Reflections and Echos

True

I get the feeling as college winds down this year that I should be setting some of my memories down, whether they are good or bad. I can actually remember most of the past three years to the extent that the parts that are a haze are not because I can't remember, but because I was drunk. Which wasn't a whole heck of a lot. I've already started with the story about Prospectives Weekend. But before I go on about myself, I would like to interpret an action that my brother reportedly performed in his sleep.

Apparently, in his sleep, he "reached out to his left, smashed his hand on the chair several times, and said 'true' ". There are several explanations for this action, which I will now go into.

1) You have been reading the Three Kingdoms, and were dreaming that you were some minor warlord (Liu Biao, Yuan Shao), and were, as usual, agreeing completely with one (but only one) of your flunkies. As in "True!! I must trust Liu Bei when he says his brother did not kill my general. Send out number two to get beheaded as well."

2) Reaching to your left is a sign of warding off evil. (Sinister). The smashing of the hand suggests some kind of evil bug, perhaps a spider or a cockroach. In your dream, you were defeating this evil, after which you proclaimed your victory over the darkness and evil with the word "True". Veritas (Truth) over Sinister (Evil Bug). Essentially, a superhero dream.

3) In your dream, you were in a bar, or had some kind of alcoholic beverage (probably Budweiser). Since you were with roommates on a trip, this suggests that you subconciously desired to continue bonding with them in your sleep (over conversation and a beer). The pounding was your emphatic agreement with one of their statements, as was the word true, which of course is also the motto for Budweiser.

4) You had a visitation by deceased Supreme Court Justice Earl Warren (the Chief Justice of a very activist court). You are displeased by the current court's strict interpretation stance and wish for them to become more activist and grow a backbone and support Roe vs. Wade and pass more civil rights legislation. Unfortunately, Warren was naked in the dream and you banished the vision forthwith.

So there you go. One of those must explain why you would reach out to your left and pound the chair and say "True". If anyone cares to vote on this, leave a comment. Or suggest an alternate interpretation.

Now, I would like to write a little about college. Nothing extensive, just some thoughts.

Before college, for about two years, I was a member of the Official Fiona Apple Message Board. No joke. It was run through Sony, and some of the members had been there since her first album (maybe before even). I can't actually remember what my user name was, but I seem to remember that it had something to do with one of her song titles, like "Never is a Promise". "Sleep to Dream"? "Shadowboxer"? I can't remember now which is rather odd, considering I read and posted regularly.

Most of the users were female, with an age range apparently between 15 and 35ish. Any male users were gay. Since I neglected to introduce myself right off the bat it was about five months before the other posters found out I was male, and another week or two before they figured out that I was straight. And no, I'm not ashamed of this. Because in the end, it didn't actually make them treat me any differently, which was very cool. A very chill bunch, they were. One's gender is rather immaterial when talking about music, in the end.

The first thread that I read before I signed up was one entitled "Vagina Juice". The thread was over a year old and had over 50 pages in it. I don't remember how it started, but it was basically fifty pages, so over a thousand posts, most of them joking, about ways to market a drink called "Vagina Juice". Needless to say (I was immature then . . . wait, no, I would still sign up for a message board that had a 50 page thread entitled Vagina Juice) I thought it was amazingly amusing so I signed up.

And so by the beginning of freshman year, I had been in this group for a while. Almost a year and a half. I posted regularly and often checked threads into the wee hours of the morning. Which senior year of high school meant 1:00 AM. I found myself posting less after school started, since I was meeting new people and all that junk that one does as a freshman. Classes or something like that. I still talked to some of them online via AIM, but I posted much less. About a month and a half in, I stopped posting for a good amount of time. Part of the reason was because of school. But another part was because some of the older users had left, and the influx of n00bs was too much. Too many people posting about "how cool Fiona's music is" and asking "what does the video for Criminal mean" or "Does anyone have the entire poem that is the title for "When the Pawn"?" And so I stopped visiting the site altogether.

Before Spring Term started (I think it was then), I revisited the site. Only to find that the site was not there anymore. It had moved, as I guess Sony decided to redesign their message board system. The format was completely changed, and just looking at the front page I could tell that even more people had left. In fact, aside from a couple of moderators and regulars, everyone else was gone. I know that when you talk to people online, you might only keep up for a long time with the ones that you get really close to, but it still is weird to me that an entire community just went away in the space of a couple of months. Perhaps it had been going away for a while. Is it a community if it can disappear that easily?

So that's it for now. Only tangentially related to college perhaps, but then again, perhaps not.

Echos of "Vagina Juice" through the empty electronic corridors . . .

Nobel Laureate

Daily Dylan Diatribe

I like Bob Dylan, I really do. Wonderful songwriter, unique voice. But he went popular a long time ago and while that's not always a bad thing, he gave up any credibility he ever had as a real poet. He's not a real poet. He's a songwriter that can occasionally whip up good imagery and evoke nostalgic feelings, which makes him a good songwriter. But not a poet. And yet we have a class for him at Dartmouth. And yet there are those that would give him a Nobel Prize for Literature.

If I could write a hundred lines of repetitive verse a year and get a Nobel Prize for it, well, I would be Bob Dylan I suppose. I've said it before and I'll say it again; Gordon Lightfoot was a much better musician and songwriter. If you give Dylan a Nobel Prize, you should give Paul Simon one. And Lightfoot. And Cat Stevens. And Lennon, posthumously, perhaps on the 25th anniversary of his death next year (but not Ringo or Paul - they're hacks). And Cobain, posthumously. And Maynard from Tool. And Trent Reznor (maybe I should make it a point to mention Reznor every time I post). And how about female singer songwriters? Joni Mitchell deserves one if Bob Dylan does. Tori Amos has been pretty prolific and influential. Why limit it to Songs that White People write? Oye Como Va isn't poetic? Bob Marley wrote some really great lyrics, if you put down the joint and listen to them. If you listen to Outkast, some of it is plenty poetic. And Ludacris? Don't get me started. Oops, too late.

