Every so-often I make an attempt at becoming more intellectual (or at least appearing more intellectual). These experiments usually end with me drooling in an open newspaper or hurting myself with some 19th century accessory that I don't know how to use. The lastest thing is a "gentleman's book club" that some friends and I have started up. We're going to read about a book a month and choose books that are of lasting significance to us in some way. We get together once a week to talk about what we get from them and act smart. The first book on the list: Faulkner's As I Lay Dying. From what I understand this is about some old woman's children taking their mother's body some place far away to bury her.
From the get-go I have concerns that I won't be able to pull through this. The premise doesn't exactly sound thrilling. Tomorrow I'll be heading to the library to check out a copy since I'm too cheap to buy it. Imagine that! Someone using a library for it's intended purpose, recreational reading!
Other than that it's business as usual for me. I still have to find an internship for next semester (SOON!) and get some schedule stuff straightened out. I'm starting to feel the heat of the big "post graduation" question and I still don't have an answer. I still have faith that God will provide but any prayer on the subject is always appreciated. I assure you, I'm putting thought into it.
Do you think a wolf would eat beefaroni?
Monday, November 12, 2007
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
If it's Going to Have a Wok, I'm Pretty Sure it Should be a Golden One
November Weighs More…
I have a twenty-minute walk to class from the front door of building five in the Seahawk Landing. I’m not sure but I think it’s right at a mile long. All of my classes, save one, are located in a little building that’s begging for renovation called Morton Hall. The classrooms in this building are designed to be the educational equivalent of the clown car. While watching Dr. Laudadio try to pace around the front of the room without running into desks and/or trashcans provides a reasonable amount of amusement, I find the cramped quarters to be quite annoying.
- Of course, this is neither here nor there.
I was walking to class this morning and it was knocking on 50 degrees with a strong wind and all I had on was a thin t-shirt and a UNCW hoodie.* It created one of those sensations that I’m sure we’re all familiar with and most of us probably hate. The wind would constantly pierce through my sweatshirt making my arms intensely cold, but at the same time the heat of my body made me feel all, warm. I do not approve of this feeling.
- But what are you going to do?
I had yet another English class this morning. It was a pretty decent class, my “Reading and Writing Arguments” with Donald Bushman. All we did was peer review. I forgot to bring my draft. Sigh. I did, in spite of this, provide one of the best peer reviews I’ve ever done for a classmate of mine named Ian. His paper was only marginally interesting, but that’s probably just because I’m not a big baseball fan.
While I don’t have any real issues with my writing classes, I feel it’s high time that I document my sentiment toward the literature classes that I’ve been involved with so far.
They’re garbage.
Now, it’s probably important that I clarify so that I don’t sound like a judgmental idiot that just doesn’t like to do his work. Quite the contrary, I don’t mind the work. I mean, sure there is a ton of reading and some hefty papers that have to be written, but I don’t mind that – I kind of signed up for it. What gets me about these classes it that they’re so speculative and so little of the discussion that we have is grounded in things that we might actually be able to retain or are of any importance. A typical discussion, ESPECIALLY IN POETRY, usually starts with a reading of the work or quick recap, followed by what I can only imagine must be an imaginary flag wave to signal the start of off-topic or ridiculous comments – which fill the entire class period with seemingly pointless discussion. There is a kid that sits next to me in one class that really gets my goat. He spends about 5 minutes just trying to spit his comment out because he’s forming his thoughts as he’s speaking them. As you might expect, this leads, more often than not, to a vastly unsatisfying conclusion and I’m left, once again, considering what useful functions my brain could have been working on during that time.
The other day I thought of something that made me laugh out loud in the middle of all of it. I’m pretty sure that at almost any point in class I could pose the following question and a significant amount of conversation would flow in direct response to it:
“How do you think this {piece, section, point, line, etc.} relates to John Stamos?”
I can hear them now…
“Well, that’s an interesting point. John Stamos’ career has been experiencing a recent revitalization of sorts and we kind of see that also in line 13 where Hughes kind of references his own return to the spotlight after the initial fire sparked in the Harlem Renaissance had kind of faded.“
“I think if John Stamos were here right now, he’d really have something to say about the Greek allusions made in this poem. I’m pretty sure that his heritage as a Greek would give him a little more insight into the life of the classic philosophers that so inspired the imagists of the 19teens and 20s.”
“Contemporary literature could conceivably owe a lot to John Stamos. I mean, it’s not something that we jump to initially, but we obviously count Pop Culture as an extension of the social text of the day. When we watch Full House we’re seeing the recorded culture of that time period and so part of our understanding of that period, even if it’s just a small part, we owe to John Stamos.”
If my professor asked what I thought, I’d do exactly what I always do. Smile and say:
Oh, I agree completely.
*My UNCW hooded sweatshirt was won by my roommate, Bryan and since he has a million such sweatshirts, he gave it to me. While I’m very grateful for this gift, a $35 value, I can’t help but be kind of bothered by the sheer number of people, (especially girls) which I pass every day that are wearing the exact same hoodie. I’m a loser.
And so passes my 300th post, with little fanfare.
