I apologize to my UK and European friends in advance for what might be a blog decipherable only to the North American, but we shall see.
Let me tell you about TMNT. Initials, hmmm. You know what for? You remember? If you are between 22 and 30 are you going to tell me you can't hum the theme song right now? That's right folks, the phenomenon, the magic, the spectacle of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Love it. Had the actions figures--the Turtles, Shredder, Splinter, April their undeniably attractive acquaintance (side note: To all you ladies out there, how many of you would agree to hang out in sewers all day, with overgrown and adolescent turtles, fighting ancient ninja sects, and probably ending up smelling like pizza and sewage? Who's gonna date a girl like that? Not worth it in my book, but I am not a woman). Anyway, the TMNT craze sparked an endless amount of merchandise, t-shirts, bed sheets, anything you could ask for--I think there were TMNT blenders, workout tapes, and maybe even condoms. I am not positive about a couple of those.
Here is the thing: Think about when you went to school and learned about things: history, literature, art, etc. Think about what you knew about those things before you went to school (4th, 5th, 6th grade and on). Some of your parents may have educated you a great deal about art, Western Civilization, and European history. Most of them did not.
But, how many of you when learning about the Renaissance or about Italy or whatever, heard the name Leonardo or Raphael or Michelangelo and went, "Oh, I get it" Or, even exclaimed out loud in front of the class, "Like the ninja turtle, cool!"
Strange don't you think. How many of you have been to art galleries or museums, knowing nothing of art, and looking specifically for one of those artists? (This happens alot with Americans coming over to London and going to galleries).
What is the problem? Strange don't you think? That it is a ridiculous cartoon that instantiates some of the most important figures in Western history into our collective conscious. How is it that a medium such as television--which creates unreal realities (are the TMNT not real? Of course they are real. They had a symbol--what did it refer to? Anything we could touch, feel, or go find? No. So, unreal realities), be our educator?
What is the integrative force of our society? The thing that brings us all in to the culture at large? TV, and now, the internet. So, if the force among us that makes us part of the group--informed members of society from an early age (sorry to all of you "I went to home school and we didn't have a TV types), do we live in unreality from day one? Do we take part in a virtuality which has tempered our perception to the point that we can't discriminate between ourselves and the unreal realities we are trying to emulate?
Is this blog a second rate philosophy paper? Probably. But, if you heard the name Raphael for the first time while watching a cartoon in which a 6ft turtle says the word "bodacious" then you best back up and give it at least a thought.
I love living.
Keep it real,
Friday, September 29, 2006
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
The Wait Is Over
Apologies for the tardiness of this post. Blogs were promised, yet undelivered; for that, I am sorry. There were unforeseen circumstances preventing the posting--they involved buses, sweat, passports and alot of curse words--ask me about it sometime; or don't.
Some of you were upset. Some of you wondered how you would face the day without a post from Onietzsche. One man in New Jersey quit his job. A woman in Texas threw her PC through a glass window. The lack of blog was big news cyber-wide, but alas it is time. Take your Prozac, cuz here it comes.
NAPOLEON DYNAMITE
Let me tell you about Napoleon Dynamite. This is old news you say. Worn out. Sick of it. Has any movie in recent memory been so overexposed so quickly? From underground cool to passe faster than Jack Johnson?
Here is the thing: Detractors claim it is a pointless movie, devoid of plot, special effects or anything of interest. Some fans claim it is amazing--funny, original and worth two or three views. But, it is more. Underneath the skin of this Tot are some compelling themes.
1. Teenage Life: Compare ND with Mean Girls or Varsity Blues or 13 or some other movie depicting teenagers are uber-mature, adults with adolescent cleavage, strutting their stuff cell phones in hand and doing nothing but driving fast and shagging like rabbits. Sophistication, communication (cell, IM, e-mail, etc.), consumption (daddy's credit card, nice cars, flashy clothes, plastic surgery)--these dominate. Teenage life is about growing up too fast, staying connected and carving out a niche in the fragmented realm of 21st century techno-life. It doesn't have to be traditional (cheerleader, football player, etc.), but it does have to be unique, up to date and full of alluring aesthetic somehow or another.
