Keep Alex Weird

Doing things.

2008-05-23T18:08:00.002-04:00

I've been mildly productive day, which it turns out comes from a place of boredom for me. I cleaned up my computer desktop, nuked my e-mail in box, and picked out a few Web 2.0 applications to try to work into my classes next semester. Should be good stuff.

Next plan, launch The Interrobang Project for real. 500 words a day. Every day.

Right.

Eight Belles.

2008-05-05T14:02:00.005-04:00

This is a simul-post with my new blogging venture, over at http://interrobangproject.blogspot.com If you'd like to comment, please do it over there. Kthanxbi.

If you watched the Kentucky Derby this weekend, or have turned on a TV or radio since, you probably already know this story. Eight Belles, the lone filly in the race, crossed the finish line second before suffering what appeared to be some freak accident that broke both her ankles. She was euthanized immediately.

This is a bit of a big deal. The Derby is horse racing's Super Bowl, arguably the only race that's actually relevant to a majority of the American population. Usually, the discussion afterwards deals solely with the winning horse and some feel-good story associated with it, whether it's the winning jockey pausing to thank his family for sticking by him as he moved them around the country chasing this business (as happened this year, before the Eight Belles news broke) or a group of blue-collar owners who are the antithesis of the Millionaire's Row culture of Churchill Downs (see Funny Cide, 2003).

Having the second-place horse put down in the middle of the track kinda ruins those parties.

Eight Belles has been the story this year and various people have been crawling out of the woodwork to condemn horse racing and call for changes within the sport. That's fine. Here's PETA's take, though.

Just after crossing the finish line in the Kentucky Derby on May 3, 2008, a young filly named Eight Belles collapsed when both of her front ankles snapped. She was euthanized in the dirt where she lay, the latest victim of the dirty business of thoroughbred racing.

Eight Belles' death is yet another reminder that these horses are raced when they are so young that their bones have not properly formed, and they are often raced on surfaces that are too hard for their bones—like the hard track at Churchill Downs. Eight Belles' jockey whipped her mercilessly as she came down the final stretch. This is no great surprise, since trainers, owners, and jockeys are all driven by the desire to make money, leaving the horses to suffer terribly.

PETA is calling on the racing industry to suspend the jockey and trainer, to bar the owner from racing at the track, and, at the very least, to stop using young horses who are so susceptible to these types of horrific injuries. We're also demanding that the industry stop racing horses on hard tracks and switch to softer, synthetic surfaces, which would spare horses' bones and joints, in addition to calling for a permanent ban on the use of whips. Help PETA call for an end to cruelty masquerading as sport by using the form below to take action today.

Although Eight Belles' death, like Barbaro's before hers, made headlines, countless lesser-known horses suffer similar fates—their broken legs and battered bodies are simply hidden from public view. Most racehorses end up broken down or cast off or are sent to Europe for slaughter.

Alright. There's a lot there, so sorry if it just made your head explode a bit. There's a lot I like in there, but it's wrapped up in the typical PETA craziness that makes me want to pull out my hair sometimes because, as a vegetarian, many people assume PETA gives me my marching orders. Not quite.

Here's what PETA should have written.

May 3, 2008 saw the 134th running of the Kentucky Derby, one of the longest-running sporting events in this country. After the race, the story was not about Big Brown, the winning horse, but Eight Belles, a filly who broke both legs after the race and was euthanized on the track.

The passing of Eight Belles brings to light one of the sad truths about horse racing: the races don't always end well for the horses. The events of this year's race occur less than two years after Derby winner Barbaro died from complications of injuries suffered during the course of racing.

We are not attacking the practice of horse racing. We understand that it is a beloved part of the history of much of this country, not just the south. We are not asking that the races be shut down, that jockies or owners be fined or suspended, or that we take away the infield parties, large hats and mint juleps. We do ask, though, that as this tradition moves forward, it do so in a way that puts a higher priority on the health of the animals who literally carry the sport.

We would like to see more research done into the ways the sport can be improved. Until that research has been completed, though, there are some measures that can be implemented now. First, all race tracks should be converted to the synthetic racing material that has seen increased usage in recent years. This new surface is easier on the horses than either dirt or turf, and does not have any effect on the quality of racing. Secondly, the use of whips during racing is cruel, and also perpetuates an image that is counteractive to the positive aspects of the sport. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, we ask that horses not be raced until they are four years old. By this point, the horses would be considerably stronger than many of the horses currently being raced, and this should help prevent the type of injuries suffered by Eight Belles.

The passing of Eight Belles is not an isolated incident. Studies have shown that 2.3 fatalities occur during every 1,000 starts on dirt tracks. While that may initially seem like a small number, keep in mind that the Kentucky Derby itself saw 20 horses start the race, and more than ten races were held at Churchill Downs that day. Fatalities, sadly, appear to be a part of horse racing.

"These things are our family," Eight Belles trainer Larry Jones said after the race. "We put everything into them that we have. They've given us everything they have. They put their life on the damn line, and she was glad to do it."

If that's truly the case, the least we can do is ensure that we're doing our best to keep the horses willing to put their lives on the line alive.

Or something like that.

Let's see how fast this thing can go

2008-04-25T07:09:00.002-04:00

It's that time of year again, when things are slowly springing to life and the forces of academia conspire to make sure they choke any life they've left in you out. There's this constant white noise underlying everything, and a pleasant run to everyone's favorite neighborhood restaurant left me with the impression that at this time of the year, it's best to stay out of the way because absolutely everyone is expendable now that the group projects are done. It's the point in the year where, if grad students were armed with nine millimeters, we'd all go insane in our apartments, trying to figure out if the risk of getting shot was worth getting the chance to bust a cap in all of those people.

Today's the final round of classes before the final, where I help them cram so they don't fail the test, while silently hoping no one studies outside of class so my grade curve evens out. I'm a little easy, it turns out.

Because it's the final round of classes, it's also evaluation time. Whic is my least favorite day of the year. I feel like this semseter went better from a teaching standpoin than the last one did, I was definitely much more organized, and with the changes that are happeneing next year, that will only get better.

After today, I've got three take-home tests to wrap up, which I'm hoping to knock out this weekend, and then my first year of grad school is done. Weird.

5:37 A.M.

2008-04-18T07:49:00.001-04:00

'Cause my tone was curt

2008-03-24T17:57:00.003-04:00

I hate days like these, days that find me stuck up in the office with just enough time to let my brain start wandering, days where my brain wanders its way to Ani DiFranco, the type of woman (to borrow/re-work a line from Mark Z. Danielewski) I rarely think of and never visit, and thinking about Ani always ruins my day because, on some small level, I realize exactly how rarely I really burn for anything in my world.

In thirty seconds of watching DiFranco explain to George Strambolopolous why she refers to her baby's father as her "baby's daddy" rather than... "boyfriend" or... "partner" I was more inspired/ignited/turned on in a completely non-sexual way than I am by anyone who actually inhabits my world.

And it's one of those things that is at the same time amazing and incredibly destructive. Amazing because it makes me want to tear out of this office and go wage peace and write books and drive fast, and destructive because I know, a. that's not going to happen and b. I don't have anyone right now who makes me want to do that.

Knowing that, though, knowing that the impetus to do anything that will stand up as being really worthwhile is going to have to come from somewhere inside myself, and not some masked stranger I seem to keep waiting on, is an incredibly impactful piece of knowledge. At least, it should be, but I'd be lying if I said I hadn't felt exactly like this countless times before.

The little plastic castle is a surprise every time.