"You gotta run in your pantyhos
Even your daddy knows
that you suckin down chocolate like daddy-o's
You hos are horrible, horrendous
On taxes ya'll writin off hos as dependents
I see tha ho risin
it aint surprisin
its just a hoasis
with ugly chicks faces
but hos dont feel so sad and blue
cuz most of us niggaz is hos too" - Ludacris - "Ho"

If any of the above seems a little silly to you, then you're beginning to understand the absolute stupidity of giving Bob Dylan a Nobel Prize for Literature. He's not just NOT a poet, he's not as poetic as other songwriters. Might as well nominate Bono for the Nobel Peace Prize. Oh . . .wait, they did. Uno, Dos, Tres, Catorce? One Two Three Fourteen? All the philanthropy and goodwill must be infringing on his songwriting ability. What happened to expressing political opinion in song, Bono? Why doesn't The Edge come and slap some sense into you? Shouldn't Dolores O'Riordan from The Cranberries be chasing you down like a Fury with a flaming Scourge right now? And know this, Bono, I only criticize because I love you. It's for your own good.

So in conclusion, Andre 3000 for the 2005 Nobel Prize for Literature. I can just picture Andre 3000 getting a smooch from the king of Sweden.

Actually, I take some of that back.

I really like that John Lennon idea. Can we start a Lennon for Nobel Prize movement? Next December 8th, it will have been 25 years since that punk snuffed out the light of one of the most influential, most eccentric, most popular, and, according to the US Government, most dangerous people of the Twentieth Century. No, Chapman should NOT be let out of jail. And yes, we should recognize Lennon somehow. Because I think over the past 10-15 years, due to Yoko's craziness and George's silence and Ringo's ringoness and Paul's stint with Wings, we've forgotten what a wonderful writer and thinker and man John Lennon was. But you would have to give him the Literature prize, since his words apparently have been set aside, gone dormant, in this time of hate. So that would disqualify him for the Peace Prize. I wish we lived in a world where the wonderful lyrical abstractions, the mere words, of a man like Lennon could be as effective as the goodwill actions of a celebrity or a political head of state. Because those words are powerful, and I truly think that if more people paid them attention now, and back then too, that we would be in a better world. All one can do is keep the faith, I suppose. We might come around someday.

Where did that come from?

What Now?

A Sea of Waking Dreams

Now that the series and the baseball season is over, I have to remember what I do when I'm not checking baseball scores and stats. That's not easy. I remember something vague, something cloudy in my memory like it occurred in ages past, something about . . . reading a book?

Couldn't be.

Actually I'm rather proud of myself *pat on back* *cramp* ow . . .

Because I managed to not fail (I think) a Neurobio test today despite watching the game last night and not thinking about anything but the Red Sox for much of the night. I was actually taking notes while watching the game, but the notes were punctuated by yells of "Oh That was SO a Strike!!" or "What has Edmonds been snorting????". I was tempted to answer Johnny Damon on one of the short answer questions, but I didn't really have that luxury.

Clearly, I'll just have to find something else to do so I can stave of being productive. Adrian Beltre filed for free agency . . . Nah, that was kinda expected. I have a Nirvana concert in my Concerts folder waiting for me . . . Hmmm.....

Does anyone else but me wonder why there haven't been any rock starts overdosing recently? Jen gets credit for this theory, but I tend to agree that in this day and age, if they're not having orgies with groupies and landing themselves in the Betty Ford clinic between (or during) tours, they're not really rocking. Now, what happened to Cobain sucked and the fact that Courtney Love is trying to manage his image like he was Elvis is a little disgusting. But honestly, the only rock star regularly getting himself in trouble is Scott Wylan. Dave Grohl, bless his soul, is still pretty cool, but he hangs out with Jack Black too much. Jack Black is best taken in small doses. The guy from the White Stripes got into a fight a while back, but hey, he's married to his sister. The sissy bands like Good Charlotte are still being chaperoned by their parents because they don't have their licenses yet. Guns N Roses is gone, Aerosmith has sold out, the Stones are gathering moss. The only popular musicians worth following are the ones like David Bowie and Thom York who regard themselves as artists. Wait, I can only follow serious artists now? While I have nothing wrong with that, I like a guy that's only in it to have sex, drugs, orgies, and write dark, angsty songs about bad highs. I wonder what Mandy Patinkin is up to these days.

Scream and despair, for Sarah McLachlan's new album stinks

Last Post (On Baseball). For a While

Tentative Steps

Apparently people don't like it when I post about baseball, but with the postseason winding down, there don't look to be too many more American Pasttime related posts.

Game Four Analysis

The Red Sox are one win away, and they send rested Derek Lowe to the mound against Jason Marquis. Both pitchers are similar in that they are ground ball pitchers, and both have looked very hittable this season at times. The difference is that Marquis has been hittable lately, probably due to fatigue despite his protests to the contrary, and Lowe has been close to dominant in two starts against the Yankees. His game seven start on two days rest was masterful. He worked so quickly against what was supposed to be a patient lineup that it was like someone snuck into the hotel the Yankees were staying in and hypnotized them to play like the Mets (nothing against the Mets, I like them, but Cliff Floyd? Hidalgo? Mike Cameron? I count 400 K's a season right there, conservative estimate).

Busch Stadium should benefit both these pitchers, but it won't matter much if either of them fails to keep those sinkers and fastballs low. If Marquis is tired, look for adrenaline to carry him for two shaky innings, in which the Red Sox will tee off on elevated fastballs. If that fades and he's still in the game, his sinker will start missing as well and the Sox will then tee off on everything he throws. It's much the same with Lowe, but considering his rested state and veteran status, Lowe is much more of a psychological issue than a physical one.

This is why, even though the Sox won games one and two, those four errors each game had Derek Lowe shrieking into his towel. If Bill Mueller boots two ground balls out of five his way, he can expect to boot four with Lowe on the mound. This is a problem. Mark Bellhorn is usually solid at second, but even he missed one on a bad hop. The Sox defense was solid on Tuesday, which means that Lowe might be able to relax a little. A relaxed Lowe means fewer baserunners, and if there are baserunners, a 6-4-3 here and there.

The Boston offense will probably have to open up a can on Jason Marquis, as it will give Lowe confidence and perhaps keep them from going to the bullpen too early. It can also allow Francona to take Bellhorn out for Reese or pinch run Dave Roberts in an idea situation. Ideally, with an early lead, they could work Lowe through the seventh, use Embree and Timlin (Arroyo with a decent lead, say, 7-2) in the seventh/eighth as needed, and if they have to, go to Foulke in the ninth. I would attribute Foulke's lapse last night to a) not enough warm up time, as the Sox went 1-2-3 in the 8th, b) facing Larry Walker and Albert Pujols, and c) facing a lineup that had been seeing changeups all night. But it could also be fatigue, and I do not want Foulke pitching in the ninth with a two run lead against the Cardinals 2-3-4 hitters.

