gutless wonders, except for the old bike cop—that guy is nuts.

In the event of a fuzz spotting, the best plan of attack is to apply rule number three and add to it the defiant glare. This is accomplished by a slight raise of the chin and a simultaneous narrowing of the eyes and furrowing of the brows, thus focusing all anti-establishment energy into a single, concentrated point in front of the mouth. If words must then be spoken, they are supported by the full penetrating power of your stick-it-to-the-Man-fueled gaze, which even the hardiest of Men (and Manlings—they work for the Man) are hard-pressed to resist.

5. If arrested or otherwise compromised in your attempts at jaywalking with style, you do not know Tyler Creer...

A vision of pedestrian traffic in Hell...

2010-01-06T22:55:00.004-07:00

To the couple walking in front of me: speed it up! As if your unyielding insistence on holding hands—even to the point of catastrophic traffic obstruction—weren't enough, you now see fit to rub it in my face by walking more slowly than my half-paralyzed grandma. Oh, and now you're giving each other doe-eyed looks. And you've started kissing...great. Yeah, I'm sure that two-hour separation during class must be a trying ordeal for your tender hearts. You do realize that you've stopped moving, right? And of course, I still can't pass you because of the solidly-flowing river of humanity to our immediate left. Lovely. I didn't know making out was a spectator sport; thanks for informing me...

Are you really still kissing? Seriously, stop groping each other in public and get a room. And by the way dude, just because your wife has a ring on her finger doesn't mean that she can avoid being mistaken for 15—so you might want to keep the public tongue-unions on the scarce for about, oh, say 20 years? Actually, how about you just never do it again?! The world will thank you, trust me. You may even win some sort of prize for making the world a better place; if not, I will create a prize and give it to you.

And still kissing. I suppose someone has to come up for air eventually...

"You are a vacuous soldier of the thrift-store Gestapo..."

2010-01-04T16:51:00.005-07:00

School is back. 2009 is over. Just as the Death Star zapped Alderaan (which is strangely not marked as being misspelled), BYU's dress and grooming code has blasted my so-called "beard of rebellion" into lemon-scented oblivion. Sorry Princess Leia, but the Rebel base was easy to find after all. In other news, I was recently denied a position at Urban Outfitters—probably because I now lack facial hair thanks to outdated hippie-paranoia. That and I don't have any ubiquitous piercings or tattoos featuring demons, Oriental writing, or naked women. Darn prototypical nonconformists. Maybe if I go back with my hair elegantly disheveled...

How to drive like a douchebag...

2009-12-16T16:10:00.004-07:00

I guess I'm what you might call a "vengeful" person. Due to my love of incorporating strategy into everyday life, I intentionally postponed coming to the library today until 4:00 so that I could utilize faculty parking spaces. Unfortunately, there were a multitude of others who had the same idea. However, just as I catch sight of that coveted "A" spot that shortens my walk oh so significantly, some jerk in an '89 Accord does the same and accelerates dangerously to come sliding into the stall a split second before me. I found myself in something of a moral quandary.

You see, I'm a firm believer in the Golden Rule—'do unto others as you would have them do unto you'—or something to that effect. I support this notion because I have no qualms with reciprocating other peoples' rude behavior; in fact, I consider it a moral obligation. I do unto to them as they have done unto me, and I like to think that it makes the world a better place.

Thus, in keeping with principle, my possible responses to this incident were varied. I could forgo my role as executor of the GR and drive on—probably the most time efficient, but decidedly lacking in justice—or I could stay and make this poor fellow regret his despicable act. Keying his car (which is possibly as old as he is) would do more damage to my dignity than it would to his resale value, so that one was out. I had to think quickly, so I pulled in right behind him to give me time to consider without impeding traffic—can't forget the Golden Rule after all. It soon dawned on me that between my proximity to his car and the intense furrowing of my brows, this chap had decided against venturing outside his car and entered into a waiting game. In the interest of reciprocity, I had no choice but to oblige. So I went over some flashcards, set up a haircut appointment, and ate a granola bar—all while glaring furiously in his direction, of course.

