Saturday, December 13, 2008
Pale Blue Dot
by Carl Sagan
Consider again that dot
On it everyone you love,
everyone you know,
everyone you ever heard of,
every human being who ever was,
lived out their lives
The aggregate of our joy and suffering,
thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines,
every hunter and forager,
every hero and coward,
every creator and destroyer of civilization,
every king and peasant,
every young couple in love,
every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer,
every teacher of morals,
every corrupt politician,
every ’superstar,’ every ’supreme leader,’
every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there –
On a mote of dust
suspended in a sunbeam
The Earth is a very small stage
in a vast cosmic arena
Think of the rivers of blood
spilled by all those generals and emperors,
so that in glory and triumph they could become the momentary masters
of a fraction of a dot
Think of the the endless cruelties
visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel
on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner
How frequent their misunderstandings
How eager they are to kill one another
How fervent their hatreds
Our posturings, our imagined self-importance,
the delusion we have some privileged position in the Universe,
are challenged by this point of pale light
Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark
In our obscurity, in all this vastness,
there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere
to save us from ourselves
The Earth is the only world known so far to harbor life
There is nowhere else, at least in the near future,
to which our species could migrate
Settle, not yet.
Like it or not, for the moment, the Earth is where we make our stand
It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience
There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world
To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another
and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot,
the only home we’ve ever known
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
This is a great video concept - the thoughts that run through your mind when you first exchange phone numbers. Thank you XM Radio for listening me to this band, Low vs. Diamond.
So Ali came home from college for Thanksgiving and she got me hooked on this song, "Electric Feel" by MGMT. This band has another song, "Time to Pretend," which I'm sure I've heard somewhere else before, but I just can't place it. It is totally awesome and, best of all, it has a Rock-A-Fire Explosion version. I wanted to put up the original, but embedding has been "disabled by request," which is thumbs down. Anyway, the song rules and I seriously haven't stopped listening to it for a few days now. Posted here is the Rock-A-Fire version but if you want to know what it is like to do HARDCORE DRUGS, view the original. You will be tripping balls.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
Since the summer Pulse Parties sponsored by Nate Boyle on the Hook, I have had a special place in my heart for The Ting Tings. This song is different from their radio hit, "Shut Up and Let Me Go," but it is really a nice little melody which shows off Katie White's voice. This song is like the antipodal piece to "Shut Up," if "That's Not My Name" is the synthesis of the two. Anyway, "Traffic Light:"
I have never heard of this guy before. Maybe that's my fault, but his voice sounds much different than what he looks like. Know what I mean? This song follows much that is good with white-people-musical-standards and he's not going to revolutionize any genre, but he still is enjoyable. I'm down to give him some further listening. He feels like a cross between U2 and Dave Matthews, who I do not like. Oh well. I really don't know what I'm talking about anyway, I just like the song.
Following in the footsteps of fellow Drive Thru surf film star Donovan Frankenreiter, Tim Curran released this little gem. Telling the now-familiar story of guy who changes his life to regain a lost love, his style is average surfer-songwriter. But what the Hell, it's almost December and we all need a little summer again. Also both of these men prove that it was a terrible, terrible mistake for me to get rid of my mustache. God I miss that thing. Sigh.
Monday, October 27, 2008
"However combinations or associations of the above description may now and then answer popular ends, they are likely, in the course of time and things, to become potent engines, by which cunning, ambitious, and unprincipled men will be enabled to subvert the power of the people, and to usurp for themselves the reins of government; destroying afterwards the very engines, which have lifted them to unjust dominion."
A Visit from George Washington
'Twas the night of Election
And all through the House
Not a creature was stirring
Not even a spouse.
The ballots were counted
By computer with care
In the hopes that no Dade
Again would we dare.
The children were nestled
All drugged by their Valium
While we sat down
To the long night's tallin'.
With Ma in her work clothes
And me in my slacks
We both settled in
For the night's coming attacks.
When there on the tube
There arose such a rumble
I turned to the news networks
To see what was the grumble.
From Fox News to CNN
The Daily Show, too
There appeared an apparition
Dressed mostly in blue.
The faces of 'casters
And pundits alike
Told me the this guy
Was an unscheduled psych.
