Nov 30, 2009

House is not destroying my brain!

So I'm tired of entertainment getting a bad rep.

For some reason, society decided to be entertainment-centered and consider people who indulge in purely entertaining pursuits as dumb or lazy. How both of these things exist at the same time is interesting, but beside the point at hand.

Perhaps this entertainment stigma is only common to the circle I run in, which happens to be a group of very academic (and elitist, including myself) people. Nonetheless, it irks me.

I happen to enjoy television. For some reason, this evokes a neanderthal image, drooling at the moving pictures on the box. Perhaps this is what it equates to sometimes.

But not all of the time. I happen to think television is occasionally used in a productive and thought-provoking manner. For example, tonight I indulged in one of my favorite shows, House.

House is an excellent example of good tv writing, especially in the realm of character development. The show is strongly driven by House's character. Tonight's episode was even a prime example of the utilization of foil characters that would make my English teacher proud. The show brings up many philosophical issues that my family and I often discuss while watching and afterwards, and sometimes the next few days.

This runs counter to the argument that television eliminates conversation between families, and eliminates independent thought. It spurs both of these in my house. Are we simply a counterexample or is this a common occurrence? I do not know.

Yes, there are plenty of shows I watch for pure entertainment; I am not ashamed to watch them. It's not as if I never contemplate life, read classic novels, or anything considered more worthy pursuits by the academic elitists. I'm a strong believer in "all things in moderation." What's wrong with moderate television watching?

Don't get me wrong, however. I do not approve of such drivel like "The Hills." I see no value in watching this. But I also support the right of somebody who wants to watch it, if that's how they are entertained.

Many claim that tv is corrupting our youth and the future of the world and all sorts of things like that. I think there's a place in this world for tv and other "useless" entertainment. The key is learning moderation, and a lack of it is where our true troubles lie. I don't think I'm a lesser person for watching television and liking it, and I don't think anybody is a better person for foregoing it. If you genuinely like it, watch it. If you don't, don't. But don't assign morality to 90210.

I guess this is very preachy and possibly elitist as I try to combat elitism. Well, nobody's perfect. I guess all the tv has rotted my brain.

Nov 25, 2009

"Would you like to try a demo?"

Being a mall salesperson is probably one of the top ten hardest jobs ever. Like seriously.

As my mother, grandmother, and I walked through the mall, we were accosted repeatedly by various salespeople manning the booths outside of all the stores.

The first large encounter was at one of those places that sell covers for every kind of technological gadget imaginable, in pursuit of a cover for my naked, exposed phone (that had just survived a drop in the parking lot, which I think was it's ninth and final safety life). I simply asked the man to point me to where I might find the covers for the model of my phone, and he escorts me towards them and begins laying them out, sorted by color and material, and taking any that I looked at for more than five seconds out of the delicate wrapping and snapping it to my phone with an unnecessary but cool little plastic device. As my phone tried on more outfits than I ever do, the man threw the hardest sales pitch imaginable for something I already had every intention to buy. He even said his colleague was a "professional screen protector adhererer." I didn't realize that was offered as a degree now; perhaps it's only a certification program.

After we'd already purchased the cell phone cover, the man catches my mom checking her Blackberry and escorts her to that section of his cart of useless gadgets. Mom politely nodded and smiled as he explained this elaborate and unnecessary gadget involving a remote control and "driving safety" in broken English, as most people do.

Not my grandmother, however. She feels the need to listen with the greatest intensity (even though she definitely didn't understand a single thing, being that she's had her cell phone for two years and can't turn it on). The salesman could sense a prime target. Sure enough, after his spill was completed, she turned to Mom: "Do you want this for Christmas?"

The phone guy was not the only mall-booth-salesperson to notice the gigantic "sucker" sign on my dear grandma's forehead. One woman almost had Grandma handing over her Discover card entirely.

She was selling this (albeit extremely awesome) nail painting thing. It allows you to create elaborate designs very easily, with a salon-esque finish. The saleslady, noticing a group of three females with unpainted nails, seemingly jumped over the cart, exclaiming desperately "Would you like to try???"