As for offense, I would look to score early as usual if I were the Red Sox. Look for Ortiz to hammer a sinker down and in that's not down enough. If I had a lead in the third, I would bunt with Damon or Cabrera even with no one on. The reason? Scott Rolen is Gold glove third baseman, but the more you keep him running on defense, the worse his performance at the plate will be, given his bum calf. Make him work, and Rolen and Sanders stay easy outs.

For the Cardinals, Pujols and Walker obviously have to keep contributing, but Edmonds has been a surprising non-factor in this series. How they keep getting to Edmonds is beyond me, as Edmonds is usually a patient and solid hitter. If the Cardinals want to win this game, Edmonds needs an extra base hit. Or two. Also, start John Mabry at DH for gods sakes. The Sox have seen him once this series. I'm starting to think La Russa knows that the Sox know something about Mabry's hitting style or something. And last, Tony Womack is amazing for wanting to keep playing, but at this point, he needs to do what is good for the team and sit out so Marlon Anderson can start in his place. Keep Womack on the bench as a pinch runner.

Prediction - Sox 7, Cardinals 4, World Series over.
Inning by Inning Prediction: 2/1 , 3/0 , 0/0 , 0/0 , 1/1 , 1/0 , 0/0 , 0/2 , 0/0
HR - David Ortiz, Albert Pujols
SB - Johnny Damon, Dave Roberts after being inserted as a pinch runner in the 6th
E - Manny Ramirez

Final Statement

Most people by now have picked up on the fact that there is no curse, just a team that is finally willing to spend $115 million to win. A smart 115 million, which is much better than a smart 60 million and much much better than a dumb 180 million. That being said, if the Sox win, I would expect Theo Epstein to bring back everyone but Pedro. A good baseball man knows that you have to spend money to win, and that winning gets the money back into your pocket. Steinbrenner is the master of this. But if the Sox win, merchandise and advertising shoots through the roof, to the extent that even after I renovate Fenway to add more seats, I have enough money to sign my big free agents, minus Pedro, and a solid starter in the Carl Pavano range. Because you can expect to sell out another 82 games next year, and every one of those fans, and others, will be sporting Curt Schilling jerseys. So even though teams that spend more than 80 million still win a whole lot more than teams that spend 60 mill, one really can't complain about it. The worst thing to do is to spend 75 million on a team and cut the payroll to 50 mill the next year.

Fire sales are the worst thing you can do, from a baseball and a financial point of view. First, you make your team suck. Second, you drive away fans. The Marlins were special because they had a decent farm system to fall back on and several good young arms, but even in their scenario fans only came back when it was evident they could win a World Series. Three people have been Marlins fans since day one, and everyone else in Florida is a liar and a republican. (or African American and ineligible to matter, as the GOP would have it). Look at the Reds. It's been a long time since the days of The Big Red Machine. It's been ten years since they fielded a decent team. They decided to go completely conservative after the Griffey trade didn't work out, even though they just opened a new ballpark. It has been proven that a new ballpark, however fan friendly, won't draw sustainable crowds without a good team playing in it. And yet, when it was evident they couldn't win in 2003, they held an auction.

Prediction In, Fingers Crossed

Cyrano de Bergerac =/= Pinocchio

The Closet . . . of Love

I don't know when the Romantic Drama (Movie) became universally aligned with The Chick Flick, and I've just started wondering about this. In the 40's and 50's, Romantic movies were a lot more well, macho than they are now, in that the voyeuristic gaze was set so that the female characters could be the objects, of desire for men and of replacement for women. I can get into the psychoanalytic specifics, of scopophilic gaze and how the female is always feminized in an objectifying sense, but I won't now. Males leads, from Clark Gable to Cary Grant were portrayed as individuals of immense strength, whose mere presence would carry the movie, and the heroine, to a romantic ending. These movies were clear cut, good male, bad male, heroine, and people liked it that way. I have news - people still do. It's just that movies these days can't do it without seeming derivative, and thus we have what is called the Chick Flick, the movie directed towards pulling the heartstrings of the female audience and the pursestrings (or walletstrings, as it may be) of the male audience. There are only a few movies that buck this trend, and they do it in surprising ways.

Attempts to make a real Romantic movie these days (Kate and Leopold is a strange example, as they literally have to drag the main character out of the depths of time) either fail miserably or are hailed as spoofs, mindful of an earlier time when men were men and women had really pointy boobs (Reese Witherspoon, Pleasantville reference). The point I'm trying to make, however, is that these times may be cynical, but they are also conservative. Some people still want the old Romance movies, but the Hollywood bigwigs have a hard time finding a director and a script that isn't self-referential and snide in some way or another. What we end up getting are a bunch of crappy "feminist" movies starring Kate Hudson that, while claiming to break gender roles, just has the woman get together with her main love interest at the end. Even indie films like "Kissing Jessica Stein" don't have the courage to take the final leap and either break the standard or stick to it completely. There are three movies that stand out immediately when I think of good Romantic movies, and they have very strange ways of distancing themselves from not only the modern chick flick, but the old time Romance, which is part of what makes them good. The problem is that their way of reinventing the Romantic Drama is such that it reduces the target audience. Oh well. I can still enjoy them.

I'm going to skip over Woody Allen movies, but not because I don't have any respect for Woody Allen. Woody Allen's romances fall into a category of romatic comedy that I'm less concerned about. Actually, that's not true, is it? He has made dramas, and good ones too. Fine. Woody Allen is just special, but not like George Lucas is "special", i.e. Woody Allen is not retarded. Part of Allen's brilliance is making unattractive, funny heroes that appeal to the audience in different ways - 1) men identify with the hero - an everyman that, while not perfect and not Fabio, still can get a girl on personality alone. We all want to be this guy. 2) men and women laugh at the hero, so that they understand what makes him so lovable. While I'm not familiar with what's been written about his camera work I wouldn't be surprised if it upended some gender particulars that are common to Hollywood film.

1) Harold and Maude. A romance involving an 80 year old woman and a 17 year old boy is not going to attract a large audience. In fact, I can't think of many better ways to scare an audience off. But this movie happens to be one of the most poignant movies I've ever seen. One reason is that Harold is an amazingly humorous character, and yet he's the epitome of adolescence (barring the hearse that he drives around). The way that the relationship between them are built up is just astounding, and incredibly realistic as well. Approaching this film with an open mind was one of the best decisions I've ever made. Thanks Mr. Lowe. The Cat Stevens Soundtrack helps too. Deportation indeed . . .