His hair was as white
As new-fallen snow
And his age seemed ancient
But it really didn't show.
I had seen him before
On the one dollar bill
But there on TV,
He arose such a thrill.
By his stance and his posture
He was obviously the one,
Our first real president
"My friends," he spoke
With a rumbling voice,
"Harken my last presidential words,
Amend your method of choice.
"This two-party system
Ye have set up
Has superficial differences
'Mongst this political soup.
"Abandon thy love for
And your allegiance
To many parties equip!"
With that he turned,
Leaving all in stunned silence,
And called to his mates
Without malice or violence,
"On Taft and Roosevelts,
Both Frankie and Ted,
On Jefferson, Jackson,
Abe and Wilson get out the lead!"
And in a puff of smoke
And pin-hearing quiet
He vanished that night
Like pudge during a diet.
He never came back
And wasn't spoken of again
But his message was clear:
From party politics should we refrain.
Nov 1-7, 2008
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Whine session over.
On the way home from practice, I said "fuck it" and put the iPod on shuffle. "Whatever happens, happens." The Long Winters happened, a band I had loved but hadn't heard since junior year of college. "Scared Straight" just has a way of picking you up and setting you down right ways up on your feet. However, there is no good version of the song on youtube and, while I have put a version up here, you can't even hear the best part of the song - the bass. Oh man. Just download it. You know you want to. It is off their album When I Pretend to Fall.
Right after "Scared Straight," I had to put on the second best Long Winters song, "Fire Island, AK." Both of these tunes just drive the entire song and don't let up. And this one is just a really, really good song. "They found my letters and I don't have to wonder if it reached you" while it seems that the guy is being investigated? Nice touch.
I remember the first time I saw The Long Winters. I was with Sera and Laura in Hoboken at Maxwell's to see The Decemberists and these guys opened for them. That was the most hipster-ish night of my life.
Monday, October 20, 2008
I find that the things I possess
Are often forgotten
Yet the things misplaced
Never leave me alone
The keys under the couch
The rent past due
The Brita filter
In need of a change
There are the fish that need feeding
The wine that needs drinking
The paper that needs writing
Though the research is lacking
Yet they all sink into the blue
As I lie here looking at the
Of your teal room
You're Playing Video Games While Sitting On My Bed
The lingering sunlight though the dull grey clouds
.....Paints your chest thought the sloping neckline
With the most perfect light to incite
I find that a drunken fight is like
A vase on top of a pedestal that,
...While walking through the museum,
You bump with your hip.
And though nearly priceless
.....You keep going,
Both you and companion not knowing,
Until the stunned, pre-warned, class-tripping children
Witness the crash.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Last Sunday night, I watched an episode of VH1's The Pickup Artist. Then I watched parts of last season on the internet.
It was hilarious. I saw so much of myself in those guys (well, aside from the fact that they suck sooooo much more than I do). And I have to say, at first I was impressed that Mystery (and note that I cringe at having to call him that) could walk into a bar and own it so well.
Then I got to thinking. He is really dirty. I felt kind of disgusted watching him treat women as such objects. Yes, we've all done it (oh who am I kidding). But every night? Mystery seems doomed to the life he has chosen.
I think what puts me off the most is his philosophy - The Game. Easily dismissed as "complete and utter bullshit" at first glance, it seems to work. Which distresses me. Why are women so easily seduced by being treated like crap? I have always been confused by the "tough guy" mantra some homies (yeah, I went there) put forth.
Before we continue, allow me to make one point - I have zero game and terrible luck with women; the ones that like me I don't like and the ones that I like don't like me or are famous (ahem...Jenna Fischer...ahem).
So herein lies the dilemma: I refuse to learn "The Game" based solely on it's perceived scummyness; but do I wait until everyone else uses it to admit that it is successful and succumb to Mystery's plans or stick to my (seemingly single bound) guns?
Either way, going out and talking to random people is so much fun. It is my new favorite hobby and I do intend to keep it up. There is a certain level of insta-confidence gained by "opening a set," a high. You can be anyone you want to be for a little bit. It's awesome. For example, I convinced three different people that I had a bunch of different names and our mutual friends is still dealing with the fallout.
