I had rehearsed this in my head. I had sincerely hoped that I wouldn’t make an ass out of myself the first day of college.I was, like so many other times during my life, wrong.
I think on the first day of college their freshman year, when they are moving their things into their dorm, they just try to keep their heads down. Nobody wants to be seen with their parents. Nobody even wants to acknowledge that they have parents, and sooner, or perhaps presently, rather than later, in the privacy of your other place of residence, they will talk at length about their college life.
My father, darling of a man as he was, was about to go into one of these monologues, “Ah, this reminds me of my first day of college. It seems like just yesterday,” he said, pulling his wife – my mother – by the hip at just the scripted moment. That was the last box: marked “Misc.” with an angry face next to it, in Sharpie.
“Right, no internet and all this, yes I’m sure it all seems very familiar. I’ll phone you if I need anything, alright?” I said, making no particular effort to hide the fact I was shoo’ing them out the door.
My father gave one of those deep, fatherly, sagacious laughs. He seemed to enjoy these moments of fatherness (fatherdom? patritude?). I enjoyed this moment only a little bit more than when he was cleaning his hunting rifle when I brought home my first boyfriend back in primary.
My mother looked at me with quite a pouty face. She reached, two-armedly pulling me into some last deep hug, as though I was about to go off to some boarding school for some indeterminable amount of years. Her prized daughter was finally going off to the wide world of higher education. She was eager to see me pursue a dream she had to abandon. We said our tearful goodbyes and followed them as far as my door before I shut it, leaning exasperatedly against it after I had slid the lock closed.I surveyed my new living space: my bed, or the bed I had chosen by the windows (and also the heater), was only about seven or eight feet away from my mystery roommate’s bed, which made the room no more than thirteen by ten, maybe? Tiny, certainly, but not undoable. Being a surprising credit to my gender, I tend to pack very light. I had a box of sheets and a comforter, and of course a thermal blanket. Ever since I was a child, I’ve been terribly adjusted to New Jersey’s cold snaps, so any advantage in warmth was a plus. I had a couple of boxes with neatly folded summer clothes. It was still too hot in September to really be thinking of anything like cold too seriously, however.
The final box, the one of miscellany, was the one that contained my laptop, and Fonzarelli, my teddy bear. What? I think I’m well within my rights as a girl to have a teddy bear. I had began setting up all of my accoutrements when I finally got a chance to meet my roommate.
I had a friend, a couple years older than myself, who said once that everyone has a weird roommate their freshman year. It’s inexplicable: all of these weird people seem to vanish, or perhaps find each other, after Freshman year, but for the duration of that first venture into real life, they are present in everyone’s lives.
Julianne would prove this for me. She wasn’t weird, per se, as much as she was just dynamically different from myself. Actually, I could see her viewing me, in the near future, as “the weird roommate,” but regardless, my first memory of her would be her crashing into the room with what seemed to be a blonde Zac Efron impersonator: complete with white V-neck t-shirt.
“Yeah, just put it right there,” she commanded, and the automaton obeyed. She was bleach blonde and wearing those obnoxious, bug-eyed sunglasses. Perhaps I was judging her pre-emptively, but she seemed rich, entitled, and showed a strong lean towards a habit of listening to whatever song happened to be popular in the clubs that she was allowed to get into underage, “Just be careful, alright. That’s the box with my shoes in it.”
No, I think I was just about right.
“Oh!” She seemed genuinely startled by my presence, “Are you my roommate?”
“No, I just like hanging out in random rooms. This one was empty, so I thought I’d park it here for a while,” I don’t know what drove me to sarcasm right off the bat. Maybe it was the knee-jerk instinct from dealing with these girls in high school.
“Oh, well… you can like… stay, until the other roommate comes, I guess.”
And just like that, I had cemented my status as the Weird Roommate From Freshman Year.
Friday, April 10, 2009
The Colonel
I learned the despise the colonel quickly. As an officer, he was good: not particularly great, but certainly better than she whom he replaced, but instead of chronic inefficiency, we received debilitating degradation.
I had a sense of humor that kept me in his good graces. While he wouldn't agree with many of the things I did, I at least had the ability to make him laugh and temporarily forget the differences that we would have.
He was of the Cold War school of thought in regards to the Army. Culture, and anything that was in the remotest way related to things that didn't belong to America, were, at best, gay, and at worst, subversive. He constantly complained about his wife who would be nagging him to take her to see a Broadway show, or a ballet. I wonder for who's benefit his public diatribes were. Were they his carthasis, or subtle notes for us to take, as to say: "This is how you should run a battalion: in being completely closed off to the outside world".
