CollegiateTimes.com - Simpson's writer brings Springfield to Tech
He hates Harvard and TGIF. That's already funny right there.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Ink and impalement
CollegiateTimes.com - He said, she said: Be careful of what your tattoo says about you
Just talkin' 'bout tats and the "tramps" they're on.
Just talkin' 'bout tats and the "tramps" they're on.
Blacksburg ad agency branches out
CollegiateTimes.com - Ad agency Modea designs for new face of business
Modea hopes to rule the digital world of advertising. But they're in Blacksburg? No matter. The interweb gives them long arms.
Modea hopes to rule the digital world of advertising. But they're in Blacksburg? No matter. The interweb gives them long arms.
Q&A with California-native artist Kurt Steger
CollegiateTimes.com - Q&A: Local artist Kurt Steger sets Blacksburg burdens adrift
Originally from California, this artist has brought to Tech a participatory sculpture that will include both cremation and burial.
Originally from California, this artist has brought to Tech a participatory sculpture that will include both cremation and burial.
I (co)mingled with VT Recycling - get it?
CollegiateTimes.com - Tech recycling efforts come full circle
Before classes were back in session, I spent a day riding around with the VT Recycling crew.
6:00 a.m. - 2:30 p.m. are horrible working hours, but these doods regularly dominate it.
Before classes were back in session, I spent a day riding around with the VT Recycling crew.
6:00 a.m. - 2:30 p.m. are horrible working hours, but these doods regularly dominate it.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
LKATME: vanity on the road
CollegiateTimes.com - He said, she said: Vanity plates
They are everywhere in Virginia, and lots of them are WAYDUMB.
They are everywhere in Virginia, and lots of them are WAYDUMB.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Farmer Ron: buy one, get one free
CollegiateTimes.com - Fruits of his labor: Farmer's market vendor shares produce and stories
This Blacksburg Farmers Market vendor is a charmer. His products are nutritious and narrative.
This Blacksburg Farmers Market vendor is a charmer. His products are nutritious and narrative.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
IHTSBIH: pancakes, dwarfs and feces
CollegiateTimes.com - No lasting laughs in 'Hell'
Tucker Max wrote a book. He turned portions of that book into a movie. After checking out the Blacksburg premiere of "I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell," I wrote a review.
Check out the curious comments at the bottom of the article.
Tucker Max wrote a book. He turned portions of that book into a movie. After checking out the Blacksburg premiere of "I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell," I wrote a review.
Check out the curious comments at the bottom of the article.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
"I've Got My Lunch Packed Up..."
CollegiateTimes.com - He said, she said: Fall back into routine
Through a campus walkabout of sorts, Laken Renick and I give our perspectives on the first week of academic life.
(This column will adopt a new topic each week.)
Through a campus walkabout of sorts, Laken Renick and I give our perspectives on the first week of academic life.
(This column will adopt a new topic each week.)
International Collaborators: Jane Vance, Amchi Tsampa Ngawang
CollegiateTimes.com - Crossing cultural bridges
Jane Vance, Virginia Tech professor and artist, has split her time between the U.S. and South Asia over nearly three decades. A more recent friendship with Nepal native Amchi Tsampa Ngawang has sparked the production of a documentary film "A Gift for the Village" that is centered around a spectacular lineage painting Vance completed for Ngawang.
Click here to watch Vance dish about her artistic style.
Jane Vance, Virginia Tech professor and artist, has split her time between the U.S. and South Asia over nearly three decades. A more recent friendship with Nepal native Amchi Tsampa Ngawang has sparked the production of a documentary film "A Gift for the Village" that is centered around a spectacular lineage painting Vance completed for Ngawang.
Click here to watch Vance dish about her artistic style.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Q+A with architecture professor Hans Rott
CollegiateTimes.com - Students help to design and construct the house of architecture professor
My involvement with the Collegiate Times will likely curb my personal posts heavily. Still, I hope the articles I offer will be of interest to some. On Fridays, I'll have a column that should contain some giggles.
The link above is a Q+A story with an architecture professor whose unique Blacksburg home had a lot of student involvement during its construction. Check out this next link for a multimedia snippet of the interview. Hans Rott is absolutely chillin', smoking a cigar and rapping about his design.
My involvement with the Collegiate Times will likely curb my personal posts heavily. Still, I hope the articles I offer will be of interest to some. On Fridays, I'll have a column that should contain some giggles.
The link above is a Q+A story with an architecture professor whose unique Blacksburg home had a lot of student involvement during its construction. Check out this next link for a multimedia snippet of the interview. Hans Rott is absolutely chillin', smoking a cigar and rapping about his design.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Minimum wage with minimal effort.
This summary is not available. Please
click here to view the post.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Oh Mickey, you're so fine.
I’m in the hallway between basketball gyms 141 and 125. I’m stationed at a very long table more suited for the Last Supper as opposed to my 15-inch laptop (dong dong dong dong!). Specifically, I’m sitting in an office chair with a cock-eyed back having only one of four screws in place.
Every so often I will slide a Hokie Passport through a CBORD card scanner, see a green light and say Thank you, or a red light which I follow with Thank you.
We run a tight shop.
A tight shop with no air conditioning. Each summer day I emerge from the doors feeling as though I’ve mowed a lawn and washed the clippings off with urine.
To my left, an industrial box fan sits stoic next to two sets of open double doors.
The propeller belt rolls endlessly over a central red pupil, the iris translucent as the maniacal blades twirl a dark haze. I half expect the eye to glow orange, shooting forth a Mario fire ball, bouncing along shimmering tiles to meet my face with a splat.
Fans! yells a girl no older than five.
Don’t go near it, missy. You will surely melt. And I’ll have to use that weird body fluid powder to sweep you up. I will hand the biohazard bag to your father who will return home where his wife will see the red bag from afar and say Oh, you went shopping! to which he’ll sadly reply No, this is your daughter.
Truly, my face already feels caked in lava. What I think is mop sweat could easily be skin departing my forehead. The 90-degree air drenched in humidity is tumbling, punching the fan's thin metal shell (and it’s wearing brass knuckles) before oozing forth. It’s a brawl. A monster truck rally in nine cubic feet.
I’ll endure this incessant rattle for four hours.
But today it will only enhance my focus. I’ll perceive it as white noise, Enya playing softly in a hyperbaric chamber. Blissful, really.
And to what (or whom) do I owe this meditative perspective?
Cheerleaders.
Hundreds of cheerleaders.
And let me immediately differentiate between the two species. There are those that soar through the air like catapulted Slinkys, provoking Ooos! from a predominantly obese, flightless audience. Then there are those that sit on bleachers, the vibrations of their not-quite-in-synch step stomping harassing my taint. My taint did not want this. Nor did I wish to be given a spelling test of my school’s acronym many times over.
Ess go! Ess go!
http://www.flickr.com/photos/heraldpost/2884299149/
Last week, the gyms hosted the latter: the UCA (Utter Cochlea Annihilation) Cheer Camp.
A sea of 12 to 17-year-old girls in matching clothes (or lack thereof) whose collective scream sounded like a colossal banshee wail born of Lucifer’s asshole.
Combined with the repetitive playing of Soulja Boy’s “Crank That” on a way-too-loud sound system, I’m amazed I didn’t have an aneurysm. Parents need to understand they are emptying their pockets to have their precious ponytails jerk their hips like a Viper’s pistons to the steel drum narration of a sex act involving misdirected man seed and sheet capes.
Maybe Clark Kent was into jailbait, I don’t know.
The thirty-five paces between me and the aforementioned box fan are littered with sequins, ghosts of jazz hands past. Jewels that fell from teen cheeks, arms and booty shorts declaring pom pom (one pom per bun). I didn’t view them so much as walking hazards. Rather, I saw them as mines waiting to detonate, claiming not limbs but confidence.
Boom! You are too fat.
Boom! Your toe-touch sucks.
For what are the benefits of such an experience?
Consider a basketball camp. Kids play upwards of 5 games a day. They are crushing their lungs, pumping their legs full of lactic acid, and facing faster, stronger, taller, better opponents. Their strength, endurance and skill increase as a result.
On the other hand, the cheerleaders could, for the most part, be seen sitting Indian style, shattering eardrums with support for the handful of those performing a routine; a routine that did not particularly challenge the human physique beyond maybe a double jump where legs had to show some ounce of resiliency.
Several herds did perform push-ups randomly, although they were absolutely pitiful, like they were plagued with osteoporosis. An entirely contradictory show of might.
Oh, and they also ran unprovoked pseudo-sprints through the hallways like wayward gazelles, yelping about all things inconsequential.
So, the physical gains are sparse. But how about wisdom imparted?
Ballers can dig in to their coaches’ knowledge, direct or abstract. There are the fundamentals: how can I improve the rotation on my jumper, read a pick-and-roll, better close out a perimeter threat?
And then the game extends into our social reality: reach-around defense my work’s procrastination, flopping a charge my white lie excuses, the backboard my wingman at the bar (I’m no Scottie Pippen; I always go home alone).
Cheerleaders have to refine some basics, too. You know, like how to make toes more pointy and spirit fingers more…spirity.
And obviously a side hurdler jump is akin to, I don’t know, a really good high five with a friend. And a hair ribbon is, say, a colorful Post-it.
Hmm.
But wait. I’ve got it. It’s all about camaraderie, right? Those Kumbaya moments during meals or before bed when BFFFF’s are made. And while I imagine some cheerleaders found pals, I couldn’t help but notice the competition extended beyond the pyramids.
There are large viewing windows overlooking the gymnastics room. The lights within were off, and the glass afforded a significant reflection. So often I watched girls stroll by, their heads craned to the side, hands atop their skull, obsessively sculpting their locks and tuning their bows like a fucking present was inside. They were inevitably on their way to the restroom, inside which I wouldn’t doubt they pulled mascara from their socks and touched up their soulless eyes.
Back in the gym: 1, 2, 3 and 4, 5, 6, 7 and 8. Step counts like an adaptation of robotic binary.
The whole idea seems conflicting. The camp encourages impressionable minds to unite! Bring apathetic fans to their feet with energy, exponential energy! Yet their eyes are also askance, darting from girl to girl.
Would I be cuter with shorter hair?
Glad I don't have her gut.
My ass is so flat. I can't "Crank That" quite like Christina.
I’d like to imagine summer experiences at that age would send youth home enlightened and optimistic, not straight to a full-length mirror. For something that ostensibly teaches the power of uniformity, there sure seems to be a hierarchy of ego and self-deprecation.
It’s just veiled by jet engine shrieks.
I mean, a campus cop approached me one evening concernedly and asked What is going on in there? We heard screams across the Drillfield.
The hobby literally convinces passersby that people are being murdered.
But as he walked – well, waddled – away, his rotund trunk was unavoidable.
Christina ain’t got shit on the fuzz.
Every so often I will slide a Hokie Passport through a CBORD card scanner, see a green light and say Thank you, or a red light which I follow with Thank you.
We run a tight shop.
A tight shop with no air conditioning. Each summer day I emerge from the doors feeling as though I’ve mowed a lawn and washed the clippings off with urine.
To my left, an industrial box fan sits stoic next to two sets of open double doors.
The propeller belt rolls endlessly over a central red pupil, the iris translucent as the maniacal blades twirl a dark haze. I half expect the eye to glow orange, shooting forth a Mario fire ball, bouncing along shimmering tiles to meet my face with a splat.
Fans! yells a girl no older than five.
Don’t go near it, missy. You will surely melt. And I’ll have to use that weird body fluid powder to sweep you up. I will hand the biohazard bag to your father who will return home where his wife will see the red bag from afar and say Oh, you went shopping! to which he’ll sadly reply No, this is your daughter.
Truly, my face already feels caked in lava. What I think is mop sweat could easily be skin departing my forehead. The 90-degree air drenched in humidity is tumbling, punching the fan's thin metal shell (and it’s wearing brass knuckles) before oozing forth. It’s a brawl. A monster truck rally in nine cubic feet.
I’ll endure this incessant rattle for four hours.
But today it will only enhance my focus. I’ll perceive it as white noise, Enya playing softly in a hyperbaric chamber. Blissful, really.
And to what (or whom) do I owe this meditative perspective?
Cheerleaders.
Hundreds of cheerleaders.
And let me immediately differentiate between the two species. There are those that soar through the air like catapulted Slinkys, provoking Ooos! from a predominantly obese, flightless audience. Then there are those that sit on bleachers, the vibrations of their not-quite-in-synch step stomping harassing my taint. My taint did not want this. Nor did I wish to be given a spelling test of my school’s acronym many times over.
Ess go! Ess go!
http://www.flickr.com/photos/heraldpost/2884299149/Last week, the gyms hosted the latter: the UCA (Utter Cochlea Annihilation) Cheer Camp.
A sea of 12 to 17-year-old girls in matching clothes (or lack thereof) whose collective scream sounded like a colossal banshee wail born of Lucifer’s asshole.
Combined with the repetitive playing of Soulja Boy’s “Crank That” on a way-too-loud sound system, I’m amazed I didn’t have an aneurysm. Parents need to understand they are emptying their pockets to have their precious ponytails jerk their hips like a Viper’s pistons to the steel drum narration of a sex act involving misdirected man seed and sheet capes.