You know what? Screw it. This is way to whinny anyway and I'm probably just going to delete it before anyone influential in my life reads it. I'll leave you non-readers with this - Go fuck yourself, Mystery. You're giving men a bad name.
This first one is from my new favorite artist, Nujabes. Nujabes is a Japanese house DJ who (I have found out by perusing his Wikipedia page) created his name by making an anagram of his real moniker, Jun Seba. JUN SEBA. Why you would want to change that gem is beyond me. It sounds like a Jedi or some crazy Kung-Fu Master. Of DJ-ing. I really cannot explain my new found passion for house music, except that listening to The Pulse radio station almost non-stop while on stand with Nat at the nude beach this summer might have had something to do with it. I have never been into "dance" music, but damn, this gets me moving. And corny, apparently. But anyone who lists Pat Metheny (look up "First Circle) as a major influence is alright in my book.
Now I did say three this week. Number two is the background chart Nujabes dubbed over to make that song above. The reason that Nujabes' chart jumps out so much is because the music sounds like you're hearing it through walls; like there is a awesome party going on next door and you want to get in. Anyway, the original is just as good in that solid, old-fashioned Motown-style. If you scroll back, the reason Estelle appears on here is because of her Motown influence in "Pretty Please." And this band has such an awesome name, The Quadraphonics. And they sound like a poor-man's Jackson-5.
The last song today is a short track that has, arguably, had more influence on music than any other piece. This song is "Amen, Brother" by The Winstons, an otherwise unknown band. You cannot find this song in this version on iTunes or anywhere else and it has been driving me crazy. I am a sucker for these types of blaring, dirty jazz/funk beats. Maybe this is why I am finding myself enjoying house so much; maybe it's the simple repetition of phrases in the music that my ear is already attuned to admire. Anyway, at 1:27 the drum solo is so often cut and sampled in that you should recognize it when you hear it. If you don't, there is an eighteen minute youtube video about why these fifteen-or-so seconds are important. I just think it's a good song.
Monday, October 13, 2008
or Slowing, in the Corner, Passing
Bloated with Fun,
. Anchored to the Young,
Tethered with Budweiser and rum -
. We drift.
There gapes a Riff
. Too deep for our Skiff,
Not even our stoutest "If..."
. Can span.
We're old. Our Clan
. No longer welcome sans
A sprightly Catamaran.
. We've no choice but to sink.
Note: The periods are there to make the line jump like I want. That's all.
This is in complete contrast to my awesome weekend. Perhaps more on that later.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
The video also does something to you. The internet tells me that it is a culmination of all the band members' asking to have their favorite childhood characters in a video, i.e.. cowboys, farmers, revolutionaries, hippies. But the video has two other favorites of mine going for it. The whole thing stinks of Wes Anderson influence and, considering he is one of my favorite directors because of his attention to detail, that an obvious boon for the band. The second aspect of the video is that it is filmed in entirely one shot. One shot takes or long shots in movies always seem to resonate; there is a feeling of realism in them that only comes across from knowing that these actors, if only for a few minutes, have totally become the characters they are portraying. Children of Men does this wonderfully well and there is a Russian movie (the name of which escapes me) that is filmed in one long take. A single, hour-and-a-half-long shot. No one messes up. Almost gives you hope that you won't mess up in your eighty-year-long single take. THINK ABOUT IT MAN!
Monday, October 6, 2008
"Don't do it."
The height was dizzying. Not since the last project had Bill and Leroy been up this high and they had had plenty of time to think about what happened then.
"But remember Ted?"
They used to be a trio.
"He was spouting all this 'fire and brimstone, end of the world' bullshit. About how we all look like, you know, ants from up here."
Leroy looked down. He had seen this dozens of times before, had even appreciated the utter meaninglessness before. He couldn't help but admit. It was true. Up at the top of the world, feeling the wind in your face, all the people busy hurrying below, like broken leaves in a current, insignificant troubles. Easily erased dots. Ted had always brought this up at lunch time, the dry taste of day-old hoagie bread still dangling from their taste buds.
"I'm not saying I'm against what Ted said, Leroy. I'm just...I'm just not gonna quit like him. Like he did."
