A New Year

It's that time of year again. We're all attempting to hold on to the holidays while trying to ignore the plastic reindeer and spools of once-twinkling lights that lie like the victims of a bombing across lawns from which most of the cheer is gone. We put one last hope in New Year's Eve, because after that, we must accept that our lives will return to normal. Another year has passed, regardless of the fanfare with which we see it out.

I don't plan to make any steadfast resolutions, even though there are a few things about myself that could bear with some changing. I could be a little nicer, I could try to shake off the apathy and subversiveness with which I regard my high school career. I could try going for more positivity. I could eat healthier and exercise more (or at all), I could spend less time on the internet. I could save money or count my blessings. Or save my blessings and count my money. All of these things I could do, and I probably should. I'll keep them in mind. Mostly, however, I'm going to try to enjoy my remaining semester. I've done everything I can to get in to college. It's basically out of my hands at this point, so why stress? Why keep pushing myself to do things I don't like? It's not that I plan to slack off in school, just that I don't need to feel guilty for spending time with people whose company I enjoy, or for reading up on subjects I won't be tested on. This is the closest I'll come to a resolution.

Bentham and his Buddies

I adore the Philosophical Radicals. If you don't know who they are, or you need a refresher course, you're in the right place! They were a group of Englishmen most inspired and led by Jeremy Bentham, founder of the utilitarian school of ethics. Utilitarianists believe that the ethicality of an action is determined by its effect on overall happiness. Whatever action will (A) make the most people the happiest or (B) make the least people the least unhappy, is the ethical thing to do. 

Around the year 1820, the Philosophical Radicals gave themselves their title. One of this group's strongest tenets is the value of deductive reasoning. They rejected all arguments based on history and custom. Only an argument structured logically from the ground up (root=radical) held any weight to them. In this way, they helped determine the future of philosophy. Skeptical of almost everything, from the church to the military to social convention, they demanded reforms everywhere.

So, basically, these guys were BA. And epic. And all other fantastic terms that could be applied to something so beyond awesome that words pale. Kudos, Bentham, and the like-minded types.

Sorry for the delay...bear with me.

Oh dear readers I have missed you this week. Okay, I haven't missed you all that much because I have been busy. I have done many a lovely and relaxing thing during the break with my parents. It will be my last family vacation while still living at home. I'm not quite sure what to think of this- it feels strange. A little sad, a little nostalgic. Mostly happy, though, as it was a wonderful vacation. We did all kinds of awesome stuff, like touring the College of William & Mary (which I simply MUST attend), shopping, swimming in a heated pool, going to the wonderfully gaudy Busch Gardens Christmastown, and walking the DoG (that's W&M slang for the mile-long Duke of Glouchester Street). Also, there was snow. Which was amazing.

I returned home on Christmas. It was raining the whole way home, or in the words of Luke Copeland by way of his brother, it was warm snowing. I made my mother play every CD I got for Christmas (there are 17) in the car. At home, we had our little prepackaged Christmas dinner. It was all quite quaint.

I don't have anything to make you think today, but I do have a few suggestions. One: see the film Avatar. It is beyond epic. Two: if you like French history or feminism, read Liberty by Lucy Moore. I'm in the midst of it now, and I find it immensely entertaining and interesting; it's nonfiction written like a novel, the story of the lives of several women from different walks of life before, during, and post the French Revolution. And three: listen to the album Dear Catastrophe Waitress by Belle & Sebastian. It's a few years old, and you've likely been exposed to it already, but it is so wonderful that I feel the need to implore you to hear it.

That is all, lovely readers. Until next time!

BJR

Bonjour, readers! Politically Correct Break has officially begun. So here I am, wishing you a Happy/Merry/Satisfactory Whatever. Enjoy your celebrations, or lack thereof.

Today was the Senior Breakfast, at which the Superlatives were announced. I had been nominated in two categories, Most Likely to Change the World, and Most Likely to Be Your Boss. I won Most Likely to Be Your Boss, which is amusing for several reasons. First, the Like a Boss video by the Lonely Island is full of much hilarity. Second, I do not plan on ever entering the corporate world.

I am finished with college applications, and I have been granted a full tuition scholarship to Pitt. I don't know if I'll accept, but it's nice to hear, anyway. I now have months ahead of financial aid applications and scholarship applications and other such things...

Makes Me Go Hmm...(3)

A deus ex machina is when a person or object appears out of nowhere with the sole purpose of moving a plot along. It was parodied in the film Dodgeball, when a treasure chest full of money is wheeled onto the dodgeball court. Across its side reads Deus Ex Machina. Lulz.

