I listen to a lot of music – in that regard, I guess I fit into the mold of a typical college student. I think it’s impossible to have a favorite song and borderline impossible to have a favorite artist. There’s no doubt that some musicians are just plain better than others, whether in the writing phase or the performance phase, but overall, the market is too saturated to be able to name a single four-minute song as the epitome of music.
What I do believe in, though, is albums. The album as an art form seems like it’s been falling by the wayside in our iTunes-driven society – why buy the whole album when there are only one or two songs that you really like? An album should be an experience, a logical thought or musical progression from start to finish. It should represent a substantial (if not total) range of the artist’s talents, but it should also stay consistent within itself. I’m not a big fan of albums that try out a different genre for every track. An album should be a serialized collection of songs, not a mishmash of different stuff that the artist has recorded here and there.
The following, then, are my five favorite albums – notice how I say my personal favorites, not “the best.” When I was thinking about this last night (couldn’t fall asleep), I came up with two basic ground rules. Firstly, I wanted this list to consist of music I discovered on my own. “Abbey Road,” for example, is much more highly accredited than any album on this list, and I legitimately enjoyed it, but I only listened to it because of the ubiquity of the Beatles in our modern culture. The music on this list is stuff that I discovered on the radio, at friends’ houses, through my dad, etc, stuff I’d never heard of before I listened to it. I also limited this list to original studio albums – this eliminates CDs like best-of compilations, live albums, and (unfortunately) soundtracks. In chronological order of release:
Counting Crows – August and Everything After (1993)
My dad listed to this album all the time when I was a kid. At that age, I really only paid attention to “Mr. Jones” because I liked that it had my name in it. In early high school, though, I found the CD in my dad’s office and put it on as I was doing some homework. It’s amazing how much soul and emotion is in the lyrics of songs like “Round Here” and “Anna Begins” (one of my all-time favorite songs). These slower songs are almost haunting in how they stick with you long after you’re done listening to them. It’s rainy-day music, the stuff I would put on when I was at my most philosophic – driving home from play rehearsal at 1 a.m., for example. I’m also going to go out on a limb and say that “Raining in Baltimore” is the Crows’ most underrated song.
Weezer – The Blue Album (1994)
I waffled back and forth for a long time between “Blue” and “Pinkerton,” but in the end, I went with this one because it has more sentimental value. I bought it at the beginning of the summer after seventh grade, and it’s the first album that I became obsessed with. I listened to it over and over for days on end, and as such, I have it memorized – every lyric, every guitar lick, every idiosyncrasy, down pat. “Buddy Holly” is catchy, “In the Garage” is quirky and full of pop-culture references, and “My Name is Jonas” is just badass. “Only in Dreams,” the final track, is a seven-minute instrumental ballad that perfectly captures that feeling of adolescent longing. Listening to this album is forty-one minutes (and no, I didn’t have to look that up) of pure nostalgia and bliss.
Third Eye Blind – Third Eye Blind (1997)
Most people know this album for its biggest singles, “Semi-Charmed Life” and “Jumper,” but I usually skip over these songs when I’m listening in my car or on my iPod. It’s not that I don’t like them, but they’re way too overplayed – if I’m making it a point to listen to Third Eye Blind, I don’t want to listen to something I heard on the radio two days ago. Most of the songs are fast-paced and poppy, but not overly so. The subtleties of the lyrics and instrumentation make it so that you can hear a song several times and notice something new every time. If someone put a gun to my head and forced me to pick a favorite song, I’d probably say “Motorcycle Drive By.” That’s one of those songs where if I’m listening to it while I’m driving and I get to where I’m going before the songs over, I’ll sit in the car and let it finish.
Nickel Creek – Nickel Creek (2000)
I was in Shakespeare’s “Love’s Labours Lost” during my sophomore year of high school, and a couple songs from this album served as background music. The whole album is very chill, very laid back, but it’s earnest. If you’ve never heard a mandolin solo before, you might want to check out “The Fox.” As I’ve said before, great vocals are important to me, which makes “Out of the Woods” and “Reasons Why” just that much better. The latter, in particular, has tight harmony that blows me away every time. Instrumental pieces like “Ode to a Butterfly” are equally awe-inspiring. “The Lighthouse’s Tale” is just a great story put to an appropriately simple yet elegant melody. This one’s probably the most obscure on my list.
