It pains me to pass on the news that one of the preeminent comedians of our time, Mitch Hedberg, passed away yesterday. Far from just providing a virtually unlimited resource of quotable lines for my confederates and I, Mitch Hedberg brought laughter to sold-out audiences across the nation, garnered lavish praise from the media in the process, and even managed to break into Hollywood despite admitting that it was "audtions" which were preventing him from acting.
Along with winning the grand prize from at least one prestigious comedy festival, Mitch's accomplishments include: writing, directing, and producing "Los Enchiladas", a film about a fast food manager in the Midwest; appearing on Comedy Central, MTV, and even as a character on 'That 70's show'; being a continual guest on Stern and Letterman; and, most impressively, building a truly devoted and widespread fanbase (of which I was part) with nowhere near the publicity of any of the well-known comedians. I last saw Mitch in San Jose less than a year ago with my brother and Dan, and, if it hadn't been for Belize, I would have seen him at Caroline's on the 20th of March.
As a tribute to his genius, here are some jokes of his that I find particularly hilarious. In order to get the full effect, picture a long-haired, sunglass-wearing stoner up on a stage, leaning lazily backwards against a brick wall, holding the mic in one hand, and a vodka tonic with two straws that "go straight to the mouth" in the other. If you can, download or buy something of his so that you can hear his delivery; it is a huge part of his act and just one of the many aspects of Mitch that make him so hilarious.
"I bought a doughnut and they gave me a receipt for the doughnut...I don't need a receipt for the doughnut - I'll just give you money and you give me the doughnut, end of transaction. We don't need to bring ink and paper into this. I can't imagine a scenario in which I would need to prove that I bought a doughnut...Some skeptical friend, don’t even act like I didn't buy a doughnut, I've got the documentation right here...oh wait it's back home in the file...under "D", for doughnut."
"I opened up a container of yogurt, and under the lid it said "Please Try Again" because they were having a contest I was unaware of. But I thought I might have opened the yogurt wrong...or maybe Yoplait was trying to inspire me, 'c'mon, Mitchell, don't give up. Please try again. A message of inspiration from your friends at Yoplait. Fruit on the bottom, hope on top.'"
"I think Bigfoot is blurry, that's the problem. It's not the photographer's fault. Bigfoot is blurry. And that's extra scary to me, because there's a large, out-of-focus monster roaming the countryside. Run. He's fuzzy. Get outta here."
"'AIDS tests are scary man. No matter what you are doing, waiting for the results is scary. I get AIDS test but I get roundabout AIDS tests. I call up my buddy and say 'Hey man, do you know anyone with AIDS? No? Good... cuz you know me' "
"I went to a pizzeria. I ordered a slice of pizza. The fucker gave me the smallest slice possible. If the pizza was a pie chart for what people would do if they found a million dollars, the fucker gave me the 'donate it to charity' slice. I'd like to exchange this for the 'keep it!'"
"You can have this product for four easy payments of 19.95. I would like to have a product that was available for three easy payments and one fucking complicated payment. We arent going to tell you which one of these payments it is, but one of these payment is going to be a bitch. The mailman will get shot to death, the envelope will not seal, and the stamp will be in the wrong denomination. Good luck, fucker."
Regarding the letter 'X' starting the word xylophone which Mitch believes is wrong: "It's like X wasnt given enough to do, so they gave it more. 'OK, you wont start a lot of words, but we will give you a co-starring role in tic-tac-toe. And you will be equated with hugs and kisses. And you will mark the spot. And you will make writing Christmas easier. And, incidentally, you will start xylophone. Are you happy you fucking X?!'"
Frankly, every one of his jokes is more than worthy of your attention. It's just too bad that he won't be treating us to more; I'm certain that the best was yet to come. Without a doubt, Mitch Hedberg will be missed.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Monday, March 28, 2005
Spring Break in Belize, Day 1
Woke up bright and early – at 4AM – to catch the flight to Belize. Thankfully, no one was late and the trip to the airport, which easily could have been a major logistical disaster, turned out to be rather painless, notwithstanding the pain of waking up so damn early in the morning.
