Wherein I Complain About Unimportant Things.

Our apartment is .3 miles¹ from the exit off US 50². As such, I frequently exit the freeway to get back home. If I'm coming from the north, which I almost always am, I have to turn left on Richland. 90% of the time, I'm waiting for the light to turn green. No problem. The annoying part is that there are two more lights after I proceed under an overpass that seem to be for some reason wired with the light I'm faced with getting off 50. When it turns green, the others turn red. There is no reason for this, and it happens whether or not there are cars waiting. And usually by the time the second light turns green, someone coming the opposite way is in the left hand turn lane, making me wait another 15 seconds to get home. This is all unnecessary and needs to stop.

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1 Did we measure it? Yes. Yes, we did.

2 The road spans more than 3,000 miles from Ocean City, Maryland, to West Sacramento, California. Obviously, it's one of the country's longest roads. I like the theoretical idea that with just a couple turns I can visit my friend Brenda in Sacramento.

This is Long Past Due

If I may hearken back to high school for a moment: Finally... "Daria" HAS COME TO DVD!  OK, my apologies.  I know that was terrible.  But it took eight years (eight!) for one of my all-time favorite shows to come to DVD, so I had to channel The Rock there.  We all did it back then.  Yes, we were single.

What were we talking about?

Ah, yes, "Daria."  Anyway, if you know me at all, you know of my profound love of this show, as well as my fascination with its existence.  We had a show on MTV-MTfreakingV- that was as razor-sharp a satire of high school life and pop culture that you'll see.  It skewered everything MTV and those who marketed to my generation stood for.  And it did so with unparalleled skill and verve.   What's most amazing is that it was a spin-off of "Beavis and Butthead," of all things. It left the air in 2002, the same year I graduated high school, and we've yet to see anything that can compare on American TV.  Accidental?  Consider me a skeptic.

Then, and now, I identified with the title character.  She considered herself above her peers, untouchable and uncompromising.  She mercilessly reconstructed the hypocrisies around her while simultaneously taking the scorn of her antisocial behavior.  Like me, she thought she was immune to it and refused to admit she was all too vulnerable.

Rather than write an essay on the series (which I absolutely could do), I'll encourage you to give the series a look if you never have.  As I touched on before, its wit is top-notch.  The humor is smart and biting.  It gives you a sense satisfying opposition to the world.  Most of all, it's one of the few cartoons that meaningfully challenges its characters.  They are not static; they transform and evolve.  Relationships take on new dynamics over the course of five seasons.  It's very satisfying to see where they end up and look back on where they began.  There is, of course, a fair amount of absurdity mixed in with the satire and culture critiques.

Best of all, the DVD set has an introductory price of $50 and includes a T-shirt.  For 26 hours of excellent TV, this is a more than reasonable price.  I'll leave you with this piece from Salon.  It does the spirit of the show justice.

Levels of Music Appreciation

There are, I believe, different levels to enjoying music. I will here attempt to quantify these levels, starting at the bottom and moving up.

We start with the lowest possible level: Music you do not want to listen to under any circumstances. Let's move up from there:

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  Music you do not want to listen to, but will tolerate under certain circumstances. You may hate Nickelback, but your significant others likes them, so you'll grit your teeth in their car while you wonder why you're dating a Nickelback fan.
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  Music you enjoy under certain circumstances. Admit it: You like “Macarena” at weddings. It's OK. We're in this together. Are you listening to it at any other time? Of course not. But you have your arms out on the dance floor at your cousin's reception.
• 
  
  Music you enjoy when you're in certain moods. The best example I can think of is “The Wedding Singer,” when Adam Sandler he mentions he's been listening to The Cure a lot after getting dumped. We all have those bands we turn to in moments of emotion. When we don't need them, we put them away. And if we hear them, they remind us of those emotions.
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  Music you like... but not enough to seek out. You might ask your friend to turn it up when they play it or when you catch it on the radio, but you're not buying their album. For me, Sigur Ros fits the bill. Whenever I hear them, I think, “Oh yeah, this is good stuff.” But so I ever write them down when making lists of music to obtain? No. Yet I still like hearing them whenever I happen to.

