So... nevermind.

I never deleted this, but it is worth ignoring.

So I'm deleting this blog as soon as this class is over...

The following is an excerpt from my blog essay, which helps to explain my opinion:

As soon as this class is over, I am deleting my blog. There is nothing there I want an open audience to find. I am not proud of the work. I don’t enjoy reading my entries myself. I’d rather keep my thoughts and memories self contained, expressing them when I choose to whomever I so choose. My future outlook on blogs, despite my negative reaction to this assignment, is however, very good. I use blogs more and more as time passes. They can be informative in ways that no other resource can, and I trust a solid, well-backed personal opinion more than an endorsed establishment’s mission statement. It is one thing to read a hotel review from a well traveled person and a whole different sort of thing to read a write-up on the hotel chain’s official website. For things like that, or other interesting opinion based blogs, I am thankful for the medium. In the future, I will surely participate in blogs, it is just unlikely that I will keep one myself.

So let's talk movies...

There are three Oscar nominees to winners that I absolutely adored. Juno, No Country For Old Men, and There Will Be Blood. All a delight to watch. Juno I found incredibly endearing. It reminded me so very much of my teenage years, the sassy talking and punk rock especially. No Country For Old Men is so stark and artful. It really resonates to your core, the men and their drives and philosophies. Javier is haunting. So is Daniel Day Lewis for that matter. Another stark movie, with perfect music and the best ending I have ever seen. I'm still not over how perfect the ending was. I run around saying DRAINAGE in my best Day-Lewis voice. Here's an excellent parody... about milkshakes and stuff.

Wait a minute, the SNL skit is even better. Who needs to wrap up commentary when a variety show has already done that for you.

So this shady dude stole this old woman's purse...

At the museum today. One, who walks into a museum of all places and thinks that it is a good place to steal from. Two, who steals from an elderly woman, especially a German Jewish Holocaust survivor, I mean really, the shame of it all. Three, all she had in her purse was some mail and a medication that won't get you high. Four, if he was going to steal purses, why didn't he go for my bright orange gargantuine. Five, we have tons of security footage, because we have digital cameras feeding straight to a hard drive at the front desk. Six, he had to pass the security moniter to get to the purse, idiot. Seven, the security service was slow. Seven, when searching for the possible discarded purse I found two joints on the edge of a trash can. Eight, the real police were very helpful. Nine, with the footage, I hope they nail the bastard. Ten, WHO STEALS FROM SWEET OLD WOMEN? Seriously.

So there is still much to do...

WORK WORK WORK.

I have my thesis to write. And I'm falling behind on the wiki entries...

This is not my idea of a good time.

So I filed my taxes for the first time...

Just in time...

I'm praying that the IRS will not notice that I have never filed before. I was mislead by my mother, who is usually knowledgeable on such matters, to believe that because I was declared a dependent I would not have to file. However, that is not the case if you make over a certain wage, and I'm rather pissed off that I've been missing out on years of returns. Luckily, I have gotten it all squared away, and apparently I'll be getting $259 dollars back from the government, which is awesome.

So I went to the Seven Gates of Hell, kinda...

First of all, snaps to Randal for actually having people at his party. You know how you can invite twenty people, and maybe three end up coming, well, Randal, defying the previous standard upheld at his Haloween party, had a mighty turn out at his ice cream social. Short of the fact that chairs were limited, there was plenty of silly conversations and good company, a sometimes odd playlist, hulahooping, and oh yeah, there was punch. It was interesting to be in a room full of college kids enjoying themselves soberly. Sometime after learning that a medium pizza is medium sized and consuming weird mixtures of ice cream, people began trailing off, as is typical with all parties, and soon only seven party-goers remained. So, in some strange sort of inspiration, we looked in Weird Pennsylvania, and decided to go to the Seven Gates of Hell, the haunted wooded site that apparently once housed an abandoned asylum. The trip took us far out into the York area, deep in the woods sometime after midnight, and after some time we arrived at Trout Run Road and a gate that matched the one we had seen photographed. We walked into the woods, wearing glowstick bracelets and chattering, and after a long time climbing fallen trees and dodging rocks and mud in the darkness and my nay-saying, the group decided that crossing the stream we came to was not worthwhile, we didn't want to get caught on private property, and there was noting hell-like in York, short of maybe the city itself. The scariest thing we found was a deer carcass, and that only caused us to wish we had seen it earlier so that we might have been freaked out enough to have gotten an adrenaline rush out of our night hike. Afterward, we mainly argued if we were in the right place, or if we had passed more than one gate. Later, I did some research, and found that, yes, we were in the right place, but if we had continued in the direction we were going we would have crossed a creek and climbed a ridge only to find ourselves in a housing development. Also, I found out that if we had been caught we would have had a $400 each. However, I did find that the best way to end an ice cream social is to go to hell.