Maybe Clark Kent was into jailbait, I don’t know.
The thirty-five paces between me and the aforementioned box fan are littered with sequins, ghosts of jazz hands past. Jewels that fell from teen cheeks, arms and booty shorts declaring pom pom (one pom per bun). I didn’t view them so much as walking hazards. Rather, I saw them as mines waiting to detonate, claiming not limbs but confidence.
Boom! You are too fat.
Boom! Your toe-touch sucks.
For what are the benefits of such an experience?
Consider a basketball camp. Kids play upwards of 5 games a day. They are crushing their lungs, pumping their legs full of lactic acid, and facing faster, stronger, taller, better opponents. Their strength, endurance and skill increase as a result.
On the other hand, the cheerleaders could, for the most part, be seen sitting Indian style, shattering eardrums with support for the handful of those performing a routine; a routine that did not particularly challenge the human physique beyond maybe a double jump where legs had to show some ounce of resiliency.
Several herds did perform push-ups randomly, although they were absolutely pitiful, like they were plagued with osteoporosis. An entirely contradictory show of might.
Oh, and they also ran unprovoked pseudo-sprints through the hallways like wayward gazelles, yelping about all things inconsequential.
So, the physical gains are sparse. But how about wisdom imparted?
Ballers can dig in to their coaches’ knowledge, direct or abstract. There are the fundamentals: how can I improve the rotation on my jumper, read a pick-and-roll, better close out a perimeter threat?
And then the game extends into our social reality: reach-around defense my work’s procrastination, flopping a charge my white lie excuses, the backboard my wingman at the bar (I’m no Scottie Pippen; I always go home alone).
Cheerleaders have to refine some basics, too. You know, like how to make toes more pointy and spirit fingers more…spirity.
And obviously a side hurdler jump is akin to, I don’t know, a really good high five with a friend. And a hair ribbon is, say, a colorful Post-it.
Hmm.
But wait. I’ve got it. It’s all about camaraderie, right? Those Kumbaya moments during meals or before bed when BFFFF’s are made. And while I imagine some cheerleaders found pals, I couldn’t help but notice the competition extended beyond the pyramids.
There are large viewing windows overlooking the gymnastics room. The lights within were off, and the glass afforded a significant reflection. So often I watched girls stroll by, their heads craned to the side, hands atop their skull, obsessively sculpting their locks and tuning their bows like a fucking present was inside. They were inevitably on their way to the restroom, inside which I wouldn’t doubt they pulled mascara from their socks and touched up their soulless eyes.
Back in the gym: 1, 2, 3 and 4, 5, 6, 7 and 8. Step counts like an adaptation of robotic binary.
The whole idea seems conflicting. The camp encourages impressionable minds to unite! Bring apathetic fans to their feet with energy, exponential energy! Yet their eyes are also askance, darting from girl to girl.
Would I be cuter with shorter hair?
Glad I don't have her gut.
My ass is so flat. I can't "Crank That" quite like Christina.
I’d like to imagine summer experiences at that age would send youth home enlightened and optimistic, not straight to a full-length mirror. For something that ostensibly teaches the power of uniformity, there sure seems to be a hierarchy of ego and self-deprecation.
It’s just veiled by jet engine shrieks.
I mean, a campus cop approached me one evening concernedly and asked What is going on in there? We heard screams across the Drillfield.
The hobby literally convinces passersby that people are being murdered.
But as he walked – well, waddled – away, his rotund trunk was unavoidable.
Christina ain’t got shit on the fuzz.
Friday, August 7, 2009
"I'm supertramp, and you're super apple."
Schmoozing in the Mummy Range 
Get her attention.
We hiked almost five miles in, camping near
Sorry with a not-really-apologetic smile.
(I’d start a forest fire to get a better look at you.)
A gesture returned (I think, I hope) by the citrus iris of the sun peering from behind the silhouetted crag. Fleeting as a wink.
Aw, shucks. … Shucks? Be cool, man.
We circumnavigated the water, sneaking glances, seeking access. Light caroming off the ripples like thousands of index finger Come here’s. A rattling snare, my heart.
Shoo – she split her evergreen entourage. No. Way.
Me?
Yes, you.
Gulp.
The clearest of paths but the steepest of approaches, no doubt. She knows only the pedestal. My vision narrows to photo negative, a wormhole vacuum (she’s reaching for space, after all). A pocket of loose rock an overturned sack of marbles on which I slip, hands down to prevent a face plant.
Fuck. What a tool.
I stand a bit straighter as though it will replenish my mystique, my man.
Atop the small ridge it’s just an introduction, still so far from her reality. Above treeline like the crowd broke through the floorboards. Pretty damn vulnerable now. The curling ribbon wind her leg-breaking scent, suffocating my words. Masochism ain’t so bad; incredible, actually.
My lungs allow no more than a head nod. A nod that really says Ohmygodpleaseletmedevouryou. But she sees hello and the still-clear sky suggests she obliges. I don’t care if it’s sympathy.
I’ve only thought this far. Shit.
Once a crumpled soda can, my diaphragm finally expands. I use the new, angel-hair-thin O2 to muster something, anything.
Nice digs, eh?
Ugh.
It’s the
She laughed, though, and the Indian Paint Brush seesawed in her sweet exhale.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/blile59/2056362770/
A second chance, dick. Think. …
Eyes locked but silent.
I can hear the delay of game whistle now. The red zone’s escaped your grasp, playa. Go set up your E-harmony profile, dood:
Hi, my name is Ryan. Expect extensive pantomiming on dates. Try to decipher that I like wheat beer, spooning, music…
Wait. Music!
It’s like Anita Miller in Almost Famous: Listen to Tommy with a candle burning, and you’ll see your entire future.
Excuse me for a second. I’ll be right back.
I stood tip-toed at the DJ booth, and although I didn’t request The Who, I stayed in the era.
Piano boom.
Well there’s a light in your eye that keeps shining,
Like a star that can’t wait for the night,
I hate to think I’ve been blinded baby,
Why can’t I see you tonight?
Like I just slew some conversational dragon, I strolled back to her side, hand extended.
Care to dance?
Rico fucking Suave, right? A rabbit on the race track, feverishly scaling again.
The Bonham shuffle like hot coals on heels, and the delay of game whistle became the footloose cue on Fool in the Rain.
We merged like twist ties; spliced wire, surging with shared hertz.
But god, was her conquest merciless. Undulating, relentless boulders the confident hips refusing me rhythm, always adapting. Was I leashed?
The frigid winds her whipping hair, shielding her face from my nuzzle, my muzzle.
Leaning hands on knees, I’d disguise exhaustion as a retro Charleston
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/41/Baker_Charleston.jpg
Ominous clouds slithered closer, inversely the creeping house lights. Make moves, son.
My persistence wore on her reign. I stressed my leash, the collar fraying. After what seemed like endless false summits, the sovereign cairn in plain view.
Truly animal now, all extremities clawing, racing up her tapering torso. The alcoves of her pointed shoulders filled with my hot breath, dotted with my sweat.
My final, sloth steps like careful nibbles on her obelisk neck.
Threads, threads, threads…
And she was coy no more.
But Fairchild was not simply an incendiary, 13,502 foot affair; a challenging catch and release told-you-so notch in my hiking bedpost. The subsequent descent confirmed a 17-mile relationship, complete with impassioned embraces and the dodging of thrown dishes.
Baby, you make me a better person.
I fucking hate the way you chew your food.
It was insightful that way, as only something simultaneously amazing and miserable can be.
At the trailhead, it was exciting to walk away from the car. We were escaping alarm clocks, inboxes, ring tones, bosses, board meetings, traffic jams, dog shit. Life became elemental: walk, breathe, panorama. I swear the air was fresher. The birds were personalizing their tunes for us.
No peel here’s and microwave cook times. It was pasta boiling over an open flame, a few slices of bread, maybe one (two) fun-size Butterfinger for my sweet tooth. (Apples and oatmeal in the morning.) Hearty nutrients that took weight from our gear, made the trek easier.
No network shows, so we read by lamplight or just stewed in our thoughts. It’s funny how reading and thinking have become somewhat taboo, certainly in youth. The whir of a stream downhill was our lullaby as we pulled the YKK midway on our sleeping bags.
Dawn light woke us like a motherly nudge.
Ahh. This is the stuff.
Then it was time to confront the stunning peak. Its mere presence managed to both galvanize me and crush me, not unlike that illusory woman. It’s so damn confident and so damn impossible. But I knew the glory of its apex, and we put our heads down for the slog.
That endless slog.
Lava in our quads and vises on our lungs, we were drained. But that’s easy to forget when looking out upon layers of snowcapped mountain ranges almost floating on a robin’s egg sea. Roadways like pencil strokes miles away.
Solitude.
But then a sip on our Camelbacks produced nothing. Our bodies again became vocal.
Why would you do this to me, you sonofabitch?
Beef jerky and
Why don’t they build ziplines here? Toss me that carpet, Aladdin.
The supposed ease of downhill was quickly disproven. Each step was like billiards for our knees, bones colliding. There was no doubt I was becoming wickedly dehydrated, my pulse ever-present in my temples, thro-thro-throbbing.
Alas, we met the Saddle Trail.
It was hardly a trail, more a carved hazard. Those fucking marbles again, pebble city. I slipped a lot, and this time around I forfeit cavalier for cursing. Leg up, flailing my arms like a tight rope act desperate for balance. Unable to control my body, I was livid.
Then the trail inexplicably disappeared. We had to bushwhack to reconnect with it. Neck-high shrubs with strong branches held our weight well. As I went for a step on a lone rock … drop.
My foot landed short of its destination. My left leg took a dip in marsh water up to my man bits. Syrup water. Turn-my-kaki-pants-brown water.
Step, squisssh, step, squisssh, step …
Sunburn, headache, noodle legs, cotton mouth, prairie dogging, and at least two more miles before camp.
Camp. Where I knew I’d be eating tuna fish pitas. And sleeping without a pillow. And smelling like an asshole. And waking up feeling like a corpse.
I wondered how much TNT would level Fairchild. Or maybe I could just decapitate a fox. Whatever revenge against Nature I could manage.
We eventually got water, the effects of which I inevitably didn’t feel until much later. The tuna tasted like a little more than nothing. I slept about as calmly as Emily Rose. My spine resembled a sine wave.
We booked it out that morning like the apocalypse was nipping at our calves. I nearly dry-humped the Subaru. We drove directly to Estes Park Brewery for a killer lunch.
As I annihilated a chicken sandwich, I began thinking rationally again. What was disdain morphed into respect.
Being a nomad must have sucked mammoth balls. Or how about the folks on rickety wagons rolling up to the
… Fuck. Let’s go around. I feel dysentery coming.
And I thought we persevered.
Mountains have a way of building me up and breaking me down, therefore lending me an incredibly balanced perspective.
Their purity highlights the extraneous in my life. Their detail is extraordinary; I try to apply that scrutiny to the common, bullet-paced day. Overcoming their stature makes other challenges, however immense, seem manageable.
They also show me their permanence and my transience; get arrogant and my head could be a Gallagher watermelon. I’ve got the warning scars. And quite simply, they are bullies, terrorizing my physical and mental strength. They’ve got a whole gang: sun, wind, rain, mosquitoes, grizzly bears.
But I’d like to think the broken are the most appreciative of victories. I recall an almost-drunk Brian Shelby rocking David Aames’s world in Vanilla Sky: Just remember, the sweet is never as sweet without the sour, and I know the sour. It was only when Aames mangled his face as the victim of an attempted murder-suicide that he understood the sentiment .
But, you know, I’m talking about mountains.
And speaking of sour, be ready to juke and jive on the trail. Horses drop the most wretched magic-eight-ball-sized deuces.
Am I going to vomit?
Friday, July 31, 2009
1, 2, 3 ... Three.
Give me all your fuckin’ money! … and a handful of suckers, please.
I’d burst forth from the doors, dark sunglasses shading my pansy blue eyes, canvas sacks bulging with cash, shredding a grape lollipop between my molars. What a savage! onlookers would say, but I’d literally be thinking Damn, this is tasty.
It never made that much sense to me, the suckers thing. I mean, I get that banks want to appear personable and trustworthy. Somehow giving your children cavities accomplishes that. Really, you’ll likely pull out a loan to pay for the headgear, and those shits will earn interest.
Whatever. As a tyke, errand runs were awesome once we hit that drive-thru. My mom probably thought I just loved her company, but my motives were sugar-oriented.
Even yesterday when I pulled into First Citizens, dollars and Dum Dums were on my mind, but the flavor delights hit the hypothalamus first. I smiled a little.
I was the only indoor customer, with someone in a gurgling SUV speaking robot through the intercom.
On that note, I always prefer breaching the walls of establishments. I like a little chit chat that’s not mediated by glass. Is the majority so rushed that they can’t show more than half their torso to order a meal or a fucking Starbucks coffee? Somewhat inversely, Subway has introduced touch-screen kiosks so their employees are mutes. That job application just got easier:
Can you cut a tomato? Yes or No.
Are you friendly? Actually, we don’t care. Douchebags accepted.
