At school, I ride a shuttle almost everyday. While it is certainly a convenient method of traversing campus, it varies as to just how enjoyable a trip it may or may not be. For example, I was recently stuck listening to country music for a good four or five minutes as I awaited my destination. Drivers often listen to the radio as they make their rounds, but I think there should be a rule against country music. It seems to stand in strict opposition to the purpose of the university—namely, to increase one’s intellect. But this week more than made up for it. As I climbed aboard the Blue the other day (the routes are color-coded, lest you’re confused), the driver was playing a Barenaked Ladies CD. That’s right, my very favorite band. It wasn’t that a BNL song just happened to be on the radio at that moment; there was an actual succession of certified BNL gems streaming out of the shuttle’s shoddy, static-ridden speakers. “Hey, I know this! I know this album! I own this album! I can tell you what album it is!” So the thoughts came to me as I sat in silence, lightly tapping my toes and pretending to keep my cool. Meanwhile, my mind was swallowed up in the dark clouds of a fierce brainstorm. How could I let the driver know that I know what CD he is playing, while avoiding looking like a dork who’s only purpose is to let the driver know that I know what CD he is playing? Hmmm. In the end, I said nothing. I did nothing. I thought about tossing a casual remark his way as I stepped off the bus, something like, “That’s a great album,” or, “BNL rock the house,” or whatnot. But what would he care? And yet it was somehow painful to just walk away from it all, like I had spotted my favorite celebrity and, despite the rarity of such an occasion, forced myself not to cause a disturbance. What would be the point, after all?
Well, the next morning, I was again on the shuttle. The driver (not my co-BNL fan) was listening to the radio, and Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall, Pt. 2” was playing. While most people are familiar with the schoolchildren chant that is this song’s chorus (“We don’t need no education…”), one woman on the bus felt compelled to perform an exaggerated lip-sync of the song. Though she pretended not to vie for anyone’s attention, her painfully pronounced facial gestures suggested she was auditioning for someone to notice. I admit, I was slightly annoyed, but was there any difference between what she was doing and what I had wanted to do? Unfortunately, probably not.
Since then, I’ve been thinking about this a bit. Why do we have this natural impulse to disclose our tastes in art (including music, books, movies, etc.) to those whom we believe share in them? Are we merely seeking validation? Or is being understood such a rare commodity that finding someone who shares your interests is like finding a soulmate? I tend to lean toward the latter. When the bus driver was listening to a CD I loved, it was like an immediate intimacy existed between us, even though he never knew about it. The point was, he must have, on some level, understood and felt about something the same way I did. Rarely does someone else come so close to seeing the world through our own eyes (or, perhaps more appropriately, hearing the world through our own ears). When it happens, it’s exciting. It seems different with art than anything else, such as the mere sharing of an opinion. Art is emotional and personal. Thus, our similarities are emotional and personal ones. To know someone shares your taste in art more readily makes that person your emotional kin, something that even common opinions (however fervent) cannot do, at least not so quickly. And this is probably why being insulted when it comes to artistic tastes is a much greater slap in the face. It’s like discrediting someone’s emotions and personality.
So, um … to all country music fans reading this post, I hope you’ll accept my apology. I’m sorry.
Formerly Benj (& Purge); formerly Sucking on Oranges
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Monday, April 25, 2005
Closer to Free
With finals steadily approaching, I haven’t really had much time for blogging. Luckily, although I have another 10 days or so before I am completely done with school, the worst of it is over. Though I will still be busy, I will not be as stressed. Today I turned in my last paper of the semester. Wednesday, I have my final in Deductive Logic and Friday I have my final in Latin. These will require less preparation than my Greek and Classical Civilization finals taking place next week, so for the moment I feel relatively calm. It’s wonderful. To add to my delight, the weather has been near perfect lately (re: cool and occasionally rainy) and the tulips are springing up all over town. Think of me what you will, I love flowers. How can you not? And tulips have always been among my very favorites. They are simple, but graceful. Gotta love ‘em.
In less than two weeks, I hope my blogging frequency will increase again. I am stowing away a bevy of blogging ideas and look forward to unleashing them. Until then, I will again share a few of my favorite discoveries of late. Make of these what you will.