2) Secretary. The fact that I just saw this movie for the second time today was what precipitated this blog. Some might call this a romantic comedy, but if you laugh at this movie, you're missing the point. The point of this movie is the story of a girl (Maggie Gyllenhall, in a great performance and looking a little like Karen Allen pre-institutionalization) that discovers her place in the world and in love. The acts of submission and dominance that occur between her and James Spader are not intended to be humorous. The two are truly experimenting, throwing off all expectations of a conservative Florida society, and part of that means running the spectrum of dominance and submission. James Spader also turns in a performance that he should have won an Oscar for. The cinematography and set design for this movie was stupendous. Great camerawork captures monochromatic sets (Spader's red office is amazing). Flashes of Blue and Green, and the jarring shots of an outside world, Florida under the sun, are brilliant. And I love the meticulous nature of the film, which might sugges that the director was not unlike Spader's character. Every little detail is covered, from Gyllenhall's self-destructive rituals embodied in childish pencil cases to the actions that the characters make that make the characters (Gyllenhall's perfect flip of Spader's collar at the end of the movie, etc). This movie is a quintessential romantic drama - girl in need, guy in need, girl meets guy, conflict, climax, happily ever after. And then it's not. That they engage in various acts of bondage and masochism are mere expressions of their real characters. And for a romance, there is an amazing amount of gender-bending in this movie. Spader's man is not just a dominant male, and Gyllenhal is not just a submissive female. They accept each other, and Gyllenhal's gaze straight into the camera at the end of the movie tells you how strong her character is and that she doesn't give a damn if you accept their characters for what they are. Because they're so much stronger with each other that the rest is irrelevant.

3) Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. This movie, for all it's sci fi atmosphere (going into the mind of Jim Carrey's character) is a well-filmed little story of two people falling in an out of love. And in and out, and in and out and so on. It gets a little ridiculous with the side plots involving the employees at the Doctor's office and the Doctor himself (the one that removes memories of a person you want erased from your head), and actually this just tells me that the writers didn't trust their main plot enough, which is a pity. Jim Carrey is good but Kate Winslet is actually better. Again, sets and clever camera work really makes this movie transcendant. Besides the hilarity of the sets meant to depict the inside of Carrey's head, I really enjoyed the beach sets. If you could take a Billy Joel song, and translate it to a vision, it would be a Long Island beach. In the winter. With car crashing. Ok, scratch that last one, even though cars do crash in this movie.

I Have seen God, and He is David Bowie

Trent Reznor's Def Funky Jams

It's the concert, without people trying to cut you

Ah, the wonders of bittorrent. Legal bittorrent at that. I've been spending some very productive time at www.easytree.org, a group devoted to sharing legal (I think) recordings of concerts. The concerts are in lossless format, .flac or .shn. These are bootlegs that aren't meant to be ripped off and sold, and from what I've seen on the site they discourage it very much, going as far as to target ebay sellers that attempt to distribute bootlegs that are available for free on this site (and others).

This has been the best site I've found so far. The first site I used, Sharing the Groove, was an excellent one with a not-so great format. The first file I got was actually a show that I was at, the July 31st Curiousa festival set for The Cure. Great set, and someone was recording it pretty well too. There's something to be said for a forty something man that's willing to take the stage in heavy eye makeup. Mad Props, Robert Smith. I named my very first Diablo character after you. I love this discovery because thus far, over the last few years since Napster came and went, I had to resort to P2P downloads that might or might not be what the sharer promised. The files marked Bob Marley last concert probably were, but other than that, it's not too easy to find full concert sets out there, especially in a format that you can listen to with little difficulty (with .flac or .shn, you need to download programs, but they're not very large and it's all freeware anyway).

I've since downloaded almost 40 gigabytes of material, meaning I'm going to have to archive some of them at some point or buy myself an external hard drive. The shows include a few Radiohead sets, a Smashing Pumpkins set, Sarah McLachlan, Norah Jones, Bonnie Raitt, Eagles, Aerosmith (Featuring Jimmy Page!!!), Cat Stevens, Coldplay, Franz Ferdinand, James Taylor, Billy Joel, Simon and Garfunkel, The Police and Weezer. This stuff is wonderful. Most of it is in excellent quality, having been recorded and filtered by people that know what they're doing. I don't really get the lingo, but hey, I know it sounds good. The one I saw seeded a while ago but didn't get a chance to download was a legendary Police set from 1980 in which Sting literally goes for 3 hours. Yes folks, he was tantric even back then.

And my latest discovery, which is making me squeal (no, really), a seven song set performed by Nine Inch Nails in Chicago on 4/27/00. All acoustic, all Trent Reznor, all the time. Actually, it's not all acoustic, but it's about as acoustic as industrial metal can get. The best version of Hurt I've ever heard. So Good. Why don't people write songs like that anymore? There are two copies of Hurt, one better quality (I think), Something I Can Never Have, The Day The World Went Away, Even Deeper, The Big Comedown, and The Fragile. A very solid set. Trent Reznor, come back, the world needs you.

Man this is great. Wonderful music to psychoanalyze Milton to.

I WON'T LET YOU FALL APART *Whew*

Series Thoughts

Reaches Closet on Error by Manny Ramirez

All I can say right now is that Manny Ramirez better be licking the mud off of Mark Bellhorn's cleats. Because if they had lost tonight's game, Manny would have been a goat of immense proportions. He actually made three gaffes, but the third one, a baserunning error that could have resulting in a rundown had there been someone covering first base, ended up actually in the Red Sox' favor. Nevertheless, Friendly Manny, as the inane and badly edited tribute dubbed him, needs to get it into his head that when he's out in left field, he shouldn't really be "out in left field" mentally. It's not only an adventure watching him make difficult plays, but sometimes easy flys induce gasps because of the dizzying routes he takes to the ball.

That being said, Manny could have made two more errors without being as annoying as Jeanne Zelasko. I've said it. Jeanne Zelasko = more annoying than four Manny Ramirez errors (but not five). I seriously think they gave her a spot in the pre and post game squad because her last name starts with Z. Someone at Fox said to themselves "Pick the broadcaster by merit? Nah. By Last Name A-Z? Too boring. How about Z-A? Ok, sounds good." So it was Jeanne Zelasko over Marv Albert, and the rest is history. You know, it occurs to me that Jeanne Zelasko's coverage of the World Series is not unlike a short, hairless man that enjoys kinky sex and bites people on the back. *Gives Self Point* Self: 1 Zelasko: - 19 (-1 for each hairstyle we've seen this postseason).