I have a twenty-minute walk to class from the front door of building five in the Seahawk Landing. I’m not sure but I think it’s right at a mile long. All of my classes, save one, are located in a little building that’s begging for renovation called Morton Hall. The classrooms in this building are designed to be the educational equivalent of the clown car. While watching Dr. Laudadio try to pace around the front of the room without running into desks and/or trashcans provides a reasonable amount of amusement, I find the cramped quarters to be quite annoying.
- Of course, this is neither here nor there.
I was walking to class this morning and it was knocking on 50 degrees with a strong wind and all I had on was a thin t-shirt and a UNCW hoodie.* It created one of those sensations that I’m sure we’re all familiar with and most of us probably hate. The wind would constantly pierce through my sweatshirt making my arms intensely cold, but at the same time the heat of my body made me feel all, warm. I do not approve of this feeling.
- But what are you going to do?
I had yet another English class this morning. It was a pretty decent class, my “Reading and Writing Arguments” with Donald Bushman. All we did was peer review. I forgot to bring my draft. Sigh. I did, in spite of this, provide one of the best peer reviews I’ve ever done for a classmate of mine named Ian. His paper was only marginally interesting, but that’s probably just because I’m not a big baseball fan.
While I don’t have any real issues with my writing classes, I feel it’s high time that I document my sentiment toward the literature classes that I’ve been involved with so far.
They’re garbage.
Now, it’s probably important that I clarify so that I don’t sound like a judgmental idiot that just doesn’t like to do his work. Quite the contrary, I don’t mind the work. I mean, sure there is a ton of reading and some hefty papers that have to be written, but I don’t mind that – I kind of signed up for it. What gets me about these classes it that they’re so speculative and so little of the discussion that we have is grounded in things that we might actually be able to retain or are of any importance. A typical discussion, ESPECIALLY IN POETRY, usually starts with a reading of the work or quick recap, followed by what I can only imagine must be an imaginary flag wave to signal the start of off-topic or ridiculous comments – which fill the entire class period with seemingly pointless discussion. There is a kid that sits next to me in one class that really gets my goat. He spends about 5 minutes just trying to spit his comment out because he’s forming his thoughts as he’s speaking them. As you might expect, this leads, more often than not, to a vastly unsatisfying conclusion and I’m left, once again, considering what useful functions my brain could have been working on during that time.
The other day I thought of something that made me laugh out loud in the middle of all of it. I’m pretty sure that at almost any point in class I could pose the following question and a significant amount of conversation would flow in direct response to it:
“How do you think this {piece, section, point, line, etc.} relates to John Stamos?”
I can hear them now…
“Well, that’s an interesting point. John Stamos’ career has been experiencing a recent revitalization of sorts and we kind of see that also in line 13 where Hughes kind of references his own return to the spotlight after the initial fire sparked in the Harlem Renaissance had kind of faded.“
“I think if John Stamos were here right now, he’d really have something to say about the Greek allusions made in this poem. I’m pretty sure that his heritage as a Greek would give him a little more insight into the life of the classic philosophers that so inspired the imagists of the 19teens and 20s.”
“Contemporary literature could conceivably owe a lot to John Stamos. I mean, it’s not something that we jump to initially, but we obviously count Pop Culture as an extension of the social text of the day. When we watch Full House we’re seeing the recorded culture of that time period and so part of our understanding of that period, even if it’s just a small part, we owe to John Stamos.”
If my professor asked what I thought, I’d do exactly what I always do. Smile and say:
Oh, I agree completely.
*My UNCW hooded sweatshirt was won by my roommate, Bryan and since he has a million such sweatshirts, he gave it to me. While I’m very grateful for this gift, a $35 value, I can’t help but be kind of bothered by the sheer number of people, (especially girls) which I pass every day that are wearing the exact same hoodie. I’m a loser.
And so passes my 300th post, with little fanfare.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Jimmy Eat Show
Hey guys,
This is a concert review that I wrote for my music blog (mog) and just copy and pasted it over. If if seems a little less WilmingSloanian, thats why.
.....
So here's the update. For said update, let us flash back to an age when Nathan was quite a different chap. In 2001 I had no idea what good music was. I was a freshman in high school and the only CDs I had purchased at the time were the Star Wars soundtrack and Smash Mouth's 'Astro Lounge.' I'm almost ashamed to put that in print. Well, along came my sister, 6 years older than me, who had been introduced to a band from Arizona that had just released a new album, then called Bleed American (Shortly after it's release, 9.11 happened and they changed it to 'self titled,' it has since been changed back to 'Bleed American). The band was Jimmy Eat World, and though she rocked out to their newest work in her car constantly, for Christmas that year she gave me the album that she considered their best stuff, 1999's 'Clarity.' I was hooked.
From that moment forward I consider Jimmy Eat World to be the band that introduced me to the type of music I love today. Everything I listened to for a while was cast through a Jimmy Eat World (and specifically 'Clarity') colored lens. I have nearly worn my copy of that album out now and I bought all subsequent EPs and Albums by them, except for Bleed American. For all the love I had of Jimmy, I still had a huge hole in my musical life for them that lasted through last night. That hole was having never seen them live.