Grandma would always like to try. Mom and I, weary from four hours of shopping, kept walking forward and hoped Grandma would follow suit. But, no, her obedience to sales people always trumps her flesh and blood, and she was caught in the trap. Grandma, not wanting to mess up her salon-finished nails, had the lady demonstrating on herself. Happy to find somebody with unpainted nails, she immediately seized my hand and doused my thumbnail in thick black polish. "It's just like a salon, except it only costs $20 one time!"

I didn't have the heart to tell her that, since I never go to nail salons anyway, there was no way buying this product would save me any money. But after I saw the result, which was completely awesome, I was sold. Grandma purchased the cheapest kit as my Christmas present.

But the lady was not finished. She went on to tell us how she has three kids, and only been working at the mall for three days, and that nobody will stop for a demo and that we're the first ones all day. (This completely contradicts the fact that she told us she sold a $140 kit the day before...) And the biggest sob story: us, her sole sale of the day, only earned her $5 in commission.

I was afraid Grandma was going to empty the contents of her purse onto the counter, grab a bottle of nail polish, and walk away, but Mom and I managed to gently pull her away from the booth with her life savings intact.

At least the Southern-bred hint of racism within her kept her from being to suseptable to the ailing salesman act. Many of them are foreign, with heavy accents. One man, hawking lotion, asked "is it because of my accent?" as we continued to walk past him. Grandma nodded yes involuntarily while Mom and I just laughed. This did not deter the man, however, as he pretended that we dropped something and needed to turn around to retrieve it. "Why are all those foreigners (she said it like she'd just sipped sour lemonade from our lunch Chick-fil-a meal) coming here to sell things?" The nail lady better be glad she was white.

So after Christmas, as I elaborately decorate my nails, I will have to think about the poor lady trying to feed her children with the five dollars my Grandma found it in her heart to pay her, and the lotion man with the accent that will have to go hungry.

Nov 23, 2009

In my heart there rings a melody...

I've always maintained the argument that music isn't any better or worse today than it was in any other decade and that the people living in those decades probably thought the same thing about their music as we think ours. Legends are only made with time.

But as I watched the American Music Awards last night, I couldn't help but think perhaps our music really is worse than that of decades past. I am ashamed to think that any artist performing at that ceremony is the legendary icon that will define this decade for generations to come. Surely Jay-Z is not the Elvis, the Beatles, or the Michael Jackson of our time.

Many of the performances were just sex on stage; Shakira's performance was little more than sex noises and synchronized pelvic thrusts set to generic music. How is this good?

I realize that statement makes me sound like a prude, and if being a prude means I only think you're allowed to have clothed stage sex if the song you're singing is actually good, prude I am.

I thought Shakira couldn't be beat, but then I saw Adam Lambert stuffing a back-up dancer's face in his crotch and just couldn't help but laugh. I thought sexual innuendos on primetime television were meant to be subtle, like you're supposed to wonder if the person sitting next to you got the same thing out of that that you did or your mind is just perverted. But there was no doubt it. When Adam pulled that one, everybody thought BAM ORAL SEX!

I really don't know why this is what is considered entertainment these days. I think good music is so much more than fiery pianos (Thanks Lady Gaga) and bad boxing outfits (looking at you J-Lo).

There's the times when I've sat, unable to sleep, in the middle of my bed. The only light comes from the glow of my ipod screen and the only thing I can hear or feel or think about is the simple melody and perfectly descriptive lyrics completely flooding my consciousness. This is good music.

I think the mark of a good musician is a musician who can take a whole song and make it project one singular feeling, startlingly and overwhelmingly present. From the meaning of the words to the arrangement of the chords to the tone in the singer's voice, it all works together to scream out that one, unifying emotion. That's a song worth listening to.

I don't want to come off as a musical elitist- I like Lady Gaga every now and then. But what lasts and should be praised is true artistry, not the music that rides on sheer sex appeal for popularity.

I look around and all I see is are superficial billboard hits. Will any worthwhile superstars emerge? I doubt it. Everybody's too busy looking at Adam Lambert's crotch.

Nov 22, 2009

What I Love About Sunday

In most houses around my parts, Sunday is a reverent day for going to church in the morning, eating dinner with every relative ever, and going fishing with grandpa after. Or some quaint little over-simplified version of a real-life country song.

