Ready, Set, BREAK

And just like that, as sure as the sun rises over the east and sets in the golden melted pools of western skies, I am done.  

One semester of grad school annihilated, two more to go.

Now on to one month of blessed rest.

Truth be told, I'm pretty proud of how this last semester passed.  Yes, moving here has been hard, and yes, I still had more annoying student habits than I wanted, but for the most part I was able to defeat the worst of my under-achieving demons.  True, my nasty procrastination habit is not completely gone. But I did kick it into submission about eighty percent of the time (the less said about that other twenty percent, the better).  Most importantly, I was able to finish finals with less stress and in a more timely fashion than ever before.  No last minute cramming for me this semester!  As an undergrad, I would usually frantically write my papers the morning they were due, finishing them with fifteen minutes to run to campus, print, and hand them in.  I am not lying when I say I was a lazy student.

So this is a pretty big deal.

This semester, every paper was finished at least by the night before class, and sometimes with a wider margin than that.  Let's check the timer and see how much time I granted myself, shall we?

Principles and Techniques of Journalism: 14.5 hours

Journalism Research: 18 hours

Arts Criticism: 29.5 hours

Media Law and Ethics: 66 hours

Might not seem like much, but to me that's solid progress.  Actual growth.  So eat that, all those people who stood up to violence or proved the Higgs boson particle or what have you.  I decreased my procrastination!  Victory is mine!

And now I can curl up and spend my break doing all those things I've wanted to do for weeks but have been delaying in favor of doing my work.  So over the next month, I'll be....

Reading these books:

Watching these TV shows:

And these movies:

And writing more on here (shameless plugging):

LIGHTBOX HEROES, a blog dedicated to reviewing new network TV shows.
Check us out at: lightboxheroes.weebly.com

I have a new project coming up.  Stay tuned.

And last but not least, doing LOTS of this:

Garfield is my spirit animal

Have a wonderful holiday season, dear world.  Enjoy the rest of this year.  I know I will.

Route 66 Kicks

Taylor and I are infected.  Full-on possessed by the virus known as the travel bug.  While we are usually home bodies who love our apartment and city, every month or so we get restless.  Our feet itch to move somewhere, our eyes get bored with the familiar landscape and complain, wanting to see new things.  What whiny bodies we have.

While we love traveling far and wide (as our recent vacation proved), we are also advocates of the good old fashioned road trip.  There's nothing that compares to you, the car, a sack full of sunflower seeds, an ever-changing view and some great tunes.

Those tunes have been a source of some contention... no, let's say slight disagreement... between Taylor and me as we've honed the art of our road-tripping.  While I think there's nothing better to cruise to than Elephant by the White Stripes, Taylor hates Jack White (I KNOW!) and thinks the perfect road album is Jimmy Eat World's Clarity.  Gag.  What-the-I-don't-even.

Luckily, we've found some albums that we agree on.  Road music that represents us both pretty well, and that perfectly complement the wide possibility and endlessness of asphalt.

Songs for the Deaf - Queens of the Stone Age



This is usually the first album we listen to when we get on the road.  And it's PERFECT.  Taylor introduced me to QotSA, and it might have ruined other music for me?  Because it's awesome?  Because it combines interesting musicality, harmonies, hypnotic rhythms, and turns it all up to eleven in a way that shouldn't work but totally does?  Seriously, they are so interesting to listen to and punch you in the face with such awesomeness that all other music sounds precious afterwards.  Like, 'aw, look at the cute little chord trying to be a song.  Maybe when you're older.' 

Sorry, weird rant there.  Anyway, this album was designed to fit the drive from LA to Joshua Tree, so it was created to be road music. And boy howdy does it deliver!  It's perfect for long, twisting roads through deserts at break neck speeds, while adding this sense of urgency and making you feel completely unconquerable.  Like I said, perfect.

 One Fast Move or I'm Gone - Ben Gibbard and Jay Farrar



Another classic desert drive accompaniment, this album adds a literary epic-ness to your journey.  All the lyrics are taken from Jack Kerouac's "Big Sur" and set to music by Ben Gibbard and Jay Farrar. The result is this sprawling album that sometimes makes you feel invincible, like there's nothing but sky and tumbleweed and you, ruling all you see.  But other times it brings your mortality crashing down, reminding you that you are a wandering vagabond with no home, no love, and no reward in Heaven. Much more appealing than it sounds, I promise.

After listening to that I always try to sneak in Mermaid Avenue by Billy Bragg and Wilco, just to even out the Uncle Tupelo-does-Americana dynamic.  But somehow it never works, because Taylor always suggests Rilo Kiley, and who am I to say no to that?

More Adventurous - Rilo Kiley





I can't even express how much I'm in love with Jenny Lewis.  I love her.  I just do.  It's a thing, and it's not going away, so there.

