Let's all just be honest with each other and face the fact that we've been trying to ignore for so long: people who play guitar are cooler than everyone else. I know they say - whoever "they" are - that you're not supposed to pick favorites, but we can't keep side-stepping this.
Exhibit A: Awesome "Take Away Show" in Paris (the Shins)
I started thinking about this a couple weeks ago, when I had to cut my nails off. I thought to myself that I should practice guitar while I have the chance. Every time I get overwhelmed with the prospect; no, the inevitable reality of sucking.
I often find myself wishing I was fluent at guitar. Yes, fluent. It's like a language, one that you have to have a connection with - something deep inside you somewhere that makes you able to understand something that some of us will never have the awesomeness in our lives to grasp. I wish I was fluent in guitar.
I also have this theory that people who play guitar marry and date other guitar players. They do so because they know how cool it is, but they want to be humble about it. They know that their significant other won't be as swoony and impressed as the rest of us when they're dinking around on their fender late at night. Likewise, non-guitar players who are insecure about their inability to play guitar, and don't care to be constantly surrounded with someone who does and does so well, tend to stick to dating others of the same mindset.
I'm convinced that Jesus would've played the guitar. Partially because I just think He would've, and partially because He's just that cool. WWJD? Play guitar. And you know Hendrix would have nothing on Him.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Ordering Coffee
I walk up to the counter, and suddenly that little, semi-psychotic nervousness kicks in - I have to order coffee! And every time it's an awkward experience of me stumbling over my words, talking too quietly, and almost always annoying or confusing the barista. I guess it's a normal coffee ordering experience for anyone else, but when you're a barista ordering coffee is scary.
It's like I forget everything I know, and I forget what it's like to be on the other side of the counter. I forget how to speak to my own kind. The thing is, I usually find baristas to be elitest aholes who are seemingly unimpressed that I don't want room for cream; I am always impressed. They look at me like neither one of us have souls, and also like I just told them their grandma died...the emotional reaction of which, is on their face despite the lack of a soul.
The sad thing is I inevitably tell them, after making a whole painfully awkward situation, that I'm a barista too. This doesn't impress them anymore than the fact that I prefer my coffee black (except if it's too hot, then I add some milk. But not half & half, that crap's schnast). They stare at me just long enough to make it known they are staring and unimpressed, before going to make my coffee. Probably wrong too. I don't want to drink burnt espresso anymore than the next person, but I've already stepped on their toes too much by correcting the price they attempted to over-charge me.
Then I get to my table, set up and realize I need the wifi code. So I reluctantly go back into the barista-villan's presence to plea for the simple stupid word of the day. Finally, I can retreat and relax knowing it's over.
Ordering coffee is scary.
It's like I forget everything I know, and I forget what it's like to be on the other side of the counter. I forget how to speak to my own kind. The thing is, I usually find baristas to be elitest aholes who are seemingly unimpressed that I don't want room for cream; I am always impressed. They look at me like neither one of us have souls, and also like I just told them their grandma died...the emotional reaction of which, is on their face despite the lack of a soul.
The sad thing is I inevitably tell them, after making a whole painfully awkward situation, that I'm a barista too. This doesn't impress them anymore than the fact that I prefer my coffee black (except if it's too hot, then I add some milk. But not half & half, that crap's schnast). They stare at me just long enough to make it known they are staring and unimpressed, before going to make my coffee. Probably wrong too. I don't want to drink burnt espresso anymore than the next person, but I've already stepped on their toes too much by correcting the price they attempted to over-charge me.
Then I get to my table, set up and realize I need the wifi code. So I reluctantly go back into the barista-villan's presence to plea for the simple stupid word of the day. Finally, I can retreat and relax knowing it's over.
Ordering coffee is scary.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
My Keepsake
I am resolved to believe,
That my heart will just be broken,
That I will go on missing you,
With no proper words to be spoken,
I can only but cherish the time we had,
And long to relive it in my sleep,
Or dare to dream while still awake,
The memory of each moment;
my keepsake
That my heart will just be broken,
That I will go on missing you,
With no proper words to be spoken,
I can only but cherish the time we had,
And long to relive it in my sleep,
Or dare to dream while still awake,
The memory of each moment;
my keepsake
Wednesday, September 07, 2011
The First Day Back
9:55 a.m. I should probably leave, given class is in 15 minutes.