After a brief layover in Charlotte and about 5 hours of travel time, we touch down in Belize. The first thing that strikes me is not the lush vegetation, the perfect weather, or the sense of excitement in the air – it is the fact that we are driving down the runway in the wrong direction! Seems that it in Belize it makes more sense to do a U-turn on the runway rather than to quickly move away from an area where planes are landing at excessive speeds. Our landing smacked of Dan’s description of his first landing in Ecuador so many years ago: “when we were about 20 yards off the ground.....jesus christ. I look out my window. The wing was about 15 fucking feet from some sort of department store. … There are not only buildings basically on the fucking runway, but buildings with civilians in them.” As panic set in that my life and Dan’s had converged into one hopeless mess, I prayed that I would not be mugged by thugs armed with a cigarette lighter.
Next step in our journey to Caye Caulker, the island chosen as our base of operations, was to jump in a cab and head to Belize City. Disregard for safety surfaced once again on this leg of the trip – you see, our cab, which careened dangerously down the two-lane road at its maximum speed of 55 mph, lacked seatbelts of any kind. I tried to maintain my composure, and to just relax, but as we passed our fifth car in a row (five cars at once, not on separate passing ventures), I couldn’t help but envision what would happen to this 25 year-old Oldsmobile – and to the rest of us – if a crash were to occur.
I must have passed out from the fear, because the next thing I realize, we are at the water taxi station preparing to board a medium-sized power boat for the final leg of the day’s travels. In paying the fare, I discovered that the exchange rate in Belize is quite favorable: two Belizean dollars are equivalent to one American dollar. Unfortunately, the Belizeans seem to be quite aware of the fact that tourists generally use American dollars, not Belizean ones, and thus have priced everything at about double the price of what it is in America. Considering the limited amount of money I had on me, this did not bode well.
About 30 minutes into boat ride, an island appeared and the boat altered its direction to head right for it. Palpable excitement set in again as we were all ready to get to our luxurious hotel and rid ourselves of the long-sleeved shirts and jeans that had been a necessity in the cold weather of New York. However, disappointment followed as the captain of the boat informed us that this was not Caye Caulker, our destination, but rather Caye Chapel, a golf resort for the uber-rich, and none of us "cretins" would be de-boating. Incidentally, Caye chapel played host to a recent MTV special called something like “Win a chance to spend time in paradise with Beyonce”. We were not the winners of that contest.
Scarcely more than five minutes later, Caye Caulker – and a number of locals who had gathered at the dock – welcomed us to its shores. It was at this juncture that we realized we had absolutely no idea where our hotel was located. Fortunately, at the end of the dock was a map of the island. We scrutinized it for a few minutes, amazed at just how small the island is – 4 miles long and, at certain points, as thin as 100 yards. Most of the tourist stuff – the hotels, restaurants, and dive shops – was at the north end of the island, near what the locals call the “split”, a deep water channel created when the island was cleaved in two during a particularly strong hurricane in the 90s. As it turns out, the Tropics hotel was just a few blocks away, so we grabbed our bags and trekked up the beach.
As you can see, luxury and the Tropic hotel are not bedfellows; in fact, they’ve never even heard of one another. What the Tropics hotel lacks in room decoration, though, it makes up for in unpleasant sleeping and showering experiences: only one paper-thin sheet adorned the uncomfortable bed and the sink and shower faucet both spewed sulfur-smelling saltwater (how’s that for alliteration). Oh, and the toilet could not accept toilet paper; a waste basket was provided for this purpose. If housekeeping worked every day of the week as opposed to their more leisurely schedule of “whenever I feel like it”, the situation would not have been as dire as it turned out to be.
But, come on, when in paradise, why waste time in your hotel no matter how nice it is? With the white sand of the beach just 100 ft away, I certainly did not intend to sit around redecorating my room or complaining about the lack of livable conditions. And it was with that positive attitude in mind that the posse and I struck out in pursuit of sustenance, which, except for that fake cheese on the plane, had, thus far, been in short supply.