OK, that covers music you don't have. We have to differentiate for music in our collection. They break down thusly:

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  Music you have, but you're not sure why. It's not checked on your playlist or you skip it often when it is. But when you go to purge songs, you keep it.
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  Music that you underrate in your own mind... or so you think. It's not really your favorite, and you don't listen to it often, but when you do, you wonder why you don't listen to it more often.
• 
  
  Music you prefer to listen to involuntarily. If it comes up on your computer or your player, you're skipping it more often than not. When it comes on the radio, not because you chose it? You listen to it and enjoy it. I feel like half of Rush falls in this category.
• 
  
  Music that you really like. You'll nod your head to the rhythm, turn the volume up perhaps, but you don't seek it out. When you go to play music, you don't pick it first, and it's not in your mind when searching through your collection.
• 
  
  Music that is your favorite. You make special playlists for it, it's the first music you pull up, you go out of your way to see it performed live if you can. You recommend it to people whenever you're able.

Lost and Found

I lost my iPod a little while back. I was originally despondent, as I brought the thing everywhere with me. I listened to it walking places. I listened to it driving anywhere. I used it as a way of shutting out the world, drawing inward. Plus, I was just really used to listening to music wherever I went. I searched somewhat frantically (and fruitlessly) for it.


I didn't know what to do. I couldn't justify the expense of buying a new MP3 player¹. Do I... dare go outside... without headphones? This concept may seem laughably simple to some, but I had been musically accompanied for almost eight years. I purchased a nice and pricey set of noise-canceling headphones last year. The idea of getting around with no soundtrack was nigh-unfathomable.

But, again, I'm tight with my money. So I had to bite the bullet and deal with the sounds the world around me produced.

The result? Not exactly revolutionary. I'm certainly more aware of traffic, but the difference has not been great. I've replaced the music with my inner monologue, mostly. Still, it is kind of nice. I feel more at ease walking around, more attached to the world. Perhaps in some small way, it's forcing me to hide from my surroundings a little less. I don't look at my feet as much as I did.

The problem is when I'm driving around. Not locally; I replaced the iPod with NPR some time before losing it. However, when I'm leaving the Athens area, I don't have an easy supply of music. I have to depend on radio or dig out CDs to play. I don't like that. That's the thing that might drive me to buying a new MP3 player.

As it turns out, though, I was wrong overall. I thought losing it would be a catastrophe. It hasn't been. In fact, I've hardly noticed. I don't have to worry about keeping it charged or not losing it (ironically). It's a tiny life lesson: I can easily misjudge what I consider important.

Postnote: As I was writing this, I mentioned the topic to my friend. Her response, paraphrased: She would die if she lost her iPod. You know? I think she'd do just fine.

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1 This had the hidden benefit of completely divesting myself of Apple products. Suck it, Apple.

A Bizarro Mirror

If such a thing as the opposite of me exists, it might be this guy.  Look, I'm not about to sermonize, but I truly do not understand the joy such a lifestyle brings.  There's a post in which he runs down a list of girls that he needs to text and gives a brief description.  He calls kissing them a "close."  And he likes the "quick close."  My reaction to that?  Sadness.  He mentions scripts and ploys he uses.  To which I ask: Why?  Yes, I know the goal.  But why is that the goal?  Is it a fear of vulnerability, of honesty?  Is it a naked dedication to physical satisfaction?  I think the first possibility is worse than the second.

I wish I knew his motivations, why he chooses to do what he does.

Letting Others Talk For Me

In my random explorations of the Internet, I came across this.  I've discussed my frustrations with people I think are wrongly carrying the torch of God before, but perhaps not this well.  This is perhaps a new long-term goal for me: I need to find a way to deal in my mind and my heart with these people.  Ever try confronting one of them?  Not the best plan.

On a side note, I feel like the blog author and I would be friends if we lived anywhere near one another.

The Elevator

He's using the elevator?

This is what I think.  I rarely use the elevator myself; I shake my head at the people too lazy to use the stairs.  But today, I'm taking the elevator.  I just don't want to climb the stairs. I enter the building at the bottom floor; in my mind, this further justifies use of the lift.

And he's there, waiting.  I've seen him before- the most striking memory was seeing him lift more than 1,000 pounds.  The bar held as many 45-pound weights as it could, and they hung extra weights from chains.

I've never seen him smile.

And there he is, waiting for the elevator.  I line up behind him.  The door opens, and we step in.  The silence feels tense.  We're going to the same floor.  The door opens.  We exit.

Almost Car Crash

Eeeiiiirh.

The unmistakable sound of a brake applied in panic was accompanied by whistles and murmurs.  I was about to enter Bentley Hall when I heard it.  Turning around, I saw an SUV at a 45-degree angle to the curb. Another care was right behind it.  Somehow, the SUV failed to turn when coming off Congress Street.