Delightful Discoveries o’ the Week:
In less than two weeks, I hope my blogging frequency will increase again. I am stowing away a bevy of blogging ideas and look forward to unleashing them. Until then, I will again share a few of my favorite discoveries of late. Make of these what you will.
Delightful Discoveries o’ the Week:
- Philocrites, the Unitarian Universalist, posted an interesting bit of more-or-less useless information regarding how long the American flag should be lowered for the deaths of varying religious leaders. He bases this on the denomination/membership ratios of the given religions, using the pope's death as a standard. This probably appealed to me because I, too, like to figure out useless information. Recently, as I walked to the bus stop after school, I found it fascinating to realize that so long as a bus comes every one minute, every two minutes, every three minutes, every four minutes, every five minutes, every six minutes, every ten minutes, every fifteen minutes, every twenty minutes, every thirty minutes, or every sixty minutes, it will come on the same minute of every hour. In essence, this equates to nothing more than the factors of 60, but it sure did entertain me as I meandered across campus.
- Michèle introduced me to a fascinating literary device known as "Found Poetry." I had never heard of it before, but it certainly sounds intriguing. Check out what it is and, if you feel so inspired, use my post to create your very own found poem. Leave it as a comment and, if I like yours the best, you will win a prize ... like a comment from me saying, "I like yours the best!"
- Via comments left on JL Pagano's blog, I discovered that Cookie Monster has his own blog. Given the recent hubbub surrounding Cookie Monster's diet, I found this blog to be quite amusing, especially the bit about the new FDA food pyramids. Give it a look. (And if you haven't heard about Cookie Monster's diet troubles, see this post at JL Pagano's site for the quick skinny).
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
May I Have the Envelope, Please?
--or--
Return to Sender?
As mentioned in an earlier post, I recently applied for a summer philosophy seminar at the University of Colorado. I had every reason to believe I would not get in, but it turns out I was accepted. This news should be thrilling, but it couldn't have come at a worse time. With finals steadily approaching, I do not feel prepared to handle such jarring jolts of anxiety. For all the feigned confidence I strive to exude via the anonymous sanctuary that is the World Wide Web, this scares the living crap out of me. I knew I was taking a risk when I applied, because I knew if I got in, I couldn't rightfully turn it down. Now I'm freaking out. Aside from the obvious fear that everyone else will be so much smarter and better read than I am, and that I, as someone who hates confrontation, will be thrown into the midst of intellectual warfare with vastly inferior provisions, I also dread the thought of leaving my honeypie for three weeks straight! What if I cry in front of my roommate? Yes, yes, the cat is out of the bag ... I'm just a big a softy, and a timid one at that! *Sigh* I need a bon-bon!
Return to Sender?
As mentioned in an earlier post, I recently applied for a summer philosophy seminar at the University of Colorado. I had every reason to believe I would not get in, but it turns out I was accepted. This news should be thrilling, but it couldn't have come at a worse time. With finals steadily approaching, I do not feel prepared to handle such jarring jolts of anxiety. For all the feigned confidence I strive to exude via the anonymous sanctuary that is the World Wide Web, this scares the living crap out of me. I knew I was taking a risk when I applied, because I knew if I got in, I couldn't rightfully turn it down. Now I'm freaking out. Aside from the obvious fear that everyone else will be so much smarter and better read than I am, and that I, as someone who hates confrontation, will be thrown into the midst of intellectual warfare with vastly inferior provisions, I also dread the thought of leaving my honeypie for three weeks straight! What if I cry in front of my roommate? Yes, yes, the cat is out of the bag ... I'm just a big a softy, and a timid one at that! *Sigh* I need a bon-bon!
Friday, April 15, 2005
But Enough About Me...