Both lunch and dinner that first day on the island would have been disappointing – bland fish for lunch at the Happy Lobster and bland chicken for dinner at the Sports Bar - were in not for the fact that the next week would be filled with indulging in everything paradise had to offer. Plus, I think I was too exhausted from traveling to formulate the thoughts necessary to voice my distaste for the meals.
Dinner marked the first appearance of Ryan aka “Cowboy”, Dan’s online gambling counterpart who coincidentally happens to live on Caye Caulker. He is also the reason that I traveled thousands of miles with a DVD about a dancing hobo in my suitcase. Ryan and I had exchanged a few emails before the trip, and had agreed to meet up for a beer once I arrived. Problem was, his emails never disclosed where he lived on the island and I never thought to get an address (believe it or not, he gets mail that is addressed simply to Ryan at Caye Caulker, Belize, so he might not even have an address). Earlier that day, as we scouted the island for the first time, I questioned the various street vendors as to Ryan’s whereabouts, just as he had suggested during our correspondence. Everyone I spoke to claimed to know him, but seeing as how none of them seemed to know where he lived, I had a hard time taking their word for it. With no useful information from the locals, I gave up and decided that locating Ryan would have to wait another day.
As the fourth hour of never-ending dinner approached, this random guy pops his head out of the kitchen, and asks if there is an “Andy” with our party. Convinced that Andy could not get himself embroiled in island trouble so quickly (I thought it would take at least another few hours and a bottle or two of rum), I took it upon myself to become Andy for a moment. “Well, my name’s Andrew, not Andy, but pretty close,” I replied. He then introduced himself as Ryan, and realization struck. Apparently word travels around the island at light speed, because numerous people had approached Ryan saying that some tall guy with an Asian girl was looking for him. He figured it was me, but because he kept running into other tall guys with Asian girls who were not me, he had a hard time finding us.
To celebrate our arrival, Ryan joined us for some late night rum drinking on the deck of our hotel, which lasted for multiple hours despite our utter exhaustion. Eventually, though, the adrenalin wore off and we retired to our uncomfortable beds.
After a brief layover in Charlotte and about 5 hours of travel time, we touch down in Belize. The first thing that strikes me is not the lush vegetation, the perfect weather, or the sense of excitement in the air – it is the fact that we are driving down the runway in the wrong direction! Seems that it in Belize it makes more sense to do a U-turn on the runway rather than to quickly move away from an area where planes are landing at excessive speeds. Our landing smacked of Dan’s description of his first landing in Ecuador so many years ago: “when we were about 20 yards off the ground.....jesus christ. I look out my window. The wing was about 15 fucking feet from some sort of department store. … There are not only buildings basically on the fucking runway, but buildings with civilians in them.” As panic set in that my life and Dan’s had converged into one hopeless mess, I prayed that I would not be mugged by thugs armed with a cigarette lighter.
Next step in our journey to Caye Caulker, the island chosen as our base of operations, was to jump in a cab and head to Belize City. Disregard for safety surfaced once again on this leg of the trip – you see, our cab, which careened dangerously down the two-lane road at its maximum speed of 55 mph, lacked seatbelts of any kind. I tried to maintain my composure, and to just relax, but as we passed our fifth car in a row (five cars at once, not on separate passing ventures), I couldn’t help but envision what would happen to this 25 year-old Oldsmobile – and to the rest of us – if a crash were to occur.
I must have passed out from the fear, because the next thing I realize, we are at the water taxi station preparing to board a medium-sized power boat for the final leg of the day’s travels. In paying the fare, I discovered that the exchange rate in Belize is quite favorable: two Belizean dollars are equivalent to one American dollar. Unfortunately, the Belizeans seem to be quite aware of the fact that tourists generally use American dollars, not Belizean ones, and thus have priced everything at about double the price of what it is in America. Considering the limited amount of money I had on me, this did not bode well.