It wasn't for lack of trying. I'd check their website often, but the west coast band rarely made it to the east and if they did it was almost never in little North Carolina. The tv show "One Tree Hill" is filmed in Wilmington, where I go to school, and I found out a week after the fact that Jimmy came down to shoot an episode and college students were paid $100 to sit and watch as extras. Some of my friends made it in but, of course, I didn't get the memo in time. A year later I'd find out too late that they were on tour with the much less impressive Green Day and on their way to Raleigh. I recently found out the Jimmy Eat World's opening set consisted of three songs. If I had gone for them and gotten that, I'd have been more than slightly upset. Then, magically, this week my roommate is telling me that their latest album "Chase This Light" had just come out on the 16th. He checked their site and sure enough, Jimmy was making two nearby stops, this time as the headliner. One in Myrtle Beach at the House of Blues and one in Raleigh at Disco Rodeo. My heart rose, and then fell. I spent all of my money last weekend at Busch Gardens; there was no way I could afford to see them.
Or was there?
I remembered my giant tin-o-change that I had been saving for who knows how long. I took it to the bank and magically, $40 popped out. I was in the game and ready to go! I bought my tickets for House of Blues and waited for Saturday night to arrive.
First thing is first, they put on an awesome show but I have learned my lesson about going to a show without ear protection for the last time. PLEASE, remember to bring earplugs when you go to loud rock shows. It saves your ears and, honestly, you can hear the music a lot better.
Other than the occasional ear bleed, I couldn't be happier with the show. Viva Noche opened up and they were decent, but I could have dealt with about 2 or three fewer songs from them (they played about 8). We were situated on the floor by the front steps on the left side of the stage and had a great view. No lumbering 8 foot tall scene kid intermittently obscuring my vision and making out with his girlfriend this time. I went with a few friends and we had a blast. They played a good mix of old and new and finished it out with a bang - saving Sweetness, The Middle, and Hear You Me among others for their encore set. Incredibly high-energy, it's rare for me to want to jump around like the teenyboppers at a show but when everyone was screaming "Oh oh oh ohhhh oh!" during Sweetness, you couldn't help but want to. The band was not too talkative, but they were friendly enough. I noticed that they used my same orange Dunlop picks, which is just one of those details that makes a live performance so worth it. Fun little details and chatter aside, though, these guys really know how to rock and it's hard to see how the band known by many to be the kings of "emo" have anything to do with the sappy genre that they helped create. Best straightforward rock concert I've been to in a long time - maybe ever. If you get the chance, take it.
This is a concert review that I wrote for my music blog (mog) and just copy and pasted it over. If if seems a little less WilmingSloanian, thats why.
.....
So here's the update. For said update, let us flash back to an age when Nathan was quite a different chap. In 2001 I had no idea what good music was. I was a freshman in high school and the only CDs I had purchased at the time were the Star Wars soundtrack and Smash Mouth's 'Astro Lounge.' I'm almost ashamed to put that in print. Well, along came my sister, 6 years older than me, who had been introduced to a band from Arizona that had just released a new album, then called Bleed American (Shortly after it's release, 9.11 happened and they changed it to 'self titled,' it has since been changed back to 'Bleed American). The band was Jimmy Eat World, and though she rocked out to their newest work in her car constantly, for Christmas that year she gave me the album that she considered their best stuff, 1999's 'Clarity.' I was hooked.
From that moment forward I consider Jimmy Eat World to be the band that introduced me to the type of music I love today. Everything I listened to for a while was cast through a Jimmy Eat World (and specifically 'Clarity') colored lens. I have nearly worn my copy of that album out now and I bought all subsequent EPs and Albums by them, except for Bleed American. For all the love I had of Jimmy, I still had a huge hole in my musical life for them that lasted through last night. That hole was having never seen them live.
It wasn't for lack of trying. I'd check their website often, but the west coast band rarely made it to the east and if they did it was almost never in little North Carolina. The tv show "One Tree Hill" is filmed in Wilmington, where I go to school, and I found out a week after the fact that Jimmy came down to shoot an episode and college students were paid $100 to sit and watch as extras. Some of my friends made it in but, of course, I didn't get the memo in time. A year later I'd find out too late that they were on tour with the much less impressive Green Day and on their way to Raleigh. I recently found out the Jimmy Eat World's opening set consisted of three songs. If I had gone for them and gotten that, I'd have been more than slightly upset. Then, magically, this week my roommate is telling me that their latest album "Chase This Light" had just come out on the 16th. He checked their site and sure enough, Jimmy was making two nearby stops, this time as the headliner. One in Myrtle Beach at the House of Blues and one in Raleigh at Disco Rodeo. My heart rose, and then fell. I spent all of my money last weekend at Busch Gardens; there was no way I could afford to see them.
Or was there?
I remembered my giant tin-o-change that I had been saving for who knows how long. I took it to the bank and magically, $40 popped out. I was in the game and ready to go! I bought my tickets for House of Blues and waited for Saturday night to arrive.
First thing is first, they put on an awesome show but I have learned my lesson about going to a show without ear protection for the last time. PLEASE, remember to bring earplugs when you go to loud rock shows. It saves your ears and, honestly, you can hear the music a lot better.
