Noli Me Tangere

i've got my lunch packed up, my boots tied tight

1.5 weeks into music school and I'm already tired of it. You see, there's this stuff called practice...

The real problem is that I haven't adjusted to 8am classes and the commute to Morrow. So far, some of the learning is very easy, some more difficult. I embarrassed myself today by being wholly unprepared for the oral assignment. So I looked like a fool in front of the freshman girls. I don't remember them giggling, but I do remember me blushing.

One thing I had underestimated: the beauties. I hadn't been on a campus with them in some time and had just forgotten what it's like to see them around you all the time. They are attractive creatures, and it's hard to study when you can watch them. I like to watch them swimming. I love the gentle curve of the neck, the bare legs. They're so beautiful now that they have outgrown the awkwardness of youth. I really would like to touch them, but I'm afraid it would be unwelcome (they don't recognize me as one of their own). Also, I might get bitten. I've heard the beautiful ones are possessed of a nasty temper.

I'm talking of course about these beauties: Aren't they exquisite?

There's also a lot of geese on campus. They are not quite as graceful or interesting, but they can probably out-eat the more anorexic waterfowl any day. They leave thousands of bright green tootsie-rolls all over the sidewalks. The low-lying areas are malodorous.

The classes are good. It's surreal to be back in: oddly familar yet very different. Since some of you will ask:

So far, Aural Skills is the most challenging. Hearing is not easy under pressure, in front of a jury. Music Theory is almost all review so far. Class Piano is so boring that I nod off during exercises. And 75% of my profs are fruity. Rhinestone pinky rings, pomp and priss. The other 25% are women.

My classmates are nice, though. The program is small, so I see the same 50 folks all day long. It's sort of a commuter campus. Last week I walked by a door labeled "Student Life Office". It contained: two empty desks; carpet.

So we'll see how this goes, but the blog might be going on hiatus for a while. But first I'll try to post something from Honduras, which is where I'm headed tomorrow morning to visit TKO. Until I get back, please. Keep. It. Real.

The Perfection of Hoobastank

> > Abe-
> >
> > It is a well-established point of logical method
> > that if the inital assumptions of a scientific or philosophical
> > discourse can be proven to be false, then the validity of the entire
> > document is then nullified.
> >
> > Given this knowledge, if we are willing to concede
> > that the lead singer of
> > Hoobastank is, in fact, a perfect person, can we
> > then disregard all of his whining thereafter?
> >
> > -W McD.

Will, you bring up a point which bears examination, especially since there has been such a ruckus surrounding Mr. Robb and his supposed perfection. A quick glance at internet chat rooms and tribute websites reveals a startlingly common belief that, as you suggest, "the lead singer of Hoobastank is, in fact, a perfect person".

While finding scientific proof of this would be difficult (who would pay for such research?), it can be argued that those who follow the band, and especially those groupies who have studied Mr. Robb's chiseled features at length, can make the best judgment as to the level of perfection he has attained.

A quick glance at this photo from a January gig near Robb’s hometown in Northern Greenland is inconclusive.

While the person pictured here is clearly very good (as evidenced by his closed eyes and desirable nose) it is impossible to determine whether or not he is actually perfect. The hat, in particular, could be a bold fashion statement that says: “I am perfect!” On the other hand, it could be saying nothing more than, "I am very dorky!"

Nobody worth their journalistic salt would attempt to draw conclusions of such magnitude from one piece of evidence, especially a wholly inconclusive piece of evidence. So I continued my search, in hopes that someone somewhere had done some of the preliminary research so I could simply lift it for this essay. I did find this pic, which only serves to further muddy the waters:

Again, on first glance, Mr. Robb’s perfection seems obvious. Clearly the girl pictured bears the kind of smile that only makes itself known in the presence of perfection. But, look closely, lad, and you’ll notice a different vibe from the character on the right. He appears significantly less enthused, and seems to regard Mr. Robb as the kind of “jackass musician that my girlfriend is always talking about”. I would be willing to bet that the man pictured at right, if asked, would happily testify to Mr. Robb’s many imperfections.