About 30 minutes into boat ride, an island appeared and the boat altered its direction to head right for it. Palpable excitement set in again as we were all ready to get to our luxurious hotel and rid ourselves of the long-sleeved shirts and jeans that had been a necessity in the cold weather of New York. However, disappointment followed as the captain of the boat informed us that this was not Caye Caulker, our destination, but rather Caye Chapel, a golf resort for the uber-rich, and none of us "cretins" would be de-boating. Incidentally, Caye chapel played host to a recent MTV special called something like “Win a chance to spend time in paradise with Beyonce”. We were not the winners of that contest.
Scarcely more than five minutes later, Caye Caulker – and a number of locals who had gathered at the dock – welcomed us to its shores. It was at this juncture that we realized we had absolutely no idea where our hotel was located. Fortunately, at the end of the dock was a map of the island. We scrutinized it for a few minutes, amazed at just how small the island is – 4 miles long and, at certain points, as thin as 100 yards. Most of the tourist stuff – the hotels, restaurants, and dive shops – was at the north end of the island, near what the locals call the “split”, a deep water channel created when the island was cleaved in two during a particularly strong hurricane in the 90s. As it turns out, the Tropics hotel was just a few blocks away, so we grabbed our bags and trekked up the beach.
As you can see, luxury and the Tropic hotel are not bedfellows; in fact, they’ve never even heard of one another. What the Tropics hotel lacks in room decoration, though, it makes up for in unpleasant sleeping and showering experiences: only one paper-thin sheet adorned the uncomfortable bed and the sink and shower faucet both spewed sulfur-smelling saltwater (how’s that for alliteration). Oh, and the toilet could not accept toilet paper; a waste basket was provided for this purpose. If housekeeping worked every day of the week as opposed to their more leisurely schedule of “whenever I feel like it”, the situation would not have been as dire as it turned out to be.
But, come on, when in paradise, why waste time in your hotel no matter how nice it is? With the white sand of the beach just 100 ft away, I certainly did not intend to sit around redecorating my room or complaining about the lack of livable conditions. And it was with that positive attitude in mind that the posse and I struck out in pursuit of sustenance, which, except for that fake cheese on the plane, had, thus far, been in short supply.
Both lunch and dinner that first day on the island would have been disappointing – bland fish for lunch at the Happy Lobster and bland chicken for dinner at the Sports Bar - were in not for the fact that the next week would be filled with indulging in everything paradise had to offer. Plus, I think I was too exhausted from traveling to formulate the thoughts necessary to voice my distaste for the meals.
Dinner marked the first appearance of Ryan aka “Cowboy”, Dan’s online gambling counterpart who coincidentally happens to live on Caye Caulker. He is also the reason that I traveled thousands of miles with a DVD about a dancing hobo in my suitcase. Ryan and I had exchanged a few emails before the trip, and had agreed to meet up for a beer once I arrived. Problem was, his emails never disclosed where he lived on the island and I never thought to get an address (believe it or not, he gets mail that is addressed simply to Ryan at Caye Caulker, Belize, so he might not even have an address). Earlier that day, as we scouted the island for the first time, I questioned the various street vendors as to Ryan’s whereabouts, just as he had suggested during our correspondence. Everyone I spoke to claimed to know him, but seeing as how none of them seemed to know where he lived, I had a hard time taking their word for it. With no useful information from the locals, I gave up and decided that locating Ryan would have to wait another day.
As the fourth hour of never-ending dinner approached, this random guy pops his head out of the kitchen, and asks if there is an “Andy” with our party. Convinced that Andy could not get himself embroiled in island trouble so quickly (I thought it would take at least another few hours and a bottle or two of rum), I took it upon myself to become Andy for a moment. “Well, my name’s Andrew, not Andy, but pretty close,” I replied. He then introduced himself as Ryan, and realization struck. Apparently word travels around the island at light speed, because numerous people had approached Ryan saying that some tall guy with an Asian girl was looking for him. He figured it was me, but because he kept running into other tall guys with Asian girls who were not me, he had a hard time finding us.