Other than the occasional ear bleed, I couldn't be happier with the show. Viva Noche opened up and they were decent, but I could have dealt with about 2 or three fewer songs from them (they played about 8). We were situated on the floor by the front steps on the left side of the stage and had a great view. No lumbering 8 foot tall scene kid intermittently obscuring my vision and making out with his girlfriend this time. I went with a few friends and we had a blast. They played a good mix of old and new and finished it out with a bang - saving Sweetness, The Middle, and Hear You Me among others for their encore set. Incredibly high-energy, it's rare for me to want to jump around like the teenyboppers at a show but when everyone was screaming "Oh oh oh ohhhh oh!" during Sweetness, you couldn't help but want to. The band was not too talkative, but they were friendly enough. I noticed that they used my same orange Dunlop picks, which is just one of those details that makes a live performance so worth it. Fun little details and chatter aside, though, these guys really know how to rock and it's hard to see how the band known by many to be the kings of "emo" have anything to do with the sappy genre that they helped create. Best straightforward rock concert I've been to in a long time - maybe ever. If you get the chance, take it.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Picking Things Up and Moving to New Zeland
To be a "writer" I sure don't act like I enjoy writing very much. Oh well.
It's October and around this time of the year spooky things start popping up. This summer some of the Caswell folks and I did some ghost hunting. This is little more than walking around a "haunted" site with a recorder in hand asking dumb questions to the wall. We'd say things like "What's your name?" and "If you can here us, punch Zack." Of course, we were shamlessly ripping off the TV show "Ghost Hunters," as countless high school sophomores have done before us. Funny thing is, though - when you're asking those questions you don't really think about the alternative to dead silence that you almost always get. Either 1) you hear something fall or rattle or someone else in your group makes noise and is scares the monkey out of you or 2) a being from another plane responds. In the case of #2 I think I would find myself quickly regretting the venture to hunt the ghost and flee the building, most likely with arms flailing wildly in the air.
The moral of the story...don't hunt ghosts unless you want to find them.
Now, a deeper topic (but related). Are ghosts real? I really don't know. I don't believe that ghost, as we like to classically think of them, are real. There is something really romantic about the notion of ghosts, though. Poor lost souls, left to wander the Earth - maybe their heart was broken beyond repair, maybe they were killed and left unavenged, or maybe they just don't know thier dead. The whole idea of ghosts is just really cool to me but I can't bring myself to believe that God would let that happen.
So if they're not ghosts, what are they? The Bible warns against calling on the spirits of the dead, commands against it actually. It also speaks of "unclean spirits." Could it be that these spirits are demons? If so, why would they want to talk to or otherwise mess with us humans? I think that 90% of all ghostly happenings are either made up or misinterrpretations of naturally occuring phenomana. But even with all of that, there is still a good amount of legit, werid crap going on. There are just too many well documented cases to ignore that we're alone on the Earth. Something else is out there.
As a Christian, I currently believe that the voices we hear on tape recordings, the spectres that float through walls and the entities that push around Ouija planchetts are all demons or "unclean" spirits who are out to pull in victims. Such supernatural interests as "ghost hunting" only serve to distract people from the truth of God and people who are unprepaired in their spiritual life can find themselves quickly enticed by the powers of these spirits. The things they can do and the predictions they can make lead people to a series of false conceptions which can easily lead to a fallen life or set of beliefs. Satan's goal is to take down as many of us with him as possible, so that just seems logical to me.
As for everyone out there who thinks I'm really certafiably crazy at this point - more power to you! I'm not saying that I believe any of this happens, necessarily, and certainly not from first-hand experience. Part of me wishes that I could say that I've seen evidence of the paranormal, but the other (much larger) part is quite content to sit on my bed and play Halo 3 while eating Cheetos, instead.
I wonder if teargas has a smell or if it just burns really bad. Wouldn't it be ironic if it smelled really good?
It's October and around this time of the year spooky things start popping up. This summer some of the Caswell folks and I did some ghost hunting. This is little more than walking around a "haunted" site with a recorder in hand asking dumb questions to the wall. We'd say things like "What's your name?" and "If you can here us, punch Zack." Of course, we were shamlessly ripping off the TV show "Ghost Hunters," as countless high school sophomores have done before us. Funny thing is, though - when you're asking those questions you don't really think about the alternative to dead silence that you almost always get. Either 1) you hear something fall or rattle or someone else in your group makes noise and is scares the monkey out of you or 2) a being from another plane responds. In the case of #2 I think I would find myself quickly regretting the venture to hunt the ghost and flee the building, most likely with arms flailing wildly in the air.
The moral of the story...don't hunt ghosts unless you want to find them.
Now, a deeper topic (but related). Are ghosts real? I really don't know. I don't believe that ghost, as we like to classically think of them, are real. There is something really romantic about the notion of ghosts, though. Poor lost souls, left to wander the Earth - maybe their heart was broken beyond repair, maybe they were killed and left unavenged, or maybe they just don't know thier dead. The whole idea of ghosts is just really cool to me but I can't bring myself to believe that God would let that happen.
So if they're not ghosts, what are they? The Bible warns against calling on the spirits of the dead, commands against it actually. It also speaks of "unclean spirits." Could it be that these spirits are demons? If so, why would they want to talk to or otherwise mess with us humans? I think that 90% of all ghostly happenings are either made up or misinterrpretations of naturally occuring phenomana. But even with all of that, there is still a good amount of legit, werid crap going on. There are just too many well documented cases to ignore that we're alone on the Earth. Something else is out there.