Looking around, people were confused, trying to make sense of what had occurred.  I look back at the SUV.  It's a Mercedes.  The driver is Chinese.

"Of course," I think, then immediately scold myself for the thought.  The driver of the car behind the Mercedes is white.  I wonder if anyone else notices this.

The car backs up, then the SUV.  How did this happen?  Was she on the phone?  Did she blank out?  Is she freaked?  Is the other driver freaked?

Straightening itself out, the SUV proceeds up Richland.  The car pulls into the first parking space.  She probably needs a moment to gather herself.  I look back at my fellow bystanders.  They've resumed talking or smoking or walking.  I look back to the car.  It's empty.  I don't see the driver.

Islands Are Not Rafts

Hank Johnson was unopposed in 2008. I'm glad someone is giving Georgia voters a different option this year, because maybe it's time Rep. Johnson took his leave from Congress, even though he voted against the TARP bill.

Why? Check this out¹.

We may disagree on things, but we can agree on this: High-ranking government servants should know how the Earth works. I hope I'm not being too controversial here. I mean... good gravy. He later said he was claiming it was a metaphor. To which I say: Dude, you make a capsizing motion with your hands. You absolutely did not mean that as a metaphor. And even if you did, that was a stupid metaphor, and someone should throw a pie at you.

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1 It's a miracle that video is only 2:48, given how slowly he talks. I can't imagine sitting for a speech of his.

The Rain

I stand at the bottom of the stairs, pausing momentarily. I often do that, as if I am asking myself one last time if I want to leave the sanctuary of a covering overhead. But I do. It's the reason I'm here.

When I went to bed, a steady procession of raindrops provided a pleasant backdrop to my attempts at sleep. When I awoke that afternoon, it was still raining. It had been so long since I just went outside and let myself be washed in the rain. I had to go out there, immediately, and do it.

A friend of mine had a refrigerator magnet: “Some walk in the rain. Others just get wet.” I loved it. I remember in 8^th grade, our trip to Washington D.C. It rained for a fair amount of the trip. One night, we went to the then-new FDR monument, and it was pouring. Being out there sucked... for about a minute. Then we just accepted the rain, and we had a blast. That memory still stands out in my mind¹. One time when I was waiting in the overnight shift, coworkers who had just gotten off-shift went outside and played in the rain for an hour. For that hour, they were kids again.

I take that step out. It's raining moderately hard, so it takes a minute for me to get truly wet. There's always that step between dry and wet that's just annoying. When you get past it, though, you're free. I feel water drip from my hair, snake down my back. I close my eyes. I feel in concert with the Earth. For a few precious minutes, I am able to shut my mind off. I can just feel- that rare, precious state. I breathe deeply through my nose, that fresh, musty scent I wish I could bottle.

Anybody driving by would see me standing there, my arms stretched out. What is that guy doing? Or they get it. There's really no in-between.
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1 As well as what stuck me as irony: Standing next to a waterfall in a downpour, yet being prohibited from getting in. As if there was some kind of difference.

Let's Play a Game

It's called: Who is the Most Wrong?

Have a bucket or something handy, then read this. Let me know when you recover.

Good? Great.

First of all: What. The. Heck. This can't be real. It just can't. I am not a man easily fazed, but... come on. Who does that? How? Why? You have to realize at some point: I'm boinking my grandmother. This is wrong. Everyone in the world will hate me. Right?

I love, LOVE the quotes about how they get harassed when they're out together in public. Gee, why could that be? The grandmother saying she feels sexually alive for the first time in years pretty much killed my sex drive.

So we have an inter-generational love connection. OK. Gross, unconscionable, but probably not the first time in the history of the world this has happened. But having a baby? How do you find a surrogate for this? How do you even come up with the idea? What do you say to the woman? “Hey, uh, gramma and I, we wanna have a kid, but seeing as her plumbing dried up years ago, we're gonna need some help.” And how do you AGREE to that? Really? You think that's a good idea? You're on board with this?

Have these people not read the considerable literature on the problems incest babies have? No. No, they have not, because that is something intelligent people do. Non-intelligent people have sex with their family and say it's OK because of some possibly made up “condition.”

There's gotta be an island somewhere we can send these three. We'll pick the child up in a few months.

So, Who is the Most Wrong? The geriatric siren? The 26-year-old that apparently needs to triple his age to get a date? The woman who decided she'd carry their baby? I know this: We all lose.