I knew there was something remarkable about February the instant I noticed my neighbors launching fireworks on Groundhog’s Day (yes, Phil, I’m talking to you. Damnable geriatric rodents trying to swindle us out of spring). Or a few days later when I realized, oh my god, I’ve been exposed to a virulent strain of apathy that congealed in my brain and rendered me incapable of writing, swigging my brew (which until recently was Welch’s White Grape Blueberry Kiwi), and dancing competently. And despite the tremendous amount of paperwork that I have manhandled in the past week (this is a whole other story), I’m pleasantly surprised to learn that I’m actually going to college and that when I wake up tomorrow, and have those strange daydreams that begin with pie and always end up with several thousand cats roosting in my house, I will know that there was a small moment in time — several seconds at the most — within which I imagined myself at college and actually felt the excitement of being somewhere other than high school.
Personally, I can’t wait. I could use the distance from my family, and the exposure to responsibility and independence. Like driving for instance: something that I can do in theory, but which I’ve never had the chance to experience. For the past several months, ever since I first read that damn driver’s manual (with such fascinating pieces of advice as “BEWARE OF BIG RIGS” and “This sign indicates that a national park is close by — please do not feed the bears.”), I’ve had to sit through my dad’s constant promises of teaching me himself, letting me drive around the parking lot, signing up me up to this driving school or that driving school, dropping me off to take the written test (or the computer test — even better!), and I know now to take it with a grain of salt. But hey, even if I can’t drive by the time I’m thirty, at least I’ll have that extra twelve-and-a-half years to invent a jet-pack-bicycle-with-wings. And a mini-fridge.
It’s not even really the thrill of having a car and being able to take your friends around for once, or running errands, or just being able to go somewhere by yourself whenever you want to. It’s not just passing on a bit of kindness to people who, like you, always end up stranded somewhere without a ride, or finally being able to get pissed off at gas prices. It’s just the idea that, finally, I don’t have to depend on my parents for the little things. It’s that one step towards being an adult that most people take in a timely fashion, but that I’ve sadly missed (and doesn’t it suck to be waiting for a ride as a senior, and having to watch the sophomores drive each other home?).
Continue reading "The land of a thousand guilts" ».
There are a couple things that are pretty constant about all of the Christmases I’ve ever had (forty-two in all; count ‘em, I dare you!):
- The food is just-released-from-an-awesome-asylum/insanely good
- Board games. Thousands of them. No one stops playing until someone goes into cardiac arrest.
- The dog gets a present or someone gives their present to the dog.
- Everyone else gets their presents in after-Christmas shopping sprees.
The best part about all of this? This sort of fun is accessible to anyone and everyone, regardless of faith. So when people tell me that you can’t celebrate Christmas without mentioning Jesus, I get a little nervous — hyperventilation nervous. Like, what will I do without my 50%-off socks? Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Fall.
The fact of the matter is that there are many different faiths and even though the Pilgrims were Protestant and the settlers at Jamestown were Anglican or whatever they were, many of the first thirteen colonies started out as areas for religious refuge for people of other faiths — Catholicism, Judaism, etc. Our world is dominated by commercial and secular interests — don’t think that this means that religion is on its way out — and not every holiday is purely religious in nature. A lot of faiths don’t have the benefit of having a widely popular holiday that’s not exclusive to their own followers. Believe me, if Rasta had some sort of mass gift-giving extravaganza, I wouldn’t be writing this post. I would be sitting back and relaxing, mon, and getting my reggae on.
But believe me, Christmas thrives on its commercial aspect. People love buying gifts for one another. It’s an excuse to spend time with your family, to think about them for a change. Religion never really leaves you; I feel that true spirituality is internal and doesn’t need any sort of prodding or poking for it to emerge. Some holidays are inherently religious, but Christmas doesn’t really have to be. It’s about warmth, family, caroling, not-having-to-clean-up-after-your-dog-who-likes-to-poop-on-carpets, eggnog, figgy pudding (whatever that is), and, well, presents!
Merry Christmas everybody! I hope you guys got more presents than your counterparts in some parallel universe!
Continue reading "The days that you choose to ignore" ».
There’s no simple way to say this, but In Rainbows, Radiohead’s latest album, is absolutely fantastic. I’ve had it for less than a week, and I’ve barely listened to anything else. It’s the same haunting, energetic, cynical Radiohead that wrote Street Spirit, Karma Police, There There, and a thousand other songs of similar repute, but In Rainbows, which transitions between fast and slow, heavy and light, is brilliant all to itself. I’ve replayed Reckoner itself after just about every other song, even after itself, because even if you tell me it isn’t the most beautiful song, I won’t believe you. It’s something very special. Not a bad bargain for 10¢, right?
It’s at that point that I start to feel ashamed for paying so little. I would have paid more, even if little of the money went to the band itself, and the publicity from the digital downloads would give Radiohead enough revenue in time. Because I feel the music is worth more than just 10¢. Given the opportunity — and a credit card — I would have paid at least… at least what?
And that’s where the concept sort of leaves me. What am I paying for anyway? The music itself? The sounds weaving in and out of my ears? Or the convenience of the format? Or the band’s creativity? Or the band itself? What is it that is actually worth my money — and why isn’t it necessarily the music?
That’s all it said. “It’s up to you.” Imagine being given the opportunity to pay any price — anything — for something you desperately wanted. Any price. It’s easy to put a price on something that is material, but what about something ephemeral? Something digital? What price should you pay then, for something that exists as something you cannot see, but something you can still feel and experience?
I paid 10¢. And believe me, even if the album is worth a million times that price, even if I had paid more — I really ought to just memorize that credit card number — the experience is still the same. I wouldn’t have gotten anything more for $5 nor anything less for 5¢. The music itself, as Danny says, is priceless. Having listened to the album, top to bottom, song by song, I couldn’t agree more.
Continue reading "This is one for the good days" ».
