Generic America

Today as I reflected over the vast amount of changes that are about to take place in my life, for the first time I got The Fear with a completely sober head. It was a sort of momentary wave of panic that the fun might be over.

See, this is my last semester, as I graduate in May. I don’t plan to make any kind of final walk or get all teary-eyed to “Pomp and Circumstance” as I anticipate throwing my square academic hat into the air only to lose it and pick up someone else’s. I intend to have my degree quietly mailed to my house so my parents can hang it up on the wall and admire it with some satisfaction that I actually graduated.

When I consider my college experience, I can’t help but feel slightly disappointed that it’s finally over. Sure, I am trying like hell to get into graduate school, but I am sure that will prove to be much harder and especially tedious since I won’t be living on campus anymore.

That’s right; I am getting a house off campus. My roommate, his girlfriend, my neighbor and I already paid our $750 deposit for a three-bedroom, two-bathroom house about three miles from campus. It has about an acre’s worth of yard and trees complete with plenty of Kentucky farmland nothingness to stand on the porch and stare out into during cigarette breaks.

I have never paid monthly rent before, so I am looking forward to learning something. In a way, I will be glad to get away from campus and retire each night into the peace and quiet of the Richmond countryside. I will have a yard to mow, a hammock, and hopefully a garden though it is too late to plant some things. Also, there are no streetlights, so I can dust off my telescope and actually get a good view of the Milky Way again.

One thing I look forward to is further isolation from Generic America. By that I mean all the people who just walk around everyday concerned only with their own lives and what seems to be the trendiest thing to do at the moment. Those people who are only concerned about the Now. When I was in high school, I used to dream about how college would be far less generic. I imagined a place where thought and discussion would dominate, where fashion wouldn’t exist, where people actually went to the library to read and where students actually participated during class discussion with interest.

I soon discovered that college is mostly just an extension of high school, but worse. It’s actually a conformity factory. I would say 90 percent of college students go to college because they either are forced/expected to by their parents or they just want to get away from home. They don’t give a shit about actually doing something productive with their lives. They join fraternities and sororities and they all have the same generic haircuts and wear identical generic shirts. Sometimes I wonder how they even recognize each other.

When the classes are actually full, it’s usually because there is an exam that half the people will fail because they’ve only been to class two other times. Also like high school, they still compete to see who can play the loudest, most incomprehensible music that can rattle itself out of the trunk. Judging by the police reports I read in the paper every week, this place seems to be a breeding ground for racism, sexism, bigotry, alcoholism and crime—things that an academic institution is supposed to discourage.

It’s probably not as dramatically tragic as I make it out to be. I just thought college would be a little different. I thought people would be encouraged to be individuals. Most have good intentions, but it’s very disheartening to see people silently “play the game” and act as if they have absolutely no sense.

I’ve recently become acquainted with an international student from Holland. I am always happy to talk to Europeans because they seem to have such a stronger grasp of reality than most Americans do. One night I asked him what he imagined America to be like before he came here, and what he thinks about it now after living here for four months. He said that most people in Holland think America is the most violent and crazy place on the planet. He truly considered the possibility that he might never make it home alive after coming to study here.

He thinks otherwise now of course, but I wonder how America got such a reputation? Are we really so violent and spontaneously insane? I don’t think we are, but I think we have grown increasingly ignorant over the years. Ignorant does not means “stupid” it just means “not informed.” The vast majority of us only speak one language. We think stem-cell research kills babies. We think women should not be allowed to have an abortion if they want to. We watch FOX news. We think oil is the end-all, ONLY option for energy. We think Mexico is invading us. We think Canada is stupid. We think guns are bad. We think global warming doesn’t exist. Marijuana is still illegal. We think pills will solve all our stress and insomnia problems. We don’t care what goes on in the rest of the world unless it serves our short-term interests and finally, we elected a president who sent this country into a war that none of us wanted. What's worse, we elected him twice.

I don’t know about you, but I consider myself very patriotic. It really bothers me that America has such a terrible reputation with the rest of the world. America has had its good times and bad times, when people were enlightened or paranoid. There’s no doubt in my mind that we will be seen as an admirable, “city on the hill” again, I just hope that it’s soon. We have the resources, the money, and the potential to be great again. We're just directing it in the wrong places and need to refocus our "efforts" if you want to call them that.