10:10 a.m. Arriving on campus, with that bit of adrenaline that amassed from a combination of being late and the resulting speedy bike ride, I feel invigorated. I feel ready to take on the school year, and a little nervous about my first class entitled Textual Anaylsis. I realize I actually don't remember where Lind Hall was, just near the Mall. After discovering I indeed locked up one building away, I seek an open entrance not obstructed by the construction on the hall.
10:15 a.m. Find my 3rd floor classroom, enter without hesitance knowing that I am either right on-time or late: late.
10:45 a.m. Professor is awkwardly laughing after he says things, but no one else is laughing. Also, why is this class 90% people who don't look like they give a hoot about literature. It's okay, I barely do. Though I might look it, with my scarf. The exception being the one hipster girl that is almost an exact copy of my friend Libby who is too smart for most people at the U. Debate befriending her to do better in the class, at the risk of being annoyed with her vocabulary genius.
11:23 a.m. Out of class early. Gotta go buy those out of print books at the bookstore. I wander through a now bustling 11 o'clock campus. Go to cross Washington Avenue, and stop as some sort of machinery swaying some sort of big metal thing crosses where I could be walking. Then a construction lady in a neon orange vest goes all talk-to-the-hand on me like I didn't see it. Thanks lady.
11:34 a.m. Yikes. I remember that I hate the bookstore, especially on the first day of school. Not only are U of M students a hodge-podge mix of the types that care, and the types that don't; the types that pay utmost attention and the types that don't; they apparently can't maneuver a crowd to save their lives. Or any of our time. Libby-clone asks me to get a book off the shelf for her; she's short. I oblige, and comment on our quirky prof, still debating whether or not to befriend her. But I'm done looking for books and the check-out line reaches right to the back of the store where we were. So I turn and stand in line.
11:36 a.m. I wait my turn in line, as the crossing passers-bye trickle through in front of me, causing me to panic thinking that my place in line is threatened and one of these people may be a sneaky jerk, quick enough to pop in front of me when I'm staring at the chaos that surrounds me, overwhelmed. I see a guy wearing one of those navy blue tee shirts that says "COLLEGE" on it and admire his choice, though I'm not sure if I like the irony or not.
11:40 a.m. Finally, I've made it to the mecca of the bookstore pilgrimage: the check-out counter. Oh! But alas, guy who doesn't know queue etiquette practically walks up to the counter with me and sets down his mechanical pencil. The cashier exchanges a shocked, yet blank glance with me, unsure what to do and seeking a response from me. I continue my blank face until he mans up to use words, asking me some sort of stuttery sentence not worth remembering. "Fine," I say. Completely indignant that this guy waited for the opportune moment, when it was in fact MY long-awaited turn to buy my books which took all of the same time it took for him to buy his pencil, I couldn't keep from saying something. "Dude, that's why there's a LINE, usually you wait," or something just snotty enough to satisfy my boiling frustration. Quite a bit more of a reaction than I should allow myself to have, but there are rules!
11:45 a.m. I walk to find my bike while remembering that going here makes me sort of despise humanity at times. Find it and hop on, head for home.
11:50 a.m. I decide the first class back after a year off calls for a treat of Al's Breakfast. Also, if I try to bike home without eating something I might die.
1:13 p.m. I curl up in bed, barely reading the Daily. I decide a nap is in order. I think that maybe this semester is gonna be pretty alright.
2:50 p.m. Wake up. Remember there's an email assignment I have due to a class that hasn't started yet. Go to work to abuse internet and coffee privileges simultaneously.
5:45 p.m. Nearly finished with my 250-word-minimum email assignment (now at 1023 words), I leave later than I should for home to bike to my night class.