To celebrate our arrival, Ryan joined us for some late night rum drinking on the deck of our hotel, which lasted for multiple hours despite our utter exhaustion. Eventually, though, the adrenalin wore off and we retired to our uncomfortable beds.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Time flies...
when you are working on law school assignments.
To ensure that spring break was stress-ful as opposed to stress-free, we were assigned a huge lawyering assignment just prior to the start of the vacation. This project differs from the previous ones in a qualititave way because, at some point in the next few weeks, we are blessed with having to present an oral argument based on our written product to an audience. The one-person audience will either be an attorney, or if you are one of the lucky (unlucky?) ones, an actual judge. Of course, being in Belize, I had access to the best legal research facilities in all of the Western World and spared no expense, monetary or temporal, to take advantage of those resources.
As much as I hoped it would, the argument, known as a brief (trust me, it's anything but), did not write itself while I was in international mode. So, as a 'welcome back' from spring break, I am currently faced with the onerous task of writing it before 5 pm tomorrow. Progress has been made, but the bulk still remains unfinished.
Wish me luck, mon amis. And expect a return to sanity - as well as a post about my tropical excursion - very soon.
To ensure that spring break was stress-ful as opposed to stress-free, we were assigned a huge lawyering assignment just prior to the start of the vacation. This project differs from the previous ones in a qualititave way because, at some point in the next few weeks, we are blessed with having to present an oral argument based on our written product to an audience. The one-person audience will either be an attorney, or if you are one of the lucky (unlucky?) ones, an actual judge. Of course, being in Belize, I had access to the best legal research facilities in all of the Western World and spared no expense, monetary or temporal, to take advantage of those resources.
As much as I hoped it would, the argument, known as a brief (trust me, it's anything but), did not write itself while I was in international mode. So, as a 'welcome back' from spring break, I am currently faced with the onerous task of writing it before 5 pm tomorrow. Progress has been made, but the bulk still remains unfinished.
Wish me luck, mon amis. And expect a return to sanity - as well as a post about my tropical excursion - very soon.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Saturday, March 19, 2005
Lucky for me...
...I'm impervious to sunlight.
Really, it's true. Try as I might on this vacation, the sun will not have the desired effect - to turn my skin brown - no matter how much I expose myself to it. Maybe it's the lack of praying to the Mayan Sun God that has got me in this bind. Oh well - just don't expect me to come back tan - or even anything more than pale pink (like that Kangol beanie).
Be back in two days.
Really, it's true. Try as I might on this vacation, the sun will not have the desired effect - to turn my skin brown - no matter how much I expose myself to it. Maybe it's the lack of praying to the Mayan Sun God that has got me in this bind. Oh well - just don't expect me to come back tan - or even anything more than pale pink (like that Kangol beanie).
Be back in two days.
Monday, March 14, 2005
I feel like I am forgetting something
And I probably am, but oh well. If you didn't know, I will be gone for the next week in Belize. Should return with pictures, a new appreciation for warmth, and a sunburn.
Quick review of the weekend: Spent one of the nights - Friday - repeatedly answering "no" to the question, "Are you on the guest list?" and consequently being turned away from club after club; Saturday, however, thanks to Courtney, we were the guest list. Thus, after an all-you-can-eat sushi bonanza at Rich's, we were able to get into the VIP room/poorly furnished apartment above NA, and then to hang out at a special reserved section downstairs in the actual club, complete with bottle service and the admiration of the rest of the club-goers. Following that, someone had to go and get a little red on him, but that is a story for another time.
PS - Peter, write something up about the incident so it is not lost forever.
Quick review of the weekend: Spent one of the nights - Friday - repeatedly answering "no" to the question, "Are you on the guest list?" and consequently being turned away from club after club; Saturday, however, thanks to Courtney, we were the guest list. Thus, after an all-you-can-eat sushi bonanza at Rich's, we were able to get into the VIP room/poorly furnished apartment above NA, and then to hang out at a special reserved section downstairs in the actual club, complete with bottle service and the admiration of the rest of the club-goers. Following that, someone had to go and get a little red on him, but that is a story for another time.