Ben Folds – Rockin’ the Suburbs (2001)
With a few exceptions mentioned in the booklet, Ben Folds plays every instrument and sings every vocal on the entire CD. This ranges from the mind-numbing piano lick that begins “Zak and Sara” to the crazy high note at the end of “Fired” to the kick-ass bass solo in the title song. Even if you don’t like his particular genre, you have to respect the guy as a musician. That’s talent. Most of his lyrics especially on this album, are very personal and specific, so much so that I only found out what several of them were about when I heard him explain them live. “Fred Jones, Part Two” and “Ascent of Stan” are perfect examples. I also hold “The Luckiest” to be one of the best love songs ever written, but hey, that’s just me.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
"Ah, music, a magic beyond all we do here."
I’d say that throughout my high school career, the phrase that I heard most often was “Jonesy, dammit, stop singing!”
Again, if you don’t know me very well (and you’d really have to not know me well at all to not notice this), I sing a lot. Not at choir, not at karaoke, not at talent shows, not even when someone has a guitar out; just to myself. It’s not particularly rare to see me walking across the quad singing Ben Folds or Avenue Q or something for no reason whatsoever. I’ve done it as long as I can remember, it’s not a habit that I just picked up one day. I distinctly remember that in first grade, I was singing “A Whole New World” to myself during a spelling test, and the teacher had to ask me to be quiet. That wouldn’t be so bad if the exact same thing hadn’t happened during a government quiz senior year.
I get songs stuck in my head (my dad calls them “ear worms”), and more often than not, I just can’t stop myself. It’s not like I make a conscious decision to spontaneously burst into song. Once I start, I’m usually aware I’m doing it within the first couple notes or so, unless I’m concentrating really hard on something else. I’ve tried quitting (believe me, I’ve tried), but again, the first couple notes usually eke their way out before I quite know what’s happening. By that point, I really think that it’d be more embarrassing to stop suddenly and turn red than to just follow through. Following though makes it look voluntary, even if it’s not. I’ve mostly just accepted that it’s a habit I’ll always have, for better or worse, and that people can just deal with it.
I’ve started to embrace it – again, it’s the follow through and commitment to the bit that helps pull it off. The guy wandering around mouthing something under his breath looks a little bit creepy; the guy who struts down the street belting “Hey Jude,” complete with contorted facial expressions, is just a badass. He’s got confidence. People watching him may think he’s a little out there, but it’s the good kind of out there. I might be way off base on this one, but I think if I pull it off right, it gives off the vibe of an easygoing, chill, relatively confident guy who’s just plain enjoying himself. It’s even been a conversation starter at times. I was ambling across the Quad last year, humming Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist from Avenue Q, and sure enough, some girl passing by yelled out “Dude, I love that musical.” We talked for ten or fifteen minutes after that. The same thing’s happened with everything from Coldplay to Ben Folds to Newsies (way underrated, you should check it out).
I think it’s fair to say that people who get really into music fall into it themselves. If you like Eric Clapton, you might try to pick up the guitar. If you listen for sick drum solos in every song you hear, you might try your hand at drums. People who are really into classical music try to learn piano. My favorite instrument (and I do believe it’s an instrument, just as important as all the others) is the human voice. That’s why I enjoy Broadway musicals so much – musicals are the one genre of music where an amazing voice is almost a prerequisite to enjoy any kind of success. Just like a normal person listens to the same guitar solo from a certain song over and over, I poo a little when I listen to John Tartaglia sing Purpose or, as cliché as it is, Idina Menzel and Kristin Chenoweth kick ass in For Good.
Anyway, that’s my rant for the day. I always enjoy providing a little insight into the riddle wrapped in a puzzle wrapped in an enigma that is Matt Jones.
Again, if you don’t know me very well (and you’d really have to not know me well at all to not notice this), I sing a lot. Not at choir, not at karaoke, not at talent shows, not even when someone has a guitar out; just to myself. It’s not particularly rare to see me walking across the quad singing Ben Folds or Avenue Q or something for no reason whatsoever. I’ve done it as long as I can remember, it’s not a habit that I just picked up one day. I distinctly remember that in first grade, I was singing “A Whole New World” to myself during a spelling test, and the teacher had to ask me to be quiet. That wouldn’t be so bad if the exact same thing hadn’t happened during a government quiz senior year.