ND? Different messages. Think of the main characters--we all know Nap is an unassuming dork just trying to make it through the day. But, where is the sophistication, consumption, and communication? Nowhere. That is the charm of ND, you say, he is the anti-hero we all cheer for, the underdog that is hilarious along the way to glory. Maybe. But lets take the supposed hip, cool protagonists of this teenage drama. Don, Summer, Tricia. Can they keep up with Lindsay Lohan in Mean Girls? No. Surprisingly simple (Summer works at the store, Tricia's mom has surprising control over her social life, and even Don doesn't emit the untouchable coolness of the Alpha Male, but a boyish false-confidence symbolized by his mono-coloric white wardrobe. They wear PE clothes like dorks. This isn't the Gods of Campus we are used to.
Think about it: the kids actually look like kids. Their problems are kid problems--not blown out of proportion into matters of world politics, but simple, boring, teenage worries about dances, body-image (why are you drinking 1%?), friendship and dealing with parents.
2. Rural American Life: There is a subtle but prevalent myth about small-town American life held by many urban and suburbanites. This myth, probably partially based in reality, speaks of a slower pace of life, community, friendship, beautiful surroundings, and an overall sense of serenity in contrast to the fragmentation and schizophrenia of the postmodern melee we call 21st century urban living.
ND works against this myth in an equally subtle manner. I've talked to some who feel that the movie was almost too sad to watch. This, I believe, derives from the image it paints of rural life, in this case, Idaho (2005, look at Nap's ID card at the beginning of the film). Where is the community? Nowhere. Instead, loneliness. Kip is 32, or somewhere close, and stays at home all day chatting. Rico throws footballs to no one. But, look even deeper. Look at the people Rico sells Tupperware too--sad, bored, alone. The camera angles accentuate the vast space in between houses--demonstrating just how much land is out there in between all those people. This isn't an automatic fellowship of human beings, but a dilapidated conglomerate of people looking for a connection with others. Time drags here. Every scene moves at a place of almost maddening delay. Ten seconds could be cut off of some scenes. We are left, somewhat reminiscent of the pace of Lost in Translation, with a feeling of the weight of time which is a disorienting vertigo from the rush of lights, neon, pastels, noises and voices we are used to in films and RL (real life).
Yes, you do root for Napoleon. But, this isn't motivated by revenge (the mean kids aren't that mean), it isn't a plot for world domination (everyone involved doesn't take themselves that seriously), no, it is cheering him on just for connection--to feel, to be, in a way that connects with others. His dance is a resolution to a plot that is self-aware enough to know that it isn't resolving anything but some loose ends of de-centered lives. And, finally at the end, he gets his wish--sex with the pretty girl? No. Win the big game? No. Hang with the cool kids? No. Just tetherball with Deb--finally someone that will play him.
I love living.
Keep it real,
Sunday, September 24, 2006
International Correspondnence: What is this animal?
Little survey for you all. What do you call the animal below? Shout me an answer and soon I will explain why it is a matter of international controversy. You need to know this, believe me.
Media Revolution Week begins tomorrow. Don't wet your pants.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Friday, September 22, 2006
Media Revolution!
You think I am kidding don't you? Don't make that mistake. Enlightenment hovers at the dawn, just don't miss it.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Media Revolution
Media Revolution
Next week . . .
That's right. It's coming. It will change your life. It will change the internet. You will be a better person. You will never lose your patience, never lose your car keys, and maybe never have to go to the bathroom ever again. You will be happier, sexier, never sick, full of fertility, energy, and vitality. Your hair will grow back; your stomach will shrink. This is when it gets serious. No, really.
Watch for it. Expect it. Hope it. Think it. And, then take part in the revolution.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Nightclub II
Let me tell you more about Nightclubs. A couple of days ago we talked about the concentric circle which make up the Darwinian dream which is the nightclub. We left the picture unfinished, however. There are two circles remaining--the widest and saddest two circles in the whole realm. In fact, these two could be compressed into one, but . . .
Just outside of the Oh-My-God-Get-A-Room-Couples, lies the Enthusiastic-but-Perpetually-Hunting-Single-Male. Yes, that male, that came with a friend or two, or maybe not, who has decided that this is his night. He is going to score, pull, insert hunting phrase here. What does he look like? Let me paint a picture. Giving it a go on the dance floor. Probably not the best dancer, probably not the most coordinated. Moving. Moving, always moving. In and out; scouting, gazing, looking for new prey. One bottle of beer. One bottle of beer in three hours. If one hand is occupied with a beer he has less a. one less limb to coordinate with the rest of his body and b. a momentary means of looking busy. Now this sort of guy doesn't always have to be a total loser, but there is a good chance. It is not easy being male on the dance floor. Dane Cook is the master on this topic, check this out to be enlightened on the male and female art of dancing. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K0s16iusy2g
This brings us to the final concentric circle. This breed hovers on the outskirts, stationary. They are the most depressing lot and the most resigned to not having a good time. Yes, the I-am-going-to-stand-here-tap-one-foot-bob-my-head-and-pretend-I-am-having-fun males. They want to meet a potential mate. They want to be the Alpha male. But, they are stuck. Yes, just as their cousins in the previous circle, beer in hand they scour. Watch them--always pretending to be intensely looking at someone or something, like they are occupied or busy or cool.