PS - Peter, write something up about the incident so it is not lost forever.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
When animals attack...
Inspired by the mauling of the poor guy who made the greatest mistake of his life by trying to celebrate his former pet chimp's 39th birthday, I decided to do a little research about the strength of chimpanzees. You see, ever since that tragic news story graced Yahoo's webpage I've been bandying about the claim that chimps are 5 times as strong as humans with very little evidence to support it (some might assert that I offer no evidence - and they'd be right). After a few productive hours online, I think I've turned the tide. To the extent that the Internet is a reliable source of information, the following exerpt from straightdope.com should provide proof of the validity of my statements:
"It's a lot easier to get a chimp in roller skates than it is to get him to pump iron--hence, most of the data on chimp strength is anecdotal and decidedly unscientific. In tests at the Bronx Zoo in 1924, a dynamometer--a scale that measures the mechanical force of a pull on a spring--was erected in the monkey house. A 165-pound male chimpanzee named "Boma" registered a pull of 847 pounds, using only his right hand (although he did have his feet braced against the wall, being somewhat hip, in his simian way, to the principles of leverage). A 165-pound man, by comparison, could manage a one-handed pull of about 210 pounds. Even more frightening, a female chimp, weighing a mere 135 pounds and going by the name of Suzette, checked in with a one-handed pull of 1,260 pounds. (She was in a fit of passion at the time; one shudders to think what her boyfriend must have looked like next morning.) In dead lifts, chimps have been known to manage weights of 600 pounds without even breaking into a sweat. A male gorilla could probably heft an 1,800-pound weight and not think twice about it."
Now this may just be my fascination with animals talking, but, DAMN, those statistics are amazing - and, as if it needs to be said, terrifying. I remember hearing about chimps ripping monkeys in pieces during hunting raids, but what I did not realize was that doing the same to a human being would require just slightly more effort on the ape's part. I guess the moral of the story is that chimpanzees are like gremlins: adorable creatures that are okay to keep as pets so long as you don't engage in certain conduct, i.e., feed them after midnight or get them wet (or, in this case, bake them a birthday cake).
"It's a lot easier to get a chimp in roller skates than it is to get him to pump iron--hence, most of the data on chimp strength is anecdotal and decidedly unscientific. In tests at the Bronx Zoo in 1924, a dynamometer--a scale that measures the mechanical force of a pull on a spring--was erected in the monkey house. A 165-pound male chimpanzee named "Boma" registered a pull of 847 pounds, using only his right hand (although he did have his feet braced against the wall, being somewhat hip, in his simian way, to the principles of leverage). A 165-pound man, by comparison, could manage a one-handed pull of about 210 pounds. Even more frightening, a female chimp, weighing a mere 135 pounds and going by the name of Suzette, checked in with a one-handed pull of 1,260 pounds. (She was in a fit of passion at the time; one shudders to think what her boyfriend must have looked like next morning.) In dead lifts, chimps have been known to manage weights of 600 pounds without even breaking into a sweat. A male gorilla could probably heft an 1,800-pound weight and not think twice about it."
Now this may just be my fascination with animals talking, but, DAMN, those statistics are amazing - and, as if it needs to be said, terrifying. I remember hearing about chimps ripping monkeys in pieces during hunting raids, but what I did not realize was that doing the same to a human being would require just slightly more effort on the ape's part. I guess the moral of the story is that chimpanzees are like gremlins: adorable creatures that are okay to keep as pets so long as you don't engage in certain conduct, i.e., feed them after midnight or get them wet (or, in this case, bake them a birthday cake).
Monday, March 07, 2005
Nobody wants me...
Boohoo.
Remember that job I was blathering on about just a few days ago? The one that I proclaimed was waiting for the right person to bring them to the "next level"? Well, a few recent developments - one in particular - lead me to the unavoidable conclusion that the firm is quite content with its current level. According to the kindly worded letter I received last Friday, there is no need whatsoever for advancement on the level front - at least at the current time (is that a glimmer of hope I see?). Nevertheless, the kind words contained within said notice of rejection did suggest that next summer might be a more appropriate time for the strenuous exercise known to those who play way too many video games as "level-upping" (yes, perhaps it is).