Not in my house.

Sunday is indeed reverent in my household, but for very different reasons. Sunday is for yelling curse words at the tv you played paper-rock-scissors for when your team fumbles at the 10 yard line.

Plenty of people watch football on Sunday, but few watch football like my mother. Passed down to her through the generations of crazed fans, she's amassed quite the collection of superstitious memorabilia. In front of the tv sits a little brass pig. An innocent brass pig who gets blamed for every Redskin screw up. The pig is required to face whichever way the Redskins happen to be going down the field, and if the pig is not turned at the appropriate times, doom is certain.

This year, the brass pig got a companion in the form of a tinier rubber pig. I used to play with this little pig when I was little. Grandma would fool me into thinking the pig could magically move around by itself. Mom apparently still believes in this magic. He stands guard beside it's senior pig and faces the right way as well, oinking the Redskins to a winning season.

When we lived in Texas, our neighbors found Mom's football fanaticism quite amusing and their teenage son collected those little plastic football helmets. He had an extra Redskin one, so he granted it to Brass Pig. The pig has worn his helmet every year until this year. Last year was so abysmal, Mom decided it must've been the helmet's fault, so now the helmet sits on a foam golfball (with a face) mounted a golf tee. I'm not sure why, but apparently this is very vital to offensive success.

Many years ago, Dad, my brother, and I thought it would be nice to get Mom a Redskins jersey. We picked her favorite version of the colors (the white home jersey version) and got our last name printed on the back. We thought this was a nice gesture.

She wears this jersey during every game. When they lose, it gets violently ripped off and thrown across the room, sliding down the wall at a rate unproportional to its weight. After the initial anger fades, she then throws it into the washing machine, ignoring all washing labels, because the "loss must be purged."

Also, after a loss, the jersey gets put on time out and one of the random, hideously ugly 1980's Redskin apparel is brought out. And then gets thrown across the room and the jersey is re-donned.

This are only a few of the many superstitions, and they don't really directly effect the other members of the house. But her need to make everything exactly as it was during the end of the last winning game does.

If she was watching it on the big television in the living room, she feels she must watch it here this time. But dear Dad also wants to watch his game (which his Colts invariably have a better chance of winning than the Redskins ever do, bless their hearts) and it's only fair that they alternate tv's. He even suggests switching at halftime. She will not budge, as steadfast as a real linebacker.

I'm afraid to enter the living room while the game is on. Often violent strings of cursing that even a sailor would shudder at come echoing up the steps, or a trademark way of clapping with unnatural rapidity that indicates some sort of primal pleasure when Redskins players inflict debilitating injury on Cowboys players. I am sure to get any food I may need during the duration of the game before it comes on, because to pass through her and tv during the game is the eighth of the seven deadly sins.

So while many families eat a nice dinner together and smile politely and go fishing, I cower in my bedroom, scarred of the wrath of a disappointed Redskins fan.

Nov 18, 2009

Whoopee

Human beings whole lives revolve around sex. This is a concrete and unavoidable fact of life.

No human being is as obsessed with sex as the teenager, thus I'm usually surrounded by it. (Not literally mind you!)

During the sex chapter in my much-alluded-to psychology class, it was interesting, watching everybody squirm as my teacher casually spouted words like "orgasm" and "clitoris." Inexperienced teenagers and wiser middle-aged women all turned the same shade of embarrassed pink, even though we were just listening.

And, oh, the question and answer session! I now no longer wonder how teen pregnancy happens, because people are certainly dumb or clueless enough. What I don't understand is why it's so embarrassing.

I'm not saying I'm totally comfortable discussing it, but it's just funny how humans spend so much time obsessing over sex (just turn on the tv and count the innuendos!) but feel so uncomfortable talking about it. I guess we're just trained that way, to be embarrassed from the get-go; on day one, parents freak when kids ask where babies come from and it just goes downhill from there.

People either take sex too seriously (don't even think about it until you're married!) or not seriously enough (oh, look, I'm pregnant and playing STD bingo!). What about a moderate approach: sensible sex? That's what should be taught instead of the ineffectual abstinence classes.

