I know you've supported me for a long time; somehow, I'm not impressed

I have a strange affinity for windmills. Not the old-fashioned, characteristically Dutch type with the grinder in the cabin, though those are nice. Rather, I’m absolutely obsessed with the sleek, power-generating type that crop up in unexpected places. This, in fact, has a lot to do with why I love these generators: their unexpectedness. They appear sporadically on a flat plain in Illinois, in the foothills of Spain, in mountains of California. And the fact that their layout never seems to have a plan—there are no rows and columns of windmills, they face different directions, their propellers never spin quite in sync—seems to indicate that they’re these natural outcroppings of sleek, beautiful trees, incomprehensibly tall, honed by evolution, taking root wherever the soil can support them. But regardless of their erraticism and the sleek naturalness of their form, they are manmade. And this is the Objectivist in me speaking, but every time I see a field of them emerging from the horizon, I want to put my hand on its base and feel the power churning through it, knowing that someone constructed, designed, planned this machine, a part of the landscape but nevertheless asserting its dominance over it, at the mercy of the wind but harnessing it.

I swear, someone should burn my copy of The Fountainhead, because this is just ridiculous. Almost as ridiculous as my love for that damn Masterson building.

Calm down, temper temper; you shouldn't get so annoyed.

I’ve been listening to a lot of Damien Rice lately. By which I mean that I’ve been playing it at the Exposé frequently because he’s one of the few artists on the store iPod I can stand at this point. The Rice songs on the iPod, actually, are a convenient de facto greatest hits album; it weeds out all the songs I consider especially mawkish to present only those songs that I enjoy. Among these songs is “The Blower’s Daughter,” which, despite being wonderfully tragic, is also incredibly interesting to me, solely because Rice takes a lyric—“I can’t take my eyes off of you”—and changes it from something cheerful into this utterly heartbreaking ballad. In the case of Rice, it is not the joyous passion Frankie Valli describes when he can’t take his eyes off the woman he believes is too good to be true; rather, Rice cannot take his eyes off of the blower’s daughter and IT IS A PROBLEM. In fact, it causes him so much pain that it will probably kill him unless he beats it to the punch and takes care of things himself.

On a similar though slightly unrelated vein, I also recently listened to “How To Be Dead” by Snow Patrol. My interest in Snow Patrol was pretty much extinguished with the advent of “Eyes Open” (who could really be excited by lyrics so awkwardly formed around bizarre rhymes like, “And when the worrying starts to hurt/and the world feels like graves of dirt”?), but I’ve always held a soft spot in my heart for the songs of “Final Straw.” In any case, I felt a renewed surge of affection upon hearing this song; not only was it a wonderful source of nostalgia, but I was also reminded of its captivating lyrics. I’m really into songs that tell stories (“Ixcatan”), and this song does, but what’s most remarkable is that it tells the story of an argument only through one side of the dialogue. And when Gary Lightbody sings, “You’ve not heard a single word I have said/Oh my God,” I can just feel the frustration in not being understood and can comprehend just how desperately he wants these words to actually be contemplated, digested, taken in. Homeboy just wants to be heard.

My mind keeps spinning closer and closer to the rain on the roof

Sometimes I wish it were socially appropriate to say things like this:

Hey, guy studying at the Exposé. You see me, and I see you. Yes, it's true that I find your eyebrow ring distasteful, and I'm sure there are things about me you find unsavory--my skinniness perhaps? or maybe the sound of my voice is a little grating?--but I'm tired of making and subsequently averting eye contact. Let's just address this elephant and get it over with. I think we should get some coffee some time or go on some other kind of outing. I'm willing to try you on, to ignore that eyebrow ring and the fact that you sometimes look a little angry. The number of gays out there is limited, and at this point, I feel like I'm steadily moving through them. So let's give this a go. I'm Sam, by the way. What's your name?

Admittedly, I could probably get away with just saying those last two sentences, but I feel like the whole rant would just make everything much easier.

Those tears they cry have come too late.

Yesterday, I was sitting at the Kitty Cat Klub with Lauren, enjoying a nice and surprisingly well-priced gin and tonic. A instrumental jazz trio consisting of an electric guitarist, a string bassist, and a drummer were playing some soft tunes at a unnecessarily loud level. Lauren and I were chatting, laughing, gossiping. At a lull in the conversation, my ear turned to the music. The melody sounded vaguely familiar; I sorted through my knowledge of Frank Sinatra, Edith Piaf, Ella Fitzgerald, Billy Holiday. Then suddenly, as I traced the pronounced staccato of the bassist's notes, it hit me:

They were playing "Gollum's Song."