I get songs stuck in my head (my dad calls them “ear worms”), and more often than not, I just can’t stop myself. It’s not like I make a conscious decision to spontaneously burst into song. Once I start, I’m usually aware I’m doing it within the first couple notes or so, unless I’m concentrating really hard on something else. I’ve tried quitting (believe me, I’ve tried), but again, the first couple notes usually eke their way out before I quite know what’s happening. By that point, I really think that it’d be more embarrassing to stop suddenly and turn red than to just follow through. Following though makes it look voluntary, even if it’s not. I’ve mostly just accepted that it’s a habit I’ll always have, for better or worse, and that people can just deal with it.
I’ve started to embrace it – again, it’s the follow through and commitment to the bit that helps pull it off. The guy wandering around mouthing something under his breath looks a little bit creepy; the guy who struts down the street belting “Hey Jude,” complete with contorted facial expressions, is just a badass. He’s got confidence. People watching him may think he’s a little out there, but it’s the good kind of out there. I might be way off base on this one, but I think if I pull it off right, it gives off the vibe of an easygoing, chill, relatively confident guy who’s just plain enjoying himself. It’s even been a conversation starter at times. I was ambling across the Quad last year, humming Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist from Avenue Q, and sure enough, some girl passing by yelled out “Dude, I love that musical.” We talked for ten or fifteen minutes after that. The same thing’s happened with everything from Coldplay to Ben Folds to Newsies (way underrated, you should check it out).
I think it’s fair to say that people who get really into music fall into it themselves. If you like Eric Clapton, you might try to pick up the guitar. If you listen for sick drum solos in every song you hear, you might try your hand at drums. People who are really into classical music try to learn piano. My favorite instrument (and I do believe it’s an instrument, just as important as all the others) is the human voice. That’s why I enjoy Broadway musicals so much – musicals are the one genre of music where an amazing voice is almost a prerequisite to enjoy any kind of success. Just like a normal person listens to the same guitar solo from a certain song over and over, I poo a little when I listen to John Tartaglia sing Purpose or, as cliché as it is, Idina Menzel and Kristin Chenoweth kick ass in For Good.
Anyway, that’s my rant for the day. I always enjoy providing a little insight into the riddle wrapped in a puzzle wrapped in an enigma that is Matt Jones.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Philosophical Musings on God
So, I’m going to get a bit more philosophical than usual, and I hope it’s a trend that continues over the coming posts. The purpose of a blog is to share your thoughts and opinions with the world, not to bitch about your crappy day and expect people to care. I’m not saying that venting like that isn’t healthy, but as I’ve learned the hard way, grudges are best expressed in that secret Microsoft Word document on your computer, not on the Internet.
Quick background on those who don’t know me very well – I went to a private, Catholic school for eight years before coming to UT. Talk about a reality slap. I took religion/theology classes for sixteen consecutive semesters, so I like to consider myself pretty well steeped in Catholic dogma. All of this knowledge is a blessing and a curse. On one hand, I’ve been seeing the world through this lens for so long that I almost forgot that not everyone agrees with it. For example, in a biology discussion section last year, we were flogging around the creationism/evolution debate. Our TA mentioned how evolution contradicts the book of Genesis, and I promptly raised my hand and talked about how “pretty much everyone with a brain” sees all that as nothing but an allegory. About five hands went up, and the TA just goes, “Well, that’s one opinion…”
On the other hand, I have a pretty firm set of beliefs and the facts to back them up. This comes in handy during late-night philosophical discussions with whoever happens to be studying in the Carothers lobby. Last week, some friends and I were chilling on the front porch talking about Catholicism, and for whatever reason, the seven sacraments came up. I rattled them off in under ten seconds, something that surprised even me – I haven’t consciously thought about that stuff since sixth or seventh grade. We talked about various historical developments like the Inquisition and the Crusades, and I was able to hold my own. If nothing else, then, I can thank Cistercian for giving me the ability to sound intelligent every once in a while.
Anyway, on that same night, we started talking about what exactly “God” is. I remember all of those qualifications that Fathers Roch and Paul pounded into us, qualifications like omniscience, transcendence, immanence, “homoousious,” etc, but those are just descriptions. What is the essence, the fundamental nature, of God? My friend Libby introduced an idea by saying that it would forever change the way we thought about God. I was a bit skeptical at first, but since I’ve been thinking on it, she was kind of right. The gist of the conversation was this – I don’t think many people believe that God is a physical being. The idea of some corporeal figure lounging around on a planet somewhere, watching Earth through a giant pair of binoculars, doesn’t inspire much respect. Everywhere we go, we hear “God is perfect, God is everywhere, God’s spirit is within us.” Most people (well, at least me) just nod along and accept it without really thinking about what that might mean. The idea that completely blew my mind is this – what if, instead of saying, “God is perfect because He’s God,” you say, “God is God because he’s perfect?”