In the meantime, in a few weeks I will be living out in the country away from generic people until that happens.

Woes from the GRE

I took the GRE today. I passed the verbal section with a disturbingly low (but passable) score. I did terrible on the quantitative section, but I am not too concerned since the English graduate program I am applying for doesn’t even consider quantitative scores. The analytical section went well but I won’t know my scores for a few weeks. I hadn’t realized how dependant I have become on spell-check.

To be honest, the test was not what I expected. It was slightly easier than the model test in the preparation book I used to study. However, apparently the test is adaptive (it is computer based) and it makes harder or dumbs down the questions as you answer them correctly or incorrectly.

Anyhow, it has been a long day.

Denver mints traveling faster

In one of my previous blog entries, “Possible Correlations in the US Economy and the Circulation of Currency” I addressed just what the title suggests, only in reference to the 50 State Quarters Program here in the U.S.

If you live here in the states then you are probably familiar with the various designs on the backs of the new quarters as well as the sharper cut of George Washington on the front.

During the first week of February, my neighbor who is aware of my collecting habits brought over a Nevada P quarter. I hadn’t seen one yet and I immediately checked the release schedule on the U.S. Mints Website and noted that it had only been one week since the quarter’s initial release on January 31, 2006.

This past weekend I got a Nevada D in some change. This time, it only took two and a half months for the Denver minted quarter to circulate it’s was into my possession.

Does this reflect that the economy is getting better, since the Denver minted quarter made it to the eastern U.S. in only half the time that it usually takes? I don’t know. I am just happy to have both mints for the Nevada quarter and am now waiting on Nebraska.

To find out more information on the 50 State Quarters Program, check out this page at the U.S. Mint’s Web site.

Scholarly Shenanigans

Last week I started reading the great American novel, “The Great Gatsby” by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Several people who have spied me reading this book have made such comments as, “I read it, wasn’t impressed” or more blatantly, “That book sucks.” But the most common and disturbing of all comments I’ve heard is that it reads “too slow and jumps around.”

It really irks me that some people, especially English majors, take such an elitist attitude towards literature. I suppose that in any field of interest there will always be those who think they know the facts more than the rest. But with books, I’m afraid there aren’t that many facts other than what MLA can give us. The rest is open to interpretation and the value (or lack thereof) of a book is definitely in the eye of the beholder. But why do most beholders need to feel superior among comrades of the same interest?

So far “Gatsby” proves to be interesting and full of that certain something that I like so much about F. Scott Fitzgerald. I heard once that Hunter S. Thompson would bang out a copy of a chapter or two of “The Great Gatsby” whenever he needed some inspiration. That’s one of the reasons I decided to give it a read. Back in 2003, I spent the autumn months deeply immersed in all those 1920s avant-garde, expatriate writers. I read mostly short stories by these writers and came away with a profound liking for Hemingway and Fitzgerald.

Personally there aren’t many books written in English that I find unreadable. A bad book is worth something, simply because it evokes some kind of emotion be it positive or negative. Even Jane Austen, whose books I find to be the most incredibly boring and dry critiques of English family, economy and society, are fairly easy (if not tedious) to get through.

What about James Joyce? If you think Fitzgerald is jumpy, try out “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man” or “Ulysses.” You will definitely learn the true definition of jumpy and frustration. I read “Portrait” in a few sittings and though I don’t declare to completely understand everything about it, I got the gist of it and might read it again someday. I have attempted “Ulysses” about three times, ending each time with a more deeply rooted hatred for James Joyce. However, I absolutely love these people who claim to have read all 900+ pages without a problem.

Whenever I hear someone, especially my age, discussing “Ulysses” as if they have read it, I am always eager to question them thoroughly. When I ask what it was about (pretending to be entirely ignorant of the book), the best answer I have received so far is “Oh, I read it a long time ago, I don’t really remember.”

That’s when I get out my wading boots. You know, those boots you put on when you have to wade through a room full of bullshit?