Rilo Kiley is my favorite, and this is my favorite Rilo Kiley album by far.  It's great, because it has their folksy semi-country songs, but blends them with pop sensibilities (courtesy of Blake Sennett's guitar).  Honestly, this is a meal of an album.  It's rich, and filling, and satisfying.  It has the variety a mix CD without the trouble of making one, which is a relief for the lazy vacationer in me.

Demon Days - Gorillaz



Somehow, we always end up with at least one Gorillaz album on the trip.  Apparently, if I choose the album it's Plastic Beach, and if Taylor chooses it's Demon Days.  I think we listen to Demon far more often, which is fine by me.  What a great, dancey album.  If you don't awkwardly wriggle in your seat, trying to shake your groove thang, something is wrong with you.  Really, you should get that checked out.

Transatlantacism - Death Cab for Cutie



This video captures the essence of driving in Washington.  The horizon, the stillness, the soft evergreen of evening.  I love it.

This album goes into the surreal side of road-tripping.  The quiet, introspective times.  It's when we've been on the road awhile, and now we're just driving.  No conversation, just holding hands and listening to Ben Gibbard.  I might be reading, Taylor might be staring out the window, but this music holds us together.  When "Passenger Seat" comes on, it's a vision of our future.

DTR

Oh Ben. It's time to talk. You know, about our relationship.

Yeah, the one we don't really have yet, but that I just know is coming along quite nicely. I mean, look at the progress we've made! Finally, after two and a half years of regret, I managed to see you live. Live in concert. As in, playing the piano and singing in my immediate vicinity. And oh man was it joyous.

True, it wasn't quite your usual scene. I couldn't help but laugh as I saw you struggling to rein in your ribald persona, trying to keep it somewhat clean due to the presence of the Utah Symphony behind you. But even they couldn't completely contain you, and I had to chuckle/swoon as you rock star mugged at the camera during "Not the Same", shoving your face near the screen, hands outstretched and lights swirling behind you.

As for me, I just stretched out and enjoyed, nibbling on chocolate cake and letting your deliciously whiny white-boy voice surround me as dark light from condos and trees kept good company.


Basically, our love is strong, dear Benjamin. And hey, if you ever find yourself in the market for a fifth wife, I'll be here.

"Who wants flowers when you're dead?"

J.D. Salinger died today. He was 91 years old. He wrote stories. He was notorious for being a hermit, hiding away from the world after he almost single-handedly revamped the written word. Some credit him with the invention of the young adult genre. Some call him a menace. Some blame his magnum opus, The Catcher in the Rye, for the degradation of society. Most don't even know who he is.

In the movie Finding Forrester, Sean Connery's character is loosely based on Salinger.

Actress Zooey Deschanel is named after Franny & Zooey, one of Salinger's collections of short stories.

It took me until college before I finally read The Catcher in the Rye. One day I was walking to the store, passed a yard sale, and picked it up for the low, low price of fifty cents. I read it on a plane, an overnight flight, and it was stunning. It floored me in every way. I couldn't believe it had taken me so long to embrace this work of fiction.

After my first time reading it, I wrote this about it:

A great tale of crisis, the insanity that plagues us all, and how cynicism effects the world, as seen through an adolescents eyes. Holden is mesmerizing. I love how you can identify with him so easily, but some of his musings can be unnerving, leaving you to wonder about your own sanity in this mad world.

My opinion is pretty much the same. I do love Holden. He completely captured me when I was reading. Yes, sometimes his thoughts seemed to contradict each other, but how often does that happen in real life? Aren't we all tormented to some degree, driven mad with trying to figure out what this world, this life, this entire existence is about? All of us are merely passing through, observing humanity and trying to cling to some basic truths. And sometimes it's hard. And sometimes you don't understand. And sometimes you think you have everything figured out, only to have that change moments later.

See the whole sanity issue? I'm guessing you do.

At work I was in mourning, and told my co-workers about Salinger's death. They asked who that was. I told them it was the guy who wrote The Catcher in the Rye. They had never read it, and had no idea what it was about. When I gave a brief plot summary, one girl raised her eyebrows. "So, you enjoy reading a book that's just the inner ramblings of a teenage boy?"

Yes. Yes I do. Most books about teenagers at this time were horrible, one-note, craptastic moralistic serials about boys and cars, or a girl detective, or about how Timmy played football and loved it and won the big game. Salinger gave his characters emotions. He let them be confused. He said it was OK to think about deeper issues, to come up with theories and figure out who you really were and what you believed in.


"Among other things, you'll find that you're not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You're by no means alone on that score, you'll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You'll learn from them - if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It's a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn't education. It's history. It's poetry."

Thank you, J.D. Salinger. Thank you for contributing to the records. Thank you for your creations. Thank you for your poetry.