6:15 p.m. Arrive on campus at my favorite hall, after 8 minutes. I'm proud of this time, and think it will continue to decrease until it gets cold out. Then that runny-nose thing will happen. Cute. I walk into class, sit down next to cut-off-cords-wearing hipster guy. He keeps awkwardly sneaking glances at me the whole class period. I conclude that my sweatiness eludes to my having biked to school, and hence, hipster guy is interested.
7:45 p.m. Holy crap will this class ever end? Bathroom break, but class goes til 8:50. Oh dear. We take attendance and tell the class something interesting about ourselves. I tell the whole class that I was in Paris and Asia for the last 6 months, doing bible school. The prof says she's never actually met anyone who did bible school. "I've met lots..." I mutter in retort. She's a hippie, and now I'm certain she doesn't like me.
8:30 p.m. Oh for the love can I go home? I can! Yippee!!
9:00 p.m. I set up a plate of cheese and crackers, because apparently biking a lot, or more than normal makes one hungrier than normal. My typical during-class meal of blueberry frosted mini-wheats did not suffice. Uncap a beer and manage to spill and splatter some all over myself, the oven, counter and floor.
9:05 p.m. Sit on the couch with Abby, Rachel designing on the floor, radio on to KDWB cause it's all we can get. It'd be there anyway. Abby and I drink our beers, and the three of us joke ridiculously about stupid stuff. At least we think we're funny.
11:30 p.m. I get ready for bed. Crawl into bed.
12:01 a.m. After tossing and turning, realize I forgot to set an alarm. Thoughts of the day passed and the one to come distracted me. They continue to plague the rest of my night's sleep. Regret drinking beer as it always makes me sleep bad. Drift off thinking, this is only the beginning.
10:10 a.m. Arriving on campus, with that bit of adrenaline that amassed from a combination of being late and the resulting speedy bike ride, I feel invigorated. I feel ready to take on the school year, and a little nervous about my first class entitled Textual Anaylsis. I realize I actually don't remember where Lind Hall was, just near the Mall. After discovering I indeed locked up one building away, I seek an open entrance not obstructed by the construction on the hall.
10:15 a.m. Find my 3rd floor classroom, enter without hesitance knowing that I am either right on-time or late: late.
10:45 a.m. Professor is awkwardly laughing after he says things, but no one else is laughing. Also, why is this class 90% people who don't look like they give a hoot about literature. It's okay, I barely do. Though I might look it, with my scarf. The exception being the one hipster girl that is almost an exact copy of my friend Libby who is too smart for most people at the U. Debate befriending her to do better in the class, at the risk of being annoyed with her vocabulary genius.
11:23 a.m. Out of class early. Gotta go buy those out of print books at the bookstore. I wander through a now bustling 11 o'clock campus. Go to cross Washington Avenue, and stop as some sort of machinery swaying some sort of big metal thing crosses where I could be walking. Then a construction lady in a neon orange vest goes all talk-to-the-hand on me like I didn't see it. Thanks lady.
11:34 a.m. Yikes. I remember that I hate the bookstore, especially on the first day of school. Not only are U of M students a hodge-podge mix of the types that care, and the types that don't; the types that pay utmost attention and the types that don't; they apparently can't maneuver a crowd to save their lives. Or any of our time. Libby-clone asks me to get a book off the shelf for her; she's short. I oblige, and comment on our quirky prof, still debating whether or not to befriend her. But I'm done looking for books and the check-out line reaches right to the back of the store where we were. So I turn and stand in line.
11:36 a.m. I wait my turn in line, as the crossing passers-bye trickle through in front of me, causing me to panic thinking that my place in line is threatened and one of these people may be a sneaky jerk, quick enough to pop in front of me when I'm staring at the chaos that surrounds me, overwhelmed. I see a guy wearing one of those navy blue tee shirts that says "COLLEGE" on it and admire his choice, though I'm not sure if I like the irony or not.