Notice, now that we have reached the outside of the Futileship of the Ring of concentric circles that the nubile, available, albeit angst ridden, females of the species are huddled in the middle. The single, hunting males on the very periphery. The sociology of it all is stacked against them.
But, sometimes, on those magical nights, when the stars are aligned, the beer cold, the music way too loud, and the sweat intoxicating, it happens. And that is why they keep going.
I love living.
Keep it real,
Just outside of the Oh-My-God-Get-A-Room-Couples, lies the Enthusiastic-but-Perpetually-Hunting-Single-Male. Yes, that male, that came with a friend or two, or maybe not, who has decided that this is his night. He is going to score, pull, insert hunting phrase here. What does he look like? Let me paint a picture. Giving it a go on the dance floor. Probably not the best dancer, probably not the most coordinated. Moving. Moving, always moving. In and out; scouting, gazing, looking for new prey. One bottle of beer. One bottle of beer in three hours. If one hand is occupied with a beer he has less a. one less limb to coordinate with the rest of his body and b. a momentary means of looking busy. Now this sort of guy doesn't always have to be a total loser, but there is a good chance. It is not easy being male on the dance floor. Dane Cook is the master on this topic, check this out to be enlightened on the male and female art of dancing. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K0s16iusy2g
This brings us to the final concentric circle. This breed hovers on the outskirts, stationary. They are the most depressing lot and the most resigned to not having a good time. Yes, the I-am-going-to-stand-here-tap-one-foot-bob-my-head-and-pretend-I-am-having-fun males. They want to meet a potential mate. They want to be the Alpha male. But, they are stuck. Yes, just as their cousins in the previous circle, beer in hand they scour. Watch them--always pretending to be intensely looking at someone or something, like they are occupied or busy or cool.
Notice, now that we have reached the outside of the Futileship of the Ring of concentric circles that the nubile, available, albeit angst ridden, females of the species are huddled in the middle. The single, hunting males on the very periphery. The sociology of it all is stacked against them.
But, sometimes, on those magical nights, when the stars are aligned, the beer cold, the music way too loud, and the sweat intoxicating, it happens. And that is why they keep going.
I love living.
Keep it real,
Monday, September 18, 2006
The Nightclub
Let me tell you about Nightclubs (or discotechs for all my Continental peeps). Sociologically, it is a Darwinian jungle made up of concentric circles. Designed to be a venue for self-expression, pleasure and meeting fellow nubile individuals looking for a good time, the nightclub is usually an overpriced commodified matrix of noise, sweat and awkward and often distance social interaction. Remember: the key to understanding the night club is deciphering the concentric circles which dominate its social structure. Let us begin from the innermost circle:
a. In the smallest, tightest circle, way out in the heart of the dance floor, huddled together in a cohesive weave of protection are the No-Men-Women. Yes, ladies, you have all been a part of this circle at least once--the group of women who are in the tired-of-anything-with-a-Y-chromosome-we-don't--need-men--all-we-want-to-do-is-dance tribe of femininity. Greasy men stroll up trying it with anyone in one of these estrogen hives and they give quick scowl and ejection, followed by the women looking at one another and then rolling their eyes, as to say, "ughhh; men!"
b. Then there are the Let's-have-fun-and-dance-in-a-group people. This is the second concentric circle, allowed to be in close proximity to the No-Men-Women because of their safety and seemingly harmless nature. Usually it consists of 4-6 people, men and women, on the younger side, and full of pent up drunken thoughts about trying it with someone on the other side of the circle. You see these types often in Oxford, mainly in the form of young Americans shocked that they are allowed in a club and not sure what to do next. Of all of the groups, this one is of least interest.
c. Moving on to another group which does not so much participate in the geometrical symmetry of the concentric circles but rather floats freely and unpredictably throughout the dance floor. That's right, the Drunken-oh-my-God-go-get-a-room-Couples. You know they met tonight; maybe they know each other's names, maybe they will actually speak to each other after the night is over--but we all know this group is characterized by their sloppy, sticky and usually uncoordinated attempts at what one deft observer calls "humping with your clothes on." Love it. It is a sight that reminds you of the mystery of human dignity; or not. Akin to picking a scab--it seems okay at the time, is relatively physically gratifying, and at least something to do--when you are bleeding and the wound stings, you wonder "what was I thinking?"