I grew tired in my search for the answer, Will. But you know what they say: ‘the early dolphin gets the net.’ So I pressed on in my research, when at last I found the smoking gun I needed:

This, to me, is indisputable. Mr. Robb’s perfection is coming out of his shirt, and lifting his eyebrows (even after a night of hard drinking). In addition, his hair appears to be quite perfect, and he has perfected (pun intended) the Fred Durst Trademark Mic Grip. Note the perfect form of his emoting hand. Clearly, this man has no discernible flaw. He is an artist and an Adonis in one. He knows not auto-tune. He will seduce your daughter yet you don’t care, and in fact you are glad. He loves you, and you know it. He will lead you home. He is el perfecto.

The whole idea of Hoobastank is perfect, really. You've got four indistinct, telegenic, nameless pretty-boys playing catchy, flawless, faux-agressive rock. They are a 99x programmer's dream. Their songs are passionate in the Pro Tools passion-plugin kind of way, and their lyrics are surgically generic--perfect for today's modern rock station. I would contend that Mr. Robb's perfection has spread like a sanitized Norwalk virus to his bandmates and the entire corporate rock vessel he captains. "The Reason" is arguably the most perfect rock ballad since Poison lamented "instead of makin' love, we both made our separate ways."

In answer to your question, Mr. McDaniel: I believe that yes, we can disregard all his subsequent whining and psycho-relational mumbo-jumbo because his opening line is, in fact, patently false. The question I return to you, Mr. McDaniel, is why a perfect person would even bother with it. Is it possible to be perfect and perfectly untrue at once? How could perfection be as banal as this song suggests? This, my friend, is the real mystery.

il mio cuore felice

congratulazioni a me. sono ancora un allievo.

quando ho cantato il, "Già il sole dal Gange, più chiaro sfavilla..."

...ed io ha sentito la risonanza della stanza del recital, io ha ritenuto buon. lunedì, comincio il lavoro sul mio B.A. nella musica.

suoni come divertimento.

The Legend of Malabo L. Spoons

Fortunately, Mr. Spoons has "heard a lot about" me, which must be why he decided to grace me with his wisdom this morning. It sounds like maybe he is starting his own religion, or writing a coffee-table book.

My favorite is, "My evening visitros, if they canont see the clcok should find the time in my face." This is just plain good writing.

Thank you, Mr. Spoons.

> From: "Malabo L. Spoons"
> To: Aokie
> Subject: Groovy :)
> Date: Thu, 19 Aug 2004 01:28:25 -0400
>
> I've heard a lot about you
>
> Neevr build your eomtional life on the weaknssees of othsre.
>
> Ge, set
>
> I don't want to do business with tshoe who don't make a profit, because
> they can't give the bset service.
> Man should foegrt his anger bofere he lies dwon to seelp.
>
> Only thsoe live who do godo.
> Eevry beginning is a cnoesquence. Eevry beginning ends seomthing.
>
> A misrsets nveer is nor can be a friend. While you agree, you are lrevos
> and wehn it is oevr, anything but friedsn.
>
> Smoe bkoos are unrsveeddely fgtoeotrn nnoe are unveerdedsly rbedermeem.
> All literature is political.
> Art is unpocrmomising and life is full of cpomromises.
>
>
> My evening visitros, if they canont see the clcok should find the time
> in my face.
>

the evil Sprint empire, vol. 4

Back in May, I cancelled my cellular service with Sprint PCS, and bore the costs of doing so, just so I could get away from them as soon as possible. Our relationship had long been a source of anguish for me, as you might have gathered. And Verizon has since validated my decision.

I hadn't heard anything from Sprint since the day I cancelled (all my bills being prepaid) and never expected to hear from them again. Four months later, I had even begun sleeping better at night, believing I might finally have loosed the chains and busted out of there.

Until yesterday.

Obviously the folks over at Sprint have missed me, and like a spurned, slightly unbalanced lover, are unable fully let go and move on. Because this seems like a weak excuse to send a letter, given the price of postage and all:

So. What to do with this one?

choral concert

for those who care:

there will be a choral concert in Grant Park this monday evening featuring yours truly and some really beautiful pieces. if you are nearby, come listen. it's free.

Monday, August 16th @ 7:30pm
Admission is free
St. Paul United Methodist Church
501 Grant St. Atlanta
Call 404-377-4707 for more information

I love you; please confront me.

I am a card-carrying non-confrontationalist. I have an irrational fear of the confront. I remembered this Sunday morning when I was confronted by somebody. Or at least I thought she was confronting me, so for all emotional purposes, I was being confronted. This was unpleasant. It's always a test of your restraint and security when someone who knows you makes an awkwardly conscious effort to raise the issue of how you might have failed. It made me angry, and like the good christian I am I fumed right through Sunday morning worship.