And the thing that bothers me most, I think, is the fact that as I'm typing this, I know exactly who the people are that I feel are stifling me. Whether or not they actually are isn't the point, because unless someone changed the rules on me when I wasn't paying attention, we're living in a world where anything is questionable, and none of those questions have answers that make any sense unless you're drinking a very specific brand of kool-aid, a brand that constantly changes based on the questions asked.

Lately, it feels like I've been drinking whatever anyone hands me, even if it is in just a red solo cup, and even if I didn't see them pour it, and even if they're telling me they've dropped poison in it. Some self-preservation switch somewhere inside of me doesn't seem to be functioning, and it hasn't been since that first time I graduated, just about five years ago.

I left home looking for... something, and surprisingly, since I had no idea what I was looking for, I haven't been able to find it. That search has left me empty-handed, except for a long string of broken promises and cell phone contacts that eventually are going to amount to nothing.

That's how I work, if you haven't caught on yet. I am something of a study in impermanence, while at the same time staying exactly the same. The chunks of space rock that make up the rings of Saturn are consistently expelled from the formation and replaced, but the planet and the moons remain the same. The problem is when you forget which group is which.

And I think I've done an incredible job of forgetting lately. My priorities have become so twisted there are times when I look at myself in the mirror and am shocked at who I find staring back at me. This is the point where I drop the phrase "cognitive dissonance" and Cara does the c.d. gesture and I melt a little bit because it's moments like that where life makes sense and I feel like I'm in the right place.

In the relatively fictitious world of television, there's allegedly a saying "this won't play in Peoria." Essentially, the concept behind it is that if something's not going to go over in middle America, it's not going on anywhere. The office is quickly becoming that to me. If you can hang there, and really hang there, not just get the two-second tour, if you can chill on the modular couches and take the boarderline harrassment that makes up a huge chunk of the grad school existence, then you are really and truly "in," I think, and that's a litmus test almost no one actually gets to take.

And I like it that way. It's the one thing I've been keeping close to my chest, and the couple times someone has been asked to rise to that occasion, they've stepped up, big time. Just like they always do.

There's been this mantra in my family, mantra's not the right word, let's go with... theory. There's been this theory in my family for some time now... and it's been one of those things that's just kinda sat there. It gets brought up every now and then, we joke about it, and then it fades away.

I think it's starting to take hold, though, and that's entirely scary. The scariest part of the whole scenario is that it feels like it makes sense. I explained it, really explained it, to new people for the first time today, and it's one of those situations where once you step back enough to tell the story to someone else, it seems like there's only one way it can end. Aaahhh.

So, it seems like the only real nextt step is to load up the car and tear off into that strange night. But I have interviews tomorrow, and i've an appointment on tuesday.

"The Code"

2008-03-24T11:24:00.002-04:00

We live in a world that's regulated by codes. We've got rules about how to prepare food in restaurants, how long you have to wait before dating a friend's ex, and we've more or less come to a consensus on when it's acceptible to not wear pants.

Hockey's got a code, too, and the hockey code involves when it is acceptible, is not acceptible, or is required to drop the gloves and fight someone. For the most part, the code is followed pretty well. If you take a cheap shot at one of the other team's skill players, you should probably expect that big hulking guy to come after you. Crash the net too hard and try to take out the goalie, you're looking at the same consequences.

However, sometimes people don't follow to code at all. Case in point, one young Mr. Jonathan Roy (that's french, and is pronounced Wha) who found simself standing around, bored, when there was a bit of a fight going on around him.

That's all kinds of not acceptible, there.

crackberry

2008-03-10T16:12:00.000-04:00

I'm punching this out on my mom's blackberry, somewhere on the road in Pennsylvania. Graham and I are spending break in the district, then taking a rental car back, by ourselves, which should be interesting.I'll write more later, when I'm not on a phone. Peace.

Another blog for me to not update

2008-03-05T13:48:00.004-05:00

Just in case you need another place to not read my stuff... I've started another blog, entitled The Interrobang Project, over at http://interrobangproject.blogspot.com Hopefully by tonight I'll have a post up, both here and there, explaining the whole deal, but for right now, I there's nothing up.

Have faith, Keep Alex Weird still exists, and will still be updated. Promise.

Playtime.

2008-01-31T16:48:00.000-05:00

My penchant for play has been relatively well documented. I'm 23, still love a rousing game of Risk, watch professional wrestling, and throw Kerouac and Simone around the same exact way parents throw their kids and freak me out.

This weekend, if you've been living under a rock, is the Super Bowl, which I think I can write without getting sued. We'll see.

Anyway, as part of the Alex-Risk-Wrestling-Ker-Si Spirit of Play, you should pick a team and scream your lungs out. In your living room. Go ahead. Act a fool. It's good for you.

Post-Its

2008-01-30T13:10:00.000-05:00

I love life, and I love it because it's not fun, or easy. I love it because, as soon as you've closed the book on something or someone, as soon as you think you've moved on, life or God or whatever you think is controlling this wacky ride we're on pipes up and says "You know what, kid, not so much."

And I love it even more when God drops that bomb through a post-it. Because it's kinda hard to take anything too serious when it comes on a post-it.

I've got this great vision of some apocalyptic event, the kind of thing that makes us all reconsider what it's like to be a human, and someone being informed of that via post-it.

That's All.

Her house smells like soup.

2008-01-30T10:32:00.000-05:00

If you haven't seen Juno yet, go do it.

BLOG 602: Alex writes a retraction

2008-01-07T09:36:00.000-05:00

Dear WGA Members,

The response to my e-mail last night has been tremendous. Overnight, enough of you responded that I would feel entirely comfortable entering negotiations to end this strike.

However, new developments have occured since my last correspondence.

Ummmm.... yeah. So, I'll see you guys on the picket line in the morning, right?

BlOG 602: Alex Jonathan Brown, head of the WGA, writes to his fellow guild members.

2008-01-06T20:01:00.000-05:00

Subject: That whole strike thing we've been doing.

Ladies and gentlemen, I'm proud to report that the strike is going well. Our brothers and sisters on the line are still going strong, even as the strike rolls into its third month. Also, I'm pleased to announce we have reached a deal with United Artists that will allow our writers to return to work for the studio under conditions we find acceptable. We're hoping to close similar deals with the other independent studios, and we're hoping such progress will pressure the major studios and TV networks to bend to our demands.

Having said that, I have a confession to make, and while I know you will initially be shocked, I ask you to reach the end of this e-mail before judging me.

As I'm typing this, I am breaking my previous pledge not to watch TV until the strike has come to an end and each and every writer is back at work.

Please know that I do not take pride in having broken that vow, and also that I am not enjoying it. However, I received an e-mail earlier today that forced my hand in the matter.

The contents of the e-mail were simple enough. No text in the body, just an attached Excel file. What was the file? Tonight's line-up for the National Broadcasting Company.

I know none of you have been watching TV, either, but have you seen this crap? Two hours of Deal or No Deal followed by two hours of the new American Gladiators. Seriously.

And if that weren't bad enough, it's not just your everyday tripe (by the way, has anyone ever tried potted meat? Delicious.) it's DonD theme night, the first hour being the 70s and the second being the 80s. Corey Feldman is on my TV right now. I'm not happy.

I may have to shoot myself in the face before Gladiators starts, so I'm even going to start in on that.

I know that when we started this strike, we were prepared for this kind of thing. We knew the networks were going to have to find something to put on the air, and as I stood before many of you the night before we took to the picket lines, I told you this day would come and begged you to be strong.

Brothers and sisters, I'm beginning to think I may have been wrong.