At this point, I fully understand the state of shock you are no doubt experiencing; however, I must assure you that you read the following news correctly: for whatever foolhardy reason, the powers that be made the incalculably detrimental (to their profits and my self-esteem) decision to not accept my services as their undying slave over the summer.
On the plus side, this outcome - and the accompanying emotional coma I am now in the throes of - strongly suggests that I will be home this summer, for the benefit of my mental well-being, if nothing else. Now, the question is whether a return to California will be one consisting of employment and the furtherance of my fledgling legal career or long periods spent on the couch watching early afternoon Maury reruns. Only time will tell.
Remember that job I was blathering on about just a few days ago? The one that I proclaimed was waiting for the right person to bring them to the "next level"? Well, a few recent developments - one in particular - lead me to the unavoidable conclusion that the firm is quite content with its current level. According to the kindly worded letter I received last Friday, there is no need whatsoever for advancement on the level front - at least at the current time (is that a glimmer of hope I see?). Nevertheless, the kind words contained within said notice of rejection did suggest that next summer might be a more appropriate time for the strenuous exercise known to those who play way too many video games as "level-upping" (yes, perhaps it is).
At this point, I fully understand the state of shock you are no doubt experiencing; however, I must assure you that you read the following news correctly: for whatever foolhardy reason, the powers that be made the incalculably detrimental (to their profits and my self-esteem) decision to not accept my services as their undying slave over the summer.
On the plus side, this outcome - and the accompanying emotional coma I am now in the throes of - strongly suggests that I will be home this summer, for the benefit of my mental well-being, if nothing else. Now, the question is whether a return to California will be one consisting of employment and the furtherance of my fledgling legal career or long periods spent on the couch watching early afternoon Maury reruns. Only time will tell.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Time travel is possible.
All you need is the right song.
It has been my experience - and I'm sure the experience of many people out there - that listening to music during poignant, impactful, and sometimes even trivial events during life can have the consequence of indelibly etching those moments into one's long-term memory. Later, when you listen to the song, the aural experience transports you back in time to that exact instant of intersection between space, time and sound. Immediately, the memory comes rushing back, replete with the visuals, sensations, and emotions of that now distant moment. I have no explanation for this phenomenon, nor do I have a need for one, but I do have an appreciation for it's effects.
In my vast catalogue of music, there are songs that can take me to virtually all of the places I've travelled or lived during life, from locations as far away as London to those as close as the streets I grew up on in Fairfield; songs that can bring me back to different holidays, parties, get-togethers, vacations, and reunions (Accidentally in Love, anyone?); songs that grant me renewed access to the years, eras, and junctures of growing up whether they be good or bad.
To be able to escape reality, if just for a moment, and bask in the glow of times past is a glorious thing.
(This post inspired by the sounds of Alodiah's great music.)
It has been my experience - and I'm sure the experience of many people out there - that listening to music during poignant, impactful, and sometimes even trivial events during life can have the consequence of indelibly etching those moments into one's long-term memory. Later, when you listen to the song, the aural experience transports you back in time to that exact instant of intersection between space, time and sound. Immediately, the memory comes rushing back, replete with the visuals, sensations, and emotions of that now distant moment. I have no explanation for this phenomenon, nor do I have a need for one, but I do have an appreciation for it's effects.
In my vast catalogue of music, there are songs that can take me to virtually all of the places I've travelled or lived during life, from locations as far away as London to those as close as the streets I grew up on in Fairfield; songs that can bring me back to different holidays, parties, get-togethers, vacations, and reunions (Accidentally in Love, anyone?); songs that grant me renewed access to the years, eras, and junctures of growing up whether they be good or bad.
To be able to escape reality, if just for a moment, and bask in the glow of times past is a glorious thing.
(This post inspired by the sounds of Alodiah's great music.)
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