As a Christian, I currently believe that the voices we hear on tape recordings, the spectres that float through walls and the entities that push around Ouija planchetts are all demons or "unclean" spirits who are out to pull in victims. Such supernatural interests as "ghost hunting" only serve to distract people from the truth of God and people who are unprepaired in their spiritual life can find themselves quickly enticed by the powers of these spirits. The things they can do and the predictions they can make lead people to a series of false conceptions which can easily lead to a fallen life or set of beliefs. Satan's goal is to take down as many of us with him as possible, so that just seems logical to me.
As for everyone out there who thinks I'm really certafiably crazy at this point - more power to you! I'm not saying that I believe any of this happens, necessarily, and certainly not from first-hand experience. Part of me wishes that I could say that I've seen evidence of the paranormal, but the other (much larger) part is quite content to sit on my bed and play Halo 3 while eating Cheetos, instead.
I wonder if teargas has a smell or if it just burns really bad. Wouldn't it be ironic if it smelled really good?
Monday, September 17, 2007
Teargas. I like the sound of that.
I looked at the old calendar and decided it was high time for another post on this rickety old blog. But what to write about.....?
The other day Scooby Doo was on tv and I came to an amazing realization. I want to live in a Scooby Doo haunted mansion. They are probably the coolest houses I've ever seen in my life. Passageways and trick artwork are everywhere and it's like the owner planned it all from the beginning just to trick those stinkin' kids.
Well, I'm going to find an architect that can design my dream home and here are some of the key features if you're ever lucky enough to make it there.
-An underground passageway from the old well outside to the wine cellar under the house (fully stocked with dusty, unlabeled bottles)
-A hallway with the same table and vase repeated three times down it's length.
-A secret hallway behind an actual one **Key** with a step up and sliding piece of wood so that I can look through the eye holes of a portrait in the actual hall.
-A greenhouse out back where I keep some old machine under a tarp.
-A library with an observatory upstairs, and a bookshelf downstairs that mysteriously opens itself up when you pull out the obviously lighter colored book.
-A zip line (invisible by day) from the attic window to a tree (with a tree house) outside so that I can dress up like a specter and zip down at night.
That ought to scare them off. So, as you can see, my house will be the most awesome house ever. Maybe I'll only charge admission for the first 3 years to make back my money.
Is anyone else craving a Zeasar Zalad?
The other day Scooby Doo was on tv and I came to an amazing realization. I want to live in a Scooby Doo haunted mansion. They are probably the coolest houses I've ever seen in my life. Passageways and trick artwork are everywhere and it's like the owner planned it all from the beginning just to trick those stinkin' kids.
Well, I'm going to find an architect that can design my dream home and here are some of the key features if you're ever lucky enough to make it there.
-An underground passageway from the old well outside to the wine cellar under the house (fully stocked with dusty, unlabeled bottles)
-A hallway with the same table and vase repeated three times down it's length.
-A secret hallway behind an actual one **Key** with a step up and sliding piece of wood so that I can look through the eye holes of a portrait in the actual hall.
-A greenhouse out back where I keep some old machine under a tarp.
-A library with an observatory upstairs, and a bookshelf downstairs that mysteriously opens itself up when you pull out the obviously lighter colored book.
-A zip line (invisible by day) from the attic window to a tree (with a tree house) outside so that I can dress up like a specter and zip down at night.
That ought to scare them off. So, as you can see, my house will be the most awesome house ever. Maybe I'll only charge admission for the first 3 years to make back my money.
Is anyone else craving a Zeasar Zalad?
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Sam 'n Ella
One of the joys of apartment life that I get is the opportunity to walk to class with my roommates at least a couple of times a week. The other day I was walking with Jeremy Bryan Boitnott and, as always, stimulating conversation followed.
"So, the Colossal Squid is bigger than the Giant Squid?" I asked.
"Yes," Bryan said, "We used to think that the Giant Squid was the biggest, but we recently found the Colossal Squid species, which is much larger. It's eye is the size of your head."
"So are those deep sea fish?"
"Oh yes, very deep sea. That's why it's so hard to find them. We finally captured a live Giant Squid a couple of years ago."
"Cool! So, is it in a tank or something?"
"No, it died."
"Oh"
"But if we capture a Colossal Squid - that would be amazing."
"So, you plan on concentrating in Squid or something with your Marine Biology major."
"No, I will concentrate in Jellyfish," he said.
"Jellyfish?" I ask.
"Yep." he says.
What are you going to do with a concentration in Jellyfish?"
"Ummmm, Study them," he answered, "I just like Jellyfish."
And so there you have it. A little insight into my life...
"So, the Colossal Squid is bigger than the Giant Squid?" I asked.
"Yes," Bryan said, "We used to think that the Giant Squid was the biggest, but we recently found the Colossal Squid species, which is much larger. It's eye is the size of your head."
"So are those deep sea fish?"
"Oh yes, very deep sea. That's why it's so hard to find them. We finally captured a live Giant Squid a couple of years ago."
"Cool! So, is it in a tank or something?"
"No, it died."
"Oh"
"But if we capture a Colossal Squid - that would be amazing."
"So, you plan on concentrating in Squid or something with your Marine Biology major."
"No, I will concentrate in Jellyfish," he said.
"Jellyfish?" I ask.
"Yep." he says.
What are you going to do with a concentration in Jellyfish?"
"Ummmm, Study them," he answered, "I just like Jellyfish."
And so there you have it. A little insight into my life...