There is a time for strength, and a time to admit defeat. While I cannot make this decision without conferring with the rank and file, I'm beginning to think the time for strength may have passed.

NBC is rolling out new episodes of some of their big shows this Thursday, episodes that were written by members of the Guild. Normally, though, there would be new episodes of the Office. Instead, viewers are offered The Celebrity Apprentice.

As I'm writing this, and likely when you read it, the ratings are not be out for tonight's line-up. I don't know how many people are tuning in to this schlock, but I'm not looking forward to finding out. Even if the ratings are incredibly low, I think we risk losing something incredibly important if this strike drags on much longer.

Eventually, just as NBC is trying to do with The Office, the shows we have worked so hard to create will eventually be rendered irrelevant, if not by a large, spandex-wearing man named Wolf, then by untold horrors that have not been created yet.

I'm afraid to continue this strike. I'm afraid that by doing so, rather than forcing the networks to give us more compensation for DVD releases and other New Media ventures, we are merely giving them carte blanche to put whatever they can find on the air, regardless of the entertainment value.

I feel this dumbing down of the medium can have two consequences, neither of which are good for us. On one hand, the viewers may eat stuff like Gladiators right up, rendering us useless. On the other hand, the viewers may revolt, creating a situation where the networks could paint us as the bad guys.

I'll be honest with you. This whole situation is a result of a failure of leadership on my part. I should have seen this coming, and while I knew the networks would have to find replacement programming, I did not forsee them sinking this low. American Gladiators? Really?

For that oversight, I apologize.

Brothers and sisters, I ask you to at least consider authorizing me to enter immediate negotiations with the networks, and take whatever they offer. Any other action, I feel, risks throwing the baby out with the bathwater.

I also ask that you keep this communication secret, as it has the potential to paint us in a weak light. I assure you, that is not the case. I am merely suggesting that we make the smartest decision available to us, and not allow the networks to destroy the medium that Philo T. Farnsworth created so many years ago (That's for you, Aaron.).

Thanks in advance for your support,

AJB.

P.S. The intro for Gladiators just starting. I'm serious, guys. Let's put the signs away.

P.P.S. Have you guys heard that Soulja Boy song? What's all that superman business about?

Single.

2008-01-06T17:12:00.000-05:00

Friday I went to grab coffee at Ossian's House of Coffee, also known as Brew-Ha. Which is funny.

Anyway, the only thing planned for this Brew-Ha excursion was catching up, which is pretty much the only thing it's good for, and only then if both people are from Ossian. If either party has to drive more than five minutes, go somewhere else... unless you like making fun of Wells County, then it's amazing.

So, the catch-up conversation was going well, and I brought up New Year's resolutions.

Now, if you haven't heard of my plan to not date seriously for the entire year of 2008, you haven't been reading my blog... and shame on you. But, that's the plan.

I brought up Resolutions over coffee because I really think the whole idea is insane, and I'm very interested in the way people will react, especially the people that know me well.

My mom thinks it's a great idea, which most of the people i've told agree with. The problem's been getting me to buy into it, and Friday was a big step toward that.

The reaction to the news of my resolution was totally different than before. It was pretty much, "You can totally do that, I've done it for three years."

And, for some reason, this was just one of those epiphany moments. Duh. Not all of my friend are married, not all of my friends are involved, not all of my friends are raging alcoholics who sleep with everyone they meet.

Some of them, and one in particular, are just incredibly well-adjusted single people.

I need to be more like that, i think. Now... how exactly I go about that is a whole other thing.

BLOG 602: Alex Jonathan Brown responds to his performance in the Iowa Caucuses

2008-01-04T00:28:00.001-05:00

(Applause)

Thank you. Thank you.

(Applause)

Ladies and Gentlemen, what we accomplished tonight in unlike anything that has ever been done in the history of American politics, if not the political history of the world. Tonight, the eyes of the world were turned to your fair state, and many of you took that opportunity to raise your voice in support of change.

(Applause)

Whenever people make these speeches, though, the always talk about the good times. If you’ve had your TV on, you’ve seen Clinton talk about how tonight was a victory for our party, you’ve seen Edwards talk about how his second place finish is a sign that we’re closer to bridging the gap between the two Americas, and you’ve seen Obama say that his victory tonight is a sign that there is hope for change in America.

Everything is not always rosy, though, and I’d like to thank the July family from just outside Ottumwa, Iowa for the battle they went through on behalf of my candidacy tonight. When it came time in their precinct to take a stand for the candidate of their choice, Frank and Sheila and David and Liz stood up and let the people gathered in the Agassiz Elementary School cafeteria know that their choice was Alex Jonathan Brown.

(Applause)

The caucusing continued, but the news for the July family was not good. The stance the July family took was not quite enough to qualify me as a viable candidate.

(Boo)

I know, I know. We’ve all been in that position before, though, when you take a stand based on what you believe in, and it turns out that belief just isn’t enough. Sometimes, hope just isn’t enough.

The question then becomes: “What do we do next?” Are you going to take your beliefs, your hope, put them in a bag, swing it over your shoulder, turn on your heels, step out of sight and try to get on with your life?

(Boo)

No, you do not, and that’s not what the July family did, either. You see, I wasn’t the only candidate that wasn’t quite viable just outside of Ottumwa, Iowa, no sir. Dodd wasn’t viable, Gravel wasn’t viable, Kucinich wasn’t viable, and Richardson wasn’t viable.

The difference between us and them, though, is that the Iowans supporting them were prepared to jump ship and go stand for Edwards, Clinton or Obama.

But not the July family. Sheila had a secret weapon, and it looked a little something like this.

(Holds up a pack of 5 gum)

That’s right, a pack of gum. Armed with nothing more than this, she went around to her fellow Iowans and began talking to them. She offered them gum, and began talking to them about the Brown plan, how we’re going to turn this country into a vegetarian nation, how we’re going to change the national pastimes to hockey and professional wrestling, and how we’re going to turn the Indianapolis 500 into a race only open to Mini Coopers.

And Sheila July, armed with a pack of low-calorie gum, was able to get those Dodd supporters, the Gravel supporters, the Richardson supporters and the Kucinich supporters to turn into supporters of Alex Jonathan Brown.

(Applause)

Because of the work of the July family, Alex Jonathan Brown became a viable candidate in Ottumwa, Iowa, and I’m proud to tell you that, because of Sheila and Frank and David and Liz, we came in fourth in that precinct.

(Applause)

Ladies and Gentlemen, we shocked the world tonight. With no fundraising, no press, and without me formally announcing my candidacy for the presidency, your support has garnered me one delegate from one of Iowa’s 1784 precinct!

(Wild, riotous applause. Joyous dancing. Spontaneous Kissing, like in that photo of the sailor coming back from the war grabbing a random woman in the middle of the street.)

Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The road to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue does not stop here, friends, this is just the beginning. From here, we’re headed to New Hampshire.

We’re about to start a revolution, friends, and it’s a revolution that’s going to see us take all this land we’re using to feed cows and chickens and pigs, the land we’re using to feed out food, and convert that land to feed our poor. We’re going to stop being a country that teaches it’s young women they’re supposed to be a size two, and is willing to look the other way if they’re killing themselves in pursuit of that goal we’ve thrust upon them, and we’re going to start treating them like they’re fine the way they are… which they are.

Ladies and Gentlemen, we’re on a path to change the world, and the next step in that path is a little place called New Hampshire.

Now, Hilary, John and Barack, I need you to listen to me. I’m coming for you, we’re coming for you, we’re going to start a revolution and you need to be worried because (holds up a pack of gum) we’ve got gum!