God help any of us who might have mentioned that our weekends might have included a show, or a concert by a band whose name did not immediately conjure images of death and chaos. Even ignorance of a band's style, or a movie's plot would not spare him from making some jab if it had a "faggy title". We would just simply sigh and say, "yes sir", and continue to count down the days until we commissioned.
I had a sense of humor that kept me in his good graces. While he wouldn't agree with many of the things I did, I at least had the ability to make him laugh and temporarily forget the differences that we would have.
He was of the Cold War school of thought in regards to the Army. Culture, and anything that was in the remotest way related to things that didn't belong to America, were, at best, gay, and at worst, subversive. He constantly complained about his wife who would be nagging him to take her to see a Broadway show, or a ballet. I wonder for who's benefit his public diatribes were. Were they his carthasis, or subtle notes for us to take, as to say: "This is how you should run a battalion: in being completely closed off to the outside world".
God help any of us who might have mentioned that our weekends might have included a show, or a concert by a band whose name did not immediately conjure images of death and chaos. Even ignorance of a band's style, or a movie's plot would not spare him from making some jab if it had a "faggy title". We would just simply sigh and say, "yes sir", and continue to count down the days until we commissioned.
The Lie - Chad Kultgen
Every now and again, I worry that I will never publish a book.
My next step in this process is to go out and buy a book, and at least begin to read it.
This will accomplish one of two things. Either:
1) I see what is worthwhile about this book, and can begin to apply the fundamental and commercial elements to my own work or
2) Realize that there is so much crap out there that gets published, if I have some modicum of patience, someone will publish it.
The Lie by Chad Kultgen falls into this later category. Previously, when I would see "Also author of..." I assume that this means there is some reason I should know that name. This is a clever technique to place some measure of high value on them(he's done it before!), and some low value on you (Oh of course you wouldn't know about it). Well, regardless, one of these labels is not just affixed, not just added as a post-production clipart atop of the cover, but printed in, quite obviously by the writer's devise, upon the front cover.
From as near as I can reason, which is a result of paying as much attention to the characters as I would people who actually act like this, the book is about how Heather is sleeping with Kyle to get to Brett, or some other similar college (though sounds more like high school) nonsense. I think college is only a clever device to be able to have frat parties and dorms as a story expedient.
The story is told from the perspective of three narrators, sequentially: Kyle, the self-loathing chode who is apparrently a sexual savant, Heather, the self-absorbed valley girl you had in that one intro to criminal justice class back in Freshman year, and Brett, the pretentious rich asshole, whom you hate a little less only because he hates other rich kids too.All of the narrators just seem a bit unrealistic. I mean, characters aren't supposed to be actual people: they're representations of people, but regardless, Kultgen overshoots a little bit and ends up closer to characature rather than character. To be fair however, all of his characters have completely unique voices.
Kyle talks a lot like you or I might, except with a measure of self-loathing that is stereotypical of a nerdy college freshman. Despite only ever having slept with one girl, he is apparrently a whiz kid at sex, which is not a digression, but painfully relevant to the plot.
Heather's telling of her parts of the story are sometimes interesting, but only when dialogue isn't concerned. Kultgen's attempt for realism involves Heather retelling in the following style:
"She was like, 'blah blah'
I was like, 'blah blah'
Then he was like, 'blah blah'"
Yes, quite. It was endearing once or twice.
Brett, however, despite being immensely popular with women, talks with a massively eruditic vocabulary. Actually, when he talks, I think of Dr.Manhattan from The Watchmen. Supposedly "the hottest guy in school" and "one of the richest", he has a detachment from women that views them as "whores," not in the literal sense, "that [he] wasn't paying them to fuck [him], they were whores nonetheless becausethey would fuck [him] and they would do this because they understood [him] to represent money that could potentially be theirs in various forms of gifts, dinners, et cetera. Furthermore, if one were lucky or skilled enough to sink her hooks in and eventually wed [him], the money [he] would represent would be more than any common whore would make in ten thousand careers" (Kultgen 36).
Yeah, actual quote. It was as though Kultgen has just read I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell and thought, "Ah! That's what my story is missing! A self-entitled, rich, college kid with absolutely no compassion towards women, in fact, quite the opposite!"
The entire reading feels very asinine. The banality is occasionally broken up by clever little usages of the round-robin style narration:In the midst of Heather meeting Brett for the first time in person, she begins to remember why it was she was sleeping with Kyle, and begins thinking amorously of Brett:"Kyle was really the best guy I'd ever had sex with, but I was pretty sure Brett was probably better." - Heather
And then the resounding first line of Brett's narrative on the next page, in bold face:
"She was a cunt"I chuckled. All in all though, these little diversions were nothing more than that: diversions from an otherwise uninspired novel that has sought to give me a bit of hope.