Bill turned around again. He peered down at the dots and smoke below, the warm, acrid smell of car exhaust came to him. He thought out loud:
"You know, I can smell them," meaning the dots. "I can actually smell them up here. If I can smell them, maybe what they're doing...matters. Maybe all that exhaust down there is supposed to tell us something. Maybe that smell is them signaling. You know, like old Indian smoke signals or something. Maybe they're signaling, 'We do matter!'" Bill paused. "Yeah."
"Yeah. I'm good."
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Anyway, I absolutly love this song and now it has a video. But I don't really think it's a proper representation of the song. If you haven't heard me talk about him, you should really check out Eric Hutchinson. He's a really good artist I found on a whim for 5 bucks at Best Buy one day last spring.
Also, winner of the Unoffical First Comment Contest goes to Emily. Congrats!
And congrats to my mom, it's her birthday.
Gotta go, here they come.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
In addition to the quote below (I can't figure out how to get it out of blockquote-format after), please view this article about the Russian Navy and Venezuela. Old "Cold War proxy battles" with the United States? Just because Russia used to be communist and Venezuela, along with the rest of Latin America, are currently swinging Marxist, do we have to denigrate ourselves by using such terms? Yes, America is on a steady track toward losing its world superpower status, but the power vacuum should be filled with an international governing body rather than a single country. And, if we look at history, power vacuums only lead to more struggle. Great.
Mr. Bush’s focus on the economy was relatively brief. While leaders
including President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad of Iran looked on, Mr.
Bush reprised familiar themes, issuing broad criticisms of countries such as
Myanmar, Iran and North Korea. He said there was still a sharp difference
between countries who supported freedom and those who repressed their citizens
or sponsored terrorism, and he issued a sharp rebuff of Russia for its military
invasion of Georgia last month, saying it had violated the United Nations
-"At U.N., Bush Reassures Leaders on Economy,"
Steven Lee Myers and Graham Bowley
The New York Times
September 23, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
Note: This has remained largely unedited since the day I wrote it; it has errors abound.
"Running in Place"
The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. –H.P. Lovecraft
I know a dangerous secret that they don't tell you growing up.
No one wants you to know it, not your teachers and especially not your parents, but there are people out there who are smarter than you. And of course you never find this out until you get to college and they're all in your same class and your high school stardom means nothing anymore when juxtaposed to the most brilliant minds the world can muster.
When people ask me what I'm studying I like to say that my major is Piracy, when they ask what courses I say "Swashbuckling 201", "Cartography 324", and "Methods in Treasure Burying 499". Then they look at me weird and I laugh and say that I'm an English major, matey, but that's just a cover. Truth is I'm really studying in laziness and getting my B.A. in bullshit.
My teacher told me a story just before I laid down for my second nap and it was circling in my head, preventing me from reaching the state of restful sleep I needed to make it through the day. I had a diner dinner date in a little and this mental tossing around wasn't helping. He told us about these little people who live in Indonesia or someplace like that who have these miserable lives and they can't do anything about it because the government doesn't let them and America sucks. Why this was keeping me up I don't think I'll ever know, but the paper that was due in three days on the subject might have had something to do with it. I got up from the bed, tired with being tired and not being able to do anything about it.
My roommate laughed at me as I took the books off the shelf, the dust from their covers filling the light from the desk lamp in the way you see snow falling against a streetlight. I started to write. He had a terrible sense of humor for an art major but when our collective creative juices were flowing we were a force to be reckoned with and we put a good many people in their place. We knew that we were better then them, or at least that's what we told ourselves. We knew that we had a future ahead of us, somewhere, whether it was computer graphics, novel writing, or serving French fries at the diner.
The diner was a special place where I took people who I really cared about. It was an escape into a movie, the low hanging chandeliers made of cheap plastic and the tableside jukeboxes never working. But the food was amazing and the waitresses lovely in that down-and-out failure sort of way. I loved them for their perseverance and terrible eye shadow, the excessive rouge on their cheeks getting caught up in their wrinkly face as they smiled at me when I asked for more coffee and a slice of apple pie. They were the epitome of perseverance. It was nice to think about them at home, leading mundane lives with a dead-beat husband and fifteen children running about screaming at each other. It was nice to know that you helped them out with the five dollar tip you left, maybe the kids could get something to eat this week or maybe the abusive dad would get drunk again and add to the brood. Either way, you felt bad for the waitress, even if it was only you imagination playing around. But that's what we do to make ourselves feel better. For all we know, they might be the happiest people on the planet and we're sitting there getting served our grilled cheese feeling sorry not really for them but for ourselves. I love the diner.