(WE’VE GOT GUM! WE’VE GOT GUM!)

New Year's Revolution

2008-01-01T00:40:00.000-05:00

So, here's the list.

Work out more. You never know when my chance to become a professional wrestler may sneak up on me. I know that, right now, I'm not ready for it.
Make a movie/TV show/podcast/something. I say this every year, and every year I fail. I don't care if I wind up slaving over my Mac for Christmas break next year, it's getting done.
Stop eating gelatin. It's from animals, and the fact that I continually let it slide means I fail as a vegetarian.

And... here's the big one.

I'm not dating anyone seriously in 2008. I stared at the screen for about fifteen minutes before typing that, but I think I'm going with it. I've spent far too much time these past few years (read... more than eight) thinking about dating and the like... and I'm just done with it. By this time next year I'll be trying to figure out where I'm headed with my life, and I want that to be a decision I make on my own. Dinner and a movie? Maybe. I'm just not looking to get attached.

Keep in mind chances are good I'll fail at all of these, but I'm not planning on it.

Sparks in a powder keg

2007-12-27T11:20:00.000-05:00

Benazir Bhutto died about three hours ago. Read about it here.

This is bad news for about a hundred thousand reasons.

Hiatus

2007-12-25T19:46:00.001-05:00

And... we'll be back next monday.

Peace.

BLOG 602: Education 101

2007-12-22T20:38:00.000-05:00

BLOG 602 is the latest project from Keep Alex Weird, an effort to write a 900-word essay each day until Jan. 7. This is the fifth entry. We're still one behind, and trust us, we feel bad.

Today was one of those mildly-frantic “Christmas is right around the corner so we should probably go shopping and actually buy things rather than just walk around like we usually do” days. That was a good idea, so good that apparently everyone else with a car thought the exact same thing. Fort Wayne = pandemonium.

I spent a majority of the time book shopping. Bookstores have this effect on me, something about being around that much creativity gets the creative juices flowing. Usually I hang out in the magazines (cool fonts and pretty pictures!!!!!!!) but today I spent a lot of time with the art books (umm… cool fonts and pretty pictures!!!!). Anyway, the combination of creative juices and the approaching semester have proven to be a potent combination.

The closest thing to a day job I have is teaching COMM 210, Ball State’s basic public speaking course. The head of the COMM 210 program is amazing, and gives us graduate assistants lots of room when it comes to planning our individual classes, and while we have some basic guidelines, the way we accomplish the goals of the course are pretty much up to us.

Here’s what I’m thinking: what if you get rid as much of the traditional academic system as you can and replace it with a structure that encourages imagination and requires students to bring their own experiences into the classroom, rather than just memorizing a speech on why we should switch to solar power.

Let’s take the desks out of rows, and realize that doing that isn’t enough, if you’re going to create a sense of community, you can’t fake it, at some point you’ve actually got to create a community. Let’s ask big questions and not rush to trample over the silences that might just be the sound of thinking.

Rather than entering the semester preparing students to give informative and persuasive speeches over any old topic, let’s challenge them to tackle big issues and then spend the semester getting them to think about ways to go about it.

Let’s act like we work in a design studio, instead of a classroom. Let’s bust out the pipe cleaners and spend twenty minutes making twisty animals. Let’s discuss what Superman would have inscribed on the back of his iPod. Let’s plot out the world’s most interesting video game, or least interesting documentary.

Let’s give extra credit for toting around a notebook for writing ideas down, and more extra credit for writing things down.

Let’s accept the fact, please, that this is a class everyone has to take whether they want to or not and the least we can do is try and make it interesting. Let’s stop pandering to the least common denominator and remember that, regardless of what their application essays or SAT scores looked like, at some point everyone tied a towel around their neck and jumped off something or spread pots and pans on the floor and rocked the hell out.

Let’s consider the possibility that imagination can be revived in everyone, and that’s the key to good writing and good speaking. Forget everything else and remember what people look like when they’re explaining the great time they had over the weekend. Everyone’s a good speaker when they’re doing that, it’s something they know and care about. Let’s work to create that feeling as much as possible.

Let’s encourage coffee in class and silly hats and not raising your hand and Soulja Boy and admitting the fact that we’re only learning something because it’s on the final.

Let’s reward questioning everything; especially why this class looks nothing like anything else, especially any of the other classes students are required to take.

Sound like a plan? Sound like a not fully fleshed out plan? Good eye, skip. This is also a little short of my self-imposed limits, but I’m in a rule-breaking mode.

Peace.

BLOG 602: Pass the Roles.

2007-12-21T22:25:00.000-05:00

BLOG 602 is the latest project from Keep Alex Weird, an effort to write a 900-word essay each day until Jan. 7. This is the fourth entry.

Tonight was the annual boy’s basketball game between Bluffton and my alma mater, Norwell.

The whole crew went, which seems to be becoming a more regular occurrence these days, and the game actually didn’t disappoint. Norwell’s a little notorious for slowing the game down and playing a really really boring brand of basketball. Bluffton ran a fast-paced game though, and managed to keep Norwell frustrated enough to pull out a win.

Going to any high school event always makes me feel really old. I’m far enough removed from high school that I don’t know anyone at these things, and the fact that Graham is getting to that point is making my feel ancient.

Add to that the fact that I’m done with undergrad, and my place in the world is very, very confusing.

Watching high-schoolers hang out is incredibly painful sometimes. It’s a point where you think you’re the coolest thing ever, totally oblivious to the culture shock that is freshman year quickly approaching. The problem with watching high-schoolers isn’t that they’re obnoxious, though they may be, it’s that you can never be sure you weren’t just as obnoxious.

Undergrad’s something entirely different, when freshman year quickly forces you to re-examine your concept of self and come up with a new set of operating guidelines. The rest of the time, then, is figuring out exactly where that sense of self is going to take you.

Graduate school is interesting. Sitting at the game tonight, I realized that most of the people I went to high school with aren’t only done with undergrad, they’ve moved on to the real world, likely holding down something called a “job.”

Many of those people have settled a bit, into a steady job, paying either a rent or a mortgage, and likely into something resembling a real relationship. They’re definitely not dating eighteen-year olds.

Grad school is enabling me to extend my childhood and fight off the societal pressures of becoming more of an “adult.” I have no desire to be an adult.

Rather than holding down a regular 9 to 5 like most people my age probably are, I get to roll out of bed whenever I want two days a week, as long as I’m in the office by 6:30 p.m. The other days, I’m usually up by seven, but I have about six hours during the day when I can do whatever I want, including take a nap on the couch in the office. Rough life.

I’m also insulated from the real world because I spend most of my time on a college campus, a world I both belong in and am simultaneously not a part of anymore. My status as a grad student gives me everything I need to officially be a part of the system (student ID, employee number, paycheck) but because I have a degree, I’m removed from a lot of the drama. I’m not forced to go through gym class, I don’t have to take COMM 210, I don’t live on campus, and I’m not just adjusting to college life. In a lot of ways, I’m very much over college life.

Having said all that, being around so many people who are just adjusting to college is pretty awesome. It’s fun to be able to sit above all that and watch, not quite playing the role of an impartial observer and in some cases getting very much involved.

I’m legitimately friends with a couple of freshmen I've meant since being here, and they fulfill such a unique part of my life.

Their drama is huge drama, it’s drastic, life-threatening drama, and huge in a way those of us who aren’t college freshmen don’t experience anymore.

And some of them don’t have drama. Some of them just scoop great frozen custard.

So, I’m past high-school drama, past undergrad drama, not yet to real-world drama, and coasting here in grad school. It’s a fun place to be because, while there is drama, it’s the closest thing to “fun drama” I think I’ve ever come across.