Later that day I would find myself confronting someone else. Perhaps it was less than full confrontation; it was merely asking difficult questions but it was hard nonetheless. I used qualifiers like, "I'm not mad or anything..." to make it clear that I, personally, was not confrontational. "It's important that you see that I'm still likable, despite what I may have just said to you," would have been more accurate.

There are other friends I have that I need to confront but am putting it off. (Whether it’s because I hate confrontation or love procrastination is hard to say.) They seem to have pattern problems and unspoken sins that need finding, to be brought out into the antiseptic open air. It would be nice if we could all recognize and right these things on our own, but we usually can’t. Confrontation, depending on the depth of it, will be proportionately wrenching. But the rewards can be immense.

Part of the reason I don’t handle it well is that I don’t experience it often. My modus operandi is to avoid negative attention, unease, and any situation that might be remotely unpleasant. So, if I do have problems or sin patterns that are making a mess around me, I do my best to tidy the most visible surfaces of my persona, so as to avoid any nasty public showdowns.

But, as I am learning, avoiding confrontation only serves to aid a persistent paranoia that, in fact, you should be confronted. That there is something wrong, but you just can't see it. C.S. Lewis said that everybody possesses a fatal flaw or blind spot. And frankly, if you always avoid difficult interaction, you begin to look over your shoulder and wonder, "what's wrong, that I can't see, that others are afraid to mention?"

I tried to write a song once satirizing the self-assured pro athlete who, despite his egregious public failings, defends himself with, "I can't pay attention to the haters tryin' to bring me down." This is nonsense, and the child who doesn't learn to accept constructive criticism is destined to be followed into adulthood by a crippling monster blind spot.

And I don't want this. Though I am often afraid to say it, I need those that love me to open my eyes to the fatal flaw. Otherwise, I'm walking around like a man with a black widow on the back of my neck, and nobody to help me brush it off. And if you loved me, you would.

Thank You, India, Vol. 3

I guess humor is probably one of the last things you understand about a foreign culture, so I knew when Deepak asked me to tell him some jokes that it was going to be interesting. It was my fault; he asked about my weekend and I decided to toss him a joke to see how he would take it.

cool_alone_guy (3:20:09 PM): but how was it?
aokie99 (3:20:23 PM): good. good conversation.
cool_alone_guy (3:20:45 PM): On which topic?
aokie99 (3:21:00 PM): deepak.
cool_alone_guy (3:21:14 PM): Who is he
aokie99 (3:21:19 PM): you.
cool_alone_guy (3:21:27 PM): oh
aokie99 (3:21:32 PM): i'm just kidding.
cool_alone_guy (3:22:03 PM): Kidding?
aokie99 (3:22:16 PM): joking.
cool_alone_guy (3:22:33 PM): Nice joke.
cool_alone_guy (3:23:12 PM): do you know a joke?
cool_alone_guy (3:23:20 PM): Any joke
aokie99 (3:23:20 PM): yes.
aokie99 (3:23:25 PM): lots of jokes.
cool_alone_guy (3:23:29 PM): tell me
aokie99 (3:23:34 PM): what kind of joke?
cool_alone_guy (3:24:00 PM): any kind of joke.
aokie99 (3:24:45 PM): i don't know if you will understand.
cool_alone_guy (3:25:19 PM): I will understand you tell
cool_alone_guy (3:28:29 PM): once there was a man who was incide the cuboared. Tell me why he had not dieing.
aokie99 (3:28:59 PM): he had food to eat.
cool_alone_guy (3:29:12 PM): because he was already died.

[Abe considers what this could mean. Unable to unpack it, he presses on.]

aokie99 (3:29:31 PM): that's pretty funny. here's one for you:
aokie99 (3:30:24 PM): So this guy walks into a bar and says, "Gve me two beers." The bartender obliges him. The guy looks into his wallet and says, "Give me two more beers." So the bartender gives him two more beers. The man went on like this until he had put down ten beers, and keeps on going in his wallet and asking for two more beers. So the bartender asks, "What's in your wallet that you keep looking at?"
aokie99 (3:30:34 PM): So the man opens his wallet and says, "The more I drink, the prettier my wife gets."