At last, it seemed that my work was done (and I'd run of out of things to do besides) so I revved my engine, laughed as insanely as I could, and sped off to the nearest open spot, which had just become available moments before. Clearly, justice had been served, and its taste was sweet...

(It should be noted that this experience was punctuated by an extremely awkward encounter with my victim at the crosswalk, where he greeted me with bulging eyes and promptly walked in the opposite direction in the middle of a green light. I guess justice must have tasted bitter to him.)

A Battery of Compliments...

2009-12-02T17:25:00.004-07:00

I think I'm beginning to have an idea of what it's like to be in an abusive relationship. Don't get me wrong—I love School. Really I do; even when she hurts me.

She helped me to discover how much I love hanging out on the first floor of the library, which isn't quite dungeonesque enough for my taste, poring through dusty old volumes searching for passages that prove my ability to think is legitimate and that it should be rewarded with an A (only to be given a desultory A-, because TAs are even more hurtful than School herself). She enhances my social skills by forcing me to interact with thousands of people everyday—the majority of whom I don't like due to their inane babble about how their boyfriend is a business major or how the outcome of the football game was either the highlight or the destroyer of their weekend (she tells me this teaches patience). She strengthens my immune system by exposing me to every known pathogen in North America and beyond, incubated within the mucous-drenched shells of fellow students and nurtured to maturity in 80 degree classrooms. Best of all, she somehow finds a way to take what I love and plan to commit my life to and twists it into something perverse and utterly devoid of enjoyment. I used to like reading; writing was great too. But now, thousands of pages later, I'm tired. And my eyes hurt.

What's wrong School? Why are you mad at me? You take my tuition, give me parking tickets, make me pay to take tests, and even take some of my tithing—so I know that it's not a money issue. When all this is over and I leave you (or you have your employees send me angry letters telling me to make up my mind and graduate already), will your Alumni Office friends call and ask me to give you more money? I know, we still have a long, two year relationship to look forward to. But I can dream right? It's all because you told all your friends in the business world not to hire me until I'd dated you for at least four years. That was mean...

Keep that thing in your pants where it belongs...

2009-10-28T22:56:00.000-06:00

Seriously kids - worst month ever. As can probably be ascertained from previous posts, school has a remarkable tendency to bring out the most cynical aspects of my character, and this semester is certainly no exception. As I see October moving towards its conclusion I can't help but send it off with a hearty "good riddance"; but not without at least one blog post to characterize what should be the eighth month of the year. The latest topic of a polemical tirade: phallic symbolism.

You see, I've always had an intense love-hate relationship with symbolism in art and literature. Some symbols I can understand and see how they enhance a work, but others just seem like the products of humanities professors attempting to keep their jobs. The most flagrant of these interpretations is the phallic symbol (or penis symbol for those of you unfamiliar with your Greek roots).

For some reason, people just can't get enough of identifying mundane objects in stories as representations of wieners. For example, if someone gets killed by a spear, it means that they were symbolically raped or subdued by the masculine dominance embodied by the spear. Common sense, right? However, I propose that - and this may come off as shocking to many - sometimes a spear, really is just a spear. The same goes for swords, clubs, arrows, guns, and any other type of weapon that has been construed as the tangible manifestation of a hero's virility.

The spear is actually a very practical way to kill someone: it provides a goodly amount of distance between you and the spearee, it's cheap to make, and easier to use effectively than a sword. Penetration is also a great way to kill things since it usually induces bleeding, which has a marked propensity for causing death if sustained for an appreciable amount of time. Bottom line: sometimes characters are just trying to be practical in their enemy-slaying.

Thus it is because of purported phallic symbolism that if I were given control of a time-machine, the first thing I would do would be to go back in time to 1899 and kill Sigmund Freud with a shovel. Analyze that...

Check please...