As in that wonderful tune written from Smeagol's point of view as he articulates his sense of betrayal at the hands of Sam and Frodo and his willingness to lead them into danger, to a point at which "they can never go home."

The rest of the audience reacted with graceful tact, as I immediately called Erin and filled her in, laughing rather obscenely and repeating over and over: "'Gollum's Song,' Erin! 'GOLLUM'S SONG!'"

It's moments like these that make me love my life.

Tell them now your pleasure's set upon slow release

Spending extended periods of time at the same table outside the Exposé has offered me an unprecedented glimpse into the lives of canvassers for Environment Minnesota, Amnesty International, and that one group that carried around that cardboard cutout of Rush Limbaugh, which I always hoped they would burn in effigy. Regardless, having observed them for this long, I've come to learn a few things. For example, they are a resilient people. Even though there are passersby who are incredibly rude (more than one person has shouted, "I've already talked to you!"), they nevertheless maintain a pleasant disposition and a cheerful smile. Despite people's general hostility and unwillingness to listen, these canvassers nevertheless attempt to stop each and every person and convert them to their cause, a cause which I like to believe is their only motivation.

In some ways, canvassers are my heroes.

Until I have the heart to tell you that the picture that you just drew wasn't me.

Here is a list of the reasons why I am a product of my generation:

1. Every word that comes out of my mouth is an abbreviation for another word.
2. I have been broken up with over the Facebook chat.
3. I have sexted. (Sans pictures, guys; I'm not that much of a perv.)
4. I cannot drive anywhere without google maps.
5. I'd rather watch a film that's up front about its gratuitousness and manipulativeness than one that tries to hide it.
6. I listen to playlists way more than I listen to whole albums.
7. I consider Daniel Craig the best Bond.
8. Every time my iPod skips, I die a little.
9. I am perpetually hounded by guilt over the impact that each of my actions has upon the environment.
10. I am growing increasingly disillusioned and apathetic about politics.

Let's talk about this last point.

When I was in high school and even before that, I couldn't get enough of politics. I watched the confirmation hearings of Justices Roberts and Alito with intense, if not obsessive, interest. I volunteered for the Kerry campaign once a week for two months and personally knew the staff of the Waukesha branch of the Democratic Party. I watched the West Wing with fervent adoration. I loved politics; I felt chills down my spine when a Senator or Congressperson said something I totally agreed with, and adamantly agreed with what almost every member of the Democratic Party said.

But today, as I watched Meet the Press for the first time in a year, I was totally and completely annoyed. I missed almost all of the interview with John McCain, but I caught the whole of Chuck Schumer's commentary. Everything that came out of his mouth was simultaneously so loaded and so vacuous that absolutely nothing was said. Democrats are not required to agree with Obama; Republicans are not required to hate him. The stimulus isn't working as planned, but punditry, denial, or exaggeration is doing nothing to address the problems that our economy faces. We looked to Obama to change the way politics is done, but what I think I failed to realize is that this is completely impossible. Obama isn't Bartlett, and the world isn't written by Aaron Sorkin. And while I don't want to speak for the generation that created me, I believe that, until the people who are supposed to be our representatives stop bickering about which president is to blame for this crisis and actually address the issues that are being left for us to deal with (the environment, the war our generation is being forced to fight, the recession), it's too overwhelming and disheartening to care.

It's Only Been a Couple of Years, Right?

I'm very obviously a terrible blogger. In fact, I totally forgot about this blog until my dad told me that I should really have a blog. He says things like to this to me on a very regular basis, but this time it stuck, and I decided to revive "The Things I Think But Never Get the Chance to Say."

I want to talk about country music for a second. I firmly feel that the country music genre never gets its due. I was thinking about what Chuck Klosterman said about Johnny Cash, and despite my general annoyance with Klosterman (which is admittedly unfounded), I can't deny how right he is about this. What makes Johnny Cash so spectacular is his ability to make complex emotions simple. When Cash hears that whistle blowin' and subsequently hangs his head and cries, it's not because he wants freedom, or redemption, or some sort of abstracted concept or feeling; he just wants to sit on the goddamn train and drink some goddamn coffee. That is seriously some of the best poetry I've ever heard.

Furthermore. Johnny Cash: biggest badass in music history. Forget 50 Cent, forget Tupac, forget the Notorious B.I.G. Johnny Cash shot a man in Reno simply to watch him die. In concession, Cash did not actually shoot anyone or get murdered on the street, and he also didn't have seven bullet wounds in his body. But his ability to get into the mind of a killer and to articulate what an inmate would feel is beyond awesome.