But happy mediums are not what people do best, especially in what are deemed "more important" topics. I suppose this is just a short, incoherent rant, but there it is.

Nov 15, 2009

50th Post!

Wow, this is my 50th blog post!

When I started this, I expected my usual be-really-into-it-for-about-a-week-and-quit self to emerge full force. But now, about six months and 50 posts later, I'm still typing away.

Perhaps it's because I'm just too full of stuff to say and nobody to say it to, or simply because I love to ramble, but I really enjoy blogging.

I don't make myself post. At first, I thought I was going to have to, as I do with most things in life. But I don't. Occasionally, I just feel an overwhelming urge to start typing away. I did away with the pressure to write something every day. That's just not practical. The urges come close enough together to keep the intervals at decent length.

Blogging sometimes has a bad connotation. People assume it's where preteen girls whine all over the internet. And maybe it is. But not always. I keep up with several blogs (as seen by the little thing that shows what I follow... somewhere on here...) and I really enjoy reading them. It's just like a little slice of somebody else's day, a chunk of their thoughts, that I'd never be privy to otherwise.

And even if another soul never knows this blog here exists, I consider it worth it. There's a sort of therapy in dumping the thoughts clogging my head onto this website. I never think of anybody else ever reading it as I write it.

I really think blogging is a big part of the future of the media. It works better than a newspaper, in a way, because it enables instant feedback, instant revisions. (But instant revisions are also bad. It's one step closer to Big Brother, after all.) You just have to trust and hope for the best, I guess.

So here's to blogger and fifty more posts/ramblings!

Nov 9, 2009

Only "Urgh" is Adequate

Fickle friends, how you annoy me!

I don't understand people. I really don't. They're so simple and so complex all at same time. This makes them especially hard to be friends with.

All I want are people I can talk to, that I can identify with, and who don't judge me. Apparently this is entirely too much to ask.

Why do we demand that our friends be who we want them to be instead of who they actually are? Life isn't supposed to be like a Sims game. You can't click edit and add or subtract personality traits. That doesn't stop anyone from trying though.

I have come to really appreciate the few people I can count on to actually accept me instead of try to mold me into their image of what I'm supposed to be. Heck, I'll even settle for people willing to incorporate new ideas into their me-stereotype.

What I can't tolerate are those who feel the need to demand of me certain actions or bar me from others. If you do not like any aspect of my personality, actions, interests, etc., why do you even want to be near me at all?

If I could, I would be everyone's friend. But I'm tired of always having to the bigger person in some many various relationships. I'm never allowed to be the petty and immature one because that role is constantly filled by somebody else. It's hard always letting everything slide off my back when hardly anyone affords me that luxury.

I suppose I should just get over it and deal with people as they are, and I as I am. But sometimes, I just reach a breaking point where I wish I didn't have to talk to them anymore. I want to pass on all their games and scheming and lies. I just want to be. Simply be, without judgment or having to take sides or engage in silly arguments.

But that's not possible and I'll always have to deal and I'll always have to be the bigger person and I hope I don't have to stretch so far I break.

As Michel from Gilmore Girls once said, "People are especially stupid today. I cannot talk to anymore of them." Or something like that.

Nov 6, 2009

Help! I Need Somebody...

What makes some people more helpful than others? Why do some people hold open the door, volunteer their time, or just provide kind words at will, without even thinking about it. It seems almost as second nature to them.

Others appear not to care, and go through life concerned only with their own needs.

Perhaps we all fall somewhere in between on this spectrum. I know I am both at different times. But overall, there people who can be counted on and those who simply cannot.

Are the helpful people influenced by somebody who helped them in the past? Did they make a subconscious decision that they would spend their lives helping others because somebody helped them once.

Many people say they won't be happy unless they're doing some sort of service work. Is this born of the selfish need to feel good about ourselves? The idea that there is no truly selfless act is a common one. We get something for ourselves when we help others- an alleviation of guilt, special recognition, or help in return.

I don't think this is necessary a bad thing. Who cares what the motivation was if the hungry are fed, the needy are attended, and the sick are healed? Just means to an end. If other people are helped in the process, then shouldn't that just be gravy?