Since grad school is such a short term experience, especially when you’re in a two-year master’s program, the promise of a chance to reset is right around the corner. Any situations I get myself in, I’ve got an automatic out in a year-and-a-half.

At least that’s how I used to think. Something’s been going on with me this last week or so, something I think that’s been brought on by trying to do this much writing, and I think I’m ready to get rid of the drama. The past few days I’ve been sending e-mails, making phone calls, and generally trying to let people know where they stand in my life. It’s a confusing process, it’s an uncomfortable process, but it’s a healthy one, and it’s one that’s let me be honest, really honest, with myself and other people for the first time in a really long time.

I’m not in high school anymore. I’m not in college anymore, and I’m not married and working on my 2.1 kids yet. I’m in grad school, surrounded by people younger than myself, who manage to make feel young and old at the same time. I’ve got responsibility, but still get help with the rent.

Keep your adulthood. I’ll be busy discussing Foucault and flirting with the girl in the drive-through.

BLOG 602: Writer's Block and Viking Villages

2007-12-20T23:55:00.000-05:00

BLOG 602 is the latest project from Keep Alex Weird, an effort to write a 900-word essay each day until Jan. 7. He missed yesterday, but is working on making up for it. This is the third entry.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

Okay, that supposed to be a literary interpretation of my cursor, blinking at me because I’ve got a horrible case o’ the writers block and planned on doing two essays today to make up for the fact that I got really busy yesterday and failed…

And the blink blink thing is the start of a really good post I wrote three years ago. I’m stealing from myself. Lame.

I’ve got 600 words of another essay done, but it’s just not there. Something about it’s wrong, and I realize that I could go back and fix it, but one thing I do not do well is revise. I’m not sure if I’ve just bought too much in Kerouacism or what, but whenever I go back and reread what I write, it feels awkward, so I do my best to just process whatever I have to write, get it down, and move on.

I do that with a lot of stuff, I think, more than just writing (and ladies and gentlemen, we have a topic).

There’s this scene in some episode of the West Wing where President Bartlett is talking about something to someone in the Oval Office, someone new, I think, and they’re dealing with a topic, (clearly, my recollection of this event is awesome) and Jed decides something, says “What’s Next” and then the other person tries to keep talking about it. This launches Bartlett into a whole thing about how when he says “What’s next” he’s moving on and everyone had better move with him.

To some extent, this is very much how I live, and I’m pretty sure at one point I adopted that exact philosophy, including saying what’s next whenever I was ready to move on. Honestly, it was a little annoying, I feel, so I dropped it, but the underlying sentiment is still there.
I am intensely into things, until I am over them. And once I’m over them, I’m done. This applies to a lot of things but, perhaps most problematically, it applies to people.

When someone new enters my life, regardless of the role they play, and I really really like them, they get a huge chunk of my resources. Time, money (usually indirectly, unless it’s a dating thing), emotions, all that stuff. I’m willing to bend over backwards to help the new people, or at least the current people.

Which is great for the new people. The old people, not so much.

Looking back on my friends from the pre-college days, I still only ever talk to two. I’ve known Dan since fourth grade and Kate (really) since high school. There’s some debate as to when Kate and I actually met (rumors abound that we were in the same fifth grade and some reports place us as far back as swimming lessons) but we weren’t really tight until our days sitting back to the wall outside Ms. Kahn’s class room, making fun of pretty much… well… everyone.

There are other people who have been in my life for a while, family obviously, but also friends of Graham and others. As far as the people in my life who are there just because I make it a priority for them to be there, it’s pretty much Kate and Dan, at least from that far back.

Changes in environment are always bad for me when it comes to stuff like that. A change in environment means a change in routine, and I quickly realize that a lot of what I considered friendships may have actually just been matters of routine.

Take my time at the newspaper. For those two years, and especially that last semester I spent helming the thing, I didn’t have much of a life outside of it. Those people were, good or bad, pretty much the extent of my friends during that time, and Jessica is the only one I still have any contact with, and that contact is much less than I’d really like.

For the most part, I don’t feel terribly bad about this kind of thing, unless I really stop to think about it. There are a handful of people in my life I wish I hadn’t let slip away so easily, but that number’s pretty small compared to the number of people I used to know, but don’t really anymore.

More of a danger than losing touch with people you want to keep around, as tragic as that can be, is keeping things longer than they’re of use. My five year class reunion is quickly approaching, and as the person who is supposed to organize it, I’m dreading it. The whole idea seems kind of artificial to me. The people who I really want to see from high school I make a point of seeing now. They’re Dan and Kate, and I’ve seen them both in the last week.

I wish, rather than I class reunion, I could just organize an Alex Reunion, and round up those people I miss and have a really big party and just catch up.

But… I know that wouldn’t work. The problem with the “What’s Next” philosophy is that it’s a unilateral decision. When I decide it’s time to move on, I’m moving on, regardless of who thinks

I’d be better off sticking around for a bit more. It’s a theory not that unlike burning your village down before you move on, just to make sure the invaders can’t get your stuff. It’s pointless, stupid, and really, all your stuff gets ruined anyway.

I’m working on it, though. I seem to be adding a lot of stuff to that list of things I have to fix.

Should be a fun year.

BLOG 602: Four Oh

2007-12-18T01:35:00.001-05:00

BLOG 602 is the latests project from Keep Alex Weird, an effort to write a 900-word essay each day until Jan. 7. This is the second entry.

I have never been what you would call a “grade person.” In high school, I was not the guy who would freak out over how I was doing in a class. I was in class with those people, those fun AP classes that turned out to be a lot more work, only to take a test that was crazy hard, and I didn’t get credit for anyway. Not bitter, promise.

At Indiana State, I passed on the Honors diploma. I had advisors telling me I was just the person for it, but really, after watching my then-girlfriend freak out over her Honors class, I was sure I made the right decision. I wasn’t the person who worried about grades, and anything above the bare minimum was more work than I was prepared to do.

Amazingly, and through the work of something far more powerful than me, I got by with pretty good grades. I graduated with a 3.8, which was actually down a couple of notches due to a History of the Labor Movement class I had no business taking (and didn’t do any of the homework for) and a screenwriting class (with the worst teacher in the history of the world) where I ranked up a C in each.

The last two years of my time at State, those years that found me not freaking out over a C, were spent working at the Indiana Statesman. A lot of work, yes, but work that was about as far from schoolwork as you can get. It was something different everyday, whether I was working as the Opinions Editor or, later, as Editor-In-Chief. Schoolwork took a back seat, and I was more than happy with that situation.

This, however, is grad school, and it is a brand-new beast for me.

I’d already passed out for the night when I got a text from Adam (the same Adam mentioned in the last BLOG 602 post, by the way) saying that grades were online. And… freakout.
This last semester was not my strongest, academically. It’s been a time of transition, meeting tons of new people, getting used to living on my own in a brand new town, and learning the hard way that heat/AC/water/anything doesn’t come for free. Needless to say, my head has been in about a hundred different places, only occasionally stopping to think about school.

That is, until about two weeks ago. The end of the semester was quickly approaching, and for some reason I thought then would be a good time to start thinking about grades. Okay, not really.

The only time I really started thinking about my grades was last Monday night, when I had a fifteen page paper due the next day and found myself staring at a blank screen. Maybe I should have given school a little more consideration.