I only wanted to deposit a check. The female counter help was very bubbly, whether sincere or an act. As she’s looking up my account information – because I keep none of it on me, I visit so infrequently – she asks (yells) Do you know about our FreeMoney Bonus Program?!
It’s sort of like my dermatologist asking Do you know about our new, safe fake tan?
(My milky skin must scream for it like my feeble funds for dough.)
Um, No. I don’t. Although I assume you’ll now tell me about it. Which she did.
Theoretically, it’s designed to encourage the “lost” convention of maintaining a savings account. I did not know people did not do this. Apparently Americans are more on the outs with intelligence than I suspected. It’s a nudge – what should be a kick in the ass – towards responsibility during the economic black hole. In practice, though, it’s pretty laughable.
Here’s how FreeMoney works:
1. Open a First Citizens personal checking account alongside a FreeMoney savings account.
2. Use your check card like a fiend.
3. Once you surpass 10 transactions, every one thereafter that is $25 or more adds $1 to your FreeMoney savings account. This cycle restarts each month.
Now, I’m considering this from the perspective of a college student. My parents are not high rollers, and I don’t get lofty allowances (well, any). I work several jobs to pay for all day-to-day essentials. Therefore, I do use my check card consistently.
$10.88 Gillie’s Breakfast
$15.79 Kroger
$15.00 Hokie Hair (which is a raping; for me, it’s essentially $1 per minute)
$1.01 Hess for an Arizona Tea (tough to beat for 23.5 fl. oz.)
And the scroll unrolls.
But rarely do I crest the steep $25 marker. Sure, when an open cabinet reveals only confectioner’s sugar and Triscuits, it’s time to make moves. Otherwise, it’s fun-size swipes.
So unless you’re a perpetual big spender, the FreeMoney pitch is actually counterproductive. I could turn over a dollar quicker by scouring friends’ sofa crevices or, say, doing a lap around the Walmart parking lot.
In fact, I’d actively lose money just making the trip to First Citizens to open a FreeMoney account. Say I go to the Christiansburg location: 15 miles round trip. Gas is running $2.34 per gallon at the aforementioned Hess. My Civic gets approximately 30 miles per gallon. I’ve already lost my first Washington (along with his circular pals FDR and Jefferson).
Atop that, I’d endure 15 minutes in an uncomfortable chair while someone chicken pecked extremely basic information about me (that they should already have on file) into “the system”. There are better ways to spend time. Like eating cereal; damn, Marshmallow Mateys are dynamite – crushed two bowls this morning, taking care of 100% daily value of folate, which we all know keeps our red blood cells kicking. Who wants anemia, right? Right?
Anyway. My suggestion? Outsource your green.
I prefer to throw any spare bills I can into my ING Orange. Relatively speaking, I have chump change in it, but that bad boy has earned me more than $60 this year with a relatively steady APY. That is real free money, and it’s a welcome cushion when times get tight. A couple clicks and a couple days and your checking account gets a boost.
Or vice versa if your mascara-smeared Pete Wentz bass guitar pick sold on eBay.
I hope someone gave that to you.
I’d burst forth from the doors, dark sunglasses shading my pansy blue eyes, canvas sacks bulging with cash, shredding a grape lollipop between my molars. What a savage! onlookers would say, but I’d literally be thinking Damn, this is tasty.
It never made that much sense to me, the suckers thing. I mean, I get that banks want to appear personable and trustworthy. Somehow giving your children cavities accomplishes that. Really, you’ll likely pull out a loan to pay for the headgear, and those shits will earn interest.
Whatever. As a tyke, errand runs were awesome once we hit that drive-thru. My mom probably thought I just loved her company, but my motives were sugar-oriented.
Even yesterday when I pulled into First Citizens, dollars and Dum Dums were on my mind, but the flavor delights hit the hypothalamus first. I smiled a little.
I was the only indoor customer, with someone in a gurgling SUV speaking robot through the intercom.
On that note, I always prefer breaching the walls of establishments. I like a little chit chat that’s not mediated by glass. Is the majority so rushed that they can’t show more than half their torso to order a meal or a fucking Starbucks coffee? Somewhat inversely, Subway has introduced touch-screen kiosks so their employees are mutes. That job application just got easier:
Can you cut a tomato? Yes or No.
Are you friendly? Actually, we don’t care. Douchebags accepted.
I only wanted to deposit a check. The female counter help was very bubbly, whether sincere or an act. As she’s looking up my account information – because I keep none of it on me, I visit so infrequently – she asks (yells) Do you know about our FreeMoney Bonus Program?!
It’s sort of like my dermatologist asking Do you know about our new, safe fake tan?
(My milky skin must scream for it like my feeble funds for dough.)
Um, No. I don’t. Although I assume you’ll now tell me about it. Which she did.
Theoretically, it’s designed to encourage the “lost” convention of maintaining a savings account. I did not know people did not do this. Apparently Americans are more on the outs with intelligence than I suspected. It’s a nudge – what should be a kick in the ass – towards responsibility during the economic black hole. In practice, though, it’s pretty laughable.
Here’s how FreeMoney works:
1. Open a First Citizens personal checking account alongside a FreeMoney savings account.
2. Use your check card like a fiend.
3. Once you surpass 10 transactions, every one thereafter that is $25 or more adds $1 to your FreeMoney savings account. This cycle restarts each month.
Now, I’m considering this from the perspective of a college student. My parents are not high rollers, and I don’t get lofty allowances (well, any). I work several jobs to pay for all day-to-day essentials. Therefore, I do use my check card consistently.
$10.88 Gillie’s Breakfast
$15.79 Kroger
$15.00 Hokie Hair (which is a raping; for me, it’s essentially $1 per minute)
$1.01 Hess for an Arizona Tea (tough to beat for 23.5 fl. oz.)
And the scroll unrolls.
But rarely do I crest the steep $25 marker. Sure, when an open cabinet reveals only confectioner’s sugar and Triscuits, it’s time to make moves. Otherwise, it’s fun-size swipes.
So unless you’re a perpetual big spender, the FreeMoney pitch is actually counterproductive. I could turn over a dollar quicker by scouring friends’ sofa crevices or, say, doing a lap around the Walmart parking lot.
In fact, I’d actively lose money just making the trip to First Citizens to open a FreeMoney account. Say I go to the Christiansburg location: 15 miles round trip. Gas is running $2.34 per gallon at the aforementioned Hess. My Civic gets approximately 30 miles per gallon. I’ve already lost my first Washington (along with his circular pals FDR and Jefferson).
Atop that, I’d endure 15 minutes in an uncomfortable chair while someone chicken pecked extremely basic information about me (that they should already have on file) into “the system”. There are better ways to spend time. Like eating cereal; damn, Marshmallow Mateys are dynamite – crushed two bowls this morning, taking care of 100% daily value of folate, which we all know keeps our red blood cells kicking. Who wants anemia, right? Right?
Anyway. My suggestion? Outsource your green.
I prefer to throw any spare bills I can into my ING Orange. Relatively speaking, I have chump change in it, but that bad boy has earned me more than $60 this year with a relatively steady APY. That is real free money, and it’s a welcome cushion when times get tight. A couple clicks and a couple days and your checking account gets a boost.
Or vice versa if your mascara-smeared Pete Wentz bass guitar pick sold on eBay.
I hope someone gave that to you.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
"A few baseball cards, a sack of marbles...(Petey)."
I don’t like driving alone, Some say. And Some bring emaciated dograts on airplanes.
(Some also need the lullaby glow of a television to sleep, which is likely wasting pixels on a tribute to codependency like The Bachelor.)
In opposition, I really like traveling solo.
In a car, I can revisit puberty singing Circa Survive, scratch my man bits with vigor, cloud the cabin with noxious fumes, and dig for nasal gold at will (everyone does).
I have only one bladder to worry about (cruising through barren Kansas, an empty bottle suffices), and more importantly, I’m not obliged to entertain. It’s just internal dialogue.
Your gas is fucking horrid, Ryan.
No doubt, Ryan.
But maybe that’s the crux of the “you versus a few” polarization. I suspect people either like talking to themselves (not necessarily about flatulence) or they don’t.
The new century has yielded ADHD lifestyles. The increasing demands of jobs, school and all things extracurricular – laced with the hyper-connectedness of technology – leave us breathless. We sacrifice things as a result: skip the newspaper, jog tomorrow, call the family next week. Hell, I’ve shrugged off brushing my teeth to save three minutes of sleep.
And that's just the secondary bullshit. There's nary a moment to drop gears and survey the core.
And that’s exactly why highway (or skyway, what have you) solitude is crucial. Ostensibly, it can appear as simply an obstruction to the destination, but the trek is pleasantly amorphous; you can sculpt the Play-Doh as you wish.
Take a fine-tooth comb to your life. Analyze friendships or a relationship: what’s evolving and what’s stale? Gauge your enthusiasm for your academic major or career: what will put the fire back under your ass? Refine your social affairs to save some cash: should the waitresses at Southern X-posure really know your name? The gamut of thoughts is infinite.
The non-solo gang avoids the brakes for that very reason: it showcases vulnerability. We tend to be our worst critics, and in our age of likeability, criticism – even of our own design – can’t be considered constructive, enlightening. What’s unveiled can be too unnerving.
And I’m not immune to this, either. A bizarre twist (with curious hints) in my recent trip to Denver sparked a thought I tried my damnedest to deny. I’ve since been caught up in its implications.
My flight from Raleigh-Durham International wasn't direct, so I stopped in Newark, New Jersey.
On the way, I finished reading Chuck Klosterman IV: A Decade of Curious People and Dangerous Ideas. The centerpiece of the final rambling essay was an insane occasion when Klosterman drove through rural Ohio and a woman demolished the car hood having inexplicably fallen from the sky. Her heavenly origins were never discovered.
As I strolled to the connecting gate, an overhead intercom message directed medics to another arriving flight for a passenger emergency.
That sucks, I mumbled, and immediately forgot it.
I got bitch seat on the next flight. And arm rest etiquette is never universal (or existent when Tubs overflows into your bubble). I mostly sat with T-rex arms glued to my sides.
Not 45 minutes into surfing the clouds, the tides turned.
I glanced up from my iPod daze to see a flight attendant five rows ahead bullying an older female passenger’s arm.
Ma’am … Ma’am!
Unresponsive.
The crew was on their game. They cleared several rows before awkwardly maneuvering the woman into the central aisle.
Then the cinema moment:
Is anyone on the plane a doctor?!
You could have heard a piss stream from the lavatory. Only the subtle whir of the engines spoke; roughly 150 people and no stethoscope.
We spent almost an hour backtracking to Philly, circling for an emergency landing. Three flight attendants rotated CPR to what appeared to be no avail. Their head shakes and shimmering brow sweat hinted at the prognosis.
On the ground, several EMTs boarded. After some preliminary measures, two of them carried her out like a shifting sandbag. That was the only time I saw the woman’s face: blue. Gatorade Glacier Freeze blue.
Overhead, the captain relayed the last we heard of her.
The woman who needed medical attention … she’s not doing too well, folks.
I’ve formed my conclusion.
It was pretty surreal. But what’s more crazy is how grossly unaffected I was by the event. A woman died 10 feet from me. Meh. In fact, I got what I wanted.
I hope she dies was my very first thought.
I guess my doppelganger is a jerkoff. I slapped my wrist but eventually inquired Why? I realized my desire was not as twisted as it sounded.
I don’t have some perverse death obsession – I wasn’t Mr. Burns finger tapping in anticipation of X-eyes. I’m not socially selfish, either, desperate for the next slack jaw party story.
Rather, I need to be devastated.
The Reaper’s fickleness eludes me.
When my mother was 14, her mother died from cancer. I watched one of my first college crushes roly-poly when her dad lost to the same foe. Currently, a good friend has a front row seat to her father’s degradation.
A second cousin of mine once wandered a long bridge when a train whistle sent her running – just not fast enough.
The nearly three dozen mowed down at Virginia Tech was an absolute massacre, horrific to those linked to the victims.
But I’ve never had to sprinkle dirt on immediate family. None of my buddies took bullets.
I’m capable of compassion, mind you. I recognize a flatline’s impact on others; I can say I’m sorry and mean it. But I’m personally desensitized. Tragedy just hasn’t been truly palpable in my life, and I’m naive as a result.
It’s like I’d need to take a micro look at the mutated cells devouring tissue; retrace the fall’s arc as I loom over the mangled body; tie the tourniquet around a screaming wound.
Only then might mortality have a face.
On Continental 228, I wasn’t counting compressions, feeling ribs splinter under my palm. I wasn’t pinching an Arctic nose, sending Sahara air into listless lungs.
Jane Doe was just a seat to me. 10F died – or was it 11?
Four days later, I summited the merciless Fairchild Mountain ahead of my dad and brother. I peered back down the nearly 40-degree slope as they climbed.
What if they slipped…?
(Some also need the lullaby glow of a television to sleep, which is likely wasting pixels on a tribute to codependency like The Bachelor.)
In opposition, I really like traveling solo.
In a car, I can revisit puberty singing Circa Survive, scratch my man bits with vigor, cloud the cabin with noxious fumes, and dig for nasal gold at will (everyone does).