It's generally accepted that use of a deus ex machina is evidence of poor storytelling technique. It literally means "God from the machine", referring to the practice of lowering actors playing gods and goddesses to the stage with a crane. If a playwright was either a) not very good at writing plays or b) pressed for time, and his plot got horribly convoluted or irresolvable, he could simply introduce a god to fix everything. Isn't it funny how, even in the days of ancient Greek theatre, people still expected God to come out of nowhere and fix all thier problems?

Makes Me Go Hmm...(2)

I wikipedia-ed Susan Sontag recently, and I came across this quote about taking pictures while on vacation:

The method especially appeals to people handicapped by a ruthless work ethic – Germans, Japanese and Americans. Using a camera appeases the anxiety which the work driven feel about not working when they are on vacation and supposed to be having fun. They have something to do that is like a friendly imitation of work: they can take pictures.

I think Sontag is right. At the risk of stereotyping, people from countries where a strong work ethic is praised tend to take more pictures. This makes me wonder if the obsession with work that is so ingrained in the American psyche affects us in other ways as well. Is it possible that in our obsession with work, we've forgotten how to play? We have so disvalued anything not useful for production that we don't even think about it. We don't allow ourselves activities that are purely recreational, even when we are having recreation. Everything is a part of the plan...everything must relate to work and utility in some way. Just a little something to be aware of.

Makes Me Go Hmm...(1)

My friends have had very interesting things to say over the past few days, and I've come across some interesting ideas. I want to take some time to encourage you, bloggity-followers, to think as well, and so I'll be posting paragraphs about things that made me think.

Disillusionment of teenagers:
A friend of mine, who, like me, is ranked at the top of his class, asked me Sunday night "How did we get like this?", meaning "How did all of us, in the top of the class, end up so sarcastic and resentful and apathetic?". I don't know, exactly, but I think the public school system with its beaureacracy and competition and petty rules has so supressed our creative spirits that we gave up on it. Now, as seniors, we are more like outside observers, the cynics of the world of secondary school. We're jaded, not in the romantic sense, but in a life sense. At seventeen or eighteen years old, we're already tired. We can't have the same positivity and youthfulness that we entered high school with because it's been sucked out of us. Our innocent love of learning has been subdued over and over by a system designed not to encourage us to foster that love, but to encourage us to be quiet and respectful and subservient. I have hope, though. I think that upon entrance into the university system, we'll remember that spark we've always had within us. Our "flame for learning" will be rekindled and we'll lose the apathy and resentment that has so built up in us. Or, at least, this is the idealist vision I have of the greater world of academia. If it is flawed, I don't want to know.

Rant

I must take a minute to bitch about application fees. I don't understand how it's possible that it takes any university six months and $75 to decide if they want me or not. Meh. It's rather disheartening...I'm starting to think the goal is to make me feel unimportant. If that's the case, American university system, you've succeeded. I completed my sixth application today. And sent my sixth application fee. I need an application scholarship just as much as one for actual school!

Un Autre Update

Happy Frietag, bloggity-followers. So far my day has been mildly entertaining...we voted for Senior Superlatives in homeroom. Interestingly, the same five people were in every category. My favorite was "Most Responsible", as one of the nominees recently had a DUI, or so the rumor goes. This just in- he was featured in The Slammer, a classy publication which prints people's mug shots. Charming. I hope he wins, although I might die of irony poisoning. It's like septicemia. Which is an Anatomy and Physiology ten-point word this week. There have been some fantastic words in that joke of a class this semester. For example, hematopoesis. I lahve this word so much that I attempt to work it into mundane conversation. I have failed thus far.

Something else that has come to pass this week- I dusted off my copy of the Beatles' Abbey Road. Okay, so I've listened to it a million times, but I've gone on a little Beatles hiatus lately. I lent the CD to a friend and upon its return to me, I started to listen to it again. It has been on constant rotation for a week now. I'm really into the song I Want You (She's So Heavy) with its sultry blues influences and grainy prog-rock vocals. It's awesome. Of course, there are better songs on the album, like Come Together, Here Comes The Sun, Maxwell's Silver Hammer, Octopus's Garden, and other such well-touted tracks, but I Want You (She's So Heavy) had so slipped under my radar that I'm really discovering it for the first time, which is an exhilirating feeling, an exhilirating feeling that hasn't happened with the Beatles and I for a long time. I know all their music so well that I rarely find myself discovering it. I believe the last time I discovered a new Beatles song to love was The Ballad Of John and Yoko about two years ago.