It wouldn't be as bad if she could talk baseball. But Fox apparently wants to reinforce negative gender stereotypes, so every night, it's Jeanne Zelasko turning it over to Chris Myers or some other male figure that pretends to know what they're talking about. And what's with all the Bush Ads? Is one of the loopholes of equal ad times that you can run all the Bush ads between 6 PM and 11PM and all the Kerry ads between 6 AM and 11 AM? Because all I'm seeing are commercials for E.D. drugs and plugs for Bush. Oh my God. commercials for cocks and plugs for bush. It ALL MAKES SENSE NOW. Someone get Tim Russert on the line, I've got his lead story.

Wait, I lost it.

Wait, it's back.

I'm crude at 1 AM. Ah well.

Well, here's hoping that Manny got all the faceplants out of his system tonight. Manny - I know Fenway mud is good for the complexion, but it can wait til after the game. You have to stop listening to the guys from Queer Eye because you can work on your skin the entire offseason. Right now you have to worry about the fly ball plummeting towards your mug.

Speaking sallow looking individuals, Julian Tavarez was looking sick even before he gave up that homer to Bellhorn. This might be the effect of the four shots he needed just to walk out there tonight. You know, with all the bandaging and stitching going on this offseason . . . I'm predicting a torch wielding mob taking the field at some point during the series. Yes, I think Curt Schilling will resemble Frankenstein's monster by the end of all this. On Halloween. Frankenstein's monster leaves the game with a lead after seven. Mike Myers on the mound. The stuff of legend.

Scores on Throwing Error by Queer Eye Bachelor #87, aka Manny Ramirez

Postgame analysis, courtesy of the guys from Queer Eye

"Manny honey, I know a hairstylist in New York that will fix that right up. And don't forget to zooje (how do you spell that??) regularly before every game. Remember, millions are watching. And when you hang your uniform up? Please, wire hangers are the instrument of the Devil. Even George Steinbrenner knows better."

"Those uniforms? Darling!! But Someone has to take Curt's socks to the Dry Cleaners!!! Someone get me some Club Soda!!!"

"These yoga lessons will really help you in the field I promise. And when we're done, the Banana Creme Pie will be ready to come out of the oven. Nothing impresses a visiting team more than a Banana Creme Pie."

"And nothing can entice a hungry badger like a Yankee Pot Roast"

!!! Christopher Walken, what are you doing here? Go back to frightening small children, shoo!!

"By the time you get back from St. Louis, I'll have the Green Monster all fixed up. Promise. Ick, Green, just makes you hungry. I'm leaning more towards a montage . . . you have so much lying around that's so . . . you. Retro kitsch and all that."

"What? I'm the style guy, I don't do anything. Do you want dancing lessons? No? But I was on the rock opera Rent . . . "

Balancing Act

If a Theoretical Man is Ranting Theoretically in an Invisible Closet, does Anyone Theoretically Give a Damn?

I'm usually very capable of paying attention to a subject. Recently though, I've been having a little more trouble focusing, even on subjects that I'm passionate about. Take Milton for example. I know that I have to step away every once in a while from what I consider some of the greatest verse or prose ever written, but right now I've been "away" for a day or two and I can't get back into it. Could just be writers block, could be indicative of a bigger problem.

Another example is Ichiro. Back in early August, when I realized how many hits he could have this year, I was pretty wild about checking up the stats every morning on Yahoo, and calculating how many hits he would project to. Then two things happened. First, ESPN picked up on it (about two weeks later) and started showing all his singles every second of every day. That is, when they weren't busy promoting their newest made for TV Movie, Pete Rose Under a Blurry Microscope. Then, partially because of the overexposure, I got a little jaded about it. I started thinking "why keep following this? why do I even care anymore?" I lost focus for a week or so, and I even started wondering if I needed to just get away from baseball for a week or two. *gasp*

And then I got back into it just as Ichiro and Raul Ibanez combined for 11 hits between the two of them in one game. I remembered how much I hated Barry Bonds, his Biceps, and his Big Bloated . . . Ego. That helped. I remembered how much Ichiro is more obsessive compulsive than Tony Shaloub, and that helped too. It helps to step back and consider the bigger context. For instance, I realized that I was giving the record too much importance, and I just needed to enjoy the baseball. The record was amazing, but was diminished because Ichiro's singles often resulted in nothing and because they happened much more easily when there was no one else on (since he couldn't ground into a fielder's choice). The important thing was watching an amazing player, the purest contact hitter since Tony Gwynn and Don Mattingly, at his craft.

But this newly discovered pseudo ADD is still bugging me. I still don't have trouble reading dense texts or long novels (one of my accomplishments this summer was reading Middlesex straight through while Jen was taking the MCATs, which she did exceptionally well on. Seven hours and four cups of coffee. decent book. a little Forrest Gump-y, but very well written. Epic ambition, lacking slightly in execution) But daily things are getting to be a chore.

Conversations are a problem when one starts thinking about something completely random, like a Radiohead song. It was easy six months ago when I could tell myself I had just been on campus for too long (and I had). I think part of it is that I was working in New York City, and I expect people here to be like people in New York City, where conciseness, precision and a snappy response is valued more than a drawn out thank you or politeness. I don't need to hear your life story, I just want my afternoon cup of coffee.

Case 1 - I walk to pay for my food in the Hop. One register is never open, but that's ok because I'm the only one in line. The lady sitting there sees me, turns to her fellow slacker to talk about timeshifts for five minutes while I stand there. You timeshift ends when I say it ends, because my tuition pays for your dinner, honey. I'm not trying to be a prick, but honestly, is it impossible to divide your attention and swipe my card?

Case 2 - At the post office, where the workers are expected to be the epitome of effectiveness. If there's a freshman that has never mailed a package in his life, tell him to figure it out somewhere else. Don't let him walk up to you with twelve things instead of having it all ready like all other civilized individuals. Don't let him stuff everything into an envelope so that it can't seal and wait for him to get a new one. Don't let him ask you to pull out your big book of zip-codes and look up the zip-code to which he's sending his package because he doesn't know the address to his own home town. HE CAN DO IT ALL HIMSELF BECAUSE HE GOT INTO COLLEGE. AND A DECENT ONE AT THAT. He doesn't need to hold up the line at the post office for twenty minutes so that the line extends out the door!!

So maybe part of the problem is the sudden change in environment. But I can't help but think that part of it is me. I have the sneaking suspicion that I'm getting dumber as I grow older. Seriously. I iz cool. 2+2=5. Good song.

I Type Goodly Now. Closet Open.