NERD ALERT

This post has taken a ridiculously long amount of time to be posted. To my few, loyal followers I apologize (sorry Kelsey and Ashley!). What with ridiculous amounts of school, and maybe even the deeply personal nature of this entry, it's been written in small intervals every now and then. Anyway, here goes.

For those of you who honestly don't know me and randomly stumbled across this blog looking for one that outlines moodily attractive movie characters, I have to say something: I am addicted to Batman. This is common knowledge to those near to me. And for the last time, no, I do not just love Batman because the incredibly talented and attractive Christian Bale (Call me! Anytime! I LOVE YOU CHRISTIAN!!!) took on the role of the Caped Crusader in the 2005 blockbuster "Batman Begins". My love began from a younger age, when I would watch the futuristic "Batman Beyond" and think it was insane that someone with absolutely no real superpowers would take on sadistic badguys who possessed supernatural abilities born of acid accidents or exposure to radiation. Yet the more I watched, the more heroic Terry McGinnis and his aging mentor, Bruce Wayne, became to me. True, they had no "special" gifts, just athletic bodies and loads of cash, but they dedicated what they had to making the world, or at least Gotham, a better place. Batman appealed to my idealistic side, the part of me that wants to believe that we are capable as mere human beings of being a force for good in the world, of helping others.

So I embraced Batman, to a certain extent. I watched the cartoons on Saturday mornings, staying through the transition from "Batman Beyond" to more routine revival "The Batman". I watched Michael Keaton's film versions by Tim Burton, and even the later ones starring Val Kilmer and George Clooney (a viewing experience I can't block, no matter how hard I try). I had a Batman blanket, and envied and sometimes stole my nephews action figures. But I drew a line. No matter how much I loved Batman, I would not fall into the comic book abyss. That was going too far. There were exceptions to this rule, however. My friend Jon, a comic book nerd in his own right, made a habit of giving me a Batman comic book, or graphic novel, whatever you want to call them, for my birthdays and Christmas. Thus began my fall down the slippery slope.

I enjoyed the books, as can only be expected. As an English major, I found myself drawn to the intricate plot lines and the massive symbolism that is involved in the average Batman tale. The common themes of the tortured soul, whether revenge can be a tool for good or if it always breeds evil, and the seeds of corruption enthralled me as much as any Orwellian tome. And as an Art History minor, the picture panels were no less intriguing. The dramatic lights and darks, the sometimes brusque pen lines and at other times smooth brush marks, all conveying a proper mood and setting, these laid claim to the lofty title of art as much as the next post-modernist phenomenon. Reading them was a delight. However, I still resisted. I could not bring myself to purchase these of my own accord. So, for about one to two years, my semi-annual supply from Jon had to suffice. But all that changed. One day, after reading the latest installment in my meager collection, April could not come fast enough. I had time, desire, and a Barnes and Noble gift card. I was going to buy a comic book, and nobody could stop me.

When my roommates, a.k.a. the ones with cars, announced an excursion to Barnes and Noble one weekend, I knew the time had come. My quest was commencing. I walked into the bookstore bursting with confidence and excitement. Unfortunately, I had no clue where the comic books would be. After a quick walk through the entire store, I knew this was serious. Wandering around the massive cookbook section (only in Utah) and glancing through the Mediterranean guide books, I finally had a breakthrough. "If I was a nerd, where would I be?..." I thought to myself. Then, without further ado, I starting making my way to the science fiction area.

It wasn't difficult to find, tucked in a shadowy corner behind the in-store Starbucks. Once I passed the rows of manga and Robert Jordan novels, I found them. Books upon books dedicated to the glory that is the Dark Knight. The few I was considering were near the bottom, so I knelt to investigate which one was worthy of my purchase. That's when I stepped into ... the Twilight Zone.


As I was searching the bottom shelves, I felt a presence to my right. Looking up, there was the quintessential teen geek. Tall, thin, and pimply, he stared at me briefly, as if wondering what sort of alien had encroached upon his territory, before resuming his perusal of Alan Moore comics. Then, behind me came the boys future. He was easily in his mid thirties, a chubby, glasses-wearing man in a commemorative Star Wars tee. You could tell he too had no clue what I was doing there, and eyed me warily as he drifted to the Marvel section.

I sat between these two uber-nerds, in the middle of a living stereotype, before the situation got a little uncomfortable. I grabbed The Dark Knight Returns and briskly walked away. I was too embarrassed to have that as my lone purchase, so on my way to the cash register I picked up Silence by Shusaku Endo. The girl at check-out didn't comment on either selection.

On the ride home, all I could think of was how all the rumors and myths about comics were true. I had witnessed it with my own two eyes. And yet, I survived. I got through that experience unscathed. Maybe these social misfits were just as human as the average person...

By the way, The Dark Knight Returns rocked. I can't wait to buy the next book on my list.