They're like an old friend, the Beatles, always picking me up when I'm down, and always there for me. I can always count on the Beatles when new music sucks or I get tired of hearing the same drumkit and electronica that gets so annoying after a while. In my little book of lists currently serving as my diary, I attempted to write a list of my favorite Beatles songs. I couldn't do it. I couldn't even begin. So here's to you, George. Here's to you, Paul. Here's to you, John. And...here's to you, Ringo. And here's to I Want You (She's So Heavy), because it's the last song on which all four of you joined together in the studio as the one special organism that made music history. You Fab Four have always been and will always be the voices on the soundtrack of my life.

Today's Happenings

I was called down to Student Services today. I sit in the guidance counselor's office, and the following conversation ensues:

Counselor: What kind of car do you drive?
Me: A Saturn.
Counselor: A coupe, right?
Me: Yes...
Counselor: Are you stressed?
Me: I am now.

At this point, I am very nervous indeed. I'm afraid that she'll say I hit another car or parked in the wrong space, or that I didn't register my vehicle correctly, or maybe that someone else hit my car. I'm quickly approaching panic when she pulls my keys from her pocket.

Counselor: I figured you might need these. Apparently you were a little stressed this morning, because you left them in the lock on your trunk.
Me: Oh my gosh, thank you.

On a completely unrelated note, for all of you internet geeks out there- LEAVE BOXXY ALONE!!!

Tuesdays

It feels as if it has been a month of Mondays, and in reality, it's only two days through the week. Augh, why must Tuesdays exist? It seems the only positive things that happen in relation to Tuesday are song lyrics:

• We are drinking beer at noon on Tuesday. (Sheryl Crow)
• Sun comes up, it's Tuesday morning. (Cowboy Junkies)
• Tuesday's gone with the wind. (Lynrd Skynrd)
• I believe it was a Tuesday when you caught my eye. (Taylor Swift)
• Tuesday morning, please be gone I'm tired of you. (Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young)

I suppose there are a few other positive things about Tuesday, like the chain restaraunt Ruby Tuesday or the junk store Tuesday Morning. As a general rule, however, it is a rather lame day. It's far enough from last weekend that you can't remember it clearly, but also far enough from next weekend that you can't look forward to it yet. So...I vote we abolish Tuesday altogether. Who's with me?

Oops!

For those of you who follow me so avidly that you saw the "Plans" post that was up for a few hours today, I apologize. It was incomplete. I had "premature blogjaculation" as another blogger so succintly puts it. I will post "Plans" soon, when it is actually finished. There's a silver lining on it- I assure you the end product will be nowhere as emo as the bit you originally saw. Sorry again!

Lists

It is Monday. Meh. Bof. And other such interjections which mean "blah".
I used to write in a diary, but I wasn't very good at it, as I rarely kept up with it, and frequently my writing got so angsty/whiny/just plain boring, that I annoyed myself. So I stopped. I have since replaced my diary with a little book of lists. The lists describe the daily happenings of moi and my thoughts better than the diary format ever could. I shall occasionally share these lists with you, dear followers. Here are a few of my most recents:

Words Impossible to Define
Trollin'
Sketch
Respect
Hot

Concerts I've Attended and My Ratings of Them (in Retrospect)
Journey: **
Riders in the Sky: ****
Allison Krauss and Union Station: *****
Shania Twain: **
Jimmy Buffett: **
Dave Matthews Band: ****
Jack Johnson: *****
Maroon 5/Counting Crows/Sara Bareilles: *****
U2: *****

Things with Which I Have a (Possibly Unhealthy) Obsession
France
Audrey Hepburn
Lists
Steampunk stuff
Gossip Girl
Vampires (the evil kind, not the sparkly vegetarian types)
Josephine Bonaparte
Period fashion, especially Colonial
Lady Gaga
The Beatles
Knowing the lyrics to every song I hear
Virology/epidemiology
Navy blue
The Cathedral of Learning and the Wren Building
Imperfect things
John Mayer's twitter updates

A Little Taste of Heaven (also known as France)

As the soothing melodies of Iron and Wine lull me into some sort of calm, relaxed trance, I feel the need to write. The weekend's happenings have been few and uninteresting...Last night, I cooked. I shall call the dish I created something along the lines of Supreme de Vielle Poule which, when translated, does not sound delicious...but it was, I assure you. It is based off of a tiny little recipe in The Joy of Cooking.

-Butcher a five-pound roasting chicken.

-Sear the pieces in butter and add a quarter-cup of dry, buttery white wine.

-Take the chicken out of the pot. Add apples, celery, onions, chicken stock, 2 tablespoons of flour, paprika, and fresh parsley to taste. Boil until apples are tender.

-Put the chicken back in the pot. Simmer for an hour.

-Remove the chicken from the pot. Strain the sauce, keeping the strained gravy part, not the chunks. Mix 1/3 cup of sour cream with the sauce over a double boiler. Add dry tarragon.