Neural

If anyone wants to leave comments, criticism, dollar bills in my g-string (it's a comfort thing - cheapos, only a buck?), or links for me to see, you can now do so. I guess before the comments were set to Blogger members only, but I've changed that. If no one comments it then means that no one reads this and I've been shouting into a void *sob*.

Seriously Hitting Walls

First of all, Ive had four cups of coffee today. After a cup of espresso in the morning and two cups at lunch with my Aunt and Uncle, who were in the area today, I took a nap. So I needed another cup. Someone please counsel me ask to whether I need help or more coffee.

Second of all, that nap came in lieu of going to Music 3. This was because Music 3 today was devoted to listening to what people have composed so far. I figured that the only thing I could get out of going was my quiz back, which I know I got a 90 on. I don't need to hear someone else's composition (especially some kiss-ass's who has been working since day 1) to tell me that I need to work on mine. I already know what I'm doing anyway - figure out a basic beat, something with a lot of snare, and build a composition around sounds coming from any of four things - a) Doll's Polyphony from Akira b) Ichiro's singles (I need to find .wavs of these), c) Opera and d) Nine Inch Nails.

I don't need an email from the professor afterwards sent out to an indeterminate number of students that missed the class saying that because we had missed class today we had missed an opportunity to get his input and precious help, and that "because we had missed class, he can no longer help us". Help this, dude. *extends digit*. Now, I don't hate this professor. He's genuinely an amusing guy. But if he thinks that 60 people that are taking his class for a distrib requirement are going to show up midway through the term for critiques on a project that is due the last day of classes, I want to know what he's smoking. So I can call the cops and tell him he's cooking some whacked out mutant meth somewhere in Vermont.

I don't often get angry at professors. They're usually good people, sometimes less socially adjusted because they've been stuck inside a library for most of their life, but hey, I'm the same way to a large extent. But when they feel the need to amuse themselves and the rest of the class by picking on people that come to class two minutes late and by intimidating certain people repeatedly (that obviously don't enjoy it), I take issue. You're not supposed to entertain the majority of your students at the expense of individual members of the class. Now that I've gotten that out of the system, the weekend can begin. Play Ball

Tomorrow. Play Ball Tomorrow. Work Tonight. Yes . . .

There is not a game tonight. SMEAGOL IS FREEEEE

But tomorrow night . . . come to me . . . precioussss . . . if only you weren't broadcasted on Fox . . .

Open Door to the Bright Light of Day

Pensive

Music that Calms the Savage Rant

Bonnie Raitt - Angel from Montgomery

I'm not even positive hers is the original version of the song, but it's the first one I heard, and Bonnie Raitt has quite a voice. Much better than Dave Matthews, whose cover of this song isn't very inspiring. I don't find any Dave Matthews song very inspiring because he shits on people. At least, his tour bus does.

But Bonnie Raitt . . . soulful, plaintive and full voice, more personality than Blondie and Stevie Nicks combined. She's right up there with Joni Mitchell, perhaps better. Raitt is the kind of singer that modern folk-country singers like Sheryl Crow are but a shadow of. I find Raitt much better than someone like Emmylou Harris because there's something in Raitt's music that reveals a brutal honesty in relationships and everyday life, but something in her voice that makes you realize that there's a tomorrow that might not be banal, a sunrise in front of you as you drive away from the city.

That's the image I get from some of her songs, but it's one that I first got, rather obviously, from Tom Waits' Ol' 55. Ol' 55 is one of the greatest songs ever written, and it stands up there alongside anything Simon and Garfunkel ever wrote, anything Cat Stevens, Van Morrison, Bob Dylan or Gordon Lightfoot ever wrote. Waits has an amazing voice that's as forceful as Louis Armstrong, a smoky bass that invokes late nights in seedy bars and truckers on 17 hours of straight driving. When he sings Romeo is Bleeding, or The Piano has been Drinking (Not Me), you can feel your heart rumble to his throaty burr. Ol' 55 has been covered by so many people, Sarah McLachlan and The Eagles being the versions I enjoy, but no one pulls the same image out of the music like he does. The only reason he's not as popular as Elvis Costello, Bob Dylan, Neil Young and other solo male artists is because some of his stuff is just so difficult to listen to. Not because it's bad, but because most of it's not that happy. And a lot of it is fairly cynical. And yet he writes songs like Ol' 55 and other ones that can make you feel the wind in your hair during a midnight ride.

Closet Myself in Sleep . . .

Flying Feces

On a good note before I embark on a rant of epic proportions, Don Mattingly (yes, the Don Mattingly) had this to say about the subject of my last entry.

"When a guy is hitting .640 for the first few games of a series, he's probably not going to hit .640 for the whole series. This isn't Little League."

Exactly.

Padded Closet for Maximum Rantage

In any case, one of the first things I wanted to Rant about when I set up this blog was an entity that once was near and dear to my heart, turned black and sour, corrupted by the power-hungry machinations of a man that had once been its greatest champion. I am, of course, talking about Star Wars.

George Lucas created a wonderful thing in 1977 with the first Star Wars movie, A New Hope. Based entirely on the Kurosawa movie The Hidden Fortress, A New Hope took a tried and true adventure story and set it in outer space, projecting the universal constants of good and evil, love and hate across time and space. It was a simple but effective tale about corruption, power and totalitarianism. Luke reached out to teenage boys everywhere, the farm boy that became a warrior and saved a princess from an evil foe of seemingly insurmountable power. Han the rogue, the mercenary, Obi Wan the sage. Comic relief provided by two droids, one English, the other domed. These characters were painted with broad strokes that allowed the dreams and ambitions of an entire generation to explode in fantasy.

Then came The Empire Strikes Back, a darker film, more refined. It was a sophomore effort that built on the characters, introduced the mysterious Yoda, and the villianous Emperor Palpatine. Billy Dee Williams playing Lando Calrissian became one of the few African American men to play a real character in a science fiction movie.

And then the Return of the Jedi, a entire film that was the climax of the trilogy. Luke, becoming the Jedi Knight. The Death Star, rebuilt. Han, unfrozen. Jabba, strangled by Leia in a gold bikini in one of the most erotic scenes ever to make a movie targeted towards adolescents. So there were Ewoks. We wrote that off as a hiccup in an otherwise brilliantly conceived and executed venture. And all was good with the world.

When it was revealed that the Special Editions were hitting theatres, everyone got excited. New scenes, and old ones brushed up, even though part of the attraction was the simplicity of the graphics, X Wings floating on strings upon a black background. Many winced when Han defended himself against Greedo. But by and large, the Special Editions let a whole new generation bask in the glory of Star Wars. Licensing and video games made Lucas even wealthier than before, not to mention the enormous box office proceeds.