According to this thought, God is an idea. He’s an ideal. He’s THE ideal. He’s perfect truth, perfect love, perfect justice, all of that. These are the things that make Him God, though, not the other way around. He’s the embodiment and compilation of all of these “good” ideals rolled into one. God is a measuring stick. If you believe that there’s such a thing as perfect justice (not that mankind has already attained it, mind you, but that it’s possible to reach), then hey, guess what – you believe in God. If you believe that there’s such a thing as perfect love, whether it’s fraternal, romantic, whatever, then you believe in God, whether you know it or not. If you believe in the concept of total and complete fairness, an idea admittedly more socialist than Machiavellian, then you’re on the same wavelength as God. Anyone who believes that these ideals exist and are worth achieving believes in God, basically.
My senior year government teacher defined politics as “The struggle for the good life for man.” If by this “good life” we mean a system of perfect justice, perfect fraternity, a perfect economy, and an agreed-upon morality, then, by using these definitions, the purpose of politics is to attempt to achieve union with God. Once you throw out all of those technicalities and restrictions that various faiths and governments have piled up since the dawn of man, religion and politics are really the same thing.
That’s just something I’ve been thinking about over the weekend, thought I’d write it down before the concept gets pushed out by an Art History test or an Econ reading. I’m not saying I buy into it wholeheartedly, but it’s definitely an intriguing theory.
Quick background on those who don’t know me very well – I went to a private, Catholic school for eight years before coming to UT. Talk about a reality slap. I took religion/theology classes for sixteen consecutive semesters, so I like to consider myself pretty well steeped in Catholic dogma. All of this knowledge is a blessing and a curse. On one hand, I’ve been seeing the world through this lens for so long that I almost forgot that not everyone agrees with it. For example, in a biology discussion section last year, we were flogging around the creationism/evolution debate. Our TA mentioned how evolution contradicts the book of Genesis, and I promptly raised my hand and talked about how “pretty much everyone with a brain” sees all that as nothing but an allegory. About five hands went up, and the TA just goes, “Well, that’s one opinion…”
On the other hand, I have a pretty firm set of beliefs and the facts to back them up. This comes in handy during late-night philosophical discussions with whoever happens to be studying in the Carothers lobby. Last week, some friends and I were chilling on the front porch talking about Catholicism, and for whatever reason, the seven sacraments came up. I rattled them off in under ten seconds, something that surprised even me – I haven’t consciously thought about that stuff since sixth or seventh grade. We talked about various historical developments like the Inquisition and the Crusades, and I was able to hold my own. If nothing else, then, I can thank Cistercian for giving me the ability to sound intelligent every once in a while.
Anyway, on that same night, we started talking about what exactly “God” is. I remember all of those qualifications that Fathers Roch and Paul pounded into us, qualifications like omniscience, transcendence, immanence, “homoousious,” etc, but those are just descriptions. What is the essence, the fundamental nature, of God? My friend Libby introduced an idea by saying that it would forever change the way we thought about God. I was a bit skeptical at first, but since I’ve been thinking on it, she was kind of right. The gist of the conversation was this – I don’t think many people believe that God is a physical being. The idea of some corporeal figure lounging around on a planet somewhere, watching Earth through a giant pair of binoculars, doesn’t inspire much respect. Everywhere we go, we hear “God is perfect, God is everywhere, God’s spirit is within us.” Most people (well, at least me) just nod along and accept it without really thinking about what that might mean. The idea that completely blew my mind is this – what if, instead of saying, “God is perfect because He’s God,” you say, “God is God because he’s perfect?”
According to this thought, God is an idea. He’s an ideal. He’s THE ideal. He’s perfect truth, perfect love, perfect justice, all of that. These are the things that make Him God, though, not the other way around. He’s the embodiment and compilation of all of these “good” ideals rolled into one. God is a measuring stick. If you believe that there’s such a thing as perfect justice (not that mankind has already attained it, mind you, but that it’s possible to reach), then hey, guess what – you believe in God. If you believe that there’s such a thing as perfect love, whether it’s fraternal, romantic, whatever, then you believe in God, whether you know it or not. If you believe in the concept of total and complete fairness, an idea admittedly more socialist than Machiavellian, then you’re on the same wavelength as God. Anyone who believes that these ideals exist and are worth achieving believes in God, basically.