I have only one bladder to worry about (cruising through barren Kansas, an empty bottle suffices), and more importantly, I’m not obliged to entertain. It’s just internal dialogue.
Your gas is fucking horrid, Ryan.
No doubt, Ryan.
But maybe that’s the crux of the “you versus a few” polarization. I suspect people either like talking to themselves (not necessarily about flatulence) or they don’t.
The new century has yielded ADHD lifestyles. The increasing demands of jobs, school and all things extracurricular – laced with the hyper-connectedness of technology – leave us breathless. We sacrifice things as a result: skip the newspaper, jog tomorrow, call the family next week. Hell, I’ve shrugged off brushing my teeth to save three minutes of sleep.
And that's just the secondary bullshit. There's nary a moment to drop gears and survey the core.
And that’s exactly why highway (or skyway, what have you) solitude is crucial. Ostensibly, it can appear as simply an obstruction to the destination, but the trek is pleasantly amorphous; you can sculpt the Play-Doh as you wish.
Take a fine-tooth comb to your life. Analyze friendships or a relationship: what’s evolving and what’s stale? Gauge your enthusiasm for your academic major or career: what will put the fire back under your ass? Refine your social affairs to save some cash: should the waitresses at Southern X-posure really know your name? The gamut of thoughts is infinite.
The non-solo gang avoids the brakes for that very reason: it showcases vulnerability. We tend to be our worst critics, and in our age of likeability, criticism – even of our own design – can’t be considered constructive, enlightening. What’s unveiled can be too unnerving.
And I’m not immune to this, either. A bizarre twist (with curious hints) in my recent trip to Denver sparked a thought I tried my damnedest to deny. I’ve since been caught up in its implications.
My flight from Raleigh-Durham International wasn't direct, so I stopped in Newark, New Jersey.
On the way, I finished reading Chuck Klosterman IV: A Decade of Curious People and Dangerous Ideas. The centerpiece of the final rambling essay was an insane occasion when Klosterman drove through rural Ohio and a woman demolished the car hood having inexplicably fallen from the sky. Her heavenly origins were never discovered.
As I strolled to the connecting gate, an overhead intercom message directed medics to another arriving flight for a passenger emergency.
That sucks, I mumbled, and immediately forgot it.
I got bitch seat on the next flight. And arm rest etiquette is never universal (or existent when Tubs overflows into your bubble). I mostly sat with T-rex arms glued to my sides.
Not 45 minutes into surfing the clouds, the tides turned.
I glanced up from my iPod daze to see a flight attendant five rows ahead bullying an older female passenger’s arm.
Ma’am … Ma’am!
Unresponsive.
The crew was on their game. They cleared several rows before awkwardly maneuvering the woman into the central aisle.
Then the cinema moment:
Is anyone on the plane a doctor?!
You could have heard a piss stream from the lavatory. Only the subtle whir of the engines spoke; roughly 150 people and no stethoscope.
We spent almost an hour backtracking to Philly, circling for an emergency landing. Three flight attendants rotated CPR to what appeared to be no avail. Their head shakes and shimmering brow sweat hinted at the prognosis.
On the ground, several EMTs boarded. After some preliminary measures, two of them carried her out like a shifting sandbag. That was the only time I saw the woman’s face: blue. Gatorade Glacier Freeze blue.
Overhead, the captain relayed the last we heard of her.
The woman who needed medical attention … she’s not doing too well, folks.
I’ve formed my conclusion.
It was pretty surreal. But what’s more crazy is how grossly unaffected I was by the event. A woman died 10 feet from me. Meh. In fact, I got what I wanted.
I hope she dies was my very first thought.
I guess my doppelganger is a jerkoff. I slapped my wrist but eventually inquired Why? I realized my desire was not as twisted as it sounded.
I don’t have some perverse death obsession – I wasn’t Mr. Burns finger tapping in anticipation of X-eyes. I’m not socially selfish, either, desperate for the next slack jaw party story.
Rather, I need to be devastated.
The Reaper’s fickleness eludes me.
When my mother was 14, her mother died from cancer. I watched one of my first college crushes roly-poly when her dad lost to the same foe. Currently, a good friend has a front row seat to her father’s degradation.
A second cousin of mine once wandered a long bridge when a train whistle sent her running – just not fast enough.
The nearly three dozen mowed down at Virginia Tech was an absolute massacre, horrific to those linked to the victims.
But I’ve never had to sprinkle dirt on immediate family. None of my buddies took bullets.
I’m capable of compassion, mind you. I recognize a flatline’s impact on others; I can say I’m sorry and mean it. But I’m personally desensitized. Tragedy just hasn’t been truly palpable in my life, and I’m naive as a result.
It’s like I’d need to take a micro look at the mutated cells devouring tissue; retrace the fall’s arc as I loom over the mangled body; tie the tourniquet around a screaming wound.
Only then might mortality have a face.
On Continental 228, I wasn’t counting compressions, feeling ribs splinter under my palm. I wasn’t pinching an Arctic nose, sending Sahara air into listless lungs.
Jane Doe was just a seat to me. 10F died – or was it 11?
Four days later, I summited the merciless Fairchild Mountain ahead of my dad and brother. I peered back down the nearly 40-degree slope as they climbed.
What if they slipped…?
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Mezzo Resolutions
I was a passenger in a sleek, sexy car whose logo ironically looks like a neutered peace sign. The vehicle’s a tease, I suppose.
My friend was about to hit the highway, and we discussed the crucial update her family had just shared. Traffic was absolute crap along the route she normally took home. Time for an audible at the line.
Instead of X and Y roads, they told her, just take Z all the way here.
Break!
Made sense to me, although it wasn’t the most thrilling route (see Farmville). Theoretically, it was easier – a B line; like taking the laces right out of the shoes (I’m a sucker for slip-ons). She’d sacrifice some MPHs, but the path was crystal clear. Yet she fumbled the snap.
How do I get there? Where do I go? Chica, are you serious?
She was.
Well, let’s check out a map, I said. I leaned down, ape-arming through the side compartment. ... No dice. There might be one in the glove compartment. ... Affirmative.
But who doesn’t know if they have a map in their car? (Do you?) Maybe more folks than I’d like to imagine. To me, it’s Navigation 101; akin to forfeiting the storage of a spare tire (sorry playa, Escalades can’t gangsta limp).
I cracked Virginia open.
And whenever I unfold a map, I pretend I’m opening a string of snowflakes like a childhood craft. My smile isn’t because I like Kentucky; I’m thinking about Christmas.
I don't know how to read it.
She certainly read my face: crooked like a toddler just asked me to help him wipe.
I belittled her. Of course I did. I should have, right?
But I also highlighted her path and wrote down key instructions. She made it home.
In hindsight of this exchange, though, I’ve felt stabs of regret. This the result of several uppercuts to my pride last week. I got jumped by humility, that scrappy bastard.
It began at a weekend cookout where the brewskis and burgers were flowing. A friend pulled from the fridge two handsome T-bones, the saliva almost glistening on his chin.
He kindly offered me one. I politely refused. He insisted. I shamelessly accepted. But he was up next in beer pong, putting a potential hiatus on flavor. You can cook them, he told me. Um…
I don't know how to cook a steak.
It was an emasculating moment. He stared like he just depantsed a dame only to find the next kielbasa for the Weber. I deserved it.
Cut me some slack. My parents rarely ever brought red meat into the home growing up. Our back porch was all ground turkey burgers and chicken breast. I didn’t even try steak until the age of seventeen (Thanks, Brett). It’s not my fault.
But I’ve since decided I like steak. A lot. So why haven’t I trial and errored medium-rare to perfection?
I need to get my grill on.
Then there was the gym. Early in the week, I racked my brain for fresh exercises. Soon enough, the answer walked by me: the women’s swim team. I always gawk (so blatantly – I have no chance with any of them as a result) at their broad, toned figures. They have muscles sprouting muscles.
I should take a dip in the pool; a total body workout.
I slipped on the board shorts for some lunchtime laps. I jumped in a medium speed lane and strapped my borrowed goggles tight enough to dice a Romano. Overconfident, I kicked off the wall.
It might as well have been quicksand.
I hooked the lane rope, bumped shoulders with a fellow swimmer, and drank a shotglass-worth of water. Tough first few laps, no doubt. But I soon began to refine my freestyle; it’s pretty intuitive. Despite being exhausting, it felt great.
Then I got bored.
I paused, looking at the other seven lanes, breathing like I just cracked a 4-minute mile: back, butterfly and breasts (perverts). Um…
I don't know how to do any other strokes.
For nine years, I lived in a house with a neighborhood pool for a backyard. I walked through a path in the woods (gagging on suspended spider webs), and was at its fence. I never joined the swim team, but I frequented Hill City Swim & Tennis most summer days, flipping off the diving boards pseudo-Cirque du Soleil or competing for the longest Splash Bomb toss. I even endured a job in the full-service snack bar. I was devout, you could say.
Still, I never really swam, per se. Aside from cannon balls, I frolicked in the shallow waters more or less. My parents might have called me a fish, but if my buddies shot upstream, I’d have drowned in pursuit.
If I truly want to diversify my workouts, I have to swallow my doubt – not chlorine, hopefully – and face the opposing currents. I may convulse like a grounded trout, but lifeguards need a laugh – their job mostly sucks.
I need to get my gills on.
Finally, a Friday breakfast with two friends solidified my hypocrisy. One friend described a unique counselor job where she guided a group of teens on a hiking excursion. This led to a general discussion about outdoor recreation: camping, rock climbing and bicycling.
The other friend chimed in about a book she’d checked out about bicycle maintenance. She excitedly shared bits of her new knowledge, including how to care for a bicycle chain. Um…
I don’t know how to care for a chain.
I’ve commuted around Blacksburg for nearly two years on a Schwinn, and the only successful adjustment I’ve made is tightening the handle bars with an Allen wrench. I don’t know how to care for anything, really.
Maybe that’s why the Bike Barn recently informed me I needed a fresh chain, a chainring, a cassette, a rear tire, a set of brake pads, and a brake adjustment.
I’m pretty sure my credit card whispered Nancy when I presented it.
If I’m a true advocate of alternative transportation, I should be more resourceful with my bicycle; give it some TLC and get longevity in return. Lubricating a chain, for example, isn’t neurosurgery. Schwinn could easily follow me to my post-college dwelling.
I need to get my grease on.
(These next few paragraphs are, in fact, purposeful.)
At this exact moment, I am on a Continental Airlines flight to Newark, N.J. I’m sitting next to a Boy Scout sweating over a Sudoku like his time's expiring on the MCAT and med school depends on his performance. I hate Sudoku. Well, I don’t know that. I’ve never actually done one. It just appears like a more boring Minesweeper – which I hated – therefore I’ve actively ignored it.
Yet the kid-who-can-tie-knots next to me is the least of my concerns.
The seating setup is A, B, aisle, C, D. Yet row 7 (where I reside) is an exception. As far as I’m concerned, it’s A, B, aisle, C, Me and Death. This small plane has fully exposed propellers, and the seven-foot knives are the same length from my face beyond the window. For the entire duration of the takeoff, all I could imagine was Daffy Duck careening into the wing, somehow detaching the ninja star, and it subsequently pureeing me into an isolated shower. I would fall to earth, where one single drop of my remains would land atop a pedestrian’s head. They’d shudder in disgust, curse a passing bird, and my spirit would relish the irony of it having been a piece of my own ass that hit their curls.
Anyway, my final destination is Denver. I would eventually like to live in Denver. I would partake in aforementioned recreation like hiking, camping and climbing. A list of useful skills that I again (mostly) lack immediately come to mind: tying a figure-eight knot (effin’ Scout), using a compass in conjunction with a topographical map, building a decent fire, snowboarding, surviving an avalanche caused by my terrible snowboarding, successful genocide of the mosquito population, and fending off grizzly bear attacks.
I find the idea of New Year's resolutions very trite. People shouldn’t need a once-a-year milepost to propel personal change. Then again, I refuse to dance unless I’m severely intoxicated, which is infrequent.
So here I’ve constructed a vast list of You-Should-Probably-Learn-Tos, but what will it take to start checking them off? It should be as simple as a desire for dynamism; everyone should aspire to be a Renaissance figure, if you will. Resourcefulness is next to cleanliness. Not really, but you get the point. Being well-rounded will ultimately make you a more successful, contented individual. Well, some celebrity suggests otherwise, but Miley Cyrus probably really hates her life.
Update: Scout is either malnourished at the homestead, or he absolutely loves peanuts. He’s crushed four packs. I'm concerned he's dehydrated. Also, I think he knows I’m writing about him.
Or maybe that’s it. I should tap him on his khaki shoulder and ask for the brochure. I bet their troop skills could handle a hefty portion of my list.
Eh, no. I bowed out as a Tiger Cub. I could never get on board with the bandana blouses.
But that reminds me: I hope I packed my skinny jeans.
My friend was about to hit the highway, and we discussed the crucial update her family had just shared. Traffic was absolute crap along the route she normally took home. Time for an audible at the line.
Instead of X and Y roads, they told her, just take Z all the way here.
Break!
Made sense to me, although it wasn’t the most thrilling route (see Farmville). Theoretically, it was easier – a B line; like taking the laces right out of the shoes (I’m a sucker for slip-ons). She’d sacrifice some MPHs, but the path was crystal clear. Yet she fumbled the snap.