There are two more circles, but we will leave them till tomorrow.
I love living.
Keep it real,
a. In the smallest, tightest circle, way out in the heart of the dance floor, huddled together in a cohesive weave of protection are the No-Men-Women. Yes, ladies, you have all been a part of this circle at least once--the group of women who are in the tired-of-anything-with-a-Y-chromosome-we-don't--need-men--all-we-want-to-do-is-dance tribe of femininity. Greasy men stroll up trying it with anyone in one of these estrogen hives and they give quick scowl and ejection, followed by the women looking at one another and then rolling their eyes, as to say, "ughhh; men!"
b. Then there are the Let's-have-fun-and-dance-in-a-group people. This is the second concentric circle, allowed to be in close proximity to the No-Men-Women because of their safety and seemingly harmless nature. Usually it consists of 4-6 people, men and women, on the younger side, and full of pent up drunken thoughts about trying it with someone on the other side of the circle. You see these types often in Oxford, mainly in the form of young Americans shocked that they are allowed in a club and not sure what to do next. Of all of the groups, this one is of least interest.
c. Moving on to another group which does not so much participate in the geometrical symmetry of the concentric circles but rather floats freely and unpredictably throughout the dance floor. That's right, the Drunken-oh-my-God-go-get-a-room-Couples. You know they met tonight; maybe they know each other's names, maybe they will actually speak to each other after the night is over--but we all know this group is characterized by their sloppy, sticky and usually uncoordinated attempts at what one deft observer calls "humping with your clothes on." Love it. It is a sight that reminds you of the mystery of human dignity; or not. Akin to picking a scab--it seems okay at the time, is relatively physically gratifying, and at least something to do--when you are bleeding and the wound stings, you wonder "what was I thinking?"
There are two more circles, but we will leave them till tomorrow.
I love living.
Keep it real,
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Let me tell you more about TIME.
Nish made a good point about yesterday's knowledge. He gave an example of another arbitrary time-framework which does hold many of us in tact, or at least distracted, as time goes on: The sports seasons. Many people obsessively organize their lives according to the season of professional sports--the beginnings of new seasons, big important games, championships, etc. It provides a rhythm to the year. This example goes further to point out the lack of meaning we can find to fill time with. Both the sports season, and the SYC (see blog two days ago), are constructed tent huts for time by which we attempt to distract ourselves enough from the fact that there is no meaning to time.
Nish also reminded us that the seasons, a rare constant remaining, provide a seemingly inescapable pattern to life. Yes, seasons are reminders that there are natural rhythms, processes and changes in our world--the environment we find ourselves in which governs our existence. True, seasons can give a limited meaning to time--granted, they play/ed a vital role in agricultural societies. But, our mastery of nature has reached the point where the average person can escape physical reality in a way which means our concern for the natural environment can be limited to admiring its beauty, participating in attempts to try to save it from destruction, and of course, using it for the materials and resources necessary for our modern, technological lives. But, me, my-self, the subject, can transcend all of that, enter into a different, but no less real, reality and engage a range of communities, relationships, activities and commercial transactions. Seasons remind, but networks govern. Time remains empty. Instead of giving meaning, we have to feverishly put the meaning into it at every turn. There is no escaping time, even if it has been banished.
I promise less philosophical banter tomorrow.
I love living.
Keep it real,
Nish made a good point about yesterday's knowledge. He gave an example of another arbitrary time-framework which does hold many of us in tact, or at least distracted, as time goes on: The sports seasons. Many people obsessively organize their lives according to the season of professional sports--the beginnings of new seasons, big important games, championships, etc. It provides a rhythm to the year. This example goes further to point out the lack of meaning we can find to fill time with. Both the sports season, and the SYC (see blog two days ago), are constructed tent huts for time by which we attempt to distract ourselves enough from the fact that there is no meaning to time.