2009-09-29T00:04:00.000-06:00

I no longer want to have good luck with parking spots. Clearly justice is not blind, because in the cosmic system of checks and balances that governs my life, parking spots are catalysts of disaster. I'm not sure of the particulars, but what is clear is that whenever I find that coveted oh-so-convenient parking spot that shortens my walking time by ten minutes, calamity is soon to follow.

In just two weeks of having tremendous fortune at what would seem the worst of traffic times, nearly everything else in my life has been merrily transported to Hell in a hand-basket. Debilitating illnesses abound, brain tumors grow like recalcitrant weeds, and dreams seem to have a strong propensity for being crushed, shattered, or at least maimed. Perhaps the most obfuscating thing of all is that these misfortunes happen to other people around me, not to myself, which leaves me to ponder the more frustrating question of "why not me instead?"

I suppose it's kind of nice to have parking be the key indicator of ill omen - in a confusion alleviating sort of way. At least I have a heads-up of sorts that tells me when the crap is going to hit the fan. So in a gesture of gratitude and manipulation of destiny, I think I may just park at the Provo temple tomorrow...

On the fast-track to brevity...

2009-09-14T20:24:00.000-06:00

Welcome back school, I've missed you. After a few bungled attempts to generate something decent to post, I've finally realized the ugly truth - massive fully-developed rants are no longer feasible. So it is with great distaste that I digress to smaller, more bite-size morsels. Don't worry though baby, I promise I'll try to make up for it with frequency.

So now that I spend a great deal of my week on what they call "the Lord's campus" (didn't they already name the temple that though?...), I have plenty of opportunity to observe some pretty strange and ridiculous biznass. I was strolling through "the Wilk" - an activity I despise due in no small part to my recent remembrance of how much I dislike people - when I saw a logo-esque sign for the Cougar Eat. Actually, that's how it should be spelled, but unfortunately someone must have missed that day in sign-making class. Instead it reads 'COUGAREAT' in all caps, which for me prompts the pronunciation cuu-gahr-ee-aht. Am I the only one that feels this sounds remarkably like some locale in Middle-Earth?

Perhaps the snow-capped peaks of some towering mountain that houses an ancient dwarven fortress deep within its chthonic bowels. Or maybe the land of a noble race of men that guard the northern passes from the savagery of the orc. In any case, it certainly doesn't sound like the home of Teriyaki Stix (I've always wondered, why not 'Styx'?), Subway Jr., and the always delicious Taco Bell. Maybe they should consider a change in focus? I know I'd be up for lunch with Gimli and Glorfindel...

Protracted prolongation of perpetually predestinated pessimism...

2009-08-26T22:12:00.000-06:00

Wow, it's hard to believe that it's been two and a half weeks since the last post. Forgiveness is requested but not expected. Let me just say however, that I got frostbite, was supplied with weeks worth of rantable topics by a visit to Lagoon, and decided to begin developing an inevitably ill-fated stand-up comedy routine. Eventful happenings, to be sure. Though it seems a little strange to me to attempt a revival of the chain of continuity that I began so long ago, it feels somehow morally remiss to not follow up on my promise to continue my caustic categorizations of music listeners. Seeing as how the four of you haven't given me any negative or positive feedback, I see no reason not to carry on.

Today we're going to talk about a group that I have dubbed the Relics. Individuals belonging to this posse are a little harder to pick out in a crowd than Ecclectists, but their identities can ben easily discovered by the utterance of two simple words: Classic Rock. Yes, they're the ones that live in decades now past -- even though quite often they either weren't alive or passably lucid (due to either age, drugs, or both) during said decades.

Perhaps the most intriguing aspect of the Relic group is that their subject of interest covers such a broad spectrum -- usually the 60's, 70's, 80's, and in some circles even the 90's. As such, it's nearly impossible for a given Relic to be fantastically knowledgeable about all these decades. This makes for a very interesting form of division which I liken to the way college degrees are divvied up. For example someone could get a bachelor's degree in the 70's, a master's in the 60's, and a doctorate in the 80's, etc. Most Relics I've encountered (with Sir Ron Farris and a handful of others being notable exceptions) haven't gone beyond the master's level, and the most flooded areas of expertise appear to be the 70's and 80's. Love of bands and artists such as Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, Queen, Van Halen, and Pink Floyd is nearly universal. Also nearing universality is the ownership and ability to play the guitar -- oftentimes multiple guitars -- which I believe is directly tied to love of Van Halen.