This week, I've continued to stumble upon high-quality blogs and add them to my links list. A bevy of choice sites are now available to the distinguishing blogophile. Here are some of my favorite discoveries (individual posts, not blogs themselves) from this past week (though the posts were not necessarily written this week):
- For those struggling to find enough to do on the Internet to guarantee that you don't have enough time to do what you actually should be doing (you with me?), Andy of Vermont provides a link to several enjoyable animated shorts available on the web (all for free, of course). I personally find the first batch (from Homestarrunner.com) to be the most enjoyable. That site will give you hours of viewing pleasure, especially if you like somewhat random humor (of special note are the stick-figure-esque adventures of the Teen Girl Squad). Give them a gander today!
- JL Pagano gave a scathing-but-undeniably-fair assessment of what used to be one of my favorite television programs, Everybody Loves Raymond. I'm embarrassed to admit my former fondness for the show, as recent viewings have led me to concur with JL. But I've noticed this with most TV shows--if you go away from them for long enough, they will seem horribly trite when you return. ELR definitely falls into that camp. (And I don't think Patricia Heaton's annoying Albertson's commercials have helped my reception of the show, either.)
- For those who like to stew over hypothetical questions, prepare to be stewed! Is money the root of all evil? You better decide now, as both Buffalo and Kieran are positing questions that may be influenced by such opinions. Once you've decided, see what they're asking and, most importantly, let them know what you think!
- Ivory posted a link to a hilarious site that will translate any webpage (even your own!) into gangsta speak. Obscenities abound (as one might expect), so consider yourself forewarned. To see wassup, check out the first link on Ivory's post.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Sandman on Strike?
In my experience, intending to get a full night’s sleep and never actually getting one is synonymous with being a college student. In the last few years, there have been plenty of times when seven hours of sleep sounded absolutely luxurious, and somewhere between five and six hours sounded pretty darn decent. Don’t get me wrong – I realize that plenty of people are sleep-deprived, while some weirdoes are even content with their five hours of sleep. But, to quote a popular children’s story, “‘Not I,’ said the pig.”
Alas, I have really been trying to do better lately, and I’m feeling all the better for it. But, for whatever reason, Tuesday night was different. The fates conspired against me and, despite the fatigue I knew was hiding in me somewhere, my very alert brain would not forfeit itself over to sleep. To give you a feeling of what I went through, let me provide the following chronology:
9:00pm – Having talked to my sister on the phone for about an hour and a half, I am suddenly slammed with exhaustion. Yawns come in rapid succession, my eyes begin to water and burn at the same time, and I question if I can even get ready for bed without falling asleep first. I politely say goodbye, retire the phone to its cradle, and begin my pre-bedtime repertoire.
9:20pm – I am in bed. Lights are out, but I find my eyes scanning the room anyway. It’s the same blank, black canvas I could easily find on the backside of my eyelids, but somehow I find the room much more intriguing. Thoughts stir. Like a passenger on the bus who finds it nerve-wracking not to engage total strangers in conversation, my brain won’t shutup. I pretend I can’t hear him talking, but he seems oblivious. On and on he goes. And on. And on. And on. And on.
10:30pm – Having thought of enough blog topics to last a lifetime, I finally concede defeat. Like a white flag of surrender, I wave my bedsheet over me, throwing my legs to the floor and rising with a frustratingly accessible earnestness. I should not feel this alert. I do not want to feel this alert. Sleep has stood me up, and only now has the disappointment fueled enough anger for me to swallow my pride, stand up, and get out of there. I head to my living room.
11:10pm – I’ve spent the last 40 minutes sitting in a chair, mind racing, toes tapping. I've changed rooms, but I’m not anymore productive, nor am I anymore tired. Nevertheless, I decide to give it another go. Tomorrow morning is drawing ever more near and I’m upset that it refuses to acknowledge my situation and just lay off for a bit. But no, the clock keeps ticking. What’s the point? Sleep and I have always gotten along before. I guess I just misread its signals earlier in the evening. I head back to bed.
12:50am – After much diligence, remaining steadfast in my darkened room, I look at my clock for the last time before sleep finally comes. Not that it comes too quickly. It was most certainly after 1:00am before it had the audacity to waltz in like nothing had ever happened. Like a whore, I welcomed it to my bed without the slightest bit of shame. I didn’t ask where it had been or whom it had been with. I was just glad it had finally shown up. I knew that in just a few short hours it would slip quietly out the door and leave me blinking dumbly at an empty room. But I pushed the thought away. What did it matter? We were together. Finally, we were together.