Nish also reminded us that the seasons, a rare constant remaining, provide a seemingly inescapable pattern to life. Yes, seasons are reminders that there are natural rhythms, processes and changes in our world--the environment we find ourselves in which governs our existence. True, seasons can give a limited meaning to time--granted, they play/ed a vital role in agricultural societies. But, our mastery of nature has reached the point where the average person can escape physical reality in a way which means our concern for the natural environment can be limited to admiring its beauty, participating in attempts to try to save it from destruction, and of course, using it for the materials and resources necessary for our modern, technological lives. But, me, my-self, the subject, can transcend all of that, enter into a different, but no less real, reality and engage a range of communities, relationships, activities and commercial transactions. Seasons remind, but networks govern. Time remains empty. Instead of giving meaning, we have to feverishly put the meaning into it at every turn. There is no escaping time, even if it has been banished.
I promise less philosophical banter tomorrow.
I love living.
Keep it real,
Friday, September 15, 2006
Enemas, The new 30, and TIME
Let me tell you about time. Yesterday knowledge was dropped regarding the SYC (school year cycle).
But, some of you, no doubt, are out of school, work for a living (now there is a concept) or just don't plain care about the SYC. "Why did I waste my time reading this adolescent bullshit?", you wonder. Here is why.
The SYC gives structure, albeit arbitrary, frustrating and depressing, structure to time. The year is broken up into modes or periods filled with different practices, expectations and celebrations (back to school dances, football games, Winter vacation, etc.). As students, we go on and on through the cycle year after year. As a kid you get so sick of it--you want it to be over--to never have to go to school again.
But, once in the real world, away from the vicious SYC, then what? What does time have for us then? This is where our postmodern dilemma finds its root. For outside of the arbitrary framework of the SYC we find no means by which to structure time which can definitively and collectively give it meaning.
What the hell am I talking about? Let me explain.
Time: far from definitive, it is defined by what we put into it. So, time filled with content that produces joy, ecstasy and happiness seems short--it is precious and valuable, ferociously wrestled away from us with no recompense. Christmas morning, birthdays, wedding days, and reading Onitezschte's blog. How many times have you simply not wanted something to end? Time filled with negative, dreary, painful content seems to last longer. Why won't it end? Dentist appointments, enema's, and athlete's foot. You ever "killed" time at a bus stop or in a foreign place? Killing time? Really, people, think about it, KILLING (THE ACT OF ENDING MURDEROUSLY) TIME?!. Now that is telling.
But, we still haven't gotten to the point. BEAR WITH ME. There is no grand structure to time any longer. So, YOUR LIFE--YOU--YOUR FUTURE--YOUR DESTINY--YOUR YEARS AHEAD--are given without parameter, without demand, without destiny. Before, in other ages and what seems like in far off galaxies--time was structured by forces such as family, Church and State which informed us what time meant. Thus, when childhood was officially over (circumcision anyone), when to have babies (how does 13 sound?), when to celebrate (Harvest, etc.), when to mourn, when to worship, when to consider ourselves old.
NOT NOW. We have come of age--entered freedom--stricken the fetters of external authority! YES. Now what?
Every moment is yours. Every second represents the opportunity--the grand potential--to experience self-transcendence in an adrenaline rush related to relationships, power, sex, etc. We have the internet, entertainment technology, news, newspapers, blogs, etc.; we have every moment at our fingertips to fill with whatever our heart desires. The days and week and months and years are arbitrary.
Pregnant at 60? Go for it. Living at home until 40? Sure. When to grow up? When to grow down (any empty nesters out there)? When to marry? When to retire? Maybe neither? Babies? Maybe not. Marriage? Maybe not again. 40 is the new 30 and 50 isn't far behind. LIFE! YES, WE CAN LIVE!
But, the cost is a lost of both past and future. Senses of where we have been and where we are going are lost in the rush to suck the contents of every moment dry of every last possible content they can provide ME--adrenaline, entertainment, rush, excitement, happiness, FEELING GOOD. Tell me the news stories from a week ago? A month? Remember? Why? And what? Tomorrow? Next century? Why? What? I have got precious seconds to transcend my-self through technology, food, and cyber-relationships. No time for anything but now.
So, working, slaving away in cubicles, meetings, paperwork and conferences--we wait, we wish, we long--for the weekend, for that grand two weeks of vacation a year, for lunchtime, for tonight, for the moments we can sneak away on the internet at work.
Yes, "timeless time (Castells)" is upon us as eternity and present have become one since history and future have become superfluous.
I love living.
Keep it real,
But, some of you, no doubt, are out of school, work for a living (now there is a concept) or just don't plain care about the SYC. "Why did I waste my time reading this adolescent bullshit?", you wonder. Here is why.