Go directly to Hell: Do not pass go, do not collect $200

Someone should write a song about the Devil coming to town to challenge a guy at a game of Monopoly. In the song, the Devil would bet the guy a Monopoly board of gold against the guy’s soul. The game would go on for hours and it would be really dramatic until the guy out-deals the devil in property trades and the Devil goes bankrupt. The chorus of this song would have to include flaming mountains, chickens and a not-so-rabid dog.

Whenever I suggest a game of Monopoly to pass a night with coffee, cigarettes or a fifth, the short answer is usually – no. The long answer is usually – hell no. I have lost just as many games as the next person, but I have won a lot too. I am often accused of ill deals, unfair and relentless strategy, and cutthroat game play.

I assure you, I play perfectly fair and I always make sure the rules are agreed upon before the game begins, as everyone has their own traditional rules, concepts, etc. when it comes to Monopoly. Last night my neighbor and his girlfriend brought their Monopoly board over not really certain as to what they were getting themselves into.

The game seemed to start off in their favor. When all the properties had finally been purchased, I had possession of all yellow properties (Atlantic Ave, Ventnor Ave., and Marvin Gardens), all purple properties (Mediterranean Ave. and Baltic Ave.) and a single property from all color groups preventing my neighbor and his girlfriend from having any monopolies. My neighbor did however have all railroads which slightly annoyed me after shelling out $200 once every time around the board.

The girlfriend was the first to go out after landing on my yellow properties riddled with houses and hotels. Rather than going out, my neighbor offered to pay the $1025 rent for her in exchange for all of her properties. I protested, as all properties of someone going bankrupt should rightfully go directly to the bank to be repurchased by the remaining players who land on said properties. I decided to let it go, as my neighbor only achieved one monopoly with all his newly acquired properties. His girlfriend went bankrupt on her next turn and was out of the game.

Then the dealing began. I was insistent on breaking up his railroad cartel and refused all deals unless they involved at least a two-railroad trade. He was more than reluctant to let go of those railroads. After an hour of not much excitement and many deal proposals, I decided “what the hell” and I made a deal to give up three of my single properties for Kentucky Ave. and Pacific Ave. which gave me two more monopolies. I immediately erected hotels on them thanks to my vast wealth. My opponent however erected some hotels on his three newly acquired monopolies.

At first I was a little nervous as thousands of dollars began changing hands between us. The game appeared to be turning in his favor until I hit Free Parking (to which all taxes are placed in the middle—this is not an official rule, but it should be) and I received a grand total of $1875. With this money I was able to make it around the board a few times without suffering the loss of selling my hotels or houses to pay him rent.

Though he had played well and made some fine moves throughout the game, my neighbor was not so lucky. Before long he had sold all his houses and hotels, mortgaged nearly all his property, and finally went bankrupt. I ended the four-hour game with $7600 cash and at least $4000 invested in hotels and houses.

I am still waiting on the Devil to return my phone calls.

Lifetime guarantee; until you die

Although it is overcast and drizzling rain today, I decided it was time to bring my favorite pair of worn-out jeans out of retirement. I always did have an affinity for Levi’s, especially 527’s with their boot cut flair at the bottom. I have worn about the same size since I reached adulthood, 33 – 32.

I like these jeans because they’re full of holes and comfortable. The knees are long gone with the past summers of my golf course maintenance job. The pockets are worn out with the years of friction from my pocketknife and change on the right side, and my lighter on the left.

When I noticed the hole on the left today, I suddenly became aware of my lighter. It’s strange how a person can handle, transport, and use an item everyday but never fully become aware of it until the right circumstances present themselves. So I pulled it out for examination.

First, it came to my attention that I have been smoking cigarettes now for six years. Six is certainly a small single digit number, but six years is a long time, especially to be smoking. I quit for seven days when I had the flu in December of 2003, and spent three terriftying days last Christmas snowed in at my parents house without any cigarettes. Other than that, I have smoked at least a half-pack per day, everyday. But I don’t want to talk about smoking, or pants, but Zippos.