So I actually enjoyed modern dance...

Saturday I felt obligated to go see the Paul Taylor Dance Company mumbo-jumbo at HACC that excites Randal so much. I was somewhat apprehensive, having seen some very bad modern dance in the past. The opening was very unimpressive, the costuming was way too over the top, the color choice devisive, the plot of the piece was cliche, the choriography was overshadowed by all of these things, and if it weren't for the skill of the dancers, it would have been awful. I sat next to Dave (who you likely do not know) and discussed these aspects before the next piece began. I was very, very happy to find the next piece to be dark an interesting, the choreography to be more innovative and the dance expressive. It was a very dark piece, artfully critiquing war and the control of the few over many. The lighting was amazing, and the dancers, of course, were spot on. The last piece was also very, very well done. The interplay between the dancers impressed me greatly, and there was a noticable emotional investment in the piece on Paul Taylor's part. Thankfully, it was very enjoyable, and I am actually glad to have gone to the perfomance.

So I fulfilled one of my dreams...

I met Ben Folds. Actually, I like to say that I "had an interaction" with Ben Folds. Randal tells that story much better, but, as this is my blog, this is my telling. So, we roll up into Easton just after seven o'clock, and while in a round-about, I notice the gentleman on the crosswalk happens to be the very artist we are about to see perform, and so I says to Randal I says "That's fucking Ben Folds." After noting some youngsters who also knew that, yes, that was Ben folds, we came to the decision that the best thing we could do was stalk after Mr. Folds, I mean, why pass up such an opportunity, and so we did. After losing sight of him, we went down a small back alley, and upon emerging, sight Ben Folds again, along with his bassist and drummer, walking down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. Like good quasi-stalkers, we maintained a following distance of about twenty yards. The bassist broke off from the group, apparently making Randal nervous that they were on to us, possibly even considering jumping our asses, but on we followed. Ben and his green-shirted drummer then stopped in front of an establishment, an eatery in fact, and so while they remained stationary we continued walking, eventually bringing us within feet of the talented performer. Upon making eye contact, I gave a low "Hey" while Randal apparently gave a very valid guy type head nod. And that's when he said "Hey, what's up." It doesn't get much better than that. But, in order to not look like creepy stalker kids, we continued walking, crossed the streets, giggled like children, notified our next of kin, and nervously paced around before deciding to sit across the street from the place where Ben Folds was eating. We had yellow curry and coconut rice, and watched as Ben Folds walked by, apparently going to the college where the concert was to be. After eating we proceeded to the concert, staked out a spot at stage right, and after a mildly amusing opening act (Eef, are you serious?) Randal decided to begin telling strangers that we had met Ben Folds on the street prior to the concert. After notifying a couple from New Jersey, and including a much-more-into-it-than-we-are couple (but not some other dude who only wanted to eavesdrop) a bond was formed, and so, despite stupid young girls acting like they were cool and trying to shove to the front, we dominated the crowd stage right and enjoyed a wonderful performance.

So I'm making it happen...

It's that time of year again where I spend a good amount of my time compiling evaluated and edited submissions, making a list and checking it twice (just like Santa), and creating the layout for Tarnhelm, our good ol' campus creative arts and literature publication. Hazzah! Now, with the cover and diskette off to press, I hold my breath for two weeks, pray there are no complications, await the test print, and plan the event ceremony.

So, you know what is as good for you as sunshine...