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Articles of Onions
I love my new apartment. THE LANDING!
I finally got everything packed into my new apartment and when I look at it now all I can think about is how sweet it is. And subsequently how many years into the future I'll be paying for it. UNCW gets a facelift every time I return from summer break and this year is no exception. Where once a mighty wood was, now my bricky apartment complex is. We even have little places of business built-in to our buildings. My building has a coffee shop (talk about struggling with temptation) and there is also a marketplace, post office, and fitness center. I was a little disappointed to learn of the absence of a spaceport and a nuclear processing facility, but apparently those were pulled due to "safety hazards" or some garbage like that.
My roommates are Jeff and Bryan. I have two Bryans in my phone so I have to remember he is the one with the y and not the ian. Jeff is my unofficial style consultant because he knows what is becoming and what isn't. Yesterday we baked cookies for our entire hall, decorated them horrifically, and delivered them (because we're old school). Some of my favorite designs were Brian's boat/dolphin, Jeff's jellyfish, and my state of Colorado.
Today is the day of the annual Beach Blast. This is UNCW's attempt at making the freshmen feel more at home and at making the upperclassmen happy with free pizza. Last year it was canceled and this year Tommy is threatening to drag me out there against my will to fraternize with Caswell folk. I'm not sure if I can handle a packed beach on a projected 99 degree day. That's like...hotter than my mouth. Who wants to hang out in that? Tomorrow classes start and I assume that my normal drone-like behavior will be restored as I learn to walk the same path to classes every day. I'm taking ten-TONS of English because I only need 2 more classes in film to graduate with that major. It's really cool that I'm still able to graduate in May but at the same time it's a little nerve-wracking to have so little room for mess-ups. Next year I don't know where I'll be. Perhaps I'll be standing on the deck of a Chinese freight ship, letting the wind whip my hair while watching the sun retreat on an infinite horizon.
Or maybe I'll work at the sketch zoo down the road and eat Doritos every day. Meh, who knows!?
I finally got everything packed into my new apartment and when I look at it now all I can think about is how sweet it is. And subsequently how many years into the future I'll be paying for it. UNCW gets a facelift every time I return from summer break and this year is no exception. Where once a mighty wood was, now my bricky apartment complex is. We even have little places of business built-in to our buildings. My building has a coffee shop (talk about struggling with temptation) and there is also a marketplace, post office, and fitness center. I was a little disappointed to learn of the absence of a spaceport and a nuclear processing facility, but apparently those were pulled due to "safety hazards" or some garbage like that.
My roommates are Jeff and Bryan. I have two Bryans in my phone so I have to remember he is the one with the y and not the ian. Jeff is my unofficial style consultant because he knows what is becoming and what isn't. Yesterday we baked cookies for our entire hall, decorated them horrifically, and delivered them (because we're old school). Some of my favorite designs were Brian's boat/dolphin, Jeff's jellyfish, and my state of Colorado.
Today is the day of the annual Beach Blast. This is UNCW's attempt at making the freshmen feel more at home and at making the upperclassmen happy with free pizza. Last year it was canceled and this year Tommy is threatening to drag me out there against my will to fraternize with Caswell folk. I'm not sure if I can handle a packed beach on a projected 99 degree day. That's like...hotter than my mouth. Who wants to hang out in that? Tomorrow classes start and I assume that my normal drone-like behavior will be restored as I learn to walk the same path to classes every day. I'm taking ten-TONS of English because I only need 2 more classes in film to graduate with that major. It's really cool that I'm still able to graduate in May but at the same time it's a little nerve-wracking to have so little room for mess-ups. Next year I don't know where I'll be. Perhaps I'll be standing on the deck of a Chinese freight ship, letting the wind whip my hair while watching the sun retreat on an infinite horizon.
Or maybe I'll work at the sketch zoo down the road and eat Doritos every day. Meh, who knows!?
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
At the Ready
So, a couple of days ago I was standing on top of a historic fortress firing potatoes from a PVC cannon toward the ocean when it hit me. In less than a week I'll be leaving Caswell. After last summer, I really didn't know if I'd ever come back to the grounds that have - over the past six summers - literally and spiritually become home to me. It was a strange feeling, and this year it's even stranger because I know the chances of a return stay are even less plausible. In 2002 I rededicated my life to Christ here on the biggest spiritual high that I've ever had. In 2003 I grew up, learning what it was like to live away from home as a 17 year old. In 2004 I grew the confidence I needed socially and the strength I needed spiritually before heading into College. In 2005 I made some of the closest friends I've ever had. In 2006 I felt, with intensity, that God has bigger plans for my life than to settle. This year, I don't know what I've gained yet - I just fear I'll be loosing something amazing. A place where God is able to move through the people that so openly love him - where things aren't perfect, but enough of them are. I've laughed here, cried here, felt like the king of the world and the bottom of the barrel. I've cleaned over 60,000 sets of dinnerware, plunged more toilets than I care to remember, run lights for big bands and small bands. I've watched amazing speakers, eaten dinner with famous musicians, and learned the disinfecting value of bleach water. More than anything - I have worshipped God. In solitude on grassy hill and in unison with 70-some voices lifted to the sky on top of Vespers Fort. In my one summer as a camper and five as a staffer, I've experienced God's amazing love firsthand. For the rest of my life, no matter where He leads me, I'll never forget the place where he built me up and prepared my heart for the hardship and happiness of life in humble service to Him. I take great comfort in knowing that God is everywhere and life goes on with His calling, but this place will always stand out. I may leave, but Caswell leaves with me.