The SYC gives structure, albeit arbitrary, frustrating and depressing, structure to time. The year is broken up into modes or periods filled with different practices, expectations and celebrations (back to school dances, football games, Winter vacation, etc.). As students, we go on and on through the cycle year after year. As a kid you get so sick of it--you want it to be over--to never have to go to school again.
But, once in the real world, away from the vicious SYC, then what? What does time have for us then? This is where our postmodern dilemma finds its root. For outside of the arbitrary framework of the SYC we find no means by which to structure time which can definitively and collectively give it meaning.
What the hell am I talking about? Let me explain.
Time: far from definitive, it is defined by what we put into it. So, time filled with content that produces joy, ecstasy and happiness seems short--it is precious and valuable, ferociously wrestled away from us with no recompense. Christmas morning, birthdays, wedding days, and reading Onitezschte's blog. How many times have you simply not wanted something to end? Time filled with negative, dreary, painful content seems to last longer. Why won't it end? Dentist appointments, enema's, and athlete's foot. You ever "killed" time at a bus stop or in a foreign place? Killing time? Really, people, think about it, KILLING (THE ACT OF ENDING MURDEROUSLY) TIME?!. Now that is telling.
But, we still haven't gotten to the point. BEAR WITH ME. There is no grand structure to time any longer. So, YOUR LIFE--YOU--YOUR FUTURE--YOUR DESTINY--YOUR YEARS AHEAD--are given without parameter, without demand, without destiny. Before, in other ages and what seems like in far off galaxies--time was structured by forces such as family, Church and State which informed us what time meant. Thus, when childhood was officially over (circumcision anyone), when to have babies (how does 13 sound?), when to celebrate (Harvest, etc.), when to mourn, when to worship, when to consider ourselves old.
NOT NOW. We have come of age--entered freedom--stricken the fetters of external authority! YES. Now what?
Every moment is yours. Every second represents the opportunity--the grand potential--to experience self-transcendence in an adrenaline rush related to relationships, power, sex, etc. We have the internet, entertainment technology, news, newspapers, blogs, etc.; we have every moment at our fingertips to fill with whatever our heart desires. The days and week and months and years are arbitrary.
Pregnant at 60? Go for it. Living at home until 40? Sure. When to grow up? When to grow down (any empty nesters out there)? When to marry? When to retire? Maybe neither? Babies? Maybe not. Marriage? Maybe not again. 40 is the new 30 and 50 isn't far behind. LIFE! YES, WE CAN LIVE!
But, the cost is a lost of both past and future. Senses of where we have been and where we are going are lost in the rush to suck the contents of every moment dry of every last possible content they can provide ME--adrenaline, entertainment, rush, excitement, happiness, FEELING GOOD. Tell me the news stories from a week ago? A month? Remember? Why? And what? Tomorrow? Next century? Why? What? I have got precious seconds to transcend my-self through technology, food, and cyber-relationships. No time for anything but now.
So, working, slaving away in cubicles, meetings, paperwork and conferences--we wait, we wish, we long--for the weekend, for that grand two weeks of vacation a year, for lunchtime, for tonight, for the moments we can sneak away on the internet at work.
Yes, "timeless time (Castells)" is upon us as eternity and present have become one since history and future have become superfluous.
I love living.
Keep it real,
Thursday, September 14, 2006
The School Year Cycle
Let me tell you about the the school year. I have been through 13 years of public school, 4 years of university, and two decades of post-grad work (give or take a decade).
There is a universal cycle that characterizes every school year. Small tweaks my take place due to locale, ethos and socio-economic circumstances. But, for the most part, the SYC (school year cycle) is universal. There are four very neat categories. This holds true all the way from jr. high to university, all the way here to Oxford:
a. The Darwinian Fashion Show: The beginning of the year is a time of optimism. Everything is new--new people, new teachers, new schools, new clothes. Autumn is a time to begin fresh: New friendships can be made, old enemies can be forgotten; there are new people to meet, and most importantly, the chance to change ones place on the social ladder. Here is how it works:
First two months of the year is spent showing off the new clothes, haircuts and shoes that all our mommies bought us at the end of summer sale. You put your clothes out for the first day of school, maybe even the first week. It is time to show everyone something new. Those months are filled with a ferocious clamoring for the highest place possible on the social ladder. Strategic alliances must be made with the right allies, conversations had on the jungle gym or over coffee with the right people, jokes cracked at the right time, and the right out outfits to impress the right people. This is crucial: it very well could set one's place for the entire year.