My senior year government teacher defined politics as “The struggle for the good life for man.” If by this “good life” we mean a system of perfect justice, perfect fraternity, a perfect economy, and an agreed-upon morality, then, by using these definitions, the purpose of politics is to attempt to achieve union with God. Once you throw out all of those technicalities and restrictions that various faiths and governments have piled up since the dawn of man, religion and politics are really the same thing.
That’s just something I’ve been thinking about over the weekend, thought I’d write it down before the concept gets pushed out by an Art History test or an Econ reading. I’m not saying I buy into it wholeheartedly, but it’s definitely an intriguing theory.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Status
For anyone who knows who David Novinski is, he gives his "status" talk once every couple years during one play rehearsal or another. The basic premise is that all human interaction revolves around a battle of who has the higher and lower status. Superiority and inferiority. Generosity and supplication. Etcetera. Sometimes the assertion of status is overt, like a boss telling his employee to get him a cup of coffee, just because he can. Other times, you have to read between the lines to figure it out. Compare the following two conversations:
Phone rings.
"Hello?"
"Hey, it's so-and-so. Can you do me a quick favor?"
"Sure, what's up?"
"Can you open the front door for me? I'm locked out."
"Yeah, I'll be there in a sec."
Click.
Phone rings.
"Hello?"
"Hey, it's so-and-so. Want to open the front door for me?"
"Uh...sure, I guess. I'll be there in a sec."
Click.
Most people know that I have a tendency to overanalyze pretty much anything anyone says, so you might want to take everything I'm saying with a grain of salt. First of all, there's the obvious difference of "Can you do me a favor?" vs. "Hey, do this for me," but there's not too much to say about it that's not right there on the surface. I'm more interested in the word choice when the guy that's locked out gets to the point. "Can you..." vs. "Want to..." is a world of difference. "Can you do this for me?" is a polite request from a guy with lower status to a guy with higher status. He's admitting, however subtly, that he screwed up and that he needs help. It's not exactly the prime example of humility or politeness, but it doesn't come off as overbearing.
The use of the word "want," though, implies an invitation. "Hey, want to come to my party?" "Hey, want some of my pizza?" "Hey, want to come open this door for me?" More often than not, a lower status person receives an invitation from a higher status person. Saying "Want to..." instead of "Can you...", then, is an attempt to exert one's superiority over someone else while requesting a favor from them. He can't just ask someone for a favor; he has to insinuate that doing this favor benefits both of them.
I'm only bringing this up because it seems like this has become the most common way to ask for a favor. No self-respecting student, for example, wants to admit he's bad at a certain subject. When he asks for help, instead of saying, "Hey, I don't get this, can you give me a hand?", he'll probably say instead, "Hey, wanna come help me study for math later?" Of course he doesn't "want to" - he'd probably rather be playing Guitar Hero or Facebooking or something other than explaining calculus. But, if it's posed as a request instead of an invitation (a bit of ego-stroking, perhaps?), then yeah, sure, he's free for an hour or so. People that ask for favors like that, as a whole, just bug me. Instead of calling me "buddy" and inviting me to run your wallet to you halfway across campus, just ask. Seriously. You come off as much less of a douche that way.
Phone rings.
"Hello?"
"Hey, it's so-and-so. Can you do me a quick favor?"
"Sure, what's up?"
"Can you open the front door for me? I'm locked out."
"Yeah, I'll be there in a sec."
Click.
Phone rings.
"Hello?"
"Hey, it's so-and-so. Want to open the front door for me?"
"Uh...sure, I guess. I'll be there in a sec."
Click.
Most people know that I have a tendency to overanalyze pretty much anything anyone says, so you might want to take everything I'm saying with a grain of salt. First of all, there's the obvious difference of "Can you do me a favor?" vs. "Hey, do this for me," but there's not too much to say about it that's not right there on the surface. I'm more interested in the word choice when the guy that's locked out gets to the point. "Can you..." vs. "Want to..." is a world of difference. "Can you do this for me?" is a polite request from a guy with lower status to a guy with higher status. He's admitting, however subtly, that he screwed up and that he needs help. It's not exactly the prime example of humility or politeness, but it doesn't come off as overbearing.
The use of the word "want," though, implies an invitation. "Hey, want to come to my party?" "Hey, want some of my pizza?" "Hey, want to come open this door for me?" More often than not, a lower status person receives an invitation from a higher status person. Saying "Want to..." instead of "Can you...", then, is an attempt to exert one's superiority over someone else while requesting a favor from them. He can't just ask someone for a favor; he has to insinuate that doing this favor benefits both of them.