11:40 a.m. Finally, I've made it to the mecca of the bookstore pilgrimage: the check-out counter. Oh! But alas, guy who doesn't know queue etiquette practically walks up to the counter with me and sets down his mechanical pencil. The cashier exchanges a shocked, yet blank glance with me, unsure what to do and seeking a response from me. I continue my blank face until he mans up to use words, asking me some sort of stuttery sentence not worth remembering. "Fine," I say. Completely indignant that this guy waited for the opportune moment, when it was in fact MY long-awaited turn to buy my books which took all of the same time it took for him to buy his pencil, I couldn't keep from saying something. "Dude, that's why there's a LINE, usually you wait," or something just snotty enough to satisfy my boiling frustration. Quite a bit more of a reaction than I should allow myself to have, but there are rules!
11:45 a.m. I walk to find my bike while remembering that going here makes me sort of despise humanity at times. Find it and hop on, head for home.
11:50 a.m. I decide the first class back after a year off calls for a treat of Al's Breakfast. Also, if I try to bike home without eating something I might die.
1:13 p.m. I curl up in bed, barely reading the Daily. I decide a nap is in order. I think that maybe this semester is gonna be pretty alright.
2:50 p.m. Wake up. Remember there's an email assignment I have due to a class that hasn't started yet. Go to work to abuse internet and coffee privileges simultaneously.
5:45 p.m. Nearly finished with my 250-word-minimum email assignment (now at 1023 words), I leave later than I should for home to bike to my night class.
6:15 p.m. Arrive on campus at my favorite hall, after 8 minutes. I'm proud of this time, and think it will continue to decrease until it gets cold out. Then that runny-nose thing will happen. Cute. I walk into class, sit down next to cut-off-cords-wearing hipster guy. He keeps awkwardly sneaking glances at me the whole class period. I conclude that my sweatiness eludes to my having biked to school, and hence, hipster guy is interested.
7:45 p.m. Holy crap will this class ever end? Bathroom break, but class goes til 8:50. Oh dear. We take attendance and tell the class something interesting about ourselves. I tell the whole class that I was in Paris and Asia for the last 6 months, doing bible school. The prof says she's never actually met anyone who did bible school. "I've met lots..." I mutter in retort. She's a hippie, and now I'm certain she doesn't like me.
8:30 p.m. Oh for the love can I go home? I can! Yippee!!
9:00 p.m. I set up a plate of cheese and crackers, because apparently biking a lot, or more than normal makes one hungrier than normal. My typical during-class meal of blueberry frosted mini-wheats did not suffice. Uncap a beer and manage to spill and splatter some all over myself, the oven, counter and floor.
9:05 p.m. Sit on the couch with Abby, Rachel designing on the floor, radio on to KDWB cause it's all we can get. It'd be there anyway. Abby and I drink our beers, and the three of us joke ridiculously about stupid stuff. At least we think we're funny.
11:30 p.m. I get ready for bed. Crawl into bed.
12:01 a.m. After tossing and turning, realize I forgot to set an alarm. Thoughts of the day passed and the one to come distracted me. They continue to plague the rest of my night's sleep. Regret drinking beer as it always makes me sleep bad. Drift off thinking, this is only the beginning.
Someday, Some Thing
We are so often under the illusion that one day we'll find happiness; that one distant thing, laying in wait to fix all our problems. Then when it finally comes, we realize our lives have not changed, we are not all that different and our hunger for contentedness is not satiated.
Longing for that which we do not have, is it a motivation? Is it a crutch? To feel we have achieved something, when we finally reach Time A, or completion of Task 1. The potential to feel this, either propels us into action or leaves us feeling undeservedly accomplished when the time comes or the task is complete.
Then, when we've finally hit our mark; we've made it to the goal...we're left longing for a time passed, that we cannot get back and we've overlooked while it blurred by in our peripheral. We're left, longing again for something we do not have; but this time we cannot have it. Only in memories can we access that time that we so ignorantly sped through.
Longing for that which we do not have, is it a motivation? Is it a crutch? To feel we have achieved something, when we finally reach Time A, or completion of Task 1. The potential to feel this, either propels us into action or leaves us feeling undeservedly accomplished when the time comes or the task is complete.
Then, when we've finally hit our mark; we've made it to the goal...we're left longing for a time passed, that we cannot get back and we've overlooked while it blurred by in our peripheral. We're left, longing again for something we do not have; but this time we cannot have it. Only in memories can we access that time that we so ignorantly sped through.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)