My next step in this process is to go out and buy a book, and at least begin to read it.
This will accomplish one of two things. Either:
1) I see what is worthwhile about this book, and can begin to apply the fundamental and commercial elements to my own work or
2) Realize that there is so much crap out there that gets published, if I have some modicum of patience, someone will publish it.
The Lie by Chad Kultgen falls into this later category. Previously, when I would see "Also author of..." I assume that this means there is some reason I should know that name. This is a clever technique to place some measure of high value on them(he's done it before!), and some low value on you (Oh of course you wouldn't know about it). Well, regardless, one of these labels is not just affixed, not just added as a post-production clipart atop of the cover, but printed in, quite obviously by the writer's devise, upon the front cover.
From as near as I can reason, which is a result of paying as much attention to the characters as I would people who actually act like this, the book is about how Heather is sleeping with Kyle to get to Brett, or some other similar college (though sounds more like high school) nonsense. I think college is only a clever device to be able to have frat parties and dorms as a story expedient.
The story is told from the perspective of three narrators, sequentially: Kyle, the self-loathing chode who is apparrently a sexual savant, Heather, the self-absorbed valley girl you had in that one intro to criminal justice class back in Freshman year, and Brett, the pretentious rich asshole, whom you hate a little less only because he hates other rich kids too.All of the narrators just seem a bit unrealistic. I mean, characters aren't supposed to be actual people: they're representations of people, but regardless, Kultgen overshoots a little bit and ends up closer to characature rather than character. To be fair however, all of his characters have completely unique voices.
Kyle talks a lot like you or I might, except with a measure of self-loathing that is stereotypical of a nerdy college freshman. Despite only ever having slept with one girl, he is apparrently a whiz kid at sex, which is not a digression, but painfully relevant to the plot.
Heather's telling of her parts of the story are sometimes interesting, but only when dialogue isn't concerned. Kultgen's attempt for realism involves Heather retelling in the following style:
"She was like, 'blah blah'
I was like, 'blah blah'
Then he was like, 'blah blah'"
Yes, quite. It was endearing once or twice.
Brett, however, despite being immensely popular with women, talks with a massively eruditic vocabulary. Actually, when he talks, I think of Dr.Manhattan from The Watchmen. Supposedly "the hottest guy in school" and "one of the richest", he has a detachment from women that views them as "whores," not in the literal sense, "that [he] wasn't paying them to fuck [him], they were whores nonetheless becausethey would fuck [him] and they would do this because they understood [him] to represent money that could potentially be theirs in various forms of gifts, dinners, et cetera. Furthermore, if one were lucky or skilled enough to sink her hooks in and eventually wed [him], the money [he] would represent would be more than any common whore would make in ten thousand careers" (Kultgen 36).
Yeah, actual quote. It was as though Kultgen has just read I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell and thought, "Ah! That's what my story is missing! A self-entitled, rich, college kid with absolutely no compassion towards women, in fact, quite the opposite!"
The entire reading feels very asinine. The banality is occasionally broken up by clever little usages of the round-robin style narration:In the midst of Heather meeting Brett for the first time in person, she begins to remember why it was she was sleeping with Kyle, and begins thinking amorously of Brett:"Kyle was really the best guy I'd ever had sex with, but I was pretty sure Brett was probably better." - Heather
And then the resounding first line of Brett's narrative on the next page, in bold face:
"She was a cunt"I chuckled. All in all though, these little diversions were nothing more than that: diversions from an otherwise uninspired novel that has sought to give me a bit of hope.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
The Decemberists - The Hazards of Love (or: the century's longest ballad to date)
It's a shame that the artistry of building an album as a cohesive story-telling unit is just about dead. Fortunately, The Decemberists are holding the shock paddles, insisting that the failing art, "Better not die on me, Goddamn it!"
These are my words, but I like them, so I'm sticking with it.
The Decemberists recently released their ballad "The Hazards of Love", which takes Crane Wife to the next level. From three mere songs to an entire album dedicated to telling one story, the Decemberists have created an epic that isn't rarely seen in the modern music scene. Fortunately, this ballad ends up to be closer to Pink Floyd's non-pareil "The Wall" rather than Catch 22's forgettable "Permanent Revolution".
I've been anticipating this release for a while, and only now, after digesting it a bit, do I feel like I can make any sorts of comments on it. First of all, I think this is going to be the Gateway Drug for the Decemberists. This is probably the most accessible album to the mainstream pop community. None of the songs have that carnival, bouncy feel with the folk guitar singing. In fact, the entire album feels dreadfully like a dirge compared to their other works. Ironically though, the lyrics are actually less dark than the standard fare. Compared to their earlier songs referencing rape ("The Bachelor and the Bride" or "We Both Go Down Together"), cannibalism ("16 Military Wives"), or war ("Yankee Bayonet"), songs about love, loss, and jealousy almost seem banal.