6:22am – The jarring voice of the all-too-enthusiastic disk jockey is quickly brushed away by my fumbling hand. With false hope my eyes flash open, hoping to find that sleep has only gone to the bathroom and will soon be climbing back into bed with me, that it’s not actually gone. But no, there is nothing. I sigh and lean back against my pillow, curling the blankets up under my chin. Everything is as I had expected. I have no right to be disappointed, but I am. All the highs and lows of the night before seem like distant memories. All my bitterness is gone as I think of the sweet embrace sleep finally offered me. I sigh and stretch and drag myself out of bed. It’ll be okay, I tell myself. What’s done is done. We’ve gotten in tiffs before, but this time will be different. I’ll never go to sleep mad again. I promise.
Alas, I have really been trying to do better lately, and I’m feeling all the better for it. But, for whatever reason, Tuesday night was different. The fates conspired against me and, despite the fatigue I knew was hiding in me somewhere, my very alert brain would not forfeit itself over to sleep. To give you a feeling of what I went through, let me provide the following chronology:
9:00pm – Having talked to my sister on the phone for about an hour and a half, I am suddenly slammed with exhaustion. Yawns come in rapid succession, my eyes begin to water and burn at the same time, and I question if I can even get ready for bed without falling asleep first. I politely say goodbye, retire the phone to its cradle, and begin my pre-bedtime repertoire.
9:20pm – I am in bed. Lights are out, but I find my eyes scanning the room anyway. It’s the same blank, black canvas I could easily find on the backside of my eyelids, but somehow I find the room much more intriguing. Thoughts stir. Like a passenger on the bus who finds it nerve-wracking not to engage total strangers in conversation, my brain won’t shutup. I pretend I can’t hear him talking, but he seems oblivious. On and on he goes. And on. And on. And on. And on.
10:30pm – Having thought of enough blog topics to last a lifetime, I finally concede defeat. Like a white flag of surrender, I wave my bedsheet over me, throwing my legs to the floor and rising with a frustratingly accessible earnestness. I should not feel this alert. I do not want to feel this alert. Sleep has stood me up, and only now has the disappointment fueled enough anger for me to swallow my pride, stand up, and get out of there. I head to my living room.
11:10pm – I’ve spent the last 40 minutes sitting in a chair, mind racing, toes tapping. I've changed rooms, but I’m not anymore productive, nor am I anymore tired. Nevertheless, I decide to give it another go. Tomorrow morning is drawing ever more near and I’m upset that it refuses to acknowledge my situation and just lay off for a bit. But no, the clock keeps ticking. What’s the point? Sleep and I have always gotten along before. I guess I just misread its signals earlier in the evening. I head back to bed.
12:50am – After much diligence, remaining steadfast in my darkened room, I look at my clock for the last time before sleep finally comes. Not that it comes too quickly. It was most certainly after 1:00am before it had the audacity to waltz in like nothing had ever happened. Like a whore, I welcomed it to my bed without the slightest bit of shame. I didn’t ask where it had been or whom it had been with. I was just glad it had finally shown up. I knew that in just a few short hours it would slip quietly out the door and leave me blinking dumbly at an empty room. But I pushed the thought away. What did it matter? We were together. Finally, we were together.
6:22am – The jarring voice of the all-too-enthusiastic disk jockey is quickly brushed away by my fumbling hand. With false hope my eyes flash open, hoping to find that sleep has only gone to the bathroom and will soon be climbing back into bed with me, that it’s not actually gone. But no, there is nothing. I sigh and lean back against my pillow, curling the blankets up under my chin. Everything is as I had expected. I have no right to be disappointed, but I am. All the highs and lows of the night before seem like distant memories. All my bitterness is gone as I think of the sweet embrace sleep finally offered me. I sigh and stretch and drag myself out of bed. It’ll be okay, I tell myself. What’s done is done. We’ve gotten in tiffs before, but this time will be different. I’ll never go to sleep mad again. I promise.
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