Which brings me to my second point, which, like the first point, is not even my own. I read an article in Newsweek recently about country music and how the genre has gone from Cash singing about shooting someone to the insipid and watery hodgepodge currently being labeled "country" today. Newsweek claimed that this has to do with a changing demographic; the people who now listen to country music have kids and live in the suburbs and want to hear songs about children spilling their happy meals. I think there's something to say for these artists' abilities to identify and help articulate the issues of a certain type of person, but I'm still skeptical about whether these changes are for the good. Country music is now kind of crock; a hyper-glamorized image of something that once had meaning, a conforming to and enhancing of the signifiers of the genre without appreciation for where and how those signifiers get their meaning. And one can recognize that it's definitely a sad state of affairs when one considers that country music created these lyrics:

"Save my love through loneliness,
Save my love through sorrow,
I gave you my onliness,
Come give your tomorrow."

Moral of the story: Romantica, a Minneapolis-based band with a front-man from Belfast, is doing more to preserve the awesomeness that is country music than Toby Keith, Keith Urban, Carrie Underwood, and Tim McGraw combined. Just sayin'.

History Became Legend, Legend Became Myth

It has been a long time.

Today, I was sitting at the union, sipping my sick herbal tea, when a large brawl occured between a Coffman employee who was stealing a cart from the Starbucks and one of the Starbucks employees. To say I was concerned for my life in the crossfire would be hyperbolical, certainly, but power struggles are always fun to witness. Especially if they're petty.

Speaking of which, I am no longer going to Political Science. It's unbearably depressing. I've only cried twice in school. In 10th grade biology when we watched the video about the dying elk, and in Pol1025 Global Politics when we watched the video about the Jamaican economy. The stream of spoiled milk flowing from the large vat was like the stream of salty tears flowing from my forlorn eyes: heavy.

Sleep eludes me

The following story exemplifies why Sam should not wake up at 7 a.m. (this fact is also illustrated by the fact that he is using the third person).

Today, he walked into his Spanish at 11:20, a class whihc begins at 11:25. But, much to his surprise, Sam saw that the entire class was present and that the professor was fully engaged in her lecturing. Upon taking his seat, he spent the next 10 minutes completely convinced that, like a small child, he was misreading his watch.

Then, having realized that, when the big hand points to the four and the little one points to the eleven, the time is 11:20, he sat, for at least a half an hour, fuming that the professor would start class five minutes early and then leer at him when he came in on time. "I guess I'll have to get here much earlier," he thought maliciously.

Much time passed and many scathing looks were passed when, about ten minutes before class, he suddenly realized that class actually started at 11:15, not 11:25, and that, consequently, his anger was more than undue. Needless to say, it was rough.

Headphones

The headphones I just bought had instuctions. They are as follows:

Wear the earpiece marked R in your right ear and the earpiece marked L in your left ear.

A diagram was included. For visual learners.

I'm procrastinating a little bit.

My favorite thing is when I confuse the grammar check with my stunning wit and backwards sentences.

My other favorite thing is being done with my paper. Unfortunately, I don't see that happening tonight. But we'll see.

It's 5 am

It is currently 5 am and I am still awake. Why? I couldn't tell you.

I'm not even the tiniest bit tired.

Here's what freaks me out: This is a recurring theme. Back home, I would get tired at night. At 5 am, I would barely be able to keep my eyes open. But here at school, I'm often wide awake at ungodly late hours. Something about the Minnesotan air, I guess.

All I know is, it's hella frusturating.

Espresso Exposè plays some weird-assed music.

I would just like to say that the high point of today's studying (spacetime and the fourth demension) actually made the low point (fashion) bearable. I'm beginning to think that maybe an Astronomy major is in order.

Oh wait. I hate physics. Never mind.

I'm really looking forward to writing that ten-page paper on some sort of "heightened counter-response, one that seeks to reaffirm the motivatedness of the relationship between inside and out, container and contained, sign and signified." Are you?

A Date That Will Live in Infamy

It dawned on me today that I have become obscenely pretentious when it comes to drinking black coffee. When I step up to the counter at the coffee shop and order my tall black coffee with no room for cream, I act like I am the barista's saviour, offering a small break in the midst of venti skim extra whip peppermint white mochas. And I'm fine with it. Badasses drink black coffee, and I, my friend, am a badass. And I will be as cocky as I want about it.

But honestly, when a girl goes up to the register and asks, "What can I get that doesn't taste like coffee?" can you blame me?

Cold.

My favorite thing is when the wind rips through my body and gets into my oddly sensitive eyes, which makes them water. Because walking down the street with tears streaming down one's face is very manly.

And thus, it begins...

I've decided, against my better judgement, to start a blog.

I know you're worried, but I promise that I won't let it turn into some sort of emotional cesspit into which I pour my most ridiculous feelings.

We all know I'm not that kind of guy.

Irregardless (it's a joke, I promise), I'm pretty excited.