How do I get there? Where do I go? Chica, are you serious?
She was.
Well, let’s check out a map, I said. I leaned down, ape-arming through the side compartment. ... No dice. There might be one in the glove compartment. ... Affirmative.
But who doesn’t know if they have a map in their car? (Do you?) Maybe more folks than I’d like to imagine. To me, it’s Navigation 101; akin to forfeiting the storage of a spare tire (sorry playa, Escalades can’t gangsta limp).
I cracked Virginia open.
And whenever I unfold a map, I pretend I’m opening a string of snowflakes like a childhood craft. My smile isn’t because I like Kentucky; I’m thinking about Christmas.
I don't know how to read it.
She certainly read my face: crooked like a toddler just asked me to help him wipe.
I belittled her. Of course I did. I should have, right?
But I also highlighted her path and wrote down key instructions. She made it home.
In hindsight of this exchange, though, I’ve felt stabs of regret. This the result of several uppercuts to my pride last week. I got jumped by humility, that scrappy bastard.
It began at a weekend cookout where the brewskis and burgers were flowing. A friend pulled from the fridge two handsome T-bones, the saliva almost glistening on his chin.
He kindly offered me one. I politely refused. He insisted. I shamelessly accepted. But he was up next in beer pong, putting a potential hiatus on flavor. You can cook them, he told me. Um…
I don't know how to cook a steak.
It was an emasculating moment. He stared like he just depantsed a dame only to find the next kielbasa for the Weber. I deserved it.
Cut me some slack. My parents rarely ever brought red meat into the home growing up. Our back porch was all ground turkey burgers and chicken breast. I didn’t even try steak until the age of seventeen (Thanks, Brett). It’s not my fault.
But I’ve since decided I like steak. A lot. So why haven’t I trial and errored medium-rare to perfection?
I need to get my grill on.
Then there was the gym. Early in the week, I racked my brain for fresh exercises. Soon enough, the answer walked by me: the women’s swim team. I always gawk (so blatantly – I have no chance with any of them as a result) at their broad, toned figures. They have muscles sprouting muscles.
I should take a dip in the pool; a total body workout.
I slipped on the board shorts for some lunchtime laps. I jumped in a medium speed lane and strapped my borrowed goggles tight enough to dice a Romano. Overconfident, I kicked off the wall.
It might as well have been quicksand.
I hooked the lane rope, bumped shoulders with a fellow swimmer, and drank a shotglass-worth of water. Tough first few laps, no doubt. But I soon began to refine my freestyle; it’s pretty intuitive. Despite being exhausting, it felt great.
Then I got bored.
I paused, looking at the other seven lanes, breathing like I just cracked a 4-minute mile: back, butterfly and breasts (perverts). Um…
I don't know how to do any other strokes.
For nine years, I lived in a house with a neighborhood pool for a backyard. I walked through a path in the woods (gagging on suspended spider webs), and was at its fence. I never joined the swim team, but I frequented Hill City Swim & Tennis most summer days, flipping off the diving boards pseudo-Cirque du Soleil or competing for the longest Splash Bomb toss. I even endured a job in the full-service snack bar. I was devout, you could say.
Still, I never really swam, per se. Aside from cannon balls, I frolicked in the shallow waters more or less. My parents might have called me a fish, but if my buddies shot upstream, I’d have drowned in pursuit.
If I truly want to diversify my workouts, I have to swallow my doubt – not chlorine, hopefully – and face the opposing currents. I may convulse like a grounded trout, but lifeguards need a laugh – their job mostly sucks.
I need to get my gills on.
Finally, a Friday breakfast with two friends solidified my hypocrisy. One friend described a unique counselor job where she guided a group of teens on a hiking excursion. This led to a general discussion about outdoor recreation: camping, rock climbing and bicycling.
The other friend chimed in about a book she’d checked out about bicycle maintenance. She excitedly shared bits of her new knowledge, including how to care for a bicycle chain. Um…
I don’t know how to care for a chain.
I’ve commuted around Blacksburg for nearly two years on a Schwinn, and the only successful adjustment I’ve made is tightening the handle bars with an Allen wrench. I don’t know how to care for anything, really.
Maybe that’s why the Bike Barn recently informed me I needed a fresh chain, a chainring, a cassette, a rear tire, a set of brake pads, and a brake adjustment.
I’m pretty sure my credit card whispered Nancy when I presented it.
If I’m a true advocate of alternative transportation, I should be more resourceful with my bicycle; give it some TLC and get longevity in return. Lubricating a chain, for example, isn’t neurosurgery. Schwinn could easily follow me to my post-college dwelling.
I need to get my grease on.
(These next few paragraphs are, in fact, purposeful.)
At this exact moment, I am on a Continental Airlines flight to Newark, N.J. I’m sitting next to a Boy Scout sweating over a Sudoku like his time's expiring on the MCAT and med school depends on his performance. I hate Sudoku. Well, I don’t know that. I’ve never actually done one. It just appears like a more boring Minesweeper – which I hated – therefore I’ve actively ignored it.
Yet the kid-who-can-tie-knots next to me is the least of my concerns.
The seating setup is A, B, aisle, C, D. Yet row 7 (where I reside) is an exception. As far as I’m concerned, it’s A, B, aisle, C, Me and Death. This small plane has fully exposed propellers, and the seven-foot knives are the same length from my face beyond the window. For the entire duration of the takeoff, all I could imagine was Daffy Duck careening into the wing, somehow detaching the ninja star, and it subsequently pureeing me into an isolated shower. I would fall to earth, where one single drop of my remains would land atop a pedestrian’s head. They’d shudder in disgust, curse a passing bird, and my spirit would relish the irony of it having been a piece of my own ass that hit their curls.
Anyway, my final destination is Denver. I would eventually like to live in Denver. I would partake in aforementioned recreation like hiking, camping and climbing. A list of useful skills that I again (mostly) lack immediately come to mind: tying a figure-eight knot (effin’ Scout), using a compass in conjunction with a topographical map, building a decent fire, snowboarding, surviving an avalanche caused by my terrible snowboarding, successful genocide of the mosquito population, and fending off grizzly bear attacks.
I find the idea of New Year's resolutions very trite. People shouldn’t need a once-a-year milepost to propel personal change. Then again, I refuse to dance unless I’m severely intoxicated, which is infrequent.
So here I’ve constructed a vast list of You-Should-Probably-Learn-Tos, but what will it take to start checking them off? It should be as simple as a desire for dynamism; everyone should aspire to be a Renaissance figure, if you will. Resourcefulness is next to cleanliness. Not really, but you get the point. Being well-rounded will ultimately make you a more successful, contented individual. Well, some celebrity suggests otherwise, but Miley Cyrus probably really hates her life.
Update: Scout is either malnourished at the homestead, or he absolutely loves peanuts. He’s crushed four packs. I'm concerned he's dehydrated. Also, I think he knows I’m writing about him.
Or maybe that’s it. I should tap him on his khaki shoulder and ask for the brochure. I bet their troop skills could handle a hefty portion of my list.
Eh, no. I bowed out as a Tiger Cub. I could never get on board with the bandana blouses.
But that reminds me: I hope I packed my skinny jeans.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Architecture Q +A: Ego and Enslavement
Strolling through the rows of desks is like perusing the kitchenware aisles of Target.
I spy a microwave, an espresso maker, a mini-fridge adequately stocked with Red Bull (a few of which I’ve stolen in passing; deal with it) and leftover Ramen, and an abundance of silverware.
All of these items are within reach of most any Virginia Tech architecture student eternally confined to Cowgill Hall or buried under the pyramids of Burchard Hall. They've got all means of survival save a mattress, although it's not unusual to spot fetal balls tucked in by swivel chairs.
It’s likely you know – or maybe more accurately, knew – an architecture student or even “live with one.”
Why quotations?
Because you probably question why architects even contribute to the rent. They drop multiple Benjamins to make phantom a.m. visits just long enough to change shirts and swipe deodorant; all the while you’re comatose under your comforter. Only the faint scent of spray fixative and a dirty spoon hint at their stealth.
You often speak of them retrospectively, recounting their presence during the fun times of freshman year. You might have even forgotten their hair color, but don’t feel ashamed. They’ve since become nocturnal; lack of sun exposure has presumably darkened it.
Still, (socially crippling) sacrifices must be made to gain the stellar reputation the architecture students maintain. Virginia Tech’s School of Architecture + Design has upheld a national top 10 undergraduate architecture ranking for the past five years, including a number one slot in 2008, according to the Design Futures Council and journal DesignIntelligence.
I’ve found that a mysterious aura surrounds the activities of this unseen culture. What do students do in this place called studio? Or rather, Studio. It warrants a proper noun since they regard it like a deity.
In an attempt to raise the veil, I decided to conduct an interview with an unnamed (unreal) architecture student.*
Below is a selection of questions and answers from that session.
Ryan: Hey, thanks for taking the time to sit down with me.
Archi: (silence)
R: HEY.
A: (eyes flutter open) Oh. Hey.
R: I said thanks for meeting with me. I’m sure you have a busy Monday.
A: It’s Monday?
R: So I guess you didn’t get much sleep last night – or ever, for that matter?
A: Meh. I almost got 90 minutes. That’s not bad.
R: Wow. Are you familiar with REM?
A: Rem Koolhass? Of course.
R: I’ll assume that’s an architect, and no. I’m talking about sleep cycles and your general health. … Nevermind.
A: Whatever. S, M, L, XL is 1,376 pages of theoretical genius.
R: That sounds too heavy for a bookshelf, nonetheless my lap. Maybe it could prop up your pillow while you slept more.
A: (scoff)
R: Anyway, what kept you up all night?
A: I was working on a parti model.
R: Um. What is a parti model?
A: It describes the concept of my project.
R: Can I see it?
A: (reaches) Yeah, but I’m not sure you’ll get it.
R: That’s just seven pieces of cardboard glued together at angles. And it fits in the palm of your hand. You lost sleep over a second grade craft?
A: Is it just seven pieces of cardboard?
R: So basically, I can’t deduce anything about your project unless you tell me?
A: I mean, I guess not. Even though it’s so obvious.
R: Right. I'm an imbecile. That leads me to something else. A common perception of architecture students is that they are a bit pretentious, considering themselves above other majors. How do you feel about that?
A: I bet they don’t even know what pretentious means.
R: Uncontested, then.
A: Contest? Do you know about a competition I could do?!
R: What? No. Moving on. When spending eons in Studio, what keeps you going?
A: Well, I’m definitely in the toxic range of caffeine consumption. (flips espresso switch on) Also, my headphones are always stuck to my ears.
R: Oh, cool. What kind of music do you listen to?
A: It’s got to be upbeat or I fall asleep, which is unacceptable. Girl Talk has been on a loop lately.
R: Yeah, Girl Talk is solid. He recently came to Tech. The show was awesome. Did you go?
A: I had a pin-up the next day. So, no.
R: Man, that’s untimely. What were you working on?
A: I was knee-deep in graphite, shading a rendering of my building.
R: So a little bit like grown-up finger painting?
A: (points to drawing) No. I was giving it depth and realism.
R: Actually, that does look really sweet. You should design my future house.
A: … If I ever get to design anything like that in the real world.
R: Interesting. So you’re headstrong about architecture in school, but you see the future as a hopeless abyss?
A: So many clients are just close-minded and dense. Who wants a pitched roof?
R: Well, they do pay the bills. Compromise is sort of inherent in your field, isn’t it?
A: (arms crossed) They don’t know what design is.
R: A bit stubborn with your creations, eh? Sounds like you should have pursued painting or some other venture.
A: Venturi? I’d totally work for him.
R: (sigh)
* Coincidentally, I had a stint in the school; therefore my current architecture friends might now be former.
I spy a microwave, an espresso maker, a mini-fridge adequately stocked with Red Bull (a few of which I’ve stolen in passing; deal with it) and leftover Ramen, and an abundance of silverware.
All of these items are within reach of most any Virginia Tech architecture student eternally confined to Cowgill Hall or buried under the pyramids of Burchard Hall. They've got all means of survival save a mattress, although it's not unusual to spot fetal balls tucked in by swivel chairs.
It’s likely you know – or maybe more accurately, knew – an architecture student or even “live with one.”
Why quotations?
Because you probably question why architects even contribute to the rent. They drop multiple Benjamins to make phantom a.m. visits just long enough to change shirts and swipe deodorant; all the while you’re comatose under your comforter. Only the faint scent of spray fixative and a dirty spoon hint at their stealth.
You often speak of them retrospectively, recounting their presence during the fun times of freshman year. You might have even forgotten their hair color, but don’t feel ashamed. They’ve since become nocturnal; lack of sun exposure has presumably darkened it.
Still, (socially crippling) sacrifices must be made to gain the stellar reputation the architecture students maintain. Virginia Tech’s School of Architecture + Design has upheld a national top 10 undergraduate architecture ranking for the past five years, including a number one slot in 2008, according to the Design Futures Council and journal DesignIntelligence.
I’ve found that a mysterious aura surrounds the activities of this unseen culture. What do students do in this place called studio? Or rather, Studio. It warrants a proper noun since they regard it like a deity.