After phone calls to most of the people I know, and a very needed breadstick break with Dan and Liz, I actually started the paper at around 10 p.m. I worked, more or less, all night and came up with what I thought was a perfectly mediocre paper that made a decent argument about the face considerations present in professional wrestling, and specifically, the way tag teams represent positive personality traits, and then are buried for it. Fun stuff.

While I still like the argument I wrote in that paper, I’ll be the first to admit it is a hot mess. The formatting, I think, is all wrong, and most of the wrestling stuff isn’t cited. I was hoping for a B in the class.

Now, the fact that I was hoping for a B brings with it certain connotations. I’ve been carrying around these hopes of a doctoral program and one of the things they look at, especially when you come from a small Midwestern university no one has ever heard of, is GPA.

In undergrad, you take around forty classes, which gives you plenty of time to pull up your GPA if one class treats you wrong. In grad school, you take twelve, and your first semester knocks three of those off. Not a whole lot of time to fix those errors.

So, the fact that I’m now okay with a B because I’ve got no idea how a woman who specializes in Health Care Interpersonal Communication is going to react to my hastily written paper on the Highlanders, is a bit of a big deal. Honestly, a B puts the best doctoral programs into question.

But I’m okay with a B, because I’m not a grade person, right?

Right?

About that. So I get Adam’s text saying grades are up, and I freak out. No, I think, no I’m not okay with a B, I deserve a B, I’ll probably get a B, but I don’t want a B. I’ve skated by the last nineteen (really?) years of education without really applying myself, and I get it now, I really do, I should have been working this whole time, I’ve seen people around me freak about their grades, and I get that I’m really lucky to be able to get by the way I do, and I know I should be more thankful for that and I know, now, that I should actually probably apply myself, and that chances are good I can turn into something really cool, chances are good I can get into that really good grad school if I put my nose to the grindstone, well, chances are I could have before I put that paper off, really, the Highlanders?, as exciting as I find wrestling, no one cares about the Highlanders and trying to explain what’s going on with two cousins from Scotland who wear matching kilts and aren’t really cousins, and to expect anything resembling a decent grade out of that is absolutely ridiculous, I expect a B, I deserve a B and I got…

I got an A.

All three classes.

My GPA right now, one semester through grad school, is a 4.0, despite the fact that my final papers were based around, tag-team wrestling, a total bluff on my part about a researcher from the University of South Florida, and a stretch of an argument that a feminist plan toward rhetoric was needed in 1995 because the same male-centered vision of rhetoric had driven society to war, cyclically, since the beginning of time and because that rhetoric led the U.S. and Russia to the brink of mutually assured destruction cause cosmic forces to align and promote a rhetorical theory that turned everything Aristotle believed upside-down.

And now, seeing that 4.0, I think I’m a grade person. I think I’m done skating. Maybe this moment, right now, is my version of the universe aligning to promote that new vision of rhetoric, one that understands that that cycle of destruction eventually has to catch up to you if you keep doing the same thing over and over and over again.

Oh, and if you’re wondering how that part of the story ends, where the feminist rhetoric ended up, it was pretty much the laughing stock of our intro to Rhetoric class. Good times.

BLOG 602: Why I Hate Art

2007-12-17T19:59:00.000-05:00

BLOG 602: is the latest project from Keep Alex Weird, an effort to write a 900-word essay a day until Jan. 7. This is the first entry.

I hate art because it is an establishment that doles out success and failure based on seemingly random variables. It’s a world where a four-year old throwing paint on a canvas can become a superstar based on… on what, really? Art’s some weird, indefinable thing and there’s no way to get a handle on what good is.

There are two ways, I think, of defining “good” art, and neither of them really satisfy me. On one hand, “good art” is whatever you think it is. The other day, I was headed to the BSU Atrium and swung into the art gallery and saw some stuff done by my first “girlfriend,” in that non-really-girlfriend sense you sometimes mean your freshman year of high school.

I really like her stuff. She does photography, and it’s stuff I can’t really explain other than the way Adam and I did when we saw it, “This stuff needs to be the liner art for an album.” And it does. It’s good.

But that’s just my opinion. If you’d see it and think otherwise, it’s not good art to you.

Unless…

The other way to define good art, the less “beauty-is-in-the-eye-of-the-beholder” approach, relies on the “art community,” some nebulous group of people that have swanky parties with open bars where they drink white wine and Heineken. (Heineken is in the spell-check of Microsoft Word 07, by the way.)

Anyway, the “art community” pretty much makes the “good art” decision based on cold, hard cash. If it’s good art, it’ll sell. Of course, any piece of art (or anything really) is only worth what some fool will pay you for it, so it’s a little more complicated than that. Art seems to be good if you can sell it, better if you can sell it for more, and best if you can sell it for more, and do it at Christie’s.

It’s a totally arbitrary system, and it’s based, like so many things are, on a feedback cycle. The buzz gets started, someone’s tagged as the next Warhol or Basquiat, and that machine just feeds on itself until you’ve got the drummer of a certain Metal band getting drunk at an auction, proud of the fact that his five-million dollar sale set the record for the most ever paid for the work of a certain artist who passed because it turns out mixing coke (little c) and heroin might not be the best thing for you.

Andy Warhol built a ridiculous amount of fame based on the fact that he painted a soup can. It’s the argument everyone uses against the “art scene” and I think it holds some water. There’s nothing special about Warhol’s soup, it’s the same cans people have been staring at in their neighborhood grocery store for years, it’s just that he was the first to paint it, and for some reason, the feedback cycle got started.

John Kincade sucks. Vera Bradley sucks. But that’s just me, and they’re minting cash in they’re respective fields. But… it’s not “Art,” not in that Christie’s sense. And yes, I know Vera Bradley isn’t a person.

And so… there’s no way for us to define what’s really good. There seem to be two ways we develop definitions, but they’re often so diametrically opposed we can’t draw any real consensus.

But, okay, let’s be honest now. I hate that first aspect of art, the one where anyone can basically define what it is for themselves, because it removes by ability to plead innocent. The only reason I’m not an artist, since we live in a society that, to some extent lets me invent my own definition of art, is because I choose not to be.

It wouldn’t be all that difficult for me to drive up to United Art Supply in Fort Wayne, buy a canvas and some oils and get to work. I could then paint something, and if I liked it enough, call it art and myself an artist. Or, I could take my (horrendously underused) video camera and come up with something new and inventive, call it art, and myself an artist. Maybe it would even catch on, and someone would pay some cash for it and validate my status as an artist.

But… I don’t. And because I don’t, the reason I can’t call myself an artist is only my fault. And that’s why I hate art. I hate it because it’s a system designed in such a way to seem impenetrable, to seem big and scary, because I can’t make it to Christie’s, and I buy into it enough to keep me out of the art world.

The kicker, of course, is that I deep-down, long to be a part of that art scene. I got the slightest, slightest taste of it in Chicago, a publisher’s party after-hours in an art museum with an open-bar and hors d’oeuvres and it is amazing.

So, I’m at an impasse.

Art allows anyone in, and I hate it for that because that means the only thing stopping my from joining is myself.

Art is also incredibly exclusive, a world that I don’t stand a chance of breaking into, likely ever. And I know I should hate that.

But, in some masochistic way, the same reasons I hate art are why, deep down, I can’t get enough of it.

I’ve never liked Lars Ulrich more than watching him stumble over himself, tipsy off champagne, after selling that Basquiat for five mill. It’s a world I know I’ll never me a part of, and I love it the same way half my friends are obsessed with Payton Manning and the Colts.

But, there’s a big difference between them and me in one aspect, at least in this situation. I could do this. I could be an artist.

The scale would be different, yes, but it’s always right there, and I’ve decided not to embrace it. I could be an artist, but I’m not, and maybe more than hating art for that, it’s really just a little distaste for myself.