I'm only bringing this up because it seems like this has become the most common way to ask for a favor. No self-respecting student, for example, wants to admit he's bad at a certain subject. When he asks for help, instead of saying, "Hey, I don't get this, can you give me a hand?", he'll probably say instead, "Hey, wanna come help me study for math later?" Of course he doesn't "want to" - he'd probably rather be playing Guitar Hero or Facebooking or something other than explaining calculus. But, if it's posed as a request instead of an invitation (a bit of ego-stroking, perhaps?), then yeah, sure, he's free for an hour or so. People that ask for favors like that, as a whole, just bug me. Instead of calling me "buddy" and inviting me to run your wallet to you halfway across campus, just ask. Seriously. You come off as much less of a douche that way.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
A Trip to Starbucks
I went to Starbucks today. The purpose of my trip was twofold: firstly, I needed some caffeine in my blood. Sure, we have a coffeemaker, but the only coffee we have in the house is a gallon tub of that Folgers Half-Caff shit. My mom thinks that my dad and I drink too much coffee, so she bought that to keep our bodies from shutting down or something. With coffee, I enjoy the taste, but I mainly drink it to stay awake through the day. Instead of cutting back, then, I end up drinking twice as much just to get my usual jolt. Also, when I make coffee, I get open-bottle syndrome - as long as there's still coffee in that pot, I'm gonna drink it. And since making a single cup's worth of coffee seems pointless, I end up all jittery.
Secondly, and more importantly, I needed to get out of the house. I've been home alone all day, and I got a mild case of cabin fever. I usually only go to Starbucks before or after going to Blockbuster, just a quick in-and-out that seems more habitual than necessary (that's what she said). Today, however, in typical college fashion, I decided to bring a book and sit outside for a while.
A store clerk, in general, exists to check you out as efficiently and unscrupulously as possible, no more, no less. Any conversation he might start with a customer is mandated either by company policy ("Did you find everything okay this evening?") or to simply avoid awkward silence ("Man, it's hot out, huh?"). Anything other than that, and a cranky customer with a Bluetooth in his ear asks him to hurry it up, please. With this in mind, I approached the barista, smiled, and asked, "I'm getting kinda tired of my usual - can you recommend anything cold with a lot of caffeine?" She looked up and seemed a bit excited - acknowledgments of being a person instead of a nametag come few and far between. After some preliminary questions about my preferences, she decided to make me what she usually gets during breaks, with my permission, of course. When I pulled out my gift card to pay, she winked and said, "Don't worry about it this time." Score. The drink was pretty damn good, too, I must say.
Anyway, I sat in the sun and read for half an hour or so (I'm reading PD James' Children of Men, it's incredible so far). Sitting in a cafe is great for peoplewatching, which I enjoy - it's always interesting to listen in on conversations, especially extended ones. One guy was talking about how his son had been busted for possession a couple years ago, but his lawyer got him off on a technicality. A Hispanic guy with a perfect American accent told a story about how, last week, he had just finished mowing his lawn when a blonde chick in a truck pulled into the driveway next door and said, "Hey, the lawn looks great, would you mind doing mine soon?" He responded that he had a business presentation in a couple days, his wife was out of town, and his kids had the flu, so he probably wouldn't be able to squeeze her in. He finished up and went in the house through the front door, in plain view of his (new?) neighbor. He couldn't help peeking through the window to see her reaction - she was mortified.
I went back inside and ordered another drink, iced tea this time. I hadn't paid for the first one, so a second one didn't seem like splurging or anything. I struck up a conversation with another guy that works there, Tim, whom I kind of know. He came into Blockbuster almost every day last summer, just like I went to Starbucks, so we're pretty familiar with each other if nothing else. He's a couple of years older than I am, probably early twenties. Last summer, he mentioned how he lived at home and that movies were usually his only form of entertainment. I thought it was kind of sad at the time, but now I realize that it's not that different from what I'm doing this summer. We're both college students living at home for the summer, making some cash and trying not to let our parents crush our spirits. He's a little older than I am; so what?
I'm writing out of boredom more than anything else. I'm hoping that if I type long enough, something amazing and insightful might eventually eek its way out. Not today, I guess.