And then came Episode I. I went with 9 friends and my brother, sat in the front row after getting there an hour early. First ones into the theatre, the last ones out. We wondered a little at the glitz, winced a little at Jar Jar Binks, and winced a lot at Midichlorians, a scientific explanation of the Force. We laughed when then Senator Palpatine said "we'll be keeping our eyes on you" to the young Anakin because we were in on it. And even though the movie obviously wasn't as good, we forgave Lucas because it was the first one, and there was nowhere to go but up. A young queen and a young jedi that would soon struggle through a decision that would alter the universe, a tragic decision that we knew was fated to be a fallen one. Like Adam in Paradise Lost, we knew Anakin was sufficient to stand, though free to fall. And fall he would.

But then came Episode II. Natalie Portman showed us how bad of an actress she was, completely unable to understand the character of Padme, who was to be attracted to the darkness within Anakin, an irresistable darkness that would scare her, and yet draw her like a moth to a flame. Hayden Christensen was whiny, although we could forgive him, maybe for interpreting a character. But Count Dooku, a CGI Yoda, and worst of all that Bad MotherFucker Samuel L. busting out his purple lightsabre on Jango Fett. CGI took the place of plot, introducing gangly aliens and four armed short order cooks that we couldn't muster any feeling for.

This brings us to the present, as we stand at the edge of a precipice, waiting for the disaster that is Episode III. So much to resolve, not enough movie, not enough directorial skill or acting skill to manage all of it. Villians named Grievous, and a title that is somehow worse than Attack of the Clones.

If the release of Episodes IV-VI on DVD are any indication, George Lucas has completely lost it. Strange edits, like Greedo shooting later than he did in the Special Edition and Han still firing after Greedo, and a Jabba in A New Hope with a strangely black palatte swap. And worst of all, Hayden Christensen spliced into the last scene of Return of the Jedi, and the unmasked Darth possessing the same colored eyes as Christensen. All for something purported to be continuity, which to an ardent fan feels more like a slap to the face. Lucas couldn't give his fans a bigger "Fuck you I'm a fucking fucktard with no fucking idea what my real fucking fans want". I despair, because even as Ewan McGregor might emerge from this shit stained toilet unscathed, the fans of the franchise will not.

A Weary Emergence from the bloodstained Padding

Jen's Potential Dog

Got Wang?

Ozy

Ian from Machall

Bellairs

Or perhaps we do this one at a time . . . strange . . .oh well. PVP -Brent

This should be all of them . . . I'm just too lazy to upload them to a different website. So I'm sending myself pictures that I will then link on my sidebar. yes, it's stupid

You'll have to pardon the apparent uploading of random images; they're going up on the sidebar to link to various webcomics.

Regression

Just as a small note about the Pennant Race that just ended, I have to say that the seven game format helped the Red Sox not because of pitching, but because hitters started regressing to the averages. Statistically seven games may not be very significant, but when your 4-5-6 hitters hit over .500 for three games, there's a damn good chance that, since they are .300-.315 career hitters, they will regress to some average over the next four games. And what do you know? Hideki Matsui, ARod, Sheffield, all the Yankees bats that were hot went cold at the same time. Their overall statistics for the series probably look pretty decent because of the first three games. And they still lost. And Johnny Damon, who looked anxious in the first two games and was 1 for 24 or something like that, broke out with a big game seven at the right time. Let's say he got 32 AB's. And hit two home runs in Game 7. Over a full season with 640 or so AB's, pretty standard for a leadoff hitter in a potent lineup, that translates to 20 home runs. Guess how many homers Damon hit this year? Yup. 20. Now this isn't to say that a hitter, in seven games during the playoffs, will be guaranteed to hit exactly what he does during the regualar season. But you could say that Damon was due.

Consider that in a full seven game series, you get somewhere between 30 and 40 AB's. A .300 hitter will have 10 hits in a series. When most of your lineup burns away their statistical advantange by scoring 19 runs in a game, it's not that you're guaranteed to go cold, but the statistical possibility of scoring another 10 runs the next game is lowered. Of course, David Ortiz doesn't believe in statistics apparently. I'm just sayin is all.

Smoke if you got em

Or not

Stumble into closet

Since my cousin got me an espresso maker for my birthday, getting up early has gotten to be less and less of a problem. I was always a morning person, but now I really have a reason to get up in the morning; its name is Bialetti and it's tiny, curvy and puts out. This, I suppose, is what Ernest Hemingway referred to as a "waking addiction". Actually, Ernest Hemingway never said that, I just thought it would be kind of cool. Besides, Hemingway was probably more of the type of guy to have a shot of espresso, a shot of tequila and a shot at a poor elephant early in the morning.

It's kind of nice to get up before the sun comes up. Not quite as nice when you're not 10,000 feet above sea level on a mountain called Haleakuea (or something like that - the name stopped mattering after a while) on the island of Maui, standing with thirty other insane people watching the first rays of the sun break above a thick cloud cover. That's really nice. Cold, but very, very nice. It would been all the easier if I had been in posession of little Bialetti at the time. I don't often thank my parents for getting my ass up early in the morning, but that certainly was one of the times I was very grateful. But off the mountain, in a cold town called Hanover when the leaves are just a little past their glorious peak, it's rather nice as well. It seems to go straight from cold, dark and the middle of the night to cold, dawn and the break of day. I've pulled my share of all nighters here, and I can honestly say that one appreciates it more if there's not a deadline at 8:00 AM. My first two nights here was sleepless ones, actually, very strange experiences to say the least for a prematriculated freshman (I hate that word, matriculate. It sounds like what my coffee maker does). Since I really have nothing better to do at 6:30 AM, I might as well post about the first one (the second is another, longer story).

One August I was picked up at Exit 11 on I-95, Darien, to come up to Dartmouth for what they called "Prospectives Weekend", one of the events that Dartmouth does to encourage minority students to attend a college that is underrepresented in several minority groups. They do it in August because since nearly no one is here in the summer, the prospective students can't tell how skewed the racial population is here. I was one of three asian people, and I seem to remember thinking to myself that there were probably more african americans on the bus than there would be at Dartmouth. After four years, I think my initial assessment was not inaccurate. In any case, I got here, and was presented with a room, a one room double in Topliff, 2nd floor, and a roommate with whom I was theoretically supposed to spend the night. We walked over to Gold Coast (something like a pre-shmob shmob - freshman mob for the non-hip) and had a ubiquitous Dartmouth barbeque between one of the two buildings. It was pretty boring.