Slacker.

BLOG 602: Winter Break

2007-12-17T19:46:00.000-05:00

Here's the plan. Starting today, for the rest of the break, the goal is to write a 900-word post a day, for all of break, which ends write around Jan. 7. We'll see.

F***

2007-12-11T01:56:00.000-05:00

So, I know I don't cuss a lot on here, and I really don't cuss too much in real life, comparatively, but I was conned into writing something earlier today, and yes, it cusses a lot, but I wanted to throw it out there and see what happens.

The prompt for this, btdub, is... What is the answer to life?

Say f*** often.

Not so often you get sick of saying it, but often enough that you never forget what it was like the first time, when you knew you were doing something you shouldn't and the words flowed off your tongue and it just felt so....

good.

or bad.

or whatever.

but it felt.

and no matter how old you were, the first time you said that was a step outside of your comfort zone.

and you survived.

your tongue didn't fall off, your friends didn't hate you, and chances are good you're not even going to hell.

Say f*** often, and remember when you say it that, regardless of how many times you hear it one the radio or see it in a movie, just by saying it you are transgressing the system...

you rebel.

Scream it if you have to, and then spend as much of your life as you can chasing that feeling of rebellion. Jump in a car and drive with no destination, procrastinate when you should be doing something else, read a book you think you shouldn't.

but don't. get. reckless. Find someone who makes you feel like opening every window in the house and yelling F*** at the top of your lungs becuase they're just too amazing for this not to be transgressing some kind of rule, because they're the kind of person who, with bedhead and sleep in their eyes, still somehow manages to shut off almost all of your brain, makes you forget your job, or whatever work you have to do and just leaves you,

needing

to yell f***.

Find that person, and hold onto them for as long as they let you.

So.... yeah. I'm really unsure about that, and will probably take it down later, but for now, it's up.

aj

Snow.

2007-12-05T02:37:00.001-05:00

So, i got the text and prayed for everything to be okay, then I wake up at 2:37 and it's snowing.

...

Cheese Danish and Root Beer

2007-12-03T09:33:00.001-05:00

I think my body's pretty much over me. I keep trying to feed it cheese danish and root beer at 9 in the morning. Boo.

road.

2007-11-30T19:46:00.000-05:00

The problem with road trips is that they eventually end. You wind up where you set out for (or worst yet, where you originally left from) and then stare at each other until you can get back in the car.

I had an eventful day. I know those words over there by my picture say something about "corrupting our nations youth." When I wrote that, it was a joke. Today, though, today there was some definite corrupting going on. Fun stuff, that.

After I got done with that (and to some extent, while I was still doing that) i pounded out a four page thesis analysis, start to finish, in just under three hours. Hardcore.

I've been on an emotional road trip for a while now, and it works really really well until I stop moving and wait for someone else to catch up with me. This is a lesson that I should have learned by now, and yet I keep finding people who i want to stop for. stopping is always a bad decision.

The people who i really really get along with aren't people i stop for, but people who i have to quicken my step to keep up with. I'm sure this is indicative of something, something bad, but as soon as I catch up to you, i'm over you.

This is the part where you put that opening riff from Back in Black

2007-11-05T20:59:00.000-05:00

This weekend, which I haven't really talked about a lot, was pretty awesome. Very rollercoastery, very fun, very busy.

I'm in what I call, to my friends, "the zone" right now, and i've no one to share it with. Sometimes, like when I've got a paper due Wednesday, it's better that way.

If you hung out with me at all this weekend, sorry if I was weird, and thanks for helping out if I was amazing. I don't do amazing by myself.

Catch ya later.

LTLYM - Assignment #52 - Write a phone call you wish you could have

2007-11-04T17:22:00.000-05:00

If you haven't heard of Learning to Love You More, you really should check it out. I think I'm going to try and tackle some of those assignments here. Today, I'm doing this one.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Ring.

Hey, it's ***********. Leave me a message.

It's me.

Alex.

Just calling to see what you were up to. Hadn't heard from you in a few days. I know that you're not the biggest fan of -

Beep.

Hey, you're beeping in. Bye.

Hey, what's up.

Not much.

That's cool. Listen, I know you've probably got about a million things to do right now but -

No. It's okay.

You sure?

Yeah. What's up?

I've been thinking a lot, and I'm not sure this is working out for me. It's... it's nothing to do with you at all, I just can't fake it anymore. It's like I'm not operating on all cylinders or something. If that's right.

I think it is.

Great. This whole thing just feels broken.

Yeah. We should fix it.

Yeah. What are you doing right now?

Ummm.... I'm getting ready to head to a meeting, but it's nothing big. I can blow it off.

No, don't do that. Just give me a call when you're done.

Hey.

Yeah?

Tell me to skip it. Tell me you're headed to your car, and you'll be here as soon as you can. Tell me we're headed away, tell me we're sending out mass text messages to everyone on our contact list, letting them know we're not dead, but not to look for us for a couple days. Tell me we're disappearing. Tell me I was wrong.

Is that what you want?

It's what I've been waiting on.

See you in a bit. Grab a coat. Bye.

click.

This is not about love. This is not about me.

2007-11-04T14:15:00.000-05:00

"I have taken my lumps this week, and I have fought through it like a champ. I have been angry, I have punched a cell phone (really) and I have yelled at people I think I love louder than I think I ever have. I am still here.

I don't mind any of this, but it's just getting to be a lot of work. Far too much work. I've got other things I have to do. I have to hunt things down, new things, things I don't understand, things that can teach me something.

I've got a paper to write this week, the first part at least, and it's due Wednesday.

I am in a rut."

At this point, our intrepid hero gets a call on the cell phone from a woman he's never met in San Diego, a city he's never been to. Everything is suddenly better.

"To be really honest, right now I just want to be staring back over my cup of coffee at the internationally famous celebrity, feeling like I don't belong almost the entire time," he says "until I catch something in your eye that makes it all okay, that makes me feel like this is exactly where I'm supposed to be."

"I'm not there right now, and I don't feel that."

"But hey, I'm about to get my fifteen minutes, and that's something. Now, there's someone I have to call."

I don't know how to work an alarm clock.

2007-10-31T04:04:00.000-04:00

Four o'clock is significantly different than five. Happy halloween.

I'm thinking about decluttering a lot of my life, in cluding my facebook friends, after having gone through the experience of being unfriended. By the way, the final effect of unfriending someone is hilarity, not drama. My money would have been on drama.

Since I'm awake, I thought about doing one of those conscious of streamishness blogs I know Isaac likes so much. Today's musical selection "Probationary Yougurt Run: The Album."

Black Stacey, Saul Williams.

There's something about this song that you either get right away, or you'll never get, no matter how many times you listen to it. It's a song about how Williams views his own blackness, and to that extent, it's a song neither myself nor most of the people I hang out with have any real way to relate to. There's just something incredibly real about it, though, and I can't help be sucked into the combination of hi-hat and piano each and every time I heart it. I know every word, and right now is the first time in a long time I'm not signing them, and I'm pretty sure that's only because I can't sing and type.

That was my singing break right there.

Nothing ticks me off more than white people who get upset when African-Americans, or any minorities, really, embrace their status as part of a smaller group in this country. I hate the people who complain that they wouldn't be allowed to start a white student union. Ladies and gentlemen, that's unfortunately called almost all of college. Being born white comes with priveleges, sadly. Quit complaining about the fact that you don't have a club.

Smile, Lily Allen

Just switched from Safari over to Firefox, for the sole purpose of being able to bold those song title and artist bullets. I'm hardcore.