[rimshot]

cool_alone_guy (3:33:21 PM): The prettier my wife gets?
aokie99 (3:33:45 PM): his wife looks prettier as he gets more drunk.
aokie99 (3:33:51 PM): do you understand?
cool_alone_guy (3:34:29 PM): Yes
aokie99 (3:34:52 PM): here's another:
aokie99 (3:34:56 PM): You know you're a redneck when your stair master has an ashtray!

[rimshot]

cool_alone_guy (3:36:06 PM): Sigrate
aokie99 (3:36:19 PM): cigarette.
cool_alone_guy (3:36:48 PM): Yes
cool_alone_guy (3:37:09 PM): this is the ans?
aokie99 (3:37:14 PM): yes.
cool_alone_guy (3:37:46 PM): Ask me some another jokes?
aokie99 (3:40:36 PM): Yo mama's fart stinks so bad that George Bush declared it biological warfare.

[This seemed like a good idea. Surely ghetto humor would translate well. And what could be more universal than passing gas? Especially if you eat lots of indian food.]

aokie99 (3:41:22 PM): do you like this one?
cool_alone_guy (3:41:59 PM): Do you know sardars? Yes
aokie99 (3:42:05 PM): what?
cool_alone_guy (3:43:26 PM): Those had pagdi on there head?
cool_alone_guy (3:44:25 PM): Do you know
aokie99 (3:44:37 PM): i don't understand what you are saying.

[Anyone who can explain where he was going with this will have my deep gratitude.]

cool_alone_guy (3:45:18 PM): Ok leave it. Hear's one for you.
cool_alone_guy (3:50:18 PM): one man says to salesman "that show me curtains"? Then salesman ask"sir why do you want curtains"? Then man says"i want for my computer". Then salesman says"sir curtains are not for your computer". Man says"do you know in my computer the windows are been installed.

[Ladies and gentlemen, we have translation.]

cool_alone_guy (3:53:43 PM): Had you understand?
aokie99 (3:54:25 PM): "do you understand" is the correct phrase.
aokie99 (3:54:31 PM): yes, i understand. very funny.
aokie99 (3:54:35 PM): here's another for you:
aokie99 (3:54:39 PM): Yo mama so ghetto, her wedding cake was made out of cornbread.

[silence]

aokie99 (3:54:45 PM): do you understand?
cool_alone_guy (3:55:02 PM): No
aokie99 (3:55:32 PM): that's okay.
cool_alone_guy (3:55:57 PM): Explain me
aokie99 (3:56:44 PM): this is what's called a "yo mama" joke. it was originally an insult, but mostly we say it just to be funny.
aokie99 (3:56:58 PM): it comes from black (african american) culture.
aokie99 (3:57:58 PM): "ghetto" is a kind of poor, black culture.
aokie99 (3:58:14 PM): cornbread is kind of like a food for low-class people.
aokie99 (3:58:47 PM): so this joke is a way of saying that someone's mother is low-class.
aokie99 (3:58:52 PM): do you understand?
cool_alone_guy (3:59:05 PM): Yes
aokie99 (4:00:00 PM): here's another:
cool_alone_guy (4:00:03 PM): it was good.
aokie99 (4:00:04 PM): Yo mama is like a Big Mac, full of fat and only worth a buck.

[more silence. A dog barks in the distance.]

cool_alone_guy (4:01:42 PM): Nice jokes.
aokie99 (4:02:09 PM): try saying it to you friends. they will laugh and laugh.
cool_alone_guy (4:02:48 PM): They wont understand.
aokie99 (4:03:03 PM): but still it's fun to say.
aokie99 (4:03:11 PM): do you know blonde jokes?
cool_alone_guy (4:03:31 PM): No
cool_alone_guy (4:03:36 PM): tell me

[Making blonde jokes to Indians might be like making "it was sooo hot..." jokes to eskimos, but he insisted.]

aokie99 (4:04:25 PM): Why did the blonde nurse take a red magic marker to work? In case she had to draw some blood.
cool_alone_guy (4:07:17 PM): Good joke very funny
aokie99 (4:07:39 PM): do you get it?
aokie99 (4:07:43 PM): the meaning?
cool_alone_guy (4:08:44 PM): Tell me

Next time I'm going to bring out some Dennis Miller rants. He'll eat that up for sure.