it's music. That good old twanging and banging of instruments. I have been developing a taste for music since life began. I remember sitting in the back of my mom's old Nissan, strapped into a car seat, listening to James Taylor sing a song about Winnie the Pooh. I've seen the tape of my pudgy little two-year-old body waddling around in a circle, shaking my teddy bear to the tune of Huey Lewis and the News. I latched on to music during the awkward pubescent years, which in the long run only made me more hopelessly romantic at a time where I was to socially awkward to hold down a relationship. C'est la vie. Aux, Champs Elysees, au soleil, sous la pluie, a midi ou a minuit... and I couldn't wait to get to the da da da da da da da part of the NOFX cover. The punk years fostered my deep relationships with the other outcasts, equally deep as they were marred. I went to show with my big brother by no relation, feet all to close to the hole rusting out the floor of the Geo Metro, screaming over the stereo, only to get to some dive or VFW or basement or pool hall and blow out part of my hearing. It was worth every minute of irreparable damage to my cochlea. And along the way my finer tastes still managed to develop amidst the incoherent cord progressions and double bass peddling. I had latched on to a few bands early on, the first being Third Eye Blind, leading me to investigate the world of alternative, the second being Ben Folds (Five at the time) which spun me in a more indie direction. And this was long before punk or hardcore shows. And Radiohead, can't forget the electronica melodia. Soon I looked into magazines; SPIN, and later Paste. And the spectrum broadened. And then my big brother hit his jazz phase. Broader. And then Matt and I hit a folk phase. Broader still. The taste expanded, became eclectic, and settled into what I would consider good taste. I know what I listen for in music. I have pretty set demands on strong lyricism and composition. Music mellows me out, picks me up, wakes me up, makes me drive to fast, makes me decelerate and enjoy the scenery, puts me to sleep, makes me angry, and urges me to share my findings with others. Have you heard of Dr. Dog? You haven't! I can't believe that! If you love Modest Mouse then I bet you'd love Dr. Dog! And they're Philly locals! I can't help but share, or criticize. I can't believe you think Britney Spears is talented. She's not, but her producer is. I mean, she's so overproduced it's sick. That's not her voice you hear. Not her real voice. Pop music (and popular country music) is hard for me to swallow. It gets all the coverage, dominates the radio, and where do people like me go to hear the counter-culture driven, somewhat subversive alternative? NPR. If you haven't acquired a taste for National Public Radio, I highly encourage it. There's WITF on 89.5, Good ol' 91.7 which is classical 6am-6pm and jazz 6pm-6am, and my favorite, WXPN 99.7 or 88.7 around here, depending what tower is nearby. Even more helpful, questionably, or at least a good alternative to radio, is Pandora. Pandora is an innovative program that allows you to enter a music type, band, artist, album, or even song of your liking, and based on some holy algorithm I do not understand, recommends similar music that it thinks you may enjoy. I type in M. Ward, and the all-knowing Pandora plays some Elliot Smith, or Belle & Sebastian, or the Decemberists. But what if I ask for artists like Tori Amos and it plays Ashley Simpson? If I vote it down, the program humbly apologizes and never plays it again. So you shape the results. Great idea, right? AND IT IS FREE. What a bonus. Check it out, if you haven't already. Okay, I'm done. The four cups of tea are wearing off, and I should sleep. One last song recommendation: Spoon's "I Turn [My Camera On]" 'cause it's good and I'm obsessed. Oh, and here is the height of me in the awkward peak of being a scene kid. Enjoy yourself, and augment the enjoyment with music!

So, I'm burned out...

And, no, that is not a drug related burn out. That's me, the student, having the symbolic light bulb turn black after a brief flare of light/intelligence. I hit some sort of mental wall, that if I were to scapegoat it I would say it is due to anxiety, where I have a problem producing much of anything. This blog stands as an example, I mean, look at the gap between now and when I last posted. Yeah. It may be a last semester, frustration related burn out. I feel lazy and impaired; the situation is half my fault and partially caused by some crippling factor I don't understand. And yes, this is a bit over-dramatic. But I do feel this vacancy where a drive once existed. I still produce work, granted, but I don't feel pride in it in the same way that I used to, and I feel like an undeserving hack. My accomplishments are fraudulent covers for all I didn't do. And I know not everyone thinks this of me, and I am my own worst critic, but I'm done. I half-quit. I'm not defeated, but I'm also not succeeding. Self-deprecating comments, wah-wah-wah, so on and so forth. And while I loath the complaining, it makes me feel just that much better. That whole venting thing. But, in truth, I do feel like I'm letting shit slide that I can't afford to let go, and I'm looking for some magical motivator, that only I am likely to have the key to, which could make me kick my ass into high gear, suck it up, and get it all done. Maybe now I wish I did go through a phase where I wrote all of my term papers in a five hour span related to copious amounts of adderall in my system, but that is not the case, and it's not going to be, so...



(myspace-esc serious and not looking at the camera self-taken picture added for additional drama and possibly more interest generated in what I write based on my youthful looks)

So Dick Cheney ruined my morning...