Secondly, and more importantly, I needed to get out of the house. I've been home alone all day, and I got a mild case of cabin fever. I usually only go to Starbucks before or after going to Blockbuster, just a quick in-and-out that seems more habitual than necessary (that's what she said). Today, however, in typical college fashion, I decided to bring a book and sit outside for a while.
A store clerk, in general, exists to check you out as efficiently and unscrupulously as possible, no more, no less. Any conversation he might start with a customer is mandated either by company policy ("Did you find everything okay this evening?") or to simply avoid awkward silence ("Man, it's hot out, huh?"). Anything other than that, and a cranky customer with a Bluetooth in his ear asks him to hurry it up, please. With this in mind, I approached the barista, smiled, and asked, "I'm getting kinda tired of my usual - can you recommend anything cold with a lot of caffeine?" She looked up and seemed a bit excited - acknowledgments of being a person instead of a nametag come few and far between. After some preliminary questions about my preferences, she decided to make me what she usually gets during breaks, with my permission, of course. When I pulled out my gift card to pay, she winked and said, "Don't worry about it this time." Score. The drink was pretty damn good, too, I must say.
Anyway, I sat in the sun and read for half an hour or so (I'm reading PD James' Children of Men, it's incredible so far). Sitting in a cafe is great for peoplewatching, which I enjoy - it's always interesting to listen in on conversations, especially extended ones. One guy was talking about how his son had been busted for possession a couple years ago, but his lawyer got him off on a technicality. A Hispanic guy with a perfect American accent told a story about how, last week, he had just finished mowing his lawn when a blonde chick in a truck pulled into the driveway next door and said, "Hey, the lawn looks great, would you mind doing mine soon?" He responded that he had a business presentation in a couple days, his wife was out of town, and his kids had the flu, so he probably wouldn't be able to squeeze her in. He finished up and went in the house through the front door, in plain view of his (new?) neighbor. He couldn't help peeking through the window to see her reaction - she was mortified.
I went back inside and ordered another drink, iced tea this time. I hadn't paid for the first one, so a second one didn't seem like splurging or anything. I struck up a conversation with another guy that works there, Tim, whom I kind of know. He came into Blockbuster almost every day last summer, just like I went to Starbucks, so we're pretty familiar with each other if nothing else. He's a couple of years older than I am, probably early twenties. Last summer, he mentioned how he lived at home and that movies were usually his only form of entertainment. I thought it was kind of sad at the time, but now I realize that it's not that different from what I'm doing this summer. We're both college students living at home for the summer, making some cash and trying not to let our parents crush our spirits. He's a little older than I am; so what?
I'm writing out of boredom more than anything else. I'm hoping that if I type long enough, something amazing and insightful might eventually eek its way out. Not today, I guess.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
In the Beginning...
Well, now that the inherent boredom of summer has lost its novelty and become, well...boring, I thought I'd create something that'll help me use my time more productively than Minesweeper or Facebook. I like to think I'm a fairly decent writer, but my output as of late has been limited to research papers, essays, and the like. Thought this might help change that.
I had a Xanga back in high school (that makes me sound older than I really am), and it was a disaster. I'm realizing in hindsight that the majority of my social problems during junior and senior year were directly related to things I posted up there. It was too personal, way too personal - I said exactly what I was thinking, I named names, I passed judgments, and worst of all, I was blissfully ignorant about doing it. I wasn't treating it like a publicly-advertised online journal, which is what it was; I was treating it like a diary that most people wouldn't let anyone read in a million years. I should start this one off, then, by promising that my entries aren't going to consist of "Today I did this, this, this, and this" or "I've been feeling lost and alone lately, why won't anyone call me?" I'm not quite that emo anymore.
Instead, I'm hoping that most of my topics will be relatively abstract. I'm kind of a quiet guy, a lot of times I just sit and think. I notice things about society, about people around me, about life in general. Some of them I flog around and then dismiss, but occasionally, I get this idea that deserves more than that. I usually scribble down a rough outline on a post-it or in the back of a class notebook, figuring I'll come back to it later. You wouldn't believe how many crumpled up pieces of paper I came across when I was moving out of my dorm room a couple weeks ago. I'm not saying the ideas I come up with are earthshattering or even particularly interesting, but if you didn't want to read them, you wouldn't have come to this website in the first place.