About 10 years ago I had a dream: I was at a flea market (the very next day my parents were planning to attended one in Louisville). In the dream I bought an Zippo from an old man. I suppose the lighter in the dream could have possessed magical powers, or stood to symbolize something in my subconscious, but being the kid that I was, when I awoke I was determined to find and secure a Zippo that day.

Of course after explaining the dream to my parents, they saw no need for me to have a lighter. I thought otherwise, believing in the power of dreams and being somewhat superstitious, as most 12-year-old boys tend to be. Regardless of their skepticism, I kept my eyes peeled all day for the specific shape and design of the lighter I had dreamt about. I left that day disappointed and feeling defeated. I thought sure I was meant to leave with a lighter that would somehow change my destiny and add hours of fun to my life, but I came home empty handed.

Sometime later, I was telling my grandma (who was notorious for her wild dreams and also a smoker up until her death) all about my Zippo dream and my futile search to find one at the flea market. She went back to her bedroom and returned with a Zippo. It had belonged to her brother Elmo who had died – ironically enough from lung cancer – long before I was born. It was silver, polish-worn with years of use and had a blue label on one side bearing his last name, Leach. She allowed me to hold it but said she would give it to me when I was older.

I forgot all about Zippos until the summer of 2000. I was in Gatlinburg, Tenn. on vacation when I decided it was about time to have a descent lighter. I bought an antique-brass style Zippo with “D 2000” stamped on the bottom. The “D” represents the month of April in which the lighter was manufactured (i.e. A – L represents January – December).

So this month being April, my Zippo is officially celebrating its sixth birthday. I like it for several reasons. Regardless of the famous company slogan “the windproof lighter,” it’s not really windproof. Sometimes, it doesn’t even light when the wind is blowing exceptionally hard. However, its design allows the smoker to angle the hinged lid in such a way to block the wind (with the help of a shielding hand) to light a cigarette, pipe, joint*, etc. more easily.

Another reason I like Zippos is for the required maintenance. Unlike many Americans, I am not that willing to adhere to the “faster, better, cheaper” philosophy that has leaked its way out of NASA and into society. I enjoy refilling the fluid and waiting to trim or replace the wick. I like the clicking sound it makes when I open it. I like the smell and taste of the cigarette when I light it (I only buy metal cans of Red Devil lighter fluid).

Plus, all Zippos come with a lifetime guarantee. If it ever breaks, I can send it back to Bradford, Pa. for repair. I also like to see other people with Zippos as well as the wide variety of tricks people attempt while drunk (usually the same trick, which they can never execute). I might go as far as to say that all Zippo users share a certain bond, a certain appreciation for the aesthetic value of smoking.

My grandma passed away in July of 2001. As the family rummaged through her things to be divided among the kids and grandkids, the old Zippo that belonged to my uncle Elmo resurfaced. I had forgotten all about it, but on seeing it I asserted that it had been promised to me years ago and it was handed over without hesitation. My grandpa, however, didn’t turn loose of it before adding, “Don’t start smoking or anything” to which I just nodded and pocketed the artifact; a reminder to quit smoking one day before it kills me.

*It is disputed as to whether or not it is appropriate to light a joint with a Zippo as some smokers complain about the taste of the lighter fluid.

Headline goes here

I have been interested to see, as of late, how my new job as assistant copy editor at the school paper has affected my writing. In fact, since I got the job I haven’t written anything up until last week. I had to write a poetry explication/analysis on the poet/poem of my choice for my Romantic Literature class (ENG 480). After reading “The Human Abstract” by William Blake about 10 or more times, and making my usual outline, I typed out four pages in about two hours with no problem.

We were required to print out two copies of our paper to be distributed in class for peer editing. As I read two other papers in class I felt assured that I had an equal, if not slightly more stable draft than I had previously thought. Later that night, when I sat down to review what my classmates had edited I noticed some startling comments.

To my horror, I read such disheartening comments as “You have some serious punctuation problems” and “too many run-on sentences.” I was offended and befuddled. However, as I read over their corrections, I realized my mistake. I had written the paper completely in AP style. Somehow, my brain disregarded the 23-years-worth of English grammar and converted to this strange­—but ultimately and unarguably more efficient style of writing.