b. By mid-November we have reached the Melancholy Winter--a sense of fragile calm has been reached. The social contract has been tentatively set, clans have divided and formed, and an idea of the order of the social food chain has been revealed. Now for the fun to begin. Crushes can begin to form. I am not talking about the random back-to-school-hookup that many fall prey to, which is most times a short lived mistake that will be regretted later. No, I am talking about a crush across the rungs of the social ladder--identifying someone in your category, in the right tribe, with a similar place within the triangle of popularity. Due to changing colors, falling leaves, cold nights, it is inevitable that the melancholy longing for companionship is always formed by Christmas.
c. Dreamy Twitterpation: By Spring, the sun begins to shine unleashing a Winter's worth of pent up hormones. With the gradual passing of Winter comes the explosion of twitterpation. The lines are drawn, the sights set--and by Valentines there is a pair everywhere you look. This is the time of birds singing, eternal giddiness and the illusion that the hormonal soup which provides such a giddy rush of smiles and hand holding will last forever.
d. By Spring vacation the Endless Fatigue sets in signaling that the dream has passed. No doubt there has been scandal--cheating boyfriends, random fights, and an overall tiredness of the daily routine of the school year. The freshness that once dawned in Autumn now turns to fatigue as one wears the same clothes and looks at the same people everyday. The significant other that was once the definition of desire is now old and tired and unbearable and annoying. Friendships explode, relationships crumble, fisticuffs at lunchtime is given and a feeling of hopelessness sets in as summer seems unreachable. This is the war of attrition--it isn't always pretty, but it must be done.
Finally, summer. Freedom. Time. Joy. Happiness.
And three weeks in, boredom, TV, old movies, and sweat.
I love being alive.
Keep it real,
There is a universal cycle that characterizes every school year. Small tweaks my take place due to locale, ethos and socio-economic circumstances. But, for the most part, the SYC (school year cycle) is universal. There are four very neat categories. This holds true all the way from jr. high to university, all the way here to Oxford:
a. The Darwinian Fashion Show: The beginning of the year is a time of optimism. Everything is new--new people, new teachers, new schools, new clothes. Autumn is a time to begin fresh: New friendships can be made, old enemies can be forgotten; there are new people to meet, and most importantly, the chance to change ones place on the social ladder. Here is how it works:
First two months of the year is spent showing off the new clothes, haircuts and shoes that all our mommies bought us at the end of summer sale. You put your clothes out for the first day of school, maybe even the first week. It is time to show everyone something new. Those months are filled with a ferocious clamoring for the highest place possible on the social ladder. Strategic alliances must be made with the right allies, conversations had on the jungle gym or over coffee with the right people, jokes cracked at the right time, and the right out outfits to impress the right people. This is crucial: it very well could set one's place for the entire year.
b. By mid-November we have reached the Melancholy Winter--a sense of fragile calm has been reached. The social contract has been tentatively set, clans have divided and formed, and an idea of the order of the social food chain has been revealed. Now for the fun to begin. Crushes can begin to form. I am not talking about the random back-to-school-hookup that many fall prey to, which is most times a short lived mistake that will be regretted later. No, I am talking about a crush across the rungs of the social ladder--identifying someone in your category, in the right tribe, with a similar place within the triangle of popularity. Due to changing colors, falling leaves, cold nights, it is inevitable that the melancholy longing for companionship is always formed by Christmas.
c. Dreamy Twitterpation: By Spring, the sun begins to shine unleashing a Winter's worth of pent up hormones. With the gradual passing of Winter comes the explosion of twitterpation. The lines are drawn, the sights set--and by Valentines there is a pair everywhere you look. This is the time of birds singing, eternal giddiness and the illusion that the hormonal soup which provides such a giddy rush of smiles and hand holding will last forever.
d. By Spring vacation the Endless Fatigue sets in signaling that the dream has passed. No doubt there has been scandal--cheating boyfriends, random fights, and an overall tiredness of the daily routine of the school year. The freshness that once dawned in Autumn now turns to fatigue as one wears the same clothes and looks at the same people everyday. The significant other that was once the definition of desire is now old and tired and unbearable and annoying. Friendships explode, relationships crumble, fisticuffs at lunchtime is given and a feeling of hopelessness sets in as summer seems unreachable. This is the war of attrition--it isn't always pretty, but it must be done.
Finally, summer. Freedom. Time. Joy. Happiness.
And three weeks in, boredom, TV, old movies, and sweat.