It's best to deal with a Relic the same way one would a historian or classicist: love and respect them for their love of the past, but pity them for their tragic disconnect with the present. However, don't be too averse to allowing that pity to be mixed with a little "Let There Be Rock"...

Potentially pretentious ambitions...

2009-08-09T20:58:00.001-06:00

It seems as though the release of my pent-up political feelings has sent a draught of adventurousness through my system and as such, I've decided to try something new for the next few posts. If you like the multi-post exploration of a topic that's too big for its britches, let me know. If you don't, then tough luck (though I would like to hear about that too). You see, I've recently come to the realization that I have a knack for categorizing and establishing stereotypes (because let's face it -- they're fun). So for the next little while, we're going to talk about music.

By the time you've reached college-age, it's nearly impossible for someone not to have encountered at least some genre of music that manages to make their groove bone tingle. Some folks tingle more than others, but I think that everyone has it to at least some degree. What I'm going to address is the transformative effect this can have on a person and some of the quirks it's capable of producing. Undoubtedly I'll be stepping on a number of sensitive toes as I explore various genres of music and their respective devotees, so I'm starting with the group which I was once a part of.

These are what I like to call the Ecclectists. Typically fans of indie or alternative rock, perhaps their greatest quirk is that quality and enjoyment are not always the most important factors in choosing the music they listen to. The strongest motivator for the Ecclectist is the pursuit of the obscure and underground. These are the folks commonly found in used record stores or perusing the internet for the most random and unknown bands they can find. They then proceed to buy t-shirts and armbands from said bands, which they wear almost exclusively and use as a sort of war-totem to provoke those around them to challenge their mastery of obscurity.

The most intriguing aspect of Ecclectist culture is what I have dubbed "the name game." This strange, almost ritualistic ceremony takes place whenever suitable challengers cross paths, and is commenced by a given Ecclectist asking one or more prospective opponents what bands they like. This is of course a clever ruse, because all serious participants know that this battle has nothing to do with "liking" anything -- it is to decide who is the most hardcore of them all.

A frenzied whirlwind of cumbersome cognomina ensues, and when the dust settles the victor is decided when all but one competitor have run out of un-acclaimed bands to name. In the event of an impasse, the tie goes to whichever band is the most local. Every so often someone will slip in the midst of this war and name a group that is considered too popular, but a common recovery tactic is to reply that the band in question was good before they were big; this serves to recoup the honor (or "street-cred") lost by the previous blunder, and the contest resumes.

The sagely message for the Ecclectists of the world: listen to music because you actually enjoy it, not because no one else knows about it. Uniqueness is fun and we all want it to a degree, but don't let it become an obsession. There are enough crappy bands with dumb names in this world -- don't help any more of them than you have to...

Like cajun cuisine, minus the gas...

2009-08-05T15:09:00.000-06:00

Greetings to all. For today's post, I'd merely like to direct your collective attention to a little side project of sorts I've begun contributing to. A few friends of mine have decided to express their discontent with our government's spending policies etc. through the magic of politically-fueled bloggage, and they were kind enough to invite me to offer some of my thoughts. You can read it all here. Naturally I couldn't resist such a tantalizing treat, because I am constantly beset by fervid yearnings for a political outlet.

You probably have no idea, but it takes a constant vigil on the part of my mind sentinels to keep my three readers (now joined by a Russian hand-model name Grigori) shielded from the putrid word-jambalaya that would result from the unrestrained expression of my political analyses. Fortunately for the world they keep me somewhat restrained, so with such assurances I invite you to kindly take a look. Now excuse me while I continue my search for a suitable topic for the next tirade...