That night I ended up hanging out with a random bunch of people, some who left at one point to have an orgy I think. The rest of us were just confused about what to do. We were smart enough not to have an orgy, as I think most people wait until during or after college to pick up their STD's. At one point it was raining and we were running around trying to figure out somewhere to go, since we were there to tour and experience the college, and not to sleep in an ugly dormitory (we were young and innocent - how were we to know that they were one and the same?) We ended up getting directed all the way down to Occam Pond, in the rain, which turned out to be not quite as cool looking at the seedy '01 had promised. We also knocked on the door of a random frat and asked some very confused brothers what it was like to be at Dartmouth. We did get invited inside and shown around, which was pretty cool on the part of the frat brothers. As I said, young and innocent.

Well I didn't actually spend the night in the room I was assigned, and I ended up staying up talking to a couple of people whose names I can't remember. I think one of them was a girl named Charlie that looked like a guy (not dressed like, just looked like). What I do remember is walking around at 6:30, by myself, wondering what was open, and kind of hungry. Hanover is a small town, and it was obvious the locals didn't get up very early or stay up very late. That was when I noticed a quaint little coffee shop by the name of The Dirt Cowboy Cafe. This girl was outside opening up, and I asked her if they were open. She told me to come back at 7:00 and I walked around for the next half hour. At 7:00, I went back in, tried to pay with a voucher the college had given me, and was told that very few places were actually owned by the college and would take that kind of thing. This was my first indication that there was a large difference between the town and the college, a bridge that has not been built to this day (SA cash doesn't count).

But the important part of this story is that I had my first Ethiopian Yirgacheffe, a coffee that I have had nearly every day, from this same place, since I've been here. Lovely coffee. Just lovely. After I got my coffee, I wandered back across the street and found out that Collis was about to open. There, I spent my meal ticket, getting an omelet, a water and two packages of pop-tarts because I had to spend the equivalent of $8.00. After breakfast, I wandered around town, and found another place open, a small, used music store that looked rather indie and interesting. I browsed for a while, not finding anything, until something finally caught my eye. A Sarah McLachlan Surfacing poster. It was a promo, I think, since it was rather large. I had to have it, and even though the bluehaired girl behind the counter gave me a strange look, I bought it for $6.00. So I came out of Prospective Weekend with two packages of pop tarts, a Sarah McLachlan poster and an Ethiopian Yirgacheffe. Not bad, actually.

Incidentally, that CD store was gone by the time I got here the next September. I never found out what happened to it, and no student seems to remember it (which is probably why it closed). I like to imagine that it only existed in the brief time when I was in Hanover that August, and it disappeared after I procured my Sarah McLachlan poster. That store really seemed like a great indie, original, student run music store. In other words, it had no business at Dartmouth College.

Closet Mission Accomplished

Living

Into the Sweet Secular Confessional Closet

It occurs to me that I've really been privileged in terms of college living space.

Even as a freshman, when I had a 7 x 10 box in which two pieces of paper on the floor constituted a mess because it covered the majority of the floor, there was a still a door for plenty of privacy.

Then sophomore year I got an apartment through the college somehow, complete with a full kitchen and a full bathroom. Pretty much on campus too.

Sophomore summer was a two room double, not that I was there alot because my girlfriend Jen had a single.

Junior year, Jen had a single again

And this year, Jen has a cushy apartment, 3 bedroom, 1 bath, kitchen and den, which I am taking full advantage of. And I have a single when I need it.

Doesn't this just make you want to hit me?

Monty Python Quote of the Day:
"She turned me into a newt!!"
"A Newt??"
"I got better"

Now this doesn't mean there will be a Monty Python Quote of the Day tomorrow. If only because I feel that Quotes of the Day are filler for when you don't have more productive, sensible or insightful things to write about. But I like Monty Python and wanted an excuse to quote from it.

"I will not have my friends ridiculed by the common soldiery!!"

Exeunt Closet Stage Right *OW*

Pennant!!!

Congrats Red Sox on a historic comeback!!!!

Great job beating the Yankees!!!!!

Spectres . . . gone. Not that there was a curse. A wonderful article by the way, was posted on ESPN a little while back on the curse. Absolultely enlightening article

http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/playoffs2004/news/story?page=Curse041005

Check it out.

Oh yeah, Red Sox. Sweet.

First Post!! Oh wait

I'm the only one posting to this. Nevermind.

Into the Closet of Rants

I'm typing this as Joe Buck, Tim McCarver and Al Leiter stumble through their introductions of Game Seven of the ALCS. I'm not going to reveal which team I'm a fan of, except I will say that Al Leiter shouldn't be announcing, he should be pitching. It makes me sad that they give him fifteen seconds to demonstrate a pitch. Al Leiter, you deserve better.

That Red Badge of Courage that Carl Schilling sported last night was pretty impressive though. I'm not sure how doped up the guy was, but it was quite the accomplishment, that contrary to what some writers might suggest, will be remembered whether the Sox win or not.

So I'm watching the game rather than writing my thesis, which is a study of naracissism and the application of feminist psychoanalytic theory to the works of John Milton. No really. The problem is that I'm not exactly sure what that means yet. I've got a good idea, and I've read the necessary critics, but I still have to crack down on myself and set myself some limits. Otherwise I'll be writing forever. Sometimes I might post a thought or two regarding the thesis, or an update, but unless people keep asking about it, I won't talk about it too much.

In real-time, David Ortiz just hit a line drive homer after Johnny Damon got thrown out at the plate. What a hitter. MVP. I'm also excited that both leagues are going to seven games. Impressive. Considering Carlos Beltran is a 40/40 threat while hitting .280 during the regular season, I'm scared to think about what the Yankees batting lineup will look like next year when Beltran is in the middle of it, with the playoffs in his belt, hitting closer to or above .300.

My other classes this term include Music and Technology (I need to fulfill one last distrib) and Neurobio, which is a lot more interesting than it sounds. It helps that I have a professor that talks a mile a minute in a thick spanish accent. He really keeps you on the edge of your seat. Even when you are following his ridiculous pace, sometimes he catches you completely off guard with a term that you don't understand. Activsome? What organelle is that? Wait I'm so confused. Ohhh, Active Zone . . . Crap I missed two slides *scribble scribble*

In any case, that's a little intro to my life. No need to get into the theatrics yet. Not that there are too many of those.

Exit Rant Closet