Why should we make ourselves feel guilty for wanting to help people because it helps us?

Even on a grand scale, like stopping genocide, the same rule seems to apply. People attend rallies (which don't help much, coincidentally, but that's another blog entirely) to make themselves feel better about caring about the issue. They feel like they've done something. Perhaps it results in a few more people gaining awareness, or a meager sum donated and lost in the bureaucracy that surrounds altruistic organizations, but ultimately, the goal is to make people feel like they've helped. Their guilt for being on the favorable end of the need spectrum is temporarily alleviated by wearing a "Save Darfur" tshirt.

I suppose I've strayed quite drastically from my original musings, but the whole concept of volunteering and the psychology behind it intrigues me so much. There are so many factors.

But again, who cares? It's a means to an end. People still get helped, even if it never seems like quite enough. Humanity would simply collapse if we didn't help each other out occasionally. But it's so uneven and, usually, unfair.

I don't even know what I'm saying here. Humans are complex? Nothing is simple? Charity is a sham? Only the bottom line counts?

I don't know.

Nov 3, 2009

Ayn Rand is Following Me


And I don't mean on twitter, you internet junkies.

The author and political theorist and thinker of the 20's has decided to make a random resurgence here in good ole 2009.

I saw on the Daily Show (where most good things come from) this lady who wrote a book about Ayn Rand (it's one of those names you have to type completely out every time) and her life and her novels. That lady said that Ayn Rand's objectivism ideals often make a comeback when we have a liberal government. So I guess Ayn Rand came in with Obama.

I have an extremely limited grasp on her philosophies, but I'm extremely intrigued by her for several reasons. First off, I must say that, only with my meager understanding, I don't agree with her very much.

But her novel that I am plowing through, The Fountainhead, is beautifully and masterfully constructed. It's a good blend of story and shoving objectivism down your throat. The characters are flawlessly suited to her purposes, but you still see them as characters despite what they're meant to represent. They also have extremely cool names. Since I suck at naming characters, I must stand in aw of the perfect marriage of Dominique Francon, her name, and her painted personality.

In addition to the literary genius she no doubt was, I also have a default respect for apparently strong women. There are not many woman throughout history, today even, attributed to certain schools of thought. Here Ayn Rand is, many years later, still being drug into the political scene. She seems consistently relevant. Though like communism, her ideas appear to only look good on paper.

I'm also a little fond of that picture I've posted there of her. I find it amusing that in almost every picture of her, she is holding a cigarette and much of the same can be said for her characters. The look on her face seems to suggest a quiet confidence. She isn't the prettiest woman (And I'm sure she wouldn't have been caught dead in a Roaring 20's flapper dress) but her intelligence appears to make up for it. I just like her.
I've read that she was not the nicest to her "followers" and perhaps a bit pushy, but I suppose that can be said of any sort of leader. Though I never agree with Ayn Rand, I certainly can respect her, as she sits quietly in her leather armchair, smoking, feeling elite, and knowing somebody is reading about her right now.

Nov 2, 2009

Facebook and Humans

I'm never really the first person jumping on various trend's bandwagons, but lately I jumped on one and discovered much more.

After urging from half a dozen different friends, I decided to give in and create a Facebook account. After all, even my mother has one.

I figured it'd be one of those things you create an account for once and then never log in again. Wrong.

It's hard to understand the appeal until you actually get into it. I was amazed at how fast friends built up... people are on there constantly. And such random people. Every person I've ever met in my life, it seems, was adding me. Regular social parameters simply do not apply on facebook. People answer these random interview questions about people they would never really talk to in real life... I think that's kinda great.

Such is the amazingness of the internet. The internet gets a bad rep from pedophiles and prostitutes on Craig's List and viruses and hoaxes and porn and corrupting the youth... Okay, so I almost closed this window in fear.

We get so lost in complaining and finding fault with everything that we lessen the benefits of what we have.

I'm going to stop now before that gets even more preachy.

I suppose this post doesn't really have any point other than to express my rekindled appreciate for the internet, communication, and the better side of humanity.

How weirdly positive was that? The world is weird lately.