Friday, July 20, 2007
TAN hammah
If you're reading this, I just want you to know that I love you.
No, I'm not going to give the standard canned answer for why. "God has charged me to love all people." No, no - my reason is much more shallow than that. I just love you because you're one of the few people that's actually checked my blog. Over the past three years I've slowly stopped posting as often, and the post I do manage are, well, how do I put this gently so as not to harm my own ego...
well...they suck.
Some day I'm quite sure that I'll come back and look at what I've written going into my last year of college and every word of it will be something special that I'll use to ponder over the meaning of life in general. Well, ok, that's a stretch, but when I get to this point in the story of WilmingSloan, it's going to get a bit dry.
In response to the dryness of this recent blogging, I have decided to make up a story of relative excitement and relay it on here. If you're incredibly bored, you can pretend this really happened to me.
--
So the other day I was walking in downtown Wilmington (I get breaks from Caswell occasionally) and this ond man is sitting outside a cigar shop on Front Street. I was with a buddy of mine and the old man stops us both. He tells us that the store is closing down and they need to sell the rest of their stock. I tell him politely that I don't smoke but he just won't listen. Then he starts babbling about the Humo Uno. Finally, after calming him down, we get a solid explanation.
The Humo Uno is a mythical cigar, rolled by the very hand of Cuban Communism, Fidel Castro. He took lessons the early 70s and rolled 20 cigars. Of the 20, only one was deemed smoke-worthy, but no one had the...bolas...to smoke it, including Castro himself. It is said that the night it was rolled, a butler in Castro's palace who was a witch-doctor, cursed the cigar behind his master's back. Fidel had him killed, but kept the cigar in a safe, he was too scared to have it burned or destroyed in any way.
One day, Fidel was moving all of his valuables from safe to safe and they discovered that the Humo Uno was unaccounted for. Considering that the other priceless valuables Castro kept were left in place, he feared for the worst. Someone would use the Cigar and the curse would be let free on him.
28 years went by and no one heard anything about the Humo Uno. Slowly, it became a mere legend, only whispered about in hallways for fear of upsetting Castro. Finally, all people considered it lost.
Back to the old man. He was babbling the history of this cigar and finally he got to the point.
"My HOUSE!" he said, "They're going to take my house, I can't afford to keep this shop....I can't afford to keep - it any more. Please! Buy something, I'm desparate...I'll even sell you Humo Uno for...for...$20!"
Sensing the old man's knack for spinning a good yarn we snorted a little and turned away from him again.
"PLEASE! WAIT!" he said, "$5.00, I am making a mistake but I must do this!"
My friend and I looked at each other. 5 dollars seemed like a paltry price for a good laugh, and I considered it a worthy tip for such a good story, likely made up on the spot.
"All right," I said, "we'll take it."
He led us into the dark and dusty shop, through shelves of ancient carved mahogany and into a beautifully ornate glassed-in humidor room. To our surprise, he didn't slow down. When he reached the back corner he lifted a cigar box and pulled a lever hidden behind it. The back wall opened up and a staircase led down into a cellar as old as Front Street itself. He led. We followed. I heard the familiar click of a pull-string light bulb fixture and suddenly the staircase was illuminated. So was the basement. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Crates and crates of ancient cigar gear. It was like the last scene from Raider of the Lost Ark, only with cigar boxes. The old man moved to the back corner to a light green box with a quarter-inch chain and padlock around it. He took out a key and removed the binding. Mumbling something in spanish under his breath, he opened it. We feasted our eyes on the Humo Uno for the first time.
BLACK. Black like the heart of communism was the wrapper. The strong scent of life, death, and tobacco greeted us instantly. My eyes even teared up for a moment. Speechlessly, I paid him with a lincoln and took my prize.
On the way back, we considered not lighting it. It did have an aura about it, maybe the old man was telling the truth? Staring at it made me dizzy. I couldn't think straight. It was as if it wanted to be smoked. In a daze I laughed it off.
"Yeah, right," I said, "The old man puts a new cigar right back in that box every time and waits for another gullible pair to walk by."
I held it up in the orange glow of the setting sun that poured in through the windshield and spun it on my fingertips.
"Let's smoke it."
Back on Oak Island we picked a random beach access to smoke at. The night was freshly fallen as we clamored over the dunes. We tossed our sneakers off, made our way to a driftwood log and had a seat. My buddy pulled out a silver butane lighter that he kept in his glove compartment. We looked at each other, then at the cigar in my trembling hand. I heard the metal and flit strike, then the hiss of the butane gas. I punched out the back with the help of it's blue light. Slowly, I placed the it between my lips and watched as the flame came closer to the end of the Humo Uno. Those couple of seconds seemed to stretch on for hours as I waited for the fire to hit and the slow glowing of the tip to signal that the time had come.
TO BE CONTINUED
No, I'm not going to give the standard canned answer for why. "God has charged me to love all people." No, no - my reason is much more shallow than that. I just love you because you're one of the few people that's actually checked my blog. Over the past three years I've slowly stopped posting as often, and the post I do manage are, well, how do I put this gently so as not to harm my own ego...
well...they suck.