Someone needs to do a study on the effect of the English accent on the American mind. Everyone reacts to it in a different way, whether that's adding IQ points to the speaker, taking them away, or just developing an immediate crush (that last one's me, by the way, regardless of sex) but I don't think there's anyone who is just indifferent.

American Pie, Don McLean.

This song is really far too long. I like it, but it's early. Skip.

Fidelity, Regina Spektor.

Shake it up.

This song is just... plucky. It's fun, and Regina Spektor is the kind of person I'd want to have walking behind me, singing tunes, as I walk down the street. I know there are a lot of people out there who think the countryside is really romantic and all of that, but I'm pretty sure those people are just crazy. It's not that the outdoorsiness can't be romantic, it's just that I don't think it can possibly hold a candle to the yellow glow of streetlamps bouncing of white, falling snow on a cold winter night in a city. Seriously.

"I hear in my mind, all of these voices, all of these words, all this music, and it breaks my heart."

The crazy thing Spektor does vocally with the word "heart" right there is just incredible.

Take, Take, Take, The White Stripes.

If you haven't heard it, the song's about this guy's chance meeting with Rita Hayworth in a skeezy bar. It's pretty cool, but brings back some not so hot memories for me.

Graham and I went to this amazing show in Louisville, a medium-sized festival headlined by Sleater-Kinney, the greatest three-piece all-female grunge band I've ever heard (and not just because I think they're the only one.) I have crushes on all three of them and, unfortunatley for me (and them) at this time they were still selling their own merchandise at the merch table.

Which meant that I could talk to them. Which I tried to.

And I creeped all of them out. If you've never seen me in full-on crush mode, you have no idea what these women went through. If you have, you're feeling sorry for them right now.

Fun fact: the only real reading I've ever done was of a non-fiction piece about this incident. It's much better than the music blog version you just read, trust me.

Little Plastic Castle, Ani DiFranco.

If I were a lesbian, this song is what I would want my life to be life. Exactly. In fact, it's pretty close to what I want my life to be like right now, only switch some of the bits out.

One thing that I don't think most people get enough of in their lives is the sense of "you and me against the world." There's something incredible about knowing you're in the same boat with one, and only one, other person and that people hate you for it. I think it happens a lot more in the opening stages of relationships, and then quickly falls away as the people around you get used to it.

There isn't much, I think, more fun than liking someone, having them like you back, and have no one else understand it. While these situations rarely end well, when they are working, it's the kind of thing that makes you think you can do anything, which people need more of.

Jenny Don't Be Hasty, Paolo Nutini.

Because I'll catch hell if I don't say it, Beth introduced me to this song (and artist) and while I originally hated it, it's grown on me. It's about this guy who is too young for Jenny, by some arbitrary standard she's set up. It's catchy, and I used it as an answer it Scattergories. Thankfully, Holly knew what I was talking about it, because Paolo Nutini is exactly the type of name I would make up if I had to make up a pretentious indie post-singer/songwriter type.

Fuel, Metallica.

Right on. I actually saw this was next in the queue and skipped the end of the last song.

Alright, I know I should be over this by now. There's a lot of music out there that's more intellectual, more complex, better, probably, but nothing will ever compare to Metallica, especially this song.

Swallow future, spit out home, burn your face upon the chrome.

That doesn't mean anything, but it's amazing. It's rock for the sake of rock, but without the Motley Crue-like sense of joking around. Metallica is not joking around. They are better than you, and they know it, even when they put out a country-inspired ballad. They will rock your world.

Having said all that, I'm bored. Skip bridge and last chorus.

Falling in Love, Lisa Loeb.

"The time between meeting and finally leaving is sometimes called falling in love."

I heard this song in an FYE, tracked it down and bought it that day, and all because of that line. It's tragic to me, but also very matter-of-fact.

I've held this really cynical view for a while, that there's no relationship that ends well. Either you break up, or die, and no one really ever likes either of those. That line speaks to that cynicism, I think, and does a lot of work toward melting it down. Yeah, you're going to meet someone, and yeah, it'll be over, but occassionally, that middle space is filled up by this love thing, and it's enough to turn your world upways and downways and sideways and slantways.

I like that thought.

Standing on the Sidewalk, Dean Martin.

A silly song, and a bad choice for this playlist. skip.

Reach for the Sun, The Polyphonic Spree.

This song is Jessica to me. Always has been, always will be, and I love that about it, and her.

There's this slow build thing right in the beginning, and after a few bars the vocals come in, and there's a verse, and at the end of that first verse you feel it building again, and it builds to the chorus, and there's this explosion of instruments and voices and glisandos all over the place and that's the happiest place on earth, right there, follow the day and reach for the sun, and that's Dyer at her best.

Fit but you Know it, The Streets.

Few people know this, but as obsessed as I am with this band, Isaac turned me onto them.

The song's about this guy trying to pick up this girl at a bar, and she's hot ('fit' in the British slang) but the problem is that she knows it. It's good stuff, even if it doesn't translate to blog form.

There's a point in this song where the music kinda drops out and Mike Skinner (the rapper, not the NASCAR driver) says "Are you smoking crack or something?"

My major memory of this song is my mom laughing at that line the first time she heard it.

Tymps (The Sick in the Head Song), Fiona Apple

"Why did I kiss him so hard, late last Friday night, and keep on letting him change all my plans?"

It's an incredibly odd kind of kiss, but there's something to be said for those kisses you know you're not supposed to have, whether it's because you've got a significant other, or you know the person you're kissing isn't good for you. You can see it happening (and honestly, you've seen it coming for a while now) but there's nothing you can do to stop it, and the scary part is that you're not sure you want to. See Little Plastic Castle.

Inner Peace, Nellie McKay

I've met two people who really like Nellie McKay. Amber, who introduced me to her, and Stephanie, who likes roller derby and Brini Maxwell. I'm getting a little sleepy, so I'm gonna skip this, but I did want to give them shout-outs. They both rock, and I'm hanging with Stephanie on Friday. I'm pumped.

Hey Eugene, Pink Martini.

One of my favorite songs of this year. Great music, a fun story, and the kind of life I want to lead at some point.

New York City is the most amazing place on Earth. If you haven't been there, go, and find someone you want to conquer the world with to go along. There's something about just being there, and knowing that you're in New York City, that changes you. At least for me, that meant walking like you were ready to punch the next person you saw in the face if you had to. It's such a good time.

Freeker by the Speaker, Keller Williams

This is from Graham, even though I think I like Keller more than he does at this point. This is another one of those really positive songs, a little along the lines of "Reach for the Sun" but much more hippy rave.

"It's good in the day, I like it that way, but it's perfectly normal at night."

The reason why I love this song so much is directly related to my concert experience. It was one of the few times when I really felt like I was cutting loose. All the music was brand new to me at that point, and Keller does everything live through loops, so there was this very palpable feeling that everyone in the crowd was part of this solitary experience, and we were all just watching him build this sonic thing from the bottom up and waiting for the release, all most, when we could tell it was a full-blown song.

Then the tornados came, the windshield on my Sebring broke, and we all went home. No one found $20.

It's five now, thanks for sticking with me through an hour of writing. I have to go turn into a hot mess now.

www.mirandajuly.com

2007-10-22T10:00:00.001-04:00

Every now and then I get a little down on myself and I go to www.mirandajuly.com to cheer me up.

It rarely works, but does make me feel creative and lonely, which is something.

2007-10-08T21:14:00.001-04:00

And... we're back.

2007-10-05T11:29:00.000-04:00

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