Also, Meloy's trademark doctorate level vocabulary is noticably absent: not that it is necessarily a bad thing. As an English major, The Decemberists always sort of intimidated me, as I'd have to pull out my dictionary (or in some cases, the OED) to understand the songs. If I have trouble, I only imagine that the masses who spend their time doing other things, like working or going outside on a sunny day, would have even more trouble.
The Decemberists always manage to pull in this amazing talent that you've never heard of to put on their tracks. In a change befitting the direness of moods, Colin Meloy put two female vocalists from other indie bands: Lavender Diamond's Becky Stark, and My Brightest Diamond's Shara Worden to play parts in this opera. I have to say that as much as I enjoy Meloy's awkward boy-voice, I was absolutely stunned by Shara Worden. Upon hearing "The Wanting Comes in Waves / Repaid", several things happened:
1. I acquired everything I could of My Brightest Diamond
2. I wished desperately that Shara Worden would become a regular part of the Decemberists
3. I got a hard-on
With a bone-chilling vibrato, the darkness that seeps through the role of the jealous queen is everything from smokey to amazingly sexy. This isn't to say that Becky Stark is any slouch either. Her voice is a lot like a female version of Meloy's voice. There is a sort of childlikeness to it: something coquettish and ephemeral: something altogether maddening.
All in all, it is a little depressing to see some of the staples of the Decemberists change, in addition to there not being any standalone, throw-away type songs that are easier to quote for away messages and livejournal posts, but here's hoping that this was just a one shot project. It's a phenominal album, but I have a hard time with ballads and operas because there is often little you can do with them out of their context other than discuss diction, but I'm praddling on about English major things.
Happy listening!
These are my words, but I like them, so I'm sticking with it.
The Decemberists recently released their ballad "The Hazards of Love", which takes Crane Wife to the next level. From three mere songs to an entire album dedicated to telling one story, the Decemberists have created an epic that isn't rarely seen in the modern music scene. Fortunately, this ballad ends up to be closer to Pink Floyd's non-pareil "The Wall" rather than Catch 22's forgettable "Permanent Revolution".
I've been anticipating this release for a while, and only now, after digesting it a bit, do I feel like I can make any sorts of comments on it. First of all, I think this is going to be the Gateway Drug for the Decemberists. This is probably the most accessible album to the mainstream pop community. None of the songs have that carnival, bouncy feel with the folk guitar singing. In fact, the entire album feels dreadfully like a dirge compared to their other works. Ironically though, the lyrics are actually less dark than the standard fare. Compared to their earlier songs referencing rape ("The Bachelor and the Bride" or "We Both Go Down Together"), cannibalism ("16 Military Wives"), or war ("Yankee Bayonet"), songs about love, loss, and jealousy almost seem banal.
Also, Meloy's trademark doctorate level vocabulary is noticably absent: not that it is necessarily a bad thing. As an English major, The Decemberists always sort of intimidated me, as I'd have to pull out my dictionary (or in some cases, the OED) to understand the songs. If I have trouble, I only imagine that the masses who spend their time doing other things, like working or going outside on a sunny day, would have even more trouble.
The Decemberists always manage to pull in this amazing talent that you've never heard of to put on their tracks. In a change befitting the direness of moods, Colin Meloy put two female vocalists from other indie bands: Lavender Diamond's Becky Stark, and My Brightest Diamond's Shara Worden to play parts in this opera. I have to say that as much as I enjoy Meloy's awkward boy-voice, I was absolutely stunned by Shara Worden. Upon hearing "The Wanting Comes in Waves / Repaid", several things happened:
1. I acquired everything I could of My Brightest Diamond
2. I wished desperately that Shara Worden would become a regular part of the Decemberists
3. I got a hard-on
With a bone-chilling vibrato, the darkness that seeps through the role of the jealous queen is everything from smokey to amazingly sexy. This isn't to say that Becky Stark is any slouch either. Her voice is a lot like a female version of Meloy's voice. There is a sort of childlikeness to it: something coquettish and ephemeral: something altogether maddening.
All in all, it is a little depressing to see some of the staples of the Decemberists change, in addition to there not being any standalone, throw-away type songs that are easier to quote for away messages and livejournal posts, but here's hoping that this was just a one shot project. It's a phenominal album, but I have a hard time with ballads and operas because there is often little you can do with them out of their context other than discuss diction, but I'm praddling on about English major things.
Happy listening!
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