In an attempt to raise the veil, I decided to conduct an interview with an unnamed (unreal) architecture student.*
Below is a selection of questions and answers from that session.
Ryan: Hey, thanks for taking the time to sit down with me.
Archi: (silence)
R: HEY.
A: (eyes flutter open) Oh. Hey.
R: I said thanks for meeting with me. I’m sure you have a busy Monday.
A: It’s Monday?
R: So I guess you didn’t get much sleep last night – or ever, for that matter?
A: Meh. I almost got 90 minutes. That’s not bad.
R: Wow. Are you familiar with REM?
A: Rem Koolhass? Of course.
R: I’ll assume that’s an architect, and no. I’m talking about sleep cycles and your general health. … Nevermind.
A: Whatever. S, M, L, XL is 1,376 pages of theoretical genius.
R: That sounds too heavy for a bookshelf, nonetheless my lap. Maybe it could prop up your pillow while you slept more.
A: (scoff)
R: Anyway, what kept you up all night?
A: I was working on a parti model.
R: Um. What is a parti model?
A: It describes the concept of my project.
R: Can I see it?
A: (reaches) Yeah, but I’m not sure you’ll get it.
R: That’s just seven pieces of cardboard glued together at angles. And it fits in the palm of your hand. You lost sleep over a second grade craft?
A: Is it just seven pieces of cardboard?
R: So basically, I can’t deduce anything about your project unless you tell me?
A: I mean, I guess not. Even though it’s so obvious.
R: Right. I'm an imbecile. That leads me to something else. A common perception of architecture students is that they are a bit pretentious, considering themselves above other majors. How do you feel about that?
A: I bet they don’t even know what pretentious means.
R: Uncontested, then.
A: Contest? Do you know about a competition I could do?!
R: What? No. Moving on. When spending eons in Studio, what keeps you going?
A: Well, I’m definitely in the toxic range of caffeine consumption. (flips espresso switch on) Also, my headphones are always stuck to my ears.
R: Oh, cool. What kind of music do you listen to?
A: It’s got to be upbeat or I fall asleep, which is unacceptable. Girl Talk has been on a loop lately.
R: Yeah, Girl Talk is solid. He recently came to Tech. The show was awesome. Did you go?
A: I had a pin-up the next day. So, no.
R: Man, that’s untimely. What were you working on?
A: I was knee-deep in graphite, shading a rendering of my building.
R: So a little bit like grown-up finger painting?
A: (points to drawing) No. I was giving it depth and realism.
R: Actually, that does look really sweet. You should design my future house.
A: … If I ever get to design anything like that in the real world.
R: Interesting. So you’re headstrong about architecture in school, but you see the future as a hopeless abyss?
A: So many clients are just close-minded and dense. Who wants a pitched roof?
R: Well, they do pay the bills. Compromise is sort of inherent in your field, isn’t it?
A: (arms crossed) They don’t know what design is.
R: A bit stubborn with your creations, eh? Sounds like you should have pursued painting or some other venture.
A: Venturi? I’d totally work for him.
R: (sigh)
* Coincidentally, I had a stint in the school; therefore my current architecture friends might now be former.
Friday, July 10, 2009
"But, if you're thinking about my baby ..."
... it still matters if you're black or white.
Sorry MJ.
Or maybe just white.
My eyebrow pitched when I took a deeper look into one study this NY Times article discussed regarding new research about interracial college roommates.
In the article, the reader is first introduced to Sam Boakye, a Ghana native who is a rising senior at Ohio State University. Here's how he felt entering his freshman year with a white roommate:
"If you're surrounded by whites, you have something to prove. You're pushed to do better, to challenge the stereotype that black people are not that smart."
A pseudo-vendetta, it seems, and I get it.
Now, the article notes how mixed pairings have shown to reduce prior prejudice, diversify friendships and even improve black students' grades. Yet those same duos break up during the year more often than same-race pairings.
Three times as often according to the study in question, conducted by Russel H. Fazio at Indiana University before shifting to Ohio State.
What bothered me is how blatantly one-sided his study was.
Here's how it broke down:
There were two "sub-studies".
In study one, researchers followed 58 white freshmen with black roommates and a comparable 57 white freshmen with white roommates.
Just whites.
Through several self-recording measures, researchers quantified the subjects' satisfaction with their black or white roommates. They explored variables like joint activities and cross-networking.
The findings showed subjects with white roommates were more satisfied than those with black roommates.
The main, summarizing variable "satisfaction with relationship" was ranked on a 10-point scale, with a higher number meaning more satisfaction.
And those average numbers were?
Subject with black roommate: 3.07
Subject with white roommate: 5.18
Statistically, yeah, they're different. But it looks like freshmen just generally think their roommates suck. As a freshman, I had numerous friends dropping a gender-appropriate bitch or douche when referencing their bunkmate.
And, man, I can affirm some of those.
Study one also reported that while just 5 of the white-white pairings failed, 16 of the white-black pairings peaced.
That's where study two pushed the bias further.
The goal of study two: do the white students' automatically activated racial attitudes predict the splits?
Just whites.
Again, 58 white freshmen with black roommates partook in a five-phase procedure. The fourth phase is what matters.
Subjects were repeatedly shown 48 head shot photographs of black, white, Asian and Hispanic male and female undergraduates.
The 16 black faces were always paired with a same-sex white face. Each time, the photos were accompanied by an adjective. The subject was then to immediately hit one of two buttons: good or bad. A racial word association of sorts.
This formed the entirety of their data on racial attitudes.
Is black and white really that black and white? I'd have to disagree, hard. But of course, the findings showed whites with "negative attitudes" wore on the roommate relationship.
Remarkably, only 25 of the 58 pairings remained intact by the end of the school year. That's approaching 50 percent.
Considering how the Times article seemed to celebrate the success of interracial roommates, Indiana University must not be on that train.
I suppose this realm of study is too young to produce definite, generalizable results, which I hardly think could happen anyway.
Really, though, I'm just floored by the lack of the black voice in the study. Here's the ridiculous concluding line of the study:
"If at all possible, simultaneously studying both roommates has the potential to provide important insights."
Is Fazio serious? If at all possible? I mean, the black kids were right there, in the rooms.
What's the research goal when framing whites as mega-contributors to mixed roommate failure? I imagine their black counterparts made notable impacts as well:
“Being a minority at Ohio State, we try to stay together, to build ourselves as a community,” Boakye said. “It’s different for white guys."
Sentiments like that might be (are absolutely) worth consideration.
And I'm not saying one party is more blameworthy than the other for these failed pairings. I've heard slurs and taunts - and all the other subtle jabs - from both posts, as I'm sure everyone (ever) has. I just think it's crucial to be impartial.
Or we can be a bit presumptuous like Phil Badaszewski, a hall director at Ohio State. He thinks interracial living situations "can be more interesting," a positive (I think) remark he followed with this contradiction:
“I had one student who chose to move out, who said they just didn’t like the roommate’s friends, who were too loud,” he said. “I thought there was a racial piece to it ..."
Or maybe they really were ear-piercing. White people are capable of being impolite banshees, too.
To him MJ would say, "Don't tell me you agree with me when I saw you kickin' dirt in my eye."
It stings.
Sorry MJ.
Or maybe just white.
My eyebrow pitched when I took a deeper look into one study this NY Times article discussed regarding new research about interracial college roommates.
In the article, the reader is first introduced to Sam Boakye, a Ghana native who is a rising senior at Ohio State University. Here's how he felt entering his freshman year with a white roommate:
"If you're surrounded by whites, you have something to prove. You're pushed to do better, to challenge the stereotype that black people are not that smart."
A pseudo-vendetta, it seems, and I get it.
Now, the article notes how mixed pairings have shown to reduce prior prejudice, diversify friendships and even improve black students' grades. Yet those same duos break up during the year more often than same-race pairings.
Three times as often according to the study in question, conducted by Russel H. Fazio at Indiana University before shifting to Ohio State.
What bothered me is how blatantly one-sided his study was.
Here's how it broke down:
There were two "sub-studies".
In study one, researchers followed 58 white freshmen with black roommates and a comparable 57 white freshmen with white roommates.
Just whites.
Through several self-recording measures, researchers quantified the subjects' satisfaction with their black or white roommates. They explored variables like joint activities and cross-networking.
The findings showed subjects with white roommates were more satisfied than those with black roommates.
The main, summarizing variable "satisfaction with relationship" was ranked on a 10-point scale, with a higher number meaning more satisfaction.
And those average numbers were?
Subject with black roommate: 3.07
Subject with white roommate: 5.18
Statistically, yeah, they're different. But it looks like freshmen just generally think their roommates suck. As a freshman, I had numerous friends dropping a gender-appropriate bitch or douche when referencing their bunkmate.
And, man, I can affirm some of those.
Study one also reported that while just 5 of the white-white pairings failed, 16 of the white-black pairings peaced.
That's where study two pushed the bias further.
The goal of study two: do the white students' automatically activated racial attitudes predict the splits?
Just whites.
Again, 58 white freshmen with black roommates partook in a five-phase procedure. The fourth phase is what matters.
Subjects were repeatedly shown 48 head shot photographs of black, white, Asian and Hispanic male and female undergraduates.
The 16 black faces were always paired with a same-sex white face. Each time, the photos were accompanied by an adjective. The subject was then to immediately hit one of two buttons: good or bad. A racial word association of sorts.
This formed the entirety of their data on racial attitudes.
Is black and white really that black and white? I'd have to disagree, hard. But of course, the findings showed whites with "negative attitudes" wore on the roommate relationship.
Remarkably, only 25 of the 58 pairings remained intact by the end of the school year. That's approaching 50 percent.
Considering how the Times article seemed to celebrate the success of interracial roommates, Indiana University must not be on that train.
I suppose this realm of study is too young to produce definite, generalizable results, which I hardly think could happen anyway.
Really, though, I'm just floored by the lack of the black voice in the study. Here's the ridiculous concluding line of the study:
"If at all possible, simultaneously studying both roommates has the potential to provide important insights."
Is Fazio serious? If at all possible? I mean, the black kids were right there, in the rooms.
What's the research goal when framing whites as mega-contributors to mixed roommate failure? I imagine their black counterparts made notable impacts as well:
“Being a minority at Ohio State, we try to stay together, to build ourselves as a community,” Boakye said. “It’s different for white guys."
Sentiments like that might be (are absolutely) worth consideration.
And I'm not saying one party is more blameworthy than the other for these failed pairings. I've heard slurs and taunts - and all the other subtle jabs - from both posts, as I'm sure everyone (ever) has. I just think it's crucial to be impartial.
Or we can be a bit presumptuous like Phil Badaszewski, a hall director at Ohio State. He thinks interracial living situations "can be more interesting," a positive (I think) remark he followed with this contradiction:
“I had one student who chose to move out, who said they just didn’t like the roommate’s friends, who were too loud,” he said. “I thought there was a racial piece to it ..."
Or maybe they really were ear-piercing. White people are capable of being impolite banshees, too.
To him MJ would say, "Don't tell me you agree with me when I saw you kickin' dirt in my eye."
It stings.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
"I'm thinking of what Sarah said."
This past Monday as I coasted down Progress Street away from my apartment, a large bee kamikazed my chin.
It was a significant impact; the fisticuffs of a kindergartner, perhaps.
Its chance of survival was slim to none, but I didn't care. I hold a particular disdain for bees having been dominated numerous times while mowing lawns years ago. The attacks even sparked the purchase of an EpiPen. For those unfamiliar with this device, please take a moment to review its instructions:
A few streets later, though, I found myself considering the bee's perspective. That had to have been a horrible way to go.
I mean, he (gender assumption) was probably just wildly pursuing the scent of a hottie she-bee when BAM!
Accordioned into a pale giant's chops.
But, I soon recognized, I'm really just an extension of that bee.
I'm the shrimp cruising on a bicycle amongst gas-guzzling tanks. All it takes is several seconds of lustful reverie over Scarlett Johansson's character in Vicky Cristina Barcelona and BAM!
I could collide with an SUV with a vanity plate that ironically reads SOPURDY.
(I have seen this vehicle on Interstate 81.)
As much as we might like to suppress the thought, our existence has the potential to be wickedly fleeting.
And while it's not a necessarily pleasant thing, contemplating death isn't necessarily an unhealthy thing either. It's one of the few guarantees we have.
In his book Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs, Chuck Klosterman poses a curious and insightful query:
Which do you fantasize about more: death or having sex?
He says many of his friends overwhelmingly claim the latter, to which he replies:
"Relatively speaking, having sex is so easy. People do it all the time. It's so pedestrian; fantasies about making love are rarely necessary and usually contrived. However, dying is always original."
He later continues:
"I'm constantly thinking about how bullets would burn into my lungs ... or how it will sound if and when I drown. ... I cannot shake the notion of my head being swatted off by a grizzly bear ... There has never been a day in my life when I didn't daydream about having both my collarbones crushed into powder."
Or in my case, how a missile bee - with stinger out - slams on its brakes too late, pierces my eyeball, sending me into anaphylactic shock, only to have my EpiPen fail, and I croak due to asphyxiation.