I was sitting down with an old girlfriend and we were talking about collegiate paper writing and the inherent differences between it, high school level papers, and the upcoming work on a short novella that all writers were destined to pen, the "great American novel" in not so many words. Our stories of survival on the mean streets of suburbia and how we had to fight the constant onslaught of boredom in order to keep our sanity intact, chronicled in a single paperback volume. She said:
"You know what I hate the most about college? Overachievers."
"Oh really? Like those girls who are all pretty with their blonde hair and attractive curves that write fifteen-page-eight-to-ten-page papers and nod and laugh at everything the professor says?"
She then went into how God hates overachievers too and there's no way that they were going to get into Heaven so they should just stop trying now.
"I mean really," she said, "Look at God. He's an underachiever Himself. He did like what, one thing a day? Then He took an entire day off? If He really wanted things to be good He'd have put in that extra day, done a little overtime. Existence is God's senior thesis that he started the night before it was due."
I thought about that for a minute and realized that there was a lot of suffering in the world and that she was right, spot on. He messed up big time, if He even cared at all anymore.
"I have to write a paper about these people in Indonesia or someplace like that who have these miserable…." I went on telling her about this stupid project I didn't care about but my mind was still caught up with suffering and grilled cheese.
* * * *
I got an email from Ibn Mohammed al Farhid asking for help on behalf of his cousin, who was taken prisoner by African mercenaries. He offered me stock in his growing computer software company if I sent him one hundred thousand American dollars and my social security number, in order that he could pay the ransom on his cousin. It came from the same guy who told me that I had won the Irish National Lottery the week before and that he needed my social security number to access my account and transfer the money in.
I felt real empathy for Ibn Mohammed al Farhid and his poor cousin, but more so for the African kidnappers. What could possibly have been so bad that they needed to go from the Sudan all the way to Abu Dhabi and kidnap a poor fourteen-year old girl? Why didn't they just ask for help, I'm sure they would have gotten it, eventually. Then I realized that this was just their cry for help. Ibn Mohammed al Farhid didn't really have a cousin who was kidnapped, but he did have a family to feed and this was how he was doing it, by trying to extort money from me, a distant relative (or so the letter said). Everyone needs to get by somehow. Poor Ibn Mohammed al Farhid, I feel for you in your fallacy, your poor attempt to make me send you money has failed, though you have gained a friend. "Good luck with the kids and I hope your cousin is safe somewhere in the Upper Transvaal or on the shores of Lake Victoria," I sent him in a reply mail, with a made up social security number but no money.
I like to think that maybe she escaped from the kidnappers, Ibn, maybe she's free and roaming the African countryside right now, making her way home and into your waiting arms, expecting a lovely dinner. Maybe she's hiding out from lions and dodging poachers, afraid that the truck with all its flashbulbs snapping like lightening is not a rich wasp family on safari but rather the kidnappers in hot pursuit of their quarry. Run, cousin, run from your salvation! It's not worth going home anyway.
The bill came to the table from our beautiful waitress and we left an ample tip, feeling sorry for her. She was nice and I had wanted to know more about her, who her family was, if she was married, where she grew up, stuff like that. I never learned it. We paid the bill at the cashier and got in the car, driving the five minutes in the cold early December night. It was understood that we would not be spending the evening alone.
"So what do you want to do when we get back? I think I have some liquor left over if you're interested," she said, reflecting about last night's extravagancies. "We could break open the bottle of wine my father gave me."
We were twenty so we had to be saddled with what was purchased for us from the old generations who had been here before. The mention of her father made me think that my own father hadn't called in a while and I always worry when he doesn't call. Mom could be expected to and also be expected to talk for hours but if she never handed the phone over to Dad I just didn't know. I wanted to call him right there, my provider. It was almost a sense of duty to the clan that made me have the urge, a pack mentality that I needed to talk to him, something was wrong or he had to tell me something. I told myself that and I believed it.