Some day I'm quite sure that I'll come back and look at what I've written going into my last year of college and every word of it will be something special that I'll use to ponder over the meaning of life in general. Well, ok, that's a stretch, but when I get to this point in the story of WilmingSloan, it's going to get a bit dry.
In response to the dryness of this recent blogging, I have decided to make up a story of relative excitement and relay it on here. If you're incredibly bored, you can pretend this really happened to me.
--
So the other day I was walking in downtown Wilmington (I get breaks from Caswell occasionally) and this ond man is sitting outside a cigar shop on Front Street. I was with a buddy of mine and the old man stops us both. He tells us that the store is closing down and they need to sell the rest of their stock. I tell him politely that I don't smoke but he just won't listen. Then he starts babbling about the Humo Uno. Finally, after calming him down, we get a solid explanation.
The Humo Uno is a mythical cigar, rolled by the very hand of Cuban Communism, Fidel Castro. He took lessons the early 70s and rolled 20 cigars. Of the 20, only one was deemed smoke-worthy, but no one had the...bolas...to smoke it, including Castro himself. It is said that the night it was rolled, a butler in Castro's palace who was a witch-doctor, cursed the cigar behind his master's back. Fidel had him killed, but kept the cigar in a safe, he was too scared to have it burned or destroyed in any way.
One day, Fidel was moving all of his valuables from safe to safe and they discovered that the Humo Uno was unaccounted for. Considering that the other priceless valuables Castro kept were left in place, he feared for the worst. Someone would use the Cigar and the curse would be let free on him.
28 years went by and no one heard anything about the Humo Uno. Slowly, it became a mere legend, only whispered about in hallways for fear of upsetting Castro. Finally, all people considered it lost.
Back to the old man. He was babbling the history of this cigar and finally he got to the point.
"My HOUSE!" he said, "They're going to take my house, I can't afford to keep this shop....I can't afford to keep - it any more. Please! Buy something, I'm desparate...I'll even sell you Humo Uno for...for...$20!"
Sensing the old man's knack for spinning a good yarn we snorted a little and turned away from him again.
"PLEASE! WAIT!" he said, "$5.00, I am making a mistake but I must do this!"
My friend and I looked at each other. 5 dollars seemed like a paltry price for a good laugh, and I considered it a worthy tip for such a good story, likely made up on the spot.
"All right," I said, "we'll take it."
He led us into the dark and dusty shop, through shelves of ancient carved mahogany and into a beautifully ornate glassed-in humidor room. To our surprise, he didn't slow down. When he reached the back corner he lifted a cigar box and pulled a lever hidden behind it. The back wall opened up and a staircase led down into a cellar as old as Front Street itself. He led. We followed. I heard the familiar click of a pull-string light bulb fixture and suddenly the staircase was illuminated. So was the basement. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Crates and crates of ancient cigar gear. It was like the last scene from Raider of the Lost Ark, only with cigar boxes. The old man moved to the back corner to a light green box with a quarter-inch chain and padlock around it. He took out a key and removed the binding. Mumbling something in spanish under his breath, he opened it. We feasted our eyes on the Humo Uno for the first time.
BLACK. Black like the heart of communism was the wrapper. The strong scent of life, death, and tobacco greeted us instantly. My eyes even teared up for a moment. Speechlessly, I paid him with a lincoln and took my prize.
On the way back, we considered not lighting it. It did have an aura about it, maybe the old man was telling the truth? Staring at it made me dizzy. I couldn't think straight. It was as if it wanted to be smoked. In a daze I laughed it off.
"Yeah, right," I said, "The old man puts a new cigar right back in that box every time and waits for another gullible pair to walk by."
I held it up in the orange glow of the setting sun that poured in through the windshield and spun it on my fingertips.
"Let's smoke it."
Back on Oak Island we picked a random beach access to smoke at. The night was freshly fallen as we clamored over the dunes. We tossed our sneakers off, made our way to a driftwood log and had a seat. My buddy pulled out a silver butane lighter that he kept in his glove compartment. We looked at each other, then at the cigar in my trembling hand. I heard the metal and flit strike, then the hiss of the butane gas. I punched out the back with the help of it's blue light. Slowly, I placed the it between my lips and watched as the flame came closer to the end of the Humo Uno. Those couple of seconds seemed to stretch on for hours as I waited for the fire to hit and the slow glowing of the tip to signal that the time had come.
TO BE CONTINUED
Monday, July 09, 2007
Itchy Itchy!
I'm having so much fun it's hard for me to find time to post!!!
So I finally came back to it.
Here is what has happened.
My cousin got married and the ceremony was wonderful. Now I have to edit everything together for her wich should prove interesting. Hopefully I'll get that done soon.
Caswell keeps on rolling. Today marks the halfway point of the summer. WOO HOO!
I got bit by fire ants 17 times. YAAAY
So now you're pretty much caught up. God bless you all!
So I finally came back to it.
Here is what has happened.
My cousin got married and the ceremony was wonderful. Now I have to edit everything together for her wich should prove interesting. Hopefully I'll get that done soon.
Caswell keeps on rolling. Today marks the halfway point of the summer. WOO HOO!
I got bit by fire ants 17 times. YAAAY
So now you're pretty much caught up. God bless you all!
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