I love being alive.
Keep it real,
Smiling, Italy and Pictures
I just returned from a romantic vacation/holiday in Italy with my brother. If you are looking for hte perfect person to enjoy some of the most romantic cities in the world with, take one of your siblings.
Thoughts:
1: Being on holiday I was reminded of an important maxim about photographs: When in a foreign country and in need of someone to take a photograph of you and your loved ones there are only two types of people to ask: The old and the Japanese (old and Japanese is really best). Being 50% Japanese (and remember people we round up) I am allowed to say that there is simply no doubt we take the best pictures. It is a gift. Some people groups are gifted at war, some at poetry, others industry--we take pictures and we are damn good. Old people are good too--hospitable, careful, usually sweet--but simply not as gifted as the Japanese and will probably want to chat afterwards (where you from? what have you done? bla, bla, bla).
2: Sticking to photos: Living in England, many people have asked about the American obsession with teeth. It is plain and simple--smiling, and smiling big, is mandatory for pictures. There is no one better in the world at convincing themselves they are having fun than Americans. Thus, picture=enormous, teeth-bearing grin. A crooked set of teeth can't possibly survive amidst this type of pressure.
3: After traveling this summer I have realized that Australians are the cheerleaders of Europe. They come over, travel, smile, laugh, and drink. They are the perpetually excited, always lovable dog that meets you at the door on bad days and cheers you up simply by being so extravagantly enthusiastic. I think they were put on the earth to remind grumpy Europeans that holiday is fun and smiling is okay.
4. Rome is alot like adolescence--everyone is sweaty, smells funky, and there are alot bad haircuts.
5. I am pretty sure if I were an uber-rich teenager I would demand my parents rent the Colliseum for my sweet 16 birthday party. Togas, Roman soldiers, wild beasts--the costume ideas are endless. And, what a dance floor! Could anyone top that? I don't think so.
6. Venice--beautiful, unique, like no place on earth. 3000 canals, water taxis, etc. Could we get just one waterslide? Maybe a wavepool or two? I don't know who is in charge over at the Italian tourist board, but if you want to increase tourist revenue I have one word: "waterpark". Did you see Waterworld? Enough said.
Keep it real,
Thoughts:
1: Being on holiday I was reminded of an important maxim about photographs: When in a foreign country and in need of someone to take a photograph of you and your loved ones there are only two types of people to ask: The old and the Japanese (old and Japanese is really best). Being 50% Japanese (and remember people we round up) I am allowed to say that there is simply no doubt we take the best pictures. It is a gift. Some people groups are gifted at war, some at poetry, others industry--we take pictures and we are damn good. Old people are good too--hospitable, careful, usually sweet--but simply not as gifted as the Japanese and will probably want to chat afterwards (where you from? what have you done? bla, bla, bla).
2: Sticking to photos: Living in England, many people have asked about the American obsession with teeth. It is plain and simple--smiling, and smiling big, is mandatory for pictures. There is no one better in the world at convincing themselves they are having fun than Americans. Thus, picture=enormous, teeth-bearing grin. A crooked set of teeth can't possibly survive amidst this type of pressure.
3: After traveling this summer I have realized that Australians are the cheerleaders of Europe. They come over, travel, smile, laugh, and drink. They are the perpetually excited, always lovable dog that meets you at the door on bad days and cheers you up simply by being so extravagantly enthusiastic. I think they were put on the earth to remind grumpy Europeans that holiday is fun and smiling is okay.
4. Rome is alot like adolescence--everyone is sweaty, smells funky, and there are alot bad haircuts.
5. I am pretty sure if I were an uber-rich teenager I would demand my parents rent the Colliseum for my sweet 16 birthday party. Togas, Roman soldiers, wild beasts--the costume ideas are endless. And, what a dance floor! Could anyone top that? I don't think so.
6. Venice--beautiful, unique, like no place on earth. 3000 canals, water taxis, etc. Could we get just one waterslide? Maybe a wavepool or two? I don't know who is in charge over at the Italian tourist board, but if you want to increase tourist revenue I have one word: "waterpark". Did you see Waterworld? Enough said.
Keep it real,
Blog
So, as advertised, I have begun my blogging career. My motivation for beginning this enterprise is based solely on the fact that I want to feel just as important as everyone else in the cyber realm by publishing things on the internet hopefully will lead to a larger readership of tens of thousands, leading to a book deal and interviews with hip underground magazines, or, something my mother can read and smile about. Either will be good.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)