I really want to go on a road trip. I almost did last summer, with some friends from the summer camp that I used to work at, but my parents nipped that in the bud pretty quick. After about a week of pleading, they allowed me to fly out of Dallas, meet my friends in Arizona, stay for two nights, and then fly back home. I tried to argue that flying defeats the entire point of a road trip, but they just told me not to push my luck. I've been reading a lot of travelling novels lately, everything from Kerouac's On the Road to Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath, and I get more and more pumped after every one I finish. It wouldn't be about the people I went with - hopefully, it'll be about the people I meet along the way. I want to stop at a mom-and-pop's diner in Shithole, Texas and make small talk with the waitress. I want to pull into a gas station at 5 a.m. after a full night of driving, buy a cup of crappy coffee and maybe a donut, and keep going. I want to hit 100 mph on deserted highways that continue on as far as I can see with trees and bushes being the only scenery on both sides. I don't care where I go; in fact, I don't really want to know. It'd be cool to head west, I want to see the ocean. I haven't seen the ocean in a long time. But, if I see a sign that says "Springfield 24," for example, I want to think, "That sounds like as good a place as any to spend the night" instead of, "Crap, I'm an hour behind schedule."
At home, I have relatively little responsibilities, but no freedom. At college, I have almost unlimited freedom, but lots of responsibilities to bog it down. On a road trip like that, though, even if only for that week, or two weeks, or whatever, it seems like I'd have complete freedom with zero responsibility. Everyone's dream, am I right?
Well, that's it for the night. I need to start jobhunting tomorrow. I thought I'd found a great job, but turns out that it's gonna be an unpaid internship. I'm still gonna do it because it sounds interesting, but I guess I should find something that pads my bank account a little bit, too. Take it easy, everybody.
I had a Xanga back in high school (that makes me sound older than I really am), and it was a disaster. I'm realizing in hindsight that the majority of my social problems during junior and senior year were directly related to things I posted up there. It was too personal, way too personal - I said exactly what I was thinking, I named names, I passed judgments, and worst of all, I was blissfully ignorant about doing it. I wasn't treating it like a publicly-advertised online journal, which is what it was; I was treating it like a diary that most people wouldn't let anyone read in a million years. I should start this one off, then, by promising that my entries aren't going to consist of "Today I did this, this, this, and this" or "I've been feeling lost and alone lately, why won't anyone call me?" I'm not quite that emo anymore.
Instead, I'm hoping that most of my topics will be relatively abstract. I'm kind of a quiet guy, a lot of times I just sit and think. I notice things about society, about people around me, about life in general. Some of them I flog around and then dismiss, but occasionally, I get this idea that deserves more than that. I usually scribble down a rough outline on a post-it or in the back of a class notebook, figuring I'll come back to it later. You wouldn't believe how many crumpled up pieces of paper I came across when I was moving out of my dorm room a couple weeks ago. I'm not saying the ideas I come up with are earthshattering or even particularly interesting, but if you didn't want to read them, you wouldn't have come to this website in the first place.
I really want to go on a road trip. I almost did last summer, with some friends from the summer camp that I used to work at, but my parents nipped that in the bud pretty quick. After about a week of pleading, they allowed me to fly out of Dallas, meet my friends in Arizona, stay for two nights, and then fly back home. I tried to argue that flying defeats the entire point of a road trip, but they just told me not to push my luck. I've been reading a lot of travelling novels lately, everything from Kerouac's On the Road to Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath, and I get more and more pumped after every one I finish. It wouldn't be about the people I went with - hopefully, it'll be about the people I meet along the way. I want to stop at a mom-and-pop's diner in Shithole, Texas and make small talk with the waitress. I want to pull into a gas station at 5 a.m. after a full night of driving, buy a cup of crappy coffee and maybe a donut, and keep going. I want to hit 100 mph on deserted highways that continue on as far as I can see with trees and bushes being the only scenery on both sides. I don't care where I go; in fact, I don't really want to know. It'd be cool to head west, I want to see the ocean. I haven't seen the ocean in a long time. But, if I see a sign that says "Springfield 24," for example, I want to think, "That sounds like as good a place as any to spend the night" instead of, "Crap, I'm an hour behind schedule."
At home, I have relatively little responsibilities, but no freedom. At college, I have almost unlimited freedom, but lots of responsibilities to bog it down. On a road trip like that, though, even if only for that week, or two weeks, or whatever, it seems like I'd have complete freedom with zero responsibility. Everyone's dream, am I right?
Well, that's it for the night. I need to start jobhunting tomorrow. I thought I'd found a great job, but turns out that it's gonna be an unpaid internship. I'm still gonna do it because it sounds interesting, but I guess I should find something that pads my bank account a little bit, too. Take it easy, everybody.
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