The smell of Mom's cooking came into my nostrils but it was really the heat from the car being brought up, that warm delightful scent of subtle burning. I hadn't had Mom's cooking in a long time it seemed and I got tremendously homesick. Bah who was I kidding. I hated going home.
"Yeah I'm down for whatever. Let's go back to your house, you know, watch TV, pass out, et cetera. I miss hanging out with you anyway."
One of my favorite pastimes is watching horses and lions run at top speed in slow motion on television. I never miss a good episode of Wild Discovery. The way the muscles move in such patterns and shapes is fantastically interesting. It's like they're trying really hard to get somewhere but they go so slow that they never really reach their destination. The rippling flesh pulled taut over the bulging, heavily taxed and toned shoulders, the strong thighs pumping in pursuit or flight. It was beautiful, this encapsulated and quarantined fury of nature. Sometimes, on the shows about lions and cheetahs or tigers, they would catch something unsuspecting like a sick water buffalo or an antelope fawn and there would be a burst of dirt to cover the slaughter which settled about a scene of grotesque beauty - dirt mixed with sweat and blood mixed with fear and triumph and death. If you look real close, you can see Heaven, or at least wherever it is that you go when you kick the bucket, in the eyes of the wildebeest as the lioness' massive jaws squeeze ever tighter around its throat. I'm sure that the same look comes over a guy who trips and falls off his roof hanging Christmas lights and slams his head on the driveway, Heaven and light and red-brown blood. It's always red-brown blood.
That night we got drunk and reveled in God's D paper.
My hands smelt of latex as the potential children fell from them, sealed in their sheath, into the garbage. The decaying corpse of a Catholic inside me cried while the pragmatist guffawed at God, who didn't seem to care too much, he knew I couldn't care for a child now and he also knew what it was like to be filled with lust and desire. After all, he had humor enough to create hope.
I thought about how I needed to call my father who I hadn't talked to in a long, long time. I needed to know if he at least still cared.
She fell back into the sea of ruined and soiled sheets, our own private pool of youth. Her eyes caught mine briefly as they steadily closed, her will to wake diminishing in the late morning as nap time inched up. I got dressed. My paper was due, regardless of it's half-finished status, and the poor people from Indonesia who would never see the light of an enforced democracy began to rejoice on the other side of the world, content with their fate, their eyes wide in wonder and amazement as they closed shop. I knew of who they were now, but the rest of the world took no notice of them.
Somewhere, a zebra was being eaten by a Middle Eastern girl who had come to live with a pride of lions.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Does anyone else see a correlation here?
Since the opening debates about the construction and potential use of this master/monster of particle physics began in 1984, no amount of conjecturing on the part of scientists should be enough to put you at ease. As I am writing this, I am fully aware that it could be the last thing that I do before I take a shower and go to bed. I am terrified.
Yes, the world collapsing in on itself because of a man-made explosion so great that it melts the very mantle of the Earth from its foundations is a little far fetched, to say the least; however, this is an untested, not fully understood realm of science we are breaking into here, people. We are truly treading new ground. The things we learn from this could be fantastic and answer all questions ever asked about the origins of, well, everything. Or melt your face Raiders-style.
But does that make it right to venture here? Should a handful of scientists really get the chance to kill us all? What about what you want I want? Forget me, what about what you want to do with your life? It could all end early this morning (around 3:15 EST) and you would never know, apart from the probable millisecond of rumble and screams of absolute terror that foreshadow the approach of certain, painful, burning doom.
If only we had some way of knowing, for certain, what was going to happen. I remember a Bradbury story out of my youth, found in The Illustrated Man. "The Last Night of the World." That would be peaceful, and in a sense much more comforting, than waiting to see if we all wake up in the morning.
If we don't, at least I had the opportunity to feel somewhat self-important blogging about this. It just makes everything seem so inconsequential, so useless, just thinking about what could happen after they press the start button and send those protons around the Franco-Swiss Border Roller Coaster Loop of Calamity Physics.
In the end though, I will be content with whatever happens. What I preach in school to the students is "don't let the little things get to you." And, while I may be hypocritical much of the time (as is human nature), I know that some things you just cannot do anything about.
If we do end up down in the morning, at least I'm happy on the way out.
See you tomorrow when I will be off my high horse.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
My room needs to be straightened up. Here is some evidence.