-Put the sauce and the chicken in a casserole pan. Cover the chicken with shredded Parmesan.
-Broil until the cheese is brownish.

Ta-Dah! Enjoy! Feel French all evening and impress your guests. They will be asking you "what IS that taste? It's so fresh. Is that mint? Cinnamon? Maybe...tarragon?" You will smile and nod and feel very, very accomplished. This is even better if someone watches you cook the dish, as it is just complicated enough to make you look like you know what you're doing.

The Longing of Despereaux

And now I find myself searching for something about which to write. Searching...this reminds me of a line in The Tale of Despereaux, which I watched a couple of nights ago. It was something about "longing" and how Princess Pea was full of it. It's a very difficult feeling to describe, longing. Dictionary.com defines it as "strong, persistent desire or craving, esp. for something unattainable or distant" and I think this is about the best definition we'll see.

Everyone has experienced longing, I think. I've had this feeling lately, for a while now. I'm not sure what I'm longing for...it seems to hover just over the horizon, a dim light, glowing and pulsing, waiting for me to reach it. The best way I can think to explain it is through the song Something's Coming from West Side Story.

"Could be. Who knows? There's something due any day. I will know right away, soon as it shows... I got a feeling there's a miracle due. Gonna come true. Coming to me. Could it be? Yes it could- Something's coming, something good. If I can wait, something's coming, I don't know what it is..." Maybe some time soon it will reach me, or I'll reach it. Either way.

I don't think I'm finished discussing Despereaux just yet. First, I never did read the book, so don't criticize me. If the movie wasn't as good as the book, tant pis. I'm talking about the movie here. It was lovely. There are some great lines, and the film had such childish innocence, naivete and youthful optimism to it that it managed to lift my spirits. It also got me thinking; my aimless ponderings about the movie's most classic lines follow.

"If you know anything about fairy tales, then you know that a hero doesn't appear until the world really needs one" The world needs a hero now more than ever. When will our hero appear? We've pinned the job of hero onto many people throughout history, and we're always disappointed. The latest in this story is Barack Obama- he might succeed yet, but the expectations a country full of longing put onto him are impossible. He can't be everything we want at once.

"When your heart breaks it can grow back crooked. It grows back twisted and gnarled and hard." This is true...when someone hurts someone else, the hurt person is never really the same. Sure, they can get over it. Sure, their heart will heal. Sure, they'll move on. But in truth, there's always a bit of scar tissue. There's always that memory of the hurt, or there's regret, or there's a little voice saying they're not good enough. Maybe the person just grows jaded.

"The story said she was a prisoner but that wasn't totally true because she had hope and whenever you have hope, you're never really anybody's prisoner. " Barack Obama should have used this in his campaign. I, however, disagree with this quote. I think hope can actually make us into prisoners. We can hold out hope for something for so long that eventually, the hope is all we have left. We're trapped by the very thing that's supposed to free us.

"Sweet and matchless Josephine, how strangely you work upon my heart"

I am generally not a sucker for a love story. See “Romance” under “Things Everyone But Me Likes”. Yet, I am and always have been captivated by the story of Napoleon and Josephine. The basic plotline is as follows, played out in a serious of passionate letters:

Napoleon Bonaparte, a young Revolutionary soldier, meets the unbelievably beautiful Josephine Beauharnhais, a widowed socialite and mother of two.

He courts her, eventually obtaining her hand in marriage.

Napoleon goes off to war. Josephine is home, lonely and bored. She takes on many lovers, and eventually Napoleon finds out.

He is heartbroken and angry and feels he must ask for a divorce, though he loves her still. Josephine convinces him otherwise. He never lets her live down her infidelity, but they move past this obstacle.

Napoleon is crowned Emperor, and in a touching ceremony, bestows the title Empress on Josephine.

They seem to be unable to conceive a child, a problem Napoleon blames on himself. The pressure increases for him to bear an heir.

One of Napoleon’s mistresses (he is the cheater now, still making up for Josephine’s adultery) has a baby by him, which he cannot claim legally. He then realizes he is able to conceive children after all and begins blaming the problem on Josephine.

He divorces Josephine and marries 18-year-old Marie Louise of Austria. Napoleon and Marie Louise conceive a son, Napoleon’s heir.

Napoleon is exiled to Elba. He and Josephine continue to write letters as they always had. She asks to be permitted to join him in Elba in the last letter she ever writes, dying before she receives his reply.

When Napoleon escapes and returns to Paris, the first thing he does is ask Josephine’s doctor what happened to her. The doctor tells him she died of a broken heart.

Napoleon dies. His last words are rumored to have been “France, the army, Josephine”.