I was driving down the highway to my internship, late as per usual, and I noticed an unusually large amount of cops along the highway, either stopped on the side of the road or at an exit. And they weren't looking to pull over speeding drivers. I thought, are we living in a police state, but no, not yet we aren't. So my intent was to drive safely into Harrisburg, park at the Walnut Street garage, and hurry along to my internship. As I passed by the road to the garage, I saw the road was blocked off. Turns out the other garages are full. I drive a few blocks down, a few blocks over, and by the time I get back onto second street the road is blocked off by police cars (pause for several days) AND THEN I'm ushered out of Harrisburg and forced over onto the west shore. So, I call my internship, let them know what's going on, and Julie says "there's some politician in Harrisburg... a memo was sent to us." As I am on the on ramp to Interstate 83, I think to myself it better be a damn important political figure, like the leader of a foreign nation or a former president, and to the wonder of my eyes I find that the entire south bound side of the highway is completely vacant. That explains the excessive amount of cops on the way into Harrisburg. And why? I was not sure, but after driving circles between Allison Hill and Third street, twice, I finally made it past the road blocks and was the first person allowed into my original destination, the Walnut Street Garage. Upon entering SAM an hour and change later than I should have, I found out all of this was simply occurring so that Dick Cheney could comfortably return to Washington. Now, previously I was not a fan of the Bush administration, and I loathed Cheney, but now that he has directly and adversely affected my life, I can say I hate him and his politics for the constant disruption of life as it should be. So there.

So I went to India...

And that was an amazing experience. I hate when people ask broad questions about the trip, though, such as "how was it" or "did anything cool happen" and silly things I couldn't possible answer very easily. It's hard to put words like "good" or "awesome" on a completely new experience that most other people aren't likely to relate to with ease. What I do enjoy is the moment where I can start my own explanation, such as "I fell in love with Jodhpur" or "the traffic was amazing," things I think of independently of questioning, memories I deeply wish to share with any person willing to hear them. Even in this blogs I won't really talk of India, but more so talk about talking about India. Why? Simply because I've been doing a lot of it lately, and I have a presentation to give this upcoming Thursday and need to sift through about 500+ photographs to figure out what visuals I want to accompany my account of the trip. It's one of the many things that are to be done very shortly. There's a lot of work due soon. A lot of deadlines. I'll tackle them one by one, frantically, and largely in a last-minute kind of way. I'll be honest, a lot of my work comes out the way. And I keep planning improvement, and the follow through is also lagging behind. But that sounds much more defeatist than it is. It all works out the way it's meant to. I don't have a mantra, (people have asked if I have one now that I went to India) but if I did have one, it would likely be "all things that are meant to happen, happen." I trust in that, most especially when stressing out about the end result of a situation I am in the middle of, because that's when I need reminders. Luckily, I follow that even when things do not work out favorably for me, because to me your philosophy should not change with your circumstance, what you believe should be constant, elsewise you are fooling yourself into following a belief you truly don't have faith in. Ramble ramble. In truth, India changed me. But each day that I'm no longer there I can feel myself falling into old routines, and all I want to do is go back, and lose myself in some of those same moments.

Shortly after returning home, in fact, about twenty-four hours after my flight arrived in Harrisburg, I found myself at a formal event. I was surrounded by a bunch of executives and middle management of a large company, all schmoozing and chatting up this and that person, dressed in either hand tailored pieces or Bon Ton's finest. I felt, what I refer to as "reverse culture-shock," and I simply watched these people nervously, sitting and staring, with increasing feelings of unease. I wanted the crowds of people, dusty air, wandering cattle, endless amounts of wild dogs, questionable street food, smiling children, hawkers, drivers, Tatas, and overall atmosphere of India back. Somehow, it seemed more reasonable, more functional, more cohesive, and even happier, than America likely ever will to me. And then I was sick. And then we went to a bar. And after my second rum and coke of the evening, I felt a little better about being home again.

So I've begun...

And this is the point where I tell you why I'm doing this. It's for a course. Plain and simple. My desire to blog about myself is nonexistent. Granted, when I was a teenager I had a xanga site in which I hoped my obscure creative writing would be read by others, and that somehow the people I wrote about would be insightful enough to realize "oh, that's me." I wanted readers then. Now, however, the concept of me sharing in a blog scares me. I'm not looking for the attention I sought out when I was younger. But... I'm the type to test their own limits. So why not free write these required blogs. Why not have a sit down where the ideas spill out and I can regret them later. Let's see how much I'm willing to share. And let's see if I can avoid an audience or not.