"In all likelihood, you don't think about dying enough," Klosterman concludes.
But really, Michael Jackson is (sort of) the core of this post.
He recently Beat It for good, and I doubt many people would have called that one. It's actually a NY Times article about the "controversy" over his burial that has my thoughts six feet under.
White Glove wanted to be buried at Neverland Ranch, but there are supposedly issues with permits and family members in disagreements.
The author then suggested, "We should consider but not be bound by the desires of the dead. They are beyond caring what befalls them. Our greater duty is to the living for whom these remains have profound meaning."
Ballsy, I first thought. They are dead and along with them their respect.
But then I was taken back to thoughts I had this past fall while traveling Europe. This doesn't lead me to say I agree with the article's author, but I loosely get it (in a very tangential way).
We visited several cemeteries designed by well-known architects. I was particularly moved while wandering through the seemingly endless San Cataldo in Modena, Italy. Originally established in the nineteenth century, the cemetery sponsored an addition by Aldo Rossi in the early 1970s.
He described it as a "city of the dead":
http://www.flickr.com/photos/kalevkevad/3416924475/
The long structures have three levels of stacked caskets and the cube has countless pods for ashen remains.
It's just so much volume; static space activated very sparingly by guests. The intense hallway perspectives - lined with engraved plaques, long-expired candles and artificial flowers - felt strangely like craft aisles in Michaels. It was sad to imagine how long it's been since some of the deceased had been visited.
"That's my third in three years. I'm batting .002!"
Regardless, it's like the monolith architecture is somehow a massive symbol of separation anxiety.
Human life is transient, but mausoleums (and expansive burial lawns) can make it always-tangible? The afterlife is infinite, but so is the duration of our emblems?
Hm.
I know people find solace in different ways. Some might need a headstone to caress or a security deposit box to visit, but it doesn't quite make sense to me.
People will continually die. Lots and lots of them. I find it difficult to imagine the extent of land clearing and building that will emerge in years to come as another one bites the dust. And another. And another.
Sucks for the superstitious. You might have to hold your breath as you drive just a little too long.
And another.
Flip: death can also be very positive.
Have you ever read the obituaries in the NY Times? If not, I highly encourage it. I typically find it quite uplifting. Check out this cowboy.
Joe Bowman could place tape over a metal washer, toss it in the air, fire his pistol, and shoot straight through the hole.
I read this after I played basketball outside by myself Tuesday, failing to make five consecutive free throws for approximately 30 minutes (OK, 40).
Dude can split a playing card edgewise, and I can't toss a large sphere into an even larger sphere just 13 feet away.
But I said uplifting, right? Right.
This isn't meant to be self-deprecating. I think it's cool to read about unique people, whether they're brilliant or just peculiar. And it's evidence that everyone can have a niche, however remarkable or "unimportant" it might be.
Bowman made a living playing guns.
In 1992, he said, "So much of what I do is for the adults, reminding them of their childhood ..."
In that case, where's my Barrel of Monkeys?
It was a significant impact; the fisticuffs of a kindergartner, perhaps.
Its chance of survival was slim to none, but I didn't care. I hold a particular disdain for bees having been dominated numerous times while mowing lawns years ago. The attacks even sparked the purchase of an EpiPen. For those unfamiliar with this device, please take a moment to review its instructions:
A few streets later, though, I found myself considering the bee's perspective. That had to have been a horrible way to go.
I mean, he (gender assumption) was probably just wildly pursuing the scent of a hottie she-bee when BAM!
Accordioned into a pale giant's chops.
But, I soon recognized, I'm really just an extension of that bee.
I'm the shrimp cruising on a bicycle amongst gas-guzzling tanks. All it takes is several seconds of lustful reverie over Scarlett Johansson's character in Vicky Cristina Barcelona and BAM!
I could collide with an SUV with a vanity plate that ironically reads SOPURDY.
(I have seen this vehicle on Interstate 81.)
As much as we might like to suppress the thought, our existence has the potential to be wickedly fleeting.
And while it's not a necessarily pleasant thing, contemplating death isn't necessarily an unhealthy thing either. It's one of the few guarantees we have.
In his book Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs, Chuck Klosterman poses a curious and insightful query:
Which do you fantasize about more: death or having sex?
He says many of his friends overwhelmingly claim the latter, to which he replies:
"Relatively speaking, having sex is so easy. People do it all the time. It's so pedestrian; fantasies about making love are rarely necessary and usually contrived. However, dying is always original."
He later continues:
"I'm constantly thinking about how bullets would burn into my lungs ... or how it will sound if and when I drown. ... I cannot shake the notion of my head being swatted off by a grizzly bear ... There has never been a day in my life when I didn't daydream about having both my collarbones crushed into powder."
Or in my case, how a missile bee - with stinger out - slams on its brakes too late, pierces my eyeball, sending me into anaphylactic shock, only to have my EpiPen fail, and I croak due to asphyxiation.
"In all likelihood, you don't think about dying enough," Klosterman concludes.
But really, Michael Jackson is (sort of) the core of this post.
He recently Beat It for good, and I doubt many people would have called that one. It's actually a NY Times article about the "controversy" over his burial that has my thoughts six feet under.
White Glove wanted to be buried at Neverland Ranch, but there are supposedly issues with permits and family members in disagreements.
The author then suggested, "We should consider but not be bound by the desires of the dead. They are beyond caring what befalls them. Our greater duty is to the living for whom these remains have profound meaning."
Ballsy, I first thought. They are dead and along with them their respect.
But then I was taken back to thoughts I had this past fall while traveling Europe. This doesn't lead me to say I agree with the article's author, but I loosely get it (in a very tangential way).
We visited several cemeteries designed by well-known architects. I was particularly moved while wandering through the seemingly endless San Cataldo in Modena, Italy. Originally established in the nineteenth century, the cemetery sponsored an addition by Aldo Rossi in the early 1970s.
He described it as a "city of the dead":
http://www.flickr.com/photos/kalevkevad/3416924475/It's just so much volume; static space activated very sparingly by guests. The intense hallway perspectives - lined with engraved plaques, long-expired candles and artificial flowers - felt strangely like craft aisles in Michaels. It was sad to imagine how long it's been since some of the deceased had been visited.
"That's my third in three years. I'm batting .002!"
Regardless, it's like the monolith architecture is somehow a massive symbol of separation anxiety.
Human life is transient, but mausoleums (and expansive burial lawns) can make it always-tangible? The afterlife is infinite, but so is the duration of our emblems?
Hm.
I know people find solace in different ways. Some might need a headstone to caress or a security deposit box to visit, but it doesn't quite make sense to me.
People will continually die. Lots and lots of them. I find it difficult to imagine the extent of land clearing and building that will emerge in years to come as another one bites the dust. And another. And another.
Sucks for the superstitious. You might have to hold your breath as you drive just a little too long.
And another.
Flip: death can also be very positive.
Have you ever read the obituaries in the NY Times? If not, I highly encourage it. I typically find it quite uplifting. Check out this cowboy.
Joe Bowman could place tape over a metal washer, toss it in the air, fire his pistol, and shoot straight through the hole.
I read this after I played basketball outside by myself Tuesday, failing to make five consecutive free throws for approximately 30 minutes (OK, 40).
Dude can split a playing card edgewise, and I can't toss a large sphere into an even larger sphere just 13 feet away.
But I said uplifting, right? Right.
This isn't meant to be self-deprecating. I think it's cool to read about unique people, whether they're brilliant or just peculiar. And it's evidence that everyone can have a niche, however remarkable or "unimportant" it might be.
Bowman made a living playing guns.
In 1992, he said, "So much of what I do is for the adults, reminding them of their childhood ..."
In that case, where's my Barrel of Monkeys?
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Blunts, Bitches and Bicycles
Shame on popular culture for your misinterpreting the title.
I meant not weed but cigar blunts. I meant not frivolous women but female dogs. And I meant not - actually, I meant bicycles literally.
Stick with me.
Several weeks ago I was in the parking lot next to Cassell Coliseum at Virginia Tech. Just before I shifted my sedan into D, a slight movement on the horizon caught my eye. I looked up to find a peculiar man. Well, his physical appearance wasn't odd: T-shirt tucked into shorts and shoes. Rather, his "accessories" were confounding.
In one hand, he nursed the tail end of a fat cigar. How fat? In his other hand was a leash attached to a dog no larger than the blunt.
Let's briefly recap this context. The parking lot is huge and nearly empty since it's summer. A man is inexplicably wandering said parking lot with a fun-sized pup while smoking a cigar that seems to have been lit back at sunrise.
Not long after I took this in, the man nonchalantly rocketed the cigar onto the ground and proceeded to tap-dance it deeper into the asphalt.
It was parking spot number 392.
Was that somehow symbolic? Maybe the man has marked 392 parking spaces with cigars over a period of time. Or maybe that's how many leaks his animal has taken in the lot (grass, I suppose, is overrated).
I shook my head briefly but then looked beyond this example to the larger picture. Parking lots are seriously enduring things.
Just consider one Saturday of Virginia Tech football tailgating: chili and nacho cheese falling from hot dogs, spilled beer, discrete (or not if drunk) urinations by a truck tire, oil from said truck, vomit from the aforementioned drunk.
It's pretty intense. And if pavement could speak, I suspect it would have a lot to say about our ignorance as a nation.
But I'll keep my thoughts micro; Blacksburg, specifically.
The amount of surface parking at Virginia Tech has always confounded me. I get that tailgating is awesome, but I don't find those handful of weekends validation enough.
In 2008, the Virginia Tech Office of Transportation conducted a survey of 1,713 students, faculty and staff in hopes of using the data to better inform future transportation initiatives.
According to the survey, 77 percent of respondents travel to and from campus via vehicle.
Seventy-seven percent.
Still, nearly 75 percent of the same respondents marked either "somewhat agree" or "strongly agree" when asked if, in general, there was too much traffic from cars on campus.
What a conundrum.
Thankfully, the answers - in many cases, not all - are insanely evident. Alternatives to driving are plentiful.
Our community is palpably compact. It's absurd to say otherwise.
Using the nifty website Map My Ride, I found the mileage for potential walking/bicycling routes from numerous popular student apartment complexes to campus. It was laughable how many hovered at or below one mile.
One mile.
According to the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, cycling 5 miles in 30 minutes or 4 miles in 15 minutes 5 times per week meets the current public health guidelines for physical activity. You could almost accomplish this just by cycling to and from campus each day.
How does one afford a bicycle? Forgo the $170 for a year-long commuter parking pass, and apply that cash to a bicycle. It's enough to buy or significantly cushion the cost of a new ride.
What about rain? Snow? (more often) Sloth? If you apply for the Bus, Bike & Walk program through Parking Services, you get 15 daily parking permits free. That's three straight weeks of parking if it's needed.
And that leads to the bus. Nearly $100 per year is infused into tuition costs for Blacksburg Transit. That in itself is a compelling reason to use it.
Blacksburg Transit has 11 routes that cover nearly every inch of Blacksburg and portions of Christiansburg. Most routes students need begin running at 7 a.m. and cycle every 10 to 20 minutes. If you can't plan around that consistency, transportation is the least of your life worries.
If walking, biking and busing somewhow fail to meet your needs and you must drive, there's carpooling.
Whether it's with classmates, roommates or a significant other, the carpooling parking pass is somewhat of a hidden gem. Two or more commuters can register their respective vehicles under one pass that currently costs $75 per year. Imagine a 4-person pass. That's less than $20 per person for the entire year, and you get to sing Miley Cyrus together on the way to school ("Don't you wish that you could be a fly on the wall?!") .
All of these options aren't exclusive. Walking, bicycling, busing and carpooling can be used interchangeably. Together, they likely have your needs covered. Every so often a car is necessary, surely (after all, I began this piece with me in a car), but be mindful of the decision.
But what would it change?
Construction is scheduled to begin this month on the Perry Street Parking Deck in the Prices Fork parking lot. It costs $18,000 to $20,000 per spot, so let's use it. But what if we left the remaining surface parking desolate? Idealistic, possibly (positively), but it could denote exciting opportunities. It could become green space.
Joys like the Drillfield and the Duck Pond need not be limited to the campus innards.
I'd much prefer to approach campus from Prices Fork and see Ultimate Frisbee, soccer and other recreation as opposed to vehicles scurrying like caged mice in a blacktop ocean.
I've heard rumors, though, of multiple parking decks around campus that eventually will surpass our current parking availability by thousands. I've subsequently heard several people celebrate this; a rejoicing with which I can't agree.
Ostensibly, it seems like the preservation of square footage and the possibility for new green space. And I suppose it does those things. But it also means the university supports hundreds of millions of dollars in loans with wild hikes in tuition, parking pass and parking ticket prices.
More is not merrier in this case. Remember the whole one mile phenomenon? We don't need five or six parking decks.
I can't help but think this isn't so much about the wise use of space and resources as it is the basic values of a generation.
If we can't bring ourselves to walk (or cycle, for crying out loud) four laps around a track, what kind of leaders will we be in the "real world"?
I'm on board with H.G. Wells when he once said, "When I see an adult on a bicycle, I do not despair for the future of the human race."
I meant not weed but cigar blunts. I meant not frivolous women but female dogs. And I meant not - actually, I meant bicycles literally.