Though I have only been assistant copy editor for about five weeks, I feel that I am not learning AP style as fast as I should. When I edit an article and pass it on to the copy editor, I notice that her red marks far outnumber mine. I ask her a lot of questions and refer to my stylebook often, but plenty of mistakes still elude me.

Working for a college newspaper, especially one that only publishes once a week has slightly deterred me from ever wanting to work for a daily paper. First of all, most writers are terribly unorganized. No one seems to conform to a specific style (AP included) and many people make the same mistakes over and over regardless of my written comments on their drafts.

For example, when an English major like myself uses commas in a series – such as red, white, and blue – the comma is naturally placed between white and and. However, in AP style, the series simply reads red, white and blue with only one comma. Half the writers recognize this rule and some even insist on using the ampersand (the symbol &) in place of and. This is another huge no-no unless the ampersand is part of a company name such as Proctor & Gamble.

Another common mistake is with numerals. In accordance with AP style, cardinal numbers 0-9 should almost always be spelled out zero-nine. Anything above 10, unless it is a date or is at the beginning of a sentence, should be written as a numeral. Nine out of 10 people don’t adhere to this rule.

Deadlines are another thing the staff seems to extravagantly disregard. I go to the office at 5:30 p.m. on Tuesday. I usually leave around midnight. In that amount of time I have only done about two hours of editing. The rest of the time I sit around doing homework, waiting on people to drop their articles in the *2beEdited network folder.

When I go back on Wednesday afternoon, people are running around franticly trying to get their articles edited all at once to make the 3 p.m. deadline. I realize the staff is 99 percent college students and that everyone procrastinates. I do however think if the deadline were more strictly enforced, everyone (including the editors) would be a lot better off. I haven’t decided if I want to continue working at the paper next semester, but if it’s more organized under the new adviser, I may consider it a little more strongly.

Definitely though, the experience alone has been worth it. I’ve never much liked working with groups of people, and now I remember why. But, most of the people are all civil and interesting. Several of the staff are smokers and we take full advantage of our unlimited smoke breaks. Also, every computer in the office is a Mac, which I had no prior experience with before this year. I actually heard myself say the common phrase uttered by most Americans over 50 in response to computers, “I can’t even turn one on.”

The reality of too many options

I bought my first pocketknife at Mammoth Cave National Park when I was just five years old. It was a small, single blade knife with a plastic, yellow handle. It had a picture of a horse on the handle that said “Kentucky” and it only cost $1. Although my parents told me just to keep it in my pocket, the first chance I got in the bathroom stall, I opened it up in admiration and accidentally cut myself.

As boys often do in emulation of their fathers, I absorbed many of my dad’s interests and passions, especially for pocketknives. Over the years I have enjoyed carrying a wide variety of knives and have learned all about different steels, blades, handle materials, and even a little history about certain U.S. knife companies like W.R. Case & Sons. I was always cautioned to avoid foreign cutlery, with exception to European companies such as Zwilling J. A. Henckels and Victorinox, maker of the ever-popular Swiss Army Knife.

I first saw a Swiss Army Knife at the Louisville Zoo in the late Eighties. My parents were paying the admission fee and I noticed the college-age guy taking the money in the little booth had one on his key ring. I asked him about it and he opened up few of the blades. I was totally amazed at the possibilities of so many tools, even the corkscrew. Soon afterwards I got one for my birthday and carried it wherever I went. Later on in my life I advanced to Leatherman tools after losing my Swiss Army Knife on a fishing trip.

Many people question the validity of Switzerland’s army and if they actually have one. It turns out they do in fact have an army and a defense department since at least 1848. The Swiss Army Knife was first issued to Swiss soldiers in 1891. It was invented by a man named Karl Elsener. It had wooden handles with a can opener, a screwdriver, a knife blade and the mysterious punch blade still present on some modern Swiss Army Knives but it's not very useful (unless you are losing weight from starvation out in the wilderness and you need a new hole punched in your belt to keep your pants up.)

So recently I have switched back to carrying a Swiss Army Knife. Nothing too elaborate, just a simple Tinker model. However, as I was surfing the Web today I discovered a startling new model that tells me Victorinox has gotten a little out of control. This is not a joke.