Stick with me.
Several weeks ago I was in the parking lot next to Cassell Coliseum at Virginia Tech. Just before I shifted my sedan into D, a slight movement on the horizon caught my eye. I looked up to find a peculiar man. Well, his physical appearance wasn't odd: T-shirt tucked into shorts and shoes. Rather, his "accessories" were confounding.
In one hand, he nursed the tail end of a fat cigar. How fat? In his other hand was a leash attached to a dog no larger than the blunt.
Let's briefly recap this context. The parking lot is huge and nearly empty since it's summer. A man is inexplicably wandering said parking lot with a fun-sized pup while smoking a cigar that seems to have been lit back at sunrise.
Not long after I took this in, the man nonchalantly rocketed the cigar onto the ground and proceeded to tap-dance it deeper into the asphalt.
It was parking spot number 392.
Was that somehow symbolic? Maybe the man has marked 392 parking spaces with cigars over a period of time. Or maybe that's how many leaks his animal has taken in the lot (grass, I suppose, is overrated).
I shook my head briefly but then looked beyond this example to the larger picture. Parking lots are seriously enduring things.
Just consider one Saturday of Virginia Tech football tailgating: chili and nacho cheese falling from hot dogs, spilled beer, discrete (or not if drunk) urinations by a truck tire, oil from said truck, vomit from the aforementioned drunk.
It's pretty intense. And if pavement could speak, I suspect it would have a lot to say about our ignorance as a nation.
But I'll keep my thoughts micro; Blacksburg, specifically.
The amount of surface parking at Virginia Tech has always confounded me. I get that tailgating is awesome, but I don't find those handful of weekends validation enough.
In 2008, the Virginia Tech Office of Transportation conducted a survey of 1,713 students, faculty and staff in hopes of using the data to better inform future transportation initiatives.
According to the survey, 77 percent of respondents travel to and from campus via vehicle.
Seventy-seven percent.
Still, nearly 75 percent of the same respondents marked either "somewhat agree" or "strongly agree" when asked if, in general, there was too much traffic from cars on campus.
What a conundrum.
Thankfully, the answers - in many cases, not all - are insanely evident. Alternatives to driving are plentiful.
Our community is palpably compact. It's absurd to say otherwise.
Using the nifty website Map My Ride, I found the mileage for potential walking/bicycling routes from numerous popular student apartment complexes to campus. It was laughable how many hovered at or below one mile.
One mile.
According to the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, cycling 5 miles in 30 minutes or 4 miles in 15 minutes 5 times per week meets the current public health guidelines for physical activity. You could almost accomplish this just by cycling to and from campus each day.
How does one afford a bicycle? Forgo the $170 for a year-long commuter parking pass, and apply that cash to a bicycle. It's enough to buy or significantly cushion the cost of a new ride.
What about rain? Snow? (more often) Sloth? If you apply for the Bus, Bike & Walk program through Parking Services, you get 15 daily parking permits free. That's three straight weeks of parking if it's needed.
And that leads to the bus. Nearly $100 per year is infused into tuition costs for Blacksburg Transit. That in itself is a compelling reason to use it.
Blacksburg Transit has 11 routes that cover nearly every inch of Blacksburg and portions of Christiansburg. Most routes students need begin running at 7 a.m. and cycle every 10 to 20 minutes. If you can't plan around that consistency, transportation is the least of your life worries.
If walking, biking and busing somewhow fail to meet your needs and you must drive, there's carpooling.
Whether it's with classmates, roommates or a significant other, the carpooling parking pass is somewhat of a hidden gem. Two or more commuters can register their respective vehicles under one pass that currently costs $75 per year. Imagine a 4-person pass. That's less than $20 per person for the entire year, and you get to sing Miley Cyrus together on the way to school ("Don't you wish that you could be a fly on the wall?!") .
All of these options aren't exclusive. Walking, bicycling, busing and carpooling can be used interchangeably. Together, they likely have your needs covered. Every so often a car is necessary, surely (after all, I began this piece with me in a car), but be mindful of the decision.
But what would it change?
Construction is scheduled to begin this month on the Perry Street Parking Deck in the Prices Fork parking lot. It costs $18,000 to $20,000 per spot, so let's use it. But what if we left the remaining surface parking desolate? Idealistic, possibly (positively), but it could denote exciting opportunities. It could become green space.
Joys like the Drillfield and the Duck Pond need not be limited to the campus innards.
I'd much prefer to approach campus from Prices Fork and see Ultimate Frisbee, soccer and other recreation as opposed to vehicles scurrying like caged mice in a blacktop ocean.
I've heard rumors, though, of multiple parking decks around campus that eventually will surpass our current parking availability by thousands. I've subsequently heard several people celebrate this; a rejoicing with which I can't agree.
Ostensibly, it seems like the preservation of square footage and the possibility for new green space. And I suppose it does those things. But it also means the university supports hundreds of millions of dollars in loans with wild hikes in tuition, parking pass and parking ticket prices.
More is not merrier in this case. Remember the whole one mile phenomenon? We don't need five or six parking decks.
I can't help but think this isn't so much about the wise use of space and resources as it is the basic values of a generation.
If we can't bring ourselves to walk (or cycle, for crying out loud) four laps around a track, what kind of leaders will we be in the "real world"?
I'm on board with H.G. Wells when he once said, "When I see an adult on a bicycle, I do not despair for the future of the human race."
Saturday, July 4, 2009
School's Out For Summer
This past Thursday, I officially concluded three summer courses. To wrap up public speaking, we had to deliver a persuasive speech on a controversial topic.
A good portion of the topics chosen were fairly tame: alternatives for mothers who can’t breastfeed, discouraging pop culture’s thin ideal media (targeting girls, specifically), and opposing the university’s colleges with restricted majors.
Others did bring the heat, including two female students who spoke against gay marriage.
The latter female began her speech with a poignant quote from every liberal’s favorite, Rush Limbaugh:
“…let’s say we discover the gene that says the kid’s gonna be gay. How many parents, if they knew before the kid was gonna be born, [that he] was gonna be gay, they would take the pregnancy to term? Well, you don’t know but let’s say half of them said, “Oh, no, I don’t wanna do that to a kid.” [Then the] gay community finds out about this. The gay community would do the fastest 180 and become pro-life faster than anybody you’ve ever seen. … They’d be so against abortion if it was discovered that you could abort what you knew were gonna be gay babies.”
She proceeded to let the Bible narrate the remainder of her speech, touching on the purity of procreation and the sanctity of heterosexual marriage.
Pretty standard.
Now I don’t have extremely developed views of gay marriage, but I certainly don’t think two soprano or two bass I do’s will invite the apocalypse. And as a supposedly “ethical listener”, I chose not to drill her about the separation of church and state.
However, I did mull over the Limbaugh quote for the duration of her presentation.
“I’d like to take this time to answer any questions.”
I raised my hand, although I didn’t have a direct question. She called on me.
I asked her to follow along as I dissected Limbaugh’s words.
First, Limbaugh clearly believes the gay community is predominantly pro-choice. This may be right. If it is the case, though, is that group not already inherently embracing the deaths of their potentially gay brethren? I doubt many pro-choice folks create footnotes of who they are really OK with being aborted.
His brazen 180 idea falters, I think, but let’s spin it once more.
He suggests half of gay-carrying parents would nix birthing their kid. It sounds like those families would be composed of evangelical conservatives who like to say, “God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.”
(The female student said that in her speech.)
Well if they abort their tyke, would they not need to somehow morally justify their anti-God action? Maybe God is pro-life unless it involves one of those silly gays. Yeah, that must be how the big guy rolls.
Of course, that does sort of taint the whole “omnipotent, all-knowing” thing, which should technically afford Him the ability to prevent homosexuality before it started.
If it is so terrible, I think He would have gone that route.
(As an aside, watch the movie Dogma.)
I didn’t offer my thoughts as finger-pointing. I was simply highlighting the gaps in his hypothetical scenario. I was only recommending we not take powerful media at face value.
Limbaugh might ostensibly be an educated, credible figure on the radio, but his musings aren’t always on par with Yoda.
I blatantly said I wasn’t isolating conservatives, either. Everyone should think for themselves.
Still, the student looked like I’d just shot her dog before her eyes.
After several other questions, she sat down. And held her head down. And was silent the remainder of class.
I rode my bicycle away from the building thinking about college as a totality.
Growing up, I had always heard it was a public forum for lively debate. It’s a place to grow as intellectuals.
But when did everyone become so sensitive?
To offer a parallel, here’s a snippet from sports writer Bill Simmons talking about LeBron James in the Orlando Magic series:
“When you caused a controversy by storming off the court after Game 6 and refusing to attend your press conference, you did something even better: You brought us back to the days when "rivals" didn't hug each other like Red and Andy after every game, when NBA stars actually took losing personally and treated their peers like enemies instead of friends. I loved it. That was an old-school move. …”
I’m not endorsing the formation of enemies per se, but not every interaction demands our being cordial. Our teeth were meant for more than smiling.
Let us bite at one another. Let us explore all facets of a topic. Let us be malleable.
What is education otherwise?
The contented regurgitation of facts; standardization.
Oh yeah, Virginia’s Standards of Learning. Those types of rigid tests certainly get children off on the right foot.
Partner that with parents who want solely to be their child’s friend rather than an authority.
The current youth has almost no choice but to be one-dimensional.
A good portion of the topics chosen were fairly tame: alternatives for mothers who can’t breastfeed, discouraging pop culture’s thin ideal media (targeting girls, specifically), and opposing the university’s colleges with restricted majors.
Others did bring the heat, including two female students who spoke against gay marriage.
The latter female began her speech with a poignant quote from every liberal’s favorite, Rush Limbaugh:
“…let’s say we discover the gene that says the kid’s gonna be gay. How many parents, if they knew before the kid was gonna be born, [that he] was gonna be gay, they would take the pregnancy to term? Well, you don’t know but let’s say half of them said, “Oh, no, I don’t wanna do that to a kid.” [Then the] gay community finds out about this. The gay community would do the fastest 180 and become pro-life faster than anybody you’ve ever seen. … They’d be so against abortion if it was discovered that you could abort what you knew were gonna be gay babies.”
She proceeded to let the Bible narrate the remainder of her speech, touching on the purity of procreation and the sanctity of heterosexual marriage.
Pretty standard.
Now I don’t have extremely developed views of gay marriage, but I certainly don’t think two soprano or two bass I do’s will invite the apocalypse. And as a supposedly “ethical listener”, I chose not to drill her about the separation of church and state.
However, I did mull over the Limbaugh quote for the duration of her presentation.
“I’d like to take this time to answer any questions.”
I raised my hand, although I didn’t have a direct question. She called on me.
I asked her to follow along as I dissected Limbaugh’s words.
First, Limbaugh clearly believes the gay community is predominantly pro-choice. This may be right. If it is the case, though, is that group not already inherently embracing the deaths of their potentially gay brethren? I doubt many pro-choice folks create footnotes of who they are really OK with being aborted.
His brazen 180 idea falters, I think, but let’s spin it once more.
He suggests half of gay-carrying parents would nix birthing their kid. It sounds like those families would be composed of evangelical conservatives who like to say, “God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.”
(The female student said that in her speech.)
Well if they abort their tyke, would they not need to somehow morally justify their anti-God action? Maybe God is pro-life unless it involves one of those silly gays. Yeah, that must be how the big guy rolls.
Of course, that does sort of taint the whole “omnipotent, all-knowing” thing, which should technically afford Him the ability to prevent homosexuality before it started.
If it is so terrible, I think He would have gone that route.
(As an aside, watch the movie Dogma.)
I didn’t offer my thoughts as finger-pointing. I was simply highlighting the gaps in his hypothetical scenario. I was only recommending we not take powerful media at face value.
Limbaugh might ostensibly be an educated, credible figure on the radio, but his musings aren’t always on par with Yoda.
I blatantly said I wasn’t isolating conservatives, either. Everyone should think for themselves.
Still, the student looked like I’d just shot her dog before her eyes.
After several other questions, she sat down. And held her head down. And was silent the remainder of class.
I rode my bicycle away from the building thinking about college as a totality.
Growing up, I had always heard it was a public forum for lively debate. It’s a place to grow as intellectuals.
But when did everyone become so sensitive?
To offer a parallel, here’s a snippet from sports writer Bill Simmons talking about LeBron James in the Orlando Magic series:
“When you caused a controversy by storming off the court after Game 6 and refusing to attend your press conference, you did something even better: You brought us back to the days when "rivals" didn't hug each other like Red and Andy after every game, when NBA stars actually took losing personally and treated their peers like enemies instead of friends. I loved it. That was an old-school move. …”
I’m not endorsing the formation of enemies per se, but not every interaction demands our being cordial. Our teeth were meant for more than smiling.
Let us bite at one another. Let us explore all facets of a topic. Let us be malleable.
What is education otherwise?
The contented regurgitation of facts; standardization.
Oh yeah, Virginia’s Standards of Learning. Those types of rigid tests certainly get children off on the right foot.
Partner that with parents who want solely to be their child’s friend rather than an authority.
The current youth has almost no choice but to be one-dimensional.
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